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r0b0tb0y · 6 years ago

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I would die if you wrote a Butterscotch fic where early in their relationship Flint gets a little sick (not super sick, just a bad cold or a headache or something) and is all prickly and grumpy all day until Silver comes round that evening and takes care of him. (This isn’t really a prompt bc you obviously don’t have to write anything, so much as me telling you your AU is so good that I want to read every tiny mundane moment of their lives together)

(Thanks for being patient, anon! A note on the writing: Silver’s ASL is in ‘bad’ English grammar to emphasise his lack of fluency from Flint’s POV, but there’s never meant to be literal translations for the ASL dialogue in Butterscotch)

Flint feels like death.

It’s about the longest day of the year and it feels like the longest day of his life. Three shots of coffee had done nothing to help: Hal had looked at him and told him to go home.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and it feels like getting punched in the hip. He fumbles to get it out, peering at the screen until it comes into focus.

movie tonight?

I’m not well, Flint sends a thermometer emoji. Can we raincheck?

no problem, Silver replies right away.

I’m sorry, Flint assures him. I was looking forward to seeing you

Which should be ridiculous, because Silver made his coffee not six hours earlier. But they’re like this, now. Seeing each other twice a day. Texting in between. Going to movies and museums and the beach. Dating. Flint hardly recognises himself. Maybe his body is rebelling against it all. But he doesn’t want Silver thinking he’s blowing him off.

He’d have quite liked to be blowing Silver, if his throat wasn’t closing up.

i can come over if you’d still like company, Silver offers.

Flint’s phone slips out of his hand, and he spends too long fumbling to get it upright. The screen is too bright: the sun is too bright, for that matter. You don’t have to. I’m terrible company when I’m sick

i work in the service industry, Silver reminds him. you are never the worst person i talk to in a day

Flint snorts at the backhanded flattery. If you’re not worried about catching the bug

i have the immune system of a horse

Horses have terrible immune systems

i’ll wing it because i want to see your face

I want to see yours too, Flint writes. I’ll try not to sneeze on it

i’ll visit after work, Silver promises.

Flint sends a kiss emoji and gets one back. He stretches across the couch, pulling his shirt away from his chest where the sweat has glued it down. H e thinks about texting Miranda, but there’s also the appeal of not moving a single muscle in his body because even with the flood of warmth from Silver’s messages, he still hurts all over.

He opens her message window, thumbing back through the history while he thinks about what to write. There’s a definite theme in her messages in the last few weeks:

Get a hobby James

Liking your job isn’t the same as having a hobby

If you’re not having fun next time I come I’m putting a beehive on your roof

(for a few days, nothing but bee emojis)

Make friends James

Hal isn’t the only person who knows ASL in your whole city

Join a fucking book club

Get laid James. Give your dildo a night off

And then:

What’s his name?

Is he Hearing?

Can’t have everything

ASK HIM OUT

And, in May: FINALLY

Flint shakes his head. He’d driven up to Rochester last week, and for the first time, he’d slept on the couch instead of her bed. There’s no way he can imagine explaining it to Silver. He’s had boyfriends before—so has Miranda, for that matter—but never so serious that there’s been any question of sharing a bed with her. And then, a month into this thing with his cute barista, he couldn’t. And Miranda’s pestering had finally stopped.

Thank you, he types, and sends.

You’re welcome, Miranda answers quickly. What for?

You were right.

I was, Miranda replies. About what?

The barista, Flint writes. I’ve got a cold and he’s coming over

A keeper! she sends an incomprehensible string of emojis.

Flint can’t figure out exactly when Silver stopped being a cute barista and started being his cute barista.

Late in the afternoon, Silver arrives at Flint’s door and greets him by shoving an enormous cup into his hands.

From work, Silver explains. His ASL is getting smoother, but the grammar is still a mess. My recipe.

For a second, Flint just presses the chilly plastic to his cheeks. He considers dumping the contents on his head to cool down, since ascending the stairs back to the lounge sounds like torture. The view of Silver’s ass is good enough to strengthen him. He sips the juice, and is still coughing when they get to the kitchen.

What is this? Did you put a kilogram of ginger in a blender?

Silver shrugs in a more-or-less sort of way.

Flint can’t deny his throat is clearer. It tastes good.

Silver looks pleased as punch.

I’m not wearing hearing aids, Flint confesses. They get all slimy.

Silver wrinkles his nose in morbid fascination. No problem. Good practice.

He presses the back of his hand to Flint’s forehead, and Flint leans into it. Silver tucks a few sweat-clumped tendrils of hair behind Flint’s ear, then plants a kiss on Flint’s forehead. Flint closes his eyes and tries to breathe without sniffling. He sniffles anyway. It’s been a while. Silver is smiling like Flint is the most interesting person in the world, rather than an overheated bag of mucus sustained only by juice.

Movie on couch? Silver proposes.

You choose one, Flint says, and shuffles back to the lounge with Silver in tow. Silver finds a spaghetti western in Flint’s Netflix recommendations and cranks the volume up. Flint attempts sitting next to him, but in the first fifteen minutes his head is in Silver’s lap. Silver’s fingers are wonderfully dry as they card through Flint’s hair. He almost drifts off when his leg starts to cramp from being curled so tightly. He must have groaned, because Silver gently lifts his head and shuffles along to settle on the chaise, letting Flint stretch out properly. No sooner has Flint realised that uncurling feels cold, when Silver reaches over to cover him with one of the blankets.

Flint fumbles with his fingers, but he lets Silver watch the movie. How to explain that he never thinks to use the blankets? How to say—without seeming resentful, because he’s not—that he never takes the chaise because Thomas used to favour chaises? It’s not a complaint that Silver is stealing the spot, not at all: it’s that it’s finally getting used.

At some point, with everyone he’s dated in the last nine years, it feels like cheating on Thomas, or like a dull reminder of how much better Thomas was. Maybe it’s the fever, but now when Flint thinks of Thomas, it’s not as a long shadow cast over Silver. It’s to ask: What do you think of him?

Flint spent a decade after Thomas with a stubborn insistence on surviving. There was always an overarching purpose, chasing that thrill of something, almost there when he finds letters in the archives that feel like codes he can’t quite decipher. Silver feels like that, like the thrill. Like there’s something more. But before this spring, nothing made one week different from the last. He had his projects, even if the interesting ones were few and far between.

Then he’d had to think about the four mornings of the week he’d get coffee before work. Eleanor always takes his order, and she’d make it on the days the cute barista wasn’t in. It was always too loud to make conversation, and maybe things would have continued that way, Flint glancing across the towering coffee machine to catch a flash of blue eyes and black curls. Fridays became the last day before Tuesday he’d come in to House of Sticks. So he’d stopped ignoring his sweet tooth and started ordering the butterscotch: making the order take a little longer, taste a little sweeter, to tide him over for the weekend. He counted time backwards for nine years, until one Friday in April he was looking forward to Tuesday.

There’s no way to put all of that in words, so he stares sideways at Lee Van Cleef on the television. Silver’s fingers are still making circles on his scalp, and Flint wonders if maybe the worst of the cold has passed.

The film ends and Flint stretches languorously, until he’s flat on his back and looking up at Silver. Silver offers: I call dinner?

Flint blinks slowly. He can’t remember if he ate lunch. Food sounds amazing. He’s too tired to nod, but he raises his eyebrows enthusiastically.

Indian? Silver spells.

Flint sighs in delight. Silver has introduced him to a curry house that only takes phone orders, and they’ve had it almost every week they’ve been dating.

Silver gets him vindaloo and garlic naan so strong it tastes faintly of ammonia. Flint’s nose starts running from the first mouthful of curry. It burns out some of the fever. By the end of it he can breathe again, even if his mouth is on fire.

Feel better? Silver asks, mopping up the last of his aloo gobi.

Much better, Flint musters a smile. He probably looks like a mess, bright red and leaking, but he feels alive again.

Good, Silver says. Don’t want you still sick on the Fourth.

Fourth of July? Flint frowns. Why?

We can go out, Silver explains. See fireworks.

He must have looked up fireworks. Flint smiles. That’s a nice idea.

Silver beams. Ridiculous, Flint thinks, that Silver gives him more forewarning for Independence Day than he did for his own birthday a month ago. All he’d done was lean over the counter for a kiss before passing Flint the butterscotch latte, and when they’d met up that afternoon he’d brought along box of pie and mentioned it was his birthday. No candles, but Flint had taught him happy birthday in ASL and they’d had two slices each before admitting defeat. The next day, Flint bought him a leather cuff he’d seen in a shop, hoping it was to Silver’s taste.

Silver has worn it every day since then. He wears it on the Fourth, too.

I’ll get better, he tells Silver.

#silverflint #black sails #butterscotch #fic #burnt #i fell in a linguistics hole with this story #[drops all my clues] oh no my clues

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madrasbook · 4 years ago

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Once Upon a City: Amusing Anecdotes about Madras

Madras that is Chennai celebrates its birthday on August 22, possibly on presumption, going by what S. Muthiah, the city’s finest chronicler who left a treasure of information on the city, records in Madras Rediscovered, which has run eight editions starting from 1981. A deed was signed on behalf of John Company by Francis Day and Andrew Cogan with the local Nayak rulers in Wandiwash and Poonamalle, Venkatappa and his brother Aiyappa, and that deed is dated as July 22, 1639.

That grant is dated July 22, 1639, but since Day reached Madraspatam – the name mentioned in the grant – only on July 27th, the chances are that ‘July’ is an error and August 22, 1639, is more likely the date the East India Company acquired the land to found their settlement.

The British men were given a small strip of land (which Muthiah terms “no man’s sand”) on lease on which they established a “trading post that was in effect a warehouse-cum-residence with some fortification,” to quote Muthiah.

And the land was chosen in Madras hyped up on a lie by Francis Day that cotton cheap in Madras as Day claimed in his recommendation to his superior, Andrew Cogan. And the city—which did have a notorious scale of gossip and scandals later on due to colourful men decorating the East India Company’s services or their agents, friends, or just men from England—was ostensibly founded on a famous gossip:

Day’s own explanation for choosing this barren, sandy site was that its hinterland offered “excellent long Cloath and better cheape by 20 per cent than anywhere else”! A noted gossip of the time, however, had it that the choice was determined by Day having a mistress in Portuguese San Thomé; the nearby settlement-to-be would ensure “their Interviews might be the more frequent and uninterrupted”! Whether this was indeed the case is a matter for conjecture, but that there was a mistress appears to have been gossip with some substance; a friend and successor to the charge of Madras, Henry Greenhill, is reported as having succeeded to the willing gentlewoman!

Madras Rediscovered is not a boring collection of facts and details to construct the past of Madras but a charming text to be read to understand how a small trading post evolved to become the metropolis of modern times, told in a very conversational, yet sophisticated and flowing language.

Where you actually give yourself to giggles, laughs, disbelief, and even tears are the anecdotes that punctuate the 20 chapters, which Muthiah chooses to name Once Upon a City. The first one begins thus:

I had promised to show him Robert Clive’s watering-holes in and around Madras. Little did I realise he’d turn up at my house in the best Clive manner, complete with coach and escort. His outrider that morning roared up on an iron steed, quickly dismounted at my gate and threw a smart salute. Moments later the carriage chugged up behind the police inspector and ensconced in the auto-rickshaw was a short, tubby, safari-suited Stanley Clives peering owlishly through heavy glasses to make sure he’d got right an address no Clive had ever known. Once sure, he broke into a broad, most unClive-like grin and proceeded to explain the comedy of errors that had earned him a police escort and which had raised in his esteem more than a notch the Madras police force whose sense of duty encompassed helping harassed strangers.

So a Clive (he also tells how the Clive became Clives) descendent arrived to meet Muthiah in an autorickshaw escorted by a police vehicle. What a setting! That engaging style, with wit and humour, is what you could expect to be treated to in these anecdotes. The main narrative about Madras is full of flourishing text that draws you in, arrests your senses, and piles up your curiosity.

You better read up on how the Survey of India had its roots in Madras. There are stories on mysterious murder, heads over heels love that would make would make “true love an eternal bestseller”, and the forgotten merchantmen (among whom my favourite is Coja Petrus Uscan, the Armenian merchant who enabled the connect between Mambalam and St. Thomas Mount through the Marmalong Bridge [now Maraimalai Adigal Palam]).

Muthiah delves into the Cooum (which once was a bather’s delight, now a polluted nightmare), the French dalliance with Madras that fell through only because of a poorly designed treaty, and life of Annie Besant and how printing came to Madras in the following anecdotes.

The stories of Parry & Company and Crompton & Company, two of the affluent British firms of Madras in their heyday, the founding of Indian Bank, Indo-Saracenic architecture, Edward Winter who was Day’s contemporary, film making in Madras and the city’s metamorphosis are captured in other anecdotes.

I have my favourites though in those Once Upon a City anecdotes—about The Hindu, on my lifeline poet Bharathi and on mathematical genius S. Ramanujan, and the Chepauk cricket ground.

The bewitching write on Chepauk first:

To me – and to most enthusiasts of the game as played in another, more leisurely, perhaps, even more gracious, age – cricket in Madras will for ever be associated with Chepauk’s lovely sward of lush springy turf tended with infinite patience and care to billiard table smoothness by Munuswamy of old, the entire emerald oval surrounded by towering cassias and acacias, some a century old, shedding their cool shade over low, tin-roofed stands. From these stands, which did nothing to mar the English county cricket ground atmosphere of Chepauk, you could watch in stretch-legged comfort Johnstone and Ward and Nailer, Gopalan and Ram Singh and Rangachari do epic battle against each other in the annual Pongal Week ‘Tests’, the Presidency Match that pitted European versus Indian in many a famous contest, then team up together to do yeoman duty for Madras against the rest of India in the Ranji Trophy matches of the 1930s and 1940s. [my emphasis]

Once Muthiah bowls you over, you go on to finish the story in double quick time and keep going back to it for inspiration, again and again. Talking of Pongal tests, which at one time the Chepauk was famous for, and we, the young then, often termed Indian sloppiness on the field as buttery fingers (after a generous scoop of Sakkarai Pongal with hands)!

The Hindu is an icon of Madras, always holding a place in the city’s ethos with an unparalleled history, a rare case of a newspaper intertwined with a city’s culture. Muthiah wrote Madras Miscellany for years in this newspaper without a break! Except once when his home was flooded in 2015 and when he finally had to give up due to his uncooperating health. Those stories were served on Monday morning with unfailing regularity, with this chronicler’s gaze often deep and amusing. But let’s get back to The Hindu itself, in Muthiah’s words:

“You might like The Hindu or you may not,” starts this chronicler, who should have collected copious paper cuttings of this newspaper in to his journals. And goes on to say, albeit grounded in the very tradition of the land:

… the paper has always reminded me of a one-time neighbour abroad. A middle-aged wisp of a woman in a nine-yard saree, chattering away in impeccable but strongly accented English, she organised the neighbourhood’s best coffee parties and bridge sessions in the mornings, drove herself through snarled traffic for sareed tennis in the afternoons, and with supreme aplomb threw boisterously successful cocktail parties or staid sit-down dinners, replete with her best silver and traditional vegetarian cuisine, in the evenings. Yet she remained true to Olde Madras in all those years, in dress and makeup, in habits and customs, above all in the practice of rituals of faith and worship. She was, bless her daunting soul, the finest example I knew of that rather overpowering but slowly vanishing personality, the Modern Orthodox Madras Conservative. And The Hindu has tended to be that over the years.

Only he could style The Hindu as “A middle-aged wisp of a woman in a nine-yard saree.” And what follows about the newspaper’s history is nothing short of fabulous. And he told me once that he was so inspired by the coverage of Lakshmikanthan murder case in the newspaper.

The mathematical genius of Ramanujan is not what Muthiah dwells upon but his life struggle and his work. Not so much with linguistic flourish though. On occasion, your eyes moisten while reading it because of the way the story is told. Combined in this anecdote is also the story about S. Chandrasekhar, the astrophysicist who won the Nobel in physics, long after it was due though. Maybe the future generations would get some inkling of this outstanding scientist from Muthiah’s account. I for one didn’t know much about this tall figure in such detail before reading it here.

Bharathiar is a universal poet. And there would be a few who wouldn’t have heard about him in the Tamil land. And to immerse yourself into his works gives not only inspiration but also a charge that would light up your life, for ever. Muthiah writes:

During the two years that he was a subeditor with the Swadesamitran, Bharati not only was trained as a journalist by Subramania Aiyer but also acquired his fire. The bouquet of heady wine made Bharati want to burst into patriotic verbal extravagance.

Not much about Bharathi’s fiery poetry finds mention but more of his journalistic career and life forms Muthiah’s focus. He says:

Bharati, in exile and deprived of a journalistic career, undoubtedly turned softer. The same thing had happened to VOC, who had come out of jail a crushed man, and, earlier, Subramania Aiyer, who had been shattered by the very threat of imprisonment. Aurobindo Ghosh, a fellow exile in Pondicherry, turned to spiritualism and V V S Aiyar, another fiery revolutionary in exile, turned to the world of letters, writing the first Tamil short story in 1917, Kulathangarai Arasamaram, after an initial spell of training gunmen. In this atmosphere of broken dreams and literary timewhiling, Bharati attempted to retain his interest in politics by writing sedate letters to the editors of Madras journals. As his prose became less fiery, his verse became more lyrical. He became the supreme poet. He also gave up his rural indifference to appearance and opted for a buttoned-up frock coat, loose turban to hide his baldness, and a pampered moustache to go with his clean shave.

