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sugar-petals · 4 years ago

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:: random things about boyfriend yoongi

↳ ♡ NOTE I saw this format floating around the fandom and thought it was cool and sweet (just like our honey boy so here it goes) 😊 includes an sfw and nsfw bit, both can be read independently.

words. 3k

SFW

First off, Yoongi is laid-back and casually sexy the way we know him. But he also has spikes of energy where he actually gets a little clingy. Any opportunity he will use to hold hands or jump around like a madman with his gummy smile because he got excited about something that you never could predict would make him so happy. He truly is an epiphany.

He’s your most eager personal chef but funnily enough a little unsettled by onions so you end up helping him. Yoongi hates to be crying in the kitchen because of some evil little vegetable but hey, perfect time and place to spend half an hour huddled together cooking or baking. And Yoongi is secretly longing for a cheesy scene, he finds it romantic when you wipe the tears from his face.

His way of speaking to you is a mix of mumbly Korean, high-pitched pouty cat speak, and old-school English slang phrases that he learned somewhere on social media or award shows back in 2018. Most of the time he takes things seriously but is up for some joking anyway. He is sure to giggle every now and then which is really adorable of him. Yoongi is also the person who gets every nuance of your humor and reacts to it.

After being single, you really have to get used to someone waddling around the house. Like— oh, he’s there! And it’s none other than him! Since Yoongi isn’t noisy when he concentrates on his laptop, it really stands out when he morphs from his unmovable rock-like being to a slow rolling stone headed towards the kitchen from time to time. You have to blink every time. And how could you not look up, he’s walking by with his cutest oversized sweaters and striped fluffy socks.

He cannot hide things that normal people would try to keep secret — because of their own discomfort, but he is good at blocking out things that serve your comfort. I’ll explain what I mean. If you have been keeping up with Yoongi postponing the reveal of his surgery until it was successful, you know what I mean. In short, Yoongi is pretty much an automatic filter for things that disturb you. Knowing the right time and place to inform you is the key. As is disregarding things that don’t concern you as a couple, unnecessary drama and opinions. He’s really good at that without ever trying to sugar-coat the important things because he remains a frank and honest soul.

Yoongi has an easier time giving random presents for simple occasions rather than making a big deal out of traditional festivities. So, big celebrations are often kept simple — unless the rest of BTS is there advocating their ‘a little party never killed nobody’ motto — while Yoongi focuses on getting you something attentive or useful every other day pretty much. He’s still a frugal type, you know him. It’s more about inexpensive things that catch his eye because he heard you likes this or that type of snack or want this or that sofa cushion.

There’s always something new and surprising in the fridge and it’s hardly ever empty because Yoongs takes care of the groceries, really thinking it through. Just personal chef things. Being Yoongi’s partner must be the most destressing thing. He takes responsibility for the worldly things, the ironing clothes and the trash cans. He himself thinks that’s the easiest shit ever and is ready to put time into it (he sees the merit, it drives him) while thinking your side — the sheer act of being in love with him, being there for him — must be hard. Which it isn’t.

Yoongi thinks emotions and relationships are tough and complicated while daily life runs smoothly at the snap of a finger. You think maintenance is a drudgery while love is not the maze your boyfriend assumes it is. Deep down Yoongi thinks he’s unlovable and a bad person, that’s why he believes he doesn’t have the burden but you have. That your affection then blazes past the barriers in Yoongi’s esteem is something that he finds incredible. It catches him off guard there, you burst the bubbles of the flaws he falsely imagines he has.

You bet your ARMY bomb you’re watching cat videos together.

Guess who’s the first person to hear all of Yoongi’s upcoming hit tracks? Even Namjoon gets the first sample ten minutes later. You gotta be really advanced at keeping secrets and avoiding accidental leaks with your phone or something.

Yoongi hesitates with the analogy because it’s a little funny and you’re evidently not a steaming liquid made of beans, but he claims you really are like his daily americano. Makes his every morning better.

Now, in all seriousness. What means the most to him is that you take him how he is and are stable company. Yoongi is afraid of betrayal and stupid games so he has to be sure to have a safe bet going. I think that’s why he fancies marriage, it’s a sign of commitment and some degree of permanence to him. And yes, he is a bit jealous in nature since he’s easily invested in someone with a purity of feeling, almost in a naive way. Yoongi easily idolizes his partner and puts a lot of energy into a bond. He wants to protect that, take the risk, and he has watched for someone who radiates genuine trust and faith. He is sure to have found it in you without any illusions and he is right. Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty.

Playing the piano for dinner or date night is a must, he practices constantly to advance to a great standard. He secretly finds a lot of satisfaction in you cooing at his skills and melodies. Those ten bony fingers gliding over the keys with such a technicality and focus, and a passion that makes you hold your breath, it’s great to watch.

Did you see that one coming? He will compose and produce a designated mixtape only for you personally. Yes, with a little self-filmed, self-cut music video for the title track.

Now those things never see the light of day, they’re all for you. But what about your couple life once it touches the social realm? As one might expect, Yoongi is very ‘eyes turn narrow’ with people who bring disharmony to your dynamic and the relationship in general. In fact, he is grumpy and disappointed, and should someone give him a reason, distinctly brutal. If someone even attempts to test you or plays manipulative games, Yoongi is relentlessly turning them from the inside out with his words that never miss the mark. They’re efficient. As I said, he hates playing annoying games, he’ll do any shortcut and be Yoongi.

I guarantee you can lean back and will never the fazed by stupid people and time wasters again. No need to lose face. Yoongi does the dirty work and is the best possible defender to have on your side. He handles that. Invasive opinions and useless phrases he will shove right up some trashtalker’s ass and leave. Let’s squarely say he is unafraid to be a armchair critic of your and his haters and doesn’t want any of that nuisance to disturb what you have together. He cuts very quick and makes sure not to get tangled up in trouble.

Yoongi will also debunk a whole bunch of weirdos on weverse asking about your private love while he’s at it. Prepare for some very entertaining snide remarks. Oh my god, so many entitled people will be pissed off. Many will also celebrate him for stepping up. What’s actually important to Yoongi is that nobody taints what is like a treasure to him.

It won’t be hard to overlook that Yoongi is very proud of you as well. He looks confident and revering when he hangs out with the group and you’re somewhere close by, even just doing something trivial.

He’s also pretty touchy, sometimes publically to demonstrate something, but mostly in the relative calm and safety of a hotel room. When the lights are out, all barriers crash, the utter romantic takes over. His favorite types of kisses besides those onto his hands are when you kiss his lashes. And yep. Yoongs is such a cozy little spoon. A very curled up one with cute shooky pajamas on most likely.

Talk about clothes. Believe it or not, Yoongi’s fashion goes through a significant change due to the relationship. He knows that you are touchy and thinks about what kinds of flannels are the biggest cuddle magnet, after all. And oh wonder, he will also show some level of skin when he accidentally hears your praises for his arms and legs and collar bones and glowy skin while talking to a close friend of yours. So, look forward to that in summer (he still dislikes the winter cold and wraps himself into scarves twice his size, mind you) though it’s still for your eyes only, he covers up when going out. Truth be told, he enjoys when you casually touch his skin. Especially the arms. Which hold up the firmament to you, and your world, too, and guard it.

BTS will know about how excited he is about you because he often boasts about for how long you’ve been living together by now. We all know this is Yoongi’s favorite way of bragging and it further shows that loyalty, dedication and longevity is the spice to his every meal.

Yoongi is probably going to quit the bottle because you naturally make him feel at ease and upbeat. In fact, he simply forgets about his wine. I don’t have to convince you that Yoongi will be very immersed in any interaction with you whether that be watching movies or discussing his latest tracks.

Those discussions come with extra back massages for him because he spends a lot of hours in his chair. Especially around the neck, it’s no secret that this is in every cat’s top 3 favorite massaging areas. Yoongi is gonna make some really raspy, sleepy sounds and just melt in your hands. He’s gonna sleep like a baby afterwards every time. Sometimes, he says funny and cute things while he dozes. He looks very content.

Say goodbye to the 21st century adulting annoyances in your life because Yoongi has a grip on those without a word. Those six specific chores that always plague you take him only a dozen minutes and he is eager, the forms to fill out are already sent off, the list of people to e-mail is weeded through. The taxes are paid, the bank account is full, the meals are on the table, garnished to perfection. Roof over the head, and it’s a sturdy one, Yoongi bought a sound haven house to inhabit a lot of happiness for two.

He’s probably the only person who doesn’t see it as a loss of dignity if you want to hold on tight to him during a dentist visit as a grown ass mf. Why all of this? Yoongi cannot not strive to feel needed in his actions. He wouldn’t like himself if he couldn’t contribute something reliable and useful. That you find things worthy of your time is priority. You complement each other, what you think is a waste of energy makes him work and strive and vice versa. That way, in the end all things are taken care of.

Giving is more important than taking in Yoongi’s world. He thinks of everything because he considers it an offense to have you in a pile of duties, that is, if you don’t like ‘em. It’s his form of dedicating his efforts and showing respect. He doesn’t need much in return. The things he expects if at all don’t feel like a duty: Much like he doesn’t consider doing those acts of services for you likewise.

Work horse he is, he needs something on his daily to-do plan. Which includes making you feel unbothered by the occasions of an incoming strict world when it’s getting to you. You’re supposed to do what you feel like doing just like him and not slave away at fifty deeds. That you torture yourself with daily life hassle is the thing he dislikes seeing the most. He enjoys doing these things so he’s happy to get going.

What’s not a daily life hassle: Holly is a big fan of yours. Instant friendship. Just wanted you to know.

He always knows how to preoccupy himself and finds something to improve. Getting on your nerves, and that’s no surprise, is the last thing Yoongi will ever do. In fact, you sometimes have to search for his napping spot because he got lost somewhere in the house.

He either sleeps or works, his philosophy is simple. If you need him, he does appear seemingly out of nowhere. And, he spends as much time with you as you enjoy, not always prioritizing his producing unless it’s urgent or he’s on an inspiration streak. Which is great anyway, you can sit next to him listening. It’s the right balance of work and play.

Yoongi is not above blatantly showing off. Actually, he goes for an act of stunning pretty often. You know how cats parade around whatever they just caught. He wants to impress you with assets and accolades and appraisals, the boy can’t help it. That you only lightly nod at most of it with a little smile will confuse him but he will get the point later on. You wanna signal Yoongi that you anchor your love for him not in shifting numbers and chunky metal pieces.

That you don’t confuse his signs of outward worth and fame with the core of the guy you find the sweetest in the world is very important to him. He will take some time to see through that because he’s used to being loved through status and its symbols by people close and afar.

The way you throw yourself at him to give a big smooch in random situations — especially when he doesn’t feel great about himself— rather than only when he say gets a new car is sending him a message. Again, he has to grow into that. He will retreat at the beginning because he feels worthless of your affection on days where he doesn’t feel big and bold and successful. But since he sees you jumping on him because you need only his kind and squishy presence and see him as no different than usual because he’s always Yoongi underneath, your boyfriend will change his mind about it sooner or later. He learns that your presence makes him feel like a billion dollars yourself.

You don’t wallow in the regrets of other people missing the point of Yoongi and instead focus on always understanding him rather than enabling Yoongi into wrong directions. And there are many of those, his mental health can tell you a thing or two about it. He begins to get that you really know what you’re doing and are in it for the real him which makes him feel really loved far underneath all surfaces and images. You accept his fame and admire his work with music which is what he’s truly doing it for but also don’t forget that the most vulnerable Yoongi is the one that you’re there for and not a facade.

NSFW

I know you’re curious. That Yoongi’s sexual style is more than just interesting goes without saying. To give you an idea. Anything steamy with Yoongi means him taking his time. You know, for making it quality. Yoongi wants to grow into the right balance of activity and staying relaxed. He is good at keeping cool and bringing some focus to the madness. He wants to figure out how to be more casual instead of tense and overly preoccupied which he’ll be at the start of the relationship. But the fast learner he is, his nervousness fades way faster than you think.

Yoongi is extremely afraid that he can’t please you or starts to become awkward slash clueless so he darts to the opposite of the spectrum and overperforms, even plays a character. You have enough cool yourself to tell him what to do in the pace that works best. That he stays centered in his body is important for you to teach him. When he gets grounded and juggling his confidence is out of the equation, he fucks the best.

His favorite position besides giving oral — with you on your back — will be doggy style. Man, we gotta talk about that. Slow to upper moderate pace, nothing too all over the place. Yoongi moans very slowly, too, all drawn out. Get ready for a frequent session of some anal to unwind. You heard that right. First, Yoongi will get the two of you into the right rhythm with his hands at the sides of your waist, then, ride it out in slow mo with his right hand properly stimulating you from the front.

By habit, he will add some lube here and there but not use insanely dripping amounts so everything gets messy or he can’t touch you without sliding off anymore. Just enough to slide well. Yoongi is so good at this I swear, it’ll be your favorite thing to relax. He has the restraint and technique to pull it off rather than pulling out, huh. Yoongi is gonna stay inside you for ages. It feels like he’s massaging every spot for some extra time. It’s amazing to slack off your muscles, cool off, and get many a gentle but fulfilling orgasm.

He’s not gonna put you through the hassle of dealing with an anal creampie cleanup so he keeps it wrapped, and mostly focuses on your movements altogether while keeping his own climax smooth and more relieving rather than something that relentlessly knocks him out in one go. Yoongi is good at observing and doesn’t feel the need to chase a violent high which is why he is so great at sex. Fucking with Yoongi leaves a wholesome feeling and you never feel ashamed or guilty, or a sense of being dirty and ruined.

He enjoys having sex to make you feel really good and works his hands on you very respectfully. His goal is to have you wet and pulsing after a long while of getting you there, and putting you to a good night’s sleep. He’d feel terrible if he left you sore or disturbed. He is really passionate, especially with his kisses or when you ask him to slide into very deeply, but Yoongi being brash and controlling is an image out of sight.

Besides giving you the number one heavenly assfucks, Yoongi also likes to work his tongue as we know, and he’ll work it all over. Few body parts of yours have not made contact with that glorious mouth and I say that in the best of ways. You can instruct him to do whatever, Yoongi obliges with radiant joy. And here again, he takes minutes upon minutes. Kissing and kissing and licking and maybe even teasing once or twice to make you smile. You know, a little signature wink. Honoring your skin and every shape is not something that Yoongi has to talk about, he will physically show it and I swear it’ll finally get into your head with every little move, Yoongi has totally surrendered his tongue to your body and worships it.

#yoongi #yoongi hc #bts smut #yoongi smut #bts #yoongi x reader #boyfriend yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #bts x reader #boyfriend bts #bts bullet points #bangtan

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mileapokp1677 · 2 years ago

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Three Steps to Win You (CH 1)

Title: Three Steps to Win You

Rating: M

Pairing: DaddyChan/Tankhun, Kinn/Porsche, Vegas/Pete

Category: M/M, AU Nerd-Jock

Summary: Accidentally, scientist Tankhun Theerapanyakul embarrassed footballer Captain Chan "Daddy" Knight in front of his coach, teammates and fans. He had to fulfill three tasks from the captain before his apology was accepted.

AN:

1. This fan fiction is a tribute to Chan the Man aka Daddy Chan, the coolest and the most badass bodyguard of the Theerapanyakul main family and Khun Tankhun Theerapanyakul, the most fashionable and fabulous character that I love so~ much.

2. English is not my first language and my grammar is atrocious. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. This fanfic is un-beta’d, you’ve been warned.

3. I’m not native Thai and have never been to Bangkok before. I know nothing about the city or about the Thailand Football League. Everything in my fanfic comes from my imagination. I’m trying my hardest not to be offensive, but if I did, please correct me and please do it gently. Once again, please forgive me if I make any mistake.

4. This is a Rom-Com crack fanfic AU Nerd-Jock, I’ve had enough angst (><).

5. I’m using almost the whole gang of KPTS characters in this fan fiction. I’m just borrowing them to play around.

6. In this story Vegas and Macau are not related to the Theerapanyakun boys.

7. I would say everybody is going to be slightly OOC, especially for Vegas and Kim, because they’re growing up in a loving family.

8. This is my first fan fiction in this fandom, and the main pairing is so rare, so I don’t even know if people are willing to give it a try or not. But if you do, I hope you enjoy it.

9. I’m using the last name of the actor (Peter Knight) that acted as Chan in this story and Vegas' middle name (Kornwit) as his family name.

Chapter 1

(Tankhun POV)

Tankhun Theeparanyakul was not an ordinary person, he has always been and will always be extraordinary. In high school, he was the best student. Some people call him a nerd but he was not just any geek. He's a super fabulous nerd with an unparalleled sense of fashion. The only reason why he is now dressed modestly is that the University Research Center where he worked as a senior researcher had a very strict dress code. But still, nobody can rock white long lab coat, black safety boots, and lab goggles like Tankhun. He added tasteful little ornaments here and there that are his trademark, like colorful goggles straps that always matchy-matchy with his socks, and nobody allowed to protest, including his boss, the super cool Miss Erica, who happened to adore him very much. And why shouldn’t she? He was after all the Tankhun Theerapanyakul, who’s goddamn fierce and of course fa~bulous with a capital F.

Born as the eldest of three children (all boys), Tankhun was naturally expected by his father to take over the supermarket chain which has been their family business for five generations. But Tankhun, who has been infatuated with science since childhood, firmly refused his father's request. Fortunately, his younger brother, Kinn – blessed his soul, the second child of the Theerapanyakul family, had a very high business instinct, and was able to prove to their father that he was the better choice to manage their family business. Meanwhile, Kim, the youngest, just like Tankhun, was not interested at all in business. He was a football maniac, who lives and breathes sports. He currently served as the football captain of the University team where he studied, learning Sports Science.

This morning, like the previous mornings in the last 5 years, Tankhun went to the Hattrick Coffee Shop to get his hot Americano that he has crowned as the best Americano. Well, at least from 16 coffee shops that are located in a 2 KM radius from the University Research Center. Tankhun could support his statement earlier scientifically, because he took things into his own hands by diligently taking the data samples from all 16 cafes to make the comparison at the laboratory. In case anyone wants to refute his claims, he still keeps the results of his 2 weeks intensive research in his desk drawer at the office.

At exactly 7.30 AM, Tankhun was already standing in the queue in front of the cashier. Unlike last week, no… not that long… even compared to the queue line two days ago, today’s line was longer than usual. Tankhun glanced at the watch on his left wrist to confirm today’s date. He had been so busy at the lab lately; he sometimes forgot the date. The experiment he was currently working on has occupied his mind and really kicks his butt.

Ah... July is almost ended. No wonder… Sigh…

If there's one thing Tankhun didn't like about the Hattrick Coffee Shop, this cafe is located right next to the stadium used by Bangkok Super FC as a training ground. When the season ends, the Hattrick is only visited by regulars, but once the new season starts, this cafe will be crowded by BSFC fanatic fans. And looking at the long queue today, it looks like the pre-season training for the most loved Bangkok football club has commenced. Tankhun was very grateful that no BSFC players had ever stopped by this small cafe, he couldn't imagine the chaos that would arise if they came here. Luckily, those fanatics only treated the Hattrick like a hang out place to wait for their idols to finish training, before they chase after their autographs or selfies.

But it seems like Tankhun spoke too quickly, because the figure standing right in front of him in the queue, was almost certainly, Tankhun 95% sure, a football player. The reason why he was so sure about it is because his younger brother is an athlete and a footballer. Although Kim is not a professional footballer, most football players have the same body shape and manner of movement as the result of their training. That’s why, even though this man tried to cover his tall, muscular, very well-trained body, not to mention, bubble butt, by wearing loose track pants and an oversized hoodie, he couldn’t really hide, at least not from Tankhun’s sharp eyes.

He stared at the shapely back in front of him intensely, and maybe that is the reason why the footballer – allegedly – out of the blue turned his body half-way to steal a quick look at him. Tankhun gasped and couldn't believe his eyes. Of all the BSFC players who possibly stopped by this cafe, how could it be that it’s the captain himself, Chan "Daddy" Knight? Who’s none other than Kim’s favorite footballer! Daddy Chan could try to hide his face behind the biggest and darkest sunglasses ever, but Tankhun never misses recognizing people, especially someone that important to his youngest brother.

