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beels-burger-babe · 4 years ago

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The Façade of the Suitor - Pt. 2

***Wow! You guys are really digging this series! Thank you so much for your support 🥰🥰🥰 I don't get to share OCs often, so it's really reassuring to see you guys take to Harlow. She's a character, that's for sure 😅😅 Thanks for all the love! - B*** Summary: MC catches the eye of Lady Harlow, a higher demoness who has had a small feud with the brothers for centuries. She's determined to steal MC from them and keep MC under her wing. The brothers, however, are determined not to let that happen. Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

After a week had passed since the ball, Lucifer had dared to hope that maybe that had been the end of things and that Harlow would just leave him and you alone. But fate had never been on his side. A letter arrived in the mail, sealed with a horrifyingly familiar purple stamp and her nauseating fragrance. It was, of course, addressed to you.

Lucifer's nose wrinkled in distaste. He'd have to dispose of this before you ever caught sight of it. He had turned to do exactly that when he bumped into Satan and dropped the letter. Satan sighed and bent down to pick it up. "I thought that you of all people would be capable of watching where you're," he stopped short as he finally looked at the letter. Satan's jaw clenched as he looked back at Lucifer. "Why in Diavolo's name are you in contact with her again?" Lucifer sighed and tried to take the letter back, Satan stepped out of his reach. He glared at the angry demon. "Not that it's any of your business-" "Not my business?!" Satan snapped before Lucifer could finish his explanation. "She turned you against all of us and nearly tore this family a part and you don't think it's my business if you're in contact with that- that- that snake again?!"

Lucifer growled at the reminder of his past failure. "If I had a choice, I would wipe her foul existence from the face of this realm, but I can't. I loath that woman as much as you do. The letter isn't addressed to me. It's to MC."

Satan's eyes widened and quickly looked down at the letter, seeing your name scrawled in her disgustingly perfect cursive font. He dropped the letter as though it had burned him. "We can't let them see this. Harlow shouldn't even know MC exists! How the fuck did this happen?"

Lucifer picked up the letter, " The exchange program ball. Near the end of the evening, MC and I were relaxing near a wall and Harlow approached us." Satan looked at his brother as though he had two heads. "And you just let her?" This quickly earned the younger demon another glare. "We were at a public event where I was representing our House and Diavolo and MC was representing the human realm. There wasn't much I could do without causing a scene." Satan rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. "Of course! You'd let Harlow sink her claws into MC just so you can protect your reputation. I forgot who I was talking to for a moment." Beel stepped out of the kitchen and into the room at the sound of the yelling. "What's going on?" "Noth-" "Harlow's trying to get to MC." The "father and son" duo sneered at each other. Beel's eyes widened as his face paled. "Well, we aren't going to let her, right? We can stop her this time. Now we know her tricks. It won't be like last time?" he was staring directly at Lucifer. The eldest felt his stomach twist and churn guiltily at the desperation in Beel's stare. They all knew from experience just how cunning and manipulative Harlow could be. She had targeted Lucifer specifically, and because he let down his guard, his whole family soon became infected by the demoness venom. He refused to let the same happen to you. Lucifer turned on his heel and threw the letter into the fireplace. The three brothers watched as it slowly was consumed by the flames and turned to ash. "Tell the others about what happened. There's no doubt that Harlow will attempt to reach MC again. It's our duty to stop that from happening," Lucifer spoke up. Beel nodded right away before taking off to obey the command. Satan sighed and glanced at Lucifer, "You know this won't stop her. She'll figure out a way to get to MC." Lucifer continued watching the flames. The fire's glow reflecting in his obsidian eyes like a memory flickering in the darkness. "Maybe so, but at the very least it will give us time to come up with a plan on what to do when she does." In the end, Satan had been right. The brothers worked tirelessly together to intercept any letters, bouquets, or baskets that had been sent for you. Asmo kept a collection of the bouquets and gifts in his room, and simply told you that they were objects of admiration from his fans. You had walked in on Beel shuffling through the mail one day, and he had managed to fluster out an excuse before hurrying out of the room and shoving the most recent letter into his mouth. Mammon became even clingier than usual and was always by your side. Although he was physically with you, his mind and eyes were always looking around you for any signs of the demoness that he was trying to avoid. Satan had worked with Solomon to put an enchantment on the House's gates that caused anything that had recently touched Harlow's hands to be incinerated as it passed through the gate. Levi had been forcing you to watch the top ten anime betrayals and any anime with a manipulative or toxic antagonist in hopes that it would help you recognize them in Harlow if she ever got to you and that you would do the right thing and choose your real best friend him (and I suppose the others as well). Belphegor would purposefully fall asleep on you as much as possible to prevent you from leaving the House and therefore heightening the risk of Harlow coming to meet you personally. Lucifer had begun to do his own research on Harlow, once more, and was looking back on his own past experiences with the demoness to gain wisdom on how to outwit her. Despite all of their efforts, it wasn't enough. You came down to breakfast, looking complexed but intrigued as you held a piece of paper with a dreadfully purple broken seal on the top. The brothers froze as Harlow's familiar perfume reached their noses. Levi swallowed his food as he looked at you nervously. "M-MC, what...what do you have there?" You blinked up at them and held up the paper. "It's a letter from

Lady Harlow. A bat flew through my window this morning with this attached to its foot. According to the letter, she's tried more normal means of communication, but had no luck. Hmm, I wonder why?" you pondered out loud as you continued reading the letter. The brothers exchanged worried looks. Lucifer straightened his posture. "What else does it say?" You barely looked over at him as you responded. "Oh, she has invited me to a private luncheon at her manor. Apparently, she'd like to get to know me better." Your words caused everyone at the table to stiffen. "Seems suspicious to me," Belphie stated as he rested his head on your shoulder. "You shouldn't go. She's probably planning to kill you or something but is just pretending to be nice to get you to let your guard down." You smirked down at him. "Hmmm, sounds familiar," despite your joking tone, you noticed the room tense and Belphie looked away in shame. You frowned and placed a hand on his arm. "I...I was joking, Belphie. You know I've forgiven you for that. You've proved that you've changed. We're okay," you looked around at the others, finally picking up on the tension in the room. "What's going on? Why is everyone acting so weird?" Satan sighed and met your eyes. "Harlow is the Lady of Manipulation. She thrives off of playing with others' emotions and desires to get her own twisted wants." "She's dangerous," Lucifer added. You were shocked to see that he was seemingly unable to meet your eyes. Instead, he stared at his plate as though lost in a memory. "She's incredibly skilled at what she does and will worm her way into your thoughts before you're even aware of what's happening. She's cunning and sly," he finally lifted his head to look at you. You shivered at the intense urgency and regret in his gaze. "Lady Harlow is not one that you should give even a second of your time to. If you give her even a single inch, she will take a mile." You frowned and looked back at the letter. It was filled with so many kind words and eloquent phrasing. She had seemed nice enough at the ball, and she went through all this trouble just to send you an invitation. "Thank you for the warning," you spoke sincerely as you looked at the others. "I'll be sure to keep your words in mind and be careful." Mammon scoffed and crossed his arms. "You make it sound as if you're going." "I am." The room burst into a mix of angry proclamations, commands that you were not going, and pleas for you to listen to them. You smiled sympathetically at the brothers. "I know you're worried, but it would be extremely rude to reject a personal invitation like this from a noble, especially after all the effort she went through to have it delivered. I should at least go to see what she wants. I'll have my D.D.D. on me and you can guys can ask me all the questions you want as soon as I get back." Lucifer's eyes searched your expression in a mix of frustration and desperation. "MC did you not hear a single word I just said? One visit is all she'll need. I really must urge you not-" "Lucifer stop," the room fell silent as Lucifer's mouth snapped shut. His gaze hardened at your use of a command. You sighed and ran a hand over your face. "I'm sorry, but this isn't your choice. I know you seem to have...something going on with Harlow, and I will take caution from your words during my visit. But I'm sure I'll be fine. I live with and have befriended seven of the most powerful demons in the Devildom. What's a silly noblewoman going to do to me?" You gently lifted Belphie's head off of you and rose. "I should get ready for the school day. I'm sorry guys. I'll see you all later." As you left, a small piece of hope from within the brothers left with you. Lucifer snarled and downed a glass of wine. "Right," he said bitterly and looked over at Satan, "onto plan c."

*** I hope you guys enjoyed it! I promise you will find out exactly what went down between Harlow and the brothers later on. But for now, let the games begin 😈 Thanks again for all the support and love you've all been giving this series!***

Taglist: @cosmixbun @sufzku @simeonspebble @lovevictoire @obey-mes-treasure @kissed-by-a-dementor @yukihaie @justtiarra @mammoneybb @obeys-world @peachyeevee13 @otome-scribbles @azureusmoonie @poly-bi-mf

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years ago

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Put Me First

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Angst/Family Characters: Will Solace, Apollo, Naomi Solace

Will knew his relationship with his parents - both his parents - was better than most demigods’. He knew he should be grateful for what he had, and he was. Really, he was.

Day twenty-seven of TOApril organised by @ferodactyl, “The Words We Want To Say”. This got a lot angstier than I planned it to be, whoops. Sorry, Will.

There’s now a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi!

Will should be grateful for what he had. He knew that. His mother was still alive, she didn’t hate his existence for things outside of his control, and his dad actually remembered to give him the time of day. That put him in a better position than most campers, who were either lacking on the godly parent front (which was, really, the case for anyone who wasn’t cabin seven or twelve, as best he could tell), or on the mortal parent front (which was far too many of them; some year-round campers should have been able to go home, if their parents weren’t pieces of garbage).

He had no right to feel like he could have more, not when his mom was an call away and Apollo dropped into his dreams at least once a week to check in. He knew that, but it didn’t stop the selfish monster in his chest from trying to rear its head every so often.

Mom, why can’t I come and stay for a while? I miss you. Words that fought to burst free every time he spoke to her, caught ten minutes from her busy schedule where she had time for the son she promised she loved, even if it was easier living apart. Forget about the concert; what about me? He knew that music was her first love, before him, before Apollo and whatever romantic fling they’d had (Apollo always spoke highly of her in his earshot, and she never really had anything bad to say about Apollo, even after Will knew it was a short relationship that had ended with his birth, so it couldn’t have been the catastrophe some of the other campers’ parents went through). Sometimes he wouldn’t listen to anything that wasn’t his Mom’s CDs – and he had all of them, she always made sure he got the latest one before it was released, complete with a handwritten letter, much to the jealousy of the country music fans in camp who adored her music. Sometimes, he couldn’t bear to hear a single bar from one of her songs without wanting to break down and cry.

But he couldn’t complain, because she was alive, she did love him, he got to see her sometimes and she always made an effort to meet up if she was touring in the area. He wasn’t her first love, but she didn’t hate him for existing and that was more than too many demigods had.

So he didn’t. He kept the ugly creature locked away in his chest and smiled brightly as she told him about her latest album then told her the (censored) stories from camp before their time was up and her life called again.

A life that didn’t involve him. A life he wished involved him.

Apollo was different. Apollo was a god, with more duties than Will could wrap his head around, and laws governing how much he was supposed to be interacting with demigods – laws he knew his dad was pushing regularly, finding underhanded and sneaky ways to drop in on them without ever being in direct contempt of them. Ever since Will had arrived at camp, learnt about his heritage, he’d known not to expect much from his father.

He hadn’t expected to see his father more than his mother, but that turned out to be the case and Will knew to cherish that because so many demigods went their whole lives barely being acknowledged by their godly parent. Sometimes it felt like he was lucky just because Apollo remembered his name, let alone all the stolen dream visits he kept to himself because he knew Apollo wasn’t supposed to drop by as often as he did.

Still, that didn’t mean the ugly creature in his chest was satisfied with its lot. Stop looking like that, it wanted him to scream whenever Apollo strolled into camp looking like Lester, complete with acne and scars from wounds that Will hadn’t been able to heal. He didn’t, because Apollo being there at all was never something to be taken for granted and at least he didn’t look like that in dream visits, only sometimes in person – normally when Meg was around. Meg preferred the Lester look, he knew, and who was he to monopolise Apollo’s appearance when there were other, younger, more in-need campers that benefitted better from Lester?

It wasn’t easy to swallow down the voice, although the smile at his dad’s appearance came naturally enough that he didn’t think anyone else could see the selfishness inside. Nico suspected something, Will was sure, but he didn’t push and Will didn’t open up. Not about this.

Please don’t leave me, tried to slip from his tongue when Apollo said his goodbyes, whether in person or in a dream. Please stay a little longer. He couldn’t say that. He knew Apollo would be back – his dad never said it in so many words but there was always the air of until next time in the farewells, rather than any finality. He knew Apollo was pushing boundaries visiting as much as he did. He knew Apollo couldn’t stay any longer, couldn’t lavish any more attention on him than he did already.

It wasn’t like Apollo didn’t answer when he called, it wasn’t like his father ignored his existence. Apollo had other things to do, duties that came ahead of pandering to his son’s every wish and risking the wrath of broken laws. Will wasn’t important enough to break laws for, and he didn’t want to be (except the ugly little creature in his chest wanted to be, wanted to have a parent that put him first in their lives even though he was a demigod and demigods didn’t get that).

Put me first, the ugly creature in his chest shrieked at his mom when she said she had to go, now, because something or other needed her time (it was never Will who ‘had to go’, even though his job was saving lives, maybe because their calls were rare enough it just never coincided).

Put me first, it shrieked when Apollo turned up looking like Lester because Meg was there, because the other campers were more at ease when he didn’t look like an actual god in their midst and Will had never told Apollo that Lester’s appearance brought back too many bad memories. Put me first, when he had to go, just like his mom did, because time was up and Will was left with a warm hug and an unspoken feeling that Apollo would be back at some vague, undetermined point.

Please, put me first, it sobbed when both parents were gone and he was left alone, a demigod lucky enough to still have both parents, to have both parents willing to be in his life, who didn’t hate him – but selfish enough to want more.

Will swallowed down the words, tried to avoid the ugly little creature, the selfishness of his heart, and smiled at his mom, at his dad, as they left, telling them he loves them and getting the words back (if you love me why don’t you put me first just once, the creature wailed, trapped where no-one else could hear. Why don’t you choose me?).

After all, he was lucky to have what he had.

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #will solace #pjo apollo #naomi solace #tsari writes fanfiction #toapril

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spellbook-gayboy · 3 years ago

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i didn't manage to send in anything for writing prompt friday yesterday, but if you're still doing these all weekend long maybe prompt 57? 💛

57.

"Well, I saw it and thought of you, Mom!" Mark answered, a bashful look on his face. The necklace he got her was beautiful, an array of glittering yellow gemstones wound into a delicate silver frame. He must've definitely asked others to chip in to afford it, especially with how little salary the government actually gave superheroes.

"Aww, thank you, Mark! I've never had something this nice for my birthday!" Debbie thanked, drawing her son in a tight hug. While the both of them had been very comfortable financially, Nolan had never placed that much value on birthday presents, a fact which made much more sense with the reveal of his true age. It also made her son's effort all the more endearing as a result.

"Well, if you think that's nice..." the half-alien teased, a smile growing. "You, uh, might wanna turn on the TV!"

Debbie picked up and flicked over to one of the main news channels, but instead of the usual two presenters giving a tired recap of recent events, she saw quite a strange sight.

"Is this thing on?" Frontline asked, speaking into a sleek black microphone as he faced the camera projecting his image into the Grayson's home. "We're good? Alrighty then!"

Debbie struggled to find the correct words to describe her surprise. "Oh my god, is that... that's him, isn't it?"

"Trust me, it gets even better!"

"Okay, let me just..." the old soldier continued, pulling a note out of some compartment in his suit while clearing his throat. "Okay: 'Dear Mr. Frontline, my momma Debbie has always been a mighty big fan of yours. One of the earliest memories she has of you actually happened thirty-eight years ago today."

"Wait, is he...?"

"It was the night of her fourth birthday, and my Grandma and Grandpa sat her down to watch that week's episode of Solid Gold. Only that particular episode had you as its guest star, singing the song Footloose by Kenny Loggins. She always thought that you had sung it for her personally, so in honour of that, I was wondering if you actually could? Thanks, Mark'." he smiled as he finished the letter. "Well kid, I first gotta tell you that you're a real angel for wanting to give that to your momma. And Debbie?" he continued, before miming to someone off-screen, and the opening notes of Footloose began to play in the background. "This one's for you. Happy birthday!"

Debbie clapped both hands over her mouth. A moment of silence passed while Frontline began to sing, before she let out a squeal of pure joy at the sight. "Oh, Mark, you shouldn't have!"

"You serious? Once he heard about the idea, Kyle- I mean Frontline wouldn't let it go. He helped pay for this, too!" Mark confessed, pointing to the necklace still in his mother's lap.

To say that Debbie felt like a young girl again would be an understatement. It was like the clock had been turned way, way back to her childhood, to the start of her first celebrity crush, and to the best birthday she'd ever had.

Well, second-best if she included this one.

#three cheers for the birthday girl!#invincible #invincible show #invincible amazon #invincible oc #🦅🛡#Kyle Washington #mark grayson #debbie grayson #my asks #sequids #writing prompt friday

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otonymous · 5 years ago

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⚠️ PSA: Everybody Hurts (When People Repost)

Hello @thebestaqua32,

Thank you very much for your Ask. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the fact that you are reaching out to ask me for permission before actually doing so. Unfortunately, I do NOT allow my work to be reposted by anyone other than myself, on any platform, whether it is Wattpad, Instagram, Twitter, etc.

What follows is by no means directed towards you, dear @thebestaqua32, but I thought I’d take this opportunity to talk about something many creators (writers and artists alike) have been dealing with for a while now, and me, myself, recently.

Over the course of the past 3-4 weeks, I have found instances of my work being reposted to no less than 3 different platforms, once with attribution in difficult to see fine print with no links back to the original source of my work, and twice with absolutely no credit at all. As you can probably imagine, it was quite upsetting to me that pieces I’ve worked so incredibly hard on was being distributed in such a manner, and a lot of time and energy was expended in order to rectify the situation — time and energy that could’ve been otherwise used to create more content for my lovely readers and followers.

