#good luck to you all brave soldiers

[moonchu-art]

idk what to say i can't believe it's december already . . . ??? the granules of sand within the hourglass flow ever faster like a raging river as i grow older ????? thank you for being here with me for yet another year. <3

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[kivino]

BIG GUY || SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X GN!READER

my masterlist

ao3 link to this fic

Word counter – ~1,8k

Tags/Warnings – Fluff, a bit of miscommunication and jealousy, nothing much.

Summary – Ghost takes a liking to the nickname you give him, but struggles to understand just how much he likes it.

A/n – I’m still struggling with my school projects so wish me luck, I made this instead of making a video for my language class lmao, enjoy! i’ll add the ao3 link a bit later.

upd. link added for ao3 enjoyers!

It didn't miss anybody, the way Ghost seemed more easygoing and light-hearted on certain days, letting recruits get away with a bit more than usual. Coincidentally, it was right after various interactions with you, be it training or sparring together, doing reports, moving some shit around the base, or just hanging out in the common room. Nobody could just figure out what it was about your interactions that lifted Simon’s spirits so high, which was notoriously hard, courtesy of how gloomy or menacing the man usually appeared. But the answer was quite simple, really.

“Thanks, big guy. Always a huge help.” Simon catches your small smile as you pat him on the shoulder and nods, barely containing his joy, he’d hate to make it too obvious. He was wearing a balaclava after all, and the smallest stretch of the fabric on his cheeks and around his mouth could easily give away how joy spread itself in his chest at the affectionate nickname.

Big guy. Big guy. Your big guy.

Nickname reserved only for him, exclusively from you. Of course, Ghost knew he’d be larger than your average soldier, and that regularly got acknowledged by others, but something about you calling him like this made it different. That pleasant warmth inside, which reminded him of the sun, or that stupid fluttering in his stomach, was…unusual to say the least. It made his mood better almost instantly, an interaction he eagerly, but silently looked forward to each day. Something about you calling him a big guy made his head spin, swimming in the endless clouds. Something Ghost hasn't felt in a long time and didn’t think he’d ever experience.

It was easy to let down his guard around you, you stripped him of the metaphorical armor just like this, with an effortless joke and that godforsaken pet name thrown in somewhere in the conversation. And just like that - Ghost’s low laugh rumbled in unison with yours, heart missing a beat when he looked into your eyes that sparkled with something unknown and captivating. It felt…good. New. And so fucking warm, Ghost felt like he was about to suffocate.

You were the newbie, your reputation preceded you but Ghost didn’t pay much attention to all the rumors swirling around on the base, like some suspicious soup in a boiling pot. He had better things to do. Like following you similarly to a lost puppy, maybe staring intently right at you with his huge brown eyes, if he was feeling brave. Or lingering somewhere around, just to make sure you’re adjusting alright. After all, all of you soldiers have to look out for each other, right? Right. Definitely.

It felt good to finally be able to just laugh and play around with someone, who didn’t seem scared shitless by his presence, mask and, well…everything about him, that seemingly drove people away. Not that he didn’t understand the reasoning for that – quite on the contrary. But you were probably just built differently, drawn to the weird, unappealing, and scary. Maybe Ghost should feel lucky that you were like that. And truth be told, he did. He liked it and he liked you.

Ghost could only hope that he lightened up the things for you the way you did for him. To ask and dig deeper would probably be too much, Simon could still feel that caution and tremble at the mere thought of trying to grow closer to you and spend even more time together. Like he’ll put a curse on you the moment he decides to open up a bit more and show you at least some inner workings of his mind on a more intimate level than just some stupid puns, or gossip and discussions about the way you spent your day. Although they were certainly pleasant, with you giving him a subtle, understanding smile from across the table, while steam from your coffee mug made it seem so domestic and wholesome like Ghost was in a dream. So, Ghost kept what little distance he could, despite his wishes, and hoped that you take your time and be patient with him.

That is until he overheard something that startled him, to say the least.  

“Well, your jokes are a bit too much for me, big guy.” You say, letting out a clear, loud laugh, as you patted Soap’s chest. Scotsman straightened up almost immediately in front of you, a proud toothy smile beaming on his face. Now Ghost felt like he just got punched in the gut, for some reason. Annoyed and on edge in a split second. But why? He truly couldn’t seem to pin down the reason for the surge of anger and something bitter in his chest, bubbling right under his skin.

It was probably nothing worth his attention. Just something weird with his body, exhaustion from the training, muscle cramps...or whatever it could be. In any case, running headfirst into dissecting his mind for something so small and minuscule? Ridiculous, really. Completely unnecessary. Of course, Simon knew that both you and Johnny weren’t saints, two rascals more like, but he had no obvious reason to feel this bitter stinging inside of him, that slithered and slipped around, followed by tightening of his throat and bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He swallowed loudly, trying to wash down that gross aftertaste on his tongue hours after he saw that interaction. And the fact that he couldn’t get it out of his head was telling enough, that he was, in fact, bothered by something.

So, Simon decided to do what he did best. Bottle it up. But then it just kept sitting in his head, that nasty feeling still eating him from the inside out. It didn’t help that he started seeing you talking with Johnny more often, while Simon unintentionally avoided you, still buried deep in his thoughts and contemplations about what caused him to feel the way he did. Of course, he couldn’t help but eavesdrop. And there you were. Laughing with him. Calling him “big guy”. Again. This only caused Simon to become more cranky and unfriendly, taking his frustrations out on poor privates who’ve never ran so many laps in their entire lives.

The only people Ghost was outright cruel and merciless to were his enemies. He wasn’t the friendliest guy, of course, but everyone noticed when the lieutenant who usually would crack jokes and dumb puns at the expense of others at most suddenly started to get annoyed at smaller mistakes more, using harsher words and overall look like he was down in the dumps. Nobody dared to talk about the subject though, so Ghost was left terrorizing the privates and recruits, having lunches in his office and avoiding areas where he knew you’d be at certain times of the day from your long talks before. Which, of course, didn’t help him to understand what was wrong at all.

So, all Ghost was left with were his own thoughts. He didn’t feel jealous of you interacting with other people before. You were never his, so he had no right for that at all. But there had to be something else that pushed Simon to where he was now, tired, unsatisfied, and craving at least a passing smile and a short “Hey there” from you. So that the two of you could sit down somewhere together, and you’d talk about some irrelevant nonsense, and then you’d open your mouth again and call him “big guy”. It didn’t feel fair that Johnny got to be called that. It was Simon’s nickname. From you. Wait-wait-wait, hold on a second.

The sudden revelation as to why exactly Ghost was feeling that way when he saw you talk with the sergeant hit him like a damn bus. Fuck, that is childish. Weird. God, Simon feels like a damn creep. Getting upset because of a damn nickname, way to fucking go, you oaf. This felt confusing. Irrational. Absolutely fucking stupid. To think that something that simple threw him off so easily. That’s human relationships for you. Now it felt like he needed even more time. Not to make it complicated. Not to hurt you and himself.

Regardless of his wishes, he didn’t have any more time to think when he was soon approached by you, a concerned frown adorning your face, along with a look full of sympathy and understanding. Ghost already dreaded the conversation that hadn’t even begun. And he wasn’t even the one reaching out first. Which makes it even more embarrassing.

“Hey, Simon. I have something I want to talk about with you.” You, bless your heart, probably thought something terrible happened in Simon's life when in reality he was just running away from you and his feelings like a whole wildfire was chasing him. The only correlation he could think of is dumb teenagers, which is…remotely fitting with his recent behavior. “I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of…avoiding me? Did something happen, or am I just overthinking everything?”

“It’s stupid, really. Nothing you should be worrying yourself about.” Ghost blurts out before he can even think. Great, now he can only tell you the whole truth, without the options to back out or lie. But it was truly so unusual for him because Simon never expected to get attached to a nickname and to you.

“Well, let’s hear you out. I won’t judge.” Again, with your perfect reassuring smile and your calming presence. Simon lets out a deep sigh, his throat itching from what is about to ensue. He knew he was going to embarrass himself, but he just couldn’t bring himself to lie. Which would’ve been so much easier, instead of baring his true feelings in front of you.

“Well, your nickname for me…You know what I’m talking about.” Simon’s tone is deep and gruff as he tries to conceal that uncertainty in his voice. You appear to be listening attentively, your eyes trained on him, head slightly tilted to the side, which makes his heart melt. You give him a confident nod at the mention of the nickname, and Ghost continues. “I want you to call only me like that. And I mean, only me” He can see your eyebrow rising, your expression more teasing than questioning. There we go, now you’re going to mock him or laugh at him. Just perfect.