Muthiah weaves into Bharathiar’s life as a careful observer, picking up the story in its magnificent simplicity, and this was so thrilling to read, of his meeting with C.R. Srinivasan, manager of Swadesamitran, when Bharathi rejoined the newspaper:

They introduced themselves. Srinivasan later recalled: “The Bharati I saw that day is indelibly imprinted on my mind’s eye. Middling height. Thin build. Shining, light brown complexion. Layer after layer of a turban wound round the head. A broad forehead. A dot of kum kum of a quarter anna size in its middle. Thick brows that stood guard over the roving eyes. The upturned nose highlighting the sunken cheeks. Though an aggressive moustache hid the upper lip, the lower lip revealed a listless life. A shirt without buttons to cover the body and an alpaca black coat over it. That too torn while jumping from the cart. He sat on the chair. Tongue-tied, the eyes rolled around, sizing everything. They alighted on me also, moving up and down. Rebellious eyes; sorrowful eyes; eyes that exuded peace; eyes that captivated. They stole my heart.”

The greatness of Bharathiar told in succulent text, captivating to read. Who says Muthiah has left us? His text speaks to us and the city’s now popular historian, Sriram V, has kept alive his memoirs of the city by covering many of the sites, especially favouring North Madras, described in the book in his heritage walks.

If working with these two men of letters and history isn’t a blessing, what is?

#madrasday #2020 #smuthiah #vsriram

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blackpoliglota · 5 years ago

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🎶Música/Musique/音樂🎶

A friend of mine went on Instagram a few weeks ago and asked her mutuals for international music suggestions. Naturally, ya neighborhood Black linguist right here responded immediately... despite seeing the post at about 4am her time in Madrid 😭 After having given my friend the lengthy (... or not-so-lengthy) list of artists I listen to on the daily, I decided to make a post about this! So without further ado, here is my list of artists I listen to, as well as some of my favorite songs by them! Album titles are in parentheses after the song titles. And feel free to click on any song title you’d like to listen to!

SPANISH 🇵🇷🇨🇱🇨🇺

Calle 13 🇵🇷

I first came across Calle 13 through Shakira’s song “Gordita” from her album Sale El Sol waaaaaay back in 2010, but it wouldn’t be until my senior year in college (2019) when I started listening to their stuff. Now I listen to literally ALL of their songs, but some of my favorites are:

“Latinoamerica” Feat. Totó La Momposina, Maria Rita y Susana baca (Entre Los Que Quieran)

“Digo Lo Que Pienso” (Entre Los Que Quieran)

“Muerte en Hawaii” (Entre Los Que Quieran)

“Todo Se Mueve” Feat. Seun Keti (Entre Los Que Quieran)

“El Aguante” (MultiViral)

“Multi_Viral” Feat. Kamilya Jubran, Tom Morello y Julian Assange (MultiViral)

“Cuando los Pies Besan el Piso” (MultiViral)

“Los Idiotas” (MultiViral)

“Perseguido” Feat. Biga Ranx (MultiViral)

“Que Lloren” (Los De Atrás Vienen Conmigo)

“Gringo Latin Funk” (Los De Atrás Vienen Conmigo)

“La Perla” Feat. Rubén Blades y La Chilinga (Los De Atrás Vienen Conmigo)

“Fiesta de Locos” (Los De Atrás Vienen Conmigo)

Residente 🇵🇷

One half of the act Calle 13, Residente made his solo career debut in 2017 with his self-titled album, the album that actually reintroduced me to Calle 13 in 2019. Residente also has several released singles here and there, some of which being products of collaborations with Bad Bunny and others. Here are some of my favorites from him:

“Guerra” (Residente)

“Apocalíptico” (Residente)

“Dagombas en Tamale” (Residente)

“Somos Anormales” (Residente)

“El Futuro Es Nuestro” (Residente)

“Bellacoso” Feat. Bad Bunny (Bellacoso - Single)

“Cántalo” w/ Ricky Martin y Bad Bunny (Cántalo - Single)

“René” (René - Single)

Danay Suárez 🇨🇺

In my last semester at my college I took a class called Afro-Latin History, a class I wish I found out about much sooner than I did. That class seriously had me questioning my choice in major... IN MY LAST SEMESTER!!! Seriously, EASILY one of the best classes I’ve taken in my entire life, no exaggeration. ANYWAY (getting of topic, my bad 😅), in one class we were discussing a book called Negro Soy Yo (= Black I Am) in which the author (Marc D. Perry) relates how hip-hop and rap are used to explore Cuba’s racial structure alignment and how it shifts along with the state’s change from a revolutionary socialist state to one functioning under capitalism. Being inspired from such an interesting read, I decided to look for more Afro-Cuban musicians to listen to. Next thing I know, I have Danay Suárez playing in my ear. My favorite songs from her are:

”Closer Now” Feat. The Idan Raichel Project (Palabras Manuales)

“Integridad” Feat. Stephen Marley (Palabras Manuales)

“Yo Aprendi” (Polvo De La Humanidad)

“Las Bala” Feat. El B. (Palabras Manuales)

Ana Tijoux 🇨🇱

It’s thanks to 2 of my college friends that I learned about Ana Tijoux. This Chilean rapera (= rapper) came to Scripps – one of the Claremont colleges; I went to Pomona – to give a talk about how she uses her music to communicate her political views (trash talking capitalism... my kind of political view) and to promote social justice, to keep it short and sweet. These are my favorites from Ana Tijoux:

“1977” (1977)

“Somos Sur” Feat. Shadia Mansour (Vengo)

“Vengo” (Vengo)

“Antipatriarca” (Vengo)

“Creo en Ti” Feat. Juanito Ayala (Vengo)

“Oulala” (1977)

“Cacerolazo” (Cacerolazo - Single)

“Antifa Dance” (Antifa Dance - Single)

Ibeyi 🇨🇺(🇫🇷)

Now discovering Ibeyi happened completely randomly... through a targeted Facebook video placed on my timeline. It was their music video of the song “Me Voy” featuring Mala Rodriguez that appeared. No long story here: I watched it, became intrigued, looked them up to find that they’re *AFRO-CUBAN (and French) artists, became more intrigued, searched for and listened to more of their music, and ultimately fell in love with their sound. The way their voices are so in sync with each other is ethereal; together they sound celestial! Some of my favorites from them are:

“Me Voy” Feat. Mala Rodriguez (Ash)

“I Carried This for Years” (Ash)

“Deathless” Feat. Kamasi Washington (Ash)

“River” (Ibeyi)

“Behind the Curtain” (Ibeyi)

French 🇧🇪

Stromae 🇧🇪

I can’t exactly remember how I came across Stromae... I believe it was through a childhood friend of mine?? I know for a fact that she did mention him to me at some point before I started actually listening to his songs, but I’m not sure if it was via those conversations how I became motivated to give his music a try 🤔 Either way, I ended liking his music enough to listen to it constantly! Here’s what kept me listening to Stromae:

“Papaoutai” (Racine Carrée)

OOOOOOOH I JUST REMEMBERED!!! 😃😃😃 It was through Pentatonix’s arrangement of his song “Papaoutai”! I found myself loving their version and became curious of where they found this song to arrange. Okay, back to the list:

“bâtard” (Racine Carrée)

“tous les mêmes” (Racine Carrée)

“carmen” (Racine Carrée)

“avf” (Racine Carrée)

“Dodo” (Cheese)

“Peace or Violence” (Cheese)

“Je Cours” (Cheese)

Portuguese 🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷

Flavia Coelho 🇧🇷

I can’t thank God (and app developers) enough for an app like Shazam; if it wasn’t for this magical app, I wouldn’t have found out about Flavia Coelho. By pure circumstance, I heard her song “Na Favela” on the radio while taking an uber to somewhere while back in college (sometime during senior year) in Southern California (MAN do I miss being out there 😭). Fast forward to right after graduation, where I find myself in New York City: I'm out here for my college’s glee club tour, for which we had evening performances and free time during the day. One day, I decided to go running in Central Park, and part of my preparation for any run consists of finding the right music to run to. Normally I go with fast-paced, up-beat, arrogant rap stuff, but decided that I wanted this run to be an easy-going, enjoyable one – a run in which I’m not trying to improve my pace. “What better music to listen to than Flavia Coelho’s,” I think. Plus, it gave me an excuse (and plenty of time) to listen to an artist I recently discovered at the time. Thanks to the run, I found a few favorite songs by her:

“Na favela” (Sonho Real)

“Se ligue” (Sonho Real)

“Paraiso” (Sonho Real)

“Por Cima” (Mundo Meu)

“Quer Vadiar” (Sonho Real)

“Leidi” (Sonho Real)

“Pai de Santo” (Mundo Meu)

I couldn’t find a more aurally-polished version of the song on youtube, so apologies!

“O Dom” (Mundo Meu)

Sergio Mendes 🇧🇷

Ooooh the great Sergio Mendes. To be completely honest, there’s not much I can say about him except that I know he’s one of Brazil’s greatest and world-renown musicians... and that I came across him through the Wii game Samba de Amigos. I couldn’t tell y’all how bad I wanted that game when I was 11... GOOD LORDT, WHEN I was ELEVEN!? GOODNESS, how time passes! 😱 ANYWAY, there was one song I always played on that game called “Magalenha”. At the time I didn’t know it was a Sergio Mendes song – when I looked it up, the artist that kept coming up was someone named Bellini and Mendoça do Rio. So what happens next? Well of course I download the song (FOR FREE and illegally thanks to L*mew*re... rip) and conduct even further research on those two artists I first found. All of this searching would ultimately lead me down a web hole that led me to Sergio Mendes. I admittedly have not listened to enough of his stuff, but here are a few that I currently fancy:

“Fanfarra” Feat. Alceu Do Cavaco (Brasileiro)

“Magalenha” (Brasileiro)

“What is This?” (Brasileiro)

“Simbora” Feat. Carlinhos Brown (Magic)

“Samba de Roda” Feat. Aila Menezes & Gracinha Leporace (Magic)

“One Nation” Feat. Carlinhos Brown (Magic)

“Mas Que Nada” (Mas Que Nada)

Carlinhos Brown 🇧🇷

It’s thanks to Sergio that I came across Carlinhos Brown... now how exactly did I find out about Senhor (=Mr.) Brown through Senhor Mendes, I'm not sure; there were so many opportunities for this to have happened! I mean, if you take a look at all of Sergio’s music, you’ll find LOADS of collaborations between him and Carlinhos Brown. Also, bruh, I thought I loved Sergio’s stuff when I stumbled upon it... sorry Sergio, but my love for you doesn’t hold a candle to my LOVE for Carlinhos Brown! Here are some of my favorites that I still listen to (and futilely try to dance the samba to... can someone teach me please??) on a regular basis:

“Afroascendente” (Marabô)

I couldn’t this song on youtube, so if y’all are subscribed to any music streaming services, look it up on there. Apologies!

“Vidacarnaval” (Marabô)

“Carlito Marron” (Carlinhos Brown E Carlito Marron)

“Fofoqueira” (Mixturada Brasileira)

“Mixturação” Feat. Ivete Sangalo (Mixturada Brasileira)

“Ói Pra Cá” Feat. Filhos de Gandhy (Ói Pra Cá - Single)

“Mulemba Xangóla” in collaboration w/ Bonga & Marisa Monte (Onda Sonora: Red Hot + Lisbon)

“Ô Vida” Feat. Nina de Freitas (Rio 2: Music From The Motion Picture)

“Sapo Cai” Feat. Mikael Mutti (Rio: Music From The Motion Picture)

Emicida 🇧🇷

Another Afro-descended artist doing his thing, Emicida is one of my favorite types of artists: a conscious rapper. I know this by looking up translations of his songs... cause ya girl ain’t got NO understanding of Portuguese to be listening to songs and be like “oooh that was clever!” like she does with Calle 13... BUT I’’L GET THERE, THIS I SWEAR!!! Emicida is still fairly new to me; I found his stuff thanks to Ibeyi (from the Spanish section above). Regardless, I still have few songs from him I listen to often:

“Libre” Feat. Ibeyi (AmarElo)

“Principia” Feat. Pastor Henrique Vieira, Fabiana Cozza & Pastoras do Rosário (AmarElo)

“Eminência Parda” Feat. Jé Santiago, Papillon & Dona Onete (AmarElo)

“AmarElo (Sample: Sujeito de Sorte - Belchior)” Feat. Majur & Pablo Vittar (AmarElo)

“Hacia El Amor” Feat. Ibeyi (Hacia El Amor - Single)

Japanese 🇯🇵🇯🇵🇯🇵

OOP, what’s that I hear? It’s ANIME TIME!!! LOL jk... BUT to be fair, I say this because literally all of the Japanese songs that I listen to come from a bunch of anime series I’ve seen throughout the past 10 years. So yeah, get ready to experience a bit of my weeb years, heh heh. I’m gonna categorize the songs by anime series title instead of by artist name:

Fullmetal Alchemist 🦾🙏🏾⚡️

“Melissa” by Porno Graffiti (Porno Graffiti’s Best Blues)

“Ready Steady Go!” by L’arc-En-Ciel (Smile)

“Rewrite” by Asian Kung-Fu Generation (Sol-fa)

“Period” by CHEMISTRY (Chemistry 2001-2011)

“Uso” by SID (SID 10th Anniversary BEST)

“Let It Out” by Miho Fukuhara

“Shunkan SENTIMENTAL” by Scandal (Temptation Box)

Bleach 🗡💀

“*~Asterisk~” by Orange Range (Natural)

“D-tecnoLife” by UVERworld (Neo Sound Best)

“Ichirin no Hana” by High and Mighty Color

“Alones” by Aqua Times (Darekanochijoue)

“After Dark” by Asian Kung-Fu Generation (World World World)

“Chu-Bura” by Kelun (Kelun)

“Shoujo S” by Scandal (Scandal Show)

“Animarossa” by Prono Graffiti (Trigger)

“chAngE” by Miwa

“Ranbu no Melody” by SID (Ranbu No Melody)

“BLUE” by ViViD (INFINITY)

“Harukaze” by Scandal (Scandal)

“Tsumasaki” by ORESKABAND (ORESKABAND)

“Gallop” by Pe’zmoku

“Haruka Kanata” by UNLIMITS

Soul Eater 💀🎃⛓🗡

“Resonance” by T.M. Revolution

“Papermoon” by Tommy heavely6

“I Wanna Be” by Stance Punks

“Bakusou Yume Uta” by Diggy-MO’ (DX 10th Anniversary All This Time 2008-2018)

“Strength.” by Abingdon Boys School (ABINGDON ROAD)

Kill La Kill 🗡✂️👙

“Sirius” by Eir Aoi

“Ambiguous” by GARNiDELiA (Ambiguous - Single)

“Gomen ne, Iiko ja Irarenai” by Miku Sawai

“Sanbika” by Eir Aoi

Annnnd DONE! Congrats on making it through this SUPER long post! Again, this is some of the music in other languages I listen to on a regular basis; you can click on any of the song titles to listen to them in their entirety if you’d like. Also, if any of y’all have any recommendations on what I should listen to – especially if it’s in Mandarin or French, considering a Mandarin section is nonexistent and the French section is just sad compared to the others 😭 –please reach out! I’d love to hear what you guys listen to, so let’s start up a little music exchange, yeah? Cool. Here’s to finally finishing this post that’s taken me EONS to complete!

乾杯 (gān bēi)! 🥂

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please-dont-pet-the-okapi · 5 years ago

Note

What was one nice thing you did for someone else? What was one nice thing you did for yourself? Did you develop a new obsession?

What was one nice thing you did for someone else?

So my environmental science professor likes to cook. He’d like to get into gardening, but he’s never had much luck with it. One of my dad’s hobbies happens to be gardening. Because of this, among other things, our backyard has several cayenne pepper plants and we have an orange tree. Right before the freeze this year, we had a bumper crop of oranges, so I asked my professor if he wanted any. He immediately lit up and started planning marinades and all sorts of things he could make with them, so I brought some oranges to my professor, and I threw in some dried cayenne peppers as well.

What was one nice thing you did for yourself?

During the semester (and also during the summer), I took the time to do some for-fun reading outside of my college reading. Although I tend to enjoy the stuff I read for college, it was good to read something that I chose for myself instead (even if I didn’t finish a lot of what I started).

Did you develop a new obsession?

A few. Like most of the internet, I got interested in The Baby Yoda Show. Thanks to @mothric-bry, I started listening to Lemon Demon. This summer I read Kenobi by John Jackson Miller and I loved every page of it.

This fall, though, right around finals week, I accidentally fell down the conlang rabbit hole while trying to refine a conlang I’d started building for a fantasy world when I was maybe fourteen. I’d been sort of revising it a bit here and there—giving it grammar that made sense, refining the vocabulary, all that good stuff—when I started watching a Youtube video on linguistics to help make a more effective conlang.

And then I watched another.

And another.

Now I’m on my second conlang for a different story world, this time with click consonants and more fluid grammar. For the moment, the obsession is more low-key, but it could strike again at any time.

#asks #anonymous #thanks anon!

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fragiledewdrop · 5 years ago

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High school Newspaper Shenanigans

I don't have a lot of good memories about high school, but today I found a dusty copy of what passed for a "newspaper" in my school and it brought me back to when I was 16.