Unfortunately, reposting without permission from authors and artists is a common occurrence, and some may not realize the damage doing so can inflict. I seek here to try to explain why reposting in this manner hurts everybody, not just the content creator.

Argument #1:

“How can I possibly hurt someone by reposting their work? The more likes and comments I generate on this post of mine just means I’m giving them free publicity!”

This is something I’ve heard many reposters say in defence of their actions, and while publicity is definitely a good thing for content creators, that is only the case if the people consuming a piece could be bothered to check its original source — that is, if exposure is a guarantee of user traffic being driven back to the creator’s website, social media accounts, etc. And oftentimes, especially in this digital age of “see it and forget it” fast-consumption, most cannot be bothered to do so — the action that is one-step removed proves to be too much of an effort, even if it is merely clicking a link.

Please also consider this: many creators depend on commissions to make a living. This avenue of revenue has only become more important in current times because we are in the midst of a pandemic. People are literally relying on these funds to pay their rent and feed and support themselves and their families. The ability of a creator to support themselves is thus dependent on the size of their fan base or their numbers of followers. If people cannot be bothered to check the original source of a piece of writing or artwork, this essentially cuts down on their potential earnings. You cannot commission a piece from someone or support them if you don’t know of their existence.

This is especially so if things are reposted without proper credit at all, as was the case with one of my works. The worst part was that the stolen piece was taken from a project where the proceeds from all commissions were being donated to charity. In doing so, the thousands of people who liked this post had no way of finding out about this charity project, which means that even if they would’ve been interested in donating, they would not have known how. In essence, this translated to less money being raised to help those who really needed it in dire times.

So please, please, please do not think that the act of reposting hurts no one because that is simply not the case. There needs to be a direct link between people that engage with the content and the creator, which is why reblogging on Tumblr is excellent (feel free to reblog any of my content here if you wish, dear @thebestaqua32) and retweeting (without quotes!) on Twitter is great. These are among the best ways to support us!

Argument #2: The act of reposting could potentially contribute to the decline of a fandom.

Imagine you spent hours, days or even weeks working on something — pouring your heart and soul into a piece — and when you finally shared it to the world, not much happened. Maybe you got a few likes here or there, a couple of comments if you were very lucky. How would you feel? What conclusion would you draw? Some might feel discouraged, others might stop creating altogether.

Imagine then, that same post receiving tons of comments and likes and legitimate shares because someone with a bigger following reposted it on their own social media account without your knowledge. Imagine what you would’ve done with this information — the feeling that others loved and enjoyed your work and wanted to see more. Perhaps it might’ve encouraged you to continue creating.

Case in point:

I wrote this letter. And if I weren’t alerted to the existence of this post, I would’ve never known that thousands of others had liked my work. Also, that’s 124 comments I didn’t get the chance to read. Furthermore, this was a piece that was written for the charity project. Imagine how many potential donors we might have received if people knew about its source.

Feedback is absolutely crucial to creators. It enables us to discover what others did and did not like. Not only can it serve as a compass of sorts to guide our artistic progress and work (and create pieces that can cater to the needs and desires of those who consume it), it is also a point of communication between members of a given fandom. It builds community. And without a strong sense of community, a fandom flounders and could eventually fizzle out.

Without content creators, there is very little for people to consume. Please support all of us by not reposting our work, especially without our knowledge and/or permission.

With that being said, please accept a giant THANK YOU from me to you for reading till the very end. It is very much appreciated. 🙏🏻💕

#please do not repost #PSA #reposting #q&a #thebestaqua32 #my writing #mine

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heli0s-writes · 4 years ago

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IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud.

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again.

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

“She was one of a kind.”

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses.

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay. “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.”

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.”

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

#marvel #stucky #stucky x reader #pacific rim au #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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sonofthesaiyans · 4 years ago

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Gabi Braun will always be the big reason for why I think Attack on Titan went so far south, she’ll always be its worst character as far as I’m concerned, not just in AOT but one of the worst in manga/anime at large. But.......she is far from the only reason. The final chapter of Attack on Titan exposed why the story just no longer worked on ANY level after the Ocean was finally found. The finale not only failed to justify anything about Gabi’s role in the story but also that of Falco, who was at least watchable..........On top of failing to adequately conclude or answer damn near anything else the story wasted so much time on. The focus should’ve been squarely on the battle against the Titans and their creators, someone want to explain to me again why an *ALLEGEDLY* serious war commentary cooked up a time loop and why it was necessary to anything we saw onscreen? Was Eren engineering his own mother’s death something we needed? That’s about as necessary as the entire “Chosen One” prophecy surrounding Anakin Skywalker in the Star Wars prequels. Did anybody give a shit about Yelena? The story clearly didn’t since she vanished from sight. What was Magath’s role in all this? Wasn’t anybody marginally curious about what Hizuru even looked like? The Warhammer Titan? NOPE! No great potential there! One battle and it’s essentially vanished, doesn’t look like they bothered to give its host a personality either. Pure plot device. The Yeagerists are still calling the shots? Oh great, nice to know that nothing was actually resolved, peace is merely implied but not promised. Sorry there’s plenty of reasons why that doesn’t service the conclusion. Weird shit like Reiner sniffing Historia’s letter? Yeah crap like that needed to be left out of the story, weird moments like that don’t work. Even as a joke. What was Pieck’s purpose? Got her introduction far too late I reckon. Why should we care about Pieck? What was Porco’s purpose? His motivation for trying to best Reiner was simply retarded, if you’ll excuse me. WHAT WAS YMIR’S PURPOSE? WHAT WAS THE POINT OF HISTORIA’S PREGNANCY? Niccolo x Sasha? Oh you could’ve done many great things with that but instead it’s just a plot device and nothing else. Does nobody appreciate how much Sasha still could’ve given if she stayed in the game? At the least, it would’ve made this relationship feel less artificial. I can’t even make sense of Eren’s motivations towards Mikasa in doing what he did and I dare say Isayama didn’t have a goddamned clue what he was writing there either. And I’m not wasting my time figuring it out. And again, Mikasa Ackerman REALLY went downhill as a character the longer she stayed focused on Eren. The epilogue doesn’t help AT ALL. That girl should’ve divorced his ass a long time ago, it’s sad that such a phenomenally strong and intriguing character lost all her intrigue because of that prick. The Colossal Titan? Big fucking waste after Armin inherited it, I’m not even sure there was a point to him inheriting it. Shouldn’t have taken to the finale to finally see it back in action, the most iconic Titan of the series. The Female Titan? Sorry folks, but when it takes THAT long for Annie to return or to have a purpose again, that’s not a credit to Isayama. It’s just bad writing. She was too disconnected for me to still give a crap by that point, too little too late. And again, WHAT THE HELL WAS UP WITH ALL THAT TIME LOOP CRAP? In the end, Attack on Titan was brought down by its own mythos, a mythos who’s holes just got wider and wider the longer it went on. The time loop really discredits the whole deal in my opinion, the simple fact that Eren caused his own mother’s death REALLY taints the whole thing that much worse for me. The story didn’t need that, convince me otherwise. Because I just don’t get it .

And the story pulled into far too many directions with subplots that just didn’t amount to any real relevance. The story really had too much time to waste on a shit ton of characters who amounted to little and who’s purpose in the end didn’t justify their inclusion. And the final act is where every one of them is exposed for their utter worthlessness. The real story got suffocated under all that crap and no single chapter could reasonably resolve them all, as we saw with Chapter 139. I don’t know what this idiot was attempting to accomplish, but the story suffers greatly for all of it.

So I’ll give you this much Gabi fans, your favorite character is no longer the one reason some of us are mad at this show, really nothing worked about the final act of the story. So I’ll give you that, as much as I hate the kid she’s just one facet of a whole slew of problems borne out of a lack of focus here. So maybe the most reasonable compromise here is that those of us who hated the story’s end just don’t acknowledge the final arcs. I know I sure don’t. If it had ended with the Ocean, I think I’d have been a lot more satisfied, knowing what ended up following. But that’s just me. This ending just fucking blows on so many levels, and unfortunately it’s not just one problem but dozens of them that all came together all at once. So I’m totally on board with those people who are asking for a better ending but like I said earlier I don’t think that’s going to do much good. And I’m sure I didn’t even list everything I had an issue with despite my best effort just now. This ending is pretty divisive, but I don’t think future reviews will be quite as forgiving. It’s totally out of touch with the series and opens up too many questions and not enough answers. That’s a rookie mistake on a grand level.

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aspiringauthorintraining · 4 years ago

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Volleyball Actually: Scene 1

You really hoped the lady at the information desk had given you the correct directions to the Black Jackals’ practice court, because your arms were about to fall off any second from all the bags in your hands. Not to mention your face mask was making your panting worse.

‘Next time, order delivery, (Y/N),’ you advised yourself, pushing the entrance door to the court with a shoulder.

But before you could even fully step inside, a chirpy voice went ahead and announced your presence. "Senpai!"

A tuft of orange bounced up and down in your peripheral, waving its arms haphazardly at you. The bouncing ball of orange turned out to be Hinata Shoyo, the newest member of the MSBY Black Jackals V.League Division 1 team, as he raced over to engulf you in a tight, air squeezing hug.

You struggled to return the sentiment, trying not to hit him with the multiple bags in your hands.

“Senpai, I can’t believe you came!” Hinata exclaimed, helping to unload the bags off your hands, placing them on the floor.

“Of course! I did promise you after all.” You surprisingly found yourself craning your neck slightly to look at his ecstatic face. “Did you get taller Shoyo?”

Hearing your words, he puffed his chest out proudly, straightening his posture. “I’m 172.4 cm now!”

You couldn’t help but smile at him. “Now you’re taller than me! I guess I can't give you head pats anymore." An unconscious slight frown crept onto your face, replacing the smile.

“You can still pat my head, senpai!” Hinata refuted, grabbing your hand and using it to pat himself on the head. “I can just lean down for you, like this.”

You laughed at his solution, rewarding his quick thinking with a proper patting. Even though he grew from his height in high school, he still acted like the cute first-year you had met for the first time in the Karasuno gymnasium during your third-year in high school.

When satisfied with the amount of head pats he received, he proceeded to ask, “What are those bags for, senpai?”

“Oh, these are for you and your teammates! I figured you guys hadn’t had lunch yet because of practice.” You responded with a sheepish smile when he asked what food you brought. “I’m not really familiar with the area around here but I did want to bring something nourishing, and thought about what I could buy that wouldn’t get cold easily. And a friend recommended Miya’s Onigiri, since it’s within walking distance from your gym, plus there’s no msg in any of the menu items. He also mentioned some famous volleyball player always eats onigiri before a big game?” You shrugged, not being able to give him the name of the said mysterious onigiri-loving volleyball player. You didn't know nor were you really interested in finding out. “So I’m hoping it’ll be okay for you guys to eat too.”

All the eavesdropping ears on the court perked up at the mention of the food.

“We can definitely eat onigiri, especially if it’s from Miya’s Onigiri.” Hinata assured your worry. “But I still would have eaten anything you brought, senpai.”

His sweet words put a smile on your face, mirroring the one he had on already.

“Shoyo-kun, aren’t you going to introduce us?” One of his members interjected from behind, grabbing both your attentions.

“Ah, of course! Senpai, this is the MSBY Black Jackals team.”

Most of the players were new faces to you, and you made a mental note to memorize their names starting from now on. But luckily, there was one member you wouldn't need to memorize, having already met him a few years back.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” You repeated back to the ace. “How have you been, Bokuto-senshu?”

You swore his hair deflated immediately at the sound of your greeting.

“What happened to calling me Ko-chan?”

“Oh um… I mean it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other. And it would be rude of me to call you that, now that you’re a professional athlete and all.”

“Once a friend, always a friend!” he exclaimed. His hair now resembled a dying fern. His natural hair color really helped with the imagery.

With many years passed since you last saw the athlete, you weren't sure whether Bokuto still had his emo side or not. But today was not the day you were going to find out. So, to quickly appease him, you nodded your head in agreement, replying, “Of course, Ko-chan.”

At your words, his hair rose back to its original form, along with the smile on his face. It made you curious to what his hair would look like in the rain, if he was in a good mood. Would his good mood cancel out the rain and cause his hair to withstand gravity? Or would it be flat like any other normal person?

You made a mental note to ask Hinata later through text.

Bokuto, who was oblivious to the scientific theories, pertaining to his hair, roaming around in your head, directed his gaze to the bags of food mentioned earlier, licking his lips in anticipation.

The rest of the team were also looking at you expectantly, reminding you of hungry baby birds, waiting in their nest for their mama bird to give them food. Realizing that they were patiently waiting for you to hand out the food, you moved with haste to unfurl the tied bags, taking out the multiple bentos of onigiri and the drinks you had brought for the team. Hinata volunteered to help you hand out the boxes, since you had written each member's name on a box. You had also included a small note reading, “Please take good care of our Shoyo-senshu! ♡＾▽＾♡” along with a wet wipe and a small bottle of hand sanitizer with each box. It was flu season after all, and you didn’t want to be the cause for any of them getting sick before the big game.

One of the members; Sakusa-senshu, you think was his name, took a moment to stare intently at the wet wipe packet and bottle of sanitizer on top of his box in silence, before giving you the nod of approval. You gave Hinata a questioning look, but he was too busy guiding you to the next name on the box to notice.

After you both had finished handing out the rest of the boxes, you surprised Hinata with a big bag, instead of a bento box like the others. Motioning for him to take the bag, he opened it to find it full of healthy snacks, sports drinks, as well as his own bento box. A small folded letter stood out from the rest of the contents in the bag though, grabbing his attention.

“Shoyo! ^^

Welcome home Shoyo! I’m so proud of you, and of all the hard work and effort you’ve put in to get to where you are now. I know it wasn’t easy living halfway around the world by yourself, in an unfamiliar environment with unfamiliar people. Now I can tell you that I lied when I said I wasn't crying when you called me that time, crying about missing Japan and everyone, even Tobio. Sorry for lying. I didn't want to ever make you feel bad about calling me. I do hope the snacks and care packages I sent you during your time in Brazil helped with your homesickness though, even if it was just a tiny bit. But regardless, I always knew if anyone could do it, it would be you. I’m so happy you’re back home with us now; we all missed you so much (Tobio and Kei will never admit it but they missed you too). And whether you’re Ninja Shoyo, MSBY Black Jackals Hinata-senshu, or first-year Hinata Shoyo from Karasuno, you’ll always be an amazing volleyball player to me. I'll always be here cheering you on from the sidelines, so don’t forget about me when you become a world famous pro. Good luck in your new job, Hinata-senshu. Show the world what it means to fly in the court.

Your #1 fan,

(Y/N)-senpai.

Hinata continued to look down, even after having finished reading the letter in his hands.

“Sho-chan?”

He looked up at the sound of your call, responding to your question with glistening eyes and clutching the letter close to his chest.

“Shoyo?” you panic. “What’s wrong?!”

“I missed you too, senpai!” he wailed, grabbing the attention of the other members who had already started eating. “I-I won’t let you down! I’ll be the best volleyball player and make you proud!”

“Oh, um thank you, Shoyo. Now please stop crying!” you begged, feeling your own eyes moisten. “It wasn’t my intention for you to cry.”

The Black Jackals captain, Meian Shugo, watched the scene before him with a smile, chuckling at the two of you: their newest and youngest player crying his eyes out and you frantically trying to calm your kouhai down with teary eyes of your own.

Not knowing what else to do to get him to stop crying, you could only pat Hinata’s head gently and looked to the rest of his members for help.

To your relief, the other resident happy virus came quickly to your aid. “(Y/N)-chan, Shoyo, come sit down and eat with us!”

While you led the sniffling Hinata over to the Bokuto and the others, a loud growl erupted from his stomach, reminding him of how hungry he was.

“See, even your stomach is telling you to stop crying.” You teased, plopping down on the floor and patting the space next to you for Hinata to sit. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

You finally got Hinata to stop crying and start eating his food, and soon he was back to smiling like he hadn't just made a scene in the middle of the gym minutes prior.

"Fy aren't chu eating, shenpai?" Hinata asked, his mouth full of food. "Fere's shtill mm bento lef."

Sakusa reacted to his response with a disgusted face, immediately scooting away from the newbie.

"I already had lunch before coming over. That reminds me though, is someone missing from your team? There shouldn't have been any bentos left."

Bokuto hummed at your question, gobbling down a rice ball before answering. “Kiyoomi kicked ‘Tsumu out of practice for not getting his flu shot, saying he didn’t want to be near a virus hub. So he’s getting his flu shot right now, so he can come back to practice.”