Tankhun opened his black LV messenger bag, and slowly reached inside to take out his notebook and pen. He was still thinking about the best way to ask for Chan's autograph without attracting the attention of the other café regulars or God-forbid the football fanatics, when a voice heard from the bar.

“Next customer!”

Tankhun must have been so focused on this small matter that he didn't even notice that he was almost at the front of the line. In fact, it was Chan's turn to order his coffee. The researcher put-off his intention to ask for Chan's autograph right now and chose to wait until the footballer placed his order first. After all, you never stop someone from getting their first cup of coffee of the day.

He’s a professional athlete, and the pre-season training has just begun. His coffee order can't be complicated, right?

Tankhun felt that he had found a good opening to break the ice before he started his mission. If Chan ordered a hot Americano like himself, then he would give him a compliment of his great taste in coffee before begging for his autograph.

I’ve got this in the bag!

“Caramel Frappuccino with double whipped cream and chocolate chips on top.”

The scientist raised his head quickly, and gaped for a moment. The word shock cannot begin to describe how he felt at the moment, when he heard the coffee order from the great Captain of Bangkok Super FC. Tankhun was so close to open his mouth to ask the man himself, ‘Are you fucking serious!?’

“Do you want extra caramel on top?” asked the barista.

Tankhun actually held his breath waiting for Chan’s answer.

“No, just chocolate chips.”

“Do you want anything else? A muffin maybe?”

“No.”

“Okay, total 85 Bath.”

Tankhun still didn’t budge from where he was standing and still couldn't believe what had just happened in front of his eyes. Suddenly, he pictured his youngest brother's shocked face, and just like that, he started giggling. Oh, he tried… truly he tried to stop himself but he just couldn’t. Kim really adores his favorite captain, and has always looked up to Chan as an example. Since he was 14 years old, Kim has been very careful about his diet and very disciplined with his exercise regime. He would say something like, ‘I need to watch my diet like Cap to maximize my muscle mass.’ or something like, ‘I need to be like Cap and cut-off my sugar intake to attain a perfect body like him.’

If only you knew, ‘lil brother, if only you knew~

Tankhun was still giggling when the barista called him.

“Sir? Sir, your usual?” asked the boy.

“Yes! Ehm… yes, please,” Tankhun answered as he gave the boy 50 and then put 5 Bath in the tip jar.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Tankhun moved to the side to wait for his coffee and found out that Chan was also still waiting for his complicated order. Thinking about that sweet concoction, to be honest, he wanted to laugh again, but this was a golden opportunity to ask for an autograph, because Chan was standing alone and there was no one really close around them. So, Tankhun tried his hardest to hold back his laughter and he succeeded, before moving closer to the captain.

“Do you mind signing this for my brother, Daddy Chan?” asked Tankhun in a super low voice as he pushed the notebook and pen that he had previously placed on the long table, towards Chan. For a moment, Tankhun felt like he heard a soft cheering sound from behind the big coffee machine, but then he ignored it, because he was pretty sure his voice wasn't loud enough to be heard.

“You must be mistaken for other people,” Chan responded in his deep voice while looking left and right. It was clearly shown that he was worried other people would hear their conversation.

“Uhm, I don’t think so, because you see… I’m rarely wrong,” whispered Tankhun, who then pushed the notebook and pen toward Chan even closer.

Chan chuckled. “Oh, wow… such arrogance.”

“Just stated the truth. Besides, I don’t think I will miss recognizing a face that I’ve seen everyday for the past 12 years pasted on the wall of my brother’s room. He’s your biggest fan.”

Chan looked a little hesitant, and once again looked to his left and right timidly, before finally picking up the notebook and pen that was lying on the table right beside his right elbow. Just as the captain was about to sign his autograph on Tankhun's notebook, the barista who prepared his Americano to perfection every day, walked up to Chan and shouted, "We're from the Hattrick Coffee Shop are very proud to present this Caramel Frappuccino with Double Whipped Cream and Chocolate chips on top for the best Captain in the country, Chan "Daddy" Knight!"

Fuck! Stupid lil shit!

It only took seconds and then chaos ensued.

“Daddy Chan?”

“Where? In here?”

“OMG! He’s here! He’s really here!”

“CAP!”

“Daddy~~~~”

“DADDY CHAN!!!”

Like magic, all the football fanatics who were in the cafe, immediately stood up and ran towards Chan, holding their cellphones to take picture after picture while shouting and screaming, some of them even starting to sing the BSFC’s chants.

In under 60 seconds, fans managed to surround Chan. Requests for autographs and selfies poured in immediately.

“Cap! Please sign my jersey!”

“And mine too, please~~~”

“Daddy~~~ please take a selfie with me!”

“Daddy Chan, please smile and look at the camera!”

“CAP!”

As the person who stood closest to the captain, Tankhun of course got caught up in the crowd. It was a miracle that he managed to retrieve his notebook, it was a LV too, thank you very much. At first, Tankhun decided to forget about his coffee and just leave immediately, but he went to this cafe every single day to get his caffeine intake and he refused to leave the Hattrick without his Americano.

“Hey, boy, my coffee!” yelled Tankhun to the barista who couldn't do anything but stare at the chaos before his eyes. Luckily, the other barista had finished making his order. He quickly grabbed his Americano and carefully escaped from the crowd.

Seconds before walking towards the exit, Tankhun turned around to see Chan’s condition, and it wasn't very good. The sunglasses he had worn earlier were gone, and the hoodie cap no longer covered his head. Tankhun winced.

And yes, of course, Tankhun felt a bit guilty, he’s not heartless, but what could he do? After all, his schedule was very tight today and there was a very important experiment in the lab that needed his expertise. So, he can’t be late.

As Tankhun was leaving the Hattrick, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a tall foreign man who was wearing a tracksuit, enter the café. Not long after that, a super loud shout was heard from inside the cafe.

“DIO MIO, CHAN!”

“SHIT! COACH, HELP ME~!”

Tankhun walked toward the University faster, so fast he’s literally running.

TBC

#ThreeStepstoWinYou #fanfic #daddy chan #tankhun theerapanyakul #chantankhun #kpts #kpts fanfic #au nerd_jock #slow burn #slow build #kinnporsche #vegaspete #kim #everybody is a footballer #team as family

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applsauss · 3 years ago

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Letters | War-tober #18

Description: “Read it to me?” When you speak your voice cracks with disuse.

Fandom: Band of Brothers

 Pairing: Ronald Speirs/Reader

Word Count: 1.9k+

Warning(s): None.

“We ain’t get any letters for a while now…” O’Keefe breaks the tepid silence without thought, as if he doesn’t spend every moment not filled with gunfire spiraling with dread.

“Nope,” Perconte says around his toothbrush.

You squint up at the white sun, then close your eyes and chase the colors dancing behind your eyelids. It is a dull pain that takes the edge off the darker thoughts prowling the corners of your mind. The acrid smelling smoke rising from the cigarette in your right hand fills your nose, and you flick it so the ashes crumble, then are taken by the breeze.

Germany is peaceful. Spring is melting the frigid countryside bit by bit and when the wind picks up, you don’t shiver anymore. It is the type of cold like shade on a summer day, not something bone chilling and desperate--a reminder of the dead.

The birches planted along the road sway while the countryside takes another long breath, their leaves flashing silver under the pale blue sky, and you watch this marvel of nature without comment, utterly still.

"You think they'll come in soon?" O’Keefe asks.

“Nope,” Perconte responds again.

"Well, I hope they do," O'Keefe barrels on with an optimistic lilt to his voice.

This is the final straw for Perconte. He pulls the toothbrush from his mouth and braces his forearm on his knee. "Why? Got a dame back home to get ahold of? O'Reilly?"

You let out a sharp breath from your nose. No matter how much the replacements bother you, they always seem to drive Perconte the furthest up the wall. Everyone's lost their fuses since Toccoa, the Krauts have gone around the circle with scissors halving them. Discipline helped you survive Sobel, but you've traded that, along with your patience, in for the reflexes and nerves honed only in battle.

You are not so different that you are unrecognisable as that paratrooper who spent that night of nights praying to god for mercy over the English Channel, but you are changed, like that person you were before was nothing more than a cast, and now the common Easy Company soldier is poured and forged of iron.

O'Keefe seems to consider Perconte's question, then after a moment he fumbles over his answer. "...Yes?"

Perconte turns sharply towards you. "Now that's a lie if I ever heard one."

You are tired, the memory of the fear you felt in that flying fortress enough to drag your heart down until it is barely beating. You bring the cigarette dangling loosely from your fingers up to your lips and take a drag to try and calm down. "Leave the kid alone, Perco," you mumble.

Annoying as he is, O'Keefe is right about one thing. You haven't gotten a letter for a very long time. Not just because they haven't been delivered, though. Nobody's writing anymore--not even your parents. It's not that they don't love you, but you think that they've already finished mourning you.

Everyone back home, they've made peace with never seeing you again. Whether you die today or live tomorrow, it wouldn't make a difference to them because you'd still be gone. They've moved on, not for any fault of yours or theirs, it's simply been too long since they've seen your face.

This is just one more thing that drives the wedge between the common Easy Company soldier and replacements deeper. There is this deep, ugly resentment that seizes your heart and fills your mouth when you watch those boys walk around as if they are still loved, while you know in your body that you are not.

What’s worse than that is that the funny thing the men have been saying is right. Germany is the best you've had it this whole war--better than France, or England or even your own Toccoa. Germany is the closest you've felt to home since you stepped foot on the train that dragged you away from it.

Perconte clicks his tongue at you, then sticks his toothbrush back into his mouth, the bristles nearly flat from use. "Take that fuckin' thing outta your mouth," you grouse.

"Not everyone wants to rot their teeth with them cigarettes," he defends halfheartedly. Squabbling is a comfortable pastime you've honed.

"Perco,” you shoot back, “you're one annoying sunnuvabitch."

"He's not that bad!" O'Keefe is quick to jump to Perconte's defense, and the sound of his voice makes annoyance pinch in your gut.

Both you and Perconte round on O’Keefe at the same moment. "Shut up!"

Nobody shuts up. O'Keefe keeps talking about home like it's down the road, Perco keeps sniping at him, his sharp words flying right over the replacement's head, and you take another drag from your cigarette, then stare down at the mud between your boots. Fuck, you wish you had a letter to read.

Gravel crunches under foreign feet, and all three of you glance up as Captain Speirs walks past in that dangerous, prowling way he does. He doesn't look at you, but the sight of him churns your stomach--just not in the same way it makes Perco gulp nervously. Everyone in Easy has gotten a little more comfortable around Speirs (Bar Talbert, who tries to compare him to Winters every chance he gets, only to disappoint himself), but the air still changes when he's near. It is the shocking cold feeling of being alert.

You wait till Speirs disappears from sight, then put your cigarette out in the dirt and pocket it, fed up with your current company. “I’m gonna go sniff around for some food,” you say before standing abruptly and stalking off in the same direction you last saw Speirs.

---

He's in your thoughts more often than not.

When you're staring down at the puppy chow the cooks serve you, when you're shivering under your thin blanket watching the stars, when you’re washing your face in a bucket of dirty water, when you're pressed up against your fellow soldier being shelled to bits, more often than not he's in your thoughts.

Speirs’ face is leagues better than the last one you were stuck on (your neighbor's while he waved you off to war, two years older than you and a college boy, too smart for you anyways).

"Sergeant." You nearly jump out of your skin when Speirs' voice rings out from the dark alley to your left. He steps into the light, emerging from the liquid darkness like he is born from the obscurity.

You startle for a moment, your hand settled over your stuttering heart, then you close your eyes. "Sir."

Speirs hums quietly and says your name then, cradles it in his mouth before the affection bleeds through the syllables and your chest expands with warm breath and something else--some emotion entirely too strong for you to name.

There is a delicateness to his features that seemed foreign until you traced it for the first time with your fingers, learned that he tastes of the same liquor you and your pals pass around the fire.

Now when you think of Speirs, of that low camber of his voice, of his dark eyes as he watches you, his long eyelashes and the bow of his lips, there is no danger. You are as familiar with him as you are yourself.

“Ron,” you utter, voice unchecked.

---

In your memories, it is morning. The winter sun is struggling to peak over the horizon and the dawn is a solemn blue-gray, as if it is afraid to break the silence. You are afraid to break the silence as well, as you pull the covers off your naked legs and take in your first breaths of wakefulness.

The radiators have no such qualms. It is so quiet you can hear the house whispering with each breath it takes, and then they click on all at once and the house is filled with the sound of that comforting rumble, a promise of warmth.

You make your way through the house, bare feet sticking to the cold hardwood floor, and you hear your father in the kitchen, fussing with the coffee pot. There is something sacred in the mundane, in the everyday. This moment in time will live with you forever.

---

You spoon the warm beans into your mouth and close your eyes. Eating this meager dinner feels better than anything ever has before after two days without, but there is an exhaustion that sits right behind your eyes now--always.

“We’ve got it better here than we’ve had it anywhere else. Isn’t it kind of bullshit?” Luz gripes from beside you.

You are sitting at the top of the steps of some shop front, leaning against the awning. Luz and Johnny are cramped in beside you, and Cobb, Liebgott, Malarkey and Jancovek are sitting below you. Liebgott is resting his back against your shins, you can feel the warmth of him through your pants and when he shifts, his shoulder blades knock against your knees.

You don’t pay much attention to anything said after that. The night is turning dark and the silver clouds obscure the stars from sight. Faintly you wonder if the Germans feel the same way you do, or maybe they’re more upset because now they are fighting in their own country.

“Hey,” Liebgott says suddenly, shifting so your legs move with his weight. “Any of yous got letters to read?”

The question makes your heart twist painfully. You’ve lost your appetite.

---

Despite how hard you fight it, when given a moment of respite your thoughts, without fail, turn homeward. You are no longer in Germany, aware of krauts or guns and bullets, but you are a child and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen fills your nose. You are a teenager tripping over the shoes in front of the door, late once again to meet with your friends.

You are unaware of the world, laying on the hardwood floor with stripes of sunlight shaped by the windows across your bare skin. The window is open, the breeze smells like baked asphalt and grass. A dog is barking. The leaves on the tree in your frontyard shimmer and flash like scales.

Your mother calls your name.

Your father laughs.

Speirs sighs, and you blink your eyes, suddenly staring at the cracked ceiling of someone else’s childhood bedroom.

Night falls quicker than you’re used to in this part of the world. Candlelight bounces off a pile of silver in the corner and is alight in Ron’s dark eyes.

He is sitting up, back against the headboard, the blankets around his waist as he stares at a letter he received today.

You huddle into the quilt, curled up in your side. You trace the lines of his face with your eyes before your attention drops to the letter. There is a bitterness in your mouth you bite back. A loneliness--a longing you cannot control.

Home.

You think of your home.

“Read it to me?” When you speak your voice cracks with disuse. You clear your throat before repeating the question once more, only with less confidence.

Ron’s eyes flick to you and he regards you for a long moment before his eyes soften with something like empathy, something like love--and maybe those two things are in practice, the same.

He clears his throat and begins narrating the letter from his mother without much inflection, though in just hearing the kind words of a mother you can pretend to feel the love of one. And with that you close your eyes and slowly, slowly drift to sleep to the sound of Ron’s voice filling the gentle darkness, traveling out the window and into the night--warm like candlelight and soft like the shade of a tree in springtime.

Masterlist | Posting Schedule | War-tober Prompts

#ronald speirs #bob #ronald speirs x reader #ronald speirs imagine #bob x reader #bob imagine #band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagine #wartober2020

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the-rats-are-listening · 3 years ago

Text

I have blocked out this person's username so that you do not go harass them. Do not scroll down my blog to find theirs in the reblog chain relevant to this just because you can. That's not cool.

I just want to use this to highlight a thing. It's not dishonored related but it is related to my beliefs about how people should treat each other and what fandom spaces should be like.

I started this dm with "I didn't mean to imply that you don't care about this game as much as I do and I'm sorry I upset you." So that's interesting. It's reasonable to ask a person to delete a reblog complaining that they are upset with me, so that we can discuss that issue in private. (this is what that thing in the middle is about). Because if we do resolve the issue in private and then the reblog stays up, it's not unlikely that people will be yelling at me forever. It says nothing about what someone is Allowed to do. Importantly, I also offered to delete the reblog that upset them. Quick reminder, learn to identify your own emotions before you flip out and call other people terrible because you're upset someone came across like they were invalidating your special interest. This person, as a non-native English speaker who also appears to be neurodivergent, came across to me in a particular way that I did not like, because we simply don't operate in the same way when it comes to communication, and there was a misalignment. This is fine.

I asked them to please stop doing the thing that they did on my post that I didn't like. They misinterpreted my intent, which is fair enough because I did not do a great job, and proceeded to reblog that chain with a long reply about how hurt and confused they are, and about a million tags. Following which I reached out to them with an apology and a request to please delete the sad rant for the reasons explained above, as well as an explanation of what I meant originally, intended to clarify that I was not, in fact, gatekeeping. Now, if none of that works for you and you don't think I'm sincere, that's fine, but yelling at me does not serve a real purpose. You do that to feel better. Nobody who genuinely hopes I'll learn to let other people enjoy shit would dump that in my dms and then block me. (Which they only had the opportunity to do because I did not block them, because I actually did think it was an unfortunate misunderstanding that I would've liked to solve.)

The bitch of it is I agree. It's important for people to enjoy things, even in ways that don't translate well to others. I'm autistic. I have been the over-excited clumsy one whose intent didn't telegraph well. But the solution to that is not to call people names. And nobody had to be in the wrong in the first place, it was just an instance of miscommunication.

The lesson: if you don't want to talk to me, don't think I'm sincere about what I say, aren't willing to assume that something simply went wrong between two human beings who are trying their best to reach each other, you can send me a wall of text full of veiled insults and non-sequiturs to feel better, but you haven't achieved anything else. I hope you're not lying to yourself about that, and if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation as I was in with the person above, I sincerely hope we can talk. But only if you're going to be genuine about it. No bullshit. I'm tired.

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mm2305 · 4 years ago

Text

The anniversary

Fandom : Lucifer (tv series)

Warnings / words : none this is pure fluff / 2.1 k

Pairings : Lucifer Morningstar x Chloe Decker

Disclaimer : none of these characters are mine ,rights to the rightful owners

Description : After Lucifer's return from Hell, Chloe has made preparations for their six month anniversary as a couple.

Author’s note : Hello everyone! I wrote and posted this back in June but I just realised I only posted the link to the ao3 and never the fic itself! Better late than never right? English is not my first language so please be kind. Also a big thank you to my amazing beta @forever5hines / @tossacointoyourmorningstar .

Enjoy!

--------------------------------

It's funny how life turns out, isn't it? If someone had told Chloe 4 years ago that she would fall in love with that jerk, Lucifer Morningstar, she would have laughed in their faces. But here she is, shopping for their six month anniversary.

There were several obstacles in their way. The more they worked together, the more Chloe liked him. He had adopted the character of a playboy, a diva, but it wasn't exactly who he was. He was all these, but he was also smart, honest, respectful and supportive. He had a softer side which he chose to hide, in order not to get hurt. The only one who broke through his facade, was her. From then on, he did everything in his power to keep her safe. Dealt with Malcolm, his mom, his brother, Cain, went to Hell twice to save her.

When she learned the truth though,she ran and conspired with Kinley, tried to poison him. Betrayed him. Abandoned him. Even though they continued to work together after a while, nothing was the same anymore. She realized that she was in love with him and as time went by, she accepted him too. All his sides. The good, the bad and the crispy.

He had to leave though. That night at the balcony she finally told him she loved him. Even though she begged him to stay, he left. It was partly her fault, because she brought Kinley to Los Angeles. Kinley then brought the demons up to Earth. She understood why he left. The demons had to be contained. And only Lucifer could do that.

Six months later, he came back, putting an end to both his and her misery. From then on, they began talking about their feelings and visited Linda a few times. In the end though, they decided to get into a relationship.

