#makes me think of that line in pacific standard time:

[pineapplefulfillseveryneed]

I'm so grateful For the love that we share I'll never take it for granted That you're always there And when I think about the world And what is going on It makes me even more thankful That you're still around And I've been waiting all my life For someone I could stand And you're the only one so far Who could understand And what I'm feelin' in my heart Feelin' in my soul I couldn't ever hope to tell you I'm sure you must know

- Sparks // Let's Make Love

[sometimesanalice]

Make Me Your Masterpiece

Summary: Bob credits you for helping him to find his new hobby. And when he asks if he can you paint you, you find you quite like the idea of being his muse.

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Female Reader

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: fluff, smut, and basically an ode to Lewis Pullman’s hands (mdni)

(Author’s Note: smutty fics are the new friendship bracelet, spread the word! Happy Birthday, Ames! 🎉 @laracrofted)

You’ve always had a thing for Bob’s hands.

They were one of the first things you noticed about him that day at the coffee shop almost a year ago now.

You’d been reaching for your iced vanilla cinnamon latte when a big hand had wrapped around it just a half of a second before you could grab it. Which you wouldn’t have minded admiring them for a moment under any other circumstances, but after an endless string of meetings you’d been in a dire need of a caffeine fix- and not the weak stuff that people brewed in your office’s communal coffee pot.

“I think that’s-” you’d started.

“Oh, I’m sorry-” the coffee thief backpedaled.

The next thing you knew you were looking into the prettiest pair of ocean blue eyes. 

The two of you were startled out of the moment when the barista called out the next order as they’d set it on the counter.

By some kismet or fate, they had been a matching set. But instead of embroidered towels, it was his and hers coffee cups with your names written on them in a hasty scrawl.

Realization dawned over his features as he gave you a sheepish smile, “Think this one might belong to you, Miss.” He spun the coffee until he found the spot with your name. That little smile becoming a full grin as he’d said it aloud before passing the cup to you.

The hands had been good, the eyes had been great, but Bob’s smile directed at you had left you weak in the knees.

You’d been a goner right then and there.

And while you’d ended up almost ten minutes late to your next meeting, you’d also gone back to the office with his phone number written on a cardboard coffee sleeve that was tucked away safely in your purse and a date lined up later that week.

As it turned out fate had a name and it was Robert Floyd.

Barely twenty minutes into your first official date with Bob, his ears had turned a delightful shade of pink as his anxious fingers straightened the silverware on the white linen tablecloth of the Italian spot he’d taken you to. He’d fessed up and apologized as he came clean, telling you that he’d purposefully ordered the same coffee as you in hopes of getting to start up a conversation with the pretty girl who’d been standing in front of him in line.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, since you looked busy. But I didn’t want to miss my chance,” he’d confessed over candlelight.

He’d told you how he’d only been at the coffee shop because he’d recently returned from a deployment and was fighting the jetlag that came with adjusting to being back on Pacific Standard Time, and that he normally preferred tea but he needed something with a bit more to it to get him through the day.

Instead of getting up and taking the bottle of wine to-go as a consolation prize, like you would have if it had been anyone else, his genuine earnestness had charmed you instantly. And you’d settled on having a second date with him before the first one had even really started.

You only let him sweat it for about thirty seconds before you took pity on him. With a light fingertip, you traced along one of the veins on the back of his hand and simply asked, “So other than being a meet cute mastermind, what is it that you do for a living, Bob?”

It was the best first date you’d ever had.

For your second date with him, you’d bought tickets to a ‘Paint and Sip’ event at a buzzy new bistro in town your friend had told you about.

You weren’t an artist by any means, but during that dinner date his antsy fingers and expressive hands had clued you into how nervous he’d been. You’d found your eyes drifting to them on more than one occasion. Partly because they were so enticingly disproportionate to the rest of him, but also because you couldn’t look him directly in the eye for too long without feeling your face heating up.

You thought it would be a good way for the both of you to work past the getting-to-know-you jitters, something that would keep your hands and eyes occupied enough to relax a bit more and have fun together.

Although instead of the seascape class you’d thought you’d signed up for, you’d willingly paid $86+ tax to watch Bob’s lithe, long fingers delicately grip a paintbrush in a way you thought was going to make you lose your mind.

You’d spent the whole first hour trying and failing to mix the perfect shade of blue before giving up when you’d realized that the man next to you, in addition to having really great hands, was also very good at painting. 

Bob had seemed surprised by that too because he’d kept flushing that wonderful shade of pink that had quickly become your new favorite color every time you complimented his piece.

He had steady, capable hands. But you were quickly learning that everything about Bob Floyd seemed that way. There was a quiet confidence about him. He didn’t shy away from the way he’d openly observed you, like you were a riddle he was enjoying learning to decode. 

You’d never known a man to be so attentive until him.

Bob’s tongue was peeking out as he’d worked on adding some wispy clouds to the top of his piece. You weren’t even sure what step you’d technically stopped at before you’d given up to watch the visual feast of him painting instead. Only halfheartedly adding random bits to your canvas along the way to make sure it wasn’t totally blank by the end of the session.

You’d been so zoned out watching him create that it was like a slow-motion sequence in a horror movie. You’d reached out for your wine glass, lifting it to your lips to take a sip, it had only taken you a split second to realize it wasn’t the full-bodied red you’d ordered that was coating your tongue, but the murky, gritty paint water instead.

Mortified, you’d looked over just in time to see Bob’s empathetic wince. You’d been hoping to fly under the radar, but it had turned out that you’d had more than one set of eyes on you.

“And we officially have our first casualty of the evening, folks,” the instructor cheerily announced to the group, “The rest of you can breathe easy now!”

You wanted to be able to laugh at your own expense, but you’d groaned as you buried your face in your hands.

It was not the way you saw the night going. You wanted to be dazzling, you wanted that pivotal third date with him. But now you were the girl who drank paint water whose canvas looked like it had all the same efforts as an enthusiastic fourth grader.

Bob’s hands had gently wrapped around your wrists before he’d pulled them from your face. And then he’d leaned in close, taking your chin in his hand and kissed you squarely on the lips, his tongue dipping in and sliding against yours to taste the acrylic pigment from your surprised mouth.

“Huh,” he’d said, contemplatively. He’d pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. “Celadon blue doesn’t taste like a Cabernet, go figure.”

He brushed a light kiss against your cheek as he’d passed you your wine glass so that you could rinse the paint water taste out of your mouth. 

You couldn’t help but to still be a little embarrassed, but then you’d caught the way he’d shoot an unimpressed look at the instructor every time they passed by for the rest of the evening. You didn’t need a knight in shining armor when you had a Bob Floyd with a paintbrush and a cutting side eye.

You took him home with you that night and learned for yourself just how capable those hands of his were.

It was only later that you realized the exact shade of blue that you’d been trying so hard to capture earlier that night was the same color as the eyes that gazed down at you as Bob fucked you for the very first time.

There was no way you could have known that the ‘Paint and Sip’ date would have inspired him to pick up painting as a hobby.

First, he’d started taking classes at the Rec Center. His once a week classes later turned into him checking out books from the library. And then he’d turned his spare bedroom into a studio, as it has the best afternoon light in the Spanish style house he rents near the Naval base. He’d even bought a comfy chair for you to curl up in as he painted, a little nook of your own in his favorite space in his home. And steadily, the walls of both your apartment and his place fill up with all of his art.

You’d even had your favorite one professionally framed. The pretty landscape done in shades of soft greens that he gave to you for your birthday hangs in a place of honor above your bed. You like having that piece of Bob as one of the last things you see before you fall asleep and one of the first things you see in the morning on the rare occasion the two of you aren’t sharing a bed. You liked to imagine the hours he spent on it with the sunlight streaming through the open window as he lovingly and painstakingly created something just for you with his own two hands.

Although you did have to beg him to sign it for you. He claimed that since he does it for fun that there’s really no reason too, but you were adamant about it and he’d eventually caved and scrawled his name in the lower right-hand corner.

Now it’s become your personal mission to ensure that every Bob Floyd original has his signature on it when he gives his paintings out as gifts.

Everyone assumes that his art would be all straight lines and precise angles, but it’s your favorite moment when people get to see his abstract landscapes. He’d told you he spends so much time in the sky that he likes to paint what’s on the ground, the things he doesn’t get to see when he’s 50,000 feet in the air.

You could tell Bob was a little nervous when he first asked to paint you. 

After almost a year with him, you’d think he’d know by now that you’d do anything for him. Not to mention, you were more than a little in love with the idea of being his muse.

“Are you saying you want to paint me like one of your French girls?” you’d teased with a grin, unable to resist the opportunity. You always did have a thing for men with perfectly floppy hair.

He’d tipped your chin up so that you were looking into his blue eyes- a color you were positive couldn’t be replicated- and stated, “No, I want to paint you like my girl.”

Which is how you’ve ended up naked on the floor of his living room.

You’d been surprised when you came downstairs to see that the furniture had all been pushed to the side to make space for the king-sized top sheet he’d laid out on the floor. You figured it must have been from some mismatched set he had stashed in his linen closet because you’d never seen it before and you spent more than enough time in his bed getting familiar with his sheets.

Bob was shirtless and wearing only a pair of loose-fitting and paint stained jeans that were hanging low on his hips as he worked on getting all of his brushes and paints set up.

You were pretty sure that Michelangelo himself wouldn’t be able to do proper justice to Bob’s body. He wasn’t as built as some of his friends on the Dagger Squad were, but there was an undeniable sturdy steadfastness to him. Those defined shoulders and arms often were the stars of your afternoon daydreams, since you got to admire his handsome face anytime your phone lit up.

He came and met you at the bottom of the stairs, giving you a low whistle, “Well, aren’t you as pretty as a picture in my shirt.”

“Oh,” you’d said, feigning surprise and toying with the hem, “So it is.” And then you’d slowly lifted it up and off of you, revealing more of your body to his artist’s eye.

You never felt as good about yourself as you did when you were naked in front of Bob. The color of his morning skies eyes would always darken to a deep shade of Prussian blue as he took in the curves of you. With him you always felt appreciated, wanted, desired.

His greedy hands came to grip your hips pulling you to him until you were pressed against him.

“Is this how you wanted me?” you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. “I always want you.”

You never knew true distraction until you’d felt Bob’s lips against yours all those months ago. You’d happily lose minutes, hours, days to them. The thing about Bob is that he never does anything halfway. If he’s kissing you, he’s doing it thoroughly until you’re out of breath.

The sound of the air conditioner kicking on and the light draft that it coasted over you reminded you that there were other plans on the agenda. And that the sooner he starts, then the sooner he finishes, and the sooner you can feel his lips on other parts of you.

“Where do you want me?”

“In my bed,” he murmured against your lips.

His name started as a laugh but turned into a sigh as he dropped a line of kisses down your neck, “I meant, like on the couch or on one of the chairs from the kitchen.”

Bob pulled away and peered deep into your eyes, “Darlin’, I wanted to paint you.” He trailed a teasing finger down your soft stomach. “If that’s alright with you.”

You thought you were just going to be his subject, but as it turns out he wanted you to be his canvas too.

You’re trying not to shiver as he meticulously coats your overheated skin with cool paint. Goosebumps follow in the wake of every delicate stroke he makes along your body.

His hair was curled over his forehead in a way that had your fingers aching to touch him. There was a slight furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the deliberate lines and curves he painted on you. The paint smudge on his cheek only made him all the more attractive to you.

Bob had tucked a pillow beneath your head before he’d started, a gesture that you appreciated now because time had lost all meaning to you. You had no idea how long you’ve been lying there. You were pretty sure every inch of you had to be covered by now.