His explanation made your recent interaction with Sakusa more sense now. You made another mental note to remember to bring wipes and sanitizer when visiting Hinata, so that you wouldn't get kicked out by Sakusa.

~~~~~~~

When it was time for the team to get back to practice, the players helped you collect all the trash to throw away on your way out. You saw Hinata rushing out the door, after placing his empty bento in the trash bag and didn't give it much thought, thinking he had to go to the bathroom. But as you took a look around the gym for any missed trash to make sure the place looked clean like the way when you had first come in, you saw Hinata skipping towards you, now clutching a phone in his hand.

“Senpai, let’s take a picture! I want to remember the day you came to visit me!"

You smiled at his request, nodding in agreement. “Sure, Shoyo.”

What started out being just a selfie with Hinata and yourself, somehow turned into a mini photoshoot with the rest of the MSBY team, after Bokuto begged to be in the picture as well- roping in the rest of the team into the picture, including a somewhat reluctant Sakusa.

Director's Cut:

“Hey Shoyo, who’s this in the picture next to you?” Atsumu asked, seeing the new picture pop up on his feed.

“Oh, it’s Shoyo’s old manager. She brought all of us lunch! That’s yours.” Bokuto replied instead, pointing to the bento left on the bleachers.

“Yeah, isn’t she really pretty?” Hinata added, smiling at the picture on Atsumu’s phone. His eyes soon grew wide, after seeing the amount of hearts below the picture. “Woah, I never received so many likes on a picture before! Ooh, I should send this to Kageyama! He always brags about (Y/N)-senpai visiting him during practice. Now it's my turn."

While Hinata was preoccupied with figuring out how to send the picture to Kageyama, Atsumu continued staring at the photo.

“I'm surprised there's so many likes when I'm not even in the photo.”

Taking closer look at the photo, his eyes zeroed in on your face for a while.

“You know, she looks familiar.”

“Hmm? Do you know (Y/N)-senpai? I asked her if she knew anyone on our team and she only recognized Bokuto-san.”

“Eh, she didn’t know who I was? Yet, she bought food from Miya’s Onigiri?”

“Guess you’re not so popular as you thought.” Sakusa retorts from his stretching position.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#Haikyu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu x you #haikyuu imagine #msby black jackals imagine #msby black jackals x you #schweiden adlers imagine #schweiden adlers x you #schweiden adlers x reader #no beta we die like daichi lol

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griffinblogsgw2 · 4 years ago

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The Narrative Challenge of MMOs

So I saw a post recently in the GW2 tag about how the narrative of Guild Wars is more communal vs individualistic compared to other fantasy games and, while I did like a lot of what the post said, I think it gave GW too much credit. A lot of what GW2 does is a direct result of it being an MMO and this got me thinking about the narrative challenges inherit to that.

I didn’t want to hijack their post to write about it, so here we are.

First off, hi my name is Griffin North. If you know me at all, you probably are familiar with my GW2 fan comic, Tora Steals Things (over at ToraStealsThings.com) or you know me as that random person who wrote an essay several months back about the dying tumblr fandom of GW2 that ironically blew up.

What a lot of you probably don’t know about me is that I studied Game Design for two years and have a Diploma in it. Part of what I studied was in fact narrative in games so this is where most of my knowledge on the subject comes from, consider this my disclaimer and take it for what it is.

Narrative in MMOs

Narrative in videogames is a huge topic but today I really want to talk about MMOs in general. One of the problems I saw with the post that inspired this was a comparison between Guild Wars and several fantasy games that are single player.

The demands between a single player game vs an MMO for narrative are different!

If you want to make an earnest study of Guild Wars compared to other games, it’s best to stay in the same ballpark: look at what WoW or what FFXIV are doing! That’s how you find differences! Unfortunately, I haven’t played WoW since 2007 and I haven’t even touched FFXIV so I can’t personally dive into those differences myself.

For the purpose of this essay, you can consider this as a case study of how Guild Wars 2 specifically deals with the narrative challenge of MMOs here (and why this leads to it feeling more communal as a story), but if anyone reading has anything to contribute on how other MMOs handle this I’d love to hear it!

Let’s talk about the main challenge of writing a story for an MMO

Say some new story content drops in game: you get a letter saying to go talk to a certain NPC on the map to progress the story. So you go do that only to find that said NPC is talking to a whole crowd of other players doing the exact same thing. Even as you talk to the NPC and he delivers his lines like he’s only talking to you, you know that isn’t the case -you’re not stupid after all.

Like it or not, this moment breaks the immersion of the story for a player, and this is the heart of the main issue MMOs contend with:

How do you make a player feel like the main character amongst a sea of main characters?

Game Designers want you as a player to feel special but this is immensely easier to do in a single player game than a multiplayer game. In an MMORPG, they have to deliver story that makes your character special while contending with the fact that as soon as you’re released into the world you’ll meet several other special characters played by other people. It’s really hard to feel like the magic hero with the master sword if everyone you see is also a magic hero with the master sword - get it?

How does Guild Wars handle this?

Heavy Use of Instancing

I don’t know how common this is now but when I first played Guild Wars 2, one of the things I really noticed was their heavy use of instancing when delivering story beats compared to other MMOs I’d played at the time. It’s not an elegant solution, you literally get torn out of the normal game world to play your own instance of it and that’s jarring, but it’s effective in that it allows you to be the main character of that instance. Even if you bring along friends, so long as you own the instance, your character is the one that speaks and is shown in cutscenes. Fairly simple solution, that.

The narrative immersion only really starts to break once you’re back out in the normal PvE maps with other players, and honestly there’s only so much the game can do about that.

To deal with that they contextualize the other players to justify them being there.

Guild Wars 2 narrative contextually allows space for other important player characters to exist because so much of it is organized as a war effort, and this does make a huge difference. Because you’re at war, those other players do not have to be you, the commander, to be significant. They can be various other members of the pact for example -very shiny, glittery disasters with special weapons pact members, but pact members all the same.

Guild Wars is definitely not unique in this approach though, and I think that’s obvious. World of Warcraft has you as a member of one of two different alliances at war as the game’s basic premise. I wouldn’t be surprised if FFXIV has some sort of war in it as well. It’s the easiest way to justify why these other heroes are running around in your adventure: you’re the special one, and they’re all a bunch of soldiers.

Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t fully solve the whole breaking immersion of having a crowd of people talking to a story NPC, but this is one of the ways games like this combat the “everyone is the hero” problem.

If you’re following so far, this is why, by design, MMOs can’t be too individualistic

A war effort is a common backdrop to these kind of games because it easily justifies the multitude of players in it, but this also inevitably means that the story is going to be more communal in nature. You don’t/can’t fight a war alone.

There’s one other thing that Guild Wars does though, that makes it feel less individualistic as a narrative...

The Main Character is Special Adjacent

What I mean by this is that the main character is rarely the one the story is actually about. They’re still special, yes, but they’re special adjacent as in they’re always beside the actual special character for the story. Think about player rage about Trahearne or Kormir taking player credit and you’ll know what I’m talking about here.

The reason they do this is because it’s really hard to tell a good story about a character who’s basically a blank slate - we can’t know how the player characterizes them personally or what they’re even named. Characterize the commander too much and you risk alienating parts of your audience who view their character differently. Giving them too much of a character arc leads to the same problem. The solution then, is to allow the player to be special in SOME way but have the focus be on a different character that they CAN characterize and have grow.

Usually you’re special in how you relate to that character: you’re Trahearne’s Commander, you’re Aurene’s Champion, you’re the Boss of the various characters in Dragon’s Watch, etc. This is why the player character, the commander, doesn’t have as much growth or characterization compared to the rest of the cast.

The main character is special adjacent so that you can have your fully customized mmo character and still be the main character basically. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is true of other MMOs as well.

And this is why games like this feel less individualistic

It’s by design of how MMOs work -that’s really my point here. I love the world of Guild Wars 2 and how much of it feels like we’re fighting to save the world from ourselves or fighting nature (I see some parallels to real world shit like climate change here), but I do think it’s communal nature has more to do with it being an MMO than any real strength of its narrative.

Anyway, that’s all I got.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

#gw2 #Guild Wars 2 #guild wars story #I could honestly say more on this topic but damn if this ain't long already #I hope this was an interesting read at least

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dancingkirby · 4 years ago

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Shipping

I’m sorry, but it had to be done. Do y’all think this would work better as a Short Story, or just a oneshot on its own?

DAY 1

To celebrate the tenth anniversary of his ascension to the throne, Zuzu and Mai were off on a world tour. Azula had been left in charge of ruling the country. While Azula was glad that he was finally realizing that she wasn’t always thinking about world domination all the time, so far her regency had been extremely boring. Now, she was more than halfway through it, and absolutely nothing of note had happened.

Today had started out like all the others. She hadn’t slept great the night before because of the high winds that had battered Capital Island, and they hadn’t ebbed down very much by morning. She’d had trouble getting her hair to stay in its topknot while training. But the morning council meeting had proven as tedious as ever. Azula was paying the exact minimum amount of attention required as the ministers droned on about tax brackets; most of her brain was occupied on what she would have for lunch that day. Noodles were always nice, but she’d had them for two days in a row now. Anytime she ate any food on multiple consecutive days, there was always the risk of speculation among the courtiers that she might be pregnant. Never mind that she hadn’t even done any sex acts that could result in pregnancy for years…

The door to the meeting hall abruptly swung open. An out-of-breath messenger stood in the doorway, blushing deeply as nearly twenty pairs of annoyed eyes scrutinized him.

“You do realize that you are intruding on a confidential council meeting, correct?” Azula inquired of him.

“I’m t-terribly sorry, P-princess,” the messenger managed to get out. “But I was told that this needed your immediate attention.” Could it be…that something interesting was about to occur for a change?

“All right. What is it?” she asked. At her hand motion, the messenger climbed up to the dais and whispered in Azula’s ear.

“Okay. I’ll be right there. We will continue this meeting at a time to be determined later,” Azula stated.

So here she was on a tugboat, looking at the enormous cargo ship that had somehow gotten wedged into the Strait of Azulon. Azula turned to the old salt who was leading efforts to remove it and said, “Explain.”

“That ship is called the Agni-Given, Princess,” the man said somewhat stiltedly; it appeared that he was trying to rein in a sailor’s natural tendency to use copious foul language. “It’s one of the largest cargo ships in the world. Today, it was passing through the strait when the high winds pushed it off-course and into a sandbar. It also got tangled in some old nets from the Gates. We’ve been trying out dam…darndest to free it, but no luck.”

Azula took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly out of her nose. “And what have these initial attempts included?”

“We attached every tugboat in the harbor to it to try to pull it out, but it didn’t work, Princess. That fu…freaking thing is stuck deep into a sandbar. Next step would be to try to dig it out.”

“Explain how that would be accomplished.”

“Yes…well…”–the old man paused–“We ain’t sure yet, to be honest. The problem is that the place where the bow is stuck is seventy feet underwater. All of the excavating machines available were built for use on land. We was thinking of trying to get some of those new forklifts, try to extend their reach, and bring them out on boats, but…that would take time.”

“Forklifts? Is that the best you could come up with?” Azula demanded. She found herself imitating her brother’s famed nose-bridge pinch. This would not do at all. She needed an ingenue, someone who could design a whole new kind of machine if need be. And she thought she knew exactly where to find one.

DAY 2

It had been the end of a long day, without much progress being made. Azula was just about to demand that the larger, more comfortable boat they’d made ready for her today take her back to the harbor when, at long last, the other ship that she had been awaiting arrived. After this watercraft was tethered to hers, a figure came running down the gangplank, arms outstretched.

“Azula!” Sokka exclaimed. “How’s it going? We haven’t seen each other in forever…hey!” His attempts at embracing her had been thwarted by the princess grabbing his shirt at arm’s length.

“Not in public, remember?!” she hissed. Then, just as formally as if he were any old dignitary, she added in normal tones, “Councilman Sokka. It is good to see you here. I trust that your journey here was uneventful?”

“Yeah, except we had to go around the long way because of…well…that,” Sokka replied, gesturing at the still firmly-entrenched Agni-Given. “So how do you want me to assist, O Princess?” He did a little bow, and could not quite manage to keep a straight face.

“Watch it,” Azula reprimanded again. Whenever they encountered each other, she always needed to remind him that their relationship was a melding of intellects and occasionally flesh; romance had absolutely no place in it.

“I recall that you designed a vehicle that could travel underwater,” she explained. “Would it be possible to modify this concept and attach equipment for shoveling? Or perhaps even the capacity for finer manipulation to untangle the net remnants?”

Sokka took a few moments to consider as he beheld the enormous ship. Finally, he replied, “Yeah, I think that’d be possible. It’ll take a while to draw up plans and get everything built, though.”

“Very well,” Azula told him. “I suppose we shall have to simply endure each other’s company for a little longer.”

“’Endure?’ Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Sokka gave a wink that was obviously meant to be seductive, but in fact only made him look ridiculous. Azula elbowed him in the ribs.

They did, in fact, end up fucking that night, after Sokka had eaten what seemed to be about half of the palace’s food supply for dinner. They hadn’t seen each other in more than three years, and Azula was scrupulous about taking her contraceptive tea, so why not?

Sokka tried to kiss Azula after, but she didn’t let him.

DAY 3

Zuko had sent a message asking if he should cut his celebratory tour short and come home to help with this problem, but Azula quickly scribbled out a reply that they had everything under control.

Today was the day that Sokka would first meet with the team of engineers assigned to resolve this problem.

“And I’m sure that all of you will give him the respect that he deserves,” Azula told them in the most pleasant voice she could manage. Some of them were obviously pissy about being forced to consult with a man who was half most of their ages. Well, too bad. Anyone who tried to ignore him would be upbraided with the utmost harshness personally by her.

DAY 10

The manufacturing process had begun. Sokka informed her that he had dubbed this new invention the “shovelmarine.” He did not attempt to conceal his sheer glee at this horrible pun. Azula threw a pillow at him.

While the two of them worked by day and screwed by night, things were starting to get out of hand in the Harbor District. The plight of the Agni-Given had captured the imagination of the public, and kiosks had sprouted all over the piers selling miniature models of the grounded ship. It seemed that every single street musician in the city had composed his or her own ballad about the situation. Fan magazines had been established simply for the purpose of publishing the flood of stories and art that the more creatively-minded citizens had concocted. Azula had gotten a hand on one of these volumes, and her favorite story was a somewhat graphic recounting of a speculated liaison between the Agni-Given and the statue of her grandfather. Apparently, the statue was the dominant partner in this relationship…just as it should be.

This magazine had also included a drawing depicting her own activities with Sokka. She knew that she should be furious about this; that the culprit should be tracked down and executed, but she found it just too amusing. The picture was even surprisingly accurate, except that Azula had not actually handcuffed Sokka to her bedpost. They had improvised with the sash from her nightrobe instead.

DAY 16

“Okay, lets see what these shovelmarines can do!” Sokka said as the contraptions touched the open ocean for the first time. The two of them watched from the boat that was by now almost as familiar to Azula as her own suite of rooms at the palace were.

As it turned out, the shovelmarines (Azula had grudgingly accepted this terrible name) could do quite a bit. Over the next several days, they worked steadily at the problem. Finally, three weeks to the day after the Agni-Given had first gotten stuck, it once again floated freely, although it would be have to be drydocked to repair all the damage.

In his excitement, Sokka had tried to kiss Azula. She had initially resisted, but he had used his ultimate weapon: polar bear dog eyes.

“All right, but only once. And on the cheek,” she cautioned him.

DAY 25

Sokka had departed two days ago, and Azula hoped that he wouldn’t try to send love letters or anything stupid like that. He should know how it worked by now. Whenever they happened to meet, they would rekindle their affair for the duration of the visit, and then they went their separate ways until their next encounter. Of course, they wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever, but it would be fun while it lasted.

And today…Zuzu and Mai made their triumphant return from their tour.

“Wow,” said Zuko as the two of them stood at the harbor, observing as the last of the debris was carried away. “You and Sokka took care of that whole mess all on your own! Thank you, Azula.” At this point, he obviously knew from experience not to make any comments about her relationship with the nonbender.

“Why do you sound so surprised, brother?” Azula asked, turning toward him and raising an eyebrow. “It’s almost like I am, in fact, a competent ruler and don’t spend all of my days dreaming of bloodshed and destruction! Who would have ever guessed?”

“That’s not what…” Zuko began, but he could say no more as Azula caught him by surprise, got him in a headlock, and began inflicting a merciless noogie on him.

“Admit it, Zuko,” she crowed. “I’m awesome!”

“Okay, I surrender!” he squeaked out. “You’re awesome.”

She released him. “There. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? Now let’s go get some ice cream.”

And so they did.

#azula #sokka #fanfic #sokkla #sort of #keep in mind that this is a rough draft

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fleckcmscott · 4 years ago

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After

Summary: Arthur is heartened to have Y/N back by his side. But moving forward isn't as simple as he'd daydreamed.

Warnings: Adult situations, Swearing

Words: 3,391

A/N: This request comes from @jokerownsmysoul! It's a continuation of Ch. 23 of Watch What Happens and takes off right after the last paragraph. Funnily enough, when Karen originally beta'd that chapter she said, "Where's their conversation? Oh, well, I guess it's implied." 😄 Special thanks to Domino, aka @thegirlwho, (who also wanted their conversation 😂) for sharing her point of view and helping me see things from a different perspective.

A good portion of my life is the exploding head emoji right now, so it's been a while since I've posted. However, I'm still here. Still writing. Still trying. Work on the new multi-chapter continues. If you've got any requests, let me know. Your patience, support, and you mean a lot to me. Thank you.

Nimble fingers twined through his loose, brown curls, a gentle tug as lips met and parted, met and parted. Her body surrounding that soft, most intimate part of him was visceral. Warm and wet. "I love you" fell from her mouth. Once, twice, more than the walls of his apartment had ever heard. He swallowed but was unable to murmur an appropriate reply. She came back, his mind affirmed. She came back.

Shit, I haven't mopped for a week.

Arthur braced himself on his knees and elbows to look down at her. The notched collar of Y/N's blouse had somehow remained uncrumpled. Strands of her hair fanned out messily over the beige, aged hexagons of the kitchen linoleum. Her tears had reduced to stains on her flushed cheeks. He brushed them away with the back of his knuckles. She'd said he hadn't hurt her, that she was happy. Both good things. If he could figure out the next step...

His eyes flitted back and forth between hers, brows pinched. Moving to kneel, he tucked himself back into his briefs, pulled his light blue pajama bottoms over his rear, then ran his hands along his thighs. "Have you had dinner?"

Buoyant laughter left her as she propped herself on her forearms. "I'm famished. Especially after that." She extended her hand and he accepted it gladly. When she started to pull herself up, he grabbed the other. Her kitten-heels slid the weave rug along the floor; it took some effort for her to get her footing. Once she stood, she tied the drawstring of his pants and adjusted her skirt. "Be right back," she said and scurried to the bathroom.

The thud of the door closing cleared the awe from head. He'd rather have kept it. Changes in mood were typical as of late. The bliss of her return was already twisting into dread. No longer consumed by the need to be inside her, his mind conjured questions, too many to brush off. He turned the knob of the toaster over. Studied the orange glow of its heating element. Had charity - or worse, pity - caused her return? Had distress afflicted her as deeply as it had him? Had she thought of him half as much as he'd thought of her?

Was she going to abandon him again?

He suddenly felt very silly and quite small for allowing himself a modicum of relief. Nothing had been clarified. By having a quickie on the floor after they'd barely exchanged a word, he'd set himself up to be hurt. The way he had when he'd kissed Helen, or when he'd considered Randall his friend, or when he'd believed, for one foolish minute, that Murray might be kind. He flinched against the fury simmering in his stomach. That same panic and anger from when Y/N had walked out of his apartment and, he'd been convinced, his life. He clutched the counter's curved edge so hard his fingertips went numb.

But then she curled herself into his side and squeezed him tight about the waist. Her blithe bearing was almost enough to quiet his tumult. "Anything I can help with?"

"No." He moved to dig through the freezer. Beans and franks with a brownie. English style fish 'n' chips. His mother's favorite, meatloaf. Only the teal packaging made them appealing. He grimaced at the meager offerings. He snatched one from the door, held it out with some trepidation. It was possible the gel-like gravy, slices of turkey roll, and drowned stuffing wouldn't put Y/N off. "Um, this was on sale. I bought a few."

"It's perfect." She accepted the carton and tore it open. "I heard a song on the radio yesterday that made me think of you."

"Oh yeah?" He closed the door of the toaster and set the timer with a flick of the wrist.

"The man was singing that his name was Carnival. That's your clown name, right?" She chuckled, dragged the black, wooden stool from under the counter, and perched on it. "It reminded me of the subway." A flirty pinch to his abdomen. "And that I still have to see one of your performances."

Arthur scoffed and averted his gaze, struggled to push through his anxiety and enjoy her. But he wasn't the type of man to let questions lie. When he'd gotten the courage to ask Y/N on a date, he'd taken the risk. When he'd read Penny's letter, he'd hopped on the first train to Wayne Manor. After the confrontation in Wayne Hall, he'd gone to Arkham and stolen that wretched file.

His curiosity tended to pick wounds that hadn't yet healed over.

The warmth of her hand met his back. "Thank you for giving me time."

The tenderness of her tone loosened the clench of his jaw. But he still couldn't bring himself to look at her. He'd done what she'd requested, because he'd feared mistakes would drive her further away, not because he'd wanted to or understood. He wondered if someone without a mental illness would have behaved differently. She'd pleaded with him to listen, kissed him goodbye, then left like it was nothing.

Whatever the case, her appreciation felt wrong. He didn't need gratitude. He needed answers. He inhaled sharply. "Why did you go?"

She traced the knobs of his spine. "I had to figure out the best way to be with you."

"Am I that hard to be with?" he bit out.

"Of course not. That's not what I said."

He gulped and released a ragged breath. "It broke my fucking-" He faltered when his voice cracked.

"Arthur, I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry." Her embrace was tight, a welcome pressure on his ribs despite the ache. Her palm slid up his sternum. "I was afraid to do more harm than good." He should have contradicted her, told her she was crazy if she believed loving him would damage him. But he stopped himself when she nuzzled his bicep. It was a while before she cleared her throat. "I love you more than I imagined possible." She giggled, then, and sniffed. "Which isn't bad for six weeks, Mr. Fleck."

Tears threatened as his eyelids fluttered. He managed to keep them at bay, covering her hand with his to distract himself. He pressed it tighter to him, until he thought her fingers might break through his chest. Finally, he met her stare. Found it full of love and what might have been joy at being together. In that moment, he knew nothing would ever separate his heart from hers.