They were happier than ever before. Worked together, spent lots of time with each other, had dates. Of course, they had their problems too. Lucifer was still struggling to believe that there were people in his life who loved and appreciated him. To him, it seemed like a good dream, that's bound to end very soon. Chloe reassured him many times,but the feeling remained rooted deep in his heart. Chloe, on the other hand, was dealing with her own guilt. She tried to poison and hurt him. She wondered, even now, why the hell she tried to do that. What she also wondered, was if she was good enough for him. Chloe Decker, a human, a nobody , good enough for the Devil? The Lightbringer? They both had to work on their feelings, that's for sure.

At the moment, she is at a mall with Ella. It's their six month anniversary the next day and she had prepared a dinner at LUX for herself and Lucifer. For this reason, she wanted to get a new dress. Maze was babysitting Trixie and Linda had a therapy session scheduled for a patient. Only Ella was available. The problem is that they've been searching for hours and they've got nothing so far.

"Come on girl, tell me how's the relationship with the Devil going?", Ella inquired.

"It's been good. More than good, actually. He makes me very happy.", she replied smiling.

"I can see that. You're glowing Chloe. He is too. I've told you that I ship Deckerstar, haven't I?"

" Yes Ella. Many, many, many times. Anyway, I'm telling you, if we don't find anything in the next 30 minutes, then I'm going to wear one of my own dresses. It's been 3 hours and we haven't found anything! " she complained pouting just a little.

" Oh shut up Decker. Look I found this. It's beautiful, isn't it? "

" Mmm… I'll try it. In fact that's the last I'm trying. Then I'm going home. " she said taking the dress from Ella.

When she came out Ella gasped in awe.

" Oh my God! You look gorgeous!", she commented shocked.

"Really? ", asked Chloe turning around to look at herself in the mirror.

Ella has excellent taste , she thought. No one could deny that. This satin dress was simple but elegant. Not too formal, but still perfect for her purpose. It had a color almost identical to her eyes. Icy-blue. The fabric soft and feeling wonderful on her skin. The dress hugged her figure but it wasn't clingy. It reached to just a little more than her knee. It really was perfect for her.

"I'm getting this.", she decided after a few moments.

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

Lucifer loves speed. It makes him feel free and freedom and free will are things he has and will always stand up for. At the moment, he is racing through the highways of Los Angeles, in the comfort of his beloved, black Corvette,at high speed. The air landing on his face as he passes through the roads, the whole feeling of freedom, still seems incredible to him. That's one of the main reasons he bought a convertible. Something else he loves even more than this though, is his beloved Detective. Chloe. He's known her for years, and she wormed her way into his heart, since the first moment he met her. They've been through a lot. His mom, Cain, her leaving and coming back, and the most recent: him going back to Hell.

The night he left, when she told him she loved him, accepted him completely, he thought his heart would burst out of his chest. Seeing his Detective's tears and pleads for him to stay, broke his heart in a thousand little pieces. However he couldn't risk the safety of his friends and the family he had here. When the problems in Hell were resolved, he came back. Doctor Linda helped him a lot after that. Chloe too. For him it was much much more that six months down there. In the end though, they managed.

Tomorrow is their six month anniversary. He got her a ring. Not an engagement ring. A promise for the future. That he'll always be by her side no matter what. Love her, protect her. Anything she needs,anything she desires. The stone was the exact color of her lovely eyes. A favor called in here and there, helped him achieve his goal.

After a few more minutes going around, he set for LUX. He had a few matters to attend to and he was needed there. He'd meet his Detective tomorrow.

*******

When Chloe came back from her shopping spree (she ended up getting a pair of short-heeled shoes, in the same color as the dress), she was exhausted. After taking a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she proceeded to hog the bed, like someone once told her.

Chloe woke up with a smile the next day. Checked if things were going well, ate breakfast, spent some time with Trixie. Then she started getting ready. Followed her skin care routine - the results were amazing, soft skin and all -, showered and shaved thoroughly. Then she dried her hair and styled it into waves. Afterwards, she did her makeup. Simple, not heavy, in light colors. Lastly she put on her dress and shoes. I do look pretty good, she thought while looking at herself one last time at the mirror. She took Lucifer's present with her, too.

One of the very few things she had left from her father were his cufflinks. She wanted to give them to him. Not even Dan knew about their existence. She had gone to a jewelry store to get something extra etched on them. She added an 'M' in the outside and a 'C' on the inside. In this way she wanted him to understand, how much he meant to her. With the 'M' they would become his own , while with the 'C' she wanted him to have a part of her with him. Will he like them though?, she wondered anxiously. To her it was something important, but could that measure up to the person who created the stars? Come on Chloe, relax. It's going to be alright. With that she went out of her house, to get to LUX.

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

Everything was ready. Lucifer's favorite dishes were ready to be served. The candles around, check. The DJ ready to play a special song for tonight, check. Comfortable, low lighting, check. Lucifer…check.

They both gasped at the sight of the other. Lucifer was wearing a black tuxedo, with a white shirt and a red handkerchief. He looked sharp and very handsome. Chloe was wearing her new dress, looking absolutely gorgeous.

"Darling, you look exquisite," said Lucifer with adoration.

"I could say the same for you too, Lucifer", replied Chloe with a radiant smile.

"How about we sit down babe?"

"Of course, my dear."

After sitting down and getting their food, they made a toast.

" To us. May this be the first anniversary of many more to come"

" To us, love." he replied with a clink of their wine glasses.

They talked about the future, laughed about Trixie's adventures at school and when they finished their dessert they went on to exchange their gifts.

"Lucifer,I didn't buy you anything… Instead, I wanted to give you something special.These are my dad's cufflinks. I added something though...On the outside you'll see an 'M' for 'Morningstar'. On the inside,however, there is a 'C' for 'Chloe'...I wanted I'd give you a "piece" of me through this to have with you… If you don't like it, it is possible to have it changed… I just wanted to give you something that is very important to me, because you are one of the most important people in my life and… "

"Chloe, darling, I love it. In fact, you have rendered me speechless. Thank you so much, my love. ", he interrupted her giving her a genuine smile.

"Do you really like it or are you saying that just to make me happy? I mean, this isn't some of the extravagant things you're used to and I don't know… Maybe you would like something else… ?",she asked him nervously,looking at her feet.

"Chloe, love, look at me.", Lucifer told her lifting her chin to look at her lovely eyes. "You know I don't lie, don't you? Then trust me when I say that this is the best gift I've ever received. I know just how much your dad's death hurt you and by giving me one of his belongings…You've made me so happy and grateful, my dear. So, you don't need to worry about that alright? "

" Okay ", she sighed.

"Now it's my turn," he announced opening the little, black, velvet box. Chloe gasped.

"It isn't an engagement ring. It's my promise to you. I want to promise you that I will always be by your side. Your friend, your partner, your boyfriend, whatever you desire. Protect you, cherish you, support you in everything you do. Anything. You are the light in my life and you've touched my heart in ways nobody ever has, in my long life. I want you to know I love you so much," he confessed while putting the ring on Chloe's finger.

" Oh Lucifer… I don't know what to say… Thank you, honey. I love you too, " she added hugging him.

"Dance with me? ", she asked him after a few moments.

"Anything for you, my darling. "

Chloe then signaled the DJ to put a very specific song on.

As they swayed, she whispered the lyrics to his ear.

"Do you feel my heart beating,

Do you understand

Do you feel the same

Am I only dreaming

Is this burning an eternal flame "

" Do you understand Lucifer? I love you with all my heart and I will always stand by your side, too. Always.", she whispered teary-eyed but looking straight into his eyes.

"Even if I am the Devil? Who has tortured countless souls in Hell? A monster, like many others think?"

" Even if you are the Devil,who did his job in Hell. The Devil, who has been through many things, but never gave up. The Devil who is loving, adorable, caring, good-hearted and dangerous only to those who hurt his friends and family. The Devil who is a perfect boyfriend and whom I love with all my heart. ", she replied tearfully.

" I love you too,my Detective. Let's continue dancing, love, shall we? ", he said kissing her sweetly.

And they did. The rest of the night was spent between the two of them. Lost in each other, their emotions, touches and kisses, they continued to sway on the dance floor. In their own, strange for some people, perfect for them, little world.

-------------------------------------

Thank you for reading!!!

#lucifer fanfiction #lucifer fandom #chloe x lucifer #lucifer #Lucifer Morningstar #fanfiction #chloe decker #Ella Lopez #deckerstar

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thejustmaiden · 4 years ago

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Just bcos u PERCEIVE SessRin as something that promotes pedophilia and grooming doesn't mean that's how the author portrayed it. It's disappointing to see that antis force such idea, as if they know what's inside Rumiko's mind. It is fine if u find sessrin cringey. Just don't force your idea of pedophilia and grooming as THE CORRECT PORTRAYAL OF SESSRIN.

Hello there, nonnie! You had quite the party in my ask box, I see. Breaking it up in parts may actually help me get to the point and address your concerns swiftly and accordingly. Here goes nothing. 😉

This answer is for your first two asks by the way. Firstly, you're putting words in my mouth because I do not view Rumiko as an author who promotes pedophilia and child grooming and never have. She never once placed an ounce of romance into their scenes. Rin was essentially introduced to serve as a catalyst for Sesshomaru's character growth. That's major in and of itself, which is why I'm not sure why she needs to be the mom on top of all that she's already done for him. It was you, Sessrin shippers, who had to go and make it romantic, not us. It was you who took every innocent scene and turned it into a romantic one. You'll even use some of their scenes as proof they will end up together, then back-pedal later and say those very same scenes weren't romantic in order to protect the sanctity of your ship. I mean, which is it? It can't be both, it's either one or the other.

I repeat, NO we don’t actually think Rumiko wanted to portray this relationship with pedophillic or grooming tendencies. It's you shippers who insist there is no other way for their relationship to evolve, as if you speak on behalf of Rumiko. Your interpretation of Rumiko's work is what implies child grooming; she may not be condoning it but your perspective sure is. You talk down to antis who disagree, because in your opinion, your interpretation is not only superior but already canon in your eyes. You're doing a disservice to this fandom by spreading false information like that when you try to pass it off as official. So if it's anyone that assumes they know what goes on inside Rumiko's head, it's YOU. Somewhere down the road in the (un)foreseeable future, it's you who changes course since remember we were all in agreement at the beginning that their relationship wasn't romantic. So what did I miss? Please break it down for me and explain what exactly influenced you to change your mind, then describe in detail how again this transition in their relationship magically came to be. It's you who came to that decision on your own- nobody helped you get there, and certainly not Rumiko (as you said yourself). The user boycottyashahime put it better than I did, so here is the link to their post. I highly recommend you read it if you haven't already. I urge you to keep an open mind about it while reading, too. You may not like what they have to say, but there's no denying they make excellent points all the same.

I'm pretty sure I catch your drift, but can you clarify if you're referring to historical context or cultural context? I suppose both can be applied here. haha Anyway, from what I gather, you believe that fans should be on board with the idea of Sessrin and at the very least tolerate the pairing. Whether they ship it or not, you believe this simply for the fact that the story takes place in the feudal era and couples with a similar relationship back then were more than acceptable. The thing is, we may be transported to Feudal Japan in this story but we're still taking our modern day morals with us for the trip. I have a whole ass blog dedicated to the significance of fiction in real life (convienently pinned on my page) if you wanna check it out. I also discuss what age-appropriate content is and isn't for Inuyasha viewers in this recent ask here that I find is also pretty relevant to the convo.

Alrighty, moving onto your next point. I can't stress enough to you guys that this isn't a mere Caucasian vs. Non-Caucasian dilemma. I'm a POC, so I ask that you please not presume to know things about me you couldn't possibly know unless we met or I shared it with you. In fact, many of the other antis I frequently chat with are POCs like myself. So for all that's good and holy, please stop ignoring us when we say: THERE ARE FANS IN JAPAN WHO HATE THIS SHIP TOO. THIS ISN'T A DIFFERENCE OF CULTURE, THIS IS A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION (& FACT). It may have not been called child grooming during that time, but that doesn't mean that it wasn't; it just went under a different name, that's literally it.

Let me give you another example. So if I'm watching a movie about WWII in Nazi Germany, am I supposed to sympathize with an SS officer if the story is being narrated from his point of view? Because in his mind and during that time period, his ideology is right. Like a lot of Germany during that war, I rally to support his leader for what is in my opinion a just cause. Tell me, how does context matter in this instance? Does it matter so much so that you would adopt the same ideals just because it was "historically accurate" and you don't see anything wrong with it when you put yourself in their shoes? Does the "it's just fiction" defense come into play here, too?

The illustration I believe you are referring to is the calendar with that one official illustrator for Inuyasha, right? The thing is, an official illustrator doesn’t equal the creator of Inuyasha. They may support the Sessrin ship, but their work has no connection to the Inuyasha series in any way besides the name affiliation. I've heard that the illustrator also included Kagome x Koga art, so should we take that seriously then too? Rumiko never once alluded to a future romance between Sesshomaru and Rin, to which you even (kinda) agreed. She described their relationship as neither parental or romantic, and she added that she even contemplated making Rin a boy at first. Fun facts, y'all!

I've heard about those magazines but they sound fishy to me. Would you mind sending me a link to a reliable source that comes with an English translation? I'd like to emphasize again that illustrators or VAs can do and say as they please, but their opinions are still only opinions at the end of the day. Nothing is set in stone until Rumiko says it is.

For one, I never said my interpretation was the only correct portrayal. That's you putting words in my mouth again. What I did say, however, was that my interpretation was more logical and reasonable than yours based on popular and widely-accepted story patterns found in real life and in fiction. Look this isn't about who's more "correct" or not. You can perceive Sesshomaru and Rin's relationship any damn way you want, BUT what you cannot do is dictate how we react to your depiction of this ship. You can't demand us to view your ship a certain way to fit your preferences. I'm sure all the hate on your ship can be unbearable at times, but that's just the cross you'll have to bear for supporting such a problematic couple. If a large part of any fandom is strongly against a pairing and what it represents, then there's usually a very legitimate reason for that. You may not want to hear this, but certainly you must realize there's some truth to it all. A couple of your fellow shippers have even admitted to me that Sessrin would be wrong IRL. You see what I mean? Even if we find the ship gross, antis don't care if you choose to ship Sessrin. All we care about is you acknowledging that, like IRL, Sessrin potentially poses a lot of problems for young viewers and how they come to make sense of and view similar situations that are borderline grooming or the very thing itself. Teens watching this show are more vulnerable and impressionable, which is why it's crucial to not show relationships like Sessrin in a favorable light. If they're ever put in a situation IRL that resembles Sessrin, they need to be aware and understand that it's not at all normal or healthy for that adult to make a move on them. Let's say Sessrin does go canon, then that would mean Rin had to get pregnant around 14 or 15. Sending that kind of message to an audience made up of mostly teenagers isn't exactly wise if you ask me. Please really think about that and sit with it if you need to.

I'm positive I'm following the same story, thank you very much. Also, how can you be so confident making a statement like that when I have actual Sessrin shippers praising me for making valid points? Sorry to break it to you, but I don't think I'm as lost as you claim me to be or wish that I was.

That's a wrap, peeps!

Read over what I had to say again later and then get back to me if want, but only write me back if you plan to be respectful. Otherwise I will decline to answer. Just keep that in mind. And may I suggest only sending 1 or 2 asks at a time? Please and thank you!

I think I may know exactly who are, nonnie, but I can't say for sure. Besides, it doesn't really matter, as you have a right to stay anonymous if you so wish to. Listen, don't forget you are also more than welcome to interact (but appropriately) on my blogs/asks/etc. If you are who I think you are, then you recently did make a comment on one of them but didn't stick around when I replied back (and for good reason). Finally, if you hope to ever have a real discussion about this topic someday, first put your ego aside and refrain from throwing insults and then I'll hear you out. I have never once put you down in all of our interactions, so there's no need to show up here all riled up and aggravated in the first place. There's also no need to laugh at or mock other's opinions. Don't take jabs and assume I must not know something about Inuyasha just because I don't support your point of view. I may not agree with your opinion, but you don't see me having a condescending air about it.

Apologies if you're not the member I believe you to be, but no offense, you probably still needed to hear all of that too. It's not included here since I answered it immediately, but that final ask you sent me where you got angry and assumed I wasn't going to answer you was totally uncalled for. If you ever hope someday to participate in real discourse with me or any other antis, you should take my advice and seriously chill and learn how to be patient.

Hope this finds you well, nonnie!

#inuyasha #iy #hanyo no yashahime #hny #sessrin #anti sessrin #anonymous asks #answered ask

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morganaofcamelot · 4 years ago

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If Wishes Came True (Chapter 3)

Title: If Wishes Came True Chapter III: Killer on the Loose Pt.I

Fandom: BBC Robin Hood

Ships: Guy of Gisborne/Original Female Character, Guy of Gisborne/Marian of Knighton, Original Female Character/Original Male Character

Definately an AU - Sir Guy of Gisborne has served the current Sheriff of Nottingham for five years prior to the beginning of the first season, and is considered a part of the family, both by Vaisey and his daughter Valerie. The chapters are from Val’s POV, as she struggles to maintain her youthful innocence in a place that’s all too willing to steal it away from her, and navigate the intrigues of her father. [Many changes from the show, although the fic loosely follows season 1]

Important Note: English is not my first language, so I’d appreciate if you can point out any mistakes I make.

On AO3

Tumblr: Ch I, Ch II

Sir Guy found her standing against a wall, her hands folded in the most unladylike manner, her gaze far away. He crossed the courtyard with swift paces. It was too late, when she realized that he was walking towards her. “Valerie,” he said. “I’ve heard about what happened, are you alright? He did not hurt you?” his voice betrayed his concern. She sighed.

“Welcome back, Guy.” She said and turned to leave. Sir Guy was quick to grab her arm, not entirely ungently. His eyes shone with a strong emotion; anger, she thought. But is it directed at me?

“What happened?” he insisted.

Valerie recounted the last night’s events and the threat Huntington had posed both to her and her father. She fought the tears bravely, and they did not come. She spared a glance at his face; Sir Guy’s fury was palpable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his hands on her shoulders. “I wasn’t there to protect you.” Come hell or high water, I will stand beside you and protect you until I draw my last breath. The vow he had made her years ago came to her mind. She had been a girl of only eleven, and he had been a man of five-and-twenty, recently anointed a knight, and recently brought into her father’s household. His black hair had been longer, then and he had let her brush them. Her father quickly took a liking to him, and Sir Guy returned it with much enthusiasm. Half a year later, he was a member of their family; the son Vaisey always wanted, and the big brother Valerie always wished for. “You are a sister to me.”

Valerie’s smile was bittersweet. “I know.” I wish you wouldn’t say it. Quickly changing the subject, before she said or did something she would later regret, she told him of another incident.

“I had an argument with the sheriff,” she said. Sir Guy raised an eyebrow.

“The sheriff?” he said, noting the spite in her tone. “It mustn’t have gone well, then. Tell me, maybe I can help.”

She smiled half-heartedly. “You are right on that front. I asked him to let me train with a sword, if only to protect myself. That man,” she said pointedly, “Would have killed us in a heartbeat. You of all people know, father isn’t as good with a sword as he once was. Age has taken its toll on him.”

“And he refused?” Sir Guy deducted. She only nodded in affirmation. “Sword fighting is better left to the men.”

Valerie sighed in exasperation. “But none of the men could stop Huntingdon!” She shivered as she was reminded of the cold-hearted glow in the man’s eyes. Sir Guy noticed and tried to soothe her.

“I could teach you a few things,” he finally said. Valerie looked up at him; he had that half-smile on his face, that she always associated with him. He means it.

Forgetting all sense of propriety, and the fact that she wasn’t actually related with the black-clad knight, Valerie hugged him tightly. She was tall, for a woman, but he was a giant; the top of her head barely touched his chin. He returned the embrace.

“But,” he said in a low whisper, “it has to be a secret.”

Letting go, Valerie promised him that she would tell nobody about this.

“Very well. I’ll meet you at the stables, when the bell strikes four times.”

***

She brimmed with an excitement for the rest of the day, barely containing herself from laughing out loud and raise the suspicions of her father. Oh, but he’ll be furious if he ever learnt of our arrangement, she thought with glee. Nothing could make her come down from the clouds right then.

True to his word, Sir Guy was at the stables when the bell signaled that four hours had passed since noon. The previous excitement in her, had now turned into a nervous reaction, when she realized that she was going to spend time with him, all alone.