The girl who had been running the school newspaper for as long as I could remember was graduating that year, so she had to prepare for the final exam and university and she did not have time to edit anymore. My friends B., C., and I, in what was probably a fit of madness, decided to try our hand at it. And so I found myself co-editor of a newspaper. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but it would be one hell of an adventure.

The paper was called "Up!", after the Disney movie, for...some very creative reason I cannot remember. The first thing we did was change the title to "Up patriots to arms!"

One of the first things we had to cover was a very important, popular, yearly student strike,which would have been fairly easy, if not for the freaking tension between the two student organizations in our city. The biggest one, the "Rete" , was basically left wing - although many people didn't know or care about their affiliations- and they constantly butted heads with the student block, a group of self proclaimed neofascists who dressed in all black, used smoke bombs during protests and were always surrounded by the police.

We decided it would be a grand idea to interview the respective leaders to get both opinions on the matter.

The president of the "Rete" came to meet us after school. The highlight of the interview was when he said that his was a "non political organization", at which point we looked at each other in disbelief and asked him:"Really?"

The answer was "Yeas, although of course many of us are registered in different parties along the whole spectrum, such as..." and he started listing all left wing parties in the country, from communists to centrists, because apparently that's what he meant by "variety". Anyway.

It was time to interview the leader of the Block. He told us to wait in a square until someone would come get us.

B. and I were getting very nervous.

A guy with a shaved head and a black leather jacket came towards us. "You the journalists? Follow me"

We followed him to the lair. I mean headquarters.

(By the way, we realized we knew this guy. He was a lamb. I had no clue what he was doing there.)

The headquarters' walls were legit covered in swastikas and pictures of Mussolini. Yikes.

The leader was also very nice. Didn't stop me wanting to throttle him when he said that poor Mussolini was just misunderstood.

I had to ACTUALLY stop B. from doing something rash. No picking fights with the fascist dudes in he fascists's lair, please.

They straight up told us, I shit you not, that they were a brotherhood and, as a very effective bonding experience, they put on music and danced in a circle while whipping each other with leather belts. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Maybe they were, but it didn't seem so. That didn't make it into the article, but it's forever etched into my brain.

I was shaken, but the double interview turned out great. #journalism

A while later we were sitting at a school assembly in the local movie theater. Everybody was complaining about the fact that our gym's roof had collapsed the year before and nobody was doing anything about it. We were taking the bus every week to a public gym, but we had to pay for it and were Officially Not Happy About It.

It was then that B. went : "You know what would be great? If we could interview the mayor about this"

I lit up. "Oh my god! We could ask him so many things! And not just about our school, but about the Linguistic High school that had to be evacuated and about [all the other schools that were literally falling to pieces. You know, Italian things]"

But the consensus was that, while we could try, it would be almost impossible for us to get an interview. So we sighed and sat back.

C.cleared her throat. "Guys." "Yes?" "You know how the mayor is a lawyer?" ".... Yes?" "Well, my dad is a lawyer. He knows him."

We dragged her to the bathroom

"We are not leaving here until your dad gets us an appointment" (poor guy)

He did

For that same night. At the town hall. At 8 pm.

We cleared our afternoon to come up with pertinent questions and practice and freak out.

At 8 we were at the town hall.

There was a red banner on the balcony with a slogan on it, that would be there for months afterwards, because...

... that same night a group of workers had occupied the town hall to demand better pay and better working conditions

Good for them

Bad for us

We were about to leave, but they assured us the mayor would be with us shortly

We waited three whole hours

During which, obviously, an old council member came to talk to us about how, if we wanted to do some real journalism, we should investigate the presence of the Illuminati in our town

Not gonna lie, we were kinda interested at that point

Around 11, the mayor called us in

I am going to concede that he must have been tired

But he was still a slimy son of a bitch

Extremely condescending

When we brought up our problems, he told us our schools were the Province's responsibility

(the Province would of course later tell us we were the Mayor's responsibility)

It was a train wreck

But eye opening

The article we wrote was extremely passive aggressive

He told C.'s father that he really liked it

I don't know if he was impermeable to sarcasm or just a politician.

Fast forward a few months. While our math teacher was talking, a giant piece of plaster fell from the ceiling, missed her by millimeters and crashed on the floor. We went on, business as usual, but that was kinda scary. And it was not the first incident of that kind to happen in our school.

We decided to do a reportage

Armed with notebooks and a camera, we went from classroom to classroom, asking students and teachers about problems with the building.

It was like opening a can of worms.

We got everything from "Oh yes, don't you see those huge holes in the ceiling and in the floor?" to "Yes, every time it rains the classroom gets flooded" to "See this giant wooden piece of tent rod? It fell on my shoulder last week. We don’t even have tents!"

Everyone had something to complain about. The teachers. The janitors. It was scary, to be honest. Especially considering we were repeatedly told ours was the safest school structure in town (what with having been standing since the end of WWI and all)

One day, while we were trying to get on the roof to evaluate its conditions, the headmistress called us in her office.

She said that she had gotten wind of what we were doing (duh)

And she hoped that we wouldn't give a bad impression of her "to parents and important people"

Because after all her hands were tied

It was the responsibility of the Mayor and the Province

(Just who the fuck was responsible for us?)

She smiled sweetly, leaned in towards us and whispered "You'll be careful now, won't you?"

She looked at me and said my name

Hoping I'd be the responsible/most easily intimidated one

(I had beef with that woman, mmmkay? But that's a story for another day)

I smiled and I told her: "Of course. We are just taking pictures of what we see. We'll let the truth speak for itself"

We did

No commentary

Just very objective descriptions and pictures

We really felt like heroes of the free press and free speech, at the service of the people despite the threat of power. (Yes, it sounds dramatic. It's because we were teenagers)

And then there were the other, less momentous adventures:

That one time when, after days of editing, we had to fill a little blank space at the bottom of the last page and nothing fit. We were frantically searching through our notes, the articles other students had sent us, drawings, everything, and we were slowly losing hope, until B. unearthed one of my notebooks and said : "What is this? 'Requiem. In memoriam termosifoni malati, ego ista verba pronuntio..." I was horrified. "NO" I yelled. "That's just a joke. We are NOT publishing that. NO WAY!" It was really a silly thing, you see. There was a radiator in our classroom that didn't work very well. Sometimes it was scorching hot, sometimes (on the coldest days, obviously) it was icy. So my friend E. and I had decided that the radiator was "sick", and we wrote its last will, its epitaph, parodies of famous poems like "La fontana malata" (The sick fountain) by Palazzeschi or "All'amica risanata" (To the healed friend) by Foscolo (can't find translations, sorry). It was fun. B.had found my silly attempt to write a "Requiem" in...kinda dog Latin I guess? But the grammar was correct. In any case, IT WAS NOT MEANT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY. But we were desperate, so I relented. On one condition: it had to be ANONYMOUS. And that was the best decision I ever made in my entire life, because when we distributed the newspaper I saw a bunch of Latin teachers analising the fucking thing in front of their classes. "Mmmmhhh I am not sure an accusative was the best choice here. I would have gone with a dative." Then write your own pastiche poem, Marta! One of them had even copied it on the blackboard and was trying to figure out the metric! That was the equivalent of a 3am shitpost, not fucking Catullus, people! I have never been so embarrassed in my life! At least my friends were having a field day with it. Oh, and my Latin and Greek teacher figured it out. She read it and told me : "This was you, wasn't it?" I wanted to disappear. But she said it was funny, and that was the end of it.

All the times we had to edit what other students gave us and it was WILD, you guys. The grammar alone...The choice of topics....We got quite a few articles about UFO sightings over our town, so that was a thing. (We got to see a lot of really interesting and creative stuff, though)

The times we absolutely lost our cool, because it was hard work, okay? "Federica, your Isabel Allende analysis is a bit too long. Maybe if we cut the Scheherazade comparison..." "YOU ARE NOT CUTTING THE SCHEHERAZADE COMPARISON, B." "But.." "That is the backbone of the whole thing. The structure would collapse without it." "It's only a metaphor!" "No! I won't sell myself and my principles for a chance to be published" "Guys! CALM DOWN! It's just...essentially a book report." "SHUT UP C."[........] "I think we need to eat something" "Yeah. Should I make pancakes? With chocolate chips or without, B.? "

The time we got stuck at school because it was snowing, and C. wrote a beautiful piece called "The agonizing mesmerism of snow", and our friend P.,who was a wizard with a pencil, made an earie and amazing drawing for it that almost made me cry. Coincidentally, it was the day pope Ratzinger resigned. We thought it was a joke while still at school, then later on agreed that it was the reason it had been snowing in the first place. None of us wanted to write about the pope, so we asked the guy who was always sending us articles about the occult and arcane symbols hidden in churches. It turned out great.

The time a bunch of our more "troublesome" classmates started making hilarious dirty jokes based on Catullus' double entendres and B. promised them we would publish them (anonymously) if they wrote them down. They did, and the result was a page titled "Surrealism" full of the dirtiest "poetic" stuff in existence that made everybody laugh themselves unconscious, with the exception of some teachers who somehow didn't get the jokes.

The time we interviewed our student representative (a classmate of ours), whom B. had always thought was too full of himself and needed to be brought down a notch. So we "accidentally" misspelled his name in the article. Nobody noticed except him. He was fuming and it was glorious (not my proudest moment, but what can you do)

The time another brilliant classmate wrote a piece called "The pathologic mysoginist" that absolutely enraged some of the guys in our school. I stan her to this day.

That time I wrote a long article for Woman's day about the abuse and mistreatment of women in our country and across the world. I thought it was nothing special, really, but then Maria the janitor (the sweetest lady in existence) stopped me in the corridor and teared up a bit and said that she hadn't known about a lot of the things I had discussed, but she thought it was important to talk about them and that she felt represented as a woman and that she wanted to bring the paper home to read it to her husband. It touched me so deeply I still get emotional when I think about it.

Anyway, all of this and more happened in one year. Then we, too, had to worry about university admissions and exams and we passed the burden on to "aliens and occult" guy (who was amazing too)

But I remember the passion we poured into it, the willingness to take risks, the feeling of defying authority for the "greater good". We were idealists, all of us, and so full of hope and a will to change things in every way we could. Maybe a high school newspaper means nothing in the great scheme of things, but it meant something to us. It made us brave when we didn't think we were. It made us defiant. I wonder if that part of me is still sleeping, somewhere deep inside.

#Memories #High school #Journalism #I guess #High school newspaper #Adolescence #Adventures #Funny #I am so full of feelings right now #We were crazy #About me #Long post

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alexandralyman · 6 years ago

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bedtime stories (beyond the horizon)

I missed my original posting date but it’s still October and this is my contribution for @cscocktoberfest! Another extra scene in the BtH-verse, where Princess Emma finds a very interesting (cough*dirty*cough) book on the shelf in the captain’s quarters and has some questions about some unfamiliar words that Killian is all too happy to answer ; )

Also on ff.net here

"Killian?"

"Aye, love?" he answered without looking up, grease pencil in hand as he marked a port on the map in front of him and measured the distance from their current position, doing sums in his head and somewhat distracted by a particularly tricky bit of calculation.

"What does it mean when a randy young lad is secretly polishing his knob?"

"It means...what?"

The figures he'd painstakingly laboured over for the better part of an hour all flew out of his mind and her words lodged there instead while his head jerked up and he met Emma's curious gaze across the cabin. She was sitting in her chair with a book in hand, skirts spilling over the sides and her ankles crossed, tucked away demurely underneath the seat and looking the very picture of a well-bred lady.

"After spying on the chambermaid in her bath, the randy young lad retires to his master's empty study to polish his knob with renewed vigour. I'm guessing from the context that the author did not mean the knob on the door? And when he finishes, he gives a loud groan that almost rouses the whole household and hides the evidence in a handkerchief. The evidence of what?"

Killian blinked at that, the pencil going as limp in his hand as presumably the randy young lad's knob did when he was done, slack-jawed and feeling that he probably bore more than a passing resemblance to a startled codfish at the moment. When he finally managed to find his voice it came out much higher than normal as he squeaked out, "What on earth are you reading?"

Emma held up the volume, it was slim, cloth-bound, a bit worn around the edges and entirely unassuming in appearance with no title visible on the cover or spine. She frequently read in the evenings while he updated the logbook or plotted out the ship's course for the following day, plucking one of his books from the shelves to occupy herself with as he worked. They were a jumbled lot collected piecemeal over the years, sailing lore, dry texts on navel regulations that he no longer followed but kept around for reasons he didn't think about too closely, old legends, tales, histories of lands he'd visited (and plundered, usually) and novels. He supposed Emma had chosen a novel, since he certainly didn't remember Uniform Code of the Royal Navy, Fifth Edition or Krakens, Great Squids and Whales: Hunting and Butchering Techniques to include any randy young lads polishing their knobs among the instructions for tying a cravat in the correct knot for an officer or detailing the best method for harvesting whale blubber.

"So what does it mean?" she repeated.

"It means…" Killian realized he had started to make the corresponding motion with his hand and he felt his cheeks colour, suddenly feeling more like a young lad himself than a man of almost thirty who was well-versed in the many pleasures of the flesh, both with a companion and without. Princess Emma was looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for his answer. Sweet, gently-reared Princess Emma, unfamiliar with the more bawdy terms tossed about with ease in disreputable company like pirates and their usual bedmates of tavern wenches and ladies of the night. He tried to phrase it in as delicate a manner as he could, he was a pirate now but he had been a gentleman once.

"It's when a lad, or a man, um, er...gratifies himself by hand, to satisfy his lust when he doesn't have the company of a lass."

She glanced back down at the book and went, "Ah. I see." in a tone he couldn't decipher. Then she flipped the page and squinted, running a finger over something on the paper.

"There's illustrations."

Killian was up and across the room in a heartbeat, snatching the book from her hands and feeling his eyebrows rise nearly to his hair when he took his own look. There was an illustration of the scene in question that left no ambiguity as to just what type of knob the young man was polishing, although the anatomy was greatly exaggerated. It was nearly as long as the lad's thigh, for one. He recalled the first time he'd seen such a drawing, on a crude pamphlet passed around below deck and sniggered over by leering crewmen when he was just a lad who had barely sprouted whiskers and how scandalized he'd been at the sight of it when it was thrust into his hands with a knowing look by a soot-stained gunner. Scandalized...and titillated, by the smudged image of a woman with her skirts hiked to her waist and her blouse undone.

Emma was gazing up at him, her hands folded loosely in her lap and her cheeks tinged pink even in the yellow glow from the lantern. Killian glanced from the illustration in the innocuous-looking book to her face, meeting his eyes square on with one delicate blonde brow faintly arched. Perhaps princesses and pirates were not so different in some respects and she was also feeling that warmth pooling low in her belly, desire sparked by the unfamiliar words and deeds depicted in pen and ink. Somewhat unfamiliar at least, she was now rather well acquainted with his own "knob" and the thought of just how well acquainted she was with it sent a sharp throb right through his groin.

"He recalled the maid's Bountiful breasts, brown and Bonny and the very Sight of them floating atop the bathwater had nearly caused his Lust to spill right in his breeches as he crouched unseen in his Hidey-Hole behind the wall. Oh, to cup the Bouncing pair of them free of her Shift and Stays, heavy, round and full as a Wineskin, and to then Suckle upon such tender, Womanly flesh would be a Dream."

The rosy flush on her cheeks only grew deeper while he read aloud, her own breasts rising and falling against the lace-trimmed neckline of her gown in a manner that kindled Killian's lust to a burning flame. Firm, yet soft, like a ripe peach, an unimaginable luxury at sea, he could easily unlace her gown and take one in his mouth, or order the copper tub to be filled and watch at his leisure while she bathed, openly though, not hidden away in a cupboard, he was the captain, master of the ship and not a voyeuristic boot black like the lad in the story, polishing himself instead of his lordship's boots. Both were appealing prospects, but he had another idea.

"Shall we read the rest of this rather provocative tale together, Princess? So I might….clarify any other sections that you require?"

He held out his free hand and after a moment's hesitation Emma nodded and accepted it, letting him pull her to her feet. Killian brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles and gave her a cheeky wink, gentleman and scoundrel in one (and hers, his love was the prize she had taken for her own even as he'd stolen her away) and led her to his chair instead. It was wide enough for him to sit back comfortably and settle Emma on his lap, round arse nestled between his leather-clad thighs and his arm snaking around her waist to pull her back to his chest while he rested his chin on her shoulder and opened the novel back to the page he'd been reading from.

"Now," he said, clearing his throat and forgetting about his maps and charts entirely. "Where were we?"

It wasn't just the one story, the book contained several short tales all of a similar nature. After the lusty young lad spied on the entire household in various states of en déshabillé, (the cook, the laundress, the butler, the cook and the butler, and finally, his master and mistress in their splendid bedchamber) the setting changed to a bucolic farm in the countryside where the farmer's daughter held secret assignations in the hayloft with the village farrier (who wielded his own fleshy tool as deftly as his hammer and heartily plowed the daughter's ripe and eager field, seeding it deep) and then to a story of a dashing masked highwayman who waylaid a highborn lady on a deserted road and found himself drawn to much more than just her fine jewels (imagining a different sort of pearl necklace around her creamy throat) while they traded remarks laden with innuendo and circled around their growing attraction. Killian continued to read aloud, pausing as he went to explain the various euphemisms. Like knob and tool, a lot of them were other words to describe a man's cock, and his strained even more against the confines of his leathers every time Emma shifted in his lap, turning her head so that his beard brushed the curve of her jaw while he spoke low into her ear and murmured words not fit for a lady (quim, tits, swive, member) rolling his tongue around them the way he wanted to roll his tongue around her hidden pearl and feel her writhe from the pleasure he could draw with his own intimate tales writ upon her skin. In the book, the handsome highwayman bowed to his intrigued captive and proclaimed himself to be, "A Linguist most Cunning, should your Ladyship wish for a demonstration of my Prowess, you have only to ask."