~~~~~

"Christmas is coming up. Let me know what you'd like to do."

Arthur's slight nod was typical of their conversation this evening. Well, that wasn't quite fair. More like half of it. He'd been vacillating between bouts of confidence and timidity, with the latter tending to win out. He'd put his arm around her, examined the latest issue of TV Guide, and asked what she'd preferred to watch. She'd let him choose; he'd picked a three-hour variety show. Minutes later, he'd been squished into the corner of the sofa, legs neatly crossed with his hands clasped in his lap. She'd risen to refresh their ice teas, and he'd halted her with a kiss to her knuckles and his handsome grin. Upon her return, he'd focused on the floor and kept quiet. The changes were difficult to predict.

At least the periods of stillness made it easy for her to reflect, even as those reflections weren't entirely pleasant. She'd had faith in his ability to take care of himself and his judgment to reach out to her if he was in crisis. And while she had no regrets about taking five days to ensure she could sustain their relationship, she lamented the pain it had caused him. She'd detected it in his stiff posture in the kitchen. Seen it in his glistening eyes. Sensed it in his inconsistent reluctance to be touched.

It had been hard for her, too. The absence of their nightly calls, of shared laughter, of his presence had been keen. She would have returned to him without receiving his letter. But the ink on the page, with its occasional misspellings and earnest admissions ("I don't kno if I'm doing this right but I want to try. Maybe you want to try with me, to?") had prompted her to run to the subway before she'd taken off her coat. Confirmed that despite their differences, them being opposite in many ways, their hearts were the same.

He perked up slightly when the next performer came on, an old man from Whitefish, Montana and his paper mache ventriloquist dummy. Y/N's attention drifted to Arthur as he leaned forward onto his knees. Though the act was nothing special - terrible jokes, drinking water while the puppet talked, strumming a ukulele as it sang - his face crinkled in amusement. "They just have regular people on there," he said. "I haven't seen anyone from Gotham. I should try out."

Thankful he was focused on the show and not her, she pursed her lips. Had he forgotten how Murray had gone? Or Pogo's? Then again, he'd believed both had gone great. And she wanted him to succeed. To strive. To dream. His determination impressed her, made her proud. She searched for a truthful but kind answer. "Once you've got a set you're comfortable delivering, sure. Would you send a tape? I have a recorder you can borrow."

"I wrote a lot this week. Not many jokes but I've done some brainstorming." He flicked ash from his cigarette into the pink ashtray on the coffee table. Splayed his fingers and rubbed his palms together. The bob of his Adam's apple was faint in the dim, blue light. "Do you- Do you want to sleep over?" He turned to her.

Elated, she smiled widely and shifted to sit side-saddle. "I'd love to, but I didn't bring any clothes."

"Hold on." He rose from the couch and disappeared into the bedroom. After a minute, she followed to find him digging through a couple of cardboard boxes. Boxes filled with his mother's things, she realized. She'd have to follow-up for details, find out what had happened to ensure the transition would go as smoothly as possible. Though the relationship between him and Penny was complicated, change wouldn't be easy.

He held out a threadbare, light-blue, nylon nightdress with ruffled cap sleeves and a ribbon at the neckline. "Here."

Y/N cocked her head. The gown was exceedingly narrow, its seams stretched. If she had been inclined to wear it, it wouldn't have fit. Arthur's hopeful expression made it plain he did not see the oddity in offering his romantic partner his mother's nightwear. It was logical, she supposed. His years had been spent living hand to mouth. He didn't have any siblings. Hand-me-downs - a spare sweater here, a pair of socks there - would have come from Penny. A tad strange, to be sure. But poverty had a way of making the abnormal normal.

"Thanks," Y/N said. "But I'll be fine in my panties." At his pout, she closed the inches between them. "If you have a t-shirt, I'll take it." His brows lifted and he gave a toothy smile, comprised of surprise and conceit. The shirt he retrieved from the living room was plain and white. The lightly stained armpits didn't bother her, nor did its loose fit. It was part of his work outfit, he explained. And he claimed she looked cute in it.

Her sleep was restful, deep, better than it had been the last two weeks. Arthur being nearby and her certainty when she'd lain her head on his pillow had calmed her. She didn't think about the Wayne Foundation. She didn't worry about how to pursue a future with him. She didn't waste her energy being afraid of powerlessness. Warmth filled her, aided by contentment and cozy blankets.

When the mattress sunk beneath his weight, she didn't check the clock. Judging by the speed with which her drowsiness dissipated and the blackness of the room, it was likely around 4:00 AM. She'd gotten a solid five hours. With a slight stretch and mewl, she blinked up at him. Her elbow accidentally bumped his chest. "Aren't you tired?"

"No." He palmed her shoulder, caution palpable in every movement. Then his caress dragged down her upper arm, hovered over her breast.

She stroked his stubbled cheek. "What are you up to?"

"Making sure you're really here."

It was unclear if he was kidding. The extent of his imaginations or hallucinations - if that's what he experienced - weren't yet known to her. She recalled how he'd clutched her jacket, the way he'd fiddled with her wall calendar and coffee table when he'd come to her for help. Tactility oriented him, as it had her father before the final stages of his diagnosis. And, outside of acute episodes, Loving Someone with... had advised her to carry-on as always.

Laughing gently, she entwined their legs. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know," he scoffed. He tucked his chin. Silence permeated the room, interrupted only by their exhalations. Eventually, he spoke, his rasp bashful and desperate. "Are you going to leave me again?"

"No." She pressed his hand to her breast, tried to soothe his tremble away. "I like it here."

She could hear his smile in the dark. He dipped his head to capture her lips. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again. She kissed him back until she ached with emptiness. Until she felt him hard against her hip.

"Y/N?" he breathed into her mouth.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears. "What?"