He’d started along the plane of your stomach and steadily worked his way out from there. Up your arms. Along your clavicle. Over your breasts and tops of your thighs. You didn’t miss the way he’d smirked when you arched into that soft to the touch paintbrush as it glided over your peaked nipple. Or the way he’d hummed pleased when you’d try to subtly rub your thighs together to relieve the need that had been building as you laid there.

Bob loves taking his time with you. In bed, he loved teasing you until you had tears in your eyes and were begging for his cock. And it became clear very quickly that this would be no different.

There was an electric thrum that was pulsing through your body with every dip and swirl and brushstroke. The muscles of your stomach jump involuntarily as the fine hairs of his paintbrush drift over your hypersensitive skin making you whimper.

He tsks, “Gotta stay still for me, pretty girl. I’m almost done, promise.”

You release a shaky sigh and nod, not trusting your voice to betray just how needy you were for him. Although the self-satisfied smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

You try to control your breathing as he works on finishing, but your shallow breaths sounded loud in his living room. You love getting to watch him work normally, but the intense way he is looking at you- his eyes your favorite shade of Prussian blue now- is too much for your hummingbird heart.

Just as your skin was collecting layers of paint from his brush, the space between your thighs was steadily collecting your wetness. You were so desperate for him to touch you, the need made you want to crawl out of your skin.

You hear the sound of a watery swish and the clink of a brush against glass and your breath catches in your throat in anticipation.  

“God, look at you,” Bob breathes, reverently, “You’re so beautiful. This might be my best work ever.”

Instead of the paintbrush, you can feel the path of his flame blue gaze traveling over you as he takes in the art he’s made out of you.

You open your heavy eyes and see Bob wiping off his hands with a frayed towel.

“There she is,” he says, giving you a smile that makes your toes curl. You didn’t notice it sitting there with all his paints until he was reaching for it, his dad’s old film camera. He holds it loosely in front of him like a question, “Can I take a few just for me?”

The answer is easy, “Yes.”

You trusted Bob more than any other man you’d ever been with. He’s never once given you reason to doubt his words because his actions always spoke for themselves.

The guys you’d been with before had been boys, Bob Floyd was a man.

The tension between the two of you is thicker than the acrylic he’d been using earlier as he snaps photo after photo. You admire the way his muscles shift as he bends and angles himself to get the perfect images.

He stands over you, the lens pointed down at you, “Look at me.”

You can barely breathe. You feel yourself getting even wetter at the thought of seeing yourself through his eyes. No one has ever made you feel the way he does.

“Bob”, you whine.

The camera clicks.

“I know,” he hums, “You’ve been so good for me.”  He sinks to his knees between your legs and hooks a hand behind your knee, pulling it up so it’s propped on the floor. And then he does the other so that you’re sprawled open for him, just the way he likes you to be, “Just one more, darlin’.”

The heat in his eyes has dried up all the words in your mouth.

He trails a finger down the soft skin of your inner thigh and you gasp.

The sound of his camera reverberates in your head.

“You’ve made such a pretty mess,” he drawls, as he gently sets the camera on the floor next to you. “It’s a good thing I put something down. You’re damn near dripping.”

“Bob, please.” You arch towards him like a flower in the sun.

He settles between your thighs and pushes them apart further so that his broad shoulders fit between them. The paint is still drying on your skin, but neither one of you cares about that now.

“You were so perfect for me. I appreciate you staying so still.” He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t worry, I know just how to thank you.”

Your body jolts at the first touch of his tongue on your clit. You can feel his smile against you, he knows exactly what he does to you.

Bob has always eaten you out like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.

Normally, he’s teasing you with gentle licks and tracing nonsensical shapes on your clit with his tongue until you’re a squirming mess for him. He knows your body so well, always building you up to the point where you’re breaths away from tipping over the edge and then pulls himself back before building you right back up again.

But tonight, there’s nothing playful about the way his mouth is working against you. His hot mouth is sealed to your clit. Bob hums in satisfaction with every keen and whine that he pulls out of you. He laves at you until you’re writhing underneath him, your thighs already shaking.

“Wanna paint you just like this,” he murmurs, sucking at the spot where your leg and hip meet. “But I don’t think you’d stay still long enough for me to finish.”

Bob dips down and gives you another long broad stroke of his tongue. He pulls back only long enough to spit on your cunt before diving right back in, chasing after his own taste on you.

Your hands are in his hair. Clutching at his shoulders. It’s taken him no time at all getting you to the point where you’re trembling and taut.

All the air leaves your lungs when he buries two large fingers into you. Your hips cant into his mouth on their own and he moans. Bob wraps an arm around your hips and presses down on your lower stomach to hold you in place.

You feel the paint smear beneath his warm palm. You were dying to see it. You hoped there was a handprint- his handprint- that disrupted all the lines and swirls of color that he’d decorated you with. Something that was distinctly him.

You were wearing his art and now you’re wearing him. The evidence of this moment in time on your skin.

His fingers and tongue weren’t enough.

You needed more.

“You cock, Bob, I need your cock,” you pant, tugging at his hair.

He meanly sucks your clit into his mouth in a way that has you crying out and jerking against him. You love it, you love him.

“God, I love it when you beg for me,” he licks into you again, “Sweetest sound in the world.”

Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, it’s a stark difference to the filthy way he’d been using his mouth on you. He rises to sit back on his knees between your parted legs.

He looks so good kneeling above you the way that he is. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess. That knot behind your bellybutton twists tighter because you did that to him.

He unzips his jeans and tugs them down low enough to pull his hard cock out.

It’s pretty enough to be featured in a gallery, you think to yourself, even in your desperate haze. It’s long, thick, perfect and yours.

Bob smirks when he notices you admiring him, pumping himself slowly a few times for your viewing pleasure.

The only time Bob Floyd was ever a show-off was when he was in bed.

He grabs your thighs and pulls them over top of his own, so that yours are draped over his obscenely, and then he thrusts easily into you.

You gasp at the sensation of being so full of him. It always takes you a minute to adjust to his cock, no matter how many times you’ve taken it now. His thumbs make little circles along your hipbones as your body relents and yields to the size of him.

“There you go,” he says, rocking into you, working you open, “Just needed this cock, didn’t you?”

You whimper your agreement. Your hips tilt into the pressure like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Wanting to show him how much you can take. You know you’ll never get enough of him.

He fucks into you at a reckless and unrelenting pace. You’re high off the feeling of seeing Bob like this, that you’re the one who gets to see him unreserved and uninhibited. He has your hips gripped so tightly, keeping you closer than close. And when you clench around him, you’re treated to a wrecked groan.

Your skin prickles with desire and the feeling of paint drying on you. His cock is hitting just the right spot inside of you and you know you won’t be able to hold off for much longer, not with the way he’s grinding against your aching clit.

Bob’s eyes glued to the spot where you two come together. You’re on full display for him. He watches the way you stretch and spread around him with every deep thrust with the same appreciative gaze that he admires his favorite artists.

It’s under his river blue gaze that your orgasm swiftly sweeps you away. And with your back arching and thighs quaking around his, you give yourself up to the endless current of it.

You know he’s close when his hips start to stutter.

Bob pulls out of you and wraps his large hand around his slick-shined cock and works himself with rough, purposeful strokes.

This time he paints you with himself, his come covering your stomach.

The only sound in the room is the two of you breathing hard, trying to catch your breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob huffs, raggedly, taking in his handiwork, “You’re my masterpiece.”

You’re covered in paint and come, but you’ve never felt more beautiful than you do right now as he looks down at you in awe.

“Did you remember to sign your work this time?” you ask, out of breath but teasingly.

“I think I left my mark, darlin’,” he says, with well-earned smugness in his voice. You can’t help but giggle. He flops down next to you, throwing his arm over his eyes, “Goddamn.”

You prop yourself up onto your elbows to look at yourself.

“Baby, I think you gave Jackson Pollock a run for his money.” You grin widely when he lets out an amused snort. “Wait, where’s your camera?”

He passes it to you, the fondness in his eyes makes your chest feel warm. You scooch in close to him and hold it up above your heads, the camera flashes when you kiss his flushed cheek.

That picture is the first one that gets put up in the new house, the one the two of you chose together when he asked you to marry him six months later. Followed by the soft green landscape that now hangs above your shared bed.

It’s your favorite picture of the two of you, happy and in love. You can just see a hint of the cloud he’d painted on your shoulder.

That night Bob had decorated your body with the place he loved best.

He gave you the sky and he made you his world.

Happy birthday, Ames! Your gift will be mailed eventually, it really was a lesson in chemistry, lol! Enjoy a Bob fic just for you in the meantime!

A big, bigggg thank you to the Bob Babes/Lew Crew girlies! @callsignspark and @attapullman I appreciate you two so much for being such ultimate hypegirls! And thank you to @theharddeck, you helped me out of my writers block and I've been so excited to write this since we talked about it back in January!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[softspeirs]

Then and There, Wind in Your Hair (Bill “Hoosier” Smith x OC)

Pairing: Bill “Hoosier” Smith x Female OC (could be read as an un-named OC or a reader insert) Summary: After their meeting in Melbourne, Hoosier writes a few letters, dreams a few dreams, and finds her again after coming home. A/N: I know what you’re thinking - “Katie, aren’t you neck deep in your Masters of the Air hyper fixation?!” and the answer is yes, but I just had to write a companion piece to Clouds Overhead. You don’t have to read that one first, but some elements might make more sense if you do. Disclaimer: I don’t own The Pacific. Please don’t repost, translate, or use this fic for AI without my permission.

And we both laid entwined, stared at the night Clouds overhead, but that was all right ‘Cause then and there with the wind in your hair Heaven was jealous to merely look fair against you

He can’t remember how many days it’s been since he was in Melbourne.

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he’s able to block out the rapid pounding of his heart and the distant ack-ack of machine gun fire and remember the sound of the waves on the beach, the feeling of her hair tickling his jaw.

There’s a part of him that’s worried he’s going to forget her face, though he’s not sure how that’s possible. 

He’s worried about a lot of things. Worried is standard operating procedure these days. 

They haven’t been able to get mail out in weeks, the shelling too intense for anything even resembling a CP or a supply depot to be set up, even behind the lines. The lines change rapidly in the Pacific, and he’s not sure he’s brave enough to try to find it even if he did have a letter to send to her.

He’s surprised when they’re finally taken off the line, and there’s mail waiting for him.

Bill, it starts, and he smiles, because she’s the first person in a long time that almost outright refuses to call him Hoosier.

Bill, 

I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you off. The War Department has us all running around like chickens with our heads cut off getting ready for our next deployment.

I’m not sure where we’ll be going yet, and I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you if I did. I just hope wherever it is, it’s not as hot as it was in the Philippines when I was there. 

Mostly, I hope this whole thing is over soon. I know it’s naïve of me. I signed up to go to war, and I don’t regret it, but I’m tired. I know you are too.

I hope wherever you are, you’re safe. 

Thinking of you.

x

She signs it off with a metaphorical kiss, and he feels his heart kick into overdrive. He knows it’s dangerous, but he’s starting to dream about someday, and he can’t stop himself. 

Surprisingly, the other guys don’t rag on him about it. They ask him a few questions, but they’re all so distracted about whatever’s coming next, there’s no thought about razzing anyone who’s finding a little slice of joy in anything outside of this hell hole. 

He writes her back when he finally has a minute to think. 

It’s been a long week, I think. He tells her. 

I don’t really know how long it’s been since we were in Melbourne, but I think about it almost every day. 

He wonders if he’s showing his hand too much, but he can’t help himself.