"Ah," Killian said, tapping a ringed finger against the page. "Now what you see here is an old play on words, for cunnalingus is term for when a man kisses a woman not on the mouth, but somewhat, ahem, lower down. So when he calls himself a cunning linguist and offers to demonstrate, he is, in fact proposing that he-"

"Kisses her...quim?" Emma finished.

The book fell shut as a shudder ripped through him and he answered in a rough voice, "Aye."

"And is there a word like that for when a woman...kisses...a man on his...cock?"

Killian could think of many words to describe the act she meant, the act he was now picturing much more vividly in his head than any woodcut, but he chose the one that matched as neat as the sun and the moon.

"Fellatio."

Emma made a 'hmm" noise low in her throat that only served to remind him even more of how it felt to be fellated by her, golden hair tangled in his fingers and all eloquence lost to the sheer bliss of her mouth, sliding over his cock and taking him past those pink lips, matching his thrusts with the bob of her head until the sensations completely overwhelmed him, warm and wet and perfect.

"The royal tutors never taught me those words," Emma mused. "This has been very educational indeed, Captain. Shall we continue?"

He left the book on the table when he lifted her up, carrying her the few steps to the bunk with her arms around his neck and her fingers toying with the hair at his nape.

"I think we'll continue with a more practical exercise now, Princess. If you're amenable, that is. After all, there's only so much one can glean from a book. Direct, hands-on experience is always best."

His sure hands made short work of her gown, leaving her in nothing but stockings and shift while she worked the little jet buttons on his waistcoat. It came off and she rested her fingers on his belt, just above the obvious bulge in his trousers. Emma glanced at it and then up at him, curiosity creasing her lovely face. "Do you ever do that? Er, polish your knob, I mean. Like the boy in the book?"

The question made him pause for a moment. He had, in fact, touched himself several times to thoughts of her after taking her hostage from her own ship, though he'd never stooped so low as to spy on her unaware in the brig or during the times when she bathed in his quarters, before he'd bedded her and pledged his ship and his sword into her service. He was still that much of a gentleman, at least. But the query reminded him suddenly of his own youth, when he would have traded what little he had for even a glimpse of a comely lass in nought but her skin and stole away from his duties to darkened corners whenever he could to stick his hand down his trousers and relieve that ache of unsatisfied lust.

"Aye," he said with a nod. "As a young lad, when I had some spare time and could find a bit of privacy, I would. Not the easiest thing to obtain aboard even a galleon, alas. And hardly satisfying, to have to tuck myself away again and quickly return to swabbing the deck or pumping the bilges before I was missed."

He peeled the shirt from his shoulders and let the belt drop to the floor in a heavy thump of leather, not missing the way Emma was eyeing his bare chest and feeling a surge of masculine pride at the way her gaze darkened with desire. He was no lowly cabin boy or underfed deckhand anymore, he had pillaged and plundered his way across the realm and his name was spoken with fear and awe in the dockside taverns and pubs, Captain Killian Jones, master of the Jolly Roger, the finest vessel to sail the seven seas. He didn't have to make do with a bawdy drawing or chase after a serving wench, an actual princess lounged on his bed in an utterly scandalous state of undress and she was more beautiful to him than any jewel, more valuable than any prize. Emma reached for his necklace and pulled him to her by the chain, falling back against the pillows as he braced himself above her on one arm. Her other hand slipped under the waist of his leathers to graze across the wiry hairs until she found her prize, where he was hard and aching and pride quickly gave way to need while his hips jerked and he twitched in her grasp, hot and firm and eager.

"Like this?" Emma asked, tongue poking out from between her teeth as she stroked him up and down. In one pump he swelled that last little bit, fully erect and the fearsome pirate was completely at the princess's tender mercy. Killian rutted shamelessly into her hand, closing the gap between them to cover her lips with his. The book had mainly described the baser acts and there was no ode to the pleasures of kissing on the mouth as there was to the many joys of fellatio and cunnalingus both. But it was somehow more intimate to share breath itself with his lover, to sweetly nip at her bottom lip until it was as red as a ripe cherry and to taste the wine she'd drunk at dinner still lingering on her tongue while he palmed her full breast through the thin silk and rocked his hips steadily into her touch. A quick study his princess was, she'd learned exactly how he liked the be stroked and polished and he was forced to still her movements with a hand on her wrist before he utterly embarrassed himself and spilled too soon.

"Have you ever gratified yourself, my darling?"

While he was more than ready to gratify the both of them with his cock aching to find the welcoming harbour between her thighs, Killian was curious. He'd lived almost his whole life among randy sailors, he knew men did, and do so as often as they could in most cases. But a highborn lady like his princess? He would had assumed no, it was completely absurd, but that was before he met Emma.

She didn't answer immediately, not with words at least, looking down with her lashes demurely touching her cheeks and finally giving a shy little nod that made his belly flip and his voice drop to a throaty growl.

"Show me."

Her stockings were tied with ribbon garters just above her knees, revealed as the shift was slowly hitched up. The little bows did something to him, he wanted to untie them with his teeth and suck a mark into her flesh, leave love bites all over her inner thighs and make her fall apart with his tongue, but he was completely transfixed by the sight of her slim hand, inching higher and higher up her leg. The pink of her cheeks was nothing compared to the dark rose of her cunny, exposed to his avid gaze when she spread her legs fully and already glistening in the lamplight. Her fingers twitched, hesitated, but at his encouraging nod they finally slid through the damp cleft with a touch that was soft and delicate, barely making contact for several torturous, slow passes until Emma finally reached the nub at the top and began to rub and circle it with firmer strokes. Killian felt an answering throb in his groin, a faint echo of the growing pleasure he could see in the catch of her lip between her teeth and the rock of her hips up into her exploring hand.

"Does it feel good, Princess?"

"Yes."

She looked at him with a heavy-lidded gaze while her hand continued to work between her thighs and he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his fingers around his shaft, pumping it in time to the movement and swiping his thumb over the swollen head whenever she touched her own sweet spot and a shudder rippled under her skin.

"Does it feel as good as when I touch you?" he asked, voice hoarse with desire.

Emma shook her head, golden hair spilling over the pillow. "No...it feels, it feels good, but when you touch me, when you're...inside me...it...it feels, it feels like nothing else ever has. I never want you to stop."

"Never," Killian promised, a dark chuckle escaping him. "You're my treasure now, my love, and I'll never stop. I could have you every night and never tire of your velvet quim, so snug and perfect around my cock when you wrap your legs around me and take me all the way to the hilt. I dreamt of it from the day you set foot on my ship, taking you to bed and touching you all over, these perfect breasts, your shapely arse, kissing your mouth and all along your white throat, down to part your thighs and sup to my heart's content on your sweetness."

He moved to kneel on the bed, between her spread legs and ducked down to kiss her, one hand braced to hold his weight and the other snaking down to grasp her wrist. "Don't stop," he warned, while she panted with her impending release and moaned quietly into his mouth. Killian placed his hand on top of her own and together they continued to stroke her towards the peak, when he sensed she was just about to fall over the edge as her free hand grasped his shoulder and her nails dug into his skin he abruptly thrust two fingers inside, curling them upwards and feeling her squeeze around them with a soft cry falling from her kiss-swollen lips. No buxom bathing beauty, nubile farmer's daughter or haughty duchess could compare to his swan princess, bright-eyed and pliant in his arms. They kissed with unhurried languor, his erection had not abated but the night was still young, there was no need for haste. It was worth it to delay his satisfaction to watch hers, as the lad in the book had watched the maid in her bath. Emma's nails trailed pleasantly through his chest hair and toyed with the charms on his necklace, thumbing over the skull and dagger.

"Does it feel as good as when I touch you?"

Her hand drifted down and brushed his flat stomach, the muscles quivering under the contact.

"Definitely not," Killian breathed, head tipping back a bit and his eyes closing. She drew nonsense patterns with her nails, moving lower down, a gentle caress that was so unlike whenever he felt the need to gratify himself and took his cock in hand. Her hand was much smaller, lacked the calluses formed from years of raising sails and playing out rope, and yet it had had him completely at her mercy from the moment he had first lifted it to his lips and brushed a kiss across the back of her knuckles.

"I wouldn't describe it as a knob, though," she said, sounding somewhat displeased by the term.

A ripple of mirth ran through him at that. "No?"

"Knob implies something rather squat, like a doorknob. Perhaps some men are shaped in such a manner, but you are most certainly not."

Killian had lived almost his whole life in the close quarters of ships populated almost entirely by men. Privacy was a luxury he'd not known until he became an officer, he'd seen plenty of sailors stripped down to the skin and more male appendages than he could count. Princess Emma had no such basis for comparison, and wouldn't, if he had any say in the matter.

"Is there another word you would prefer then?" he asked, propping a hand under his head and angling his hips back so that his groin was on full display for her. "Since 'knob' obviously displeases you, and we can't have that. Member? Tool?"

She shook her head with each one, thoughtfully eyeing the part of his anatomy in question. Never had a woman taken such time to peruse him so closely before the bedding, measuring him with thumb and index finger, examining his length and girth.

"Larger than I expected," she murmured, which made him smile (and feel more than a little satisfied to have exceeded her expectations thus). "I didn't see at first how it could possibly fit...and so warm to the touch. Not cold and blunt as a tool."

So he wasn't the village farrier come to plow the farmer's daughter. Just as well, straw itched something fierce. Emma traced along the shape of him with the pads of her fingers, still engrossed in her task. Killian didn't care how she decided to refer to his cock, she could call it his pecker, his phallus, his mast, anything she wanted so long as she kept doing that.

"But a fair amount of heft, when I handle it like this."

The "handling" made his eyes roll back and he thrust helplessly into her grip. "You can handle it whenever you please," he moaned, rolling them in the bunk so that he was on top. "Whatever you wish to call it, Princess."

Killian spread her thighs open with his knee and rested between them, feeling her hand guide him across that last bit of distance. He slid in with almost no resistance, just the voluptuous sensation of being wrapped in silken heat, a balls deep dive into waters uncharted to all but him. There was no word for this moment, no way to describe the feeling that seized him from head to toe as he started to move. All eloquence fled, there was only the slide of his body inside hers, the slick push and pull of the quickfire rhythm that matched the beat of his heart under where her palms lay braced on his bare chest, not to push him away, never that, but to welcome him home and home again. Whoever he was, Killian Jones, sailor, pirate, captain, he was hers, nameless in her arms, her lover, joined as they were in the most intimate of ways. The light from the lantern was am amber spill over their entwined limbs, turning her skin to honey that he tasted with his tongue, chasing her pulse as it fluttered in the hollow of her throat, rolling a pert nipple between his fingers when she arched up against him. The lines and edges were blurred in a haze of passion that left him unable to tell where he ended and she began. His downward strokes were matched by the upward tilt of her hips, a delicious drag of his rigid flesh along her inner walls that started to increase in pace as he felt the familiar tingle of impending release. Killian kissed a line down her throat and buried his face in her neck while Emma clutched at his arse, pulling him even closer with her thighs tightening around his hips. All the ways there was to describe the act that he'd ever heard from sniggering sailors, crude boasts of bedding, swiving, rogering, coupling, and the only one that came to mind now as he spilled with a groan and groped for her hand, lacing their fingers tight against the mattress, was lovemaking.

"Do you think they had a happy ending?"

The question pulled him from the lazy afterglow where they lay on the rumpled and well-used bed with Emma's head pillowed on his shoulder, still fully nude save for the single stocking that had somehow managed to cling to her leg throughout their exertions. The other was draped half on and half off the bunk while her shift lay in a tangled heap on the floor with his discarded trousers and he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Who, love?"

"The highwayman and the lady in the book. It was my favourite of all the tales and we didn't finish it. Do you think they had a happy ending?"

Killian stared up at the ceiling and felt his chest rise with a breath as he considered how to answer. He was certain that there had been a happy ending in the story of the dashing highwayman and the spirited noblewoman he waylaid on a deserted road, but not the kind that Emma probably meant….

"Do you think they did?" he asked carefully, tilting his head to look at her. He realized suddenly that perhaps there was some...similarities, in their situations, having waylaid his own noblewoman on the high seas and stolen her jewels, even though he had given them back (eventually). But the book Emma had found on his shelf was meant for titillation, fodder for a wank, a bawdy laugh and nothing more, and he very much doubted that there was any real happily ever after to be found in its salacious tales.

Her bare shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I don't know. We could read it tomorrow, and see for certain."

He could hear the note of hesitation in her voice and he tightened the arm he had wrapped around her while her hand spread flat on his chest, over his heart, the sea diamond resting on her finger. Gave her back her jewels and then some.

"They did," he said firmly, running his fingers over hers. "They ran off together and had all sorts of grand adventures, and they had a very happy ending."

Emma let out a pleased murmur, nose pressed to his neck. "Even though he threatened to pierce her with his dirk?" she mumbled.

"Darling, sure you know that was simply another witticism and that he wasn't actually referring to a knife."

Her hand drifted lower, resting just above where he was spent and soft against his belly. "Another word for this, then? Is that what I should call it? Your dirk? Or perhaps something a bit more...lengthy."

Killian felt his cock begin to stir as her voice turned sultry, the siren song of such words on her lips luring him in again.

"A dagger?" he offered.

"Mmm, too pointy. Not a rapier style of blade, more like a….cutlass, or your sabre. It's even curved just a tiny bit too."

Her lips curved in a smile that made his heart skip a beat even as he thought ruefully that their next sparring session was sure to result in some dreadfully tight leathers.

"More than the barest prick, I imagine."

The noblewoman of the tale had retorted to the highwayman's "threat" with a disdainful comment that she was sure to feel only the barest prick from his dirk. Killian laughed, taking Emma's hand and guiding it back down, down, down...

"Oh I think you're well aware, Princess, that when I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it."

#cs fic #cs ff #my fic #cscocktoberfest #cs smut

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canyousevmyheavydirtysoul · 6 years ago

Text

Bodyguard II: Familial Ties (Part II - Chapter 9) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

With a small smile, you watched as Thor helped Jane down from the ladder, revelling in the cuteness while you made your way towards the entrance to the lab. You barely set foot inside before you were tackled.

Aaron’s body collided with yours in a massive hug that knocked the wind out of you, allowing you to only get the tiniest of giggles out as you hugged him back.

“I missed you, too.”

“How are you, love?”

“Good,” you smiled, pulling away and rubbing your hand at the back of his head affectionately. “Thor and I had a training session last night, and I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be shutting down any cities anytime soon.”

Aaron laughed happily. “That’s great!”

“What’s great?” Selvig asked, shuffling into the kitchen area tiredly.

You and Aaron shared a look before you swiftly covered up; things might have been better, but you still weren’t entirely comfortable with broadcasting your abilities to the world.

“Oh, that problem I left to take care of? It’s all sorted.”

Which technically wasn’t a lie.

Selvig nodded in understanding, rubbing his eyes. “Nice to hear your great-aunt is okay.”

Smiling at the older man, you sneaked a wink at Aaron – garnering a beautiful smile in response – and turned to make some coffee.

Ten minutes later, the rest of your group had joined you, and four of you were sitting at the table, sipping coffee while Thor and Jane prepared the eggs for breakfast.

Jane scooped the eggs from the hotplate and placed them on the plates, which Thor carried over and placed in front of each of you.

“Thanks,” Darcy beamed.

“You’re very welcome,” Thor bowed his head and pulled up a seat for himself, Jane joining with a couple more plates.

The lot of you proceeded to dig in, while across the street on the roof of one of the buildings, Agents Garrett and Cale surveyed your group, bored out of their wits. Cale watched you through the lab windows with binoculars and Garrett listened to the comm.

“They want an update,” he said, turning to Cale.

“Tell them he’s eating eggs.”

“Scrambled or fried?” Garrett asked, getting a glare from his colleague before speaking into the comm, “Target is eating eggs, sir. We’ll keep you posted.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Security room. S.H.I.E.L.D desert base.

Coulson raced into the room as Dallon called up satellite footage of the Bifrost storm that was currently occurring on the computer monitor.

“What the hell was that?” Coulson questioned.

“I don’t know, sir,” Dallon shook his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, only to have them fall down again, “We got massive energy readings out of nowhere, then they just disappeared. Fifteen miles due northwest.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Bifrost landing site.

Amidst the fury of the Bifrost storm, the Warriors Three and Sif dropped to the ground in the New Mexico desert. They clambered to their feet as the Bifrost quickly receded, the hole in the sky closing up behind it. The rainbow bridge’s runes covered the desert sand around them.

“He must have landed nearby,” Volstagg said, glancing around to gather his bearings, “It’s time to put our tracking skills to work. Spread out. Check the sand for indentations of his boot prints.”

Fandral piped up next, trailing his finger in the air. “The winds would have blown them away by now. We should look for signs of a campfire.”

“Or we could just start there,” Sif suggested, pointing behind the group to the town in the distance – the only visible sign of civilisation – and to Hogun, who had already taken initiative and started walked towards it.

Volstagg and Fandral traded looks, their egos bruised, before the former spoke again.

“It’s worth a look, I suppose,” he shrugged, and the party began trooping towards the town.