His forehead met hers and she shivered all over. "I wanna make you come."

~~~~~

Drip, drip, drip. A calming, predictable sound. The pungent smell of generic brew wafted to his nostrils, slightly burnt but familiar. Coffee. He was making his girlfriend coffee before she went to work. After they'd made love and snoozed until sunrise. After she'd admonished him for smoking in bed, then caressed his flaccid sex and teased him about his "secret freckle." (He'd covered his face in horror and delight and promised himself that one day he'd find a "secret" on her.) He hummed along to the radio, though he disliked the song, and whistled while he filled their cups. Once he'd added three sugars to his and the last of his milk to hers, he padded to the bath. He leaned on the doorframe, an imitation of nonchalance.

In her apparent rush to get to him, Y/N hadn't simply neglected to pack a change of clothing. She was swiping his stick of deodorant under her arms with haste. When she grabbed his comb and tried to tame her hair, he didn't mind. She declined his offer of Penny's eyeliner and mascara but that was fine. She didn't need them, anyway.

As she buttoned her pleated blouse, he giggled. He'd heard jokes about women going to work in identical outfits two days in a row. The innuendo had escaped him until now. A thrill went through him at finally getting the joke. He blushed. "You're dressed the same."

"I left Patricia a message that I'd be late. It won't surprise anyone." She accepted the proffered mug and took a long drink. A mischievous look as she arched a brow. "She'll want details."

Arthur's eyes widened and he rubbed his forehead. This would take getting used to.

She squeezed a line of toothpaste onto her index finger. "What are you doing today? Any gigs?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, braced his arm on the wall. "I have to call the hospital. Figure out where to send my mother." He was glad to begin the process of moving on, moving forward. To start building a life of his own. Freed from the woman who hadn't protected him. Paired with the woman who understood him most. Still. He was daunted.

After a few seconds of attempting to brush her teeth, Y/N rinsed her mouth and washed her hands. "The social worker should be able to help. There must be homes specializing in lobotomy patients, given how common they were. Actually..." She stepped to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. "I bet there's an advocacy group for the elderly in Gotham. I'll call around on my break. We can have lunch and review their recommendations."

The tightness in his chest prevented him from holding her gaze. His longings for kindness didn't make it any less peculiar. He hoped he would be able to accept it without skepticism soon, like a normal person. That he wouldn't wait for the other shoe to drop. He tried to fight his negative thoughts rather than give into them.

But he couldn't. Not yet. "Why are you doing this?" he mumbled.

She gave a small shrug, as if what she was about to say wasn't a miracle. "I love you. Why wouldn't I?" Before he could react, she walked to the front door and slipped on her heels. "Besides, we should plan this weekend. Shall We Dance is showing at the Monarch. We could catch it and have dinner at my place. And there's a doctor I found for you - when you're feeling up to it. We'll go over the particulars."

The offer to see the film, one he knew every number of, was an obvious attempt to butter him up for that discussion. It would work. "That sounds nice." He went to her side and took her coat off the wall mounted rack, guided her arms into the sleeves

"Arthur," she started, zipping her jacket. Her pretty eyes met his. "I wasn't going to end our relationship. I don't want you to fear that."

He winced and clutched his hands together, annoyed she had raised the subject again after the wonderful morning they'd shared. "I believe you now."

"Back home, I made mistakes. That's why I needed time." She shook her head. "The thought of repeating them with you..."

Mistakes? What kind of mistakes was she referring to? She'd said her divorce had been mutual. A big fight with her sister or mother hadn't been mentioned. She almost never talked about what had happened with her father, other than to name his diagnosis and state she'd gone on medication. She was a good woman. Whatever she had done, it couldn't be that terrible. Not half as bad as the notions that wormed their way into his brain like a broken record.

Then she continued. "I didn't know what to do then. But I think I do now. " She nuzzled his sideburn and carded her fingers through his hair. "If I see you walking towards a cliff, I won't follow. I'll pull you back before you get there."

He stared at her, blinking rapidly as he tried to hold himself together. Her words felt like the kind of fantasy he'd created to ease his misery. To try to convince himself he should exist another day. That he should stick around. Multiple hospitalizations had proven that hadn't always worked. But this was new. Real. Maybe that reality would allow him, for a little while, to be all right.

He cupped her face, drifted his thumbs over her cheeks. She leaned into him, into the kisses he placed on her brow, her nose, her mouth. His lips parted but all he could manage was a shaky exhale. The press of his face to hers.

She must have noticed he was overwhelmed. It frustrated him - he wanted to find a way to articulate himself. But her peck to his jaw, her hand covering his, made him feel safe. "Meet you at my office at one?"

"Mm-hmm." He nodded into her hair, not quite ready to let go.

Gently, she pulled away from his grasp, took her purse, and opened the door. She smiled. "Call if you need anything."

At that, she strode down the hall in the direction of the elevator. He stepped out and watched until she disappeared around the corridor's corner. He rested against the door and closed his eyes, wishing harder than he ever had before that every morning would be like this for the rest of his life.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve, @ithinkimaperson, @sweet-nothings04, @stephieraptorr, @rommies, @fallenstarsabyss, @gruffle1, @octopus-plasma, @tsukiakarinobara, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile, @another-day-in-chuckletown, @hhandley80, @jokerownsmysoul, @mrscarnival

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

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hermannsthumb · 4 years ago

Note

Gonna request some camb0y newt who has Hermann as a regular follower who may or may not be requesting used clothing from Newt...😳

this one is less h0rny and more dumb and I died every time I typed newt’s screen name but (ALSO THE FACT THAT TUMBLR KEPT BLOCKING THIS MESSAGE....unbelievable) 18+/not sfw below cut

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

The whole thing only started because of the kaijus.

It seems foolish to place the blame on them, considering the severity of the damage they’ve caused in every other aspect of life, but it’s the truth. Hermann was never brilliant at romance even in the best of times; he never knew quite the right words to say, or quite the right way to kiss, and certainly not how to keep men interested enough to come back for more than a date or two. Then the end of the world came, and the jaeger program ate up what little free time Hermann had, and dating simply fell to the very lowest tier of his priorities. He had work to do. He had lives to save.

Unfortunately, his libido continued to run rampant.

Masturbation could only get one so far, though Hermann was undeterred and tried almost anything: dildos, vibrators, expensive lubricant, a paid subscription to a high-quality pornography website. He cancelled this after a week, when he realized none of its featured men--though undeniably good-looking--fit his particular area of interest. Besides, it was far too impersonal. Hermann did not like spending half of his time watching a video or scrolling through a photo gallery wondering what that man was doing now, or whether or not he’d enjoyed himself, or what he was like in person... In a fit of desperation, Hermann picked up a subscription to another website that promised live men 24/7. And, well. To make a long story short, Hermann is pretty sure he’s in love.

The object of his affections is twenty-something and stocky, a good few inches shorter than Hermann (he’d wager, anyway), with a chestful of tattoos and a voice that’s almost high enough to be grating. Hermann has seen his face only fleetingly, but it’s enough for him to know it’s a highly agreeable one. He’s got a nice sense of humor, seems intelligent enough, and the glimpses Hermann’s caught of the bedroom he streams from (at the perfect time of day, late enough that Hermann’s inhibitions are entirely nonexistent) indicate a healthy love of science fiction.

Hermann is mostly in love with him because of how good of a show he puts on, though. Where Hermann fails in his use of dildos or vibrators and other nonsense, the man succeeds, and indeed excels, and he’s endlessly creative with dressing in lace and other funny little costumes. It makes for some very inspired jerking off on Hermann’s end. More importantly, it makes for a calming of his libido.

Hermann doesn’t know his real name, only his chosen screen name, though it doesn’t really matter: kaijulover69 is most certainly the man of his dreams.

Well. Nobody’s perfect.

“Tonight’s stream is dedicated to a very special fan for all his support,” kaijulover69 begins. He’s wrapped in a bathrobe, though Hermann has a feeling he knows what’s beneath it, and he flushes pleasantly with warmth at what’s soon to come. “And for what I’m wearing right now. You know who you are. Thanks again, dude!”

His lips are just visible on camera, and he grins coquettishly before slipping the sleeve off his right shoulder. Then the left. “That very same fan requested a strip tease tonight,” he continues, “and--well, I’ll let the rest be a surprise, huh?”

The belt is undone. The robe slips down to the bed, revealing the object of Hermann’s affections clad in nothing but a rather small pair of lacy black undergarments. (And a bloody expensive pair, at that--cost a third of Hermann’s weekly salary. It’s worth it.) You look very attractive, Hermann types encouragingly into the chat box, and hope it’s visible between the pleads for kaijulover69 to flash his face or pull his genitalia out already.

He doesn’t appear to see any of them. “My week was pretty lame,” he continues. He begins to idly run his hands up and down his bare chest; Hermann mirrors the action on his own, enjoying the shiver he manages to elicit from himself even through two layers of shirt and sweater. “Work stuff has been kicking my ass. And--” His fingers falter. “Well, there’s this guy I really like, and we’ve kinda been...seeing each other, but I just found out he’s actually seeing someone else. So I guess it’s like, I realized I’ve been making all this shit up in my head?”

Who would ever turn down such a marvelous specimen of human? Hermann’s temper flares with a mingling of both righteous offense on the man’s behalf and a little bit of jealousy that he’s not the one who’s so captured his heart. He would like to knock some sense into them, whoever they are.

“But you don’t care about that,” he says, and forces a laugh. “You want to see me mess these up, don’t you?”

His hand drifts down to his panties, and he gives himself a squeeze through them.

“Please,” Hermann says happily, though he knows there’s no one to hear.

------

There’s an email from Newton waiting for him in his inbox the next morning. No subject.

Hey, dude-

Sorry I left you hanging yesterday. I was just a little shocked. Not shocked that you have a partner or whatever, of course you do, that’s totally normal, just that you never told me about them until now. I read over your latest article, and I just wanted to say what an utter load of--

“Hmph,” Hermann says, and quickly scrolls up and away from Newton’s annoying little rant.

Even as he does so, he feels a pang of guilt he doesn’t quite understand. Newton is shocked he has a partner: so what? And, er, so what if that partner isn’t quite as real as Hermann is pretending? The question came at him fast, and unexpected, and so very quickly into the switch from letter correspondence to email; kaijulover69 on his mind, Hermann panicked and wrote yes, I do have someone in my life. It’s not entirely a lie. Though Hermann holds no illusions about the nature of their dynamic, the man has certainly taken up the same amount of Hermann’s time and money that a real partner would. And besides--it’s easier. Less messy. Newton would probably try to set Hermann up with someone, or pester him about his sex life, or even--God forbid--try to offer him advice. (Once I blew a guy in the bathroom of this shitty dive bar, try that, he told Hermann a few weeks ago, and I always take my dates to the aquarium so I can talk about shit and look smart.)

It’s also helpful in dissuading Hermann from his daydreams and illusions of dating not kaijulover69, but Newton; that, he fears, is an even grander pipe dream.

He skims Newton’s--rather poor--critique of his work, ignoring entirely his comments on Hermann’s partner, and types up a fast rebuttal. Kaijulover69 has another stream tonight, and he doesn't want to miss it.

--------

“The trick,” kaijulover69 pants, “is to just, uh, relax your muscles as much as possible. It’s easier when you’ve got someone doing it for you, obviously, but...”

His chosen method of masturbation tonight is a frightfully large tentacle dildo, wider and longer than any prick Hermann’s seen in his life. Hermann’s not sure if such a dildo would fit inside him; he’s not even sure if it’s going to fit inside kaijulover69. The man is rather compact. It’s stopped about halfway into his body, and even from the rather distant angle Hermann can tell it’s stretching him tight.

“...I might’ve jumped the gun a little,” the man says, and bursts out into breathy laughter. “Should’ve, uh, should’ve gotten the smaller size. Or worked up to this one.” He works another centimeter into himself before his body goes taut. “Go--go big or go home, I guess?”

One hand moving steadily around his prick, Hermann uses the other to type an encouraging message: Excellent effort.

Kaijulover69 pulls the dildo out to the thinnest section, then once he relaxes, begins a rhythm of short, shallow thrusts. Each time, it goes in a little deeper. It’s very good to watch, and listen to as well; his little gasps, the creaks of his bedsprings, the spread of his legs widening. Hermann briefly considers how badly he would like to be the one pushing it into him and dragging out those sounds, and is surprised to find himself orgasming.

He tips generously once the stream is over: he does like to consider himself some sort of gentleman, and he likes seeing how excited it gets kaijulover69.

-------

The package arrives on an entirely ordinary Tuesday some three weeks later. Autumn has come, bringing with it a rather heavy series of rains, and Hermann is drenched and shivering when he finally ducks into the relative warmth of his flat. The knowledge of what the box tucked under his arm contains warms him considerably; he rented a P.O. Box for one reason and one reason exactly, not even daring to have his name attached to it. It’s gauche, he knows, but--isn’t it a bit like recycling? Kaijulover69 gets a fresh, exciting outfit from Hermann, and Hermann gets it back after he’s--well.

Hermann needs to unwind somehow. There’s nothing wrong with it!

The black lace undergarments are wrapped neatly up inside the box, with a sweet little pink bow on top. Attached to that is a simple handwritten card: To my number one fan! ❤️ There’s plenty more where this came from...

Simple, and innocently flirty. And so familiar it makes Hermann’s blood run cold.

“It’s not possible,” he says.

And yet--isn’t it? Hermann’s never seen his face--either of their faces--and the screen name--

There is no return address on the package, but a frantic search of its wrappings reveals its origin: stamped in black ink over frog-themed postage is BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. “No, no,” Hermann mutters to himself, even as he reminds himself (unhelpfully) that plenty of people are from Boston. He tosses it to the bed and clacks over to his desk, clutching the card so tightly it crumples. Newton’s letters are all in the top drawer--he just needs--

The handwriting is a perfect match.

“Bugger,” Hermann groans.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous #not sfw ////

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ibijau · 4 years ago

Text

The Price of Wishes / On AO3

Sitting by the bed once more, Nie Mingjue stares at his brother as if he’s lost his mind. Which he might have. Nie Huaisang, lying in bed, doesn’t know what to think about anything at the moment, but this… this is the one certainty he has.

“A road, really?” Nie Mingjue insists.

“And a small altar somewhere in the Unclean Realm,” Nie Huaisang repeats. “It’s very important. And… and we need to find that god’s name to send them proper prayers.”

He glances at ‘Lan Xichen’ who stands just a little behind Nie Mingjue, smiling peacefully as if none of this concerns him. He probably doesn’t know that he’s not a real person, so he must just think that this is only Nie Huaisang being weird.

“Huaisang, that’s a little excessive,” Nie Mingjue scolds. “I’ll go make an offering to that temple if you want me to, but…”

“I’ll pay for all of it,” Nie Huaisang announces, half panicked at the idea of angering a deity so strong that they created a whole person out of thin air. “I’ll sell my fans, and those silk robes I never wear anyway, and… and we can take it off from my allowance for as many years as needed. I’ll paint a portrait myself for the altar. But it is so important. I can’t explain why, just trust me.”

He winces and regrets the words as soon as they leave him. Trust him? Right after he did something so stupid that could have gotten him killed? Nie Mingjue already didn’t trust him before, but after that…

“Fine, you’re getting an altar if it matters so much,” Nie Mingjue sighs. “I’ll see for the road. Those things cost a lot, Huaisang, and it can’t be a priority. You understand that, right?”

Nie Huaisang meekly nods. He understands for sure. Nobody really says it, but their sect is kind of preparing for the risk of a war with Qishan Wen. They have to spend money on things more important than Nie Huaisang’s whims.

“I’m sure that deity will understand that you are doing your best to thank them for their help,” Lan Xichen intervenes, his voice deep and calm, exactly the sort Nie Huaisang likes. It isn’t even a detail that made it on his list, that god is just that great, apparently. “It is to your honour that you are trying to keep your promise.”

Nie Huaisang smiles weakly, and hopes that having Lan Xichen’s approval is a sign that the deity themself is also satisfied with his efforts, at least for the time being. He can’t do more than that anyway, not right then, because the healer joins them with a foul smelling potion that quickly knocks Nie Huaisang out for the rest of the day and the night that follow.

His sleep is not a quiet one, plagued by nightmares of his father, of Wen Ruhoan, of an angry statue without a face that demands the price of a lover Nie Huaisang never even really asked for.

When morning comes, Nie Huaisang is up much earlier than usual, almost with the sun in fact. In spite of his dreams, he feels perfectly rested and full of energy in a way he never is at sunrise. It's fine though, there's a busy day ahead. Nie Huaisang is determined to find out more about his god, and to start working on paying his debt. For this he'll need to spend some time in the library, and maybe send some letters to neighbouring sects and monasteries if he can't find information on his own.

First, though, he needs breakfast. He's a growing boy after all, and he hasn't had anything since that broth yesterday.

After dressing up hastily, Nie Huaisang starts making his way toward the kitchens. As he crosses the courtyard toward those, he spots an unfamiliar silhouette walking around. A young man in white who smiles at him and comes closer.

It'll take a while to get used to Lan Xichen.

"Nie gongzi, good morning. Are you feeling better today?"

His voice is really so, so nice, it's awful.

"I'm quite well, thank you. I was on my way to grab something to eat, do you want to come with me?"

It's a stupid thing to ask. Nie Huaisang doesn't want company, least of all that of this boy who shouldn't exist, but a year in Gusu has left him plagued with crippling politeness and a fear of offending anyone wearing white. Even from this far, he can't shake off the fear that Lan Qiren will hear about any misdemeanour and punish him for it.

"I would be glad to do so," Lan Xichen replies. "People here really sleep in late, don't they?"

"By Gusu Lan standards, for sure," Nie Huaisang says as he starts walking again, the other boy following him. "But everyone will be up soon. Are you going to spend the day with Da-ge?"

From what Nie Huaisang understood yesterday, Lan Xichen is supposed to be friends with Nie Mingjue. It was on the list, after all. As for how close he is supposed to be to Nie Huaisang… it doesn't seem like there's anything official happening between them, or Nie Mingjue would surely have said something when his brother 'forgot' that Lan Xichen exists. Still, maybe the god has decided to give them a secret romance, so Nie Huaisang needs to be very careful until he figures out where they stand.

"Your brother said he would be busy," Lan Xichen says. "My presence was unplanned after all. Maybe Nie er-gongzi will agree to let me keep him company instead?" he adds with a warm smile that Nie Huaisang can't bear to look at. "After your fever, and the way you fainted, it might be better if you were not left alone."

Whose fault was it if Nie Huaisang fainted? And he so doesn't want to spend more time together, but it's hard to refuse anything to someone who smiles at him like that and makes it sound like he might be disappointed if his request were denied.

"It probably won't be much fun," Nie Huaisang warns. "I'm just going to check our library for… Ah, but maybe you'll be able to help. I really want to find whose temple it was, in the mountains."

"Nie gongzi is very determined it seems," Lan Xichen notes.

Determined is just a nice way to say stubborn, which Nie Huaisang has been accused of in the past, though he still thinks he's not nearly as bad as his brother. But Lan Xichen says it like it's a good thing, and that's... nice.

"Debts must be paid," Nie Huaisang grumbles as they enter the kitchens. It's early for sect disciples, but the servants are already hard at work, so they'll have to be nice and stay out of the way. "Lan gongzi, do you want to eat something as well?"

Lan Xichen eagerly nods, glancing all around as if he's never seen food before. It's… cute, for lack of a better word, but it also worries Nie Huaisang. He's pretty sure that if the truth gets discovered he'll be in a ton of trouble, so lan Xichen really needs to learn to act as if he wasn't born yesterday. Only, how to tell him that? If Lan Xichen himself isn't aware of it, he'll think Nie Huaisang is crazy, or maybe he'll get upset over the fact that he isn't a real person.

It’s a problem for later. Nie Huaisang manages to steal two bowls of congee and a pair of buns (earning a slap on the shoulder from the laughing cook who threatens to tell his brother, as always) and quickly goes back outside so Lan Xichen and him can find a quiet spot to eat.

Lan Xichen seems particularly delighted with the food, as if it’s the best thing he’s ever had. It certainly is a lot better than what they have in the Cloud Recesses, as Nie Huaisang can’t help bragging about. Food is just nicer when it actually tastes of something besides bitter and watery. Nie Huaisang could have dealt with the absence of meat, but the lack of taste is something he just can’t handle at all.

“Nie gongzi is very outspoken on this matter,” Lan Xichen notes with a small smile.

The tone is nothing more than teasing, but Nie Huaisang quickly shuts down. He’s been told before that he complains too much, and it’s against the rules of Gusu Lan. Everything is against the rules of Gusu Lan. In fact, Nie Huaisang is starting to feel bad for even talking during this improvised meal, and can't help glancing over his shoulder, fearing to be scolded by someone. He finishes eating quickly and silently, imitated in this by Lan Xichen.

After their bowls have been dropped back to the kitchen, they two boys head to the library. It's not the most impressive room in the Unclean Realm, but it's still a fairly decent library, Nie Huaisang thinks. There's all the normal classical texts of course, a whole bunch of cultivation nonsense he won't get close to if he can help it, but also some essays and notes on the history of Qinghe and its region. At some point in the past, one sect leader decided that he felt ashamed for being descended from a butcher and ordered his more scholarly disciple to research the issue and find out if maybe his ancestor wasn't secretly someone a little more glorious, linked to local nobility. He was apparently very disappointed to find it wasn't so, but at least now Qinghe Nie has some surprisingly serious historical texts in its collection.

