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oxbellows · 7 months ago

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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livwritesstuff · 1 month ago

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Eddie has been going to King Richard’s Faire ever since he and Steve moved to Boston (‘95, for the record). Years and years later, not living in Boston anymore and with three kids in tow, he still goes to King Richard’s every year in the fall. They get all dressed up, obviously – Eddie’s got a few get-ups he’s been curating for years, their daughters are still in the stage of life where they grow like weeds so their garb is slightly less involved, and Steve’s state of dress will depend on whether or not he pulls the migraine card (totally fair, in Eddie’s opinion – no pun intended), but four out of five is still pretty damn good.

This year, October of ‘10, is a polo year for Steve which, again, totally fine with Eddie who’s just thrilled he’s got a husband (a husband!) who’s down for an annual afternoon at the ren faire.

The girls get a big kick out of the shows and the novelty and the immersiveness of it all. Most of all they like all the little artisan kiosks and storefronts, because try as Steve may they’re raising a trio of shoppers, much to Eddie’s delight). It’s not his favorite part of their day at King Richard’s, but Eddie gets a special kind of joy out of watching his daughters’ eyes get all wide when he reminds them that they can each pick out a souvenir, probably because he’d never gotten that experience as a kid – not for a lack of trying on Wayne’s part to be clear, but that’s life sometimes.

Eddie and Steve do pretty well for themselves, money-wise, so, yeah, Eddie’s obviously gonna spend some of it on their kids, to give them experiences that Eddie didn’t get to have.

Plus, seeing what the girls pick out is its own entertainment, in a way.

Hazel obviously gravitates towards the handmade fairy wings (she lands on those early in the day too and wears them from there on out – archer garb be damned, she’s a fairy archer now).

Moe eventually opts for a dragon figurine, though she spent a very tough few minutes torn between the dragon and a gorgeous deep navy velvet wizard’s cape with all kinds of gold embroidery.

Robbie, the third of Eddie’s prides and joys, heads straight for the swords.

“Of course she went for the swords, Ed,” Steve mutters, “Seriously – you couldn’t have given them a couple caveats? No goddamn weaponry or something?”

“There’s always next year, Stevie,” Eddie replies with a grin.

#and then steve has to have this conversation two days later –#robbie: i'm gonna bring it to school for show and tell #steve: you can’t bring a sword to school hon #robbie: no you definitely can #posting this three days late lol last day of king richard’s was on sunday #steddie #liv’s steddie dads verse #steddie dads #steve harrington #eddie munson

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powdermelonkeg · 9 months ago

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Theory that solves(?) "founding of Hyrule" timeline inconsistencies:

Origin of Hyrule no. 1: Skyward Sword. Zelda, Link, and the Skylians settle the surface world at the game's conclusion. Notably, their dress looks nothing like the Zonai era.

Origin of Hyrule no. 2: Tears of the Kingdom. Rauru and Sonia are the king and queen who founded Hyrule. Notably, Zonai mechanisms and architecture greatly resemble the pre-Skyward-Sword-era Lanayru mining tech and symbolism, though Skyward Sword's art direction is more cartoony than TotK, so that has to be taken into account.

That's where it gets cyclical. If TotK's forgotten era came first, then:

Zonai influence should be ALL OVER Skyloft

The Gerudo should not exist, because they're (implied to be) descended from Groose, a Skylian; at the very least, there should have been a whole Gerudo culture in the Sky

Where did the Secret Stones go?

We should have seen Zeldra flying around in the sky, let alone Dinraal, Farosh, and Naydra

But if Skyward Sword came before all things Zonai, then:

The Lanayru Mining Facility (assuming it to be Zonai in origin) should not exist

Hyrule should have already been founded by Rauru's time

Of the two, Skyward Sword being first on the wild surface makes more sense. But if that's the case, there are even more questions:

Where did the Secret Stones come from? Are we to believe that Hylia gave them to the Zonai, since the Golden Trio have already left the Triforce and departed?

What about the Zonai themselves? They supposedly descended from the heavens. Were they just up so high that the Skylians couldn't find them? Did Hylia cleave the ground twice? Did they spontaneously appear up there like mice in grain bins?

Why is there a whole Temple of Time with bells that Rauru, one of two of the LAST of his species, woke up and went to sleep to? In fact, why is there an entire kingdom's worth of structures already built before the Sky Reckoning?

My solution:

The Zonai did exist pre-Skyward Sword, and did descend down from the sky ages ago. They built the Lanayru Mining Facility, utilizing the power of Timeshift Stones in their work. This is not Rauru and Mineru's era.

The Zonai are among the people that stay behind to fight Demise alongside Hylia, while the Skylians were sent up to Skyloft. The people of the Surface are entrusted with the Secret Stones as weapons against Demise, with the caveat that they keep them hidden. That's why they're called Secret Stones despite being well-known to Ganondorf in TotK, it was PARAMOUNT that Demise not know he could get any stronger.

The war ends. Just about every civilization is obliterated by it. The Zonai retreat as far from Demise's seal as they can to lick their wounds. They take the sages' Secret Stones with them, so as to not be caught unawares and lose them to Demise when he eventually reemerges.

Skyward Sword.

The evil is defeated, the Skylians come down to the Surface. That's the signal that it's safe to return now. Shortly after the Skylians officially start to settle, the Zonai, who know how things work, help them build a proper civilization.

Time passes. The Surface is officially a bunch of scattered clans with varying degrees of territory. People are content, though nothing is particularly efficient. The Skylians take on Zonai fashion and building styles as generations pass. The Zonai themselves dwindle.

Rauru, married to the leader of the Hylians, looks to unite the scattered clans under one banner in the name of prosperity and shared resources, idolizing the pre-Skyward era where the gods walked the land. He and Sonia officially name the place Hyrule, and any clan that signs treaty with them is considered within its borders. Mineru, meanwhile, has made her first construct models based on the Lanayru Mine Robots of old, which add to the appeal of joining Hyrule as its subkingdom territories.

Tears of the Kingdom, Zelda's first 12 memories.

Between the Master Sword going back in time and Zeldra's ascent, Zelda and Mineru get to work with as many constructs as possible to protect the Sky Isles they plan to send upwards. They need a TON of Zonaite, and recycling is a priority, leading to the gachapon machines.

Zelda knows enough about her kingdom that she knows where the land is particularly rich is where the people of her time settled, and Zonaite is shown to enrich soil greatly. This is why all the old Zonaite mines are underneath the towns in modern Hyrule, despite changing geography through other eras, and Tarrey Town's new-ness.

Zelda ascends.