Townsfolk stared in wonder at the Warriors Three and Sif as they strolled down the street in all their Asgardian splendour, paying no mind to the strange looks they were receiving.

A little way down the street, a boy hit a baseball, which rolled under a parked car. He ran to retrieve it, but couldn’t reach it. Suddenly, the side of the car rose into the air. The boy looked over, his mouth dropping open at what he saw – Volstagg easily held the car up with one hand.

Volstagg picked up the boy’s ball, then dropped the car. He handed the ball back to the boy, reaching out to tousle his hair.

“There you go, lad!” he boomed.

The boy just stared, standing frozen, as the Asgardians headed off.

“Is it just me,” Volstagg continued, addressing his fellow Asgardians as he looked at the surrounding streets and buildings, “or does Earth look a little different to you?”

Sif shrugged, looking around as well. “It has been a thousand years…”

“Things change so fast here. You leave for a millennium, and it’s like the whole neighbourhood’s gone.” Volstagg sniffed, picking up a scent. “Perhaps we should split up.”

From the rooftop, Agents Cale and Garrett spotted Sif, Fandral and Hogun walking down the street.

“Is there a Renaissance Faire in town?” Garrett scrunched his face up.

“Call it in,” Cale instructed.

Before either of them could, Volstagg rose up behind them, smashing their heads together. They were out like a light.

“Never cared for spies,” Volstagg grunted.

He started to move away, then saw their bag of fast food on the ground. Intrigued, he pulled out a cheeseburger and took a bite.

“Exquisite.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Jane’s lab.

Your little group made a charming team, tidying up after breakfast – washing, drying, and putting plates and utensils away.

The front door burst open.

“Found you!”

All of you turned to see Sif and the Warriors Three, staring baffled at the sight of the domestic Thor drying dishes in mortal clothing. Jane was so startled at the sudden intrusion that she dropped a plate; it went shattering on the floor.

“My friends!” Thor happily raced over to greet his comrades while the rest of you watched from across the room.

You and Jane looked concerned, while Selvig, Darcy and Aaron eyed them with wonder.

“I don’t believe it…” the two doctors spoke in unison, totally in awe.

“Who are they?” Darcy asked.

Volstagg took the liberty of answering. “Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. Surely you’ve heard tales of Hogun the Grim, Fandral the Dashing, and I, Volstagg the Svelte?”

Selvig looked pointedly at Volstagg’s massive gut. The Warrior shifted awkwardly.

“Well, perhaps I’ve put on a little more muscle since I was here last.”

“That would have been a thousand years ago?” Jane frowned. “Northern Europe?”

“Exactly!” Volstagg beamed, “Those lovely herring people. They worshipped us!”

Thor grinned, laying a hand of the Warrior’s shoulder. “My friends, I’ve never been happier to see anyone. But you should not have come.”

Fandral stepped up. “We’re here to take you home.”

“You know I can’t,” Thor’s face fell, “My father is dead because of me. I must remain in exile.”

The other Asgardians exchanged puzzled looks, with Sif being the one to inform him.

“Thor… your father still lives.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Bifrost landing site.

A few S.H.I.E.L.D vehicles were parked by the site, with a few agents standing nearby as scientists took readings. Coulson kneeled, examining the Bifrost runes. He turned to one of the agents.

“Get somebody from Linguistics out here.”

Just then, they heard a rumbling overhead, as the Bifrost storm roared in the sky above. Coulson and the rest of the agents scrambled for cover, the vehicle windshields shattering as the storm grew in strength. Finally, the hole in the sky overhead opened, and the funnel cloud exploded out of it, touching down onto the desert floor. The agents used their arms to shelter their eyes from the maelstrom.

From behind the SUV they sought cover at, the agents lowered their arms once it was safe to do so, and peered around the vehicle. They were met with the sight of the Destroyer – a towering entity making its way toward them.

“Is that one of Stark’s?” one of the agents queried, staring at the adversary in awe.

“I don’t think so,” Coulson shook his head, then shrugged lightly, “But the guy doesn’t tell me anything.”

Stepping forward, Coulson grabbed a megaphone from inside the SUV and called out to the Destroyer.

“Hello! You’re using unregistered weapons technology. Please identify yourself.”

There was an audible hum in the air as the Destroyer’s fiery energy began to power up inside of it, prompting Coulson to step back and flail his free hand around.

“Incoming!” he warned.

The agents scrambled for cover yet again, just in time to dodge a blast of energy from the Destroyer; it hit one of the SUVs, blowing it to pieces. Aiming their weapons, the agents returned fire.

✧ ✧ ✧

Main street.

Townspeople filled the streets, staring at the fire fight in the distance. The Asgardian members of your recently expanded group prepared for battle, as Thor turned to address Jane.

“Leave this town now. Get yourself and your friends to safety.”

“What about you?” she frowned, shaking her head.

“I must stay and fight,” Thor answered, as his friends looked at him uneasily, “I’m still a warrior,” he reminded them, “and I will fight by your side.”

“So will I,” you stepped up, much to the surprise of Jane, Selvig and Darcy.

Aaron stood with a proud smile and when the others noticed his lack of concern, they looked at him in confusion.

“Long story,” he brushed them off, waving his hand dismissively.

“It would be an honour to have you fight alongside us, Skadi,” Volstagg gave you a huge smile, which you returned, before he turned to Thor with a frown, “But you! You’re but a mortal now. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Or one of us, trying to protect you,” Fandral chimed.

“The best thing you can do is get the mortals to safety and leave the battle to us,” Sif added in agreement.

Thor looked at the townsfolk all around, all of them oblivious to the oncoming threat.

“You’re right,” he nodded, much to Sif’s surprise; he wasn’t one to normally relent so easily.

Thor turned to the four mortals. “Help me clear the streets. I’ll let none of these people die this day.”

Thor, Jane, Selvig, Darcy and Aaron started herding the crowd of townsfolk off the street, and with a quick nod between you all, you, Sif and the Warriors Three headed across town, towards the Destroyer.

“Keep him distracted,” Sif instructed before hurrying off, the rest of you continuing towards the behemoth.

“What do you think?” Fandral asked his fellow Warriors as he sized up the enemy, “’The Svartalfheim Twist’? ‘Kiss of the Hag’? ‘Face Full of Boot’?”

Volstagg grinned eagerly. “’The Flying Mountain’!”

Hogun and Fandral groaned.

“Not ‘The Flying Mountain’!” Fandral protested, “It threw out my back for a year last time!”

“Trust me, it’ll work.”

Watching the three with a worried expression, you mumbled to yourself under your breath. “I can’t believe that this is my life now.”

From down the street, Thor looked on anxiously as the four of you got into position before the Destroyer.

“They fight bravely,” he commented to Jane, “but they won’t be able to hold it back for long.”

Hogun and Fandral took off running towards the Destroyer, as Volstagg stood limbering up. When he received the cue from Fandral, he sprinted forward at full speed and caught up to his comrades, who grabbed him on either side and with all their Asgardian might, hurled the voluminous warrior into the air and at the black mental behemoth.

“For Asgaaaaard!” Volstagg yelled.

The Destroyer was unable to react fast enough, and Volstagg crashed into the creature. For a moment, it seemed as if it might have worked, but the enemy remained grounded on its feet. It lifted Volstagg into the air by the scruff of his neck and savagely hurled him at Hogun and Fandral, smashing into them.

Sif leaped off a nearby rooftop with her two-headed spear and plunged it deep into the back of the creature. It stood there motionless, the fire dimming in its faceplate and Sif standing atop its back. The Asgardians had a brief moment of hope.

But it dissipated when the creature stirred with life, its fire igniting once again. Sif looked of with growing trepidation as slowly, unnaturally, the Destroyer spun its torso around one hundred and eighty degrees to face its attackers.

It released a blast of fire at Sif, and that moment was your time to step up. Throwing your hand out, you created an ice blast to counteract the fire, giving Sif the opportunity to dive off of the creature before she got hurt.

The Destroyer rose again to its full height, pulling free from Sif’s spear, the weapon slipping through the slats of its armour.

The four of you huddled together and tried to regroup, when the creature unleashed another blast. You created an ice shield this time, projecting it forward to protect you all. The collision was so powerful that it sent each of you flying in different directions.

Thor saw all of you lying injured on the ground, but had no time to act, as the Destroyer fired in his direction.

“No,” you groaned, pushing yourself up and trying to fire after the blast, but to no avail.

A storefront near the lab exploded, knocking all of your friends off of their feet. Thor helped Jane and Aaron helped Darcy up, when they noticed Selvig lying on his back amidst the debris, impaled by a twisted piece of iron.

They hurried to his side. He was losing blood, and going into shock. Jane took his hand as Thor spotted Hogun’s pouch of healing stones lying in the middle of the street, where it had landed when he was sent flying through the air only a few moments ago.

Thor made a break for the pouch, dodging through the flaming wreckage, then grabbing it and racing back. He opened the pouch to find the fragile stones crushed and useless. He poured the contents out in his hand.

“Come on… give me one!” he growled.

Amidst the useless powder, he finally found one stone still intact. Thor tossed the pouch aside and held the stone over the end of the iron rod.

“What are you doing?” Jane asked, “What is that?”

As the stone began to glow, Thor crushed it. The others looked on, amazed, as the glowing powder fell upon the piece of iron, dissolving it, heading downwards until it reached Selvig’s wound, healing it completely.

Thor looked down the street, seeing his wounded friends and cousin still lying there, as Selvig sat up in utter astonishment. The doctor reached through the hole in his shirt to touch his healed flesh.

Looking to Jane, he raised one brow. “I’m really starting to like him.”

Jane turned, only to see that Thor had already taken off down the street. The god reached you and Sif, lying dazed, battered and bloodied on the ground. He quickly pulled you behind a burning vehicle before doing the same to Sif.

“Go, while you can!” he urged both of you.

“But the others…” you argued, shaking your head.

“You can’t help them now. Your jobs are to survive.”

Sif struggled to sit up as he snapped back. “No! I will die a warrior’s death. Stories will be told of this day-“

Thor gently took her shield from her. “Live and tell those stories yourself.”

At last, she nodded. Thor spotted Volstagg lying unconscious, with Hogun and Fandral lying nearby, and rushed over to them.

Volstagg was barely breathing. Thor tried to pull him to safety, but it was no use; he wouldn't budge. The god roused Hogun and Fandral.

“Get him out of here!”

“No. Can still fight!” Fandral stood up confidently.

“But not win. Move Volstagg, or he’ll die!” Thor looked at his friends and seeing their forlorn expressions, grinned in assurance. “Don’t worry, my friends. I have a plan.”

The two Warriors reluctantly grabbed their fallen friend and dragged him away from the battlefield. After they went, Thor turned back to the Destroyer, then tossed Sif’s shield aside. He strode down the street towards the behemoth, completely defenceless.

“Brother…” Thor called out, striding closer, “for whatever I have done to wrong you, whatever I have done to lead you to do this, I am sorry. But these people have done nothing to you. They are innocents.” He continued towards the Destroyer. “Take my life, and know I will never return to Asgard.”

Thor reached the Destroyer and extended his arms. The creature hesitated; sizing up the defenceless Thor, then swatted him with its enormous arm. The sickening crack of breaking bones resounded in the air as Thor went flying.

He landed in a crumpled, broken heap in front of Smith Motors, before Jane, Selvig, Darcy and Aaron. The wounded Asgardians watched helplessly from down the street, a look of horror on their faces. Jane tried to rush out to Thor’s aid, but Selvig held her back.

“Jane, no!” He pulled her to safety.

Thor’s eyes closed, his last breath leaving his lips. The Destroyer stood over Thor’s body, lowering its head towards him. It opened its faceplate, locking it in place and readying to release its fiery blast.

With a shake of your head and fuelled by rage, you charged down the street, running towards the creature with determination. Aaron went crazy when he saw you, crying out desperately for you to get away.

But you stood your ground, clenching your jaw as you replied. “I’m not losing anyone else.” You looked from the doctor, to Thor, to the Destroyer, assuming a battle stance. “Not if I can help it.”

As if on cue, the creature opened its mouth and released its blast, but you were ready for it, and with a loud yell, extended two open hands in front of you, projecting a torrent of ice that resisted the fiery blast.

Meanwhile, inside the crater at the S.H.I.E.L.D base, the runes on the side of Mjolnir reappeared, burning bright. Electricity started to crackle on the hammer’s surface and scientists beside it took notice as it vibrated, and a rumble came from overhead. They looked up, seeing clouds forming in the sky above.

Just then, with a crack and a flash of lightning, Mjolnir flew straight up into the air like a rocket.

You were still going at it, producing a seemingly never-ending surge of ice at the creature to keep the fire at bay. It was preventing it, yes, but you were struggling to get it to stop.

Projecting continuously took a lot out of you, and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears and feel the blood rush to your head as your stance became shaky. But you pushed through, refusing to give up despite the fact that you were beginning to slip away.

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, a blinding bolt of lightning struck down from above, colliding with the Destroyer’s blast. The explosion was massive, and you mustered up a shield to protect yourself from it as it sent the Destroyer flying backwards, a cloud of dust enveloping the street.

As the smoke cleared, there stood the Mighty Thor, clad in his full battle armour, holding Mjolnir in his hand – the God of Thunder once more. Thor kneeled, bringing Mjolnir down onto the ground.

Lightning shot of out the sky and struck the Destroyer, causing it to convulse. With a smile on your face, you watched it all occur, your smile growing even bigger when your cousin extended a hand to help you up.

“Hey, how come I don’t get the fancy cape and armour?” you pouted slightly, making Thor chuckle.

“You’ve got the hair,” he reminded.

You shrugged, smirking slightly. “True.”

The two of you looked at each other for a few seconds, both knowing what the other was thinking. Then, you turned to the creature.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

With a deep breath, you shut your eyes and summoned all of your power; when you reopened them, your hair and eyes assumed their platinum colour as you raised yourself up on an ice platform.

Beside you, Thor swung Mjolnir around, taking off straight up into the air, as the Destroyer got back on its feet and looked up at the two gods in front of him.

Storm clouds gathered around Thor as he summoned gale force winds, and little snowflakes swirled from your fingers as you moved them around. Debris from the battle began to rise up into the sky, but the Destroyer remained in its spot, kept grounded by the ice you had solidified around its feet.

It lifted its head up at Thor, opened its faceplate and unleashed its blast. Thor dove downwards straight at it, with Mjolnir before him. The hammer collided with the fiery energy blast, overpowering it and pushing it back, forcing it down at the Destroyer.

The God of Thunder jammed his hammer deep into the creature’s faceplate, forcing the fiery energy to build up inside the creature and explode within it.

Thor smashed the Destroyer to the ground in a tremendous heap, the fire within it extinguished forever.

Pulling Mjolnir from the faceplate, Thor walked away from its lifeless carcass. As he did so, the other objects and debris pulled into the air by the gale force winds dropped down from the skies around the Destroyer, burying it. You descended too, joining your cousin.

Now that it was safe, your friends and the rest of the Asgardians hurried over to the two of you. A battered Coulson and several S.H.I.E.L.D agents approached as well.

“Just a man, huh?”

✧ ✧ ✧

Minutes later. Bifrost landing site.

“Heimdall!” Thor called up to the sky, “Open the Bifrost!”

Nothing happened at Thor’s request, prompting the god to look to the other Asgardians in concern.

“He would open it if he could. I fear the worst.”

“Then we’re trapped here forever,” Volstagg remarked.

“Then I suppose we’d best start settling into our new lives.” Fandral looked to Darcy, turning on the charm. “Are all Earth maidens as fair as you?”

Enjoying the attention, Darcy smiled coyly. “No.”

Thor shouted back up to the sky in a second attempt to reach the gatekeeper. “Heimdall!”

Suddenly, the Bifrost exploded down from the sky. Thor grinned, as the mortals looked on in amazement.

Fandral turned to Darcy with an apologetic face. “Sorry, my love. These things happen.”

He walked off to join the other Asgardians at their side, as Thor turned to Coulson.

“Know this, son of Coul. You and I, we fight for the same cause – they protection of this world. From this day forward, count me as your ally.” He paused for a beat, then continued. “If you return the items you have stolen from Jane Foster.”

“Not stolen. Borrowed.” Jane shot him a look, and Coulson quickly proceeded. “You’ll get your equipment back. You’re going to need it to continue your research… which, after today’s events, S.H.I.E.L.D would like to fully sponsor. If that’s all right with you.”

Thor took Jane’s hand and kissed it tenderly. She looked at him, her eyes filled with the fear that she may never see him again.

“Whatever fate lies before me, you are part of it,” he said to her before taking her in his arms and kissing her passionately.

When he pulled away, he turned his attention to you. “As are you, (Y/N).”

“Of course.” You nodded. “Family first, right?”

Thor gave a small smile. “Are you certain I cannot convince you to return with me to Asgard?”

“Nah,” you declined his offer, looking around the area, “I have my own duties to perform. Here.” Your gaze landed on Aaron next to you, and you smiled softly at him before looking back to Thor. “This is my home.”

Thor bowed his head slightly to show his understanding, then looked to Aaron.

“Farewell, Aaron Jacobson. Thank you for your help, and thank you for taking care of (Y/N).”

“Oh, it’s-“ the usually silver-tongued doctor was suddenly at a loss for words, “No need to thank me. Really.”

With a smile, Thor glanced back at you. “He cares deeply for you, you know.”

Looking at Aaron, you beamed brightly, maintaining eye contact with him even while answering Thor. “I know.”