I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re far from the lines, wherever they are, and that things aren’t too bad. We were pulled off the line for a few days here, but I don’t think it’s going to last long. 

“Hoosier.” Leckie says, voice hesitant like he hates to be the one to break him out of his letter writing. “We’re moving out.” 

Bill sighs. Of course. Not a moment’s reprieve.

I think about you often. He scratches, hesitating only a moment. And I hope that’s okay with you, because it’s just about the only thing getting me out of the trench in the morning. 

I hope you’re safe. I’m going to do my best to try to stay safe too. 

Yours, 

Bill

. 

He writes to her nearly every day. He knows she’ll probably get a few of the letters all at once since the mail is so backed up, but he has nowhere else to put his thoughts, and it’s sending him half insane.

Most of his notes to her are mundane, stories about his guys and only a little bit about the mess going on in his brain. If she were here in person, he’s sure she’d look him dead in the eyes and demand he tell her what he’s thinking, but he tries to shield her from it, at least a little bit.

Her letters are the same, stories about the friends she’s making and at the bottom of one, a piece he rips off and shoves in his trunk - her address back home in Chicago. 

Just in case something unexpected happens, I expect you to call on me, Private Smith. I’ll wait for you. There’s no one else.

It brands him like a tattoo right above his heart, on his breastbone where no one but him can see. 

I’ll wait for you. 

It’s the last thought he has right before it all goes to hell.

.

When he wakes up in a hospital a week later, he’s half out of his mind with exhaustion and morphine. Still, his first thought is of her. 

He asks about her, and the nurse frowns at him. “No one here with that name, sugar. Sorry.” 

Did he dream her? 

Did his brain invent her just as a survival tactic to make it out alive?

When he sleeps, he does dream of her. He dreams of them. He dreams of that cookie cutter life with the white picket fence, and her smile. He pictures tangerine sunsets and a backyard barbecue. He pictures a little girl with her eyes and his smile. 

When he wakes, he wishes he could fall back asleep.

He doesn’t get any mail, and he doesn’t have the time or the energy to write any letters himself. He’s hauled day after day into an empty room for rehabilitation, where a nice Lieutenant named Lanie listens to him curse a blue streak as he tries to put weight on his leg. 

“Lanie, I’m beggin’ you to just write down that you saw me walk.” 

She frowns. “No can do, Private. Besides, what good is that going to do you? Don’t want to get your dancing shoes on again someday?”

He snorts. “Who’s going to teach me how not to have two left feet?” 

She shrugs. “I’ll do it. Or how about that girl you keep asking after? I bet she’d be a willing participant.” 

He levels her with a hard gaze. “Lanie, if you know something...” 

“Honest, Hoosier. I don’t know.” She leans in a little closer. “The hospital unit is still on the island and they’re socked in. I haven’t been able to get in touch with my friend there to ask her. You know how it can be.” 

He sighs. “I know. Thanks for trying.” 

“Now do me a favor, will you? Take a few steps so I can get rid of you and go eat some lunch.” 

That night when he can’t sleep, he limps his way down to the mess. There’s a few other guys there, but he finds a table alone. Under dim light, he pens out another letter that he hopes makes it to her.

I’m in the hospital, he writes, his hand shaking a little bit from lack of use. 

I have no idea if you’ll ever get this. I hope you do. I don’t want you to wonder.

What you told me in the last letter I got from you has kept me going. And it goes without saying (hopefully) that I’ll wait for you too.

Another nurse here, Lieutenant Elaine Meadows (don’t call her that, though, she’ll rip your head off. We call her Lanie) said she’ll keep her eyes and ears open for you if you ever make it here, or if one of your letters ever shows up here for me.

At the bottom is my home address in Indiana. Sorry to say, but I think I’ve got a ticket home. 

If you find yourself stateside soon, and God, I really hope you do, please let me know. 

I owe you a date.

Twelve weeks go by. He goes home. And between the agony of his leg and the mess inside his mind, Bill’s morale plummets. 

He’s thrown back into the absolutely insane situation of having to find a job, but he can’t even fathom trying to work for someone so soon after fighting for his life. He has no idea how any of it makes sense anymore.

He almost sleeps through V-E Day, but manages to drag himself out of his bedroom and have a drink with his dad on V-J Day. They’re both quiet, out on the front porch of the house, listening to the revelry from the neighbors.

“You should get out of town for a few days.” His dad says, out of nowhere.

He frowns. “Pop?” He leans forward, wincing as he straightens his leg. “What do you mean?” 

“You need-- you need to get your mind busy again. Take a break from all this, get your mind right, and decide what’s next.” He gives Bill a wry grin. “Besides, where’s that girl of yours, anyway?” 

Bill feels himself pale. “I don’t--”

“Oh, don’t bother. You’re not a very good liar.” 

Bill chuckles. “Guess not.” His hands tap out a rhythm on his knees, his body and mind unable to be still for too long these days. “Chicago.” He says finally. “She’ll be in Chicago.” 

His dad nods. “Interesting.”

.

He still hasn’t heard from her by the time he makes up his mind to just go for it. He’s been seeing in the paper article after article about men and women coming home from overseas, and he just hopes that she’s one of them.

He really doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he shows up on her mother’s doorstep and she’s not there.

The train feels like it’s going slow as molasses. He sits among men and women in uniform, and he feels out of place. He fidgets. He eavesdrops on conversations about the war and about friends they used to know and what happened to them.

His palms start to itch. 

When he arrives at Union Station, he only second guesses himself for a few moments before he seeks a taxi. The ride to the suburbs is nice, and he enjoys watching the trees change color the farther they get from the city. It seems to drag on and yet be over in a flash. He pays the driver, and gets out in front of a large house on a beautiful tree-lined street.

Bill’s hands are sweating. He hears chatter inside the large house, the windows open to let in the autumn breeze, and one voice in particular makes him stop in his tracks and shut his eyes briefly, trying to gather himself.

He knocks, takes a few steps back.

A screen door opens and shuts.

“Oh my god.”

He finally looks up.

.

They sit together on the back porch of her parent’s house, mugs of steaming coffee in their hands, her free hand tucked into his. Her eyes are closed, but the small smile on her lips proves she’s still awake.

He never thought he’d be here. He never thought he’d get this.

“Bill?” 

“Hmm.” 

“I’m--” she sits up, takes her hand out of his. He’s surprised to see her eyes filling with tears, and his heart kicks into overdrive. 

“What?” 

She smiles again. “Sorry. I’m okay, I just-- I can’t really believe we’re here.” She sniffs. “And I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me most.” She glances down at his long legs that are stretched out, crossed at the ankles. 

He’s shaking his head before she can even finish her sentence. He straightens, turning sideways to face her. “You were there for me.” He reaches for her face, brushing a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “Whether you realized it or not, you were.” 

“You didn’t even get a single one of my letters the whole time you were in the hospital--” 

Ever since she opened the front door and ran into his arms, he’s felt more at ease than he ever did in Indiana. Despite his mother’s best efforts, he felt unsettled, and this was the final piece he was missing. Even if he had showed up and she apologized and told him it was just a fling, just a wartime romance never destined to go anywhere, at least he would have known.

But this -- this has the potential to heal him in ways he didn’t know he needed.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice soft but firm. “The thought of you kept me going. It kept me alive, as far as I’m concerned.” 

Her face is a picture. Those doe eyes, a little drier now, looking up at him like he’s hung the moon for her. Doesn’t she know that he thinks that about her, too? He realizes with startling clarity that it’s very possible she has no clue. 

“I’m in this,” he gestures between them, “If you are. You owe me a dance, after all.” 

She grins, laughs. “I thought you had two left feet.”

He shrugs. “Well, maybe now I’ve got an excuse to be bad at it.” 

“I’m in this too. All in.” She whispers. Their faces are so close she could tilt her head only a fraction and close the gap between them.

They linger there, in that so-close-but-not-close-enough state of almost euphoria so long that Bill starts to wonder if he didn’t die on that godforsaken airfield, and this is all something his mind has made up. 

But then she finally kisses him, and it’s just as sweet as the first time, and it sends all his senses kicking into overdrive, and it just confirms it: he’s home.

.

A/N: If you’re craving more of their post-war reunion, a few of those lines are directly from this fic, which has a little more of that scene included.

[redheadspark]

Grumpy Vs. Sunshine Session

Hello Lovelies!

I know I just ended the Halloween Prompt Session, but I stumbled across a GREAT prompt list and I HAD to make it into a mini session for certain!

I think you all will like it :)

This Session's Theme is:

Grumpy Vs. Sunshine

Here are my rules:

1.) You may choose ONE character from my list Here. It’ll have the list of characters that I write for or have written for in the past.

*(If you have a character not listed that you wish for me to write, PLEASE MESSAGE ME AND CLEAR IT WITH ME FIRST TO SEE IF I CAN OR WILL DO IT!)*

2.) There are Two Prompt lists for this session, please provide the lines you wish for me to use, one from the grumpy list and one from the sunshine list

Example: May I have Aziel from ACOTAR with, "You know I love you, right?" and "See, I told you there's some good in you!"

*I write out the requests as a first come first serve. I will try my best to fulfill every request that comes my way, but please bear in mind I work full-time as a teacher. Because of that, I’ll be busy most of the day so please be patient and I’ll write in my spare time as much as I can :) *

3.) If I get two requests that are exactly the same, (same character and same number) I will only write it once! Please don't be afraid to ask if someone has already requested the character and number, I don't mind answering that for you :)

4.) You can request in my ASK box neither as yourself or anonymously. Although I would LOVE to give you a shout if you request as yourself, anon is perfectly fine!

5.) I will stop taking requests for this prompt session on Friday, October 27th, at 3:00pm PST (Pacific Standard Time)

6) Have fun and enjoy :)

Prompt list created by @poohsources

from the grump

❛  how can you be this cheery already? we haven't even had breakfast.  ❜

❛  just don't make a big deal out of this.  ❜

❛  you know i love you, right?  ❜

❛  i know, alright, i know i'm an asshole. but i'm trying here.  ❜

❛  i'm sorry. i didn't mean what i said earlier.  ❜

❛  do you always have to be so damn optimistic?  ❜ ❛

 nobody has ever made me feel the way you do.  ❜

❛  there's no way in hell i'm doing that.  ❜

❛  i'm not good with this whole stupid feelings thing.  ❜

❛  you make me want to be better. you make me want to be good.  ❜

❛  can't you just move on and forget about it already?  ❜

❛  i'm only doing this because you asked me to.  ❜

❛  you're the only one who has ever believed in me.  ❜

❛  you won't stop this until i say 'yes', will you?  ❜

❛  how are you so happy all the time?  ❜

❛  until i met you, I never thought i would be capable of that.  ❜

❛  you're the polar opposite of me.  ❜

❛  whatever. i didn't think you'd care anyway.  ❜

❛  your optimism might be starting to rub off on me.  ❜

❛  why don't you give up on me like everyone else?  ❜

from the sunshine

❛  come on, it's gonna be fun!  ❜

❛  see? i told you there's some good in you.  ❜

❛  you should smile more. you have such a beautiful smile.  ❜

❛  i'm so excited! there's so much i have planned for us.  ❜

❛  i was just trying to do something nice for you.  ❜

❛  do you always have to be so pessimistic?  ❜

❛  stop being so stubborn. i'm trying to help you.  ❜

❛  i knew there was a big softie under all that tough exterior.   ❜

❛  i always feel better with you by my side.  ❜

❛  sometimes you should let others in.  ❜ ❛

 light up, [name]. we're gonna be here for a while.  ❜

❛  why is it so difficult for you to accept a compliment?  ❜

❛  stay? i just ... don't want to be alone right now.  ❜

❛  just because i'm generally a happy person doesn't mean i can't have an off day.  ❜

❛  i'm not some helpless little girl/boy!  ❜

❛  you're not gonna get rid of me that easily.   ❜

❛  stop that. i don't want you to talk about yourself like this.  ❜

❛  of course, i remember! i remember everything you told me.  ❜

❛  let's go outside and dance in the rain.  ❜

❛  you don't mean that, do you?  ❜

Once again, this prompt session will close and I will no longer take requests on Friday, October 27th, at 3:00pm PST

Thanks and happy writing and requesting!