The secretive Sheikah clan, having seen the Blood Moon's rise when the Demon King took power, realize that Demise isn't, in fact, all gone. They decide this means that their job serving Hylia isn't truly done, and return to help the fledgling kingdom as best they can. They bring the knowledge of the Master Sword of Skyward Sword days with them.

Ganondorf first shakes the seal he's under without form, leading to the first Calamity and the initial rise of Calamity Ganon. This is 10k years before BotW. This is also the first documented use of the Master Sword to seal the Demon King away, recorded in the tapestry.

The Sheikah are forced to abandon their technology. The Yiga/Sheikah split happens.

Literally all the rest of Hyrulean History happens after this.

Breath of the Wild.

Tears of the Kingdom.

#totk #botw #skyward sword #theory #loz #zelda #timeline shenanigans #things make a lot more sense if you divide the zonai into TWO eras instead of one #also FINALLY i have a reason why there are mines under Tarrey Town. like all the rest were iffy as is but TARREY #that thing was built SIX YEARS AGO and I BUILT IT #long post #bee attempts to make sense of zelda lore by eating all the wrenches nintendo keeps throwing into it

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yanderestarangel · 1 year ago

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HEADKANONS MK1 | DARK!TRIO LIN KUEI |"-How would they react to the reader, on another man's lap? Do they have feelings for the reader."

TW: dark concept, yandere themes, violence, unhealthy jealousy, light smut, gn reader.

✧ BI HAN ✧

Bi Han would enter without even seeing half of the scene, if you want to fuck like an animal you won't be in the same place as this man. He would feel betrayed and would quickly take you away from the random ninja you were flirting with and practically fuck him there, you would look at Bi Han in disbelief as he would quickly silence the man in front of you with an armbar. You cried, you knew the grandmaster's feelings but didn't want a relationship, Bi Han was like a platonic friend to you but he didn't really understand that, leading to the situation you were in now, sitting on Bi Han's lap while the man generated a small ice knife by placing it on the unconscious ninja's neck and smiling coldly in the process.

"-Well, at least he's not dead...yet." -Bi Han spoke while placing small kisses on her neck. He wouldn't touch you there, but fury consumed the man, he would arrange a small favor for Sektor later that night, promising you that the ninja would not die, for being a Liu Kuei, and would get home safe and sound if you agreed to go out with the oldest. You innocent actually believed the empty promise. Sektor got rid of the man who was coldly killed by Bi Han, while the man angrily said that you were his alone. Well, you never heard from the man again and now you were in a "relationship" with the grand master.

✧ KUAI LIANG ✧

Disappointed and angry. Kuai fell in love with you in a short period of time, you filled his heart with hope and your light warmed him. He really blamed himself for not saying anything to you before that fateful scene. He would even get your attention and that of the man you practically mounted, you seemed indifferent asking him what he wanted. Liang would talk about how you were being a bitch in a fit of rage that would lead to the man you were kissing lashing out and being knocked down by the man with a simple punch. You stared in disbelief and he told you how different he thought you really were from other people, leaving you and the man there as Kuai Liang walked out of the bar, punching anything in front of him. He would try to make amends, if you accepted, he would give you his point, telling you how special you were and deserved better. If you believed Scorpio's talk, good for you, he would take the easy way out, break up with the man you were with and date you, trying to have a healthy, normal relationship. Or you could just ignore his feelings again and just find yourself in some lonely village, in a room with Kuai in front of you, looking at his small body sitting uncomfortably in a hard, disgusting chair. "-I'll make sure you only smell like me from today (Y/N.)" - Kuai said as he took off his shirt and threw it somewhere.

✧ TOMAS VRBADA ✧

Sad and confused, but with a lot of fury. He will see the scene by chance, the poor guy was just looking for you for training for the next mission the two of you were doing together, until he saw you practically taking off your clothes and kissing an unknown ninja. He really didn't want to believe it. He loved you, he knew you and him were never anything more, but he considered you two practically boyfriends. He would practically cry there, but with one caveat, the anger would consume him. Smoke would go after the man, taking you off of him and repeatedly punching the stranger, your screams were nothing more than something distant to Tomas, who only stopped until he saw the man passed out and disfigured. He would come towards you bloodied saying he didn't understand why you didn't choose him, Tomas looked deep into your eyes while crying saying he always loved you and you never realized. You were in shock, the man reeked of blood and tears were streaming from his now dilated, terrifyingly blue eyes. You hugged him thinking about what you should do with that practically dead man there, while Vrbada cried in his lap. He would stay with you too. He would fuck you hard and mark you all over. In front of the injured man who was groaning in pain on the couch, you would just let Tomas continue his touches while looking at your own reflection in the wall mirror. When Tomas finished, he promised you that he would take care of the man and told you to wait for your new "boyfriend" in his car. You learned that unexpectedly the man you liked was found dead in a ditch the next day. And now Tomas and you were dating. "-I'll never let you go, you love me, right (Y/N)?" -Tomas spoke with a psychotic look, squeezing your hand tightly.

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thekingofwinterblog · 4 months ago

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Man I wish your MHA prediction came true, cause, no spoilers, but the truth is so bad😂

atleast its finallly over... never reading a series when it hasnt finished serialisation again😂

It's not even a BAD manga ending... i have seen BAD manga endings before, i know how they look like.

No, what MHA's final chapter is, is a NOTHING Ending. An ending where it is so, PAINFULLY obvious that the Mangaka or his editor did not want to piss anyone off, or take risks in general, that for a whole host of characters, there is NO closure, or even worse, it negates what came before.

so, its not like there is nothing good about the chapter, as i like shoji's big declaration, and the fact that japans society is changing to help people deal with the quirks withouth having to become heroes... but other than that, even the stuff i liked had major caveats.

But by far the biggest issue is that there are so many characters who got NO closure for their respective relationships, and it is stupidly obvious why, and who.

and since this question was prompted by Aizawa and his development, lets start with mic and Aizawa.

This picture right here encapsulates how Aizawa has changed. This is where he was always planned to end up. It is his natural end point compared to where he started off his story. Having turned into a much more caring man, who helped Aoyama rise above his flaws and change for the better rather than the brutal and spartan teacher he was at the start.

Or as his Ex Girlfriend would have put it has learned the value of "A household where the laughter never ends.".

However, the problem is we get no chapter, or even an ATTEMPT at giving him any form of closure where this change is encapsulated, the way we got with Endeavor, spinner, and Uraraka.

And thats a problem, because it wasnt ONLY hjis character who was tied to this hypotetical chapter for closure.