“Sure thing, big guy.” A shudder runs down Simon’s spine from your words, a sweet, saccharine feeling immediately blossoming in his chest. Oh, he had no words to describe how hard he missed it. All his worries lifted immediately. You didn’t find it weird. In fact, from what Ghost could tell by your satisfied expression, it was quite the opposite of the reaction Simon initially expected. Which was extremely relieving. He would hate to lose your intriguing relationship to the miscommunication of his own making. “Could’ve just said that you wanted it reserved just for you.”

Oh, it wasn’t just the nickname that did it to him. But it’s a bit too early to tell you that.

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[esamastation]

Shizuroth, aka, SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun, aka, sgsss... Part twenty-eight

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven,

Warning for vomiting in this one.

-

Sephiroth can barely keep to his feet as Angeal walks him to the elevator. Angeal has never seen him like this, and it worries him. It doesn't seem normal, even in terms of usual SOLDIER side effects. He itches to ask what did Hojo do to the man… but this is not the time.

He'd never been so aware of the fact that Sephiroth is younger than him and Genesis. He never looks or acts like it, if anything, he acts older than he is. Usually.

The SOLDIER milling about in the hallway part for them, but not happily - and Angeal is also aware what it must look like from their perspective. In order to hide the fact that Sephiroth can't keep his balance, Angeal has to keep a pretty firm grip on his right arm - and he's carrying Masamune for Sephiroth too. It must look like he has his fellow First somehow detained.

"At ease," Angeal tells them, and it puts precisely none of them at ease.

"Um, sir," one of them says. "Where are you, uh… assigned? Next?" He's looking at Sephiroth.

If Angeal didn't already suspect that Sephiroth attacked none of them, this would've put an end to that fear. Though Sephiroth is considered an intimidating figure, none of these men look at all scared of him. If anything, they look scared for him.

Sephiroth clears his throat, his arm in Angeal's grip tensing. "I'm headed to Wutai," he says then. "Apparently."

A reaction runs through the SOLDIERs, and some of them exchange pointed looks. Some look worried, hesitant - others look determined.

"Good luck, sir," one of them says bravely.

"We'll meet you there," another says, more bold than brave.

Sephiroth looks at the speaker and then lets out a quiet, "Hmph," and reaches out to pat the man's hair with his free hand. "I'll be waiting."

Angeal arches his brows, and SOLDIER Third Class being petted gapes in shock. Sephiroth chuckles and gives the man's hair a little ruffle before his hand falls.

Sephiroth… must still be out of it. They better take the short way to the airport.

"Come on," Angeal says, clearing his throat loudly. "We're going to be late."

Sephiroth hums, and with the SOLDIERs around them throwing little farewells and good luck wishes, Angeal drags his fellow First to the elevator, hitting up. They'd have to get through the office floors on foot, but thankfully the stairwell is relatively private. Much less so than the lobby. Hopefully they wouldn't see anyone.

"Sephiroth," Angeal says, adjusting his hold on Sephiroth's right elbow while the man sways against him. "What happened?"

"Mn," Sephiroth hums, hanging his head. "Before or after I destroyed the training room?"

"Ah, before?"

Sephiroth is quiet for a moment. "I trained. I - tried to - hmm," he stops, looking unhappy. "I was trying to work through something. And I was interrupted. It… threw me off."

"Badly enough that you tried to kill Professor Hojo?"

Sephiroth blinks and lifts his head. It looks like it takes effort. "I tried to kill Hojo?"

"That's what they told me."

"Oh. That was him? I don't - I wasn't thinking clearly," Sephiroth mutters and runs his free hand down his face. "What a way to empathise with Liu-shidi."

"Who?"

"... No one," Sephiroth sighs and lets his head hang again. "Ah, I feel like shit."

Angeal hums sympathetically. "You look like it too. When was the last time you drank something?"

"Depends on what time it is?" Sephiroth groans and Angeal tells him. "Ah. Then it was five hours ago."

And Sephiroth had been exercising, then had a breakdown and has been doing who knows what. "We'll get you an energy drink before we set off," Angeal promises and gives him a look. "You know, you don't usually train in the virtual training room. Not unless Genesis drags you, and even then it had better be late."

Sephiroth snorts. "I wonder why," he mutters and then lets out a little urp noise and clasps his left hand over his mouth. He looks very pale, and there are beads of sweat on his temple.

"Hang on, we're almost there," Angeal says urgently and looks up at the floor numbers scrolling by. "Just a few more -"

Just as he says it, the elevator comes to a halt - on floor 66. The upper science floor.

Angeal feels a terrible sense of foreboding as the door opens - and Professor Hojo stands beyond it, flanked by two infantry troopers and shadowed by four laboratory technicians.

"Ah, Sephiroth," the professor says, hand on the elevator button, sounding somewhere between smug and pissed off. "There you are."

"Professor," Angeal says, wary, wondering if this is what the Turk meant. "Apologies - we're on our way to assignment -"

"You have arrived, congratulations," Hojo says impatiently. "Come right this way - laboratory one."

"I'm afraid we have orders, professor, it's important -"

"There is nothing more important than science!" Hojo says sharply. "Now come along. There are tests we need to run, and the more time we waste the more invaluable data we lose!"

Angeal hesitates. Hojo is a department head. Lazard is just a Director of a sub-department - Hojo's orders trump his. And - and is Angeal really supposed to fight other company employees? That's - that's treason. Shinra has its issues, of course, but…

Hojo doesn't wait for him to make his decision - the Professor steps up and grabs Sephiroth's wrist. "Come along, boy, it's time for -"

It's like the world slows down.

Angeal has a grip on Sephiroth's right elbow, holding him up. Hojo has his left wrist and is pulling. Normally it wouldn't be strong enough to even bother Sephiroth. Normally a man of Hojo's slim build wouldn't be an issue. But these aren't normal conditions.

Another tug, and Sephiroth might fall, stumble, anything. Another tug, and they'll find out how weak Sephiroth currently is. Another tug, and Angeal would have to make a choice between following orders… or getting his friend out of there.

Hojo pulls violently, Angeal braces himself - and then Sephiroth throws up on Hojo. 

He throws up a lot.

He throws up mostly blood.

The aftermath is unspeakably gruesome.

"Oh, that is so much better," Sephiroth sighs, easily tugging his wrist from Hojo's loose grip and wiping the back of it against his lips. "Pardon me, professor. Bad blood, you know, had to come out sooner or later."

Hojo just stands there, stunned, covered in blood. Angeal looks between them in horrified amazement as Sephiroth stands up under his own power again. The infantry troopers have actually backed away a step in apparent horror. The technicians look like they want to run away.

There's an audible dripping sound.

Sephiroth clears his throat, looks away, and then reaches to press up on the elevator key pad.

The elevator doors slowly close on Hojo's blood-soaked visage with a sad little squeak.

-

.... Yeah I have no excuses except that I thought it was funny, heh.

[hedgehog-moss]

Today was the last sunny day before several days of rain so I decided it would be a productive day and I would get lots of work done in the pasture. I wanted to start my autumn cleaning, gather all the manure and then spread it over my now-dismantled vegetable garden, and also work on the fence and prepare a few more crossbars if I had time.

It’s always when you’re ready to work and full of projects and motivation that one of your children comes up to you like “I have something to show you but first, promise you won’t get mad”

... Pirlouit somehow managed to get a PVC pipe stuck around his pastern (I discovered this English word just now! In French it’s pâturon.) The people who came to install a septic tank two years ago used these pipes and I later found some pieces they’d cut in the grass near my house, and used them to collect spring water into my new barrel. So I guess an even smaller piece of pipe they’d left behind rolled down all the way into the pasture :/ But the mystery is how Pirlouit got it stuck on his foot—because it was completely impossible to slip it past his hoof when I tried to pull on it. How was it large enough to fit in one direction but too narrow in the other...??

At least Pirou let me halter him without a fuss. He looked sheepish but also fairly confident that I could remove that thing. He was all but placing his foot in my lap like “Here.”

I went to fetch the large bolt-cutter that I use to cut barbed wire, and also my phone to take pictures of my donkey and shame him on the internet (but mostly because I knew this process would now involve some waiting. Every time I introduce him to a new object Pirlouit needs a good long period of sniffing and gingerly observing before you can touch him with it.)

Baby Poldine came to show solidarity by also running a security check on the New Thing.

Pampérigouste came to show solidarity by eating the treat I had prepared to comfort Pirlouit after his ordeal.

“I’m running a security check on this muesli.”

If anyone needs an ankle monitor it’s you, Pampe. Don’t push your luck.

(But her ankles are too slender for her to take the threat seriously.)

I put what was left of the muesli on the other side of the fence where it would be safe, then started attacking the pipe with the bolt-cutter. Every time I cut a centimetre of pipe it would make a clack sound that scared Pirlouit and I would have to put the cutter down and wait for him to stop dancing about nervously. He always appreciates singing in scary situations so I sang him a song about a donkey and a pipe to the tune of La Marseillaise (le tuyau sanglant est enlevé) to make him feel like a brave little soldier and it seemed to help.