Tagging - @a-lumos-in-the-nox @valeridarkness @botanicalbarnes @pemberlyy @heartofwritiing @ethereal-athalia @virtueassassin @saradika@heliosphere8 @reader6898 @simplymakkari

[freetheshit-outofyou]

“Do we need to a have a radio in every vehicle? I don’t know. Do we need to have one radio per team? Or is it one radio per squad?” Daiyaan said at the 22nd annual C4ISRNET Conference. “We are looking at that, and looking at those things hard.” Col. Shermoan Daiyaan Col. Shermoan Daiyaan, have you ever done anything beyond project work? I mean looking at your bio it seems like you were a very typical Commo officer with a somewhat typical career so for you to make that retarded statement is stunning. Nice Bronze Start by the way, nothing quite like rank based awards on deployments. Ground troops need, 3 things to make battlefield conditions survivable. 1. They have to be able to effetely move in their battlespace, know what other units and assets are available in a battlespace and have the equipment necessary to conduct sustained combat operations in those spaces. 2. They must have the overwhelming firepower at their disposal that allows them to win engagements with the least amounts of casualties and equipment loss to still be able to function as organic combat units. That means being able to call in Artillery, Air Assets, follow on support, resupply and reinforcements and medical evacuation assets. 3. They have to be able to communicate with their subordinate units, their upper echelon commands side units and use those communications to coordinate EVERYTHING happening in their battlespace. Without the ability for units in the field to be able to coordinate in real time to get all those things mentioned above lined up as fast and efficiently as possible you're just killing troops to kill troops. Two real world examples from my Army Career, one in Bosnia in 1998 and one in Iraq 2006. I was a Squad leader in Bosnia, this particular day I was the trail vehicle in a convoy. As we were passing through a village the road broke under the weight of the XM-1114 we were in. The truck slid on it's side down the embankment eventually hitting a pig pen and righting the truck. In the process the radio mount with broke off it's mount laying on me in the TC seat and also cutting our communications. This was bad because in the slide my gunner doing what he should have done in a roll over drill, also broke his arm. I knew it was only a matter of time before they stopped the convoy and looked for us because the next check point call in was 3Km down the road. 2 things complicated our exit beyond no commo. Everything in Bosnia was a mine field, everything and we were in an area known to have bad commo. When my CPL stopped the convoy when we did not check in he came back looking for us after realigning the convoys security and sending them on. When they found us, they had no commo with Task Force (TF) so that quick thinking team put up an OE-254/GRC antenna in record time right in the middle of the road to get com's with TF and get the proper assets headed our way for recovery.

Iraq 2006, we were sent out to do MSR (Main Supply Route) security on ASR (Alternate Supply Route) Bug cool, only one problem, the commo in my gun truck were down so going against TF standards they pushed us out in one of the hairiest routs south of Baghdad. When we got into position, one of the gun trucks asked if we had enough start clusters to let them know if we ran into trouble, I laughed and said "Trust me, if we make contact you'll know." Shit was good for about 4 hours, then my gunner picked up a "hot spot" moving towards us in a canal on the thermals. Me and my dismount tried to see what he was talking about though the NOD's but we could not see past the reeds in the water. About then my gunner reports that the target(s) were caring one very hot object and had placed it on our side of the canal road and were, in his opinion, digging it in. IED's were the weapon of choose on BUG. Now, I'm in a fucked up spot, I can't call for backup, I can't warn any units that might try to go down ASR Bug, I can't call in a 9 Line if we get hit and I can't go very far from the truck without being out of voice distance of my crew. The Gunner sees a second target so I have to move. My dismount and I are about 40 meters from the truck when someone to our 9 o'clock opens up, my discount and I are now hangout there. The gunner opens up with the MK19 at first but moved to the 240B after 6 rounds. We start taking fire from 9 and 12, my gunner and driver are shooting at the 9 and my dismount and I are shooting at the 12. All of this with zero commo. I see the lights of the gun trucks behind and in front of us come and head our way, that was enough for Haji to break contact.

(Charlie Troop 1-10 CAv's rules for ASR BUG.) When I say field communications down as low as you can go is critical to effective battlefield survival I mean it. Anyone who's ever been on the ground where the bullets fly will tell you the samething. I have one exception for this, and time and technology might have changed this, but the Blue Force Tracker (BFT) and Force Battle Command Brigade and Below (FBCB2) were junk. (Yes I understand that the difference between the FBCB2 and BFT are software but it doesn't change the fact that they never worked right.) They worked way less than they didn't. The addition of the AN/VLQ-12 Counter Remote Controlled Improvised Explosive Device (RCIED) Electronic Warfare (CREW) Duke system caused more complications for the FBCB2 and BFT. They never worked right and I never used them.

I know that is a lot when I'm just ranting about some clueless COL, but commo is that important when you are trying to stay alive.

[female-buckets]

The problem isn't that you care. It's that you seemingly believed this woman's tweet and wrote, "no wonder Stewie left". That implies that you agree with the vague wording and veiled accusation. And to me that's very odd behavior if you 1) truly are a fan 2) have followed for a long time 3) know and understand the players/personnel there. Me, I'm a die hard Warriors fan. Live in the bay, have followed them for years. I know they're not a perfect organization, but for the most part I know they are one of the top destinations for players around the league. Countless podcasts, interviews, articles over the years have formed this opinion. If some former employee came out with a random story, that didn't line up with anything I knew to be true, I'd be side-eyeing the f of out them and wouldn't believe them. You didn't do that. You took her at her word and surmised that Stewie left because a male employee made a dirty joke. Unless you've heard MANY other stories that support her viewpoint, it's weird to me you would be so believing of it. Whatever- you don't like feedback, so not expecting understanding. Just thought you'd give the Storm more credit than you did.

I promise I know more about the Storm than you do. And I promise I know more about the city of Seattle and the people who live and work here.

Progressive values are a performance in Seattle. The whole culture of the Pacific Northwest is political performance art. People say the most progressive thing possible while taking no actions to benefit the community.

The Storm is a great example of this. We have the most progressive language in the league. But community assist awards usually go to other teams. The Storm is not as involved in local charity and community initiatives the way some other teams are.

No sports team is perfect. I could give you a list of all the imperfect things about the Storm that I've noticed over the years. But even if I hadn't noticed all these things in the past, I'd still care that this guy degraded Stewie. The world isn't made up of 100% villains and 100% heroes. The Storm doesn't have a spotless record. But even if they did, I wouldn't pretend their organization is 100% heroes. I think it's healthy for you to apply this logic to the Warriors, too.

When people don't meet my political standards, I try not to get outraged and indignant. I'm not outraged with the Storm. I'm just curious and I like to know things.

Stewie had a tough decision to make after 2022. But when a Storm employee can say something degrading to her without facing consequences, that makes her decision easier. I'm sure it's not the main reason she left. It's just something that helps her make her decision.

I'm sure the Storm staff will be on their best behavior with President Nneka around. So I'm happy she's here.

[engineer-gunzelpunk]

Rail Rage (CW: Coarse Language)

The 3/3 Extravaganza continues in this story of annoying visitors meeting their comeuppance in Rail Rage...

Don't bother the locals...

It was a cold, very windy day on the Island of Sodor sometime in Autumn, not really much different from any other.

A visitor from the Mainland had come to visit the North Western Railway. It is not that unusual in this day and age for steam engines from the Mainland heritage railways to visit the last great revenue paying steam railway in the world.

The fact that during the visit, a “rail rage” incident occurred is.

Most of the time, the visitors are humbled and awed by the fact that there is an Island populated by their cousins that are free to work and run in ways that are meaningful to them as locomotives rather than being kept around as museum pieces or run only occasionally.

Most of them are friendly, like Flying Scotsman and City of Truro.

A few are not, like Mallard.

This one was antagonistic.

BR Pacific Britannia-Class 70013 “Oliver Cromwell” was seemingly bent on annoying absolutely everyone on the Island of Sodor on his visit.

He unfortunately had the attitude a distinct set of steam locomotives had that their particular heritage lines spoiled them and whenever the time came to meet other locomotives, he didn’t treat them very respectfully.

(The fact that a lot of the locos on Sodor were either pre-Grouping or Grouping era engines inflamed his attitude...)

He’d given Edward smacktalk at Elsbridge. “Queen Victoria died 100 years ago, time to retire!”. Edward frowned at him but said nothing, quietly seething.

He’d made fun of Toby for being a tram...”Get off the line you old codger! You’ll give yourself a heart attack! And shouldn’t you be on the electric line, being a tram and all?”.

Toby was very angry and attempted to wheesh him, but the Pacific visitor chuffed off laughing.

“You’ll keep!” grumbled Toby, “You’re gonna get yours…”, and hissed steam in his direction.

“Pay him no mind, love!” said Henrietta, his faithful coach.

He said something so crude and disgusting to Murdoch it doesn’t bear repeating, but the mighty engine could only be gainsaid from laying into his BR cousin by the intercession of James.

When Oliver Cromwell came upon Henry chuffing towards Brendam on the mainline with a couple of coaches, he decided that it was an irresistible opportunity to show off…

He raced past him and called out , “Nice coaches! Glad that they made them empty enough for you to pull, you old LMS piece of junk…”, and he pulled away laughing at himself.

Henry was pissed off. He had, as the kids say nowadays, No Chill.

“’LMS Piece of junk?’ Its not enough he comes to visit our Island and insult my friends, he has to give me shit while I’m on duty…”, but a sudden idea came to his smokebox.

If this uppity, pampered heritage Mainlander was going to give lip to basically his Elder and antecedent (the BR Standard classes were strongly based upon Stanier designs, of which Henry was a proud example of, being one of the first Black Fives), then he was going to put the fear of Godred into him.

The constabulary were often stationed at random points on this section of the mainline to trap engines exceeding the speed limit (a safety measure the Fat Controller put to the Island Council to stop incidences of burst safety valves and potential accidents as well as countering foolish machismo amongst the engines). The prospect of getting their crews fined or suspended without pay was enough to get engines to behave.

Only locomotives with specific lamp codes like the ones for Gordon’s Wild Nor’wester, the Flying Kipper and the Sudrian were exempt, and at any point, Henry could always make a clever excuse if he was clocked.

And Oliver Cromwell knew not the lines of Sodor at all. Or this policy as a matter of fact.

As if knowing what his engine was thinking, Henry’s driver turned away from the window and opened the regulator wide.

“We’ll show him, we’ll show him!” snarled Henry. The coaches started singing, “We’ll get him! We’ll get him!”

Knowing that his stretch of track would eventually curve out towards Brendam by the time the idiot BR Britannia wised up, Henry relaxed into his cylinder rhythm and began to trance out.

Trickity trock trickety trock

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

clangclangclangclangclangclang

He drew level and maintained presence of mind only to whistle rudely at Oliver Cromwell; a high-pitched chirp laden with contempt, then fully locked on into running down the line.