Nie Huaisang has read most of them in fits of boredom. He knows some of them mention powerful local family building temples and making offering to gods in times of crisis or celebration, so hopefully he'll find something about his god as well. Without losing a moment, he starts perusing the shelves.

"So what are we looking for?" Lan Xichen asks, glancing around at the books.

"Histories of Qinghe, or something on local beliefs, or… Anything, really. It was a big temple, and the statue was huge. It's got to be an important god. They felt… powerful. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if it were one of the really big ones. I bet the temple has just been abandoned because it's hard to get there."

Lan Xichen smiles at that statement, though there's something a little sad in his expression.

"Gods rise and fall," he points out. "Perhaps the one you encountered is among the latter, and you won't find anyone who remembers them."

Nie Huaisang shrugs, and grabs the first book he can spot that looks even mildly relevant, quickly browsing through it.

"I think you're wrong," he says. "I think they must be very powerful. They have to be. They listened to my stupid prayer and answered it so well and so quick! Isn't that the mark of a powerful deity? And even if they're not, I've got to try. I've got to make them good offerings, so I must find who they are and what they like."

"Congee and buns apparently," Lan Xichen murmurs, but Nie Huaisang is too taken by his book to hear him.

Morning passes quickly, and brings them nothing. In all honesty Nie Huaisang isn't entirely surprised, but still had to try, and it's better than training in the sun with everyone else. He even appreciates that Lan Xichen is trying to help, though he does catch him looking at the books with puzzlement a few times. Of course if Lan Xichen was created with memories of Gusu Lan's great library, this one must seem very pitiful to him.

Around lunch time, Nie Mingjue joins them in the library and starts scolding Nie Huaisang for yet again leaving his bed without permission.

"But Xichen-ge was there with me," Nie Huaisang shamelessly points out, batting his eyes innocently. "And you trust him, right?"

"Of course I do," Nie Mingjue retorts without hesitation. "The servants told me you were with him, or else I'd have dragged you back to bed already."

Nie Huaisang laughs, and makes a note that he can probably use Lan Xichen when dealing with his brother. It's not what he intended when he asked for a husband who would get along with Nie Mingjue, but if Nie Mingjue gets soft with someone, it might as well profit his brother.

As they exit the library and walk away to have lunch, Lan Xichen hesitantly turns to Nie Mingjue, looking almost shy now.

“Mingjue-xiong, about that matter I mentioned yesterday…”

Nie Mingjue nods. “The woman was found where you said, and given the money. One of the disciples is from that village and he’s asked his parents to keep an eye out for her so we can help again if needed. She’s almost destitute and doesn’t have any family left. Apparently she’s got a reputation for being a little mad and impossibly lucky. I guess her crossing your path confirms it.”

Lan Xichen smiles. He rarely ever does anything else of course, but Nie Huaisang gets the feeling that it’s a lot more genuine this time, as if it really matters to him that this old woman gets treated well. It’s… sort of sweet, if Nie Huaisang is honest. But of course, kindness was on his list, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

“Who’s that woman?” Nie Huaisang can’t help asking, surprised that this newly created man already knows other people in the area.

At this question, a spot of red appears on Lan Xichen’s cheeks, as if he’s been caught doing something bad. Nie Huaisang’s heart speeds up a little, which is ridiculous and annoying. Maybe he shouldn’t have demanded for his future husband to be so handsome, since he clearly can’t handle that.

“While running that errand for my uncle, I became a little lost,” Lan Xichen confesses. “This old woman helped me get back on the right path, and she even insisted on giving me something to eat, though it was clear she doesn’t have much. I was in too much of a hurry to repay her then, but I thought your brother might be able to do something for her. I’m glad I was right.”

There’s something wrong about that story, because Lan Xichen definitely can’t have been running errands and getting lost due to not even existing a few days ago. But the joy and relief on his face over knowing that this woman will be taken care of seem real, so Nie Huaisang decides not to question it for the time being. If that god in the mountain decided to give their creation some fake memories to make everything feel more real, it’s for the best.

It’ll make it less likely for others to realise something isn’t quite right.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #xisang wishes au #jau writes #people had been worried for lxc's believer so I hope this comforts you! he cares about her a lot and wouldn't just abandon her #also nhs doesn't know how to deal with very handsome people

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unholyhelbig · 5 years ago

Note

Bechloe greek gods au?

[a/n: Long time no see guys, I swear I have so many prompts in my inbox, I’ll get around to them soon. This is rocky because I haven’t written them in a bit. Enjoy!]

She didn’t remember getting hit with an arrow; not the way it pushed into her skin evenly and produced an even bout of pain. It was more of an annoyance, really, like a mosquito who had barely tapped a vein before she swatted it away- smearing the brown and bubbling guts on the wall.

Her room was hot that day, and even with the fan pointed directly at the bare mattress that rested on the floor, she was washed with discomfort. Beca had kicked the sheets that usually covered her away- and hadn’t even noticed the soaked fabric was ruined with anything but her own sweat.

But by the time the alarm on her phone started going off, she knew something was wrong; the loud clang of something metal and weighted falling from her bed did nothing but confirm that the thickness of the room wasn’t her imagination.

Her downstairs neighbor pushed the blunt end of a broom against their ceiling in response to the clatter and Beca figured that that served as enough of a wakeup call. It was already past noon- she could tell by the lattice design of the sun streaming through her blinds.

Beca reached blindly until her fingers wrapped around the cold shaft of metal that had so rudely pulled her from her slumber. She moved her thumb against it- not a phone, not a pair of expensive headphones. No- it was an arrow.

From where- she wasn’t sure. There was no broken glass in her apartment, no more than usual. And she would have noticed, even in a drunken slumber, if one had come crashing through the window. She lived on the fifth floor of a shitty city building.

She sat up and groaned at the pinching on the back of her thigh, the way it burned and pulsed with her own heart. The arrow was plated and gold and heavier than she thought it would be. There was an expertly crafted heart on one end, the shaft cutting right through it. Its point was coated in a rust-colored liquid.

Too weird- she decided, too early for this.

She had a lot to drink last night and probably pulled this from one of the stupid holiday displays that they had laying around the city for some agro art project. That’s what she gets, she supposed, for picking a place to live on the same block as a prestigious art school.

Beca stood and limped to the dining room, setting the bloodied arrow down on the table before grasping at the nearest cup that looked somewhat clean. She didn’t wait for the sink water to chill before gulping down a full glass and going for a second one. The warm liquid soaked into the collar of her shirt.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, not clouded by her own thirst, but she had set the arrow down next to a small card. Something that would be left in a bouquet of roses, but bigger. It created a little tent and cast a shadow next to the gold. She plucked it from the table.

Beca,

I struggle not to speak in riddles, as I’m sure you don’t remember much from last night. But the two of us had quite the boasting match. Turns out I, in fact, can drink you under the table. So- as a consolation prize for your good efforts, I’ve left you something of mine.

She frowned. It was well written in a curled type of script that would take anyone a number of hours. Her head was screaming at her and her leg was hissing. Beca remembers finishing up a set and taking whatever free drinks the patrons thought to buy her. And a woman, glowering at her across the bar. She flipped the card over, looking for more fine print.

This arrow has the effect of undying love, something you mumbled about never being able to find. This should help to a certain extent- but be forewarned; a similar arrow built of lead was left in the possession of another. Find that arrow, find your love. Cure them.

All the best,

Oh… oh, this had to be absolute bullshit. There was no way some stranger that was lingering in the darkest and dankest bar in Manhattan had followed her to her apartment and stabbed her. People didn’t just do that. They didn’t’ leave cryptic notes or gold-plated arrows because someone like Beca Mitchell had half the mind to pawn it off.

Who was C?

She flopped down in the nearest chair, letting the arrow fall to the ground once more. It clattered, even on the carpet- and as if on cue, her downstairs neighbor pushed the broom against the ceiling- as if that would stop Beca’s hangover, or her struggle to piece together missing time.

“Oh, shut up!” she shouted back, pushing her heel into the floor.

She usually never fought back. There was never a reason to. Beca carried late and odd hours, and she often found herself treading lightly- even if she was a bit buzzed. But right now the pulsing in her thigh and the blurred intentions of the letter ate away at any resolve she hoped to carry. So she stomped three times and palmed the arrow.

Her neighbor slammed the top of the broom in response and Beca let out a groan before standing, ignoring the sharp pain in her leg. She pulled open the door and registered the musty scent that the hallway carried.

Beca’s steps were muffled in her socked feet, even as she trudged past the elevator with the “Out of Order” Sign that was tacked on the metal front. The cement floor of the stairwell was cold and unforgiving against her soles. She didn’t stop until she found the exact puke-green door that she was looking for. Beca even knocked before she lost a bit of her nerve.

Then the door swung open and the crisp scent of vanilla cut through her own rancid mix of sweat and lingering whiskey. A girl stood in front of her, blonde hair pulled into a tight bun and a fancy blouse hugging her curves. She had a fire in her eyes- but Beca had an arrow, and that was enough for her.

“I’m guessing you’re our upstairs neighbor considering your heavy-handed knock?”

God, who talks like that? “Spot on, sweetie. You pulled the stick out of your ass long enough to bang it against the ceiling, huh?”

The woman huffed and pulled the door open even more. Not allowing an entrance or even offering. She put more room between the two of them, taller and meaner. “Look, just keep it down, alright? You clamoring home at two in the morning is annoying enough. I don’t need mid-afternoon too.”

“I pay rent too, you know, I can stomp around as much as I like. Not everyone keeps a normal schedule.”

She found herself using the tip of the golden arrow as a buffer, it’s point still rusted in crimson. The stranger flicked her unripe stare against it and straightened up, fingers tightening against the doorframe.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I found it, “Beca frowned “listen, that’s not the point. I will start trying to be quieter if you just stop banging the ceiling-“

“No, seriously, where did you find this?”

She was being ignored entirely, the woman plucked the arrow from her fingers and walked into her apartment, leaving the door wide open. Beca sighed heavily and followed her in with her slight limp. If she was going to be murdered, at least it would be in her own apartment building, anything to reason her actions.

It was nicer here; with soft lavender curtains and pictures hanging on the wall. Beca had gotten all of her furniture from thrift shops and friends cleaning out storage units. It was like a home goods catalog, everything smelling sweet and more importantly, clean. She was suddenly nervous to track blood on the carpet.

“Chloe!” The woman shouted, voice echoing off the hallway, she turned her back to Beca, running her fingers over the metal “This was just in your apartment?”

“Sort of, I guess. It was in my leg. I pulled it out right before you started drumming on the walls.”

She nodded and went back to studying the object, not offering up any answers. But Beca didn’t’ have much focus on her anymore; instead, she was drawn inexplicably to the woman who must be Chloe. She walked with a certain grace about her- hair messy and curled like fire. Her eyes were a striking ocean blue and every inch of her sparked like broken waves.

The girl held a towel to her arm, soaked in red and dripping. She had scrubbed most of the blood away but held pressure against her wound before stopping and scrutinizing Beca. Her nose crinkled. “Who’s this?”

“What’s your name?” The blonde asked.

“Aubrey, you invited a stranger into the apartment?” Chloe glared “She’s dirty.”

She snorted “Hi, hello, right here. If I can just get my arrow back you gracious goddess, I’ll get out of your hair.”

What the fuck was that?

“Gross.” There was a round of silence, Chloe was staring at the carpet and Aubrey was tempted to do what Beca had asked. But none of them moved, not for a bit. Chloe was the first to speak. “Your arrow?”

“Not mine technically. But it lodged itself into my thigh this morning so I think that gives me some jurisdiction over it- now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go to an urgent care.”

“No, don’t go.” Chloe clenched her jaw, and the words seemed to settle in Beca’s stomach like a rock “I got one too. It’s not gold, not like that- but it’s black.”

“It’s lead.” Aubrey corrected. “Do either of you know what that means?”

Beca’s head was pounding and she wasn’t sure if it was from the sickeningly sweet scent of the apartment or the way her heart beat faster against her throat each time Chloe moved. The sun seemed to hit her in the right way and a deafening lightness filled her at each glance. She wanted to run her fingers against her skin, feel lips against her own and, she sighed heavily “You’re so pretty,”

“Focus, please.” Aubrey snapped “I had to take a class on Greek Mythology last semester. I remember this specific story about Daphne and Apollo. Cupid shot them both with arrows after a pissing match with Apollo, and one gained the overwhelming sense of love while the other”

Aubrey trailed off and furrowed her brow.

“The other what, Bree?”

“The other grew to hate the idea of it altogether.”

“That explains why the sight of this… this girl makes me want to claw my own eyes out.” Chloe’s breath was unsteady, but still, she smelled of lemons, and her lips pursed in the perfect way.

“That’s okay, my love, I would still die for you.” Beca pressed her fingers against her lips and let out a muffled growl in frustration. “Okay, that needs to stop, now. Unless that’s not what you want Chloe-“

Chloe groaned, “Any chance you remember how to fix it?”

“I got a note, with the arrow.”

“You didn’t think to mention that sooner?”

“I was a little blind-sided by how stunning you are, forgive me.” Beca wanted to bite her tongue until it bleed. But instead, she searched her hazy mind for what the letter said. It rested on her kitchen table and she didn’t think she could get up there with the amount of pain pushing past her knee and ending at the gash in her thigh. “it said I have to cure you.”

Aubrey’s eyes widened “Chloe, I think she has to stab you with her arrow. Theoretically, that would reverse the amount of disdain in you. It would balance it out.”

“And the amount of infatuation in her?”

“I suppose it could work both ways.”

The thought of diving the metal-tipped arrow into Chloe made her sick to her stomach. A rolling that started at the back of her neck and culminated in nausea, so thick and strong it felt as if she had been drugged. She essentially had been. One small part of Beca remembers the way she challenged the woman at the bar to a drinking competition, high on her own ego.

She would never bow to a challenge, never lose without losing herself first. But this arrow; its effects would let her kneel in front of this perfect stranger without a second thought. There was no way she could bring her shaky fingers to wrap around the shaft of the arrow, only to push it into the woman’s skin.

There was a sudden blinding pain against her shoulder, a white-hot metal. “OW! Fuck!”

Beca grasped at the warmth, fingers coated with liquid as she stared at the black arrow in the better part of her shoulder, she hadn’t noticed Chloe grab the lead object. “Dude, what the hell?” She yanked it away, grunting because it somehow hurt worse on the way out.

“What? No sly comment about my insatiable beauty?” Chloe smiled, and though it was charming, it didn’t make her heart stop. In fact, part of her found it more annoying than interesting and keen.

Beca hissed through clenched teeth “Give me the arrow.”

And Aubrey obliged. Somehow it felt heavier in her grasp. Beca had half the mind to go for the shoulder too, but the way Chloe was nursing her other arm made her reconsider. She let out a small breath and slid the pointed end of the object into the side of her leg, right near her hip, hesitating a bit.

“Mother of God,” Chloe’s voice shook, “How did neither of us notice that the first time?”

Beca could blame the alcohol and the way she was knocked out cold after her display at a local bar. But she decided to keep that to herself. She mercifully removed the object and set it on the counter next to the other arrow.

Aubrey lifted both eyebrows “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m losing a lot of blood.” She swallowed thickly, “And not like I want to shove the arrow somewhere completely different.”

Beca winced “Oh, ouch.”

The blonde reached around the other end of the counter and produced a pair of keys, just as perfectly organized as the rest of her, a look of annoyance and relief against her features. “I think we should get you both to a hospital. And then we bury those things forever, agreed?”

That seemed like the only thing that made sense all day.

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #Bechloe Oneshot #greek gods au #pitch perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction #request

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allywrites360 · 4 years ago

Text

Closed Distance

Written for the prompt ‘Letters’ for Sukka Week 2020!! I had a more serious piece come to mind, but decided to go with this more simple version that doubles as a character study for Suki. Enjoy!!

Suki stretched her arms behind her slightly, shifting her fans into one hand to rotate her sore wrist. She smiled as she stepped back to watch the other warriors go through their forms.

They’d come so far since the end of the war; having fought out in the world and became all the stronger for it. Her chest swelled with pride for every single one of them. After everything they’d been through, they had emerged better.

As her eyes landed on one of the younger warriors, she flicked open a single metal fan, remnant of the ones Kyoshi had once fought with. “Don’t over extend your arm when you strike,” she said, loud enough to speak to the group as a whole. “It leaves you vulnerable for an attack.” She had made that mistake once. Back when she fought the Fire Nation princess.

Swordsmanship had never been the focus of her efforts; it had only meant to be a last ditch effort. And what a last effort it was. She still vividly remembered how her group had been taken down, one by one, leaving them scrambling for any option they could. And she had blown it. She had failed her warriors. Suki would be lying if she said she didn’t still harbour some guilt about that. She was their leader. She was supposed to be unbreakable.

Suki shook her head, calling her attention back to the moment as she ran the movement herself, demonstrating the flow from one strike to the next in quick succession, never hesitating. The other warriors turned their attention back to their own sets, mostly adjusting as she suggested. The best she could do was make them stronger now.

She sighed, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from her forehead. The last thing she needed was a stained uniform to wash. It was hotter than usual in the dojo today, summer sun pouring in through every window and trapping its’ heat inside the small building. The uniform only made it more suffocating; chainmail is great for protection, not so much for comfort.

Her mind drifted back to when she had first joined the Kyoshi Warriors, after she had given up trying to perfectly follow every order for fear of disappointing her captain. It had been a day just like this, and she had complained about training in their armour when there wasn’t a threat anywhere to be found on the island, larger villages included. She smiled slightly at the memory of the older girl exacerbatedly explained that training with armour got them accustomed to fighting with the added weight. It could always be stripped away, but if they headed into battle, they would need full range of motion in metal.

Suki had been made to give that speech a few times herself to the younger members. Allowing her eyes to dance over the laser focused group once more, Suki stepped just outside the large wooden walled room, hoping for a hint of cooling breeze outside for a moment.

She leaned against the worn railing that outlined the small porch, allowing the sun’s heat to feel calming rather than its’ counterpart. She shut her eyes. The light summer breeze gently swayed the tassels falling form her headpiece, causing them to brush against her cheek. After a few short moments, Suki released a breath that dropped all the tension form her shoulders. She allowed her grip on her fans to loosen, setting them down with a soft noise against the wood.

She allowed her eyes to fall open once again, blinking as they adjusted to the influx of light. It was then that she noticed a messenger hawk perched next to where she was leaning, picking at its’ feathers slightly.

There was a Fire Nation symbol on its’ metal vessel. Her heart started to pick up, hitting against her rib cage. There was a black ribbon flickering in the breeze tied tightly to it.

A black ribbon. Her mind raced as she quickly fumbled to open the tube. Was there trouble in the Fire Nation? More assassins sent after Zuko? Possibilities raced through her head, all worsening the longer she went without reading the letter’s contents.

She unrolled the cracked paper as quickly as her gloves hands would allow, characters set to form whatever inevitable news they held.

‘Suki, have dinner with me tonight?’

She blinked, rereading the simple sentence scrawled in the middle of the page at least twice. She brought her confused gaze back out to the far horizon, hoping a step away from the paper might help the words take meaning.

What she was met with upon looking up didn’t slow her heart in the slightest.

Sokka. Standing in the centre of the small dirt pathway cutting through the sea of vibrant green grass, light dancing over his grin in a way that made the sight look more like an oil painting than reality.

Throwing the letter down, she rushed over to him, immediately enveloping him in a hug. His arms squeezed her back with just as much urgency, pulling her as tight to his chest as he could manage.

She held onto him like he’d disappear at any moment, lips pulling up into a smile as they stood floating in the midst of time for a moment.

“What are- you weren’t supposed to come up till next month,” she said, stepping back to properly look at him. Suki kept her arms holding onto his, not wanting to let go completely.

He shrugged in return, “Couldn’t wait that long.”

He barely had time to finish his sentence before her lips were pressed against his, every single ounce of fire in her poured into the simple action as Sokka gently pulled her in closer. The heat formed a bubble around them, almost thick enough to block out the rest of the world in its’ entirety.