Then I heard a different clickety-click sound behind me and I turned around and realised muesli can never really be safe anywhere around here.

When the chickens were done, Morille (who is scared of them) came to lick the bottom of the bowl to make sure every last atom of muesli had been stolen through admirable teamwork. Poor Pirlouit.

Anyway, little clack by little clack I managed to cut all the way down.

We took another break before removing the bracelet because my first attempt failed (the thing was harder to ‘open’ than I thought it’d be and it sort of snapped shut) which made Pirlouit skittish again. I took the opportunity to go and pick a small apple from the nearby tree to replace the stolen muesli.

Pirou accepted the apple looking gently melancholy, like “nothing can replace this stolen muesli in my heart but okay <3”

Victory!

It’s always heartwarming when I have to do something to Pirlouit that clearly stresses him out and after I free him from his halter, he doesn’t run away to sulk (as he used to when I first bought him!) but continues hanging out with me like “I still like you”

He even bravely examined the slain enemy.

I had to keep Pandolf in the barn the whole time because he’s too exuberant to be a soothing presence for stressed animals, but afterwards he & I went on an inspection tour in the pasture to see if there were any other bits of pipe. We didn’t find any (and there’s hardly any grass left so they should be easy to spot), so I hope that was the only one. I’m not sure how Pirlouit managed to step on the one small piece of pipe that had made its way into the pasture and then slip it around his ankle! Either very poor luck or a deliberate attempt at stylishness or maybe some secret third donkey thing.

[quimichi]

Good luck

Good luck to all of you brave soldiers for pulling for our favorite cabbage

[phyrestartr]

Simple Things [1] | Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

# SFW, fluff, light comfort, light angst, male!reader, dad!reader, spider!reader, smoking, implied depression, implied trauma, old men just doing their best, dad energy, miguel is a sweetheart and a nerd, multi-part drabble collection

[ 1 ] Smoke Break | [ 2 ] We Change Like the Seasons | [ 3 ] Meet The Kids

Notes: Yes, this will have more parts to it! I'm editing the next bit as we speak (beheh) and it should be up within the week? Maybe? I keep bouncing around from draft to draft, so finishing parts can take a while, pls forgive :pray:

--Smoke Break--

You were just another hero. There wasn't much else to it, you'd decided, and in joining the Spider Society, the same rang true--Miguel didn't think much of it, you didn't think much of it, none of the others did, either. It wasn't a bad thing, no, it was just how it was when one gathered hundreds of superheroes together. Everyone was special in their own worlds, so being a cut above the rest when you were all insane super freaks was exceptionally rare.

Miguel O'hara, however, proved to be exceptional.

Even after all the time that stretched on, he still existed as an anomaly of sorts within HQ. Cool, calm, collected, he led everyone with his head held high and his words resonating like a church bell; everything he said became gospel, everything he said affected their way of saving the multiverse.

Miguel knew that.

You knew that.

Most thought him invincible, unyielding and unforgiving towards the laws of the multiverse, and most admired his dedication. You knew troops clicked well with strong leaders, that they felt secure in their mission and battles when lead by a brave soldier, but your experience-trodden understanding burned in the forefront of your memories.

To you, it was obvious. If you watched his back long enough, if you too often caught glimpses of what he thought were well-hidden tells, the fracturing became all too easy to see.

Miguel was breaking.

You knew that feeling well, the feeling of being unable to bend anymore, to have your limits pushed and surpassed, yet still somehow stay intact and working, like a frayed web.

Maybe that was why you couldn't keep him off your mind. Maybe your primal loneliness, the weeping cracks you'd endured on your lonesome, resonated with another's. Maybe it begged you to do something while you still had the chance.

--

You'd come to see him one day to force some baked goods into his hands and leave, the excuse that you and your daughters had made too much armed and ready on your tongue.

Yes, you were caring, and yes, fine, you were a bit awkward approaching your fearless, strict, hard-ass of a leader with a piece of pie in your hands like you were at some fucking chummy pot luck or parent-teacher night, so you needed an excuse, something to veil your heart. Were you supposed to tell him you were worried about him, or something? No, no, that'd come later (if there was a later).

You expected to see his broad back turned to you, to hear him mumbling to himself or talking into comms; instead, you found him tucked away in the corner of the lab, sat in an old desk chair, napping. His arms rested crossed over his chest, and his head hung down. It was reassuring, a nice reminder that Miguel, too, was mortal just like yourself

The corner of your mouth twitched into something fond and lopsided, though barely there, before quietly, slowly, you left the Tupperware container on his stage console and saw yourself out. You couldn't bear the thought of waking a fellow "old man" from a much-needed nap.

--

Time stretched the way it usually did; missions assigned, spiders injured, anomalies captured--nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary.

But, shit, were you tired. You were always tired, sure, but these days the stress of life and love threatened to break more of you down and grind you into dust. It must have felt terrifying. But you couldn't feel it. Your mind wouldn't let you.

The smoke from your cigarette burned your lungs as you inhaled, grounding you, and reminding you of your existence. You sighed, thankful, and rested your head back against the outside wall of the secluded little balcony you'd found in your mindless wandering. Smoking inside always got you an earful from anyone and everyone in all dimensions, anyway, so you figured you'd skip the scrutiny and take it outside right away. Besides, it was easier to think and wallow this way.

But the door beside you slid open, ruining your quiet. You sighed, letting your eyes fall closed, waiting for the intruder to say something, do something, make themselves known. Seems they weren't in a rush, however.

You cracked an eye open, and spied him. He stared out at the city, his city, and held a clean Tupperware box in his hands. Miguel's fingers drummed against its sides in thought. His twitchy, fidgety restlessness made him too endearing.

"Finished the whole thing, eh?" You asked, cigarette hanging limply between your lips. "Guess you really do have a sweet tooth."

Miguel huffed a laugh, short and sweet, before handing back the box. "Yeah, well, can't say no to homemade food. Besides, Peter stole some." His face soured, nearing an annoyed pout.

"Ah. Bastard." You took the box back, words of gratitude light under your breath. "I'll give him a piece of my mind later."

"Let me know how that works out since, well, that Peter doesn't listen to anyone." Miguel crossed his arms.

"Pretty sure he just doesn't listen to you, Boss."

"Oh, great. Even better." Miguel was smiling, despite his annoyance. His eyes, warm and sullen like those poppies from your memories, flickered over to you, drawing your gaze. You'd never had the chance to speak to him so intimately, to be the only one standing beside him. It felt like a privilege, but it was too mundane to be so. You welcomed it.

"Didn't take you for a baker," Miguel said. His eyes followed your fingers plucking the smoke from your mouth. "Or a smoker."

You sighed as you glanced down at the wisping cigarette. "Yeah, well. I'm not much of the prim and proper hero type, I guess."

Miguel tilted his head, curious. "Never even had a phase?"

You thought back, far back, but shook your head. "Nah, I don't think I ever really had any pep in my step. Not that I can recall, anyway." You took another drag to suffocate resurfacing memories. "...A lot happened before Spiderman happened." For a long moment, you watched the smoke coil. So did Miguel. "But you? I can definitely see you as a peppy youngster."

Miguel sighed, something exasperated and light. "Dios, you're making us sound old."

"Aren't we?" You quirked a brow, almost smiling as Miguel put his hands on his hips. "What, you think we're young when we got kids like Hobie and Gwen running around? Damn, Pav too. That kid's the epitome of 'friendly neighborhood Spiderman.' Don't even get me started on May--"

"Okay, okay, stop, stop, stop," Miguel motored out, raising his palm to defend against the painful truth. "I get it. Y'know, talking to you is a lot more humbling than I thought it'd be."

Oh. You laughed. It surprised you with how it exploded past your defenses, choked and ugly, hampered by the plume of smoke in your lungs. Your hand waved at Miguel as you got lost in your fit, tears pricking your eyes and a smile aching unused muscles.

"Y-you're a dick," you eventually wheezed. "Humbling?"

Miguel smiled, too smug. "It's just been a while since I met another miserable bastard."

"Is that self-awareness?" You flicked ash from the end of your cigarette and shook your head, the aftershocks of laughter still shaking your voice. "Incredible. Inspirational, even."

"Alright, now who's being the asshole here?"

"That'd be me."

"Ah. Self-awareness."

"What can I say? You've inspired me. Such a good leader."

"Yeah, well, inspiration and good leadership come with a fee." His eyes flicked to the Tupperware tucked under your arm.

Your brows raised. Huh. Unexpected. But you nodded, and tapped more wasted ash onto the ground. "You're lucky my kids like to bake. You got a hankering for anything?"