As it was said, it was a terribly windy day and it was blowing a cold gale directly into their faces as they ran, creating an even more thunderous atmosphere for those aboard both sets of coaches.

By now they had noticed that Henry was keeping pace and thought it was part of the trip. They kept laughing and cheering towards the passengers in Henry’s carriages, who would laugh and cheer back.

Oliver Cromwell blinked and realized the Black Five was now running level with the creepiest look of blissed-out intensity on his face.

“What the hell are you doing, you crazed Middy loon?!?” he yelled.

Henry took no notice, he was enraptured by his own exhaust beat, the rhythmic clanging of his motion gear and the roar of the wind.

A long blast of Oliver Cromwell’s whistle didn’t snap Henry out of the trance.

Bear tooted hello as he approached on the opposite line, while Henry shouted greetings and continued to follow and ignore Oliver Cromwell with that self-same look of deranged mania on his face.

Oliver Cromwell pumped his pistons as best he could and pulled ahead easily, but he was starting to get the odd feeling that this… was not as it appeared.

Henry was seemingly racing him without making the customary challenge out loud…and was deliberately ignoring him. Was he stalking him? Was this a Rail Rage incident in the making? Why is his driver letting him do this?

Oliver Cromwell was growing more uncomfortable and unhappy as Henry kept pace.

He kept yelling at the Black Five trying to get an answer but Henry ignored him.

The most terrifying part of all this was that Henry didn’t even look angry… he was ecstatic.

Henry began singing.

“One man went to war, went to war, went to war...one man and his baseball bat, went to war in Vickers…'

“Sing it with me girls!”

Henry and the coaches were running full pelt down the line and singing a violent football song…then the passengers were singing it!

“We are Vicarstown...We are Vicarstown!...”

“You’ve done it now, Ollie…” said his driver, “I told you a thousand times not to antagonise the locals… now one of them seemingly wants to kick your smokebox in…”

Oliver Cromwell began to panic and moved to pull ahead as the lines began to spread out before Wellsworth. Driver scolded him for freaking out and maintained a firm grip on the regulator. The spoiled idiot locomotive deserved a bit of a scare from a local, because he knew Henry couldn’t do anything else other than frighten him.

Before anyone knew, they were both storming though Wellsworth at top speed. Lots of people sitting at the station looked mightily impressed, not knowing this was entirely unplanned.

“Look alive Henry, the turn is coming…” shouted his driver, pulling Henry out of his reverie.

With a clang and a clamor, Henry pulled back to slow down, made the turn after Wellsworth and vanished down the line towards Suddery.

“Byyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…” he and the coaches called out as they pulled away.

Oliver Cromwell was somewhat relieved the crazed green Black Five was gone. But now he was by himself at full tilt down the line… without having the proper head code to run Express.

Snap!

At 200metres down the line, a bright light startled Oliver Cromwell as he approached Gordon’s Hill.

A speed camera?! On a fucking steam railway? What kind of weird Alice In Wonderland bullshit is this?

They ran the rest of the way towards Vicarstown, and without saying a single word to any engine on the way.

He didn’t bother to insult Gordon who was making his own way towards Tidmouth with the Wild’Norwester.

He didn’t say anything to Percy as he was taking the mail train in the opposite direction from Barrow.

He didn’t say a word to Emily who was sitting in a siding, or to Pip and Emma at Vicarstown.

He was too frightened to say a word. But he complained to his driver and fireman that the “crazy LMS loon” had been about to kill him incessantly and pestered them into talking to the Fat Controller.

Also, he was peeved they had been clocked. No other railway had speed cameras! They absolutely must get out of paying the fine!

“That doesn’t sound like Arthur at all…” said the Fat Controller, referring to Arthur the big ex-LMS Ivatt Class 2MT tank engine, who came to mind first. Arthur was notoriously stable, obedient and not crazy at all.

The idea of Arthur being some kind of deranged stalker was actually kinda funny to the Fat Controller.

“No sir, we are referring to the big green Black Five…”

Ah.

The Fat Controller questioned Henry at Tidmouth Sheds, who tried to look innocent.

‘I don’t know sir, maybe it was one of those other green LMS tender engines…”

“THERE ARE NO OTHER GREEN LMS TENDER ENGINES!” roared the Fat Controller.

Henry gulped.

“Were you threatening Oliver Cromwell with violent songs?”

“Oh Godred no sir! Me and the coaches were singing ‘One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow! One man and his train, peep! Went to mow a meadow…’, Henry nervously sang.

“I recall something mentioned about a baseball bat…”

Henry panicked. He sang the one song that could have probably have mentioned baseball bats in a non violent context, one that Rosie taught him at Vicarstown.

“Take me out to the ballgame!...”

“I appreciate the demonstration of your singing talents, but don’t bullshit me, Henry… if you did that was an unacceptable breach of hospitality… ….’

Thomas spoke up.

“Its true, Sir! Oliver Cromwell was being an arsehole to everyone on Sodor…”

Edward, who was very tired and really really peeved snarled, “He said that Queen Victoria died a century ago and that I should retire!”

Toby raged “He said I was an old codger that would get a heart attack and should be on the electric line, being a tram and all! Electric! Electric!”

Thomas then said, “He also asked Hiro how long he’s been there… Hiro just said, “From before your designer’s father was swimming around in a nut sack…’, which was a pretty killer comeback…”

The Fat Controller contemplated all these claims.

“I must admit, all of these have a ring of truth...”

‘Everyone had been complaining about Oliver Cromwell’s attitude towards the other engines, staff and rolling stock the entire time but no one wanted to say anything…’

And somehow, the people on his train thought that your little rail rage incident was part of the show! They thought it was a train race that we organized as part of the tour! They were very, very impressed...”

Henry fought the urge to take credit, knowing that if he failed the stern warning to ‘Neither confirm or deny” everyone could get into serious trouble, with the Fat Controller, with Oliver Cromwell’s owners, with the Island Council and everyone.

The Fat Controller could see the struggle raging in his smokebox and he understood. In order to avoid that can of worms, he decided that this matter was to end right here, in a swift and decisive manner so that no one could threaten to sue.

“DO NOT DO THAT EVER AGAIN, HENRY; YOU DO NOT RUN THE RAILWAY, I DO!

DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?

You do that again, I’m putting a tent on you! Got that?!”

“Yes, sir…” said Henry, meekly.

“You report to slow goods duties tomorrow afternoon and for an indefinite period!”

“Thank you, sir…” said Henry, deflated.

At least it wasn’t rubbish duty.

The Fat Controller huffed and walked away, trying to stop himself from quietly laughing at the idea at Arthur being a crazy homicidal maniac, Henry’s lame attempts at avoiding responsibility… and Hiro saying “swimming around in a nut sack”.

Henry sat in the sheds; sad, drained and tired. The run had caught up with him and he was exhausted down to the frames, the motion gear aching. The emotional comedown from that ecstatic run was far worse than the relatively mild punishment he was given.

I wish Har’ was here to rub my motion gear down and give me a kiss good night… so sore, so tired.

It was just as well he was resting in Tidmouth for his 3 AM Kipper run, then off to slow goods for Crovan knows how long.

“Onya Henry! Way to scare the daylights out of that arsehole 7F!” he heard.

“Carn Vickers!” was another one. He had no idea who said it, he was sliding into oblivion.

“Thank you…whoever you are!” he said as he passed out.

Inspired by this video of a Black Five seemingly racing BR Oliver Cromwell

[brw]

What do you think of EMH's Hank Pym? He's my favourite version of the character and the one I think of when I think of Hank Pym. I know he's very different however with his pacifism and him not having the ego that most iterations of Hank do.

I really like EMH's characterisation! It's proof to me honestly that you can adapt a character as historically mentally fraught as Hank, pay attention to those aspects & not demonise him for it as I feel the MCU thought was impossible. They did great adapting Yellowjacket I thought, and I appreciate Hank's pacifist role, even if it's not necessarily what I would have done. Personally, I think I prefer it when Hank is a lil aggressive? Like I think the introduction/solo ep caught a good balance of him being an idealist with these things but also kind of enjoying himself when he's shrinking and fighting people, but I liked how moralistic he is I think that's a good fit for Hank.

I've talked about it before but it's always felt conspicuous to me that Hank was missing from almost every Illuminati group, and while the reality is that most writers just don't consider him I think it would easily say a lot abt Hank's moral standards & how maybe he's less willing to compromise himself like Reed is for the greater good. like, he compromised himself so severely with Yellowjacket & I think it would be fair to say that he no longer wants that for himself & so isn't in the Illuminati, & the idea of Hank being different from Tony & Reed & other supergenius' in that way was portrayed well in the show, like when he's arguing with Tony about him dismissing Simon too easily.

They also portrayed Hank's insecurities well, & I appreciate how Janet is sympathetic without necessarily being supposed to fix him in any way? Like they got a really good balance of respecting Janet & making her fun & light-hearted & Hank being more uncomfortable with his role & struggling to fit his ideals into the superhero life without making their relationship horrible? Like ultimately it's just two people who love each other drifting apart because of their different positions in this business & I appreciate that. I think a lot of writers & fans seem to think that fixing the historical misogyny in Janet's history & fixing the historical ableism in Hank's history is mutually exclusive and you can either have Hank be sympathetic & a heroic but mentally ill man at the expense of Janet, or you can have a feminist, women-first version of Janet no longer defined by the men in her life at the expense of making Hank a one dimensional abusive figure. And EMH proves you can do both, respectfully & tentatively and have it be friendly for kids, no less. Its just such a good version of their characters its aware of all the changes it made & why and what aspects that were good that they wanted to keep.

All this to say, I do think outside of the first few episodes & Yellowjacket, I think it's clear the writers weren't sure what to do with Hank a lot of the time, because at some point he mostly is just there to get knocked out repeatedly, which I think is a shame, but in all fairness "what to do with Hank Pym" is a problem that plagued him for a very long time so it's not like it's exclusive to this show. Still, it does feel obvious in certain episodes that they couldn't figure out how to include Hank in a meaningful way so he's mostly there just to throw one line in or again, get knocked out. Part of this is because the show focused more on the pacifist side of things--like in Tales To Astonish the focus for me personally was more on Hank finding new & adaptive ways to save the day (like lying about getting appendicitis) to fight people he should really have no business fighting, and I think that would probably have been a more narratively rich way for them to portray Hank? It would have given him more to do than "oh violence first, I see" and then getting knocked out by Thor landing on him, but I get the show needed a voice of reason to the team other than Steve so Hank fit that niche well.

But yeah. It's a very good Hank & it's why I recommend this show to people curious in learning more about him, I think it's a good starting point ! Really wish the show hadn't been cancelled bc I would have loved to seen him Janet & Wanda interact, it's an underrated dynamic of those three I miss dearly.

[latibvles]

SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful magic. // a heart's first flutter

they wrote, and then she stopped.

masterlist | gallery | taglist

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: a series of letters spanning over eight months between Ronald Speirs and Daisy Clarke.

TAGLIST: @softguarnere , @liebgotts-lovergirl , @monalisastwin , @brassknucklespeirs

formatting this chapter was a nightmare

i also recommend listening to this for more DaisRon letter-writing feelings.

APRIL 1942

Dear Ronnie, Things have finally quieted down around here. Everyone always gets so excited when you boys march off to war — I’ll never understand it. Your mother’s doing fine — your sisters were able to console her some. Although I don’t think I’ll hear the end of it from them now. They think something’s going on between you and me. I told them it was nothing but I don’t think they believed me. Guess you’ve got a lady waiting at home for you after all — according to your family’s logic. You’ve dug your own grave at this point.

All of this, and I won’t even be getting any of your benefits. What a shame.