“Until we meet again,” Thor said finally, stepping back.

“Until we meet again,” you nodded in agreement.

With a final smile, Thor and the Asgardians leapt into the Bifrost.

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

Taglist:

@arosebyname @avengertrash21 @tiffisnotnormal @darknessdancing @raversam @theieroenthusiast @the-ghost-of-hemingway @laerkers @peters-vlogs @hockeyswag-boll @username-number-01834 @untilyouburnallofthewitches @underscoredarcy @aminasmells @becausebands @converseskyline @vinyloider @attractiveugly @twentzyonepirates @tegan-eva @i-only-date-flower-boys @jishwatylrandtop @blueskiesbleakeyes @robinruns @hi-ho-and-hello @svintsandghosts @iamafishandigosplish @sunshineandapplepie @kealohilani-tepise @bookworm104 @sheridans-dynamos @justawriterinprogress @anotherwriterinprogress

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creativenicocorner · 6 years ago

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Original Character in 5 Gifs

Aaaah Heck <3 Got tagged by @bifacialler And challenged too! Hihi So here’s the thing with Karenna Isabella Navarro Méndez

Karenna came Topside out of the fetch in the 1300′s of what was then The Kingdom of Aragon, and what is known today as Northern Spain.

For a changeling, she has a very assured sense of self, and takes the whole ‘Who am I? What am I?’ excestential questions changelings tend to ask themselves with stride. Though just because she makes it look easy, doesn’t mean she doesn’t struggle with those questions as well - at most she answers them with an ‘easy come easy go’ sort of mentality. One of those optimistic nihilist. Names have no meaning, the past cannot be changed, and the only thing she can control is herself and how to use the cards dealt to her.

The simplest way to describe Karenna, is blunt. Which is a tricky thing to be in a secret spy organization like the Janus Order. Which has gotten her in quite a few near death situations, at least until she realized there’s a time and a place to be blunt. She is never afraid to speak her mind, or rather sign them. That doesn’t mean she isn’t clever enough to keep some thoughts and opinions to herself.

What she won’t and can’t say in words, she’ll make clear with her actions (even if the actions are done in secret). If she doesn’t agree with certain orders she’ll still do them, all while able to find some sort of loop-hole to add a variation to it.

An example of this can be seen in Terpsichore ch9 ( [Spoilers!] For most members of Gunmar’s army and secret order it’s un-spokenly expected to kill Trollhunters...though seeing as none of her direct orders mentioned anything about killing, she isn’t going to go out of her way to kill what is essentially children [End Spoilers!]).

Though perhaps the best example of this, is her time in the Spanish Inquisition, where Karenna earned the Janus Order Title of The Inquisitor...

Karenna is the go to changeling for reconnaissance and a gatherer of knowledge, which is why the hypocrisy of the Spanish Inquisition was very hard to swallow for this changeling. With the use of glamours she was stationed to infiltrate and take part in the Inquisition on the chance any other Janus Order member ended up falling into the Spanish Inquisition’s clutches, and would take measures to help sneak fallen changelings out.

More so as an attempt to keep the hidden troll world a secret, than for the safety of fellow changelings...at least that was how Stricklander explained it to Bular at the time. After all the last thing anyone needed was the Inquisition to discover magical stone creatures existed.

Thus Karenna was stationed there, however it wasn’t just fellow changelings she’d help sneak away, but other humans trapped there as well. Sometimes even forcing a glamour on another Inquisitor to take the form of a prisoner and watch gleefully as the Inquisitors torture one of their own, without their own knowing.

What a Scorpio, am I right? <3

Needless to say she became quiet adept in torturing information out of others, and is a good judge when trying to see who is lying for the sake of surviving and who is telling the truth.

Now, for plot and spoiler reasons I’m not going to disclose how her vocal chords became damaged. However they have been damaged for a very long time.

Due to Bular’s temper tantrums and practically culling any changeling he deemed obsolete (and the lack of technology and un-researched magic on the topic) Karenna still forced herself to use her vocal chords despite the pain it caused - damaging her vocal chords even more to the point of no turning back.

This was a major mental toll on the blunt opinionated changeling. Who not only enjoyed collecting knowledge but proving to others she had knowledge as well. It took a lot of soul searching to come to terms that this was a part of her life, and thus, as Shakespeare once put it; she turned her tears into sparks of fire. It was a long journey to embrace, but one she embraced with full force. She learned there was no shame in her condition and used it to her full advantage.

As the head of reconnoissance and infiltration she brought to the Janus Order the two handed alphabet, and with it a bit more freedom to her fellow changelings. A means of expressing one’s self openly, and secretively all at once. Become a quick favorite in the eyes of Stricklander.

By the time the 17th century rolled around, the two handed alphabet and all its variations became a mandatory linguistic for all changelings to learn.

Though with it, came Bular’s insecurity and paranoia of the changelings under his control. Because of this he attempted to banish this use (which resulted to changelings having to be even sneakier in using it, and mainly used it in closed locations, or among other humans). Fearful this might also mean the end of her life, Karenna was requested frequently to be placed in dangerous field work.

By the 20th century and the introduction to security cameras, as well as sustaining quite a harmful injury, Karenna was relocated to a Janus Order desk job. Securing and looking over the physical archives within, with her partner Zurougia.

A dream she works on in her own time is to invent an official CSL - changeling sign language.

Karenna and Zurougia met while taking part in the coup d'état that lead to the accession of power of Princess Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst more famously known as Cathrine the Great Empress of Russia.

It is a rule in the Janus Order to make sure one always takes all sides. That way no matter who wins in human affairs, there is always a changeling. “We are guests in their world, until we make it our own.” is a very common phrase and reminder within the Janus Order.

When the coup d'état became a success Karenna and Zurougia celebrated, and continued celebrating...carnally. Quite unable to get enough out of the other, they fell very quickly, head over heels.

However, there’s a reason why there aren’t many love stories in changeling folklore. It’s a rare concept to come by. There’s always a level of denial that love is a thing, or that it’s happening, or even possible. Love in their world is so rare, that it is almost thought of as a fairy tale idea. And like most changelings Karenna and Zurougia struggled with it.

At least until they found themselves on opposite sides of the Pugachev's Rebellion, where the fear of losing the other forever became very great. When they met each other again on the battlefield, under almost impossible odds, they decided then and there to hold onto what they have. For as long as they can.

And they did. And have been together ever since.

At a glance they easily fall under the trope of gentle giant, and snarky little bullet. Together they make for an excellent and formidable tag team.

They are also the most stable relationship inside the Terpsichore universe. Since I’ll be exploring many different angles and heartbreak and other angsty goodness relationship-muck wise in Terpsichore, I wanted to make sure there is at least one (1) couple that radiates as a healthy stable relationship. Who’s only main argument is when the wedding bells will toll.

To those who worry if Karenna and Zurougia will survive to the end of Terpsichore, or will fall under the dreaded ‘kill your gays’ trope, I can tell you here and now - SPOILERS

yes, they will survive. They are happy and together to the end.

END SPOILERS

She is quite easily one of my favorite characters I’ve invented yet. A mixture of sass and intelligence (a common trope in most of my characters) but also a character who isn’t afraid to stick to her guns, and be true to what her heart believes- even when stacked against the odds.

Like some changelings she looks up to and respects Stricklander, as well as distrusts him considering his past actions. However that respect tripled with the death of Bular, happily accepting a life and world without Gunmar. Believing changelings to be better off with the warlord trapped in the Darklands.

To those who’ve followed Terpsichore, I can confirm she’ll be quite the thorn in Otto’s side.

Anyways I know it isn’t part of the meme, but I’m also very music based in my writing, so here’s her theme song haha

youtube

I think that just about covers it! Whew! That was fun!

And now I shall tag @random-emerald-thoughts ( *cough* a challenge for more Ashur info? Or Sadik? your pick ; P ) as well as @danger-flammable !!

#she's beauty she's grace she'll kick you in the face #Terpsichore #Karenna #Yoooo this became a lot longer than I anticipated haha #Trollhunters #Tales of Arcadia #OCs #Changeling OCs #gif meme #Nico blabs into the void #Nico Writes #Terpsichore; or rather The Comedy of the Danse Macabre

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poeticjunky · 2 years ago

Text

Sunrise, Atlantic Ocean

I’ve been a little twisted, tied up from the mind up and ungifted.

Silent when I need to speak and speaking where I should be silent.

My mind is violent, raging wars are clashing over my premeditated corpse. And I sit frozen. These thoughts are not mine, this is not what I would have chosen. Painfully, I search through my own erosion, with lackluster devotion. Whispering “I’m not broken.”

Scattered on a manic bender, linguistically mute is all I can render. Endless task of the mundane, the great cause of me hiding from my own insane. Who’s to blame? I forget her name, she was once tame, it’s heartbreaking to know her soul is aflame.

Her name had no rhyme, it’s been lost upon time. Such a crime she could have been divine, prelude to that decline.

Awkwardly mute, fearfully acute I stand on hallowed ground without a sound.

I am the conviction. Being oneself is its own restriction, this is where I was found by addiction.

A pitiless fiction.

No time to tell, that’s a difficult story to sell. Especially that part where I fell, swallowed in the ocean swell.

That storm stole my soul, that day. Till the end I did my best to remain whole, dwindling in the blackest part of a hole.

Keep your mind right, keep your eyes on the light. Fight, it’s the only way. Day in and day night. You know your salvation, so just fucking write.

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theirprofoundbond · 4 years ago

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Behind the Scenes: Ruffled Feathers

At 1,000 words this was a relatively small fic but I had a few interesting things come up while I was working on it, and I thought I’d share/record them for my own enjoyment.

(🠕 Very disturbing!!)

★ The working title was Angel Hair, and there were a number of other possibilities for the official title. My favorite was Tantrum in Aisle 2, but in the end I felt like that one just wasn’t a perfect fit.

★ I opted to have this take place in Season 5 for a few reasons. One was that I needed a Castiel who was still a little rigid and alien—Cas from later seasons would not have gotten hung up on a box of pasta. Another was that I didn’t want to go with Season 4, because the fic was going to be from Sam’s POV, and Sam was drinking demon blood for a lot of Season 4 which makes me a bit sad, lol. And Season 6 Cas was too busy for grocery shopping, and Sam was soulless for a while, so it was just not ideal.

★ In the first draft, Dean says to Cas (or in his general direction), “Somebody needs a Snickers,” in reference to the famous “You’re Not You When You’re Hungry” Snickers ad campaign. But when I was looking back over the draft, I remembered that it was taking place in Season 5, which was 2009-2010. When did that ad campaign start?

I was incredibly pleased to find that the campaign debuted as a Superbowl ad on February 7, 2010, with a memorable appearance from Betty White. (The campaign is regarded as iconic; it’s been hugely successful, and it’s still going strong today! I fell into a brief rabbit hole, here. One of the reasons the campaign been so successful is because it’s based on “an acknowledged human truth” that hunger alters our behavior. Another reason is because it’s so adaptable—the messaging can easily be transferred across languages and cultures, and you can have so many fun celebrity appearances.)

Because the message of the ad wouldn’t have had time to develop into the “eat a Snickers” shorthand reference, I adjusted Dean’s dialogue to more directly reference the debut ad, and I figured out, based on SupernaturalWiki’s timeline information and Wikipedia’s episode synopses, when the fic could have taken place. I opted for after 5x19 and before 5x20 because at that point: Sam, Dean, and Cas were all on good terms; all of them were on board with the newly-revealed objective to acquire the horsemen’s rings; and nothing too heavy had just happened to any of them personally.

★ Once again in the area of anachronisms, the first draft wrapped up with:

“Are we almost done, here?” Castiel demands with a huffy little sigh.

“Okay! Yes, I think everybody’s done,” Sam says, pushing the cart over to the checkout lanes.

In Sam’s line, he’s referring to the slang connotation of done: “completely over this.” And then, again, I had to pause when I recalled that the story was taking place in either 2009 or 2010, because that particular meaning of done felt a lot more recent to me.

It’s not scientific, but the earliest entry for that meaning on Urban Dictionary is from 2013. Damn!

So for the sake of accuracy I knew I had to change it. (Accuracy in writing matters to me in general, but half of my degree course is on linguistics, and etymology and slang are hugely interesting to me. I couldn’t bring myself to hand-wave this one!) And as is usually the case, once I had adjusted, I wound up with something I was happier with than my original attempt: Sam comes to Cas’ defense, Cas gets to give Dean a good glare, and we get a little shoutout to the fandom through the “Team Free Will” nickname. Yay!

Ruffled Feathers: AO3 | tumblr

#Supernatural #Team Free Will #writing #rachaelly reflects

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bosstoaster · 7 years ago

Note

AU where the Galra invaded earth immediately after Shiro's escape?

I read ‘Shiro’s escape’ as ‘from the Garrison’ instead of ‘from the Galra’, which is my bad. So this happens after the gang have already vamoosed with the Blue Lion.

(also thank you for this opportunity)

I) Colleen Holt has already lost too much.

She lost her husband and son in one fell swoop, in one awful phone call, in one news report. Mission Failure. Pilot Error. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’

Two words, and two-thirds of her family was gone. Just gone. Nothing to do, no bodies to identify, no one to bury.

No closer.

She lost her daughter shortly after, to furious rants and steadfast denial. Colleen tried everything to help Katie, to help her in this new, terrible world. But then she vanished.

And Colleen was alone.

Colleen guards what she had left. The home her family had lived in, the dog they’d raised since he was a puppy, the routines and rituals she could manage on her own.

So much was gone.

Colleen didn’t think she had anything left to lose.

Until the aliens came.

(read more below)

II) The world panics.

No one seems to know what’s happening anymore.

Colleen calls friends at the Garrison, calls friends who work in the government, listens to the television, listens to the radio. None of it agrees, none of it makes any sense.

Cities start going dark. Gone.

The invaders are swift and powerful, wielding weapons that humanity can’t hope to match. Grainy cell-phone footage comes in, images of marching soldiers in armor that looks like eyes, followed by legions upon legions of robots.

There’s an attempt at fighting back. Broadcasters stream live footage as military planes fire upon the huge warships and don’t even get past the projected shields. News reports come in of bombing on invaded areas, but it’s never enough. For the dozens and dozens of robots destroyed, of soldiers finally shot down, there’s another ship full to fight.

Slowly, pictures start to come out of the aliens. None of them seem to have much in common, other than purples and blues and their horrible, yellow eyes. Fur, scales, horns, fangs, tusks, claws-

All of it the same, with armor on and blasters in their hands.

Governments start to stop responding. Some have buckled down into isolationism, hoping to weather the storm.

Others are simply gone.

Colleen sits upon a wealth of information. She calls in a favor, gets a gun. Holes out in her room with Baebae and waits for the aliens to come to her.

It takes a few hours of that for her to think no.

So instead she loads Baebae into the car with as many supplies as she can get from the house, and then as much as the few grocery stories still open can sell.

Then she starts to drive.

III) The Garrison is no better than anywhere else.

Colleen wasn’t sure what she was hoping for.

There’s yelling and panic. The students have been evacuated - it even started before the invasion, after a crash and several students snuck out and were never found. Colleen tries to feel sorry for those poor lost kids, whatever happened to them, but she can’t find it in herself, not really. If they died out there, they missed the worse deaths later. Shouldn’t have snuck out in the first place anyway.

Colleen knocks on doors, offers her services. No, she’s not a soldier, no, she doesn’t have Sam’s particular training, for what good it would have done them.

Instead, she shows them the information she’s collected, from all her calls and favors.

Colleen has the clearest picture of the invasion, maybe of anyone on earth.

Iverson eyes her, takes in her haggard appearance and her fierce grip on Baebae’s collar. The stubborn set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes.

“Alright,” he says, nodding to one of the younger officers (a lieutenant, like Matt would have been- no don’t think about it). “Take her to the communications room.”

Colleen goes with her head held high, and ignores the ache in her heart at the sight of the uniforms.

IV) No one knows what the aliens want.

Colleen fixates on that. No one’s been able to get the aliens to talk. The very few captured alive will only say the same thing, over and over. ‘Veprit Sa.’ No translation known. They have linguists on it, but they have nothing to work on. It’s a fool’s errand.

But Colleen needs to know why. Does Earth have some material they want? Do they just want to lay claim to the land? Did something happen?

There’s a thought, in the back of her mind, that Colleen doesn’t want to shine a light on. A fear that maybe the reason the aliens had never come before was that they hadn’t known Earth was there. Until they breached the surface, until humanity went just that touch too far. Maybe they’d disturbed a nest they hadn’t been aware was there.

Pilot error. No one can tell her what that means, because it means they don’t know. Pilot error meant ‘human error, maybe?’ It meant ‘we don’t see anything wrong, there was no crash’. It meant ‘something happened but it wasn’t us, so it had to be someone else’.

Had her husband and son and their pilot been the first victims of these monsters?

Colleen thinks of Sam’s endless enthusiasm, his pursuit for his life’s work, the proof that somewhere, out there, was someone else. That humanity was not alone.

She buries her face in Baebae’s fur and hides her burning eyes.

Then she gets back to work.

Slowly, day by day, more cities and sources go quiet. But they finally get another word.

V) ‘Voltron’.

What’s a Voltron?

Colleen has no idea. She still has no idea when the sky darkens, and when a fleet of ships lands in front of the Garrison. One of the few remaining points of communication, it would have been a target sooner or later.

Their time was up.