“Are you ready for it?” He asked, offering a gloved hand.

She cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said, taking it. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He led me in the far back, where the old stables used to be, now empty of people and horses.

He picked a short sword from a rack on the far wall, its blade dull and unthreatening. He handed it to me, and took a normal sized one for himself. “Now, stance is the most important thing. You learn to stand correctly, and you learn to defend yourself. He walked behind her and arranged her feet with his own. “You’re wearing breeches. Smart.” She couldn’t see him, but she was sure he was smiling. Her heartbeat quickened.

Satisfied with her lower body, Guy swiftly moved to correct her upper half. “This way,” he murmured with every little change he made. His breath was on the top of her head, sending involuntary tingles throughout the rest of her body. “Good.” He said at last, and moved to stand beside her.

He proceeded with demonstrating a basic defensive move, and made her copy it again and again, on her own. After some time – Valerie couldn’t tell whether it’s been a moment or a day since they began – Guy was on the offensive. He attacked her and she parried his blows, gaining more confidence with each blow she managed to block. He picked up the pace, and she quickly read into his intention, using the sword as an extension of her arm.

The bell rang. One, two, three, four, five times.

Sir Guy lowered his sword. “That’s enough for one day.” He said, placing the blunt blade on the rack. “You might feel your arms sore and heavy for a few days. Do not worry about it, it’ll be your muscles complaining for the sudden exertion.”

Valerie placed her short sword next to his. “I feel fine.” She said, dismissively. “When will we train again? Oh, and how did I do?”

The knight gave a half-smile. “If you keep learning so fast, I’ll have you replace the Captain of the Guard in a year.” It sounded like teasing, but she did do well on her first day. “We’ll reconvene on Monday, same hour.”

In three days. Valerie was over the moon.

“Run along, now.” He said, and Valerie rushed to do as she was bid, her heart beating wildly.

***

Sir Guy had kept his word; every three or four days he would meet her at the old stable for an hour of sword practice. And so the Spring Equinox had come and gone by with April on the heels, bringing bluer skies and happier attitudes. There had been no news of Robin Hood, as the men had taken to call him, now that he wasn’t the Earl of Huntingdon anymore. Sir Guy was given the title with little ceremony, and had welcomed them for a feast in his newly acquired manor. Valerie had never seen her father look more proud when he thought nobody was looking. It made her smile.

On the ninth day of April, however, things took a turn for the worse; a bailiff had been struck by an arrow in the village of Nettlestone. The lords of the shire had been called to a meeting in the castle. Valerie attended it, seated by her father’s side. Lady Marian was also attending it, standing by her own father, and Valerie watched her closely; she carried no hidden blade in her hair at this time, although she couldn’t help feeling uneasy.

“The villagers of Nettlestone have reported that the outlaw commonly known as Robin Hood had murdered Joderick, the bailiff.” Her father’s voice was low and calm. The lords were shocked and it showed in various degrees. “Well, this is a shocking matter, isn’t it? Even his beloved villagers lose their patience when their heroes start picking them off. What else was in that report, Sir Guy?”

Sir Guy’s voice was lower still. Valerie knew that he had worked with Joderick for a long time, back when the knight served as a tax collector. She had heard him speak fondly of him many a time. “They’re saying that Hood promised that he would prevent the eviction.”

The sheriff shook his head. “War had addled his brain, I’m not at all surprised. But I didn’t have him capable of murder. Maybe his current status as an outlaw have drove him mad.” He made a pause. Valerie recalled the night that man barged into the hall, thirsty for her father’s blood. The sheriff had told him that he thought him incapable for murder, back then. She begged to differ. “What do you propose?”

Sir Guy was the first to offer a solution – he was the sheriff’s man-at-arms and his enforcer. “I suggest we round all those who are helping Hood by not informing us about his whereabouts. He would have been caught by now, if not for their help.”

To Valerie’s surprise, Lady Marian spoke up, despite her father’s attempts to tell her to stop. “And have this practices ever worked before? Those villagers reported the crime, seeking justice.” Marian looked at the sheriff and Sir Guy interchangeably. But if Valerie was impressed by her bold statement, her father’s answer left her wondering if something had him possessed.

“I agree with you, lady Marian. This is not the correct way to go about this. Sir Marcus, do you have any suggestions?” Her father turned to the man standing a little further on Valerie’s right side. He was the Master-at-Arms, the man who took care of the castle’s security and the guards’ training.

The man cleared his throat, and spoke with absolute conviction. “This gives us a political advantage, my lord. Have every town crier announce what’s taken place at the village, make sure everybody knows that an innocent was killed.”

The sheriff nodded in agreement. “Ah, yes. He has given us the high ground; we should keep it. I like this idea. See to it.” Sir Marcus nodded. “Do not be fearful my lords, the culprit will be caught! Dismissed.”

Valerie stood up and followed her father. Sir Guy did, too, to whisper in the sheriff’s ear. “My lord, I still believe in actions rather than words. If I had the resources, I could hunt him down.”

Valerie kept her head down, feigning disinterest in their talk. “Very well,” her father said. “We shall do it both ways. But, be discreet about it.” His answer resulted in a smirk, and off Sir Guy went to put in motion the sheriff’s shadow operation.

Her father leaned to talk to her. “He likes some competition, this boy. I shall give it to him.”

Valerie’s smile did not touch her eyes. She just wished Sir Guy wouldn’t be hurt in the process.

***

The funeral of Joderick, the poor bailiff that was slain by Robin Hood, took place in the town’s square; lots of people had shown up to honor the man, nobles and peasants alike. Valerie stood beside Sir Guy, who was trying to look as impassive as possible. Valerie daren’t spoke to him, for she feared his grief went beyond words.

From her vantage point, she saw Marian sneak away through the gathered crowd, stealthily hiding behind a wall. Valerie made to move, to follow her, but she thought better of it and stopped. It wouldn’t do, to being seen leaving before her father ended his speech. She was a good girl. Lady Marian and her secrets can wait.

Later in the day, her suspicions of Lady Marian were all but forgotten. Valerie was informed by the steward that Sir Guy, before he went on his grand hunt, had requested that Marian stays in the castle, even though her father had decreed otherwise. Valerie gave her consent, and was intent on keeping a close watch on that woman.

After supper, her father worked on the documents, as Valerie read by the candlelight. A servant boy entered with a flagon and two goblets. The boy made the mistake of placing the plater on the wrong side, and the sheriff made his displeasure known by merely teasing the lad. He got up, and whispered something to him Valerie couldn’t hear, and then a whoosh.

“Argh” her father yelled. The boy was lying on the ground face-first, with an arrow protruding from his back. “Guards! Guards!” he yelled and walked over to her in panic. “It is Robin Hood!” he kept repeating.

Valerie was stunned. The poor boy! The guards barged in, with the Sir Marcus behind them. “My lord!” The knight took a look at the boy and paled.

#robin hood bbc #bbc robin hood #guy of gisborne #guy of gisborne x original female character #*mine

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animegenork · 4 years ago

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Thoughts on Ivan Chapter 5

And so, here we are. I’m finally doing this.

As a disclaimer: I’m very very very very very very late, and I know that. But I also needed to finish the chapter before having official thoughts on it. (Because that makes sense.)

And now, I can.

I made a Google Doc to write down my reactions each day I played, as I am free 2 play and needed to keep track of this stuff. So here is the entirety of the mess that is my reacting to this chapter. (I’m putting all this under the cut so those who don’t care don’t gotta deal with this.)

TL;DR: Eloise and Ivan both fucked up. Eloise didn’t trust Ivan enough and ended up breaking Ivan’s trust. Now they’re at a bit of a stalemate because valid feeling vs. valid feeling = hella heated argument. [You’ll have to actually read to get the full story behind this.]

There we are. This was about 11 pages in Google Doc form. I had a lot of thoughts about this chapter.

I’m probably going to reference a couple things from this post I did where I dove into Ivan’s head a little bit. If you want to know more, take a read. I, uh... I ended up being really accurate, and I’m still freaked out.

To be clear, I bounced back and forth throughout this chapter on how I felt about Eloise and Ivan’s actions and words. And let me make a defining statement about my stance:

Eloise and Ivan both fucked up.

They did. Don’t try to convince me otherwise.

Eloise

I made a post once wondering why people were mad about Eloise being jealous. Because let’s face it: jealousy exists. I can tell you a story of a coworker of mine whose ex-girlfriend would consistently harangue him about our other coworker simply because she existed in the same room as him. Jealousy is some powerful shit.

Fans of otome games may not like it or want to deal with the past lovers/jealousy trope, but honestly it’s necessary. Romance ain’t a perfect science, and the more obstacles you have to go through to be with the one you love, the better it’ll be. But this post isn’t about that.

I understand Eloise a lot here. She’s met this Constance, who meant the WORLD to Ivan, and she knows how (seemingly) perfect she is. HELL, I WOULD BE INSECURE TOO. Eloise is insecure; she wonders if perhaps she can ever measure up to this past lover that Ivan had. She’s starting to experience feelings she may not quite understand, and that’s perfectly okay.

However, she kinda went about it all wrong.

Okay, sure. If I heard about my crush going and seeing his past lover during the day (risking life and limb to do so), I’d be a little suspicious. Maybe the “stalker” or “obsessed” thought would cross my mind. BUT if I remembered that Ivan was clinging to humanity AND realized that letting someone go who means the world to you is incredibly difficult, I would probably be more rational than Eloise. Honestly, Ivan’s big mistake here is letting Eloise find out about this outings because they poisoned her mind a bit.

Now, she could have asked him, “Okay, but why follow her?” Because that would have made more sense than doing the exact thing she was (mentally) calling him out for. But no. She did the same thing. And she found she was unable to hate this woman who, now remarried, used to completely hold Ivan’s heart.

What really ticks me off is that she did this because she didn’t believe him when he said he doesn’t feel the same way about Constance as he used to. She didn’t trust him enough to take him at his word. I mean, he’s a vampire, so I guess fully trusting him is off the table, even though she was fully admiring his shirtless form like 6 seconds ago (I mean, so was I), but anyway.

In the end, Ivan gets mad (UNDERSTANDABLY), and they argue because Eloise has somehow become a little obsessed with this Constance idea. Do you remember what I said about my coworker? His ex was ALSO obsessed with the idea of someone else in his life. It’s a pretty valid concern, and honestly, considering the way I argue with people, I don’t think Eloise’s freak out during the argument is completely unjustified. When you’re insecure, you are trying your DAMNEDEST to prove that there is merit to your worries.

I really sympathized with Eloise at the end of the chapter. She was convinced she’d ruined whatever it is she has with Ivan and that she should’ve kept her big mouth shut. This is exactly how I feel at the end of really bad arguments.

Poor Eloise. She’s never been in a relationship, right? So of course things would go wrong in the first one. But that doesn’t mean she needs to lose hope!

Ivan

I might get rant-y here. Only because some things people have said have PISSED. ME. OFF. Especially in relation to what I now know. (I’m not about to address the claim that Ivan needs a straitjacket now, but it might come in the future, if my newly-acquired knowledge of the definition of psychopathy has anything to say about it.)

Okay, so. Ivan definitely could have been a little clearer when he explained his relationship with Constance. He certainly could have clarified his exact reasons for going to the Village during the day. But with the bits and pieces I gathered, it was... I don’t know, obvious? When you care for someone as much as Ivan cared for Constance, you’re going to wonder how they’re faring after your sudden disappearance. It’s a thing in fiction where if X Character disappears, they wonder how life back home is going.

That might just be me over analyzing character motivations again. Sorry. (It’s an English/Creative Writing major thing.)

Still, this boy trusted that Eloise would give him space after he dug into this painful wound of his. He trusted that she wouldn’t ask anymore until he was ready to go back to poking it. But instead, she went and investigated on her own. Not only does that speak of her not trusting him, but now, how can he trust her when she did this?

I wanna note that before shit hit the fan (i.e. the argument), Ivan was perfectly content with Eloise visiting him. He was ecstatic that she would come to him so early in the night. When she gave him the plant, he BEAMED! He told her that he didn’t think he deserved to care for something like a plant! HE TOLD HER THAT THE FACT THAT SHE GAVE IT TO HIM MADE IT MORE BEAUTIFUL!

Have I mentioned I was sobbing at this part?

I’m not about to go into the nuances of the Chalice-vampire bond, because not much has been explained about it. However, Eloise did, in fact, say something that was very like Constance (all flower-knowledgeable and such), and the fact that that BRIEF tidbit clued her in to Eloise’s actions is interesting. So, yeah. He gets mad that Eloise went to see Constance in person, because that is, in fact, an invasion of his privacy in many ways. It’s like if I went to see my boyfriend’s ex in person just because he gave me a name. (I don’t have a boyfriend, and I wouldn’t do that. Just by the way.) But before that...

You know what I didn’t see in people’s reactions to Chapter 5? How worried Ivan was about us. He saw that Eloise wasn’t acting like herself. And he asked THREE TIMES (count ‘em in my reactions above, he asked THREE TIMES) if she was okay. The THIRD time, he said, “Did I do something wrong?”

I want someone to explain to me how in the fucking world this clues us in to him not caring about us. But anyway.

This concern, in fact, comes up when Ivan starts yelling at Eloise about being reckless. Because she was. Going too far from Ivan fucks with the Chalice bond, AND she did it during the day (and nearly got burnt real bad), AND there’s a murderer on the loose, AND Vlad could’ve found out. What I think a lot of people looked past was that there was concern behind Ivan’s anger. Anger based on concern is a helluva drug, and Ivan was high on that.

So, Eloise broke Ivan’s trust and endangered herself while doing it. And people are mad at Ivan? Okay. Cool. Good to know.

You know what was really crazy about all of this? A lot of the things Ivan said in this chapter really resonated with the post I linked above. I didn’t actually know Ivan didn’t take change (which had fucked him over in the past) well, but he directly said so. I didn’t actually know for sure that Ivan saw Constance as the embodiment of what he’d lost when he turned vamp, BUT HE ACTUALLY SAID IT (the part labeled, “OH MY GOD. OH. MY. GOD.”). I only vaguely understood that Ivan had a hard time coping with his transformation and feared that he was gonna ruin his relationship with Eloise. And yet! I ended up hitting the nail right on the head! I can’t tell if this means I’m magical or that I’m too good at diving into character’s heads.

The best part is that Ivan is the one to call an end to the shouting match. I’m kinda glad he kissed her, first of all, because there were some logical fallacies and circular arguing going on PLUS all of the emotions both were feeling PLUS the Chalice bond fucking them up a bit, SO it kinda served to tell him, “We gotta stop.” He basically says (and this is a paraphrase), “Okay, you go chill, and I’ll stay here and chill, because we’re both very angry and should probably calm down.” RATIONAL IVAN.

I’m really, REALLY confused why people are bashing him left and right (and I WOULD bring up the straitjacket thing again BUT).

[Side Note: I think at the beginning of Chapter 6, he ended up going out anyway because after an argument like THAT, how do you NOT get stuck in your own head and need to leave?]

Final Thoughts

This could all be bullshit. Even the parts where I directly quote what the English version of this chapter gave me. I could be going in too deep for the sake of defending Ivan. But what the Moonlight Lovers fandom needs to remember is that nobody ever said Ivan’s route was going to be easy. I got my fluff. I got some damn good fluff in this chapter, too. I NEVER expected things to NOT go to shit for the sake of the overarching plot. I expected it. That’s the point of this game, for God’s sake: things go to shit because of [PLOT].

There are two main things I think some people may have forgotten.

1. Eloise is allowed to be jealous. I’m sorry the past-lover-jealousy trope isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but I, personally, find it realistic. Maybe she went about it in the wrong way (although we got some hefty dramarama), but I empathize. I’m hecka insecure; I would be acting very similarly to her.

2. Ivan does, in fact, have a point. He has multiple, actually. I don’t blame him for going further into the “so I would go out to see her-” thing, because how does one properly explain something like that to someone who doesn’t know them that well?!?! Plus, his concern is very clear throughout this chapter, so treating him like he has no emotions/doesn’t give a damn about Eloise is pretty fucking stupid. Perhaps he’s acting rather selfishly most of the time, but do you think Vlad and Bel were entirely selfless 24/7? HELL, I’D BE SELFISH TOO. LOOK HOW FUCKED UP HIS LIFE HAS GOTTEN SINCE HE BECAME A VAMP.

I didn’t really ever plan on doing this post, not until I saw people giving Ivan a lot of shit. Frankly, I’m giving him some shit as well. Considering how close in age Eloise and Ivan are, I’m really not surprised shit hit the fan in this chapter, especially with the decisions both of them made.

But then, I still enjoyed it.

So, yeah. I actually enjoyed this chapter. I was tossed back and forth between empathizing with Eloise and Ivan so much that my conclusion - that both of them had a point and both of them had valid feelings and reactions - was not one I thought I’d make when I went in.

And if anybody else actually happened to find merit in this chapter, don’t be afraid to say so. Hell, you can DM me and tell me EXACTLY why you found merit with it. I don’t mind.

Final Final Thoughts

This is a stupid random thought, but. When did Eloise and Ivan become parts of my psyche incarnate??? Like I empathized with them WAYYYYYY too much. Was this chapter written specifically for me? For a real person who’s felt many of these things before?

Beemoov, did you specifically write Ivan’s route for me? As flattered as I am, this is kinda weird. I didn’t expect to see myself so much in the MC of this game, but here we are.

I’m just bullshitting please no one roast me for having a huge ego it’s just that the coincidence was too uncanny

#moonlight lovers #ml ivan #ml ivan chapter 5 #ml eloise #they both fucked up and i stand by this statement #i'm back on my bullshit sorry #but also not sorry #i stand by everything i said #ivan stans unite #gen rambling again #but not really #this is not rambling in the least #i'm tired now #i crawled into too many character's heads the past few days

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paulisweeabootrash · 4 years ago

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2020 mini-review pack

Di Gi Charat (1999)

Episodes watched: 7

Platform: VRV (Hidive)

Di Gi Charat (pronounced like “carrot”) is a series of fast-paced 4-ish-minute shorts nominally about Dejiko and Rabi-en-Rose, rivals trying to be Earth’s greatest idol. Who are, respectively, a catgirl and a bunnygirl. Oh, and also they’re aliens? That’s... uh... certainly a premise, I guess. The actual show consists of self-contained gag-filled episodes with no ongoing story, in almost a sitcom kind of way, throwing the characters into situations without context, but with a stable “baseline” situation (unlike, say, Pop Team Epic, where the characters serve more as stock personalities playing different roles in different sketches). Dejiko is a snarky schemer. Rabi-en-Rose is a snarky schemer whose main activity seems to be bothering Dejiko at work. Puchiko is a small and quiet child and behaves accordingly. And Gema is... something? I have no clue, honestly, and neither does the fan wiki. Other recurring characters fill stock roles such as “manager” and “otaku”. A lot of the humor centers around poking fun at fandom. It’s a show by, for, and about otaku from an era before our current internet culture, and since I’m a millennial and not from Japan, that makes it unusually hard to evaluate.

W/A/S: 8/2?/5?

Weeb: Chibis. Catgirls. Idols. Kappas. Kawaii verbal tics. Akihabara. Low-detail background characters who look like blobs or thumbs with faces. Kanji left on-screen but untranslated. Particular sorts of highly-exaggerated facial expressions we may have become familiar with through emoji, but which still haven’t made their way into American media generally. This is ludicrously Japanese.

Ass: This really isn't that kind of show. Although it is certainly designed for adults, as evidenced by the presence of phrases like “naughty doujinshi”.

Shit: The art is fun. It has style shifts from comic strip to watercolor painting to mainstream 90s anime, and looks better than some of its contemporaries that were, uh, “real” shows. The opening takes up about a quarter of the total runtime and gets annoying quickly (but that's because it’s clearly designed for being part of a broadcast block, not binge-watching). Still, unless I’m missing hidden cleverness on account of not having the background knowledge, there’s not much to it. It’s just okay.