Missing you already, Daisy

Daisy, Good to know that mom’s in good hands — but if you think I’ll be able to change their minds then you don’t know my sisters. Should I ask them to change my status to married on my recruitment forms? Your brother’s gonna be real mad we’ve apparently been in cahoots this whole time and left him out. It’ll make for one hell of a Thanksgiving story — and maybe the guys here will leave me alone about having a girl back home. Don’t know what’s got them so curious.

Sorry about the benefits. Guess I’ll just have to send a part of my officer’s checks to make up for it.

Missing you too, Ronald Speirs

Dear Ronnie, I definitely wasn’t expecting you to change their minds, but let it be known that I am expecting flowers on Valentine’s Day now, or else you’ll have a very upset letter waiting for you in the mail. Jimmy says that Boot Camp should be called a Hell Camp instead. Of course, you know how he is. Probably got in trouble for something dumb, like having one of those graphic magazines in his bunk.

I suppose I can forgive you for the benefits. I’m feeling charitable. You’ll simply have to pay for the rest of my debts at nursing school. How does that sound?

Thinking of you, Daisy

Daisy, I’ll write a reminder for that. Daisies right? Or is that too on-the-nose? I’ll do my best to ensure they don’t wilt when I send them across state lines otherwise. Boot Camp is about as “fun” as you’d expect it to be, at least by Jimmy’s standards. You get up early, you work your bones into dust and everything comes out of a can for your meals. Showers also run cold pretty quick, so yeah, it probably is hell for him.

Mrs. Speirs, your debts from before our nuptials are not my burdens to bear. You’re lucky I happen to like you and I’m feeling nice.

From, Ronald Speirs

MAY 1942

Dear Ronnie, Everyone in my class is getting all antsy. I guess with the war and everything a lot of the people here want to help. Better us than a bunch of people who don’t know what they’re doing. Or even worse — people who know what they’re doing but their hearts aren’t in it. A few friends of mine have already been sent out to the Pacific, if you can believe it. They’re setting up hospital stations for the incoming troops.

We’re all okay up here. Just restless. Everything on the radio’s all about the war. The troops. More and more boys leave every day. Makes my head spin, to be completely honest. I want to ask if you’ve made any friends but it almost feels weird to phrase it that way. I mean, it’s not like school is it?

Try and let me know whether you end up in the Pacific or Europe at least. I don’t want to ask any stupid questions.

From, Daisy.

Daisy, I’m glad you’re okay. I still don’t know where I’m headed, but I’ll let you know when I find out, if I can. I don’t think you’ve ever asked a stupid question, but that’s besides the point.

It’s not a weird question to ask. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not like school, no. In school they can’t make you crawl through mud and barbed wire if you forget a math textbook. But it’s hard not to get to know the guys you’re with when you all share showers and bunks. I’m getting along with most people just fine, if that’s what you mean.

Bet there are gonna be a lot of jobs open once you’re done with school, if so many women are becoming military nurses. I’ve only met a few. They’re okay.

Good luck on your finals.

From, Ronald Speirs

JUNE 1942

Dear Ronnie, We went dress shopping today for graduation. I’m having a hard time picking something. Our high school photos were so nice, I guess I just don’t want these ones to look bad either. It seems silly to worry about in the grand scheme of things, I hope you don’t mind.

I hope you had fun in Florida. The other guys aren’t still ribbing you for not having a girlfriend, are they? I remember you mentioning it. Just use my name if you have to.

Mom and Dad say hello. They hope you’re well. Mom’s sending some of her peanut butter cookies, I hope you like them.

Sincerely, Daisy.

Daisy, You’re going to look pretty no matter what you wear, and I don’t mind you telling me about this stuff. It’s a nice break from all the talk about war. Keep talking about it, I don’t mind. I’m sorry I can’t be there. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.

The men still do, sometimes. More often than not they try to set me up with their girls’ friends who need dates. But I might take you up on that if it gets too annoying.

Tell your mom I said thanks for the cookies. I’ll have to safeguard them with my life.

From, Ronald Speirs

JULY 1942

Ronnie, Mom’s having one of her spells again. The tears and all. It used to be easier when you and James were still here. Now I feel like a little kid again. I know by the time this reaches you it’ll be over, but this is just a long winded way of saying I really miss you. Just not the same without seeing you everyday, I guess.

James writes. He says he’s getting ready to ship out soon. He’s headed to the Pacific. I wish you two weren’t so far away.

Missing you, Daisy.

Daisy, I don’t know if this makes it any better, but if I could be there I would. I hope that she’s feeling better by the time you get this. I miss you too. Please try not to get too down about it, though. I think they’ll let us go home for Christmas, so we can count down the days until then.

We still don’t know where we’re headed. I’m thinking about transferring to the Paratroopers. The pay’s better anyway and they’re supposed to be the best of the best. I got this on one of my trips to Florida on pass. I hope you like it

162 days until Christmas.

Hang in there, Ronald Speirs

Dear Ronnie, The bracelet is beautiful. You really didn’t have to get me that, but thank you. I think it might be a new favorite. I’ll have to send you something really nice in the mail.

I don’t know how I feel about my best friend jumping out of planes, but as long as you come home in one piece then you have my blessing. If the pay’s better and you really want to do it, I think you should. You should tell James. I think he might even get a little jealous. He’s always wanted to skydive.

148 days till Christmas.

Hanging in, Daisy.

AUGUST 1942

Daisy, That new Abbott and Costello film just came out. It’s better than the films they show on base, to give you some idea. I don’t know if you’re planning to see it. I’d like to go see a movie with you when I come back up there. For the sake of fairness, I’ll let you pick.

I nearly beat a guy running Currahee today. I was able to keep up just fine. Georgia heat makes summers up there seem like nothing. But I can complete the trail in 45 minutes now. My ankle’s hurting something fierce though. Hope it’s not a sprain.

128 days until Christmas.

Take care of yourself, Ronald Speirs

Dear Ronnie,

I haven’t seen it yet. Some of my coworkers wanted to go out and see it. You’ll have a review in your next letter, promise. But I’d like that a lot, now that you mention it. We can go halves on the tickets since it’s my pick anyway. Don’t forget.

I know that in the Army you’re all supposed to be a bunch of “tough guys” but please don’t make me come down there. Get it checked out, or Camp Toccoa will have a very disgruntled visitor in the coming weeks. And don’t you doubt that for a minute.

121 days until Christmas.

Worry about yourself, Daisy

SEPTEMBER 1942

Dear Ronnie, Summer heat’s finally going away. Leaves haven’t started to change quite yet though. I can’t believe I’d ever say that I miss football season. To be honest, I mostly miss your track season. I liked watching you run, and you were always good at it. I really took little things like that for granted.

Mom’s apples are coming in nice. She’s excited to start making cider and tarts and all that other stuff. I’ll try to send you some, when I can. She’s always worried about what they’re feeding you down there. Dad’s been trying to get her not to worry so much.

106 days until you’re home.

Sincerely, Daisy

Daisy, I didn’t know you liked watching me run. I always thought you were just there for Jimmy. It still feels like summer here sometimes. I think we both took it for granted. I liked walking you home after your ballet practices. You probably already knew that, though.

I finally have my dates. I make my last practice jump on the 26th, so the day after Christmas. I’ll be home right after that for ten days. Tell your mom they’re feeding me fine. My mom has similar worries, but I don’t think she actually listens when I tell her I’m okay.

94 days until I’m home.

See you soon, Ronnie

OCTOBER 1942

Dear Daisy, Turner is still as much of a jackass as usual. With all the arms training we do I’m shocked he hasn’t been accidentally shot yet. If I ever start acting like one of those self-righteous West Pointers I want you to set me straight immediately. I don’t know what he wants from me, but he can lick my goddamn boot.

If he wasn’t a superior officer, I would’ve socked him in the jaw by now.

At any rate, jump training starts after Thanksgiving at Fort Benning. They had us officers all compete to be leading the sticks in an Olympics of sorts. I’m finally used to crawling through pig guts.

81 days until I’m home.

Thinking of you,

Ronnie

Dear Ronnie, I know you hate the guy, but please don’t do anything stupid. That includes punching anyone in the jaw. I don’t think you have the ability to act as arrogant as this man sounds, but you can count on me to set you straight if it happens. You get along with the men under you and that’s what matters. Hang in there.

Is it weird to say I’m glad you’ve gotten used to it? At least it isn’t so awful anymore. Unfortunately hospital work isn’t as invigorating as crawling through pig guts. You’ve got me beat there.

67 days until we’re together again.

I’m in your corner,

Daisy

NOVEMBER 1942

Dear Ronnie, Happy Early Thanksgiving. Mom ran a food drive out of the school and it did great. Dad had some of his veteran friends who hadn’t been called back help promote it. A lot of people won’t be going hungry this winter.

I’m getting a little antsier now. I can’t wait to see you. We’re all missing you up here. My Aunt Marie and Uncle Allen are coming up for Thanksgiving from Maryland — she’ll probably end up asking about you. I’d send you leftovers if I could.

There’s something I want to talk to you about when you’re back. It’s nothing bad, just something I’m curious about, really.

47 days until the movies.

Yours,

Daisy

Dear Daisy, Happy Thanksgiving, Dais. I hope you’re having a good time with your family. I’m glad that your mom’s food drive went well and that your dad’s friends helped. Sounds like a lot of good things are going on.

Try not to lose your head, alright? I can imagine you doing the leg-bounce thing right now. But I hope Remembrance Day went by fast for you. I know how hard that day is — if I helped at all with that, then I’m glad.

32 days until the movies.

Yours,

Ronnie

DECEMBER 1942

Dear Ronnie, By the time you get this, you may already be packing your bags. Apparently we’re going to Aunt Marie’s for the holidays. In Maryland. And we won’t be coming back until after New Year’s. Do I want to go? No. Not really. But family is family.

At any rate, leave a letter in my mailbox and I’ll read it when I come home. And whenever you come home next, you can pick the movie. I’ll try to keep my head up in the meanwhile.

I really, really miss you.

Yours,

Daisy

[ohthehypocrisy]

The beginning of Season 3 of my Pokemon Unite fan-made posts...

So, for the past couple of months, I've been making nothing but poll after poll of posts asking Tumblr which pokemon they'd want to see joining Pokemon Unite. Mostly to fill the gap between Season 2 and 3, but also to get a feel as to which pocket blorbo do people want to see coming to Pokemon Unite.

And for the most part, I think I get what people want. Mostly they just want cute and cool pokemon joining, like Tinkaton and Delcatty and Iron Valiant and such. But there is a shocking divide between Tumblr's favorites and my own favorites.

Here's a secret, I have a bunch of drafts lined up and ready to go for Season 3, and some of these pokemon have shown up on previous polls. However, most of them don't poll very high or even get any votes by the end, which is really demoralizing on my end. I mean, I try to shy away from popular picks because I know they'll be added to Pokemon Unite eventually, and nothing I can come up with for, let's say, Incineroar or Iron Valiant will live up to the standards of their fans. So I don't bother, and focus mostly on my own favorites.

And that's what Season 3 is looking to shape up to be. Maybe I'll be the only one reading those posts, but I don't care all that much about it. These ideas occupy my head until I put them down on paper or on my blog. I don't plan on doing this forever, but I will want to put down as many of these ideas as I can before that happens.

So, as Season 3 progresses, I will be prioritizing my own wellbeing over my own self-imposed schedule. I still haven't quite gotten my life together yet, but this helps distract me in the meantime. I only hope that I'm entertaining someone out there who likes reading my thoughts.