Miguel's lips parted, surprise painting his face cool shades. He blinked then, breaking from whatever spell he found himself in, and ran a hand through his hair. "I--ah. Yeah, just, anything. Whatever your kids want."

"You're gonna regret that, but hey, your call." A comfortable silence fell for a few beats before, very unlike your blasé self, you pressed for the sake of curiosity: "So? Were you a plucky youngster? Sparkling eyes, heroic intentions 'n all that."

Miguel's gaze, pointed at the city, stared through the buildings and perhaps into a time you were not privy to. The tightening of his jaw told you more than you needed to know.

"Yeah, I guess I was." Miguel took a step and rested his elbows on the railing of the small patio. "Things weren't easy back then, but..."

"You didn't have to look after the multiverse?" You wondered, voice soft. The other's unshakeable shoulders slumped. You stuck the cig back in your mouth as you thought about your own history, about what you wish you had the chance to do, about who you could have been, who you wanted to be.

"Did you at least get to live a little?" You asked, maybe a little bit to yourself.

Miguel nodded. "Yeah. But I think I started really living after I became Spiderman."

Somehow, you understood.

"Kinda ironic."

"You're telling me. But it was eye-opening. Life-changing, in a bad way, in a good way." He paused before nodding with contemplative shrug. "Humbling."

"Hm. More humbling than me?"

"If you can believe it."

You snorted and shook your head. "Guess I have no choice."

He hummed, agreeing. Miguel turned, leaning back against the railing and crossing his arms as he regarded you. "You must've had a 'the hero is born' moment," Miguel suggested more than he asked. "We all do." And he was right, logistically--if you were all Spiderman, you all had to have a moment where you really became a hero.

So, you thought for a long, slow moment.

But too quickly did something find a soft, hollow place to fester in your chest. The pain pierced so like losing yourself in December's glacial lakes, so wicked with languid tortures and polar punishments. The pain could fade if you stopped fighting, if you let the water pull you into the peaceful darkness, but you'd indulged in the shameful malady of shadows too many times; your patience and self-loathing had grown so thin.

You don't need to remember, the lady of the lake would whisper to you, voice dripping with tears in a way that sounded so much like her. She lulled you, she pulled you back in, she urged you to turn her way instead of fighting her, instead of reaching for the roiling inferno that was the past. In those moments, in her arms, you never knew if you'd find your way back to the surface, but you were not one to obediently decay in ignorance.

Her wail filled your mind as you breached the blaze, and found that sunny day in the Bronx, with the wind carrying the honeyed scent of summer life when you'd met that pretty little thing from the flower shop...

You twitched a smile. "Well...I guess I--"

"Hey," Lyla suddenly cut in, blipping into existence between Miguel and yourself. The level of relief you felt upon being saved from talking about yourself was unhealthy, but you silently thanked Lyla for it: memories of the blaze and the ice could be put aside for a while longer.

The sprite adjusted her sunnies before continuing, "totally loving the bromance here, really cute, but we got a new anomaly that needs some extra love. You guys feel like kicking some bad guy butt, buddy-cop style?"

"Sure," you cut in before Miguel could. You need out of this conversation now. "I call bad cop. Wanna see good cop Miguel butter up a baddie."

Miguel twitched. "Hey--"

"Oooh, me too," Lyla agreed, nodding sagely.

"I don't think I like you two being on the same side--"

"Let's get the show on the road, Boss." You butted your cigarette out on the wall and set down the container. A warm sunset glow bloomed across you as a portal whirled open, shimmering and humming.

You tapped his chest playfully with your knuckles. "Last one there buys me a six pack."

With a hop, skip, and a jump, you were gone.

Miguel rubbed his face. Lyla fluttered around his head. "Well? Better go after him, good cop."

"You. You aren't allowed to team up with him," Miguel stated as he headed towards the portal. "Starting now, colluding is not allowed."

"Oh, what? Sorry, connection's getting fuzzy--"

"Lyla, don't--"

"Sorry--shhhrk--breaking up--" and she, too, disappeared.

Miguel rolled his eyes. His mask materialized over his face as he followed you, a comfortable fondness resting in his chest, chasing out any turmoil the day had brought him.

Good cop. Bad cop. It was stupid, childish, but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it was a dumb little something that he needed.

[memories-of-ancients]

Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!

You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.

Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely.

But this is the year 1944 ! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground.

Our Home Fronts have given us an superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world marching together to Victory!

I have full confidence in your devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!

Good Luck! And let us all beseech blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.

Signed: General Dwight D. Eisenhower

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty Two

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn (OFC)

[Masterlist]

Volume II Summary: Tom escapes occupied Europe to find home irreversibly changed. How will Tom and Bess cope when what was once familiar has changed forever?

Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut, Violence (fairly mild), Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Era typical Sexism, Era typical Homophobia, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Domestic Abuse (very brief), Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

A/N: Characters we haven’t seen for a while? Trauma from way back in volume one? You betcha. Posted in haste, will fix mistakes later.

Fucking war.

Tom ripped open the cardboard packet of his Marlboro’s just in case. Nothing. No Rita Hayworth. No Betty Grable. Not even Vera fucking Lynn. He lit a cigarette and sighed.

A pint of pale was put on the table before him. Through a haze of cigarette fog and beer-blurred eyes he looked at the barkeeper.

“We’ve had men in here trading their old cigarette cards. Anything for something new,” he scoffed and picked up Tom’s three empty glasses. “’Waste of resources’, ‘s’what they say on the wireless. You’d think a bit of leg would do everyone good. Keep morale high.”

Tom took a long gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. “Well, if you ever run for office, you’ve got my vote. Bring back the tart card.” He raised the half-drunk glass but the man had already walked away. “To Winston fucking Churchill!”

From their position at the bar, a few patrons looked over their shoulders at him. None could have been younger than fifty. “What?” Tom said to them, his volume a touch too loud, eyes dark over the rim of the glass. They ignored him.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom screwed his eyes shut. It had been hours, but still Grzegroz’s voice rattled around his mind.

“Dunkierka!”

How strange, incredible really, that he could be transported so quickly to the battlefield once more. One moment he was playing football with Jan in Mrs Chase’s garden, the next he was watching the man with the terrified eyes screaming at him on the beach.

“Shoot me!”

“Fuck.” Tom downed the rest of the beer. Eight o’clock. The pub was busying now. He’d arrived not an hour before, having walked from Mrs Chase’s back into town. Now, the shift’s had changed at the dockyard and the factory, and the weekend was free for these men to take.

The table wobbled as Tom used all of his weight to stand. He blinked hard. A rush of blood drained from his head and he faltered. A lifetime’s worth of bad memories did not mix with four pints and an empty stomach.

Tom wasn’t drunk. Not by his standards at least. Instead, he was balanced on a precipice. A precipice that could turn the night into one of infinite wonder or have him fear the world by 8 o’clock next morning. Would it send him down the Palais with Bess? Hadn’t she said there was a dance on? Or would it be a night in the pub, taking on any Tom, Dick or Harry that dared, and sleeping under a bench? Tom found he didn’t care which. One drink more would do him right. Let Lady Luck decide.

Tom wasn’t drunk. However, he did not slide onto the bar stool with as much grace as he would’ve liked and a few men tittered. “Another pint please.”

“Right you are, Tom.” The barkeep gave him a wary look but poured the pint all the same. He’d seen enough soldiers and marines to know that if they weren’t drinking in his pub, they were out drinking and making a nuisance. God knows he remembered the last war well enough.

Another pint appeared before him, and Tom watched the foam settle. He leant forward, caressing the cool glass, and took a long, pleasured sip.

“How’s the navy treating you anyway, Tom?”

“The navy? The bloody navy? Can’t even steer a pedalo.”

Tom jolted and looked over his shoulder. It had happened the night before too, and that morning. Drifting off, he’d heard his father’s voice. “My brave, brave boy.” Only to wake up and have reality hit him hard, all air leaving his chest before he’d taken his first waking breath. His dad was gone.

A glass smashed in the corner of the pub and a roar of laughter rang up.

“Watch it! You lot break anymore, and you’ll be paying.” The barkeeper sighed. “Tom?”

“You what?”

The barkeeper watched him. “Ah, don’t worry about it, son.” He patted Tom’s arm and made his way to the end of the bar. Tom’s eyes followed as the man collected a sweeping brush and gathered the broken shards into a pile. One of the men in the party was gesturing wildly around, trying in vain to help. It was Fergal Vaughn.

“Sit down, man,” the barkeep said good-naturedly. “You’re a hindrance, not a help.” 

Fergal flopped into his seat, the beer he held spraying everywhere. The friends surrounding him laughed. Sweat gleamed on the old man’s brow, his face red and shining. When he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his mouth, and he laughed so hard Tom feared he might keel over for lack of breath. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tom muttered into his pint. Well, at least the old bastard isn’t at home, bothering the girls.