The closure of the ENTIRE idiot trio from the previous generation, alive and dead was dependent upon whatever Hori had planned for this hypotetical epilogue chapter before he or his editor chickened out, leaving Kurogiri's death in the climax with NO sense of aftermath behind it, coming and going, and frankly feeling like an aftertought rather than the sad ending to the tragic tale of the man who died too soon.

It also leaves Mic the single worst off, because while Aizawa at the very least had his character development to fall back on as a final point, even if he didnt get a closure chapter or moment, Mic gets NOTHING.

and that's a big problem, because as im going to go over in my big analysis of the man, Mic's entire deal is that while Aizawa developed in a terrible, negative reaction to his buddy's death, Mic's reaction was to stop developing at all.

His entire life after the tragedy is being a background character in everyone else's life, the DJ who always tries to make everyones day brighter, but has no actual ambitions, dreams or goals of his own.

thats why he clings so desperately to his memories of highschool, because unlike everyone else from that time, those memories are all he has. Even Aizawa managed to have a girlfriend at some point, an actual relationship, that though it crashed and burned had meaning. Mic doesnt even have that.

He is the ultimate sad clown, who pretends to himself that he hasnt wasted his life, by embracing a role as a literal supporting character, that his teachers suggested he would turn out to be.

In other words, his role in a chapter dealing with the epilogue of the trio, would certainly have been to finally, actually begin living his own life again.

but withouth that, there is nothing to suggest he managed to change. he will just continue to waste his life, thinking he'll never be able to create great new times for himself, rather than actually living his life and making new, best moments of his life.

i might be more annoyed about Aizawa not getting that final closure with Miss Joke, but there is no questions that Mic got an even worse deal with the narrative than Aizawa.

He remained a background character to the very end.

he's not the only one though.

You know who else never got closure? The Iida brothers.

We NEVER got to see how Tensei reacted to his brother not only taking up his mantle, but actually surpassing him and all his deeds during the climax.

Tenya's great ambition was to become a great hero to live up to his brother, and we didnt get to see any of his family members reaction to him actually achieving this dream.

As for other members of class 1-A...

Hey, quick question for anyone who read this story, Did you think Mina and Kirishima's character stories ended with these two, small, not given very much importance panels?

No?

Well fuck you, youre wrong! this is where both of their characters ends. their relationship, and their character arcs in general ended here, and they get no closure whatsoever.

and finally we move unto Izuku and the bigger problem with him and where he ended up.

Starting with him becoming a non powered hero, using tech.

Okay, not a BAD ending... But i feel like... maybe... there was a plan for something with that. Maybe... Maybe something that happened, and would have eased his character into using tech, rather than All Might just showing up with it after he's been a salary man for 3 years... Maybe something that was foreshadowed for years, and years.... Oh right.

Izuku losing his lower arms.

Like, looking back, it is painfully clear that Izuku was originally meant to lose his arms for good, before the editor(as he did with bakugo's death) put the kibash on that.

I like the idea... but there was a much better and more logical road to him becoming Iron Man with him having to use robotic hands in the epilogue. it would also be the logical outcome of all that foreshadowing, and was probably the original idea before it was deemed too gruesome.

However, thats a missed what if.

And if you have read the final chapter, you know it's not the BIG issue with this chapter. The SINGLE biggest problem with this ending, that is going to haunt it forever afterwards.

The complete sinking of Izuku x ochako by making it clear izuku has no regular contact with his former classmates, and ending the story withouth anything to suggest these two hooked up at all.

Now, im going to be very blunt, and very clear, before i tear this entire ship sinking to bits.

I didn't like Izuku x ochako.

At all.

I thought it was boring, too drawn out, and i didnt find much enjoyment as a ship from their interactions. in fact i would say i found izuku to have better chemistry with pretty much every other female character he ever interacted with.

Izuocha is the epitomy of a safe shonen battle couple. pure, boring vanilla.

I want to get that out of the way, before i really delve into why the way Hori just... torpedoed this ship because he didnt want to deal with the aftermath, was such a slap in the face.

Lets start with the most obvious problem.

It was all a waste of time.

every single moment of shiptease, and uraraka pining after izuku...

was one...

gigiantic...

Waste of fucking time.

I didnt like reading about this couple. But i cannot make the claim the story was not building up towards it.

it spent the vast majority of it's story building towards this couple, and in the last 3 chapters it devoted two of them to seemingly resolving this couple's story, and setting up for the next step... that never fucking came.

meaning that every little bit of ship tease these two had was a joke, a waste of time, it didnt mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

It was one of the most annoying parts of this manga to read through, and to my absolute fury and disguist i was fucking -vindicated.

It was an objective, waste of fucking time that could have been devoted to ANYTHING ELSE! It could have been devoted to another, better pairing, more character development for 1-A, Inko, the league of Villains, ANYTHING!

If the story was not going to end up with these two, there were plenty of ways to do that too, like having Uraraka's decision not to confess backfire as izuku moved on and hooked up with Mei, or melissa, or anyone else! or maybe just have izuku have moved past her an her ending up being friendzoned because she didnt make a move early enough! Or maybe have Uraraka realize she was gay after everything with Toga!

Again, ANYTHING ELSE would have been preferable.

instead, even at the very end, even when the following pages kills the pairing dead, Hori STILL tries to shipbait these two!

fuck off.

2. Making Urarak look shallow through the worst fucking timing in the world.

so, here is a question for you.

if you were going to ultimately choose not to go through with izuku x ochako, when would be the worst, possible timing to do it?

because i sure cant think of any point worse, than during a timeskip, where izuku's quirk ultimately went away, leaving him powerless and a common working man for 3 years afterwards.

Now this is obviously not meant to be the actual reason in universe for why this pairing didnt happen... but the implication is there...

And it wouldnt have been, if Hori had actually had Izuku turn her down in one of the previous chapters.

but because he decided to chicken out of any and all romance to not get any shipper blowback, through the safest way possible, it's there.

It's ugly, and it's cruel, and it's mostly implication... but it is there.

3. It makes Uraraka's entire character growth with Toga WASTED.

So Toga's part of her and Uraraka's storyline is obvious.

The girl who was looking for someone, anyone who would want to understand her finally found somebody who would, and she decided to give it all for that person.

in uraraka, she finally got what she could not get in the league, amongst her old friends, or anyone else.

No the problem is not with that side of their shared development.

The problem with this is that it completely wastes Uraraka's side of this equation.

The thing that Uraraka envied about Toga, was her ability to smile as she wanted, uncaring about how the world might think of her, something the shy uraraka deeply wished she could do too.