It had been too long since she had seen him, but that distance never really mattered when they reunited. They clicked back into place effortlessly, starting right where they had left off. It was never easy living at a distance from the other, but both of them were willing to put in whatever work it took. What they had was worth it.

When they pulled apart, smears of white and red dotted the skin around Sokka’s lips. She bit back a laugh at that as he made no move to wipe it away. “Y’know, you never answered my question.”

“Ah, yes, the ‘urgent’ news.” She paused slightly, eyes still lingering on his, “I’d love to.”

Sokka leaned down to peck her lips once more, quickly and softly. And underlined by laughter.

The pair whirled around to face the building Suki had fled mere minutes ago, coming face to face with every single one of her elite warriors standing outside watching them. The group was caught in a fit of laughter at seeing the look on their leader’s face as they discovered why she had rushed off so quickly.

Suki didn’t need a mirror to notice the heat rushing to her cheeks. She usually prioritized focus during training, knowing how crucial it was to their success. And yet.

She stepped back from Sokka, turning to fully face the warriors. “Did I say you guys could stop your drills?” she called, voice as level and serious as she could muster.

It didn’t have as much effect as she had hoped. She was never gonna hear the end of this form her girls.

Sighing, Suki started back for the building as the rest filed slowly back inside. “I’ll see you tonight!” Sokka called, voice half overwhelmed by his own laughter as he turned in the other direction.

As Suki stepped back onto the wooden platform, boots lightly echoing against it, in spite of her embarrassment, a smile forced its’ way back onto her lips as she once again began training.

#atla #sukka #sukka week #Sukka Week 2020 #sokka #suki

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blackswaneuroparedux · 5 years ago

Text

Anonymous asked: My granddaughter is 16 and in the us navy sea cadet program here in the USA. She hopes to become a naval aviator. She love reading military books. Any recommendations for her. Her mom says she reads anything military from equipment to history. I could use advice on a reading list to buy books for her. William Law

Thank you William for sending me this. It’s certainly one of the most interesting asks I’ve ever had the pleasure to reply to because it involves my love of Classics and also being a former military aviator.

So I put some thought into it because I can sense a kindred spirit in your grand daughter. She must be a remarkable young girl if she is as focused and committed as you say she is in terms of her life goals. If I may say so she is also blessed to have a grandfather like you who recognises the value of reading books to aid her and inspire her.

I have tried to confine myself to the narrow parameters of recommending books that can appeal to a precocious teenager that have a connection to naval and maritime themes (rather than the landed military) and have a general connection to women in the navy or as aviators. So the list is broken into personal memoirs, naval and maritime history, fictional works, and finally a select Classics list.

If you will indulge me I have included the Classics because I firmly believe a grounding in the Classics (from as early age as possible) is so culturally enriching and personally rewarding. In my experience the wisest military leaders and veterans I have ever had the privilege of knowing were grounded in the Classics.

To my mind Classic history, literature and poetry belongs in any library relating to maritime affairs. It provides a flavour of sea life, helping strategists understand this alien element. Just as important, it enlivens the topic. As you will know, ships and fleets do not make history; people do.

It is by no means a comprehensive list but something to start with. I’ve decided not to give you a bullet point laundry list but add some notes of my own because I found it fun to do - and in doing so I found myself looking back on my teenage years with equal icky amounts of embarrassment, regret, foolishness, fun, and joy.

1. Personal memoirs

West with the Night by Beryl Markham

‘Poetry in flight’ best describes this 1942 memoir from aviatrix Beryl Markham of bush flying in Africa and long-distance flight, which includes her solo flight across the Atlantic. Lyrical and expressive her descriptions of the adventure of flying continue to inspire generations of women pilots, including myself when I learned to fly.

Markham was a colonial child and was raised by her father on a remote farm in Njoro, British East Africa (present-day Kenya). After a tomboyish childhood spent roaming the Kenyan wilds, she moved upcountry to Molo, becoming a racehorse trainer. There she saw her first plane and met British pilot Tom Black, who became her flight instructor and lover. Soon Markham earned her commercial pilot’s license, the first woman in Kenya to do so, and began to freelance as a bush pilot. Much of West With the Night concerns itself with this period in Markham’s life, detailing her flights in an Avro Avian biplane running supplies to remote outposts or scouting game for safaris.

Since airfields were essentially nonexistent in Africa at the time, Markham’s flights were particularly dangerous, punctuated with white-knuckle landings in forest clearings and open fields. In fact the dangers of African flying claimed the lives of a number of aviators. Markham eloquently describes her own search for a downed pilot: “Time and distance together slip smoothly past the tips of my wings without sound, without return, as I peer downward over the night-shadowed hollows of the Rift Valley and wonder if Woody, the lost pilot, could be there, a small pinpoint of hope and of hopelessness listening to the low, unconcerned song of the Avian - flying elsewhere.”

Markham’s memoir shies away from personal details - she is rumoured to have had an affair with an English prince - and straightforward chronology, instead focusing on vivid scenes gathered from a well-lived life. Rarely does one encounter such an evocative sense of a time and place as she creates. The heat and dust of Africa emanate from her prose. Anyone interested in aviation, in Africa, or in simply reading an absorbing book will find much to like in its pages. Ernest Hemingway, a friend and fellow safari enthusiast, wrote of Markham’s memoir, “I wish you would get it and read it because it really is a bloody wonderful book.”

It is a bloody brilliant book and it’s one of the books closest to my heart as it personally resonated with my nomadic life growing up in foreign countries where once the British empire made its mark.

I first read it on my great aunt’s Kenyan tea farm during the school holidays in England. I got into huge trouble for taking a treasured first edition - personally signed by Markham herself - from the library of my great aunt without permission. My great aunt - not an easy woman to get on with given her questionable eccentricities - wrote a stern letter to the head teacher of my girls’ boardng school in England that the schools standards and moral Christian teachings must be in terminal decline if girls were encouraged to pilfer books willy nilly from other people’s bookshelves and thus she would not - as an alum herself - be donating any more money to the school. It was one more sorry blot in my next school report.

Fly Girls: How Five Daring Women Defied All Odds and Made Aviation History by Keith O’Brien

For pioneering pilots of the 1920s and 1930s, the challenges were enormous. For women it was even more daunting. In this marvellous history, Keith O’Brien recounts the early years of aviation through a generation of American female pilots who carved out a place for themselves and their sisterhood. Despite the sensation they created, each “went missing in her own way.” This is the inspiring untold story of five women from very different walks of life - including a New York socialite, an Oakland saleswoman, a Florida dentist’s secretary and a Boston social worker - who fought and competed against men in the high-stakes national air races of the 1920s and 1930s — and won.

Between the world wars, no sport was more popular, or more dangerous, than airplane racing. Thousands of fans flocked to multi-day events, and cities vied with one another to host them. The pilots themselves were hailed as dashing heroes who cheerfully stared death in the face. Well, the men were hailed. Female pilots were more often ridiculed than praised for what the press portrayed as silly efforts to horn in on a manly and deadly pursuit. The derisive press dubbed the first women’s national air race “The Powder Puff Derby.”

It’s a brisk, spirited history of early aviation focused on 5 irrepressible women. Florence Klingensmith, a high-school dropout who worked for a dry cleaner in Fargo, North Dakota, and who trained as a mechanic so she could learn planes inside and out but whose first aviation job was as a stunt girl, standing on a wing in her bathing suit. Louise McPhetridge Thaden a girl who grew up as a tomboy and later became the mother of two young kids who got her start selling coal in Wichita. Ruth Elder, an Alabama divorcee was determined to be the first woman to fly across the Atlantic. Amelia Earhart was of course the most famous, but not necessarily the most skilled. Ruth Nichols who chafed at the constraints of her blue-blood family's expectations of marrying into wealth and into high society.

In 1928, when women managed to get jobs in other male dominated fields, fewer than 12 had a pilot’s license, and those ambitious for prizes and recognition faced entrenched sexism from the men who ran air races, backed fliers, and financed the purchase of planes. They decided to organise: “For our own protection,” one of them said, “we must learn to think for ourselves, and do as much work as possible on our planes.” Although sometimes rivals in the air, they forged strong friendships and offered one another unabated encouragement. O’Brien vividly recounts the dangers of early flight: In shockingly rickety planes, pilots sat in open cockpits, often blinded by ice pellets or engine smoke; instruments were unreliable, if they worked at all; sudden changes in weather could be life threatening. Fliers regularly emerged from their planes covered in dust and grease. Crashes were common, with planes bursting into flames; but risking injury and even death failed to dampen the women’s passion to fly. And yet their bravery was only scoffed at by male prejudice. Iconic oilman Erle Halliburton believed, “Women are lacking in certain qualities that men possess.” Florence Klingensmith’s crash incited a debate about allowing menstruating women to fly.

And yet these women still took off in wooden crates loaded with gasoline. They flew over mountains, deserts and seas without radar or even radios. When they came down, they knew that their landings might be their last. But together, they fought for the chance to race against the men - and in 1936 one of them would triumph in the toughest race of all. And When Louise Thaden became the first woman to win a national race, even the great Charles Lindbergh fell curiously silent.

O'Brien nicely weaves together the stories of these five remarkable women in the spirit of Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff who broke the glass ceiling to achieve greatness.

Thoughts of a Philosophical Fighter Pilot by James Stockdale

Thoughts on issues of character, leadership, integrity, personal and public virtue, and ethics, the selections in this volume converge around the central theme of how man can rise with dignity to prevail in the face of adversity- lessons just as valid for the challenges of present-day life as they were for the author’s Vietnam experience.Vice Admiral James Stockdale, a senior research fellow at the Hoover Institution, served in the U.S. Navy from 1947 to 1979, beginning as a test pilot and instructor at Patuxent River, Maryland, and spending two years as a graduate student at Stanford University. He became a fighter pilot and was shot down on his second combat tour over North Vietnam, becoming a prisoner of war for eight years, four in solitary confinement. The highest-ranking naval officer held during the Vietnam War, he was tortured fifteen times and put in leg irons for two years. It’s a book that makes you think how much character is important in good at anything, especially being a thoughtful and wise leader in the heat of battle.

Make Your Bed: Little Things That Can Change Your Life And Maybe The World by Admiral William H. McRaven On May 17, 2014, Admiral William H. McRaven addressed the graduating class of the University of Texas at Austin on their Commencement day. Taking inspiration from the university's slogan, "What starts here changes the world," he shared the ten principles he learned during Navy Seal training that helped him overcome challenges not only in his training and long Naval career, but also throughout his life; and he explained how anyone can use these basic lessons to change themselves-and the world-for the better.

Admiral McRaven's original speech went viral with over 10 million views.

Building on the core tenets laid out in his speech, McRaven now recounts tales from his own life and from those of people he encountered during his military service who dealt with hardship and made tough decisions with determination, compassion, honour, and courage.

The book is told with great humility and optimism. It provides simple wisdom, practical advice, and words of encouragement that will inspire readers to achieve more, even in life's darkest moments.

Service: A Navy SEAL at War by Marcus Luttrell with James D. Hornfischer

Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell is more known for his other famous best seller Lone Survivor but this one I think is also a thrilling war story, Service is above all a profoundly moving tribute to the warrior brotherhood, to the belief that nobody goes it alone, and no one will be left behind. Luttrell returned from his star-crossed mission in Afghanistan with his bones shattered and his heart broken. So many had given their lives to save him-and he would have readily done the same for them. As he recuperated, he wondered why he and others, from America's founding to today, had been willing to sacrifice everything - including themselves-for the sake of family, nation, and freedom.

In Service, we follow Marcus Luttrell to Iraq, where he returns to the battlefield as a member of SEAL Team 5 to help take on the most dangerous city in the world: Ramadi, the capital of war-torn Al Anbar Province. There, in six months of high-intensity urban combat, he would be part of what has been called the greatest victory in the history of US Special Operations forces. We also return to Afghanistan and Operation Redwing, where Luttrell offers powerful new details about his miraculous rescue.

Throughout, he reflects on what it really means to take on a higher calling, about the men he's seen lose their lives for their country, and the legacy of those who came and bled before. I did rub shoulders with the US special forces community out on my time in Afghanistan and whilst their public image deifies them I found them to be funny, pranksters, humble, brave, and down to earth beer guzzling hogs who cheerfully cheat at cards.

The Spirit of St. Louis by Charles A. Lindbergh

Being one of the classics in aviation history, this well written book is an epic aviator’s adventure tale of all time. Charles Lindbergh is best known for its famous nonstop flight from New York to Paris in 1927 as it changed the history of aviation. “The Spirit of St. Louis” takes the reader on an extraordinary trans-Atlantic journey in a single-engine plane. As well as provides insight into the early history of American aviation and includes some great fuel conservation tips!

20 Hrs. 40 mins by Amelia Earhart

How can any woman pilot not be inspired by Amelia Earhart? Earhart's first transatlantic flight of June 1928 during which she flew as a passenger accompanying pilot Wilmer Stultz and co-pilot Louis Gordon. The team departed from Trepassey Harbor, Newfoundland, in a Fokker F.VIIb/3m on 17 June 1928, landing at Pwll near Burry Port, South Wales, exactly 20 hours and 40 minutes later. The book is an interesting read but I much prefer her other book written in 1932 The Fun Of It. The book is Earhart's account of her growing obsession with flying, the final chapter of which is a last minute addition chronicling her historic solo transatlantic flight of 1932. The work contains the mini-record of Earhart's international broadcast from London on 22 May 1932. Earhart set out from Harbour Grace, Newfoundland on 20 May 1932. After a flight lasting 14 hours and 56 minutes Earhart landed in a pasture at Culmore, north of Derry, Northern Ireland. The work also includes a list of other works on aviation written by women, emblematic of Earhart's desire to promote women aviators.

2. Naval and military history

The U.S. Navy: A Concise History by Craig L Symonds

Symonds’s The U.S. Navy: A Concise History is a fantastic book from one of the doyennes of US naval history. I cannot think of any other work on the US Navy that provides such a thorough overview of American naval policy, navy combat operations, leadership, technology, and culture in such a succinct manner. This book is perfect for any reader - young or old - just wading into the waters of naval history and not knowing where to start, or for someone who wishes to learn a little bit about each era of the navy, from its founding to its modern-day mission and challenges.

His other distinguished works are more in depth - mostly about the Second World War such as the Battle of Midway and the Normandy landings - but this is a good introduction to his magisterial books. His latest book came out in 2019 called World War II at Sea: A Global History. I have not read this yet but from others who have they say it is a masterful overview of the war at sea.

Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy by Ian W. Toll

Before the ink was dry on the U.S. Constitution, the establishment of a permanent military became the most divisive issue facing the new government. The founders - particularly Jefferson, Madison, and Adams - debated fiercely. Would a standing army be the thin end of dictatorship? Would a navy protect from pirates or drain the treasury and provoke hostility? Britain alone had hundreds of powerful warships.

From the decision to build six heavy frigates, through the cliff-hanger campaign against Tripoli, to the war that shook the world in 1812, Ian W. Toll tells this grand tale with the political insight of Founding Brothers and the narrative flair of Patrick O’Brian.

The Pursuit of Victory: The Life and Achievement of Horatio Nelson by Roger Knight

The starting point of Roger Knight’s magnificent new biography is to explain how Nelson achieved such extraordinary success. Knight places him firmly in the context of the Royal Navy at the time. He analyses Nelson’s more obvious qualities, his leadership strengths and his coolness and certainty in battle, and also explores his strategic grasp, the condition of his ships, the skill of his seamen and his relationships with the officers around him – including those who could hardly be called friendly.

This biography takes a shrewd and sober look at Nelson’s status as a hero and demolishes many of the myths that were so carefully established by the early authors, and repeated by their modern successors.

While always giving Nelson his due, Knight never glosses over the character flaws of his heroic subject. Nelson is seen essentially as a "driven" personality, craving distinction in an age increasingly coloured by notions of patriotic heroism, traceable back to the romantic (and entirely unrealistic) depiction of the youthful General James Wolfe dying picturesquely at the moment of victory in 1759. Nor does Knight take Nelson's side in dealing with that discreditable phase in 1798-99, when he is influenced, much for the worse, by his burgeoning involvement with Lady Hamilton at Naples and Palermo. Knight accepts that this interlude has left an indelible stain on Nelson's naval and personal record. But he traces the largely destructive course of Nelson's passion for Emma with appropriate sensitivity.

Nelson was a shrewd political operator who charmed and impressed political leaders and whose advancement was helped by the relatively weak generation of admirals above him. He was a difficult subordinate, only happy when completely in command, and capable of great ruthlessness. Yes he was flawed, but Nelson's flaws, including his earlier petulance in dealing with higher naval authority - only brought fully under control towards the end of his career - pale before his remarkable strengths. His outstanding physical and moral courage and his inspired handling of officers and men are repeatedly and effectively illustrated.

1812: The Navy’s War by George C. Daughan

When war broke out between Britain and the United States in 1812, America’s prospects looked dismal. British naval aggression made it clear that the ocean would be the war’s primary battlefield - but America’s navy, only twenty ships strong, faced a practiced British fleet of more than a thousand men-of-war.

Still, through a combination of nautical deftness and sheer bravado, a handful of heroic captains and their stalwart crews managed to turn the tide of the war, besting the haughty skippers of the mighty Royal Navy and cementing America’s newly won independence.

In 1812: The Navy’s War, award-winning naval historian George C. Daughan draws on a wealth of archival research to tell the amazing story of this tiny, battle tested team of Americans and their improbable yet pivotal victories. Daughan thrillingly details the pitched naval battles that shaped the war, and shows how these clashes proved the navy’s vital role in preserving the nation’s interests and independence. This well written history is the first complete account in more than a century of how the U.S. Navy rescued the fledgling nation and secured America’s future. Daughan’s prose is first-rate, and his rousing accounts of battles at sea will certainly appeal to a popular audience.

I was given this book as a tongue in cheek gift from an American friend who was an ex-US Marine officer with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was obviously trying to rib me as good friends do. But I really did enjoy this book.

Among the most interesting insights is Daughan’s judgment on the effect of the American invasion attempts in Canada; all ultimately defeated. Demanded by enthusiastic War Hawks unencumbered by knowledge or experience who predicted that the Canadians would flock to U.S. banners, these incursions became the groundwork for a unified Iraq Canada - Ha!

What I liked was the fact that Daughan places the war in its crucial European context, explaining in detail how the course of the Napoleonic Wars shaped British and American decision making and emphasising the North American theatre’s secondary status to the European conflict. While they often verbally castigated Napoleon’s imperial ambitions, American leaders were in the uncomfortable position of needing Napoleon to keep winning while they fought Britain, and his defeat and (first) exile to Elba prompted an immediate scramble to negotiate a settlement. Despite its significance, few historians have bothered to systematically place the War of 1812 in the context of the Napoleonic Wars, and Daughan’s book does exactly that.

Empires of the Seas: The Siege of Malta, The Battle of Lepanto, and the Contest for the Centre of the World by Roger Crowley

In 1521, Suleiman the Magnificent, the great Muslim ruler of the Ottoman Empire, dispatched an invasion fleet to the Christian island of Rhodes. This would prove to be the opening shot in an epic clash between rival empires and faiths for control of the Mediterranean and the center of the world.

In Empires of the Sea, acclaimed historian Roger Crowley has written a thrilling account of this brutal decades-long battle between Christendom and Islam for the soul of Europe, a fast-paced tale of spiralling intensity that ranges from Istanbul to the Gates of Gibraltar.

Crowley conjures up a wild cast of pirates, crusaders, and religious warriors struggling for supremacy and survival in a tale of slavery and galley warfare, desperate bravery and utter brutality.

Empires of the Sea is a story of extraordinary colour and incident, and provides a crucial context for our own clash of civilisations.

One hundred Days: The Memoirs of the Falklands Battle Group Commander by Admiral Sandy Woodward RN

Written by the man who masterminded the British victory in the Falklands, this engrossing memoir chronicles events in the spring of 1982 following Argentina’s takeover of the South Atlantic islands. Admiral Sandy Woodward, a brilliant military tactician, presents a complete picture of the British side of the battle. From the defeat of the Argentine air forces to the sinking of the Belgrano and the daring amphibious landing at Carlos Water, his inside story offers a revealing account of the Royal Navy’s successes and failures.