There was a great commotion and Tom looked back to the party. Fergal had stood abruptly, his round belly pushing the table and knocking yet more glasses. He raised his near empty pint of Guinness in the air. “To my Cora, and to her Roger!”

The men cheered, raising their glasses and swigging their beers. “To her roger!” The two men nearest Tom cried and fell about laughing. Fergal swiped at them pathetically but giggled at their joke.

Tom should have laughed too. Should have joined in their merriment. But sat there, five pints deep, listening to Fergal Vaughn’s witterings while the ghost of his own father lingered just beyond reach, Tom felt his blood curdle. On the step of the stool, his leg began to bounce. The din of the pub’s patrons gave way to the swirling of blood and breath in his ears. 

 “Dunkierka!”

Tom slammed his fists into his eyes and tried to rub away the sound. Fergal guffawed behind him. 

“You don’t think I’m genuine?” 

“Are you, son?”

Bess’ voice joined the fray.

“You’ve never committed to anything or anyone. It’s not because you’re a womaniser, or because you don’t believe in the war. It’s because you’re a coward.”

“Just fuck off!” Tom shouted. He didn’t hear the way the pub stilled. Didn’t notice the way the man beside him got off his stool and shuffled away. Slowly, the noise around him picked up as everyone ignored the screwball at the bar. 

He tried to calm himself and, naturally, thought of Bess. Almost half-past eight. She’d be at the dance by now. Hair rollered for once, a brush of lipstick. Tom’s body hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Who would she dance with, without himself or Albie there? Roger? From Fergal’s exclamations, it sounded like a night for celebration. Would Lois be there, singing with Connie? He hadn’t thought to ask Lois about her shift on the ambulance. 

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

The last words Lois hissed at him before he crumpled and made his way back to Bess. She’d spat them at him like a weapon. She’d meant to hurt him, and hurt him it did. The moment she’d uttered them Tom saw every disheartened, disapproving and disappointed look that had shadowed his father’s prematurely aged face. Each one, directed at him. 

Yet another glass was placed next to him. An amber tot of whisky. “From Fergal,” said the barkeeper. Tom glanced over his shoulder to where Fergal had another pint raised in his direction.

“To Tom,” he slurred. “No doubt he’ll be stealing another of my girls away from me.” Fergal smiled at him and the other men silently raised their glasses.

Tom pushed the whisky away. “No thanks.” 

“Right you are,” The barkeeper said after a moment, taking the glass away while eyeing something over Tom’s shoulder. With a hard smack, a meaty hand landed on Tom’s back and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy breath and stench of ale told him everything. 

“Rude to refuse a drink from your father-in-law-” 

“You’re not my father-in-law.” Tom continued to stare straight ahead at the optics behind the bar.  

“I’m as good as!” Fergal chortled. “And don’t you tell me I won’t be one day,” he tried to lean on the bar beside Tom but stumbled. Despite himself, Tom reached out a hand to steady him. “With Cora engaged, everyone will be looking to you and Bess.” 

“Let them look.” 

Fergal wobbled, leaning forward slightly to observe Tom. Fed up, Tom stared back at him, watching the man struggle to stand straight. 

“God, you look like your Dad.” Fergal said after an unnaturally long pause. Tom snorted. 

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

“We all miss him terribly, me and Bess especially,” Fergal continued. Did Tom miss him? He supposed he did not. He hadn’t been given enough time to comprehend the fact he was dead, let alone miss him. “My favourite drinking partner.” Fergal finally found the bar and leant upon it. 

“You’re doing alright, to me.” Tom watched the men in the corner watching him.

“Ah, but none were like your Da-A drink!” Fergal cut himself off. “Another whisky for me and Tom.” They appeared before them in an instant. Seemingly, the barkeeper hadn’t thrown them away. Fucking rationing. 

“I don’t want it,” Tom pushed it back and Fergal made to sip his own. 

“To Douglas!” The Irishman roared. 

“Stop!” Tom grabbed Fergal’s hand before the drink could reach his lips. “Stop.” 

“What’s gotten into you, boy? Used to love a drink with me and Albie and your Da-”

Tom stood from the bar and Fergal staggered backwards. “I’ll not share a drink with you, you fat old bastard. Not in my dad’s memory. Not when you’re like this.” 

“Now just a minu-”

“You’re a drunk!” Tom spat in Fergal’s face. He was towering over the man now, and for a flicker of time, Fergal looked like a scared child. “I’ll not drink to my dad’s memory, when it should have been you in his place.” 

Fergal looked like he had been struck. Tom didn’t care. A year’s worth of war, the immediacy of his grief, the way it awoke the longing he held for his mother, years of watching Fergal ruin his daughters. Tom felt every bruising blow life had dealt him, and was presented with the perfect outlet for his rage. The man before him. 

“My dad fought for what he believed in. Did I agree with him? No, but I damn well do now!” Tom was shouting and the barkeeper laid a hand on his arm. He wrenched it from his grip but lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “He didn’t have much, but he did enough to make himself proud. To make me proud. Gave everyone the time of day. Grafted. Put up with me,” his voice wobbled. “And then there’s you. What have you ever done?”

Fergal opened his mouth but Tom cut him off. “Who do you think’s gonna look after you now Cora’s engaged? Do you know what?” He grabbed the whisky and raised it in the air. “Here’s to Roger. If it weren’t for him, Cora would be left to a life looking after you with not one bit of thanks.” He downed the drink with a wince. “And Dot! You’ve spoiled her beyond reason. Five minutes in the real world will ruin her, Fergal! Don’t you remember the last time!? All them battered men coming back, what they did to the women waiting for them at home? And Bess!” Tom’s voice cracked and he jabbed a finger into Fergal’s fleshy shoulder. “Do you know how many nights she’s spent crying because you said she wasn’t woman enough, like Cora and Dot? Or how you never stood up for her at school? It was Etta marching down there every day to set Frank Smith and Walter Watson right. Etta giving the teachers a bollocking because you didn’t have the guts. What did you do? Fucking nothing. Only thing you’re good for is fucking fertiliser-”

It happened quick as a flash. Fergal grabbed Tom by the scruff of his collar and hoisted him over the bar. Glasses clattered around them and the murmuring of the pub crescendoed to an excited clamour. The edge of the bar was rammed into Tom’s ribs as Fergal held him there, leaning over and growling in his face. Any trace of drunkenness was gone. 

“You’re one to talk, my boy.” He shoved Tom again, and Tom felt his head hit one of the pumps. “Fucking off to join the navy was the best thing you ever did. Brought nothing but shame to your father, and now you’re doing the same to my Bess.” At the mention of her name Tom struggled to get up. “You’re only courting my daughter because I see how happy you make her, God knows why, but when you get yourself blown up, well, it’ll be all the better.”

“ENOUGH!” The barkeeper bellowed, reaching between the two of them. Two of Fergal’s friends pulled him backwards off Tom, and he slid off the bar. “ENOUGH!” 

Tom straightened his jacket, stared down at Fergal and laughed bitterly. By some miracle, Fergal’s whiskey still sat unbothered amongst the debris of their argument. Tom downed it in one and, with his hands in his pockets, swaggered from the pub and into the night.

“-our Florence tailored her mam’s old dress. I suppose Bess could help you with that. And Roger will have a mourning suit, won’t he? Or will he get married in uniform? Oh, that would be best I think, that beautiful air force blue. It’ll look excellent in your wedding photograph-”

On discovering Cora Vaughn’s engagement to Roger, Queenie Warren had not drawn breath. Her curls bouncing animatedly as she spoke, Queenie quizzed Cora on everything from the colour of her bridesmaids’ dresses to whether the cake would be fruit or Victoria sponge.

Bess had tuned Queenie out ten minutes ago. Instead, she leant against the bar, glass in her hand, cigarette between her lips, and watched couples spin around the dancefloor. She wondered if the Palais would ever be as full as it was before the war.

The red lights of the room hid a multitude of sins. The floor was becoming sticky under foot, and wallpaper was starting to peel from the high ceiling. The darkness did well to hide the few couples, and the fewer men. Indeed, it was mostly full of women from the factories. There were some fellas that Bess recognised from about town, and other uniformed men she did not recognise, no doubt visiting women they had met on the front, or nurses from the infirmary.

Dancing at the centre of circle were Roberta and the teacher from the primary. With so many of the men off fighting, it was the first time Bobby had been able to step into the light with the woman, under the rouse of needing a dance partner. Hiding in plain sight, Bess had never seen her happier. Indeed, when they turned so that Bobby could look upon the bar, she caught Bess’ eye. Bess winked, and Bobby giggled. Tough, feisty Roberta actually giggled.

“-you’ll have your hands full soon I expect, Bess.”

“Pardon?”