You can expect Season 3 posts to be released on Sundays Pacific Time, with a follow-up poll reblog looking at and analyzing the results. If that's your kind of thing, then follow my blog and give my posts a like as you read on.

See y'all next week!

[redheadspark]

Winter Prompts, Round 1!

Hello my lovelies!

I hope you all are doing well in November and you have a great time with the Holidays this upcoming week!

I have a few new followers here on my blog: WELCOME! I'm so happy you're here and I hope you like what I write! If you ever get lost, come to the Navigation Page! I know December is not here yet, but I also know we are all going to be beyond busy when it's officially Christmas season next week, so I figure I can get a head start with a new Prompt Session! Now I will do TWO Sessions, not just one, and I'll make sure to do them right before we all travel to see loved ones for Christmas, so don't worry!!

This Prompt theme is:

Christmas and Winter Prompts 🎄🎁❄️

Here are my rules with this prompt sessions:

1.) You maybe chose ONE character from my list that I have Here . It’ll have the list of characters that I write for or have written for in the past.

*(If you have a character not listed that you wish for me to write, PLEASE MESSAGE ME AND CLEAR IT WITH ME FIRST TO SEE IF I CAN OR WILL DO IT!)*

2.) The Prompt list found below has two sections: Scenario and Dialogue. You may choose ONE FROM EACH, not two from one and two from another. Also, Please provide the number AND the line that you wish for me to write for you so I don't get confused!

*I write out the request I get as first come first serve. I will try my best to fulfill every request that comes my way, but please bear in mind I work full time as a teacher. Because of that, I’ll be busy most of the day so please be patient and I’ll write on my spare time as much as I can :) *

3.) You can request in my ASK box neither as yourself or anonymously. Although I would LOVE to give you a shout if you request as yourself, anon is perfectly fine!

4.) I will close this prompt session Sunday, November 27th, at 3:00 pm (Pacific Standard Time or California USA time).

5.) Have fun and enjoy! If you miss this request session, don't worry! I'll do another December Prompt session around December 4th!

*Prompts created by @mirclealignr* SCENARIOS;

Decorating the tree

Dancing in the snow

Present shopping

Gift giving

Wrapping gifts

Making a gingerbread house

Gingerbread house competition

Snowball fight

Sledging

Mistletoe

Christmas baking

Christmas market

Making snowmen

Christmas party

Watching Christmas movies

Dancing to Christmas music

Going ice skating

Christmas dinner

Making Christmas dinner

Fake dating for Christmas Ball

Secret Santa

Both reaching for the last cookie

Making Christmas decorations

New Years Countdown

NYE Party

DIALOGUES;

"Stop trying to get me to walk under the mistletoe.”

"That should be our Christmas card this year."

"Why'd you turn the music off?"

"I know we said no presents this year but..."

“I hate Christmas shopping.” - “I love Christmas shopping!”

“Do you want to put the star on the top of the tree?”

“What do you think? Like the tree?”

“Open your stocking!”

“It’s snowing!”

“What are you doing?” - “Making a snow angel.”

“Do people even use nutcrackers?”

“Do you still believe in Santa?”

“You’d make a cute elf.”

“Look! Reindeers!”

“Is that supposed to be a snowman?”

“Do you have any carrots?”

“This is the best gift you could’ve given me.”

“You have snow on your eyelashes, looks cute.”

“Come here by the fire.”

“Please don’t make me wear this, I look ridiculous.”

“You’ve really made my Christmas this year.”

“I thought you were going home for Christmas.” - “Well, I couldn’t leave you all alone.”

“I’m never letting you convince me to go carolling again.”

“Hey, if we don’t find someone by midnight…you and me…maybe?” - “Ask me properly and I might consider it.”

“Here, you can have one of my gloves.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Did you get us matching pyjamas?”

“You look so beautiful in the snow.”

“It’s bold of you to assume I haven’t eaten my entire advent calendar.”

“Christmas hot chocolate is not normal hot chocolate. Where are the marshmallows?”

“Smell this candle, it’s amazing.”

“Aren’t you going to write your letter to Santa?”

“I’ll let you sit on my knee.”

“You’re my Christmas angel.” - “Wow that was…intense.” - “Just take the compliment.”

“Will you be my new years kiss?”

“But I wanted to be Santa this year!”

“Did you make me a tinsel crown?”

“I can’t get the star on, would you give me a hand?”

“Looks like you’ve had a few drinks!” - “You haven’t had enough if you’re noticing. Come on, bar’s over there.”

“Will you make me a hot chocolate?” - “Name all the reindeer and I will.”

Once again, This Prompt Session will close at 3:00 PM PST on Sunday, November 27th.

Happy Writing!

Tagged: @a-lumos-in-the-nox @botanicalbarnes @heartofwritiing @basicrese @hottpinkpenguin @heliosphere8 @virtueassassin

[dokiyeom]

THE TAG IS SO SO CUTE ILL END IT 💥💥 u should send me more asks & ill give u an emoji hihi 🫶🫶 IM EXCITED TOO YAY i have so many fic & smau ideas so im glad i can work on them then! (maybe i should tell u a few of them 🤭 ....)

that sounds so nice!! i think i recently ate sukiyaki (?) && it was so so good! baking and mahjong 💔💔💔 im glad u had so much fun because i also completely get what u mean?? i don't have any family here nor do i have any cousins/family members of my age + the distance is just 👎 so im not in contact with any yk

im still . flabbergasted like i want to go 2 japan too hello 😭 tbh at first i thought u lived in maybe japan or IDK but then u said u would show ur friends ur motherlands? so i was like ??? and also I WANNA KNOW UR TIMEZONE PLSPLS pleaseee yes im dutch & french but was born in the netherlands and lived there for 10ish years before moving to France!!

OK I WILL WATCH AN EPISODE SOON THEN!! pls this is so funny YES ik jay + me = twins hihi i hope so too!! that would be really cool but im just waiting impatiently for the official announcement rn so that i can mark it on my calendar, BOOM! ill also go to a big city just before my bday so maybe MAYBE if I have some pocket money i could buy myself a cute dress for the party and or an album teehee YA I HOPE U FIND IT IN JAPAN OMG im curious do u alr have some albums or like merch

i LOVE sudoku omg ,, it's so cool that ur using photoshop like u made ur carrd thingy with that right? it's so pretty i will never not say that. im sure ur gonna do v well hihi 🫶

i will !!! try to drop by ur ask box more frequently !!! unfortunately i’m,, a tiny bit awful at coming up w ideas on what to say but i will try !!!! and hello yes ??? u should 100% tell me abt ur smau ideas !!! or fic ideas in general && in return,, i’ll share some of my horribly messy notes app full of fic ideas w u <3

aagg i’m so happy u enjoyed sukiyaki !! if u get the chance,, i highly rec kansai style sukiyaki unless eating a bit of semi raw egg feels unnatural or intimidating !! i feel like i should b more loyal to kanto style bc i’m from the kanto area,, but kansai sukiyaki is just. wow. && aagg yea i feel u :(( i think it allows for u to b a lot closer a family friends bc they end up sorta being a proxy,, but it does kinda suck not being close or in contact w extended family <//3

i hope ur able to go someday !!! && my time zone is pacific standard time !! or pacific time atm bc of daylight savings,, but i did live in japan for a while &’& am considering moving back there after uni !! and woa hello u live in france ?? that is so cool omg,, i def want to visit france at some point for the fashion museums and exhibitions wraaaa :0 also fun fact,,, i took a plants/human welfare course last yr && the only thing i really rmbr from that was tulip’s apparently caused an economic recession in the netherlands during the early 1600s :D

EXCITED FOR U TO WATCH !! and omg what if the cb announcement is after woozis done posting all the album pics on his instagram :00 but oo what sort of dress would u get ? lw i’m so insanely picky w dresses that for prom i’ve just decided to get a lower costing plain dress && alter it + sew on an egregious amount of accessories

&& yes i have albums !! for merch i have a candy bong && moa bong that i got for the twice n txt concert i went to,, but unfortunately i stood in like for like an hr and a half at the svt concert mercy line only to reach sort of the front area && hear a staff member at the truck yell that carat bongs were completely sold out <//3 i do have. a pc binder that both brings me sm joy && shame for realizing how much money i’ve spent on. silly little pieces of paper w people taking silly little selfies tho. what abt u :0

RIGHT SUDOKU IS SO <3 but it’s also caused me like. sm headaches omg. and thank uu <3 i did make it on photoshop !! but i’m considering making a new one w more of a powerpuff girls/ diff take on a retro cyber theme :D

[sickjust]

Rocky balboa speech subtitles

Alright? The President, in this case, is Rocky Balboa, and Apollo Creed is everything else in the world. I believe it is just a lull before a comeback. Look, folks, my point is that I don't believe this is a low point in this presidency. There's still some liquid in that glass is my point, but I wouldn't drink it. Sir, pay no attention to the people who say the glass is half empty, because 32% means it's 2/3 empty. 32% means the glass - important to set up your jokes properly, sir. President, please, please, pay no attention to the people that say the glass is half full. We know that polls are just a collection of statistics that reflect what people are thinking in "reality." And reality has a well-known liberal bias. But guys like us, we don't pay attention to the polls. Now, I know there are some polls out there saying that this man has a 32% approval rating. Most of all, I believe in this president. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe it's yogurt. I believe there are infinite paths to accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior. It was magical! And though I am a committed Christian, I believe that everyone has the right to their own religion, be you Hindu, Jewish or Muslim. I saw this guy do it once in Cirque du Soleil. I believe in pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps. And by these standards, we have set up a fabulous government in Iraq. I believe the government that governs best is the government that governs least. Your great country makes our Happy Meals possible. As a matter of fact, Ambassador Zhou Wenzhong, welcome. At least until China figures out a way to stamp it out of plastic for three cents a unit. I believe democracy is our greatest export. I feel that it extends from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and I strongly believe it has 50 states, and I cannot wait to see how the Washington Post spins that one tomorrow. I hold a simple set of beliefs that I live by. I call it the "No Fact Zone." FOX News, I hold a copyright on that term. Every night on my show, The Colbert Report, I speak straight from the gut, okay? I give people the truth, unfiltered by rational argument. My gut tells me that's how our nervous system works. Now, I know some of you are going to say, "I did look it up, and that's not true." That's 'cause you looked it up in a book. Do you know you have more nerve endings in your gut than you have in your head? You can look it up. Right, sir? That's where the truth lies, right down here in the gut. Guys like us, we're not some brainiacs on the nerd patrol. President, my name is Stephen Colbert, and tonight it is my privilege to celebrate this president, ‘cause we're not so different, he and I. But until you start believing in yourself, you ain’t gonna have a life.Mark Smith, ladies and gentlemen of the press corps, Madame First Lady, Mr. I’m always gonna love you no matter what. Cowards do that and that ain’t you! You’re better than that. And not pointin’ fingers sayin’ you ain’t where you want to be because of him or her or anybody. Now, if you know what you’re worth, go out and get what you’re worth – but you gotta be willing to take the hits. How much you can take, and keep movin’ forward. But it ain’t about how hard you hit, it’s about how hard you get hit and keep movin’ forward. You, me, or nobody hits is gonna hit as hard as life. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. Let me tell you something you already know. And when things got hard, you started looking for something to blame. You let people stick a finger in your face and tell you you’re no good. But somewhere along the line, you changed. Then the time come for you to be your own man, and take on the world, and you did. This kid’s gonna be somebody better than anybody I ever knew.”Īnd you grew up good and wonderful and it was great just watching you every day was a privilege. I’d hold you up to say to your mother, “This kid’s gonna be the best kid in the world. You ain’t gonna believe this – but you used to fit right here. Script of Rocky’s entire speech to his son The area looks the same today as it did in 2005 during the filming of Rocky Balboa. Sylvester Stallone and Milo Ventimiglia stood just steps away from the entrance to Adrian’s Restaurant for this motivational scene.