Ultimately, as presented in the final war arc, her develoment from this relationship was her finally learning to be honest, to embrace doing what she wanted to do.

She wanted to reach out a genuine hand in compassion to Toga despite EVERYTHING, and so she did. uncaring about what the world might have thought.

FInally she could be who she wanted to be. the girl who had been defined so long about keeping her love and more emberassing feelings under wrap no longer cared about being judged for them.

It's a very beautiful moment.

Man... It sure would SUCK if later uraraka completely backtracked, was never able to tell her crush her actual feelings, and instead it went absolutely nowhere, meaning she reverted back to the same person she had always been. that she never really grew past this flaw of herself she disliked.

That would really, really suck, and cheapen her entire character climax from the final war arc.

Man, that would suck.

It would suck even more, if the reason that happened, was due to the author not wanting to piss off the shippers that shipped the target of her affection with his former abuser and bully who tried to get him to kill himself.

This was a terrible way to end the series, not due to directly sucking, the way Attack on Titan, or bleach's endings did... but instead due to committing SO HARD to resolving NOTHING, that it flipped all the way around to being INFURIATING in how much it REFUSED to give ANY character who's final resolution would probably have involved shipping, that its pisses you off, because it means that everything that these characters were building towards had no resolution.

The only real exception was Iida, and in his case its just obviously clear that Hori just did not care to give him a climax. for everyone else though?

Hori's decision to not wanting to go through what Kishimoto went through after Naruto's final chapter might be understandable, but it also means that his already rocky final arc ended wastly lesser in quality than it could have.

#my hero academia #chapter 430 #430 #final chapter #izuocha #ochadeku #izuku midoriya #uraraka ochako #mina ashido #kirishima ejirou #iida tensei #iida tenya #aizawa shouta #kurogiri #present mic #toga himiko #meta #questions and answers

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therealslimshakespeare · 8 months ago

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Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

�� Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

MOTA taglist, I only have one so ignore if this is not the universe you signed up for:

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@euryno-j47

@justheretoreadthhx

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@darkestbeforethedawn16

@slowsweetlove

@richardslady121

@barbeygirl

@prfctplcsreads

@vaf24

@harrys-housewife

@claireelizabeth85

@pearlparty

@piastrinho

#mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #masters of the air #mota #harry crosby #anthony boyle #Harry crosby x Jean Crosby #Harry crosby fanfic #Harry crosby imagine #mota smut

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drarryspecificrecsdaily · 2 months ago

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2024.09.20

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. The Secret Language of Flowers by Devious_Muffin [G, 9k]

The Golden Trio have returned for Eighth Year, along with a handful of others, and they're all adjusting fairly well to the newly formed Eighth Year House. Draco has a secret, but he's not great at keeping it to himself. Harry receives a gift that changes his perspective and opens the door to new possibilities for them both.

2. A sleepless night by ProseMary [G, 3k] 💗

A sleepless night of Scarred-head and Marked-wrist. Retold by their room.

3. Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow by Ashtro [G, 3k]

Harry travels a lot after the war for peace and quiet and finds Draco in France!

---

Fest/Exchange

1. Fate's Caveat by Anonymous [E, 43k]

Draco Malfoy had evolved far beyond the boy who once had no choice. Now poised to become the Minister of Magic, he embodied the principle that everyone holds the power to shape their own destiny. A chance encounter will test everything he believes in. ★ HD Hurt-Comfort Fest 2024 | @hd-hurtcomfort-fest

2. Mnemosyne by Anonymous [M, 20k]

Deep within the Ministry of Magic lies the Department of Mysteries — and within that, the Animus Chamber. When Harry gets recruited as an Unspeakable, he embarks on a quest into his ancestor’s memories, searching for a mystical weapon that could wreak havoc in the wrong hands. What he does not expect to find inside the Animus, though, is a mentor, a companion, a friend and a lover — especially not all wrapped up in one prickly coworker whose true identity he can never know. ★ Drarry Let’s Play Fest 2024 | @drarry-lets-play

#drarry #drarry fanfic #drarry fic rec #harry potter #draco malfoy #daily list #2024 #2024.09

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genevievefangirl · 1 month ago

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Gen's Top 100 DBDA Fics - PART 2

For all caveats/rules/backstory, please read the Master Post

Bites and Bandages By: ahyperactivehero (ahyperactiverhero) @ahyperactivehero Rating: T Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Protective Charles Rowland, Hurt Edwin Payne Summary: After dragging one of their clients to Hell, a hellhound turns its attention to Edwin. Thankfully, Charles is there to step up and save the day. XXX based on a prompt request over on my tumblr featuring “I can’t help you if you don’t let me!” and "Don’t move, you’ll only make it worse!” My Notes: The injuries are quite intense in this one (I mean it is a dog, so picture extreme dog bite injuries). I really liked the section where they are jumping through various mirrors to escape and Edwin calls Charles clever.

boyfriend jacket By: skadii @maenadiq Rating: T Tags: Fluff and Angst, First Kiss, Aftermath of Torture, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: Five times Charles gave Edwin his jacket and one time Edwin stole it. My Notes: The detail this story gets into about the smell of the jacket sticks with me. And I mean, Edwin wearing Charles' jacket is just too cute.

Breathing Space By: coloursflyaway @coloursflyaway Rating: T Tags: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: It happens in the blink of an eye. A flash of light, violet and yellow and blue, sparkling in a way that would be beautiful if Charles couldn’t taste the curse in it, like rust and blood and soil, and then Edwin is crumbling beneath his own non-existent weight, and Charles knows he is screaming only when he hears his own voice ringing in his ears. During a case, Edwin gets hit by a curse and won't wake up. My Notes: Seeing Charles slowly lose it over Edwin not waking up hits right in my feels. Also... Sleeping Beauty references are always fun.

Burns and Hidden Pains By: Infinite_beginnings @infinite-beginnings Rating: G Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Protective Edwin Payne, Protective Crystal Palace, Hidden Injury Summary: This takes place after the season ends. Both boys are a bit roughed up physically and emotionally from their trip to hell and Esther's treatment. They try to take care of each other but Charles is more hurt than anyone realizes. My Notes: Some Charles whump is good for the soul sometimes right? The relationship between the trio here is really strong. Everyone is also really touchy in this fic which I appriciate.