Queenie was watching her eagerly. “A wedding dress and bridesmaids’ clothes for yourself and Dot. That’s an awful lot to be doing.”

“She’ll have to ask me first,” with a smile Bess nudged Cora, who looked up from gazing at the modest ring on her finger.

Her betrothed was not far away, sharing a drink with Frank Smith and a few other lads from the air force. He was bright and merry, and though the others congratulated him, Bess noticed the glances they cast the bride-to-be and her sisters. Namely, herself.

Bess knew what she was doing when she’d stepped out that night. Bedecked in a pinstriped suit, she wanted people to look at her. She felt deflated after Tom’s flit from Mrs Chase’s and his inability to confide in her. This did just the job to make her feel powerful again. She’d seen Marlene Dietrich where something similar in a copy of Vogue she’d read years ago at the atelier. It just so happened that they had a pattern there too.

A man cut across Bess’ vision of Bobby on the dancefloor. “Fucking dyke,” he muttered as he passed. Bess stood straight, prepared to defend her friend from the man, when she faltered. As he passed, the man looked over his shoulder at her, eyeing her suit from sharp collar to perfectly-ironed trouser.

“Don’t be jealous she’s a better dresser than you!” Dot piped up, just as Cora took her glass.

“That’s enough sherry, Dot.”

Before Dot could so much as take a breath to retort, the Palais’ double doors burst open. Even over the playing of the band, the noise caused the sisters to jump and cast their eyes towards the doors.

Bess knew that silhouette.

Against the streetlamps outside, the figure staggered sideways before moving forward towards the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he nearly fell over, and a few people rushed to help him. He brushed them off and, ascending the steps to the bar, smirked lopsidedly at the group.

“Bobby,”

“Tom.”

The enmity that lingered between Bobby and Tom had dwindled of late, and Bess tensed at the renewed hostility.

“How’s your friend?” Tom wobbled as he glanced around the old ballroom, his words dripping with intentional sarcasm. Roberta said nothing. “Suits you well, doesn’t it? No men about.” He swaggered towards her, his body a millisecond behind the movement of his feet. Bess prickled with mortification. All evening she’d been worried about him, what he was thinking, what he was doing, and it turned out he was the same as any other man; leaving their problems at the door of the first pub they came to.

He staggered a step towards Roger and Frank. Frank, having experienced Tom’s devastating right-hook in childhood, edged backwards.

“Watch yourselves, lads, she’ll be giving your girls ideas.”

He can embarrass himself all he likes, but leave Bobby out of it. In three high-heeled strides, Bess placed herself between Tom and the others. “Enough,” she said warningly. Tom eyed her. There was a hint of pride in the dark blue of his eyes. Then he glanced at her suit.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Bess could smell the beer on him. The stale cigarettes. “I’d say you were going the same way as your Roberta.” He looked her up and down, amusement evident on his features.

At this closeness, Bess’ worry returned. When he’d returned, the first thing she noticed about him was the hollowness of his cheeks. The way the skin clung his cheekbones like wax. In the red light of the Palais, his pale skin looked near translucent, and his eyes…

His brow bone jutted forward, casting them into shadow. Below, the soft skin beneath his lower lashes sagged, as though gravity was working harder to root him in one place. She’d seen this dogged look before. On her father. What a sinister concoction; grief and grain.

Gently, as though calming a wounded animal, Bess whispered in Tom’s ear. “Go home, my love-”

“I haven’t got one,” Tom slurred, blinking slowly, that ridiculous smile still plastered on his face.

“Albie’s bed is always made up, just sle-”

“In a dead man’s bed?” The sisters and their companions each took a sharp breath. “I’ll not be tempting fate, ‘my love’,” Tom tapped Bess on the nose. “Besides, I’m here for a dance.” He held out a hand, the other still firmly in his pocket as he swayed on the spot. “Come on,”

“No,”

There it was. That wrinkled brow and jutted jaw. He knew he was pushing it. Still, as he always did, he carried on.

“Why do you have to go around winding the rest of us up? That’s what you do.” Vic’s voice joined the chorus of ghosts in Tom’s mind. He shook his head.

“Come on,” he waggled the hand he held out to Bess. “Gotta dance with my best girl while I’m back.”

“I said no.”

With speed unexpected of a drunk, Tom made a beeline for Bess. Just as his arms made to grip her close to his body, someone blocked his path.

“Go away, Tom.”

His held jolted backwards before his body, and he stumbled. “Fuck,” he said. In this light, in this state, the Vaughn girls all looked the same. Steely, dark eyes were boring into his. It was only the smaller stature of the girl before him that gave it away.

“Dotty-”

“Go away-”

“Oh shut up, Dot. You’ll never get a fella with a mouth like that,” Roger and Cora straightened at the bar. Bess came to stand at her sister’s side. Frank gripped Queenie by the arm and steered her away. This was it. The showdown. The two cockiest kids in Longsight. Dot Vaughn and Tom Bennett.  “Shut up and use your mouth for something useful-”

SMACK

The force with which Dot walloped Tom near gave him whiplash. Like a felled tree, he hit the ground hard. No sooner was he looking up at the three red-headed furies, was someone dragging him along the ground. For the second time that night, someone had Tom by the scruff of his collar. His feet struggled to find footing as whoever had hold of him pulled him towards the door. He looked up.

“Fuck me. Didn’t think you had it in you Rog.”

The pilot said nothing, only continued to drag Tom from the Palais. The clacking of high heels followed the pair, and as Roger hurled Tom onto the damp road outside the dancehall, Cora came into view.

Tom lay there for a few seconds, looking up at the dark sky as drizzle speckled his face.

“Get up.”

“You gonna fight me, Rog?” He received no reply and, with great difficulty, stood up. His head was beginning to pound, as though his brain was fight to break free from his skull.

Roger’s arms were folded against his chest. Tom had never realised, despite Roger’s lanky height, how imposing he was. In his uniform, he looked like the perfect poster boy for the British military. Beside him, Cora glared.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice was quiet, challenging him to dare to fight back. Tom rolled his shoulders and squared his jaw.

“Pub.”

Cora tutted. “I might have guessed.”

“Saw your dad there,”

“I’m sure.” Cora’s eyes hadn’t left Tom’s. Her feet hadn’t faltered. All that distinguished her from a statue were the few strands of hair waving in the cold night air.

“Gave him a piece of my mind-”

“A very small piece then.”

Tom snorted. “Was there celebrating your happy news. Congratulations, by the way.” He added as an aside. “Never seen him at the pub so happy, usually there to forget his own fuck ups. Wouldn’t catch me in that state-”

“You’ve got a nerve.” Cora snapped. “Dadda’s got his faults but don’t think for a second that you don’t have your own, Thomas Bennett.”

Cora walked towards him, her steps so slow and purpose that for the first time in his life, Tom was scared of her. She folded her arms and looked at him with disgust.

“You’re not the only one that’s suffered-”

“Tell you about this afternoon, did she?” Tom shouted. Cora raised her eyebrows and he silenced like a petulant child.

“No, Bess didn’t,” Behind her, Roger watched on. He didn’t move, flanking her like a sentinel solider. “But I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a jumped-up little shit who never put much store by other people’s feelings, BE QUIET!” she shoutedwhen Tom opened his mouth to argue. “You’re not the only one that’s fighting. That’s lost someone. Roger flies over Germany every other night, looking at the destruction we’re wreaking. Coming home to discover who he lost along the way. You know Vernon was the last to go down? Disappeared over the Channel. I don’t suppose you’ve thought for one second that Lois lost her father and her fiancé?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably.

“That we loved your father too? That we lost our Albie?” Cora’s voiced wobbled and a few tears fell from her eyes. Her gaze, however, did not waver. “I can’t imagine what horrors you’ve seen, Tom, but it isn’t plain sailing here. The fear of getting bombed every night, worrying if we’ll ever see you all again? Pretending it’s all smiles when you come home in case you see the cracks and crumble. Because what’s the point of fighting for a world that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Finally, she brushed her tears from her eyes. With a shaky breath, as if to set herself right, Cora straightened.

“It’s not the world against Tom Bennett. I know it feels like it-”

“No you don’t.” Tom said bitterly. “You don’t have a fucking clue.” And with the little pride he had left, he turned on weak legs, stumbled down the nearest ginnel, and vanished from sight.

Next morning, Bess rose as the sun crept over the brick red houses of Longsight.

Beside her, Dot and Cora were sleeping soundly, their arms cast over each other’s waists. Slowly, so as not to wake them, Bess drew back the quilt and crept onto the landing. The floorboards creaked and she stilled. No-one stirred.

Tentatively, she opened the door to her father’s bedroom.

He was slumped, half sat against the cold wall, atop his bed. Albie’ remained empty, his folded jumper and photograph sat neatly on top of the covers.