-----

First Astronomical Velocity (band, active 2011-present)

Platform: Spotify, surprisingly

Okay, this one is a bit different, and I’m jettisoning the whole format for it. Remember how I said the music-centered episodes of SoniAni were actually pretty good, even though the modeling-centered episodes were so offputting I never finished the show? Well it turns out that First Astronomical Velocity, Sonico’s band, has released several IRL albums. Physical copies may be a little hard to come by, but official uploads of a lot of their music can be found on Youtube and Spotify. Do your musical interests include at least two of: string arrangements that would be at home in a particularly sappy movie soundtrack, 90s-00s alternative rock, synthesizer beep-boops, and that constricted cutesy Japanese women’s vocal style (you know the one I mean)? Then this is for you. They’re a pretty good... uh... alt-pop-rock band, I guess is what I’d call them.

-----

Interspecies Reviewers (2020)

Episodes watched: the entire 12-episode season

Platform: I plead the 5th. But it’s getting a video release soon, so it will finally be legitimately available in English!

I started this year with a plot-light fanservicey animal-people show, and now I’m ending the year with... a plot-light fanservicey animal-people show. But unlike Nekopara, this show had me cracking up, eagerly clicking “next episode”, and not complaining about the premise. I’m sure a lot of people do have a problem with this show’s premise -- which centers almost entirely on various forms of sex work -- and I understand and respect that they will want to skip this show.

But for the rest of you: Interspecies Reviewers is a wildly-NSFW comedy about a group of fantasy world adventurers who gain fame and fortune reviewing brothels of different species. I expected excessive nudity and fantasy tropes, but I didn’t expect to also get serious thoughts. Like showing, in the golem and Magic Metropolis episodes, some of the unsettling problems that are looming IRL as deepfakes and sex robots are in development -- note especially the contrast between consensually and non-consensually basing automata on real people in those episodes. Or the discussion in the last episode of how much riskier sex would be in a world without magic (i.e., ours). This is a much smarter and more interesting show than you’d expect, considering that it has so much sexual content that it got dropped by two of the networks airing it and even its US distributor.

W/A/S: 5/10/4

Weeb: Although heavily influenced by the Western fantasy media canon of European mythology and Tolkien and tabletop RPGs, familiarity with the tropes of fantasy anime will help you “get” this too, as will familiarity with the -sigh- character dynamics and censorship practices of hentai. Especially because it’s a comedy, there are probably also instances where I have completely missed topical references or wordplay that a Japanese person would get, but I can’t think of any specific instances right now of “there was clearly supposed to be a joke but I missed it”.

Ass: Look, this could not possibly have more sexual content without unambiguously becoming porn. Genitals are (almost) always carefully hidden by viewing angle or conveniently-placed glowing (something lampshaded in one episode as an actual feature of one of the species they review), but otherwise, expect lots of nudity and almost nonstop crude humor. Do not watch this with children. Do not watch this with your parents. Do not watch this with friends you don’t know well enough to know how they’ll react to something like this.

Shit: This show is better-made than it deserves to be. It’s pretty dumb at points, but it’s fun enough to make up for it. The art is consistent and pleasant, and the opening and ending themes are extremely fun, but it’s not a serious standout in any of those departments. Also, I swear the background music is stock music, but I don’t remember what other show(s) I’ve heard it in before.

Stray thought: Crim is a precious and relatable cinnamon roll and I love them.

-----

OreSuki OVA (2020)

Platform: Crunchyroll

So, I know I didn’t cover the whole season in my initial review, but I still want to mention the hour-ish-long finale of this show, which was released straight to streaming. Short version of the rest of the season: Joro starts to actually fall for Pansy, but a new challenger, Hose, appears. He is irritatingly attractive and effortless at maintaining the right persona for the situation, leading Joro to describe him as “the main character”. Hose is the sociopathic manipulator Joro wishes he could be, and Pansy, who has a bad past with him, clearly wants nothing more than for Joro to stand up to him. But, since this is OreSuki, it’s not going to be handled simply. No, instead, strap in for a grand finale of Joro and Hose competing in, and trying to manipulate through rules-lawyering, an absolutely ludicrous competition to win the right to date Pansy. And, on top of it, we also get to finally see how Sun-chan got to be the way he is and what happened at that pivotal baseball game that set off the whole plot. What has Joro learned from the experiences of the past season? You’ll see! And you’ll facepalm about it!

Really, you must watch this if you watched the regular season.

W/A/S: 6/5(!)/4ish

Weeb: Basically the same as I said before. Gags referencing other Japanese media, anime and otherwise, and it's better if you’re familiar with the high school romcoms and harem comedies Joro thinks in terms of.

Ass (and slight content note): -sigh- Why does the camera need to be there? Also, Joro, you just committed a little bit of sexual assault for the sake of this contest. Stop.

Shit: I want to rate this overall better than I did the regular season because I think it’s an excellent finale overall because, even though it ends in a very “let’s leave everything unresolved” way that’s common in media that rely on absurd relationships to propel the plot, it does so in a way that makes sense in character. I personally think it would’ve been stronger if it had, well, confirmed its title, and at least some of the other “challengers” had lost interest in Joro, but I guess they probably want a Season 2, since they have so much more source material to work from. There are... oh god 14 light novels?! That is too many.

-----

Your Name. (2016)

Platform: DVD

Two high schoolers -- small-town girl Mitsuha, from Itomori, and big-city boy Taki, from Tokyo -- find themselves in each other’s bodies for a day. They both think at first it must be a very vivid dream, but when it happens again, and they start finding clues like notes they don’t remember writing and comments by friends and relatives about their out-of-character behavior, they realize the body swap is real. This begins a relationship of mutual understanding that nobody else can really understand -- or would even believe (except Mitsuha’s grandmother, who is... familiar with this phenomenon) -- and the plot then pivots to a tense adventure where they use their connection, some crucial information Taki has, the skills of Mitsuha’s friends, and the intervention of Itomori’s patron deity, to save the town from an impending disaster.

And that’s all I’ll say about that, because I really do think this is something you should go into blind. My only remaining comments are that (1) the red string of fate is critically important imagery, and is particularly interesting to me here because, if I took a particular scene correctly, Mitsuha made her own red string of fate from sheer necessity, which is a very different twist on that trope, and (2) I am now curious about the history of the body-swapping phenomenon in-universe.

W/A/S: 4?/2/2

Weeb: As mentioned above, symbolism of the Red String of Fate shows up throughout the movie, as do the occasional distinctly Japanese quirk like a wildly out-of-place vending machine or a café with dogs, and but for the most part it’s a cross-cultural story of understanding and dealing with someone else’s life, and of forming a connection other people don’t -- can’t -- truly understand, and to some extent of divides between urban and rural and modern and traditional that I think could play out in any country with just the local symbolism tweaked. The significance and content of Shinto beliefs and practices depicted, particularly kuchikamizake, are made pretty explicit, so although foreign to the vast majority of the non-Japanese audience, I feel like this movie also has nearly no barrier to entry for people not familiar with the cultural context, so I don’t want to rate it very high on this scale.

Ass: Look. It involves teenagers switching bodies. What do you think they do? Especially Taki? But it’s played for laughs, not titillation.

Shit: This movie is beautiful and punched me in the feels and was very satisfying. The closest I have to a complaint about any aspect of it is that the musical breaks that I guess are supposed to mark acts of the movie almost make it feel like binge-watching a short series instead of watching a single self-contained movie.

#weeaboo trash #anime review #mini-reviews #happy new year #di gi charat #first astronomical velocity #super sonico #interspecies reviewers #oresuki #Are You Really the Only One Who Likes Me?#your name

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ao3feed--reylo · 4 years ago

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Alternate Ending

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2XmHx4A

by BeeBeeAte_irl

So let’s just say that ending was not the actual ending, that Ben dying was just a glimpse into the future, and they had a chance to change that, with the help of some force ghost that we all know and love, and what transpires from then after the finale battle.

Horrible summary, but it’s a TROS ending fix it.

Words: 5907, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Rey (Star Wars), Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Poe Dameron, Finn (Star Wars), Maz Kanata, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker, Chewbacca (Star Wars), Lando Calrissian, Rose Tico

Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo

Additional Tags: Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Fix-It, Fix-It, Rey is Not a Palpatine, Rey (Star Wars) is Nobody, Force Dyad (Star Wars), force ghost, who actually serve some purpose, and actually make an appearance, Implied FinnPoe, Ben Solo Lives, Also Snap Wexley lives, Soft Ben Solo, soft rey, I just want them to be happy, Some Fluff, Some angst, just this once everybody lives, except Palpatine, Fixing JJ’s mistake, Not Rian Johnson level writing but better than JJ, One Shot

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2XmHx4A

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Star Wars #Reylo #Kylo Ren #Rey

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spiders-hth-is-an-outlier · 5 years ago

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Four Reasons You Can Pry Cass Out of My Cold Dead Hands

Look, I kept my mouth shut for like three goddamn years of Tumblr. That’s a lot, for me. I’m not famous for keeping my mouth shut, so, you know. Accept that I tried, and even though I failed, An Effort Was Made. Take that for whatever it’s worth.

Cass is the better spelling. It’s not just the correct spelling (though it is the correct spelling), it’s the superior choice of spelling, and here is why.

1. The Phonetics Are Good, Not Bad

You may see people point out that in English, single-syllable words with an A in the middle are typically pronounced with a short A sound. Bat, rad, van, pal. Cool, true! This would be a point, except that--

It’s typically NOT true of words that rhyme with, uh, Cass.

Now, there aren’t a ton of those words in English. One-syllable words with a short A sound and an S at the end are relatively rare! Which is cool, because we can pretty much look at all of them, ready, here we go:

ass -- bass -- brass -- class -- crass -- gas -- glass -- grass -- lass -- mass -- pass -- sass

What do you notice?

Sure, I’ll give you “gas.” It’s short for gasoline, and nobody ever bothered to add an extra S to make it match the pattern. So there you go.

But now take the second S off of every other one of those words. Usually you get a word that doesn’t exist in English, with the exception of “as” and “bras” (if you’re allowing plurals into the conversation). But of those two exceptions, now *neither one* rhymes with Cass anymore -- either the consonant sound changes to a Z sound, or the vowel becomes that soft ah instead of a short A. That’s what Kripke was trying to say when he says he picked the spelling because “Cas might sound like Caz.” He meant that, reasonably enough, people might be prompted to think of the only other one-syllable word in common use English that matches this pattern, which is ass/as.

But what about the other words? If you drop the second S and allow people to *guess* how they think the word might be pronounced -- well, who’s to say. Would you automatically rhyme bas, clas, glas, las, and mas with gas? Maybe you would. More likely, in my opinion, your best guess would be to either rhyme them with as, or to pronounce them as the non-English words they are -- bas relief is from a French loan, glas is Irish, las and mas are common Spanish words. None of them are pronounced with a short A.

So yeah, if you were randomly reading a fantasy novel, as a native English speaker, these are the calculations you’d make about how to pronounce a name: Das would sound more like dahz, I bet, while Dass is definitely dass. Vas and Vass. Ras and Rass. Shas and Shass. You don’t look at those and pronounce them the same way in your head; not if you’re an English speaker. You just don’t. And without the cue of knowing the full name, you wouldn’t for Cas and Cass, either.

2. Cass Is a Human Name, and We Call That Themes

Cass is a real, live name. People have it. The majority of them are women, and it’s short for Cassandra, sure, but it’s also a real, live, human male name. Really! Here’s a list of people who have that name in real life and fiction alike. For some of them, it’s a diminutive of single-S names like Caspar and Casimir. That’s a thing! Sometimes it’s just a freestanding name; Cass Ballenger the politician just had it as his middle name. Sometimes it does come from double-S names like Cassian and Cassius. Regardless, it’s just -- a name that exists.

When you name a fictional character, sometimes you just pick one randomly, but sometimes the name reflects on or points up something thematically. I have no idea if that was the intention in this case, but even if it was accidentally, something pretty cool happened. The made-up fantasy-faux-angelic name “Castiel” tends to be used by other angels, particularly ones like Raphael and Naomi who are speaking to him as real or presumptive superiors in a hierarchy. “Castiel” is the designation he was given out of the gate, when he was made to be God’s enforcer. “Cass” is the name Dean gave him. Cass is what his friends call him, and it’s symbolic of his relationship to humanity, which he consistently chooses over his relationship with angels. When he fell, or jumped ship, or however you’d like to think about it, he was given a human name, which everyone who regards him with even the slightest affection at all now uses. It’s good! That’s good! It’s a good use of a small thing to point up how differently different characters see him, and whether they emphasize his familiarity or his alienness. You lose that if you insist that his name is only an abbreviated form of his given name. You lose something from the text if you imagine he’s being called Castiel-only-shorter, instead of becoming a real person named Cass.

3. Just Don’t Be A Jerk, People Are Named What They’re Named

This is just, like -- decency? I know he’s not a real person, but it’s -- rude, right? You don’t correct the spelling of someone else’s name. Who does that? Do you have beef with parents who call their daughter Catherine Katie, because only Catie is acceptable to you? People are allowed to just do, like, whatever with names, it’s literally fine. You know what’s not typically a nickname for Dimitri? MISHA. But that’s his name, because it just is.

Yeah, it’s fandom. You can change whatever you like. You can have whatever opinions you want about how you would have spelled it, if you were Eric Kripke, or Chuck Shurley, or Metatron, or Dean Winchester. I have opinions about Isaac Lahey’s name in Teen Wolf, because it’s spelled Lahey and pronounced Leahy, and that’s bonkers! But that is how it’s spelled, and I just -- go on with my life, unharmed. Castiel isn’t a real person who will have real feelings about however you prefer to spell his name.

But the standard rule for polite society in re: how to spell someone’s name is however they want you to spell it. Normally not obeying that rule reads as passive-aggressive at best. Which is how we come to....

4. Fandom Gatekeeping Is Shitty, Actually

The reality behind the fervor with which Cas-people not just defend their choice to use the non-canonical spelling, but regularly flood my goddamn dash with weird, angry screeds about the fact that 100% of the world doesn’t use the non-canonical spelling, is that they are using it as a shibboleth, a marker of who counts and who doesn’t. Who belongs here and who doesn’t. I’ve always known this, because I’m clever like that, but recently I’ve seen versions of the Weird, Angry Screed that spell it out directly: people who spell it Cass are either new around here and haven’t learned How We Do It yet, or by choosing not to do it How We Do It, they are signaling their contempt for pro-Castiel fandom.

And honestly I understand that my reaction to this isn’t the typical one. I know that most people find those little signs and signifiers of who’s Team Us and who’s Team Them Over There to be comforting. There’s something that people just like about wearing the jersey; it makes them feel safe among others like them. I get it.

But much as I love fandom, there’s something I have always hated, and always will hate, about that kind of expectation of groupthink within fandom. I know, rationally, that part of the socialization is that you’re supposed to learn lingo and references and in-jokes -- you’re supposed to join the fandom by speaking like the fandom speaks. But there’s something, I dunno, almost threatening? There’s something crazy-making about taking this random, essentially irrelevant detail, and turning it into something that proves if you belong here or not. At best, maybe you’re “new around here” (which is okay? It’s fine, actually, to be new in a fandom and not yet realize that you’re supposed to be ignoring eleven seasons of subtitles? Why are you yelling at newbies, please don’t?), but at worst, we know because you won’t make this mental change that we’ve all agreed to make, that actually you’re not just an outsider, but an opponent. If you weren’t, you’d do what we all do.

It’s the most literal, direct example of fandom gatekeeping. If you know the secrets of how we speak and what we accept as real and important, then you’re cool and you can stay. If you don’t know, or you disagree with what we all got together and accepted as real and important, based on -- watching the show? -- then we know to stay away from you because you’re the wrong kind of fan. Not our kind. Wearing the bad jersey.

It’s shitty. It’s mean-spirited. It’s the worst kind of cliquish fan posturing, casting people with legitimately different approaches to how and why to use, change, or discard canon in their art and conversation as opponents in a dumb, made-up turf war, and it serves to intentionally carve the fan community into narrower slices of self-siloed echo chambers of agreement and validation, rather than requiring people to just -- get cool with the fact that different opinions exist.

Sure, not all people who spell it Cas are like that. Some of you seem nice. But man, I see the knives come out all over every time the Cass spelling pops up in canon, because a lot of y’all really take this seriously, beyond just habit and aesthetic preference. And even when it’s not said out loud, it’s clear to me that it’s not an argument about how the word looks on the page. It’s clear to me that those who won’t conform don’t belong and aren’t wanted, and people are afraid someone somewhere might not realize they don’t belong and aren’t wanted until they conform.

There was a time in my life when I’d find that really hurtful, honestly. That time is not now, because I have real problems, and what Supernatural fandom thinks of me really, truly, deeply does not matter to my life.

But it does bother me enough to write all this out, I guess, and I know that’s because I remember a time when I was younger and more isolated and fandom was really a social and emotional home for me, and I still have an idealistic fondness for the idea of a big-tent, non-gatekeepy version of fandom where people can just, like, be cool to each other about things, even things they disagree intensely about. There are still people in the world who need and deserve that, and it always angries me up a little when I see people deliberately wrecking that version and replacing it with one where fans have to performatively prove that they aren’t on the wrong team through weird little random tics that have to be repeated just-so, just the way you learned them. So I don’t do that, out of love for my imaginary version of fandom where no one’s asked to do that.

So yeah, the combination of those four factors means that I am never, ever, ever going to mend my ways on this topic, which is a privilege I have, as a person with basically nothing invested in anyone in Supernatural fandom. (I mean, some of y’all seem really nice, but none of my actual friends live here.) That lack of being invested in the fandom also, I realize, means that I have no social capital to spend, and people are unlikely to give a fuck what I do or why I do it, so all of this has really been -- basically meaningless. Still, I’m not really good at thinking things and not saying them, although I’m getting slightly better. Really! In general!

#apparently i have opinions

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applsauss · 4 years ago

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Horizon Blue

Description: As French field medics and stretcher bearers in the Great War, your only purpose is to prolong human life, so why is it that you dream of memories no longer yours, and love Bonnefoy’s blue eyes with all your heart, when they are familiar and unfamiliar to you, still?

Fandom:  Hetalia

Pairing: APH France (Francis Bonnefoy)/Reader

Word Count: 11.3k+

Warning(s): Depictions of War. Blood. Gore. Minor Character Death.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- 

“Wake up,” commands a voice, rough from cigarettes.

You are in the cradle of fuzzy sleep.

“It’s time. Wake up.”

In the pause between words, you sink into the soft comfort of your bedding. It smells of the front, but it does not smell of antiseptic, pus and rot--and for that you are thankful.

“I’ll never know how to sleep like that. I’m jealous,” another voice says, this one younger. It is full of the wistfulness of home.

Another voice. A saccharine laugh.

Suddenly, you’re being shook. “For god’s sake, wake up!”

You gasp and sit up, scrabbling at the wet grass beneath you as you’re yanked from sleep. “Huh-?” The hands holding your tunic drop you.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder. “Quiet, friend. It is time for us to move up.” It is still dark out, black clouds roll like ocean waves in the sky above, but you can make out Bonnefoy’s face through the darkness.

He is familiar to you in a way you cannot understand. Faintly, you recall pieces of your dream. He had been there with you, only he was different. The dream fades and settles into your mind like a memory.

Bonnefoy had been wearing white, and his blonde hair fell around his shoulders in soft curls. He was smiling. His eyes were a bright blue, and the sky was the same color.

He had said something that made you smile. You could taste love in your mouth.

Behind you, activity in the dressing station is picking up once more as soldiers begin to wake and remember their terrible pain. It is a familiar noise, and though it brings no comfort, it grounds you firmly in this day. There is to be a dawn raid after the mutual bombardment. French infantrymen have been gathering in numbers at the front for some weeks now, and last night you ate real, honest-to-god meat.

The medics not partaking in the dawn raid are making their rounds swiftly, with morphia and careless exhaustion. You are glad not to be them, but you are not glad to be yourself either.

You sit for a moment, sleep-dazed and trying to sort your memories. You are near Bathelémont, the town sits in rubble and ruin just behind the French trenches. There is to be a push this morning to try and break the German line. You can’t get the taste of unfamiliar wine out of your mouth, of a life lived in a tiny farmhouse, of cows and of a child with Bonnefoy’s blue eyes--why his blue eyes?

“Are you alright?” Chastain pauses from pulling on his gear. You glance up at your friend in surprise, not having realized you’d been staring at your hands for minutes now.