By Lantern's Light By: babyseraphim @babyseraphim Rating: T Tags: Kidnapping, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Charles Rowland, Sensory Deprivation, PTSD, Non-Consensual Touching, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: Edwin is terrified. He feels as though he is a wounded deer caught in a bear trap, simply waiting for the hunter to discover his misfortune. The room is dark enough that he cannot make out a single landmark, the deprivation of all sounds playing tricks on his panicked mind. He swears that he hears distant giggles, the sound of grotesque dolls laughing at his renewed torment, but no creature ever makes an appearance. A hysterical laugh threatens to spill past his own lips, accompanied by a sudden rush of tears. He closes his eyes and wills them away, steeling himself for whatever is to come. The question is not whether Charles will come; the question is when. Until that question is answered, all Edwin can do is endure. --- A heartbreaking story of love and near loss told from three separate perspectives. My Notes: The entity that kidnaps Edwin wins an award for sticking in my head long after I read this fic. Seriously that guy is creepy. I really liked how each of the 3 chapters was written from a different character's POV. How worried Charles was in chapters 2 and 3 broke me.

Came up from that lake of fire By: ghostinthelibrary @ghostinthelibrarywrites Rating: M Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Alive Charles, Alive Edwin, Case Fic, Kidnapping, Possession, Minor Crystal Palace/Charles Rowland, First Kiss Summary: “Are you a zombie?” Niko peers into Edwin’s eyes. “Because the Night Nurse told me zombies exist. Do you hunger for brains, Edwin?” “Hardly.” Remembering being splattered with gray matter in the not-so-distant past, Edwin shudders. He cannot imagine consuming it. “I’m not a zombie.” “What about a vampire?” She almost looks excited by the prospect. “We’re only a couple of hours from Forks. It would be perfect!” When they’re caught during their escape from Hell, Charles and Edwin have no choice but to make a deal: they have one hundred days to find and entrap a powerful, malevolent spirit, or both of their souls are forfeit. But when they’re both temporarily restored to living bodies to aid in their search, being alive brings with it a host of new feelings, which neither of them know how to cope with, especially as their deadline looms closer and their quarry proves increasingly dangerous. My Notes: This is easily my favorite fic involving the boys being brought back to life. The case was deep and interesting while the interpersonal feelings of the characters were developed extremely well.

come on in, the water's lovely By: dftea (demon_faith) @dftea Rating: T Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, PTSD, Drowning, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: 'If it was a choice between drowning again and Edwin’s afterlife, it wasn’t really a choice.' or Edwin is dragged underwater. Charles follows. My Notes: Charles facing his fear to do an underwater rescue for Edwin makes my brain so happy.

Cry With Joy At The Depth Of My Love By: coloursflyaway @coloursflyaway Rating: T Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: “Edwin?”, Crystal asks, and Edwin would say something snarky, maybe even something mean, but Charles is wrapped around him like he’ll never let go again, and there are more important matters at hand. “Crystal, what has happened here?”, he asks, and a few seconds later, their new psychic is standing in front of him, trousers splashed with the coffee she dropped, disbelief written across her face. “I was gone for a few hours and now Charles… and the whole building…” He’s not quite sure how to put it, most likely because he still doesn’t understand, and Crystal looks at him like he come back from the Cat King’s lair with an additional head. “Edwin”, she says, slowly, like she is still searching for the words, “what are you talking about? You’ve been gone for six weeks.” ------- Edwin takes the Cat King up on his initial offer, so instead of a few hours, he is gone for six weeks. Charles isn't good at coping with it. My Notes: This fic made me cry and broke my heart. Charles losing his mind over Edwin vanishing for weeks by itself would hurt, but the way that the details of that time are slowly revealed over the course of the story in flashbacks is sooooo good. Like so good you'll remember it forever.

deshabille | shieldable By: DarkStars (Worlds_Okayest_Goalie) @busywithmyennui Rating: T Tags: Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: Someone needs to look after Edwin, is the thing. Edwin looked after Charles, shepherded him into this afterlife, and Charles decided right then and there that the first person looking after Edwin would be himself. My Notes: Sometimes there are fics that are hard to describe why they are so good and this is one of them, but I will try. The way Charles and Edwin are written here is fantastic. There's a moment at the end of ch 1 where they talk in morse code after Ep 8 (which YES). Ch 2 is a mini case fic by itself. Ch 3 hits you stright in the heart with Charles home life feels. And ch 4 wraps it up in a nice bow. This fic goes so many places, just read it if you haven't

The E rated fic is below the cut - (tw - Non-con)

Caging Spell By: Anonymous Rating: E Tags: Rape/Non-con, Rape, Aftermath, Trauma, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: For the DBD Kinkmeme Prompt: [Catwin, Payneland] Non-Con, Not a fair and consensual Cat King. I want evil Cat King... and Charles and Edwin dealing with the aftermath. My Notes: This is the most controversial pick on this list for sure. And it is a very self-indugent pick because I love when Charles' clothes go entirely black after the whole thing goes down. Such a great concept. Would love to see it more in other fics.

#gen's 100 dbda fics #dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #payneland #dbda #dbda fanfiction #dbda fanfic #save dead boy detectives #paineland #fic rec #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #the dead boy detective agency #dead boy detective agency #the dead boy detectives

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orchidego · 5 months ago

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ao3 has taken me places I wouldn't even go to with a g*n

smoking on that dramione pack

( @ailenach asked me for a dramione rec list so that's what this post is, anyone else read at your own risk )

Compiler’s note - skip down to the list if you don’t need to know why/what exactly I like in fic!

aka my dramione ethos: The most compelling dynamic in a ship, for me, is when it comprises of two people giving each other the strength to be the people they need to be.

Before he can be loved, Draco must be redeemed. In a way, he’s awfully bad at being a blood supremacist (lacking real conviction). Draco’s Slytherin morality, at least as a teen, compels him only in the direction of protecting and preserving himself and his own; he doesn’t seem to have a morality outside of this. Everything else is borrowed from his fear and desire to conform to his loved ones’s expectations. Contrast with Hermione, who has an outsized sense of morality—she knows exactly what is good and right, and she throws herself into her causes with self-righteous conviction, headstrong and beautifully off-putting.

Draco, the boy who belonged everywhere, watched his fragile worldview turn to ash and became unmoored. Hermione, the girl who belonged nowhere, bent the world towards her through obstinate radiant willpower, and established herself. Two people who could, maybe, find a home in each other.

A Draco in love with Hermione might wrap his morality around her courage, might steady himself while in the service of her. A Hermione in love with Draco might be preserved by him, may be bolstered against burning out or being misunderstood or unseen. They’re both industrious with their respective tasks (she researches! he toils!), which lends itself to them having intellectual parity. They’re both kind of intense. Then there’s the general enemies to lovers appeal, the idea that at no point in time were these two characters ever indifferent towards each other. The banter potential alone…!