At times reflective and personal, Woodward imparts his perceptions, fears, and reactions to seemingly disastrous events. He also reveals the steely logic he was famous for as he explains naval strategy and planning. His eyewitness accounts of the sinking of HMS Sheffield and the Battle of Bomb Alley are memorable.

Many in Whitehall and the armed forces considered Woodward the cleverest man in the navy. French newspapers called him “Nelson.” Margaret Thatcher said he was precisely the right man to fight the world’s first computer war. Without question, the admiral’s memoir makes a significant addition to the official record.

At the same time it provides readers with a vivid portrayal of the world of modern naval warfare, where equipment is of astonishing sophistication but the margins for human courage and error are as wide as in the days of Nelson.

3. Fiction

The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk

The majestic novel that inspired the classic Hollywood film The Caine Mutiny with Humphrey Bogart. Herman Wouk's boldly dramatic, brilliantly entertaining novel of life-and mutiny-on a US Navy warship in the Pacific theatre was immediately embraced, upon its original publication in 1951, as one of the first serious works of American fiction to grapple with the moral complexities and the human consequences of World War II.

The Sand Pebbles by Richard McKenna

It’s a fantastic novel that inspired a Steve McQueen film of the same name. Watch the movie if you haven’t, but read the book. It’s impossible to do a story of this sweep justice in two hours, even with the great McQueen starring.

Naval friends tell me The Sand Pebbles has been a fixture on the US Chief of Naval Operations’ Professional development reading list, and thus all mariners should be encouraged to read. And it’s easy to tell why. Most American seafarers will interact with the Far East in this age of the pivot, as indeed they have for decades.

Told through the eyes of a junior enlisted man, The Sand Pebbles recounts the deeds of the crew of the fictional U.S. Navy gunboat San Pablo during the turbulent 1920s, when various parties were vying for supremacy following the overthrow of China’s Qing Dynasty.

It’s a book about the mutual fascination, and sometimes repulsion, between Americans and Chinese; the tension between American missionaries and the sailors entrusted with protecting them; and China’s descent into chaos following the collapse of dynastic rule.

How do you separate fact from fiction or myth when writing a historical novel. Wisely, McKenna lets the reader to conclude there’s an element of myth to all accounts of history. Causality - what factors brought about historical events - is in the eye of the beholder. The best an author of historical fiction can do, then, is devote ample space to all contending myths and leave it up to readers to judge. Sailors, missionaries, and ordinary Chinese get their say in his pages, to illuminating effect. Authors report, the readers decide.

Ghost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War by P.W. Singer and August Cole

The United States, China, and Russia eye each other across a twenty-first century version of the Cold War, which suddenly heats up at sea, on land, in the air, in outer space, and in cyberspace. The fighting involves everything from stealthy robotic–drone strikes to old warships from the navy’s “ghost fleet.” Fighter pilots unleash a Pearl Harbor-style attack; American veterans become low-tech insurgents; teenage hackers battle in digital playgrounds; Silicon Valley billionaires mobilise for cyber-war; and a serial killer carries out her own vendetta. Ultimately, victory will depend on blending the lessons of the past with the weapons of the future.

The book’s title, Ghost Fleet, comes from an expression used in the U.S. Navy that refers to partially or fully decommissioned ships kept in reserve for potential use in future conflict. These ships, as one might imagine, are older and naturally less technologically sophisticated than their modern counterparts. Singer and Cole cleverly use this concept, retiring older ships and weaponry in favour of newer versions with higher technological integration, to illustrate a key motif in the book: while America’s newest generation of warfighting machinery and gear is capable of inflicting greater levels of punishment, it is also vulnerable to foreign threats in ways that its predecessors were not. The multi-billion dollar, next generation F-35 aircraft, for instance, is rendered powerless after it is revealed that Chinese microprocessor manufacturers had implanted malicious code into products intended for the jet.

I’m a huge sucker for intelligently written thrillers and I found Ghost Fleet to be a page-turning speculative thriller in the spirit of Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October. The debut novel by two leading experts on the cutting edge of national security, it is unique in that every trend and technology featured in the novel - no matter how sci-fi it may seem - is real, or could be soon.

Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian (Aubery-Maturin series)

This, the first of twenty in the splendid series of the famous Jack Aubrey novels, establishes the friendship between Captain Jack Aubrey, R.N., and Stephen Maturin, ship’s Irish-Catalan surgeon and intelligence agent, against a thrilling backdrop of the Napoleonic wars. Details of a life aboard a man-of-war in Nelson’s navy are faultlessly rendered: the conversational idiom of the officers in the ward room and the men on the lower deck, the food, the floggings, the mysteries of the wind and the rigging, and the roar of broadsides as the great ships close in battle.

I have the first editions of some of the series and I have treasured them ever since I read them as a teenager. I felt like stowing away on the first ship I could find in Plymouth. The Hollywood film version by Peter Weir with Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey is a masterful swashbuckling film and perhaps a delightful way into the deeper riches of the other novels in the epic series.

Beat to Quarters by C.S. Forester (Horatio Hornblower series)

Horatio Hornblower remains for many the best known and most loved of these British naval heroes of Napoleonic Age. In ten books Forester recounts Hornblower's rise from midshipman to admiral, during the British navy's confrontation with Revolutionary and Napoleonic France. For readers, the books work as a window into history because of the outstanding details that appear in these books. Through this singular series, according to critics, C.S. Forrester - like Patrick O’Brian - has contributed his own uniqueness to the confluence of fact and fiction.

They are above all ‘ripping good yarns’, with fast-moving plots, stirring battle scenes, lively dialogue, and vivid characters, but they also offer a picture of the British navy during the period; and Hornblower himself is an original and memorable literary creation as fictionally charismatic as James Bond.

Young Hornblower is introspective, morose, self-doubting. He is crippled by the fear that he does not have the qualities to command other men. He is harder on himself than anyone else would dare to be – and is, simply, one of the most complete creations of character in fiction. This is why many teenagers love Hornblower because they can see something of themselves in his adventures from from chronic self-doubt to soaring swashbuckling self-confidence. Hornblower is much more relatable than the brooding seasoned Jack Aubrey for instance.

I recommend reading the books in the order they were written rather than chronologically. In the first written novel, Beat to Quarters (also published as The Happy Return), we find Hornblower in command of a frigate in lonely Pacific waters off Spanish Central America. He has to deal with a mad revolutionary, fight single-ship duels with a larger vessel, and cope with Lady Barbara Wellesley (who provides a romantic interest to the series).

In A Ship of the Line Hornblower is sent into the Mediterranean, where he wreaks havoc on French coastal communications before plunging into a battle against the odds. Flying Colours is mostly set in France: in it Hornblower escapes captivity and returns to England a hero. In The Commodore he is sent with a squadron into the Baltic, where he has to cope with the complex politics of the region as well as helping with the siege of Riga. And in Lord Hornblower a mutiny leads to involvement with the fall of Napoleon — and brings him to prison and a death sentence during the Hundred Days. Forester then went back and described Hornblower's earlier career. Lieutenant Hornblower is perhaps my favourite of the Hornblower books.

Piece of cake by Derek Robinson

It’s an epic tome covering the opening twelve months of World War Two, from the phony war in France to the hasty retreat back across the Channel and then the valiant stand against the might of the Luftwaffe in what became known as the Battle of Britain.

The book follows the exploits of the fictional Hornet squadron and its members, a group of men who work hard and play harder. Though fiction, this immaculately researched novel based on an RAF Hurricane fighter squadron in 1940 highlights the ill-preparedness of Britain in the early stages of Word War Two.

Its British black humour is on full throttle with its nuanced observations of class politics and institutional ineptness. The manic misfits, heroes and bullies of Hornet Squadron discover that aerial combat is nothing like what they have been trained for. The writing sears the reader’s brain and produces some of the finest writing on the air war ever put to paper.

Be warned, though, this story isn’t about one specific character or ‘hero’. Indeed, just as you get to know a pilot, they are either chopped or killed; such is the nature of war in the air. Even though this is initially frustrating, you soon come to realise just how authentic Robinson’s storytelling is, and that this is exactly what it must have been like to be part of an RAF squadron on active service, never knowing who of your comrades would be alive from day to day. And, although the war proper for Hornet squadron doesn’t start until late in the book, when it does come the rendition of the dogfights in the air are so gripping that you’ll feel like you are actually there, sat next to the pilot in his cramped Hurricane cockpit, as Messerschmitt 109s scream by spitting death from all points of the compass.

All in all, this is a thoroughly entertaining (and educational) novel, and a must read for anyone interested in the RAF and how so few stood against so many. It has the dark humour of Heller’s Catch 22 but with a very distinctive British humour that can be lost on other foreigners. I recommend it as a honest and healthy antidote to anyone thinking of all pilots and the brave deeds they do in some deified light when in fact they are human and flawed as anyone else. Anyone who’s ever been a pilot will recognise some archetype in their own real life in this darkly comic British novel.

Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad

Lord Jim has it all. It's not just a novel of the sea but a work of moral philosophy.

Night Flight by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

In my humble opinion the greatest aviation fiction book ever written. It made the celebrated French aviator famous and Antoine de Saint-Exupery would go on to write the timeless classic The Little Prince.

Saint-Exupéry, though born into French nobility was always the odd one out as a child. Portly but jovial, he had bags of courage and curiosity to match his thirst for adventure and travel. He doggedly pursued his dream of becoming a pioneering pilot. In the 1930s he was an airline pilot who flew the north African and south Atlantic mail routes. During the long lonely hours in the cockpit he had enough time to accumulate experience and reflections which could be fit into Night Flight.

The novel itself narrates the terrifying story of Fabien, a pilot who conducted night mail planes, from Patagonia, Chile, and Paraguay to Argentina in the early days of commercial aviation when it was dangerous and pilots died often in horrendous accidents. The book romantically captures the danger and loneliness of these early commercial pilots, blazing routes in the days before radar, GPS and jet engines.

Night Flight is a good gateway into his other aviation themed books. Each of them are magical in capturing the austere feelings of seeing the world and its landscapes from above. Southern Mail, The Aviator, and Wind, Sand and Stars are fantastic reads.

Night Flight is inspiring for every pilot by sharing a unique magic of piloting an airplane.

These books changed my life as it inspired me to fly as a late teen. I still re-read Saint-Exupery’s writings sometimes as a way to tap into that youthful joy of discovering the wonders of flying a plane and when the impossible was only limited by your will and imagination. I cannot recommend his novels highly enough.

4. Classical

The Odyssey by Homer translated by Emily Wilson

Homer should the read at any age and for all seasons. I’ve chosen Emily Wilson’s recent translation because it’s good and not just because her publication was billed as the first woman to ever translate Homer. Wilson is an Oxford educated Classicist now a professor of Classics at Pennsylvania. Every discussion of Emily Wilson’s Odyssey is prefaced with the fact that hers is the first English translation of the poem by a woman, but it’s worth noting that Caroline Alexander’s Iliad (Ecco 2015) was also published as the first English translation by a woman to much less hoopla (to say nothing of Sarah Ruden’s Aeneid, Yale University Press 2009).

While a woman translating Homer’s epic is certainly a huge milestone, Wilson’s interpretation is a radical, fascinating achievement regardless of her gender. Disregard the marketing hype and the Wilson’s translation of Odysseus’ epic sea voyage home still stands tall for its fast paced narrative.

Compared with her predecessors’, Wilson’s Odyssey feels more readable, more alive: the diction, with some exceptions discussed below, is straightforward, and the lines are short. The effect is to turn the Odyssey into a quick-paced page turner, an experience I’d never had reading this epic poem in translation.

The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians by Thucydides translated by Jeremy Mynott

This is the classic treatise about what is essentially rowboats and spears of one of the most important and defining wars of Western civilisation. A long story of people killing one another, cynically justifying their cruelties in pursuit of power, making gross, stupid and fatal miscalculations, in a world devoid of justice. It's a long, drawn out tragedy without any redeeming or uplifting catharsis. If you are not already an extreme pessimist, you will lose all illusions about the inherent goodness of human beings and the possibility of influencing the course of events for the better after you read this book. You will be sadder but you will be wiser. Thucydides called his account of two decades of war between Athens and Sparta “a possession for all time,” and indeed it is the first and still most famous work in the Western historical tradition.

People look at me in a shocked way when I tell them that you can learn 90 percent of what you need to know about politics and war from Thucydides. Maritime strategy falls among the remaining 10 percent. If you want to read about the making of strategy, Clausewitz & Co. are your go-to works. If you want big thoughts about armed strife pitting a land against a sea power, Thucydides is your man. Considered essential reading for generals, admirals, statesmen, and liberally educated citizens for more than 2,000 years, The Peloponnesian War is a mine of military, naval, moral, political, and philosophical wisdom.

Finding the best and most accessible translation (and commentary) is key otherwise you risk putting off the novice reader (especially the young) from ever taking an interest in the Classical world e.g. I would never give the Thomas Hobbes translation to anyone who is easily bored or is impatient with old English. There are many good modern translations to choose from and here you have Strassler, Blanco, and Lattimore that are more used in America. Richard Crawley’s is the most popular but also the least accurate.

My own personal recommendation would be to go for Jeremy Mynott’s 2013 work which he titled The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians. Mynott was a former publishing head at Cambridge University Press and emeritus fellow of Wolfson College, Cambridge, as well as a leading expert on birds and natural history. Mynott’s aim is to re-introduce Thucydides to the reader in his “proper cultural and historical context”, and to strip back the “anachronistic concepts derived from later developments and theories”. Hence the name of the book: The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, not, as it is usually called today, The Peloponnesian War.

But what is in a name? In this case, a great deal, since it contains Mynott’s mission statement in miniature. He has dropped the conventional name for the work, for which he correctly says there is no evidence from antiquity, in favour of a less one-sided title derived from Thucydides’s opening sentence. This is just one example of the accretions which Mynott’s edition aims to remove, so that the reader can come closer to being able to appreciate Thucydides’s work as it might have been received in classical Greece. In my humble opinion it is a minor miracle that Mynott has achieved in conveying in modern English the literary qualities of this most political of ancient historians.

The Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan

I’m deliberating ignoring Victor David Hanson’s book on the Peloponnesian War (A War Like No Other) not because it’s not good (because it is in parts) but because I prefer Prof. Donald Kagan’s book. Professor Kagan at Yale is one of the foremost scholars of Ancient Greek history. He has written a concise but thorough history of the Peloponnesian War for a general audience It's not the least bit dry for those with an interest in ancient history. The book’s an easy read. Kagan’s writing style is clear and straightforward.

Like any scholar worth his salt, Kagan is conversant with the scholarly consensus, with which he is for the most part in step, though he occasionally offers alternative scenarios. Much of the book is simply riveting. Like when the Spartan general Brasidas retakes Amphipolis, or the naval battle fought late in the war for control of the Hellespont. Woven throughout is the longer story of the Athenian turncoat, Alcibiades. Kagan’s analysis of the tactics and strategy of the conflict always seems on target. Interestingly, despite their reputations, the aristocratic Spartans usually come across as vacillating and indecisive while the democratic Athenians are aggressive and usually seize opportunity with successful results. Kagan refrains from drawing analogies to modern politics, although there’s certainly plenty of opportunity for it.

Professor Kagan preceded this one-volume history with a four-volume history of the war that took him around 20 years to write. That four volume series is a much more detailed and academic consideration of political motives and military strategy. But with this single volume, Kagan was able to produce a fast-moving tale, full of incident and colourful description easily readable for the general reader.

Lords of the Sea by John R. Hale

This book spans the history of the Athenian navy, starting with its founder, Themistocles, and carrying the story through to the fall of Athens - its real fall at the hands of Alexander the Great, not the brief unpleasantness at Spartan hands - in 4th century B.C. Along the way Hale furnishes a wealth of details about naval warfare in classical antiquity. Lords of the Sea profiles Athens' seafaring culture fascinatingly, probing subjects on which Thucydides remains silent. An invaluable companion to Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, and a rollicking read to boot.

Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

Meditations is a series of personal writings by Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor 161–180 CE, setting forth his ideas on Stoic philosophy. Marcus Aurelius wrote the 12 books of the Meditations in Koine Greek as a source for his own guidance and self-improvement. It is possible that large portions of the work were written at Sirmium, where he spent much time planning military campaigns from 170 to 180. Some of it was written while he was positioned at Aquincum on campaign in Pannonia, because internal notes tell us that the second book was written when he was campaigning against the Quadi on the river Granova (modern-day Hron) and the third book was written at Carnuntum.

It is not clear that he ever intended the writings to be published, so the title Meditations is but one of several commonly assigned to the collection. These writings take the form of quotations varying in length from one sentence to long paragraphs.

When US Vice-Admiral. James Stockdale was shot down and became a prisoner of war in Vietnam, he attributed his survival to studying stoic philosophies, particularly Marcus Aurelius’ “Meditations.” Aurelius, the Roman emperor, wrote his simple rules for living by candlelight and they have been a source of strength for the thoughtful man of arms or the cultured citizen ever since. I also think teenagers would gain a lot from reading Meditations than endure reading angst-ridden nihilism of many tacky teenage books out there.

SPQR by Mary Beard

Anything by Cambridge Classics professor Mary Beard is worth reading. Everyone loves Mary Beard, fast becoming one of Britain’s national treasure. I’m not just saying all this because she was one of my teachers at Cambridge. I think SPQR is a wonderful book. Ancient Roman history is so very dense and intricate that it can be difficult to teach and learn about. Mary Beard makes it accessible- and she goes through it all, from the early days right up until the present day.

Ancient Rome was an imposing city even by modern standards, a sprawling imperial metropolis of more than a million inhabitants, a "mixture of luxury and filth, liberty and exploitation, civic pride and murderous civil war" that served as the seat of power for an empire that spanned from Spain to Syria. Yet how did all this emerge from what was once an insignificant village in central Italy? Mary Beard provides a sweeping revisionist history to get to grips with this thematic question.

‘SPQR’ is just four letters, but interwoven in those four letters are thousands of years and pages of Roman history. Cicero used to talk about the ’concordia ordinum.’ He said there was a harmony between all the orders in Rome. It’s like a pyramid hierarchy structure. At the top you have the ′senatus′ or the Senate—the aristocrats, the rich men who make decisions. Underneath that you have the ’equites’ who we don’t talk about as much , but they have their own spheres of power. They’ve got a bit of money and are a lower level. And underneath that you’ve got the ’populus’ or the people. SPQR is the harmony between the senatus and the populus and how they work together. That’s where Rome comes from: it’s not just about the Senate. The Senate can’t work without the people and vice versa. So ‘SPQR’ is basically a four-letter summation of the Roman constitution. It’s what it should be, though often isn’t. One of the reasons why - and she writes about this very well - Rome falls apart is because that relationship of harmony and hierarchy does fall apart under Caesar and Pompey in the 1st century BC.

Imperium by Robert Harris

This is one of my favourite novels, even if it weren’t classical, because like all Harris’ books it’s written like a smart thriller. I’m a huge Robert Harris fan. A lot of Robert Harris’ books are quite similar: they have a protagonist and you see the story - all the machinations - through his eyes. In Imperium we see the life of Cicero through the eyes of his slave, Tiro. We know Tiro was a real person, who recorded everything Cicero wrote.

The late Republic is one of my favourite periods of any period of history ever. You get all the figures: Cicero, Caesar, Pompey, Crassus, Octavian, Antony and Cato. Robert Harris paints compelling portraits of these people so nicely that even with Crassus, say, who comes up every so often, you get a sense of who he is. There are actually two more books in the trilogy: Lustrum and Dictator. Once you get to Dictator, you know who Julius Caesar really is, you know why he’s doing it.

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