In the same moment, Archambault grunts. “Get ready.” The old man has too much personality for his own good. His friends refer to him as ‘Prince Archie’, but only behind his back.

You shake yourself from your stupor, embarrassment gripping you tight. You stand up, strip your bed, then prepare for the offensive by making sure you are properly stocked with your medical supplies.

The world is loud, but the four of you are silent and solemn in the face of it. There is only the sound of fabric rustling as you wrestle with your belt straps, change out your socks and wrap your puttees tightly around your calves. You are preparing for bloody battle.

Chastain and Archambault wander off to sniff around for breakfast, usually not served before an offensive, but still available when one knows where to look.

It is only you and Bonnefoy now in your makeshift camp. You’d decided the night previous to risk shellfire if it meant spending a night outside the haze of the dressing station, where the air was thick with all the smells and sounds of injured men.

You kick at the remnants of dinner, thinking of how flavourful it had been, when your mind drifts back to your strange dream. “Bon, did you used to have your hair long?” you ask before you can think better of it.

Bonnefoy looks at you strangely. “No. Never.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you say, “well, you should. I’d think it suits you.”

***

You rally with the regular infantrymen at dawn. They stare at you and your red crosses as if they should be offended. Archambault hunches over on the firestep and lights a soggy cigarette after two tries. Next to him is the stretcher.

Chastain sits in the tense silence without comment, next to Archambault. You are the last in line. You force yourself to exhale slowly. The sickly breeze rushes over your head from the direction of no man’s land, and you imagine the stench comes just as much from German fear as it does French. Do they know you’re coming? Are they waiting in that same, pallid-faced way you do when the hairs on your arm tell you that they are coming?

Further along the trench is Bonnefoy, who is practicing his English with the fresh-cut American troops. He is talking to a young soldier in particularly good spirits. The Americans have not been in the trenches long. They are fresh out of their homeland and brave in the way someone can be when the war has not touched them yet.

Bonnefoy says something in halting English, and the soldier laughs, loudly and obnoxiously. It both grates and soothes the nerves. Archambault stares with dead eyes at the trench wall opposite and offers you a cigarette, which you accept without comment because despite all his rough behaviour, he is not stingy.

This one lights easier than his. You try to let it quiet your rattling nerves. You never smoked before you shook hands with the front. Now you do as often as any soldier does.

For a moment, the front is still. The morning bombardment had paused an hour before, and still the latest conscripted soldiers look queasy as you wait for orders. You don’t bother talking to them or remembering their faces. There’s no point when the lives they live are like those of mayflies, brilliant one moment, gone the next.

An older corporal grumbles. He is the closest regular infantryman to your group. He takes a long swig from his canteen, then wipes his chin with a dirty hand. The watered down wine stains his lips.

“It’s bad luck having you out here with us,” he grunts accusingly. Nobody likes the idea of stretcher bearers already being on hand before the offensive has yet to begin. You’re sympathetic. It’s a grim reminder that command expects sacrifices.

Archambault sneers at him. They are two old dogs barking through a fence. “Rather bad luck than dead in fuckin’ no man’s land without aid.”

The younger recruits recoil. You and Chastain numbly watch their reaction, then Archambault and the corporal notice as well and decide to lay to bed whatever pent-up frustration they feel and save it for the Germans. Cowardice is contagious.

“Do you remember the sound of the chestnut trees from home?” Chastain says suddenly from beside you. His voice aches of the homesickness you spend most quiet moments trying to ignore.

“Hm?” You regard him for a long moment. You were schoolmates once, in the same year and class. When it came time for conscription, your names were drawn in different lots, months apart, but you both ended up in the same company.

“The chestnut trees. Don’t you remember the line of them by the river? In the summer we used to sit there on the banks and listen to them in the wind.”

You don’t think there’s much use thinking of home, it has always made the world seem too large, too impossible, but for as long as you have known him as he is now, Chastain has clung to those thoughts. “Do you remember in the fall, when we would pick chestnuts using our shirts like baskets?”

Distantly, you hear Bonnefoy say something in English. You don’t know enough to understand it. There is much you don’t understand, not about your brothers-in-arms, not about the war, and not about the home you have left behind.

Your childhood is firmly behind the German front lines, occupied and shelled to hell. Thoughts of home lead to thoughts of your family, how they are getting on as refugees. They have said nothing of your dog. You wonder if they would have taken him with them. Probably not, but you convince yourself that they have.

A captain steps through the line of jumpy infantrymen. He is counting in his head. You watch his black boots pass along the duckboards.

Further along in the trench, in the opposite direction of Bonnefoy and out of sight, someone drops a crate of something metal. It sounds nothing like a shell, but it is loud enough to make a new recruit cry out in fear. He begins to sob. You grit your teeth. Cowardice is contagious. He is quickly told to shut up by an older soldier. Thankfully, it ends there.

You take another drag of the cigarette, then realize you have not responded yet to Chastain. You look to him and find he has let the topic drop. Instead he is lighting a cigarette on the butt of Archambault’s. The two murmur back and forth of the techniques of amputation--Archambault insists he once saw a doctor take off two legs at once, a soldier on either side of him.

Chastain attempts to argue the morality of Archambault’s scenario, but the older man is more interested in the efficiency of it all.

Dawn is fast approaching. Before much more time has passed, the order to stand-at-attention is passed down by shouting captains, who berate their soldiers because it is the only thing they respond to now. The trench erupts in motion. You, Archambault, and Chastain slip off the firestep with your equipment as a row of infantrymen take your place, crouched with rifles ready. Closely behind them waits the next wave, and so on.

Bonnefoy returns to your side, and the four of you prepare to launch yourselves over the top with the infantrymen, only you will not be rushing the enemy, but rather carrying the many wounded back.

***

The French artillery lays off. No man’s land is quiet as it waits to receive its dead.

“Attaque!”

With the command to attack the enemy, your heart ceases to beat on its own time. Instead, it is synchronised with the many footsteps of soldiers rushing headlong into war.

In the initial wave of attack, battle surges at the same time the world loses meaning. There is gunfire, and the smell of battle that glues itself to the roof of your mouth. The Germans shell the line once they catch wind of the raid. Loose earth flies overhead. You are crouched on the firestep, head just under the top of the trench, and you press yourself into the parapet as if it could comfort you. Seconds tick by.

“Attaque!”

Then comes the command for the second wave to go over the top. A trench-long battle cry pierces the sky and nearly drowns the chop and chatter of the German machine guns. Your body leaves your mind in the trench as it rushes over the top and into the mud, just behind Archambault and followed closely by Chastain and Bonnefoy.

The barbed wire on both sides is always an obstacle. Your group is spread as your progress through the narrow channels between the barbed wire sections is slowed. When you are free of the defenses, Archambault, who is carrying the stretcher, is meters ahead of you. Bonnefoy is behind you still, and Chastain was swept farther along the trench by the rush of soldiers.

Archambault quickly locates the first casualty of the day. He drops to his knees next to a soldier without legs. Even from this distance, you can tell they have been shelled off.

The soldier is screaming and kicking with his stumps. You are wild and without sense as you rush to him, Bonnefoy, quick as a fox and on your heel. You forget in moments like these that he has only been at the front for a year. It feels like a lifetime ago you had a life without war, where you would sit under chestnut trees and try to make out your future in the clouds passing overhead. For you, it has been two years since you last saw home, and three since you left that first, fateful time.

Over the roar of the battlefield, there is the hollow howl of a shell, clearly audible over the rapid bursts of machine gun fire and general misery. You are still rushing towards the stretcher without thought when Archambault throws his body over the wounded soldier. You are too far, and too close. The whistle is loud. “Shit!” You throw yourself to the ground, Bonnefoy next to you. Just before you cover your face, you see Chastain dive into a shell crater opposite you. The filthy mud squelches underneath you.

BOM! The shell hits with an ear-splitting explosion. Shrapnel is sent flying in all directions, low and close to the ground--dangerous.

You attempt to sink deeper into the safety of the earth. You feel the mud wet your face and slick your hands. It smells of poison gas and rot. The world has no sense. Your ears ring.

“Fuck it all!” Chastain swears loudly. The ground is still shaking beneath you, but you push yourself quickly to stand. You scramble up to the frontline's newest crater. Bonnefoy slips beside you, and you grab his arm to keep him from falling, but end up catching yourself instead as you trip over a tree sunk into the mud. No man’s land is once more unrecognizable, blasted to all hell.

You find that Archambault is dead. So is the wounded soldier. Both are impaled by the same piece of shrapnel. There is a burst of machine gun fire. The movement of a shell rings loud in your ear, but not loud enough to be headed straight towards you.

A soldier wails to your left, louder than the shell, and hope spreads like love through your chest when you hear how his voice is still strong. “Another, then!” Bonnefoy shouts. You rush to the stretcher and dump both Archambault and the soldier off of it, then the three of you run towards the wailing soldier, Chastain holding the front of the stretcher alone, while you and Bonnefoy follow.

There only has to be one life saved to make this war worth it. You only have to bring one man back to the dressing station to convince yourself there is meaning in the world, that there is reason and order.

A shiver runs up your spine, and the three of you drop to the mud once more as bullets are sprayed around you in rapid bursts of gunfire. Bonnefoy begins to pray. You think of your home and the chestnut trees Chastain misses so dearly.

A moment passes after the gunfire, then it starts up once more somewhere else along the line. The three of you shove yourselves up, ragged, and stumble on through the mud towards your wounded soldier. Your body moves, but still you’re convinced you are no longer seeing, hearing, or breathing.

You find the soldier in a waterlogged crater. His legs are under the waterline, but his top half is stuck to the muddy sidewall. He is covered in filth. You know him to be the American soldier Bonnefoy had been talking to before the raid. His uniform bleeds a dark, sickening red.

Chastain drops into the crater and you follow, slipping sideways on your feet down the slick wall towards the young man. Bonnefoy flattens himself and creeps to the edge beside the stretcher.

“Come on, boy! You’re alright,” Chastain shouts as he tucks his hands under the soldier’s armpits and tries to pull him out of the crater. He bleeds more instead. You swear and slip closer to the water to check on his wounds.

“He’s bleeding out,” you inform Chastain as you grab the man’s breeches, dipping your hands just into the water, ignoring the disgust that shoots through you like lightning at the thought of what lies just beneath the surface. “The wound is decent. What was it, Howitzer shrapnel?” You pull hard when Chastain does. The young man wails into the bleeding dawn.

Chastain grunts. “Doesn’t matter.” You pull together again, and the American soldier slides up the wall. Chastain loses his grip on the uniform, then catches the shoulder straps of the American’s webbing. The young man’s voice is hoarse as he moans. His eyes are glazed over, pupils darting across your face without seeing. His uniform is a dark red. Chastain readjusts his feet, and you dig your toes into the soft mud.

“Quickly now!” Bonnefoy rushes from the edge, reaching his body over to grab Chastain by his belt and haul him up, followed by the American and then finally, you.

Bonnefoy drags the young man into the stretcher while you and Chastain go to the other end and prepare to heft it up.

Another shell whistle. The Germans must be angry. It grows louder. Panic reaches you, then, like a friend calling you from a distance. You hunch over the wounded American’s head, shielding him with your torso as the shell hits with a knee-weakening BOM!

***

Bonnefoy fights viciously with the barbed wire when you return with the American to the trenches. You and Chastain try to bear the weight of the young man so Bonnefoy can make it through, but he continues to swear sharply anyways.

When you reach the edge of the trench, Bonnefoy slows and you switch to be positioned in the front and beside him. Then you slip and slide back into the trench with the American on the stretcher. You let go entirely when both Bonnefoy and Chastain have their boots on the duckboards and begin to shove your way through the chaos.

“Out of the way!” you shout at the wounded soldiers and officers alike. “Medic! Out of the way!” They part like they can’t help but follow the command. The battle continues to wreak confusion up and down the line. It will last for hours.

You run the poor American through the trenches all the way to the dressing station situated near the rear of the system, where you’d spent the night. The soldiers stuck in beds are joined by wounded lying on the grass in rows, moaning and crying. You are numb to the racket.

The boy is taken from your stretcher and laid out with the others. Bonnefoy folds the stretcher, then you turn heel and rush back to the front for the next casualty.

You no longer breathe, you no longer blink, you no longer have thoughts. You do not understand. The only words passed between the three of you as you continue your grisly work are what is necessary. The heat of a bullet just missing your head is like the sun on your back.

When it comes time for the German counter-attack, you arm yourself with your entrenching tool and fight for your life like everyone churning up mud in this bloody battle. The war has no beginning and will have no end.

It is only when your small team is relieved that you realize Archambault, the old man, is no longer with you. He is among the dead delivered into the waiting embrace of no man’s land.

You sit at the foot of a tree and look to the grey sky. It holds no answers.

***

It is late in the afternoon.

The day of the raid marks two weeks spent at the front. When there is not a raid, you are orderlies walking the lines of sick and injured men, you are gravediggers disposing of the many dead, some blessed with coffins, most without, and you are (most often) soldiers sick of war.

Now you are being relieved to hospital duty, where you are less likely to get shelled. Some part of you hates it even more than the front. In field hospitals, there is no question of death. It is a constant presence, slow and inevitable. The air reeks of antiseptic and rot. The day is chased away by the moans of men haunted by home. It is a living purgatory for those waiting to die.

You climb into the back of the ambulance along with Bonnefoy, a soldier moaning with a bleeding head wound, and the American. The rumble of the front continues, even after you secure the doors shut.

Chastain is sitting up front making bets with the regular driver. They name surgeons and wager who will catch their wrath. Then they go on to name their favourite nuns.

The soldier who is bleeding sits on the bench beside Bonnefoy and begins to whimper. The American is lying on the bench opposite you. You stare at him. You love him and you hate him. He is only a young boy. They should not be sending their children to fight, and yet they do.

But you shouldn’t scorn the Americans, the French have done the same. They send their children to war, to fight battles that should not be fought. Children step out onto the battlefield and trip over barbed wire into their graves.

The boy looks to be asleep. Bonnefoy sighs sadly. “He’s American. Just a young boy.” You don’t know if Bonnefoy means to say this aloud. “What a shame. It’s a shame. Such life, such love. I barely talked to him.” Chastain and the driver have stopped talking in the front.

There is mud and pain on the boy’s bare face, and yet his eyes are closed. You stare at him. His blond hair is dirtied and stuck down to his feverish forehead. Blood wets his tunic, which sits open on his chest. The wound in his gut is wrapped tight with leaking bandages.

“What is his name?” Chastain asks, and you look up to find him peering at the boy backwards, through the window.

“Alfred Jones.” Bonnefoy says. The boy seems to think he is being talked to, and blinks open his eyes. They are dazed, and they are blue.

“Jones,” Chastain tests the name in his mouth.

The boy mumbles something you do not understand.

“He reminds me of my little cousin,” Chastain continues, “they have the same face.”

Chastain turns in his seat and reaches through the window to place a hand on the boy’s cheek. He gives him a hardy shake. “You will live, Jones.”

Bonnefoy repeats what he’d said in english.

Jones gives Chastain a brave smile.

There is no reason in death. It is teased and drawn out, it is quick and without warning. You are a close acquaintance of death, because he walks alongside wherever a stretcher bearer goes.

Maybe, in another life, Chastain would have gotten his wish to once again hear the chestnut trees in the wind. You think he deserved at least that, or to see his family once more.

You do not hear the whistle of the shell, nor do you see it through the filthy windows of the ambulance, but you feel the impact as it rips you from the false safety you had begun to believe in.

The Germans are angry. Their bombardment has started early, and it is off its mark by some distance.

The very moment Chastain pulls his hand back through the window, there is a point-blank, deafening BOM! And the ambulance is thrown off the road.

The world is once more off-balanced, thrown into disarray. The front has caught up to you minutes after you have left it behind. Maybe field hospitals are preferable. At least you’ll see your death clearly as you march towards it.

Someone screams, or you all scream and the fear melts together in the heat of the shell’s impact. A battle cry. A small, fearful whimper. There is a loud crash. You see Bonnefoy, then you do not.

***

For a moment, you are sure your life has ended. There is nothing. You have no past; no future nor present. You are surprised, then filled with an emotion you do not recognize, when you realize that a part of you is glad for it--the relief of duty.

You remember a home that is unfamiliar to you; Long, tall fields of grass and a wide-open, blue sky. There is a house. Another army marches.

Then you are being dragged out of what’s left of the ambulance by Bonnefoy. His face darkened with determination; his eyes betraying terror--they are a paler blue than the American’s, like the sky that hangs over your dreams.

He sets you on the ground and spares you no second glance before disappearing out of sight. You try to make a sound to call him back, but cannot hear yourself. You are simply staring up at the charcoal sky, unable to speak, to think, to move--but you can breathe.

So you breathe. Like a storm waiting on the horizon.

And so you blink your eyes open and gasp for air.

Putrid smoke burns your lungs on your first few inhales. It does not clear out, but becomes more manageable once you know what to expect. You greedily suck the rotten air into your lungs. You are glad for it.

Bonnefoy has not returned, so you slow your breathing to soothe the panic and will yourself to move because you must. You are still close enough to the front lines for the German bombardment to shake the earth beneath you. Your gut tells you to fear another stray shell, so you must. Soldiers move, and so you must.

***

Your body does not feel your own, as if your mind has been detached from your limbs. This is how you know you’ve been knocked flat. A concussion, you recognise immediately--and yet soldiers move, so you must.

You force your fingers to curl into the torn earth. An uncomfortable sensation crawls up your arm and worms its way into your brain. You try and lift your arms, but they prove too heavy. Your legs are worse. You do not allow yourself to panic. Instead, you force a heavy breath out through your nose and grit your teeth. Your tongue lashes out at the backs of them, and the taste of iron floods your mouth.

Bonnefoy has not returned. Finally, you manage to twist your head to the side in search of him, and find Chastain staring back at you instead, empty-eyed and slack-jawed. He shows no sign of movement. He is laid out beside you. He is dead.

Your breath becomes more ragged. Bonnefoy startles you when he kneels beside you and turns your face to him. He squints into your eyes, mouth set in a firm line, then unbuckles your helmet and pulls it off along with your scarf. His fingers card through your filthy hair, pressing into your scalp, then he sets your head down on the ground and feels down your neck, shoulders, collar bone.

With your helmet and scarf gone, the cold air washes over you. It is becoming easier to think. It is also becoming easier to feel pain. Your body aches all over. You suck in a sharp breath. “Bon.”

“Can you walk?” You’re surprised when you hear his voice.

You nod.

“Can you carry the stretcher?”

Your arms beg for permission to give out as you push yourself up on your elbows. Pain flares in your neck, the tendons sore in a way that denotes whiplash. You groan loudly and Bonnefoy helps to push you up into a sitting position.

Your arms are made of lead. The front rumbles with artillery. You drop a hand down to collect your scarf and helmet. You misjudge the distance and end up rapping your knuckles against the steel. “Yes.”

Chastain is dead beside you. Chastain is dead beside you. He had always talked of returning home. You never wanted to think about it for fear of cowardice, deathly afraid that if you remembered what it was like, then you wouldn’t be able to make sense of how your life is now. You are still afraid. Cowardice is contagious.

Next to Chastain, the ambulance driver has been laid out to rest.

Next to the ambulance driver is the soldier with the head wound. It is larger now. Fatal.

Past them is the American. Alfred Jones. He is crying for his mother.

“The dressing station is gone,” Bonnefoy tells you, “but he needs treatment still.”

You cough into your lap, curling around your helmet. Bonnefoy keeps a firm hand on your back. Your head is still swimming, your thoughts lethargic and unhelpful. “The whole thing?”

“There-” he points down the road towards the front. There is a massive plume of smoke from where you just came from- “I ran part of the way back. There’s nothing left.”

“My god,” you swear under your breath. It isn’t even dark yet and already the Germans are punishing you. It is wrath like thunder and lightning from the sky.

“Come on.” Bonnefoy urges you to your feet, and you stand, dazed, as he moves back towards the overturned ambulance. It’s chassis is like crumpled paper.

“Where are we going?” you call after him, stumbling backwards before catching yourself on a lazy leg. You stare once more at Chastain. He stares back. Emotion wells within you, and you drop to a knee to search his left breast pocket for his pay book, and remove a letter and two photographs as well.