So this is some of the kind of exploration I like in fic, pressed in many different tones; ff is especially unique in that we can play around with the elements (AUs, contrived circumstances, tonal shifts, narrative beats) and be more experimental because the weight of canon grounds it.

My rec list:

Before I truly begin, I feel like I have to comment on it: I did ultimately enjoy Manacled. A "Voldemort wins" fic with a Handsmaid Tale twist; it has compelling structure, with a D/Hr dynamic suited to my tastes and what I find interesting about the characters. However, it's dark (mind the tags) and I’m still not certain if the content was handled as effectively as the author meant it to be, and so I don't think it's a universal recommendation despite its staggering popularity. If you do want to read this I would recommend downloading it because she's going to delete it off ao3 once the novelization of it comes out next year.

My quintessential dramione recommendation is, of course, The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy. It's a full Deathly Hallows rewrite where Draco goes Horcrux hunting with the trio and as far as I'm concerned, it's canon. Unlike every other fic on my list, I would recommend this to everyone. Written very closely in style to the books, I think it has universal appeal and it’s the perfect jumping off point for the pairing while being convincing. Sometimes I would find myself wishing that this was the direction the books had taken. PG-13, in terms of violence and sexual content, which I find significant enough to bring up since there’s usually a lot of sex in popular ff.

My favorite humor-based rec: Bad Omens. Written in the vein of Terry Pratchett. I would describe this as a "star-crossed morons" kind of story. It's literally perfect.

Remain Nameless. Caveat that this sort of trailed off for me once the central tension with the relationship was resolved but I think in terms of an adult redemption arc it was very sweetly done. Sometimes achingly tender.

The Fallout is probably my favorite “extended wartime” fic of all time. The intimacy in this makes me want to kms, in a good way. I'm linking to a downloadable pdf here since it's been removed off other sites.

Love in The Time of Zombie Apocalypse. Zombie outbreak AU. Strays from canon characterization but. Plot goes crazy. Complex character work. Hooked me all the way through.

Thirteenth Night. Post-war, Hermione assigned to monitor a memory-charmed Draco. Less epic than a lot of the other recs on this list because the scope of the world is small, but it’s quietly good.

This is just my plug for anything PacificRimbaud has ever written, but particularly the historical rom com Love and Other Historical Accidents, the raunchy and funny One and Done, and the tender romantic one-shot Les Pelerins.

BLOODY, SLUTTY, AND PATHETIC. Listen to me. Listen to me. The title sort of explains the tone and it carries entirely throughout. I am obsessed with this version of Draco. All men should be bloody slutty and pathetic. Post-war, ministry employee Hermione, marriage law AU (which tbh I don't tend to love usually, so this really is exceptional).

She Whom He Harbors. Ok before you read the summary/tags and judge me, yes, this is basically a "fuck or die" fic. I figured I needed to make the rec in case this is a vibe anyone is interested in pursuing. But it's not just gratuitous smut, I swear, there's a compelling plot here. Lot of orgasms. But there is a plot.

Brand New World. Epic in scope. Diverges in plot while they're still at Hogwarts. Great Draco redemption arc (which is important to me!)

The Gloriana Set. ThebeMoon is my personal queen of Hogwarts Eighth Year fics. I would also rec The Darkwood Wand, by the same author. Both very fun reads.

Things Without Remedy. Time travel! Adore the serious relationship build in this one.

Tea & Necromancy. Sort of an experimental tone. Equal parts funny and morbid.

Sucker Punch. Also would classify this as experimental; you'll know if you jive with the writing within a few paragraphs.

Choice and Chance. Absolutely delicious plot divergence at the point of Hermione's torture at Malfoy Manor. Involves multiverse elements.

Beyond Recall or Desire. If you like soulmate bonds!

Malfoy Shrugged. On the shorter side; just a great two-shot.

Tromp as Writ. While I'm recommending perfect one-shots.

Mindbound. This author has a series of very short works based on fairy tales. This one is my favorite but I'd recommend the others too.

Past / Present / Future. Barbara Kruger AND a perfect adult Draco characterization? J’adore.

My very last recommendation is something that is so important to me, but I'm separating it like this because it's a WIP whereas all the others are completed fics. Please don't let that deter you, if at all interested.

Lionheart. !!!!

What can I say about Lionheart, except that its author somehow resides in my brain and created something for me, specifically? I've really so rarely read fic that is so perfectly balanced in dialogue, character understanding, narrative arc, plotting, action—when I read this, I feel like how I felt at 11, reading Harry Potter. For real. It's a whole series rewrite, truly epic in scope, asking the question: what if Draco had been sorted into Gryffindor? Currently the storyline is complete as to book four, partially through book five, and being updated. The character work is especially stunning to me. This is the sweetest slowburn friendship-to-lovers of my dreams; obviously heavy on the friendship arc since we're not all the way through, and yet I find that my emotional investment in this is so heightened it doesn't even matter to me. I want to read thousands of words of this (luckily, it's already got 600k+ of those). Thank you greenTeacup, for my life.

I obviously have read more than this so if there are any specific tropes/interests/limitations you want a rec for, I'm open to give an opinion. Also I have my eye on a few fics that I just haven't read yet, so alas, this list is not perfectly complete. The next thing I want to read....Détraquée....

#dramione #literally I don't know why I wrote so many words in this #once I started I couldn't stop #dramione fanfiction #yes I'm being so for real rn #draco x hermione #dhr fanfiction #dhr #hm #dramione fic rec list

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ladyloveandjustice · 2 months ago

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Summer 2024 Anime Overview: Senpai is an Otokonoko

Aoi falls for an older girl, Makoto, and one day she confesses love to her senpai. But then Makoto reveals that he is an otokonoko- a crossdressing boy. Much to Makoto’s surprise, this only increases Aoi’s attraction, as she’s 100 percent supportive of crossdressing and ecstatic about getting to enjoy both the “boy” and “girl” versions of her senpai. Complicating things is Makoto’s best friend Ryuji, who has a huge crush on Makoto even though he won’t admit it to himself.

Meanwhile, Makoto is dealing with an incredibly transphobic mother, so he hides himself at home and lives in fear she’ll find out that he’s crossdressing at school.

This is a sweet, heartfelt, queer show with some very good kids and a lot of sad and happy feels. Prepare for heartstrings to be tugged. I grew very attached to the main trio in various ways,as they all have their own individual struggles related to gender, sexuality and heteronormative society. They're going through it, but they always work to understand and accept each other.