A swell of dread rushed over Bess and she felt sick. So it had been dadda stumbling around the house, not Tom.

Fergal’s misuse of alcohol was no secret about the street, and every neighbour knew his routine. His daughters knew it better. Six o’clock. If Fergal wasn’t working as an air raid warden, he would arrive home from the dockyard, ready for his supper. After reading the newspaper and listening to the girls talk about their days, he would depart for the pub at approximately twenty past seven. If drinking at The Crown, he would be allowed room under one of the tables and arrive home next morning with the milk float or the postman. If The Red Lion took his fancy, Old Arthur, for that was what the girls had always called the publican, gave him board in the small flat he kept above the pub. Only if Fergal drank at The Swan did he stagger home, for Mrs Mallory always cast him out at eleven o’clock.

On tiptoe, Bess hurried down the stairs. The hammering of her heart doubled. Tom was not slumped on the piano stool, nor was he at the table or in Fergal’s armchair.

This was it. His years of aggravating, pestering, hiding, skiving and shirking had finally caught up with him. Or, someone had caught up with him.

Terrified, worried and entirely unsure of what to do, Bess busied her hands by rummaging through the Welsh dresser drawers. Flicking through dressmaker’s patterns, ones belonging to herself, her mother and her sisters too, she pulled out a set for women’s slacks.

For Kasia¸ she thought. Well, that was that job done.

Curled up in her father’s armchair, Bess watched the world beyond the window wake up. Mrs Mason collected the milk bottles from her front step. Dennis Warley, the miserable postman, began his rounds. A few men Fergal’s age cycled to work. She looked at the clock. Half past six. At seven, she would wake Cora, and together they would hunt from Tom. What good was it now, when most of the city was still sleeping? Who could help?

A sudden wailing caused Bess to startle. She jumped up from the armchair, clutching the trouser pattern to her chest. Dot looked lazily up from the table. Cora placed a plate of bacon and eggs upon it, and hurried to the window where baby Vera, in her Moses basket, continued to cry.  

“Got used to living alone and don’t want to share the bed?” Dot poured herself a cup of tea.

“Probably fed up of your snoring,” said Cora good-naturedly, the delight of Roger’s proposal radiating from her. “But Bess, love, why were you sleeping in the armchair?”

“I must have just drifted off,” Bess brushed the frizzy hair from her face. “Went to check in on dadda’s room. Tom didn’t stay last night, Cora.” Much to her surprise, Cora did not seem worried. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Bess felt the temper she inherited from their mother spark into life. “Cora?”

“Connie said she saw him last night, on her way to her shift on the ambulance. Was with Frank and some other lads.” Dot said through a mouthful of food. Cora tutted.

“He-oh. Ok,” Bess deflated, relief Tom was alright and embarrassment at her assumptions fighting for pitiable dominance. “Connie was here?” She moved forward to take the now whinging Vera from Cora.

“Mhmm,”

“Dorothy Vaughn. Don’t eat with your mouthful.”

Dot swallowed pointedly at Cora and turned back to Bess. “She brought Vera over.”

“Why?”

Dot faced her sister fully and grasped her cup of tea eagerly in her hands. After new dresses, Dot’s favourite thing was gossip. “Lois had to go to the infirmary. Was helping a family out of a house that got hit in the raids last night over in Fallowfield, and the house came down around her. She’s fine,” Bess had gasped. “Cut her head but just fine. That’s why Connie brought Cora. Lois is resting.” Dot punctuated her news with a long slurp of tea.

Bess sat at the table beside her sister, Vera now settled back to sleep. “Tom won’t know, about Lois, he’ll have no idea-”

“Doubt she wants him to know.” Dot said matter-of-factly. Again, Cora tutted.

“Dot, stop being cryptic and-”

“Well,” Dot launched herself into hurried speech. “Connie told us that Lois told her that her and Tom had an argument the day he got back-something about Douglas dying and him not knowing-anyway he got all angry with Lois saying that if she’d been there then he-Douglas that is-might not have died-”

“Breathe, Dot.”

“-and of course Lois didn’t like that and gave him a piece of her mind about working on the ambulance and doing her bit for the war effort, and then Tom-get this Bess-Tom turned round and said her job was to look after Douglas and Vera!” She took a deep breath and another sip of tea.

The anger caused by Cora’s apathy was nothing compared to the flame roaring into life now. Bess’ cheeks reddened, her eyes darkened, and a rigidity settled in her bones that God himself could not have shaken.

“Oh he did, did he?”

Three miles away, in a terraced house that edged Cringle Park, Tom Bennett woke. The bedsprings beneath his back were hard, a few pressing into his bony side, and the frame wobbled as he struggled to get up.

Bile rose to his throat and he lay down again. Above him, the ceiling spun. At its centre, the ceiling light had been draped in a rose silk scarf. Turning his head slowly so that it lolled on the pillow, Tom looked over the vanity table. Make up covered its counter, and few dresses in reds, pinks and purples were crumpled on the stool.

Beside him, the clock read just after eight o’clock. Its ticking was so loud inside his head it sounded like machine gun fire, and he groaned. The knock that came at the door was thunderous and Tom thought the sound alone would make him vomit.

“Morning, pet,” A high voice said. “Brought you a cuppa. Poor thing,” a soft hand touched his forehead, as though testing his temperature, and brushed the hair from his eyes. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Tom rubbed his bleary eyes and took the tea from the person above him. Perfectly manicured nails, ringlets, red lipstick and the overpowering smell of lavender.

“Cheers, Queenie.”

Notes: Cigarette cards (sometimes called tart cards, if they had women on) were banned in Britain at the start of 1940 because the government indeed declared them a “waste of raw material”. I don’t know about elsewhere, but in Britain “to roger” someone is to have sex, usually in a bit of a rough manner. In research, I also read a study about the increase in domestic violence post-WWI, in households with soldiers returning to civilian life. Fuck war and fuck the men that start them. 

Thank you to @arcielee, who helped me unfuck this chapter more than she realises! There’s a line direct for one of our chats in here. And thanks again to @theoneeyedprince for help with the Polish. Below is the inspo for Bess’ outfit. Saw it and knew she’d wear it.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey@multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234@babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandompromptsside @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol@beiigegalx@skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools@aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @blairfox04

[publius-library]

What Hamilton biography do you recommend? I've read one in Polish (which was quite good, but there were many things missing, and I would like to improve my knowledge about him :) ) and I saw you don't like Ron Chernow's version so I came to ask if you know the other, maybe better one :)

…i dont know a better one

there are definitely others, like flexner’s biography is one of the more commonly cited ones, but if you want information to fill in the gaps, its chernow all the way. you have to tolerate his fucking ATROCIOUS personality, but all the information is there. there are only a few things he gets wrong, but they’re minor details about other historical figures besides the ones he focuses on.

ive also heard good things about forrest mcdonald’s bio of him, but i haven’t read it. chernow’s is the only one ive read, the rest of my knowledge has just been accumulated through other sources.

ofc im going to recommend George Washington’s Indispensable Men by Arthur S. Lefkowitz, which has a lot of information on hamilton and is overall a better read.

im sorry this answer is ass, but chernow is both my enemy and the only thing i have so. good luck, brave soldier

[howlingday]

Lancaster Labors VI

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Part V

Ruby: So here we are, in the last month of my pregnancy. I've going on walks with no bra on because my nipples are hardened soldiers ready for war!

Ruby's Nipple - Lvl. 100

Ruby: Heh heh! They're so strong now, what'll I do if I start making too much milk?

Jaune: Hm... Maybe try adding it to your coffee*?

*NOTE: The nutritional value of breast milk is not suited for adult consumption. Please do not attempt this.*

Ruby: (Thinking) Now that I've solved my nipple problem, I can finally focus on the next step: my approaching due date.

===========================

Ozpin: Hm... Your cervix has become quite soft. I can insert two fingers inside, so we should expect your baby next week.

Ruby: Cervix? Dilating? What is he talking about? Is there going to be a hole in my body that opens up?.

Ozpin: Once you're about ten centimeters dilated, you should be ready for the baby to be born.

Ruby: Ten... centimeters?.

===========================

Ruby: (Holds up a ruler, Gaps 10cm)

Ruby: (Holds fingers to lower body, Eyes pop)

Ruby: THERE'S NO WAY I'M GONNA BE THAT WIDE OPEN! And they say the contractions start when I start dilating. I've heard women go through so much pain that they'll scream at their husbands or even pass out from the pain!

Ruby: I'm... I'm getting more and more worried about this the closer I get to the day. I need to ready myself for the big day! Oh! I know! I'll take my mind off the pain by planning ahead!

Ruby: This Achieve Men picture Blake got me always helps me calm down!

Ruby: Ooh! And I'll upload some songs to my phone so I can listen while I'm in the hospital!