“Stay,” Colleen ordered Baebae. Closing a door on him would be a death sentence if no one was around to let him out, so she has to rely on commands. “Stay!”

The dog sits obediently, gray on his muzzle and tail thumping quietly.

She has so little left to loose.

Colleen will do her best to protect this piece.

With that, Colleen draws her gun and turns around.

The base is overrun quickly. There’s no defense against them as they barrel through, shooting or striking down anyone in their way.

But Colleen has lost too much. She won’t turn tail and let this be taken.

One steps forward, their huge, fluffy ears a mocking counterpoint to their fanged smile and glowing eye. He speaks, a string of words that mean nothing to Colleen. He sounds upset, almost nervous. Frantic. Impatient.

When he speaks again, this time she does know one word.

‘Voltron’.

Several times, over and over, angrier each time. The alien roams through the room, of the scientists and soldiers and one civilian left. They meet Colleen’s eyes, and their single one narrows, seeing something.

Seeing her lack of fear.

Colleen has lost so much. This alien can’t touch her, not really. Not like she’s already been hurt.

They get closer, growling. They don’t check her hands, to see if she’s tied up like the rest. ‘Voltron’ again, demanding. There’s yelling behind them, one of the other soldiers hissing and pointing to a floating screen, urgent.

There’s a huge crash outside. The one-eyed cat-jackass looks in that direction. They’re tense, worried, out of time.

When they look back, Colleen’s gun is in their face.

“Go ‘Veprit Sa’ yourself.”

She fires and gets him right in the remaining eye.

The other soldiers shout, and the skinny one with the screen draws their weapon.

Outside, there is a mighty roar.

Bonus) There’s nothing left to lose, and everything to gain.

“Matthew?” Colleen asks, breathless, as the green-armored one takes off their helmet.

But the face is too young, the body too short. Instead, they gape at her in a very familiar way. “Mom?”

“Katie?!”

Suddenly, she has an armful of excited daughter, three cadets of various levels of nervousness to deal with, a missing pilot who apparently didn’t error, and two aliens (not those aliens) to deal with.

When Voltron flies away, Colleen Holt is with them.

She lost her family once. Really, the least she could get in return is a space castle.

#Dr Colleen Holt #Verified badass #BT Writes #BT Memes #andriseup

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illtakefiction · 7 years ago

Text

Still Star Crossed Week Day 7: Why I Love The Show...

I wasn’t planning on watching the show. I saw it advertised when I was watching General Hospital. I was just confused by the show. What happens after Romeo and Juliet sounds intriguing. An arranged marriage- that can be intriguing to if the guy is not a villain. But it seemed really YA and strange for ABC. The main girl seemed really bravely out of her time. I love period shows but I want well done period shows full of more than just fluff and this didn’t seem to be so. I thought about watching but it premiered on Memorial Day so I just didn’t feel like it. After two episodes had aired I decided to watch the first one on demand. I loved it! I wanted more but the second one wasn’t on demand yet. I looked online but it wasn’t unlocked yet. There was no new episode that Monday. The episode was supposed to be unlocked after a week. But it wasn’t. Finally the second episode was on demand. I fell more in love! I wanted to share my new love. So my mom and I watched the two episodes and then we watched the new third episode. And then it was “canceled” and moved to finish it’s run on Saturdays. Most of the time tv shows go to die on Fridays but this show got Saturday. Uh. But that’s a whole other post. And then we had to wait FOREVER for the fourth.

So Why did I fall in love with the show:

* It’s so beautiful. In the 2nd episode there’s a flashback scene with the Prince of Verona (Escalus’s dad) & at first when the camera cut to him I thought he was a beautiful painting until he spoke. The colors so perfectly create vivid details and themes and feelings.

* The costumes- gorgeous! Are they all historically accurate, I hear not but you will not care because you will be jealous you are not currently wearing them.

*The characters are interesting. They may look one way on the surface but are more complicated underneath shaped by circumstance and tragedy and their inner strength.

*The women- they are heroes, villains, and in between. Take Rosaline and Isabella for example. The are both confined as is realistic in the time period but they use their marvelous minds to try to chip holes in the world they’re trapped in. They try to turn things over and around so they can make some of their own choices. They try to mold situations putting themselves in a position of power or at least getting themselves in the game.

* Nontraditional/Colorblind cast- Yes, 16th century Italy wasn’t as exclusively white as we think and yes there is an issue with people not belonging to the group they’re playing but this show would never have had actual Italians playing Italians anyway. In this show it doesn’t matter what race the actors/characters are. It has no relevance to the plot. It doesn’t matter. Each actor is great and perfect for their part. For POC it means a lot, rightly so, for me a white girl I’m happy for yall and it gives me something interesting to look at that I don’t see everyday. It’s based on a play that took place a super long time ago and there are fantastical elements, like ghosts. So it works. It absolutely works. And it’s groundbreaking.

* Wholesome. This show seems so wholesome. It warms my heart. Even when the drama is going down I always feel like everything is going to be okay. Look, I love realistic gritty shows. There is a place for those shows. But that genre can become to pervasive. This show does something interesting. The best example is how the women are treated. Yes, their “virtue” is the most important thing and it’s not safe for them to walk the streets alone and people suggest whoring them out for peace. But a nice guy saves the girl from rape and the princess cleverly get her peace treaty without having sex with a horrific creep. The story isn’t the horrific abuse that befalls a woman. Those stories are important. But it’s so nice that for a change the story is that the woman looks danger in the eye and is able to use her own strength and the help of others to subvert the tragedy and use her own power making her even more powerful. It’s uplifting and a nice change.

*The twists- Even when I predict that a character is going to be a bad guy I am always surprised at how it is weaved into the plot. And all of the plot comes together. There have been six of seven episodes so far and I only have one question left unanswered. The fun now is finding out how the characters will proceed. I have no worries that my favorite characters will die for shock value. I know I am going to be taken care of as a viewer. I’m not being manipulated into watching. I just have a sense that everything is going to be okay.

*The language- It’s not in that Shakespearean Speak that Scholars would love. But it doesn’t follow today linguistics either. It has a great rhythm. It’s soothing to hear and fun.

*Humor- Humor is a big part of the show. It shows up in small moments. The actors have great timing and delivery. These small moments add to the fun.

*Troupes- There is a enemies to friends to.... lovers troupe that has given me everything I could ever want; one room one bed, clock sharing, road trip, etc. The show always adds little twists so the troupes are never cliche. They’re just so much fun!

*Relationships- from friendships to sisters to complex family relationships to romantic relationships- they’re all explored and have an opportunity to shine and add to the plot in interesting ways.

*The cast- They love their show, they’re talented, cute, good looking, and fun, and they got to film in Spain! .

#sscweek #still star crossed #tv show review #ssc

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ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

Text

CAPTURED BY THE CLANS (part 1 of 3), a Science Fiction tale.

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Science Fiction

Captured by the Clans

Glen Ten-Eyck (De Writer)

written, 2006

18231 words

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

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Captured by the Clans (part 1 of 3)

T’cass was getting another headache. Trying to explain the M’cratt strategy to the Combined Clans Strategy Board was beyond frustrating. The problem was the same one that T’cass had faced for most of her young life. The Clans war leaders weren’t stupid at all. They just weren’t Warriors.

T’cass’ three mothers had been a trade ambassador to the Emperial Triad in the City of Empire on M’cratt. They had enrolled their kit in K’lass’ School of All Conflict, the most respected and absolutely the toughest school of the Warrior’s Way in all of M’cratt space. To everyone’s surprise, T’cass, a Clan kit, had done very well. She had done so well that the “civilizing” influence of the Embassy was set at naught. She was well on her way to becoming a true M’cratt Warrior when her mothers were recalled to Clan Space.

Nobody that she had found in Clan Space had wanted to become friends with the intense, Warrior’s Knife carrying T’cass. She simply didn’t think like a Clanner.

When Lezon Treh K’lass had begun to lead the M’cratti advance on Clan Space, nobody took it seriously until it was far too late. They were waiting for the Treaty Commission to act against the Empire. It didn’t act.

T’cass could have told them why. She had tried to, in fact. What she’d said fell on deaf ears. The Clans had written that treaty and they knew what it said. They thought.

T’cass knew better. The translation had been bungled by skilled linguists who had failed to grasp one simple fact. It was impossible to say peace in M’cratt. The concept didn’t exist in the language. The Treaty Commission, limited to enforcing the treaties written by others, did know the correct reading and waited for a violation. There had been none yet.

The war had changed part of T’cass’ problem. Her talents in a fighter had proven to be past extraordinary. Her past let her know how the enemy thought and would react. Her fighter wing’s amazing record had brought her to the attention of the Strategy Board. They had recruited her for her talents.

The deal that she had struck left her in the pilot’s seat of her fighter when there was action. They were between engagements at present. It was terribly difficult to get the admirals of the Clans to listen to her. They were such straightforward beings. Their skills were nearly useless when facing an unorthodox and wily Warrior like Lezon Treh K’lass.

Getting a grip on herself, T’cass pointed into the holographic chart again. Exasperated, she tried to show the admirals what was so obvious to her. Using a light pointer to illustrate what she was saying, she tried again to say, “Lezon’s fleet is going to hit us here, at K’stall.”

“Ridiculous!” Admiral Lusan snorted, laying her ears back into her mane. “They will have to fight their way past R’iggin and D’far. Those fortress systems will slow them down for weeks at least! Besides, they will need time to lick their wounds after the defeat I gave them at C’ustance!”

Appalled at the ignorance of war that she was hearing, T’cass asked, “What defeat, Admiral Lusan? They drew you far out of position for defending K’stall and lost only a few ships doing it!”

Admiral Lusan did not like the implication that her victory, broadcast as such all over Clan Space, had been less than complete. Eyes slitted in rage, fangs bared, she snarled, “The M’cratt fled the field in disarray!” She slapped down a scouting report on the M’cratt retreat. “There’s your proof!”

“Yes,” said T’cass, picking up the report. “They all fled on vector 07.334, 45.680, 123.935. What’s out that way from C’ustance?”

Admiral F’rufan wrinkled her brow in thought and actually studied the chart. “I see. There’s a singularity in that direction, right there.” Her light pointer highlighted the black hole. “Perhaps we can catch them while they re-group around it. Nasty business, fighting in that sort of gravity well, but we’ll have the advantage of a position further out, in flatter space.”

“A good start,” said T’cass encouragingly. “Just feed these scouting reports into the computer and project them into the chart. Get a scale for the region so that it just includes K’stall.”

In moments the Strategy Board as a group were looking in dismay at a disaster unfolding. The ‘disaray’ of the M’cratt fleet had put them into a carefully planned order based upon the mass and acceleration abilities of each ship. As the ships whipped about the singularity under power they would come out at the enormous velocity of 54C. Gravity slingshoting packed the enemy into a tight formation aimed unmistakably at K’stall, leapfrogging right past the fortress systems.

Facing reality, Admiral Lusan asked, “What could be worse than this? We are light years out of position and can’t even get the main fleet there in time. Once K’stall falls, R’iggin and D’far will be cut off. The Central Fleet will be lost along with them.

“They will only need a battle group coming in from the direction of C’ustance while their main fleet comes back from K’stall.”

T’cass looked doubtfully at the chart and said, “Lezon could do that, of course, but why? Just six months cut off from resupply will weaken both the fortress systems and the Central Fleet. They could then be safely taken out by a few Talon carriers. It’s M’onafar that we need to worry about.

“M’onafar is not that far from K’stall and it has several gas giants in tight orbits for planets of their type. There are other tactical nightmares, besides. If it wasn’t such a perfect refueling and slingshoting point for all of the Combine Worlds, it would be classed as valueless. Nearly all of the trade to or from the Outer and Frontier worlds passes through that system. From M’onafar, all of the Combine Worlds of the Clans will be in striking range. If we lose M’onafar, we have lost the war.”

Admiral F’rufan scratched gently along her right fang as she thought. Nodding, she said, “I think that I see what T’cass is driving at. What can we marshal at K’stall? We can strip the defenses of the fortress systems. They’re not in particular danger now. What else? K’stall is mainly a supply depot and refit center. What’s in their repair inventory that can fight?”

Without meaning to, T’cass once again showed that she was at least several jumps ahead of the pride and already on the prey’s back. “They have a system siege unit that is up to full power in all combat systems. One of it’s four main engines is still at only sixty five percent output. There are two fighter carriers, one just refitted but not yet assigned, and the other has hull damage but is fully battle ready for short range work. There are nineteen moon or orbit based heavy tachyon batteries of twelve to forty megatons per second output, and an old interstellar signal laser that is still fully operational.

“From the fortress systems, we can pull thirty seven fighters, a light cruiser and the Fleet Operations dreadnought C’aliban. This battleship that we are on can get there in time to be of use as well.”

She laid out a sheaf of papers on the operations table and began to hand them about. “This is what I thought that we could do with them. It is a controlled holding action with a retreat to M’onafar to reinforce the Main and Central fleets already there.”

Admiral Lusan cocked her head and asked curiously, “If the Central fleet can’t get to K’stall in time to help, how can it possibly get to M’onafar? That’s an even greater distance. Also, how do you plan to get the Main fleet there? It is going be needed to defend the Combine Worlds.”

Bluntly, T’cass pointed out, “If M’onafar falls, the Main fleet will be functionally helpless as a defensive unit. Because of that, it will be best employed as a battle force at M’onafar.”

Ears lowered almost into her mane, T’cass said softly, “We must break Lezon’s advance or the best course for the Combine Worlds, indeed for all of the Clan Space, is surrender.”

T’cass’ ears cocked back up to a jaunty angle as she said, “As to getting the fleets there, we steal a page from Lezon. The Central fleet must boost for the singularity with all power. Each ship can choose its best course for M’onafar rather than trying to get together as a fleet after the singularity. Optimum use of the singularity’s gravitational well should get even the slowpokes up to 60C. Nobody even tries to go to K’stall. With deceleration time and the enemy’s lead, that battle will be over before any help can possibly arrive. Both of our fleets will get to M’onafar first, though. That’s what counts.

“The Main fleet can just advance from their present positions and get there in plenty of time.”

Guessing the answer already, Admiral F’rufan observed, “I see that you have a lot of other papers there. Strategic and tactical analyses?”

“Yes,” said T’cass quietly, laying out papers. She didn’t understand why she felt somehow ashamed for being right.

**********

Lezon Treh K’lass had a headache of her own. Once again, she was trying to explain to proud admirals who were good Warriors in their own right, how they had put the last strategic plan in the latrine, even while winning the engagement. Now, she also had to explain exactly what they needed to know to carry out the next strategic plan.

She knew what they thought of her. “Named in haste,” was the gentlest insult of the lot. When they thought that she couldn’t hear, “Low ranked favorite of the Empress Triad” was another favorite. True, she was young to have earned a Name, let alone the achievement of the full compliment of three Names. It had been the decision of the Empress Triad to Name her at all.

Before the deadly business of the Feront contact, Lezon had been another nameless corvette pilot. True, she had gone to K’lass’ School of All Conflict at the same time as the latest wife of the Empress Triad. True, at that prestigious school, every conflict that she participated in came out as she had planned it. True, that had brought her the notice of the rulers of the Empire. Also true, though they had watched her career as a Warrior, they had not intervened. Lezon was not the only one that they watched. Others had risen faster.

Now, by her own choice, she was a lowly Talon pilot. That was exactly what she wished to be. She could easily become any rank short of the Empress Triad, simply by making her wish known to her rulers. And the admirals who came to her knew it. There was no mistaking who was in charge of the war.

Lezon knew who was proud of serving with her and who was jealous of her skill and ability, both in a combat craft and politically. The war that Lezon had planned was proceeding exactly as the Triad Empress desired and that, to Lezon, was quite enough.

Even if the war did not go as planned, so long as she guided her actions by the Warrior’s Way, Lezon would have accepted the result. Sometimes the Triple Goddess simply did not favor you.

The battle at C’ustance had been disturbing for two reasons. One was that some of her own prey-minded Admirals had tried to make an actual battle out of a simple sucker play. Those who did fight, against orders, had run into something new on the Clan side.

At least, through underestimating the enemy, they wouldn’t get any more Warriors killed unnecessarily. They were gone. What was unforgivable was that their ships and the irreplaceable Warriors who manned them were gone too.

The second disturbing item was that something new that they had seen on the Clan side. Some of the Clan units had fought with disciplined and unorthodox combat behavior as if they were being led by a true Warrior. Those units had cost all of the real losses to Lezon’s fleet.

Idly, Lezon wondered what it would be like to fight a Clan Warrior. Would she know the Warrior’s Way? Would she even know of the Warrior’s Way? How had a Clanner even learned to carry out a true combat? So far as she knew, Clanners failed to grasp the most basic understanding of the nature of Conflict.

She pulled her mind back to the problem of updating her attack on K’stall. She appreciated once again the efficiency of M’ace, Captain of the Hand of Claws, her Executive Officer, in organizing her data without sifting out “useless” information. It had been difficult to find an XO that she could work with so smoothly. It made dealing with the Admirals so much simpler.

New scouting data had come in and she needed to see how it affected her plans. Um, not that much. The old communication laser had been shifted into a solar orbit to get it out of the way of the planetary approaches. The capital ships in the system for repair and refit were moving about the system conducting routine function testing. Everything seemed normal.

At the Battle Groups meeting, Lezon presented the latest update to her plans and delegated the different parts of the attack to the Admirals that she trusted. They would do their jobs well and had a proven record of ability to improvise as necessary to reach a strategic objective.