“We must take him by foot,” Bonnefoy says of the American, pulling a stretcher from the back of the ambulance and walking back purposefully towards you. Quickly, you toss your scarf over your head and fasten your helmet before accepting two handholds of the stretcher.

“But--it’s too far to walk to the field hospital,” you argue as you are near-dragged behind Bonnefoy to keep hold of the stretcher.

He does not listen. “So we take him to the next dressing station.”

“It is miles down the line!”

“So we press on!” Bonnefoy throws the stretcher down beside the American and drops to his knees to pull the boy’s tunic away from his stomach wound. He’s bled through his bandages. You don’t think he’ll even make it past the hour.

A wave of grief washes over you as you watch the back of Bonnefoy’s head while he tries to calm the poor boy with morphia. He sticks a needle into the jar, but when he draws his thumb back, there is no morphia left. “I’m out,” he says, and you quickly pull out what you have left and hand it to him.

“Bon.” You nudge your friend, the exhaustion of it all finally settling into your bones. “There’s no point,” you plead hoarsley, “he’ll die before we can make it anywhere. You know this!”

“Even so!” Bonnefoy’s voice shakes with emotion. “We have a patient! So we save him!”

“Bon,” you call out to him again. You watch his hands shake as he tries to administer the drug. The rattle is so bad that he must pause his attempt. Jones sobs earnestly and pounds at the dirt with weakened fists. Bonefoy swears loudly and squeezes his knee hard.

“Two have died for this man! We can’t let their deaths be for nothing!”

You say nothing as you take the needle from Bonnefoy and administer the drug yourself. The boy heaves in unsteady breaths, but ultimately reacts to the morphia. You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to go back to the front. It is hell. You can hear it even from here.

“We are doctors!” Bonnefoy continues, “that means we keep trying, even when it is hopeless, until the end!”

“Bon,” you say quietly, unable to look either him, nor the American in their faces. “We are not doctors.”

Jones pants heavily. He is too young of a boy. There is blood. He is dying.

Bonnefoy makes a wounded noise, in the back of his throat. There is an unbearable pressure behind your eyes. “Then we’re…” He hesitates. “Then we are soldiers!”

“I never asked to be!” you cry out finally, tears hot on your face. You think of your mother and father and siblings, of your dog--then you think of Chastain.

Even through his stupor, the American recognises your raised voices and whimpers. Bonnefoy grabs your shoulders and turns you to look at him, his face hard and accusatory. “This boy will die without us.”

“But Chastain…”

“Non! We have a sworn duty to our country. This boy is an ally. Shouldn’t he at least be returned to his mother?”

You open your mouth to retort, but he shakes you hard. “Non!” He is shouting now, and his fingers dig hard into your shoulders, drawing out more tears. “Shouldn’t he at least be returned to his mother?!”

“Get off!” You try and shove him off you, but are still weak.

“Non!”

“Get off!” You struggle in Bonnefoy’s hard grip, and after a moment of intense anger, shove your hand towards his face, forcing him to release you. You fall back onto the road with a grunt, then stifle the wretched sob building in your chest. Bonnefoy is shocked, watching you with a wounded, wide-eyed expression.

“Fine,” you grit out as you dust your tunic off. You wish you could wipe the tears off your face, but your hands are filthy with trench mud and death. You sniff loudly, then push yourself up on your knees so you can help Bonnefoy move the American onto the stretcher. “We’ll get him to the dressing station.”

***

It is not yet dark, and still the evening hate goes on like it will have no end. The whistle, howls, and explosions are distant, but not overly so. Everything between you and the field hospitals is still well within range of the German artillery, and though most of the fire is concentrated on decimating the trenches, walking above ground, so close to the front, is hair-raisingly terrifying.

To get to the next dressing station you must walk along the line for four miles, then dip back into the trench system to the line of support trenches. It is not far on foot, but you have already spent the day slipping across no man’s land, and Jones’ is a body with only two soldiers to bear his weight instead of four.

Your boots are weighted heavier than normal, and your arms feel like lead as they hang by your sides. You are using ligament, bone, and tendon to bear the weight of Jones instead of muscle, which is now weakly chattering, and hollow. Your hands are stiff around the handles of the stretcher. You are past the point where you were sure you would no longer be able to put one foot in front of another, and still you march.

The same blanket of clouds that has been settled over the front for the past two weeks hangs above you. You pass the time by staring blankly up at the indecisive weather. The clouds roam and roll across the horizon. You wonder what it all means, if there is some hidden message there, if there are answers for you to read--you shake your head and your brain throbs. It’s only the concussion talking.

Bonnefoy leads you where you must go, rarely glancing behind him except to check on the American. You want to be mad at him, but you don’t find the energy. He is your comrade, your friend, your--

Jones does not look good. He is pale and sickly in the faint light. You know he has lost too much blood, and that he needs a transfusion. His only hope is that you move swift enough to get him another ambulance in time, and even then, you’re not sure if he’ll even live through the shock and recovery.

The only things he has going for him are that he seems to naturally cling to life like it were his mother, and that his wounds don’t smell sour. That last thought worries you. How long he’ll stay infection free, you don’t know. With every minute that passes, his likelihood for survival plummets.

You turn your attention to the dazed expression on his face. He is in and out of wakefulness. You’re keeping him on a steady dose of morphia for the journey. Because of the fast pace, neither you nor Bonnefoy can take the time to be particularly careful where you step, and so more often than not, poor Jones is jostled around in the stretcher, bumping against the wooden railings.

Now is one of the moments Jones is awake. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes, he fixes them vaguely on you. He cannot see Bonnefoy, who by virtue of bearing the weight at the front of the stretcher has his back to the boy.

You wish that he would not look at you. You do not want to remember his face. New recruits always die the easiest.

Despite your reluctance to engage, Jones speaks to you anyways. You are surprised when jilted and halting French passes through his thin lips. “I know... little french,” he says in a small voice, “from school.”

Pity fills your chest. He is too young of a boy. “Oh, Oui?”

Jones blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy as they try and stick together. He gives a brave smile, and nods. “Oui. My name is… Alfred.”

He is too young of a boy. He is barely younger than you. “Alfred,” you test out the name, and it fills your mouth innocently. You tell him your name in return, to which he smiles.

He sucks a breath in past his gritted teeth, and holds it before he slowly exhales. “Merci... Beaucoup.”

Shame overtakes you. He is too young of a boy. He is too young of a boy. He is thanking you because he does not know that you, even if it was just for a moment, argued for his death. Even now, you still expect him to die. There is no end to this war. For his life to end now… it would be a mercy.

“Quiet now. We will take you to safety,” you murmur quietly, attempting to soothe whatever fears or doubts he might hold.

You do not know if he can translate your words properly, but he seems to understand because he smiles warmly, then drifts off once more into oblivion.

***

You expect Alfred to die, and yet still, as you stare at his face and march blindly on behind Bonnefoy, everything in you does not want him to.

“How much farther do you think?” You ask your friend. He has barely spoken a word since the ambulance.

“Only a couple miles-“ he clears his throat wetly- “We are nearly to the city.”

The clouds above continue to darken as day turns to night. They darken further as the wind picks up. You can no longer feel your legs and after ignoring the pain in your left shoulder for nearly an hour, your body has given up trying to remind you of your injuries.

Then it begins to rain like ice.

“Shit!” Bonnefoy swears and ducks his head down once the onslaught hits his face. It is sudden. Overwhelming. The sheer cold genuinely shocks you. Alfred exhales pitifully.

“We need to cover him!” You tell Bonnefoy as it continues to deluge.

You and Bonnefoy quickly step to the side, under the slight cover of a tree, and attempt to keep Alfred from the cold.

You pull off your issued blanket and throw it over the boy. It is still not enough. Dread fills you. It is hopeless and still, you quickly begin dismantling your gear, pulling at the buckles of your belt and dragging your bags over your head until it all drops to the ground. Finally, you unbutton your tunic and pull it off before tossing it over Alfred.

Now you are freezing. The cotton of your undershirt is soaked through immediately. Your teeth chatter. Bonnefoy throws his tunic over the boy as well, then you both pull your gear back on as quickly as you can.

You bend down to grab the stretcher, then you both stand in tandem, all at once, balancing him between the two of you.

The rain is so thorough and complete that it is hard to see. There is water in your eyes, pouring off your helmet and soaking into your skin. The earth beneath you becomes so waterlogged it begins to feel as slick as no man’s land. Your toes squish in your boots.

Bonnefoy nearly slips. The blunder almost brings both you and Alfred down along with him, but he catches himself on his knee and the stretcher with his back. Alfred does not seem to notice, he has gone quiet, and this worries you, but you are soldiers, and so you press on.

***

It is when you reach the town that you realize something is wrong with Alfred. Dread sinks like lead to the bottom of your stomach, cold as the rain that pours over your shoulders. You try and catch sight of his face over the mound of fabric thrown over him, and what you see worries you greatly.

“Bon!” you call out to your friend, “he looks worse than he should.”

“What?” You can barely hear his voice over the downpour. It is so loud you cannot tell if the Germans have quit their bombardment.

“We need to stop! Now!”

He doesn’t respond, but leads you up to the steps of a building. He leans his weight back, then sticks a leg up and kicks the door in with a loud WHACK! It hits the inner wall, and then Bonnefoy stumbles into the building followed by Alfred in the stretcher, and you.

It is near pitch black outside, and in the building, though it is dry, it is even darker. Bonnefoy runs into something and curses loudly into the night, and you nearly throw yourself off balance attempting to keep yourself from running into Alfred.

With difficulty, you maneuver the boy to a clear space on the floor to set him down. Bonnefoy drops his pack beside Alfred and begins rummaging through it while you turn to close the door and shutter the windows.

When you return, Bonnefoy has a lightbox out and is opening his medical kit. You pull off the wet mound of fabric sitting on top of Alfred. You busy yourself with hanging up the sopping wet tunics while Bonnefoy checks the boy’s pulse and prods the wound through it’s wrappings. He leans down and sniffs the bandages, then waves you over.

You kneel on the other side of Alfred. “Does it smell to you?”

You brace yourself and lean down to sniff. “Like blood. It hasn’t rotted yet.”

Bonnefoy grabs the lightbox off the ground and shines it on Alfred. The boy is deathly pale, almost an unhealthy yellow. He is sweating and sickly. The thunder and rain sounds like the shelling of the front from a dugout.

You press a hand to his forehead, then his cheeks, then check with the back of your hand and forearm in case your hands are not at temperature. “Bon, he is cold like a corpse.” If he weren’t breathing, you would assume him dead.

Bonnefoy swears, then turns to his pack and pulls out a pair of shears. He cuts away Alfred’s bandages. When he goes to peel them off, the blood makes them stick to the skin of the boy’s stomach. Alfred moans and you quickly move towards his head and shush him.

As Bonnefoy inspects the stitches, which are red and angry, you pull out your canteen and prop Alfred’s head up. “Wa-ter,” you pronounce carefully in English, then in French insist, “drink it.”

You hold the canteen up to his lips and pour a conservative amount into his mouth. With difficulty, he swallows. He looks at you gratefully. “More,” you say as you bring the canteen back to his lips. He drinks until you are satisfied. You hand the canteen to Bonnefoy, who then pours it over Alfred’s wounds. The boy jumps and you quickly move to hold his shoulders down while Bonnefoy cleans his wound.

“There’s internal bleeding.” Bonnefoy says. “See here? There is blood pooling inside.” He presses two fingers into bruising above Alfred’s left kidney.

Alfred’s breathing is shallow and weak. He is miserable to look at. You wipe your hands on your trousers to dry them, only to realize that your trousers are also wet. “He’s going into shock then,” you theorize.

Bonnefoy makes a frustrated noise and wipes at his face with his wet shirt sleeve. “And the rain is not helping him. He needs to warm up.”

Alfred moans weakly, then struggles to push himself up on weak arms. “No, friend, stay down.” He tilts himself over onto his side and heaves. When he collapses back onto the stretcher, there is dark blood on his face.

You share a wretched look with Bonnefoy. His voice is grave. “We have to open him back up.”

You shake your head. “He’s lost too much blood. We don’t have all the tools.”

You look back at Alfred and see a child. Your heart is breaking. “How can we give up?” Bonnefoy asks, his voice but a rasp over the rainstorm.

You don’t have an answer. You secure the shutters and start a fire while Bonnefoy looks for something to clean his hands with.

***

The rain has stopped. You are out of morphia.

You would go back to the ambulance, but the surgery is not an operation a person can do alone, and it cannot wait any longer. Bonnefoy explains this in English to Alfred. Alfred moans pitifully in response.

“Quickly now,” you say as you hand Bonnefoy the tools you’d sterilized. Even still, both you and Bonnefoy are all too aware of the issue of a blood transfusion. Without it, Alfred will likely die.

“He’s too weak,” Bonnefoy mutters as he takes them from you, watching Alfred as he continues to cry. He hasn’t stopped but once since you’d entered the house, but he is strong still, otherwise he wouldn’t have the mind to cling to life so desperately.

Positioned by Alfred’s head, you push him down with a hand on each shoulder, aided by your body weight. Bonnefoy nods, then begins to cut the remaining stitches. This does not prove to be too difficult. Alfred twitches when he removes them, but you hold him firmly down.

When Bonnefoy moves to continue further with the operation, you hear a faint whistle. The color drains from your face. You look up and meet Bonnefoy’s fearful eyes, face pale in recognition.

An explosion.

The building shakes, dust falling from the ceiling.

Alfred jumps. In your dread, you’d slackened your grip on his shoulders and suddenly Alfred is sitting up. “Non! Mon Ami, please stay still!” Bonnefoy grabs Alfred by the shoulders and presses him back into the stretcher, but the boy struggles hard. “He’s going to bleed out!”

You nearly dive onto Alfred’s kicking legs to keep him still. You don’t dare look towards his open wound.

He starts crying then, in English. He sobs and sobs, pleading with you and Bonnefoy. Finally, you scramble up and sit on his legs. “Sh. Sh. Quiet!” you say in English, “Good!” This makes him cry louder. You have exhausted your knowledge of the language. You turn to Bonnefoy. “Bon, tell him it is okay!”

Another shell lands, this one closer. The wall of your building is sprayed with rubble. What are they even aiming for? The damn Germans can’t hit their mark, even when it hasn’t moved an inch for months!

Bonnefoy begins muttering English to the boy, who continues to struggle. There is too much blood. Weak as he is, you’re struggling to hold his legs down, he kicks you off him and you land on your side, in the dirt.

Your head is spinning and your face grows cold as you fight to keep yourself from getting sick. “Bon!”

Bonnefoy releases Alfred’s arms, then wraps his hands around his face, pinching his nose shut and covering his mouth. Alfred’s eyes go wide as he struggles harder, kicking, and tearing at Bonnefoy’s hands. You leap up and throw yourself over Alfred’s legs to keep him still, frighteningly aware of how close your face is to his bubbling wound. The chance of infection is high. Too high, but he is already dying! He is already dead!

If you were in a hospital, he would not be dying of his wounds. But you’re not, and you know that he’s dying. Alfred’s eyes roll back into his head as he beats Bonnefoy with his fists, then he slumps. Bonnefoy lets go. “I am sorry, Alfred.”

Quickly you turn Alfred’s wrist over and check for his pulse. It beats meekly. He is still alive.

Shells begin to fall earnestly on the city and along the frontline. You continue to work regardless, focusing wholly on the boy.

Not for the first time do you find yourself grateful that Bonnefoy was an honest-to-god medical student before this war. You had been a veterinary assistant, Archambault was a pharmacist, Chastain had been a goddamn tailor but Bonnefoy was educated, he went to school for surgery and could name you all of the bones in the human body, even the unimportant ones.

The air reeks of antiseptic, it mixes with blood and pools on the floor. It stains your knees and soaks into your hands. You pay it no attention. The steady roar of the shelling coming from the front continues. The building rattles.

Bonnefoy is covered up to the elbow in Alfred’s precious blood, and he is shaking badly as he attempts to sew the boy’s organs shut around the clamp you are holding. You think to offer to take over. You don’t.

Alfred desperately needs a blood transfusion or all of this will have been for nothing. He is quickly bleeding out.

You hear the low howl of another mortar. Both you and Bonnefoy pause for a moment to brace for the impact, which is frighteningly close. Alfred is once again waking. He chokes on air, then gurgles. You think to put him out of his misery. You don’t.

Alfred sobs again.

It is almost cruel to continue.

“Bon…”

“He’s fine,” Bonnefoy spits out.

“Bonnefoy,” you say, tired of this.

“He’s fine!” Bonnefoy shouts. He is shaking so badly he has to pull his hand away or risk hurting Alfred worse. In the faint light, you see the pained expression on his face and realize that he is crying.

The storm worsens. A howling on the wind. Blue eyes. Blue eyes. Your pulse quickens. The hair on your arms stand on end. Your body is screaming for you to run. Animal fear grips you.

“Bonnefoy.”

He weeps into the night, over Alfred’s opened stomach.

A howling on the wind. Another mortar.

You grab the handholds at the feet of the stretcher and attempt to stand. “Bonnefoy!”

He looks up at you, shell-shocked. “What?”

A howling on the wind. Fear like ice up your spine. “Run!”

Bonnefoy rushes to stand, grabbing his end of the stretcher then following you closely as you stumble backwards through the building and out into the night, the howl of a howitzer ringing so loudly in your ears it makes your head hurt.

You make it across the street just as the building you’d fled from erupts. The world explodes into a molten mound of rubble. Dust and boulders are sent flying. You are thrown to the ground. “Bonnefoy!” There is a great weight bearing down on you, then there is nothing.

***

You awake to light coming in from an open window, framed by billowing white curtains. You blink sleepily, then sit up in the bed. The room is unfamiliar and familiar all at once, as if you’ve been here before, but don’t remember.

The air is sweet, your skin is soft. You don’t find your voice as Bonnefoy pushes the door open and sits beside you on the bed. His hair is long, it curls softly around the shells of his ears and tickles his chin. He looks warmly at you, and takes your hands in his own. What dream is this?

“No matter where or who we are, I will always find you,” he says. His voice is smooth, a sure thing. He stares at you with such confidence and love; tears fill your eyes, relief floods your chest.

“... Francis…” You have been here before. He has such blue eyes.

He says your name in a saccharine tone.

“Francis!”

Panic and blind confusion. The image is torn from you as you are torn from the earth. When you are once more thrust into the chaotic night, you gasp for air like you’ve just surfaced from dark and cold water.

Your hands scramble for purchase on whoever is grabbing you so roughly. You fist whatever fabric is in front of you in your hands and bury yourself closer to the body, pressing your face into a chest and breathing hard.

Distantly, you register Francis calling your name as he hauls you to your feet and attempts to drag you down the road. Then he stops dead in his tracks.

“Merde merde merde!”

Bonnefoy abruptly departs, sending you stumbling back onto the ground. You grunt on impact, then throw yourself back to your feet. “Bon,” you groan hoarsley, throat dry.

He is nowhere to be seen. You cough and wipe at your face, it is covered in dust. The shelling continues, the roar growing louder and louder. Then you hear Bonnefoy crying out over the noise. “Live! Goddamn it! Live! Live!”

You stumble towards his voice, head still swimming. You need to find Bonnefoy. Desperately. Your heart screams at you to find him.

“Live! Live! You have so much life left to live, just breathe goddamn it, boy!”

You find him hunched over Alfred, they are obscured by a large piece of rubble. He is pressing down repeatedly on Alfred’s chest--to simulate a heartbeat, he had once told you. There is a loud explosion beside you, and you are knocked off balance by the force of the blast. You can’t make sense of it, of anything, your head is swimming. Another shell lands. Then two more. It seems the Germans have turned the focus of their bombardment onto the town now. Shrapnel flies past you and embeds itself an inch into solid masonry.

You pick up your pace, shuffling, then limping as fast as you can manage towards Bonnefoy and the boy. You call out to him, but he does not respond. Dirt sprays across the road and pebbles the side of your face. When you finally approach the two, your entire world stops when you realize Alfred is only half a corpse.

Another shell jolts you, and finally, panic pierces the bubble of your disorientation. “Bon,” you shout, “he’s gone.”