Makoto is obviously the central focus with the Gender of it All, and you see him struggle to navigate a world that sees gender in strict binary terms and tries to limit the ways he can live. The show strikes a good balance in showing the heartbreaking obstacles Makoto deals with but also showing the joy he finds in unexpected acceptance, affirmation, and connection. It’s sad when he tries to force himself to be ‘normal’ but it’s all the more heartwarming when his loved ones support him being who he truly is. A big focus of the show is Makoto trying to figure out if he wants to “live as a girl” as the show puts it, or if his relationship with his gender is something else.

I was surprised at how much I liked Ryuji, he might be my favorite. His struggle with his internalized homophobia and his yearning for Makoto literally made me cry at one point, which is rare for me with media. Plus, he’s just a sweet kid and good friend who puts up a laughably paper-thin "tough" front and you want good things for him. And that’s true for all the characters.

Aoi is a character who starts off as a comedic genki girl, (and to some she even initially came off as a chaser, but as her layers peeled back it becomes clear that’s not the case). I liked her from the beginning despite her being A Lot but I was concerned she might boil down to the unfailingly Cheerful Girl Who Supports Makoto—but she gains a tremendous amount of depth once her backstory and personal struggles start to unfold.

Honestly, she really resonates with me as an ace person and her storyline seems primed to head in that direction, but I’m not naïve enough to think I’m going to get an actual asexual storyline where we examine how some people simply don’t feel romantic and/or sexual attraction and can still be fulfilled…and yeah, judging from the few spoilers I’ve seen, it’s not about that. It’s a bit disappointing, since it would really fit in with a show so focused on non-heteronormative sexuality, but y’know. We’re used to it. I never expect much. I will be interested in how it unfolds in the movie and hope whatever story they choose will at least be well told.

So basically, the show not only presents a love triangle where not only do you want all of them to be happy (sadly poly will not be the answer) BUT also a love triangle where each person thinks it would be better for their so-called "rival" to end up with their crush because they all love each other and want each other to be happy, but they all think very little of themselves. Amazing. A love triangle that’s truly all love but in the most hurtful way possible.

Aoi, Makoto, and Ryuji’s bond is really the star of the show for me more than any independent relationship and (though if I had to choose the friendship between Aoi and Ryuji is low-key the cutest to me).

There’s not many caveats to this show, obviously it examines transphobia in sometimes heartbreaking ways, and Ryuji’s internalized homophobia can be rough (I wish someone would directly tell him he’s not gross). I did find the pacing to be way too rushed in early episodes, but it evened out as it went on.

For something that’s neither good or bad: one thing that was noticeable about the show is it really avoided any queer terminology, in a way a lot of modern queer manga doesn’t. Again, this isn’t a bad things, and I honestly wouldn’t have noticed if one of the characters hadn’t met an older queer person (which is great! Love it when older queer people help the younger generation and show them they’re not alone)—yet this person doesn’t share any kind of specifics and how they identify is kept ambiguous, though they clearly have been to drag clubs/communities at the very least (as a blink and you miss it thing). In some ways, this might be purposeful, it felt like the story wanted the characters to be applicable to a lot of queer experiences, and one of the main points of the show is Makoto’s uncertainty about his own identity and not feeling comfortable in certain categories. Labels don’t work for everyone.

However, a few more specifics felt like it would help with adding context to some of the characters. Does Ryuji know other gay men exist? Does he think he’s the only one? I honestly have no idea. There is a possibility of these kids getting to know a wider community that seems tantalizing but unlikely to be capitalized on and sometimes the show’s desire to be nebulous about all this can feel like a missed opportunity.

Overall, I think this is a touching, worthwhile show about affirmation and love and the complexities of being queer in a limiting society. And of course that means a bunch of homophobes review bombed it because they apparently just now realized queer stories have always been a big part of anime. Knowing this makes it even clearer that shows like this make an impact and deserve support, and I’m really glad a movie to wrap things up has already been announced.

Give this show a watch, and maybe bring some tissues.

#senpai is an otokonoko #senpai wa otokonoko #my crossdressing senpai #makoto hanaoka #hanaoka makoto #summer 2024 anime #anime overview #ryuji taiga #taiga ryuji #ryuuji taiga #taiga ryuuji #saki aoi #aoi saki #anime #my reviews

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physalian · 9 months ago

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Physalian's Top 10 Narrative Pet Peeves

*For now*

In one way or another, these all boil down to “Author took a shortcut and I absolutely noticed”. In other words, most of these stem from Manufactured Sincerity.

All of these come with the caveat of *except when done well*. I’m ordering these from “I’m annoyed but I’ll get over it” to “Nope, DNF”.

10. Sad times = Alcohol

Everyone drinks when they’re depressed apparently. Only women or fat men are allowed to eat away their sorrows with ice cream and guilty pleasures. No one’s allowed to go on a self-pity shopping spree. No one just goes to bed.

They drink. Or they go shoot something. Or punch a wall. It’s usually out of a flask or a crystal decanter. It’s usually whisky (specifically bourbon) or scotch, or something out of a brown paper bag.

Maybe this is my own bias as someone who does not drink, but writers, please come up with more diverse ways to show your character is mourning someone or something, beyond immediately heading straight for the alcohol. Not everyone likes liquor, not everyone owns a decanter set and crystal glasses.

Let them eat or shop or sleep or get high, or watch their favorite show or a really sad movie or listen to emotional music. Let them cry if they’re bad boys. Don’t make them punch walls.

9. Down time = Sexy Times

This applies of course only to narratives with implicit or explicit sex scenes and what I mean by down time is those situations where characters are either on the run or have some crucial deadline to meet, some race to win, what have you, and the second they get some time to breathe and have a heart to heart, they both let their guard down and ignore impending doom and sleep together.

If you’re in the real world and you are that stressed for any of the reasons above, you’re going to be constantly looking over your shoulder, worrying about what you’re going to do next, wondering if you should even stop to rest, not be dead on your feet but have enough energy to bang.

Obviously if it’s played for humor, that’s different, but in dramas, or especially in environments not suited for intimacy (looking at you fantasy and sci-fi) it just feels ridiculous and particularly gratuitous. Non-aces please tell me if this is a legit thing you would do, I sincerely want to know.

It also tends to happen with near strangers who’ve only known each other for several days, possibly weeks with little buildup, and they also tend to be at each other’s throats bickering incessantly. Save the sex for after you’ve won and can really dedicate all your attention to enjoying it.

8. Pointless Filler Pit Stops

Or ones that last way too long for no reason. I love filler, but only *productive* filler. It doesn’t have to service the plot, but it does have to develop at least one character, a relationship, the lore, somebody’s backstory, or be really funny and/or interesting to sit through.