[engineer-gunzelpunk]

Heavy Harry And The Three Railway Engines (Red And Black Steam On Southern Metals, CW: Some coarse language)

This next one was actually the first RWS-type story outside of Sodor I ever wrote featuring my VR OCs. I was obsessed with the idea that the RWS books did exist within the Island Of Sodor, which is not an uncommon idea in the fandom...

But I don't think anyone did a story where locomotives outside of Sodor and existing in the same reality as Sodor actually read the RWS.

Heavy Harry And The Three Railway Engines

Newport Locomotive Depot and Works, late December 1950

The mighty VR H-Class Pocono H220 “Heavy Harry” has settled in his shed for the night. He has an express passenger train tomorrow to the border town of Albury all the way in New South Wales, the next state over across the Murray River, and needs plenty of rest. He is the largest locomotive built locally in Australia and the largest non-articulated loco in the Southern Hemisphere.

Somehow, it doesn’t really go to his head, probably because he pulls a lot of goods trains as well, overnights to Albury and back (VR seems to give everyone plenty of mixed work, not even the snooty S-classes are above pulling goods trains every now and again). It gives him ample opportunity to show his strength, for no other class of locomotive in Australia is stronger than he.

He is dark and shining in his majesty, painted in standard VR all-black; the imported American bar frames upon which his whole being is built, the pilot out the front and enormous smoke deflectors give him a proud and armored look.

Unlike the suave, stylish S-class Pacifics who are the lords of the fleet; who hid all their machinery under dark blue and gold streamlining, he unabashedly shows off his rugged mechanical lumps and bumps. He needs to be rugged if he is to mount the 1-50 and 1-44 inclines of the North Eastern Line on a daily basis, such as his purpose.

Near him is in the next berth the old fashioned, black VR A2 4-6-0 No 986 “Pluto”, who also pulls passengers, though not as often these days. He’s an older fellow that plays the doddering old man, but he’s sharp and cunning and won’t hesitate to take the piss out of anyone who he thinks is stupid.

“Your driver is coming to tuck you in and give you a kiss, Har’! Has he got a glass of warm milk?” giggles Pluto.

“He might be coming to change your adult nappy, Pluto!” snickers Harry.

“He’d better be dressed all sexy-like in a nurse outfit if he’s going to do that! Give me a sponge bath too! That’d make my night!”

They’re both laughing like crazy by the time Harry’s driver reaches them.

“Ready for bed?” his voice echoes.

“Just settling in, Driver…” says Harry

“Have a squiz at this!” His driver cheerfully, and shows him a tiny yellow book, The Three Railway Engines, “Just published! I bought it to read to me kids! I thought it would be fun to show you, Har’.”

Harry was curious at the little book.

“They have living locomotives in Britain as well?”

“Of course they do!… We’re not the only living ones out there! Its impossible!” barks Pluto.

Driver carefully reads the simple stories and shows up the pictures in front of Harry so he can appreciate them. Their faces are grey, like that of the Australian locomotives, but their classes and types are difficult to discern from the artwork.

Pluto listens in with interest.

“Blimey, Gordon is such a limp prick!” exclaims Pluto.

“That hill looks pissy as! Surely the A3 can’t be as great as they say if it struggles on a little hillock!.. “ snickers Harry.

They go to the next story.

“Pluto, there’s a 4-6-0 in this book!” exclaims Harry.

“Good for him! I hope he’s as splendid as me…” puffs Pluto, then suddenly the sound of snoring came from that berth.

“Heh! Old coot!”

They continue reading the stories.

After finishing the book, Driver asks “What do you think, Har’?”

“I’m not sure…”, Harry is a little uneasy.

“Whats the matter, boy? Don’t you like it?”.

Harry kept flickering his eyes to the side.

“I don’t like the story of Henry getting shut up in a tunnel… I don’t think he deserved his punishment…”, he looks down towards his bufferless footplate.

“He sure deserved his punishment! What a princess! Imagine stalling cuz you’re afraid of a few drops of rain? What a total pillock!” he laughed.

Driver thought it was very funny, but Harry didn’t think so.

“Sir, would you like it if the coppers threw you in jail because you went on strike over something?” he said with uncharacteristic solemnity.

Driver frowned at the realisation. He had joined the strike that year and Harry had struck a nerve.

“Have you been talking to one of the Communist locos, Har’?”

“No! Why? Didn’t you join the enginemen’s strike too? The one we locomotives wholeheartedly supported? And it made things better for everyone? Because that the promises that fucking terrible Pig Iron Bob bloke made didn't come true? ”

“Fair point, Harry… but striking for better pay and conditions is one thing… being silly over paint is another…”

“How do we know he’s being silly over paint? Just because the author said so?

'The stupid newspapers said you were all Communists or puppets of Communists! The other drivers were complaining about it!

‘They made the locos so silly-looking too! Like kiddies and children’s toys! Do they really look this silly in England?” grunted Harry.

“I don’t think these are meant to be literal, Harry…I mean, the paintings aren’t the most accurate depictions of locomotive types.. you can’t even see what classes they’re supposed to be…I mean, Henry’s a 4-6-0 in one picture and a Pacific in another!”

“Pacifics! Feh! Wankers!” yelled Pluto in his sleep ,“Too good for pulling goods eh? Why I oughta take them by the scruff and rub their noses in boiler sludge! ...” , snoring resumes.

“Do you think the Thin Commissioner would come down personally if one of us were to stall in a tunnel just to yell at the passengers, have them try to pull a 200-tonne locomotive with full consist, then lose his temper and brick it up?” asked Harry.

“No, Harry, that would be silly and absurd. But in the book, the Fat Controller is on the train… but I do get your point...”

“That Fat Controller must be a child, if his solution to Henry being silly in a tunnel is to brick him up and leave him there. The board of directors must have been spitting chips at that!”

Driver shrugged, “They’re just stories in a book, Harry. Not a thing to get upset over… I must admit now that you bring it up, it is a bit stupid in the way they seem to run it, leaving a perfectly good engine in his shed… then sending a wholly unsuitable locomotive to do a goods run on a steep hill… then bricking up another one in a tunnel...”

“Anyway Har’, best not think about it too hard… big journey tomorrow! Nighty night!”

Just stories… Harry thought.

And he put his discomfort away, and tried to get some sleep even though Pluto snored like it was going out of fashion.

Here are a couple of true events referred to for context:

Previous to the events of the story, there had been a major strike by the enginemen of the VR for better pay and conditions. Things that were promised to them when the war ended were not given to them. They were exhausted and a lot of the locomotives were in terrible shape because no one could afford to maintain them as often as they should. The railway workers union AFULE called a major strike which lasted for 55 days, and most of their demands were met by the VR.

The "Pig Iron Bob" referred to in the story is Sir Robert Menzies, the arch-Conservative Prime Minister of Australia at the time of the story. He was infamous as Attorney General for letting the sale of raw iron to the Empire of Japan even as it was clear they were allied with the Nazis and were committing atrocities all across Asia, such as the Massacre of Nanking.

The unions and every right-thinking Australian hated this and they refused to load iron on ships bound for Japan:

[relative-dimension]

“The Ambush”

Season 1, episode 8 - 11th January 1964

[id: The Doctor, Susan Foreman, and Barbara Wright all shout and hammer on a window from the inside, as Ian Chesterton stands behind them and waves both hands /end id]

As with last episode, the scenes of the Tardis gang escaping are really good, and the Daleks are presented as a genuine threat in a way they won’t really be in a lot of episodes after this.

Is it an entertaining watch: 3/5, eh, it’s fine. There’s a good tense buildup to the Daleks’ attack on the Thals, and like I said the escape scenes are well done.

Does the production hold up: 4/5, I have many questions about the Dalek sculpture they find to throw down the lift shaft. Like. What the fuck was up with that? Apart from that, though, the designs are as good as always.

Does it use its time well: 3/5, this episode sits at the midpoint of the story, and it does feel like a transition between the two main plotlines - the investigation of the city and capture by the Daleks, and the attack on the city with the Thals. Shame that the second of those is much more boring than the first. Nice cliffhanger, though.

Are the characters consistent and well-used: 3/5, they don’t all get their own Moment in this one, but none of them are directly shafted by the plot to focus on side characters or anything.

Is there anything actually going on under the surface: 4/5, this episode being the real introduction to Thal culture, we get the return of the idea of nuclear devastation, the development of their pacifism (which will come back into play next time) and a few lines about the Daleks being racist.

Does it avoid being a bit dodge with its politics: 3/5, I’m not entirely sure how to explain this, but something seems wrong with the fact that all the Thals are white and blond and that makes them, as Susan put it last episode, “perfect.” Obviously this was the BBC in 1964 so it seems like the fact that the cast is entirely white wouldn’t really be worth noting - except this story is saying something about racism. As Ian puts it, the Daleks are motivated by “a dislike for the unlike,” and many, many, many other Doctor Who episodes after this will draw parallels between the pepperpots and Nazi ideology. Their utter hatred for the Thals, and, in later iterations, all other life, is what motivates them. But when the Thals are oh so beautiful and perfect and white, I can’t help but feel that they’re trying to present some sort of reverse racism, where the Daleks are the monsters because they find western beauty standards repulsive (that’s not true obviously - the Daleks are the monsters because of all the murder - but bear with me, I don’t think I’m spouting complete and utter bollocks). One way of reading this might be that the Daleks hate the Thals because (as stated in the story) the Thals have mutated into a more “perfect” form than the Daleks did, or something. This got very long because I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say, but there are implications by having the Thals be white and described as “magnificent people.” There’s not enough there for me to knock it below the last episode, but it’s there. Probably. Idk.

Overall Score - 20/30

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Current Status: CLOSED

I’ll keep saying it, you guys are wild and I mean that with as much affection as possible, thank you so much for your support! 

This event will be open all day, and I’ll close the event at 7pm Pacific Standard Time.

Gentle reminder that requests will likely not all be completed in the course of a single day, as I'll be working while the event is open. Big thank you in advance for your patience 💛

Once the event is completed, I will add the masterlist at the bottom of this post

Event Rules:

As I am a DC/Yandere blog, I will not age up characters I feel uncomfortable writing about.

This includes: Gon, Killua, Yuji, Megumi, Inumaki

I have the right to refuse to write about a character even if they are not on the list above.

Everything from my regular rules still applies

Event Prompt: 

Send me a line of dialogue from the list below as well as a character from HxH or JJK, and I will write you a short drabble inspired by that prompt!

You can choose up to 2 prompts, but please limit your requests to 1 character 💛

Yandere Dialogue Prompts:

“What makes you think you’re in any position to be asking questions?”

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Are you done?”

“If you think I’ve forgotten about what you pulled, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“The rules are very simple."

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself.”

“Is that all? I’m a little disappointed.”

“And what… is this?”

“Well aren’t you adorable?”

“Do you really think I need you to answer that?”

“Come now, you can beg better than that.”

“Look at me.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“It’s your own fault that this is happening.”

“I’ll let you decide which punishment you receive.”

“How long have you been there?” “Long enough.”

“And just when I believed we were making progress…”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“Careful.”

“Tell me, how fast do you think you can run?”

“Don’t pull away from me.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”

“I did not expect you to break so soon.”

“The more you struggle, the harder this is going to be.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be alone anymore?”

Masterlist:

600 Followers Masterlist (currently N/A)

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