Lezon spent an extra three days maneuvering the fleet into an attack position that was perpendicular to the ecliptic of the K’stall system. She brought the fleet in fast, coming straight down on the primary and breaking out around the star in powered cometary orbits. As the fleet scattered to the chosen targets, Treh’s Hunt exploded. In moments, Lezon’s Wisdom followed suit. A Talon fighter between the primary and the Fangs of the Goddess erupted fractions of a second before the Fangs of the Goddess.

Lezon saluted her unknown enemy. The Talon was the tip-off. They were being hit by the old interstellar signal laser in its solar orbit, firing from behind the scattering attack fleet. Lezon ordered her own Talon Carrier, the Hand of Claws, to launch. She broke the ranks as soon as possible after launch, spending her power recklessly to brake and dive back toward the star.

From the scouting data, she knew the orbit used by the ancient piece of equipment that was destroying the capital ships of her fleet. It was cunningly hidden in the tachyon noise of K’stall. Since the laser operated in the Electromagnetic spectrum, its attacks were invisible on the tachyon detection equipment now in universal use. Lezon admired her enemy’s brilliant cunning.

Diving around the star in a powered orbit at 0.6C, Lezon came up behind the antique device. In her entire life, she had only seen two of them. It was a long, narrow unit with a fairly huge and very dangerous antique fusion power plant at one end and a monster set of lenses at the other. The lenses were moving to focus the collimated beam of deadly light at another target as Lezon opened fire.

The laser was cut into unequal parts by her disruptor battery. She checked with close range instruments to be sure that the life system was intact and that all defenses were destroyed.

As a true Warrior of the Way, it was her duty to kill whenever necessary and then to protect the life of all non-combatants when possible. Those aboard the laser might be Clan but they were no longer a threat. She flashed past, rising away from the star, back into active combat.

The rest of the fleet was running into unexpectedly stiff opposition. Those capital ships under test, the ones that had looked like sitting snacks had turned out to have claws after all. There were also two dreadnoughts that her scouts had missed entirely. The bypassed fortress systems had supplied almost exactly the number of ships and fighters that she had expected.

Watching the battle unfold from the screens of her specially equipped Talon, Lezon could see that she had no need to interfere. Her Admirals were handling the situation. She returned to the basics of a fighter pilot’s job and left her command frequency silent.

Lezon could sympathize with her unknown Clan Warrior’s frustration at a good battle plan being destroyed by over-eager glory hunters. The dreadnoughts had been neatly hidden by the same tactic as the laser. If they had simply waited longer to deploy, they could have demolished most of the Empire Talon Carriers as they were lifting away from the star. The dreadnoughts would have remained difficult to detect in K’stall’s tachyon noise.

Now, those dreadnoughts were being hard pressed by Lezon’s Carriers and their swarms of deadly Talon fighters. The damaged and refit Clan fighter carriers had to break their positions to rescue the dreadnoughts and that functionally sealed the fate of the K’stall system. There would be hard fighting yet but a brilliant defense was ruined.

Lezon dove into the fray, dog fighting with the Clan fighters. Her disruptors were beginning to run dangerously hot from heavy use. Some of the superconducting circuits were beginning to boil the liquid nitrogen coolant in the cables. She broke away to clean space to cool her weapons.

A lone Clan fighter came after her. It fired a low powered warning shot. That did get Lezon’s attention. Clanners didn’t fight that way. They engaged. The deadly dance of the fighters began.

Her opponent was a true master of her craft. Lezon was unable to get a clean disable or kill hit. By the same token, her opponent couldn’t hit her either.

Her instruments began to tell Lezon an interesting tale. The tachyon batteries of the Clanner were running out of power. Her physical missiles were already used up. If the combat went on this way, Lezon would win by simply having a larger combat energy reserve.

Lezon was preparing to fire again, when she realized two things at once. Her enemy’s weapon reserves were gone and she had turned broadside to Lezon’s weapons and rotated her life system to face her enemy. A surrender position for a Warrior of the Way.

Lezon closed carefully to direct visual contact range. Now that she could see her enemy, she could see something that no Clanner would ever do. Her enemy had raised a Warrior’s Knife, and was holding it toward Lezon, handle first.

Lezon, deeply moved, unsheathed her own knife from its safety clips and held it up to her opponent, blade across between them. Her adversary promptly shifted hers to the same position. She had accepted the Obligation. If the war allowed, they would fight again, to a clear decision.

Lezon took an escort position and flew in formation with her antagonist. She didn’t break off until her enemy was safely back in reach of one of her fighter carriers. She had earned her Warrior’s Return along with the Obligation. Lezon flourished her knife and saw the return salute before she left.

Shortly after that, the K’stall defenses crumbled for good and the Clans were in a full but orderly retreat toward M’onafar.

Lezon let them go, sending only two Talon Carriers to harry them. She ordered the fleet to hold position at K’stall and use the captured repair facilities. There was a Warrior on the Clan side. One who knew exactly what she was about. Lezon wanted the greatest strength possible when they hit M’onafar.

In spite of all of the necessities of battle, M’ace had Lezon’s reports organized and waiting. There was a synthesized snack and a salted drink bowl laid out along with the data blocks. M’ace always seemed to know what was needed.

Lezon sat quietly in the data station on the command deck of the Hand of Claws, her Talon carrier, and munched the snack and the drink as she studied her reports from scouts and spies to see what she could learn about the M’onafar situation. Lezon hated spies and other traitors but only a fool refused accurate information because of its source.

She sent for the prisoners from the signal laser to congratulate them for their excellent part in the battle. To her, excellence was excellence, regardless of side.

Captain D’saric, of the cruiser Fangs of Empire, informed her smugly, “There were no prisoners to be taken from the laser. The life system received a direct hit during the battle.”

Lezon’s ears laid flat back into her mane and her lips curled away from her fangs at the lie. Her eyes slitted and her claws slid out. In a voice gone soft with rage, she demanded, “Let me see the recording.”

A picture of the laser’s ruined life system appeared in the hologram screen. Lezon studied it briefly. She turned to Captain D’saric and said in a dangerously mild voice, “That damage was done by a class four disruptor battery. Only medium cruiser and larger ships have them. There was just one vessel of that size within range of them. Yours. You were sent to pick the prisoners up, not execute them.”

Captain D’saric dismissed the accusation, contemptuously saying, “They weren’t Warriors. They should have known better than to oppose us. They paid the price.”

Lezon, ears still laid her flat into her mane, snarled, “Have you ever heard of intelligence? I wished to find out who, among our enemies, thought of that trick. Now we must face the key battle of this war ill prepared!”

Lezon whirled about and pointed at the hologram chart. “Your stupidity may have cost us M’onafar! If we lose there, we will need to sue for an end to hostility! We are seriously overextended unless we can consolidate our position at M’onafar.

“You are relieved. Your contempt for the Warrior’s Way is not tolerable. The Empress Triad will have the full information of this event. Your future is in their claws!”

Commander M’ase, captain of the Hand of Claws, had held her silence until D’saric was gone. Now, she asked, “Was that wise? D’saric is popular among the capital ship commanders. They may see this as a petty reason for dismissal and possible execution.”

Lezon cocked one ear thoughtfully and nodded, accepting her Executive Officer’s point. “They may see it that way. It isn’t a petty or minor breach, though. She deliberately fired on a helpless enemy. By the Warrior’s Way she was honor bound to protect those lives. Besides, their information was of inestimable value. I don’t know how it happened but the enemy now has a genuine Warrior on their side. I fought her.

“D’saric has breached the Warrior’s Way. That is what defines us. Without it, we cannot understand the basic nature of Conflict. That leaves us no better than animals.”

M’ase, nodded understanding, “I recognize that and honor the Way. Others may not. It is often difficult to remove oneself from one’s feelings and many, even in the higher ranks, have not fully succeeded.”

“True,” Lezon conceded, “but whether they have succeeded in following the Way or not, they must follow the orders of the Empress Triad. They have put into writing this simple directive. ‘Fight the best war that the Way of the Warrior allows.’ D’saric violated that order as well as mine. At the least, those Clanners were to be valuable slaves. My personal booty.”

M’ase shook her head sadly. Warriors like Lezon happened only once in many lifetimes. The problem was that they never seemed to fully understand the deep gulf that lay between them and those that they led.

Her eyes slitted in thought and she nodded to herself. Actually, the other commanders might well respond better to the idea that Lezon’s anger stemmed from a financial loss than the true reason. She determined to let both reasons “slip out” at the next meeting of the Battle Leaders.

M’ase had been honored when the War Leader of the Empress Triad had chosen the Hand of Claws as her flagship. M’ase had no loyalty to anything but the Empire and the Warrior’s Way. Others had felt slighted that the War Leader had not chosen a more impressive ship.

Lezon’s answer to such was simple. “I am a Warrior. I choose to fight at the closest quarters that I can. I can’t do that from inside the armor of a dreadnought.”

M’ase knew the answer for the simple truth. Others, who habitually thought in more subtle terms, saw the answer as an insult to the bravery of the admirals in those dreadnoughts. This was particularly true of those primary admirals who had to take their orders from a “not so simple” combat pilot.

M’ase herself took Lezon’s orders without worry. She knew that if there was one thing that Lezon valued above all else, it was the lives of those that she led. That many would die, Lezon understood perfectly. That no death on either side be wasted in achieving the goals set by her Empresses, was Lezon’s highest aim.

Many otherwise good Warriors simply could not grasp that the lives of the enemy were as precious as the lives of your own. What else could give the Conflict value? D’saric had been one of those who failed to grasp that fundamental principle.

The primary reason that the Hand of Claws had been chosen for Lezon’s flagship, instead of one of the mightier ships was the simple fact that M’ase did understand and honor the principles of the Warrior’s Way. As Lezon’s Executive Officer, she also understood Lezon’s frustration at being denied vital intelligence about her enemy by D’saric’s pettiness. In space battles, captives were scarce. Ones with valuable knowledge were scarcer yet.

Lezon thought deeply about the upcoming engagement at M’onafar. This battle was the true pivot point of her entire campaign. Now there was a new element in the mix. Only superior numbers and luck had enabled the Empire to win here at K’stall. However it had happened, there was a true Warrior on the Clan side now.

She too, was brilliant and unorthodox, just as Lezon was. What unpleasantness could she cook up for the Empire? Something occurred to Lezon. She dispatched the fastest scout ship in the fleet to take a look at C’ustance.

**********

T’cass had not fought the admirals over the best use of the fleets. She had simply offered her analysis of the situation and the best way to deal with it. Seeing resistance to the idea of leaving the Combine Worlds undefended she had stalked from the room, snarling, “M’cratt historians will love your decision.”

To T’cass’ surprise, it was admiral Lusan that caught up with her as she was starting to secure her combat harness for the hop from the Flagship to FC 417, her carrier.

“T’cass, wait!” called admiral Lusan as she came running up to the fighter launch bay. “We still need you to explain those deployments!” She paused by the fighter’s still open canopy.

Looking in, Lusan saw T’cass’ big Warrior’s Knife in it’s sheath. “Why do you always carry that?” she asked. “There’s a perfectly good survival knife in the emergency kit.”

T’cass countered with, “Why do you need me to explain ship deployment? The answer is, I’m a Warrior. You are not. You are a good fighter and nobody questions your courage. Unfortunately, courage is simply not enough when there are true Warriors in the fray.

“I earned the right to make and carry this Warrior’s Knife. K’lass’ School of All Conflict allowed me to have it over a year early. Lezon Treh K’lass is the only other one who graduated from K’lass’ School of All Conflict that early. It is not merely mine, it is of me.”

At once, Lusan said contritely, “I did not mean to offend. The truth is, none of us understands the enemy. You do. We don’t understand you either but we do trust you. It’s just so difficult for us to understand either you or Lezon.

“The K’stall defense was brilliant. Now that we have analyzed it, we have even admitted our errors. If we had fought it as you planned it, it would have been an even better engagement than it was.”

She offered a hand to T’cass who carefully unfastened her harness and dismounted her fighter. “If you have decided to follow my plan, we need to talk to a Treaty Commission representative as soon as possible. It would be best if it was the Feront that we talk to. However it works, what one part of it knows, the rest knows.”

Lusan replied, “That won’t be hard. They’ve moved three of their big fusion ring System Siege vessels into the M’onafar system. Why do you want to talk to them? All that they ever do is watch.”

“It,” corrected T’cass absently. “The Feront is one thing composed of many creatures. That was a key to how Lezon managed to fight it to a standstill and open communication with it. I’ve talked to it before, when I was still in K’lass’ School.”

“About the T.C. watching,” T’cass added tiredly, having been over this so many times before, “the T.C. is simply waiting for a violation. There hasn’t been one yet.”

Lusan wrinkled her brow, causing whiskers to rise as she tried to sort out her companion’s thinking. “We had a peace treaty. I’ve read it. This is a war. The violation is obvious, isn’t it?”

Suddenly T’cass had an idea. Perhaps if she approached the notion with humor, she could get it across. Grinning, she said, “I can’t stand laying down.”

Lusan did chuckle at the old snack of a gag but knew her companion well enough to realize that there was a point in what she said. “So what is your point? Is it the impossibility contained in the statement?”

“Yes. In M’cratt it is impossible to say peace. The very title of the treaty is a logical impossibility like that joke. The translators tried to say, ‘a time of no conflict.’ In M’cratt, absence of conflict is an impossible state. The translation fault, which was the doing of our people, invalidated everything that they tried to say. What they needed to say was ‘a time of conflicts managed for balance.’”

Finally, Lusan got it. “The Department of Clan Affairs isn’t going to like hearing that they brought this mess about by a translation foul-up.”

Tartly, T’cass replied, “Don’t I know it! My mothers were recalled for listening to me and trying to get the treaty fixed. I know all about those dead and decaying snack brains!” As they made their way through the busy corridors of the huge ship, T’cass’ claws half extended in rage at the memory.

Diplomatically Lusan let the matter slide. Instead, Lusan asked something else that had been bothering her. “There is a rumor going around that a Talon escorted you almost to FC 417, during the K’stall battle. Is it true?”

Lusan was utterly taken aback by T’cass’ instant response. “Of course it’s true. We had a good fight going. Neither of us could get any decisive advantage. When I ran out of power for the tachyon battery and all of my missiles were already gone, I rolled my fighter to a submit position. Instead of taking a surrender, my opponent imposed the Obligation of Conflict and saw me safely home. We will fight again, if the Triple Goddess allows, and come to a proper decision as to which is the better Warrior.”

Lusan honestly tried to figure that one out. All that she could think of was to ask incredulously, “You mean that you agreed that one of you will kill the other later?”

T’cass nodded nonchalantly, “Perhaps. If one of us shows a clear superiority, the other will submit and become the student of the winner. That is part of the Way.”

As they entered the War Planning room, Lusan offered, “Perhaps that may be a weakness in that Warrior’s Way thing that the M’cratt put so much stock in. If our fighters could use that maneuver to lure …” It was as far as she got. She had been knocked to the floor and T’cass had her helpless. Lusan was staring into the eyes of death itself, personified in T’cass.

Angrily pronouncing each word separately, T’cass said, “If. I. Ever. Hear. Of. That. You. Will. Die. I. Will. Not. Fight. With. Those. Of. No. Honor.” Mastering her rage slowly, she helped Lusan up. Then she added, “I do not understand you. Clans and M’cratt are the same species. All that separates us is a gulf of thought. Trust me when I say that the Feront is easier for me to understand than you are.”

Sliding her claws back and raising her ears out of the protection of her mane, T’cass glanced about the War Room. She saw shock and fear printed on many faces. Acknowledging the alien ways of the Clans, T’cass ducked her head in apology and said, “Admiral Lusan, I am sorry for this incident.

“Understand, what you proposed is the action of a beast, not a person. If that tactic is tried, every prisoner that the M’cratti hold will be killed as a beast. The only exceptions will be those already taken as personal slaves and thus having a protection as persons under M’cratt law. It will also open up more deadly methods of war between us and make a peace of any sort impossible. The M’cratt will not treat with beasts. They will exterminate them if they feel that they are a danger.”

Admiral F’rufan with forced mildness asked, “Maybe we should know what set you off like that. I don’t think that I want you going for me that way. Was that an unarmed combat style or just anger and fast reflexes?”

“Both,” answered T’cass. “It was a simple V’naris take-down. V’naris is an ancient school of unarmed combat.”

Lusan spoke up, “I suggested doing something that would violate their Warrior’s Way on purpose. I should have remembered that T’cass considers herself a Warrior first and of the Clans only second. She has made the point often enough.” Turning to T’cass, she said, “I accept your apology. I had no idea that my notion could cause so much harm.”

T’cass nodded and said, “Has anybody raised one of those T.C. ships yet? I need to get permission for something from the Feront.”

F’rufan dismissed the notion. “They’ve been trying to contact us. Since they won’t do anything to stop the blatant treaty violations of the M’cratt, I ordered our communications people to ignore them.”

Calmly, T’cass said, “That was stupid. Those three ships by themselves, without backup, have enough firepower to destroy both our fleet and the M’cratt fleet. The M’cratt haven’t broken the treaty. That’s why the T.C. hasn’t acted. It was genius on Lezon’s part to get the Feront into the Treaty Commission. We need them to approve my strategy since it involves deliberate planetary damage.”

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#CAPTURED BY THE CLANS #Part 1 of 3 #Science Fiction #Written by Glen Ten-Eyck (De Writer)

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