He shakes his head and continues. “Non! I can save him!”

The ground shakes under you, death in the skies above. You stumble into Bonnefoy and try to lift him away from the corpse. “He’s gone,” you insist, pulling hard, “we need to go!”

“How?!” He cries out, then, throwing you off of him and curling over Alfred to continue chest compressions, “How can you tell?! I’m the doctor, I know he’ll live if we just don’t give up-”

“Bonnefoy!” you scream, grabbing the over-the-shoulder straps of his belt and shaking him. He has shell-shock, you know. Cowardice is contagious.

He freezes like a deer who has suddenly become aware of its death, staring at you with panicked, blue eyes. You will not die here. You will not die here, shell-shock or no. You wind your arm back and slap him hard across the face.

“Half his body’s fucking gone! Leave him to rest for god’s sake!” You dig deep for any strength you have left and drag him towards you. “Let him rest! You’ll get us fucking killed out here if we stay! Pull yourself together, man!”

“But…” Bonnefoy is dead weight. He cannot seem to tear his eyes away from Alfred. “He’s not dead.”

Your heart is broken. “He is.”

“But he can’t be dead, I was just talking to him--in the trenches, this morning.”

“He’s dead!”

Bonnefoy looks up at you.

“I don’t understand…”

Another shell lands. This is hell. You haul Bonnefoy up to his feet and he stumbles after you while you search for cover. It is a miracle you and him are still alive, but you do not thank the god that has forsaken you.

***

The intensity of the firestorm picks up rapidly. It is loud. There is no cover. You are crying earnestly into Bonnefoy’s chest, unable to stop yourself. It is too much. You do not want to die. This brick wall will not save you.

You think of your mother and your father, of your siblings and your dog, of Chastain’s letter in your pocket, sitting next to your own. You think of Bonnefoy and of the life you wish you had once more, of love and white curtains.

You scramble to grip his shirt, pressing your nose into it in search of comfort, but it smells too much like antiseptic, blood and filth. You are sobbing. You climb up his lap and knock his helmet off before burying your nose in his wet hair. He shudders and holds you as tight as he can manage, mindlessly terrified and heart broken all the same.

You wheeze, suck in a panicked breath, cry out until your lungs burn, then breathe again, and the smell of Francis calms you--you don’t know why it calms you but it does. You breathe in the scent and sag against him as he fists the back of your shirt and weeps in response, his face pressed just over your beating, still beating, heart.

You remain like this until the shelling is over, and then after even, as neither of you move to acknowledge the newfound quiet. Inside this building, the firestorm still rages without end.

“... Francis,” you plead weakly, as if simply saying his name will bring you comfort.

He shudders violently, then murmurs, almost incomprehensible, “Don’t ever leave me, mon amour. Je t'aime. Je t'aime. I love you. Please.”

You run a hand through his flat hair like a lover and cry softly into his neck. “I won’t. Never. Never. Je t’aime, Francis.” You do not know what has overcome you, this emotion welling so strongly in you that you can no longer think better of anything. There is only him and this feeling.

Exhaustion creeps up onto you, then throws itself over you like a lead blanket. Your body quits its trembling and when you close your eyes this last time, you find that they do not want to open again. Francis smooths his hands over your back and draws you closer into his tender embrace. You say nothing as you let yourself finally, finally, rest.

***

You dream of Bonnefoy once more, only the visions stick more clearly in your mind. You’re sure, now, they are real. There is a farmhouse in a field of grass. You send a child out to fetch her papá, who is baking bread in the kitchen. Francis exits with flair and calls out, “mon amour! You needed me?”

There is a city. It is loud like the battlefield and has bright, colorful lights everywhere you look. You are walking, unbothered, along the street, when someone taps on your shoulder. You look and find no one there. You frown, and when you turn back, Francis is there, in your space with a charming smile. “Mon amour…”

There is a market place. You are shoving through the crowds, cradling your basket in front of you when someone knocks shoulders with you. You know his blond hair and blue eyes. “Eh, pardonne-moi -”

“Mon amour?” You fill in for him. He does not know you and he smiles fondly regardless.

You have memories of wine you’ve never tasted, of windows with impossible views, of Bonnefoy, who you called ‘Francis’ instead. Of Francis, who has always called you ‘mon amour’ instead.

When you close your eyes, there are flashes of a life that is not yours. There are images printed on the backs of your eyelids, of blue skies and bluer eyes. You feel the sun on your back, like you never have before. There are visions of yourself in strange clothes and stranger automobiles, sleeker and smaller than you know them to be.

You have never been to Paris, and yet you have memories of the Eiffel Tower. You see Bonnefoy more often than not, smiling, laughing, he looks strange without dirt on his face, almost as if he could be at peace. You cannot make sense of anything you see. The visions come and go along with a great, sorrowful, loving, longing you cannot place.

“Wake up,” commands a voice, thoroughly loved. It sounds like the way brown sugar tastes as it melts on your tongue.

You are in the cradle of fuzzy sleep, though your head begins to ache.

“It’s time. Wake up.” This is a wake up call that is leagues better than Prince Archie’s. Your eyelids flutter, but remain closed. You are reluctant to face what you wish was not reality.

The events of yesterday seem impossible. What is more real are your dreams of the countryside, of a life you no longer remember, of Bonnefoy, of Francis. You do not have enough energy to feel ashamed of your thoughts--you want him back with all your heart, to take selfishly his love and hide in his embrace. You wish with everything you have to revel in the peace of the world, under clear blue skies, to watch idly as white curtains billow in a fresh breeze.

When you open your eyes finally, it is to the same unrestful clouds hanging under a still-dark sky. You have always looked to the sky for answers, for an explanation from god for what he’s done to this world, but these clouds that hang over the western front… They hold no reason nor emotion, just a grey reality--one you find yourself wishing to avoid. You rub your head and sit up off the mud, your entire body protesting loudly.

“What time is it?”

Bonnefoy is not looking at you, his eyes focused staunchly on the road. “I don’t know, but if we don’t start moving, we will die from the cold.”

You search for what remains of Alfred and bury him in the ruins of a cemetery. You doubt, however, that he will stay in the ground for long. There are coffins buried years prior now strewn about, open to the elements with silent skeletons inside, searching for answers in the clouds as well.

When Bonnefoy looks over the letter left in the American’s left breast pocket, he weeps silently over his shallow grave, then leaves the boy to rest with the utterance of a quiet promise that you can’t bear to translate.

Briefly, you search for your bags and wet tunics, but find that they are buried completely. Your hair sticks to your forehead, your heavy clothes hang off your body, and your teeth chatter in the freezing night. You are miserable without the tunics, but cannot hope to recover them with only your hands. A small voice at the back of your head begins muttering about pneumonia, but you ignore it for now.

When you’re done in the town, you both limp back down the road to the overturned ambulance and bury the ambulance driver, the soldier with the head wound, and Chastain, but not before stripping them of their tunics and gear. You are grateful for the added warmth.

You close your eyes and kneel at the foot of your old friend’s grave. He is laid to rest under a chestnut tree. It rustles in the wind as the sun rises behind the clouds. The sound brings no peace, no memories of summer or of home.

You close your eyes and try to picture it, the river bank, the chestnut trees, Joseph Chastain’s ruddy, serene, face as he marvels at the world, but you cannot hold the image in your head.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to grasp the memory, to keep it at the front of your mind, but it falls through your fingers like smoke. The only memories you are able to drag to and keep at the surface are of the front, of mud and rain and sour, dark blood. Chastain is gone, never a child, but a soldier forever unknowing of his sudden end.

The morning bombardment is short, punctual, and then it is silent in that tense way it always is near the front--the earth is perpetually waiting to be churned up, destroyed. You say your goodbyes, then turn towards the trenches, and begin to make your way back.

Bonnefoy lets out a long breath. It fogs in the air around you, and then it is taken by the wind. You rub your hands together and blow into them, hoping for some warmth. You quiet the voice in the back of your mind that worries of exposure, of fevers, pneumonia and the flu. Then Bonnefoy inhales sharply.

“There,” he says, his voice cracking from disuse. He has barely said a word since he first woke you this morning. “On the horizon.” He points north, towards your home, and you follow his finger with your eyes.

“What is it?” You crane your neck, but your view is obstructed by dark, shimmering trees.

“Blue skies,” he says numbly. His eyes are sad, his face is devoid of serious emotion. He is a ghost of a man, his mind dead in the shelling. He drops his arm and mumbles what sounds like a sorrowful prayer under his breath.

You see it too, then; the edge of the clouds, and under them, it is the same color as your uniform: Horizon blue. A sure sign of good luck; The clouds have finally broken, though you feel no true relief.

Your limbs are chilled to the bone, your eyes are strained and your breath is hot.

Hope is an emotion you are estranged to. It attempts to work its way through your mind, but is numbed by exhaustion and grief. It holds no power in the face of Chastain’s inadequate grave, of hours spent in the night crying your heart out to a man you’re not sure you truly know. Nothing in this world has meaning so long as children continue to die, and you continue to be able to do nothing to stop it.

You don’t mean to say anything in response, but without thinking, you find yourself watching the profile of Bonnefoy’s face and muttering, “maybe soon,” regardless of the dark storm brewing in your heart.

Neither of you acknowledge the words for fear of having them taken once more. You think of farmhouses and cafes and of a kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Is there such a thing as a world without war?

You inhale deeply, and for just a moment, as sunbeams peel across the grey expanse of the battlefield, you allow yourself to search for peace on the frontlines.

A bird chirrups a little song, the chestnut trees rustle in the wind, and Francis turns to you--with his lovely, haunting, horizon blue eyes--and gives you a look that makes your bones settle like the beams of an old house. A farmhouse in a field.

Maybe soon.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- 

A/N: Me: and they were soulmates You: Oh my god they were soulmates.

MORE NOTES

This work was Beta’d by @peachprinx, and @havecourage-darling.

Thank you for reading :)

Masterlist in desc.

#aph france #aph #hetalia #francis bonnefoy #aph france x reader #francis bonnefoy x reader #aph x reader #hetalia x reader #aph france imagine #francis bonnefoy imagine #aph imagine #hetalia imagine

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the--sad--hatter · 5 years ago

Text

Game Of Survival - 8 (Bucky x Reader)

FANDOM - MARVEL

PAIRING - BUCKY X FEM!READER

WARNINGS - SMUT, VIOLENCE, ANGST, VERY GRAPHIC BLOOD AND GORE, SWEARING, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL

DESCRIPTION -

The Executioner - Killer of Killers, the monster that hunts monsters, the bad-guys bogeyman.

It’s a title you earned and one that you cherish. Your goals are justified, your methods are not. But when a simple murder turns into a suicide and you are left clutching a flash drive with a terrible secret on it, you find yourself caught up in a mystery that you can’t solve alone. You turn to the professionals, the experts, the heroes. The Avengers.

With the lives of everyone in the world suddenly at stake, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have no choice but accept your help and Bucky Barnes quickly finds himself drawn in by you. He never much believed in love, let alone love at first sight so it figures he’d be proven wrong in such a spectacular way.

Masterlist

Chapter Eight

The cold English air bit into your skin, whipping your hair around your face madly as you walked.

“So we’re in London. What do we do, check every hotel reservation from June 6th last year?” Bucky scoffed.

“No. We use logic. Kawashima was a criminal, he had a criminal empire. It’s logical to assume the other members of the six do as well. Every city, every nation has a criminal underbelly. And almost always, there is a crossover with another organization. A deal, a feud, an agreement. But if you’re holding the keys to the end of the world, you’d do everything in your power to avoid any overlap. So, we can rule out human traffickers for a start.” You explained calmly.

“You want to hunt down the major players in London to figure out which ones don’t have any ties to Kawashima? That could take a while.”

“So we had better get started. And no, we’re asking who does have ties to him.”

“Because it’ll stop the six from figuring out what we’re doing and people will fall over themselves to prove that they don’t have ties to him.” Bucky guessed easily.

“Exactly.”

“So where do we start?” He asked you.

You smirked and tilted your head, indicating a building to him.

“Are you serious? We’re going to find criminals in a hipster coffee shop?” He asked incredulously.

“Not all shady business’s are fronted by a seedy nightclub.” You pointed out.

“But this place serves… maple infused green tea?” He said, reading the chalkboard through the window, from across the road.

“If that’s not proof of illegal dealings, I don’t know what is.” You sniggered.

“So how are we playing this?” He sighed.

“You go in, order something and sit down. Wear these.” You instructed, handing him a hair tie and a pair of sunglasses.

He gave you a dirty look but took them, tying his hair back and slipping the glasses on.

“See you on the other side Sarge.” You said, winking at him and striding into the café.

You walked straight up to the counter, leaning on it and fixing the barista with a charming smile.

“I’ll have a blood orange tea, extra bloody and whatever the owner recommends with it.” You told her, knowing full well what you ordered wasn’t on the menu.

“He recommends the death by chocolate brownies, that interest you?” She said without missing a beat.

“I’ll have two, no make it three.” You recited.

This wasn’t your first time in this establishment and the ‘barista’ now knew you weren’t here for the overpriced coffee.

“Who’s it for?” She asked.

“Lucy.”

If you weren’t watching for it, you wouldn’t have noticed the way her shoulders tensed up at your alias.

“Say, my mobile’s dead and I really need to call my boss. Do you think I could trouble you to use your phone?” You asked.

“Of course, it’s in back.”

“I know the way.” You whispered.

She visibly paled and nodded. You turned and made your way to the employee’s only door, catching Bucky’s eye as you did. He looked like any other Hipster in the place and if it wasn’t for the slight tick in his jaw, you wouldn’t be able to tell he was pissed at you. You maybe should have mentioned you were splitting off to do your own thing but it was more fun this way.

He had promised to do things your way without interfering but you weren’t stupid, you knew it was a lie. He was waiting, evaluating, looking for a chink in your ice cold armour, a crack in the walls you put up. He was looking for a chance to save you. You were betting you could break him before he found what he was looking for.

You made your way out of the café via the back door and through the connecting tunnels into the large warehouse behind it. People were milling around and unsurprisingly, not one of them met your eye. They all ducked out of the way, one man even going as far as to flatten himself against a wall as you passed. You kept your expression stony and your pace brisk as you made your way to the second level and didn’t bother knocking on the office door before your barged in.

“Well if it isn’t my lovely little devil.”

“Linda.” You greeted tersely.

The older women crossed her long legs and held out her arms in greeting. You started her down until she tutted and pretended to be disappointed, folding her hands on her waist.

“To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure Lucy? I set you up with more than enough information to keep you busy for months last time you were here.” She said.

“And one of those leads led to another lead that led to another and so on and so forth, now I need to know the extent of your dealings with The Japanese mafia. Specifically, the Kawashima empire.”

“Kawashima? I do believe the rumours are he committed suicide, though there are whispers that The Executioner got to him… something about an elevator full of diced up bodyguards.” She said, raising her eyebrows at you.

“I’m not here to dance around the issue.” You warned.

“You never want to dance at all.” She pouted.

“Oh Linda. I dance. Just not with you.” You smirked.

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face that she quickly hid behind a vipers smile.

“I don’t have any dealing with Kawashima’s organization, had a teensy scrape about seven years back when they used one of my channels across the Swiss border but he paid me off and that was the end of it.” She said.

“What was he moving?” You snarled.

“No idea darling, I don’t ask those kind of personal questions.” She shrugged.

“Bullshit darling. You would have found out exactly what he moved and what it was worth before you accepted his payoff to make sure he didn’t screw you out of a bigger payday.”

Your discerning gaze picked up on the way she paled just a touch and the pulse point on her throat jumped.

“It was before you, before our deal.” She protested.

“Then you can tell me.” You said soothingly.

“Girls. He was moving girls. Eighteen of them.” She said, tilting her chin upwards in an effort to appear unphased.

“And that was the last time you dealt with him?” You asked her.

“Haven’t heard a peep since.” She confirmed.

You believed her.

“I want to know who was dealing with him, I want to know every single deal he made. Tell people Linda… tell them The Executioner is going to be knocking on their doors looking for information.”

“You don’t normally call ahead.” She said, surprised by the strange nature of your request.

“I don’t normally offer leniency either. But anyone who helps me out get a free pass today. My focus is on Kawashima’s legacy and nobody else right now.”

“I’ll put the word out.” She agreed.

“You might need to write it down.” You said coldly.

She felt the change in the air, sensed the danger coming for her and reacted accordingly. She pulled out the gun that had been strapped to the underside of the desk and aimed it at you, pulling the trigger. You were close enough that all you had to do was reach out and calmly push her had aside, sending the bullet into the wall behind you. You wrapped your fingers around her wrist and twisted, making her drop the gun and you kept twisting until the bones in her wrist snapped under your grip and she screamed.

She clawed at you with her other hand, screaming for backup.

“They know who’s in here with you, they aren’t coming through that door.” You told her, pushing her back into the chair.

“We had a deal!” She argued desperately.

“You handed me criminals to stave off your own execution but you always knew this day was coming.” You laughed cruelly.

“No, no, I can give you more! Please.”

You held her good arm down and pulled a knife from under your coat, slamming into her hand and pinning her to the chair.

“Eighteen girls, sold into slavery because you choose not to help them. All you had to so was tell someone. But you let him pay you off, let him buy your silence. Was it worth it? Think carefully, these will be your last words.” You hissed.

“Fuck you!” She snarled.

“As last words go… I’ve heard better.” You scoffed, pulling a second knife out, a wickedly sharp one.

Her eyes widened as you gripped her jaw and squeezed, putting your blade to work. You could have done a much neater job if you cared to, but this was about sending a message so you didn’t mind breaking her jaw or the cuts across her lips as you sawed through her tongue, pulling it from her mouth and flinging it onto the desk.

“This… this is the true price of your silence.” You declared, placing your hand over her mouth and holding it there.

She thrashed wildly, her eyes bulging out of her head as she desperately fought to breathe but you didn’t let up. You held her down and watched with satisfaction as she choked on her own blood until the last bit of light died from her eyes and her body slumped, her head lolling to the side.

There was no remorse in you, no disgust in yourself for your actions as you pressed two fingers to her neck to check for a pulse and when you found none. You dipped your fingers into her mouth. Smearing her blood on the wall behind her corpse you left instructions for all her ‘employee’s’, a warning for the criminal underworld of London.

The Executioner was in town and she wasn’t leaving without what she came for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bucky had been characteristically silent since he followed you out of the coffee shop and through the streets of London until you led him down a cobbled side street to a charming boutique hotel.

“This is where we are staying?” He asked, not sounding particularly fussed about it one way or the other.

“I can check us in if you want to go and get supplies?” You offered.

“Supplies?”

“Change of clothes, shaving cream and razors, quickly call your boyfriend and make sure he’s not mad you ran away with another woman…” You quipped.

He rolled his eyes at you and looked around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear before he spoke.

“In that café, you told them your name was Lucy.” He said.

“It’s an Alias.”

“What kind of Alias is Lucy?”

“It’s short for Lucifer. Because when I come calling, I bring hell with me.”

“Should have guessed that you’d have a flair for the dramatic.” He scoffed.

“Comes with the territory of being a serial killer but I didn’t come up with it. The recently deceased drug smuggler who ran the joint did.” You explained.

“You killed someone?”

“How is that even remotely surprising at this point?” You asked, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

“It’s not. You were well acquainted enough with a criminal for them to give you a nickname though, that is surprising.” He shot back.

“How do you think I find my victims? Do you think I skulk on rooftops and watch the streets for criminal activity?” You scoffed.

“Fair enough.” He said in a tone that let you know this topic would be revisited.

“Go call your big blonde boyfriend before he has an aneurism. I’ll check us in. We can be…. Mr and Mrs Smith.” You decided.

“Unimaginative. Mr and Mrs Wilson.” He retorted.

You laughed at the Irony and subtle jab at the Falcon. When Sam found out you’d been using his name he was going to throw a bitch fit, you hoped you were there to see it.

_____________________________________________________________

Ex: *Makes a joke about Steve and Bucky dating*

Bucky: *Says nothing*

Ex: So your BOYFRIEND... You know... STEVE, STEVE ROGERS,YOUR BOYFRIEND.

Bucky: *Says nothing*

Ex: Just tell me if you’re dating him or not! I need to know!

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