Usually, it feels like it’s there to pad the run time or slow the pacing, but rarely does anything for the overall story. A fair bit of season one of ATLA is filler pit stops, but even when they go to all these random places for one-off adventures, the story is still showing us the world they live in, making it a teachable moment, introducing important characters, foreshadowing, or is just mighty entertaining to watch.

ATLA has only one pointless filler pit stop: the infamous Great Divide. It doesn’t positively develop any of the main trio, we never see these side characters again, Aang’s story is a complete lie so it doesn’t develop the lore or the world, and, most importantly, it’s just frustrating to watch. Your first job as a writer is to entertain, and this episode is annoying.

7. Fridged Character Motivation

I don’t mind the “fridged lady love” inherently. It’s a quick and dirty way to give your brooding hero backstory and everyone is familiar with it. I’m annoyed at how it’s the only nuance these characters tend to get, like this man’s dead wife/girlfriend/dog is his sole motivation for everything he does in life and all his goals.

I like broody badasses. I don’t like one-note broody badasses. His character existed before he met his dead love interest. Who was he back then? Does he have any friends who hate the man he’s become? Old mentors who’ve lost their faith in him?

This man’s arc is usually not even therapy-via-violence to get over his dead wife, it’s just a ham-fisted excuse to make him mean and short-tempered. Who is he, unrelated to this fridged character?

6. Dumbass Villains

The villain has captured the hero and friends and plans some dastardly torture to break their will. The villain has all their tools prepared and monologues about how easy it’s going to be, and the hero usually says something along the lines of “you can’t break me” or “I can take it,” whatever. And after several pages or minutes of screen time, the hero’s right, and then the villain breaks out plan B: The hero’s love interest, or their parents, who have just been waiting in the wings.

Why is this almost never plan A? The hero can always handle the pain, and always breaks down the second it’s someone else’s health on the line. Why doesn’t the villain, who’s always pissed at the lack of results, start with the proper motivation?

It’s either this or they wait until the perfect dramatic timing to reveal some skill or weapon or ultimatum after precious time has been lost, deadlines have been missed, and money has been burnt. Or they’re in the boss battle and they wait until the hero thinks they’ve won to pull out their secret weapon.

Unless you can give your villain a valid reason to not start with all the tools they have at their disposal, it might as well be a reverse deus ex machina. Even if it’s something as simple as Plan B hasn’t arrived on scene yet.

5. Everybody Has a Somebody

A topic I plan to expand on so I’ll keep it short here. Basically, the story wraps up and every eligible single character has a love interest they’re in varying stages of romance with. No one is spared, or they’re already dead. It’s a race to the finish line to give these characters significant others because that’s just what you do, it’s what audiences expect, there must be a romantic subplot.

Particularly annoyed when it’s an ensemble cast and the entire hero team only has relationships with other members of the hero team and no one outside this unit of 6-10 characters (*cough* Percy Jackson *cough*). No one is allowed to be single, or happy that they’re single. Everybody has somebody, no matter how well developed or plausible this relationship is.

4. Half-Baked Twist Villains

No one likes these characters and I’m not saying anything new here, and yet it still keeps happening. This one comes from just recently rewatching the abysmal Cars 2 (which is older, I know) and just trying to untangle this plot. This plot, that Pixar rinsed and repeated in Incredibles 2, and really thought no one would notice. This plot, where the villain creates a problem that doesn’t exist to make their own agenda look better, whether that’s malignant superheroes or green fuel.

Both try. Neither pretend the story is absent of a villain, unlike, say, Frozen. Both movies have a villain, they just have a hidden identity. The reveal just never hits as hard as the writers expect it to because, once again, they didn’t actually do the work to write a competent villain, they just slapped a “villain” sticker on their foreheads and called it a day. Why? Who cares.

3. Consequenceless Revivals

I love revivals, I love bringing characters back from the dead, love watching it, love writing it, love the drama.

Don’t love it when they’re suddenly back with no explanation or price to be paid. A character death should be a major event, and if you kill a character just to make your audience sad, then bring them back with zero effort, death begins to lose meaning in your world. CW shows are particularly terrible at this, specifically the TVD universe and Supernatural.

In the earlier seasons, when Sam or Dean died and came back, they still experienced character growth by dying and the experiences in hell, the PTSD inflicted, the new emotional battle scars. Even when Dean died a thousand times in the “Mystery Spot” episode, the point wasn’t “ha ha funny Dean dies again,” it was exercising Sam’s crippling codependency on his brother, as Gabriel says. There are consequences, either for the character’s psyche, or a cost for bringing them back to life.

2. Wimping Out on Promised Death

This decision makes me want to throw the book at the wall, or pause the movie and walk away. It’s the penultimate battle, the prophecy is upon us, a character or one of two characters must die to save the day, it cannot be impeded, avoided, or circumvented. We’ve known this is coming since the story began and are prepared for the tears and bloodshed.

Then the magical miracle springs out of nowhere and everyone gets to live. Kill them. Please. Even if it’s my favorite character, I’d rather cry over their death than be disappointed by plot convenience. If this is the tragic, fulfilling end to their arc, then that’s how I want it to end. Rarely do these characters get revived in a satisfying loophole everyone should have seen coming. I just feel manipulated.

1. Forced Miscommunication

*Picture me walking a stadium hawking Pointless Drama like cotton candy and cans of beer* Cheap Drama! Anybody want some Cheap Drama? Cheap Drama!

In the real world, people make misassumptions all the time and many of us are conflict-averse. We avoid talking about our problems to those who’ve wronged us like we’re polarized magnets. Forced miscommunication doesn’t care about anxiety, which would be fascinating to explore as explicitly anxious characters suffering legit mental issues is under-utilized. No, these instances just have characters eavesdropping or snooping and, out of character, make all these outlandish assumptions, refuse to listen to explanations, and start a fight that lasts juuuuust long enough until it’s magically resolved without consequence.

It doesn’t do anything for the story. It exists independently of these characters’ relationship and has zero impact once it’s resolved. I am 100% down for a single miscommunication causing an emotional outburst so extreme that it has the offended party seriously considering the strengths of their relationship, but it never happens that way.

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TL;DR: The existence of a trope does not do the job of writing a compelling story for you. If you can look at any one scene in your book and not explain why it matters, what impact it has on the plot, story, or characters, delete it or rewrite it so it does. Even if it only exists to be funny, there should still be something gained from the experience.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writing #writeblr #character development #how to write #pacing #character death

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