Ruby: And they say pregnant women have good luck, so I'll have my gacha games ready for when my contractions start!

Ruby: Yes! I've got my bag packed and I'm ready for anything! I'm not scared of giving birth anymore!

Ruby: ...Oh, who am I kidding? I'm still so terrified, I'm shaking just thinking about it! Maybe if I watch some videos, it'll help me calm down! But what should I- Oh! Maybe watching mammals give birth will give me an idea of what to expect! Thinking about mammals helped me out in the past, so why not now?

===========================

Ruby: (Almost crying) Aaaaaw~! Look at this little chihuahua doing her best~! Oh! And she chewed off the umbilical cord and is taking care of the placenta! Couldn't her owner have taken care of it for her? She's so brave... I need to see more!

Ruby: Oh, this Corgi is trying so hard~!

Ruby: And look at bunny~!

Ruby: (Wiping her eyes) Bringing life into this world... is the most beautiful and noble thing any woman can do...

Jaune: (Thinking) Are you still going to be saying this after you do it for real?.

Ruby: Okay, time to see what humans go through...

Ruby: She looks like she's in so much pain, but she's not screaming. Maybe it's not as bad as people say? Still, all mothers have to go through this. Chihuahuas... Corgis... Bunnies... Humans... All these mammals have to endure for their babies.

Ruby: Oh! She kicked! And that's right! I won't be alone! Jaune will be there with me, too. And you'll be there giving your strength, too, won't you, little one?.

Ruby: YES! I CAN DO THIS!

Jaune: Ruby, it's time for dinner!

Ruby: Yay~! Dinner! Dinner! Dinn- Er?

Jaune: Are you okay, Ruby?

Ruby: (Looking down at the floor, Stain on the carpet) I... I think my water just broke.

[novelcain]

Welcome back!!! I hope you had a very well deserved break. Think most of us could use one, especially with finals coming around the corner. (Pray for me 😩)

Yesss I got some much needed rest and I'm glad I took the time off cause I really needed to get my brain in semi-working order lol

Baby nO NOT FINALS! 😱 I'm sending you all the love and luck I can muster through the dimensional rift! Here! Take my lucky yo-yo! *chucks yo-yo the size of a basketball through the shadows* Good luck brave soldier! 🫡😘✌️

[sorry-moots]

Inversion of Genesis But I Changed It

i literally only got back to this cuz i was bored yall, merry fucking chrysler also my beta reader flaked on me so no beta we die like... whoever the fuck idek characters featured: scaramouche, dottore, yvette 💖 cws: dottore is a bit creepy but when isn't he wc: 1,669

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Chapter Eight

The wool stockings, the starched blouse, the dense jacquard skirt, the layers of petticoats, everything you had been wearing lay cast aside on a loveseat. There was a sheen of sweat covering your body, but you felt too good to care. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, chest heaving and all, you could only think one thing…

Damn, I look good.

Before leaving Snezhnaya, you had tried to find something more suitable for the Sumeru’s tropical weather with no luck. There was no such thing as summer in Snezhnaya, so there was no reason to make or stock summer clothes.

Unfortunately, that meant walking around Port Ormos in clothes designed to brave the harshest winters in all of Teyvat. The stuffiness of your clothes combined with Sumeru’s humidity had had you fanning yourself as hot tears streamed down your face. It was a miracle that you had been able to spot the seamstress’s shop with your bleary eyes.

“Lord Scaramouche,” you had called out, panting. “We need to stop. The heat is too much.”

Now, a week later, you stood before the seamstress’s mirror in an entirely new outfit. You had worked up a sweat on the way there, but the new clothes were light and breathable and already cooling you down. You turn left and right to study the black leather pants– lambskin so you don’t develop bog bottom. The rest of the uniform consisted of a breezy white blouse overlaid with a black corset with purple laces. You had even changed your hair ribbons and the laces on your boots to match.

When you finally finish admiring yourself, you leave the dressing room only to be met with Scaramouche’s scowl.

He scoffs when he meets your eyes. “How much money did you waste on this?”

You’re still obsessing over the contrast between your boots and the new laces. “It wasn’t much compared to the cost of my usual attire.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he snarks. “Dottore never skimps on his favorites.”

Ignoring his foul mood, you think aloud. “It’s a shame I can’t wear it in this heat. It fits perfectly, like it was tailored just for me. Wait a minute…”

Just as you’re about to toss yourself down that rabbit hole, Scaramouche diverts your attention with another retort. “Well if you want to wear it and suffocate, be my guest. At least you’ll die in the right colors. How come the accents are purple anyway? Are you color blind?” he asks with a smirk.

“Oh, I chose them because they match the colors you wear,” you respond, grinning widely.

The harbinger’s eyes widen and he quickly blurts out, “I wear red, too!” He then hides his face with his jingasa, not wanting you to realize it matches the color of the fabric.

*****

After dropping your clothes off at the hotel, you and Scaramouche rendezvoused with the other agents at the new office. It took about three hours to set up even with the lower ranked soldiers moving furniture. Every time Scaramouche asked for your opinion on the positioning of the cabinets and such, you told him they looked fine. The soldiers sighed in relief, especially when they were moving heavier items.

When everything is in place and your documents are sorted, Scaramouche announces, “Alright everything’s in order, we can go back to the hotel.”

The other agents start making their way to the exit, but you tell your boss to hold on as you go through your things. You produce a delicate ceramic pot with a single mourning flower, which you set on his desk.

You look back and flash him a smile. “Now, everything’s in order!"

While you pack up your things, he sits at his desk and admires the petals on the vibrant flower. There’s a funny feeling in his chest, probably from the humidity.

“Are you coming, sir?” you called out to him. 

There’s a resemblance for a split second. Both you and the flower are full of life, persistent even in the harshest conditions, and breathtakingly gorgeous.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

*****

The silence of your room rings in your ears. You can think of a few ways to wind down before you go to sleep but you don’t feel like doing any of them. You haven’t even showered or put on your sleep clothes. You’ve just been staring at the ceiling thinking about Scaramouche.

Thinking about how he disappeared with her.

Yvette didn’t have much to do during the journey overseas. You had seen so little of her that you had forgotten she was even part of the harbinger’s retinue. Still, you don’t understand why she's staying in Scaramouche’s suite.

Are they an item..?

Before you can entertain that line of thinking, a frantic knocking comes from your door. You get up to answer it and silently admonish your guest for rapping their knuckles on the door again without waiting.

You’re met with a distressed Yvette. She’s signing at light speed, miming, and pointing but you can’t figure out what she wants. Suddenly, she brushes past you and grabs a pen.

You search your desk for something to write on but she grabs the first thing she sees, the book you’re currently reading.

“No!” you shout, your voice fraught with dismay. She doesn’t hear you. She’s deaf, she can’t hear anything.

The resignation sets in quickly. What’s done is done and, at the end of the day, it’s just a book. Not even your favorite book.

When she finishes writing, she tosses the pen on the desk and holds the book at eye level. The inside of the cover now reads:

Please come

Harbinger mad !!

With a grim look, you move the book so it’s no longer obstructing her view of your face and say, “Take me to him.”

She leads you through the corridors until you reach his room. You could hear his shouting all throughout the halls, but you were still jarred when Yvette opened the door.

Before you transferred, you had heard rumors of the Balladeer’s violence, but you had never bore witness to it firsthand. He stood in the center of the room with a Fatuus suspended in his grasp, his other hand balled into a fist.

“I told you to take your needles and fuck off!”

So, that’s what this is about. Though the man was too proud to admit it, you knew that the tests that Il Dottore administered took a great toll on his body. He was always pushing Scaramouche to his limits, seeing how much he could take before he gave out. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.

You were frozen in thought, not sure what to do, when a familiar fragrance wafted in the air. Everything seemed to slow down as you realized what you needed to do. The soldier’s begging and pleading faded into the background as you made your way into the room. The only sound was your heart beating in time with your footfalls.

Your gaze travels from his sandals to the veil on his jingasa to his arm. Your eyes stay trained on his fist as your own hand moves towards it. Barely conscious of what you’re doing, you grab his hand and hold it to your chest.

“Your tea is getting cold, sir.”

All of the noise in the room comes back. The whimpers of the agent in Scaramouche’s grasp. The worried shushing of the Fatui in the room. Yvette nervously shifting her weight. Your steady breathing.

Every muscle in his body tensed before relaxing. A second later, the Fatuus was on the ground, hyperventilating but unscathed. You let go of his hand.

“Everyone out.”

You straightened and composed yourself, ready to take your leave as well when added, “Not you.”

Once the other operatives had scurried out, he seated himself and turned to you expectantly. It took a second, but you were able to deduce what he wanted. Soon, the two of you sat drinking tea in the silence, as if he hadn’t been about to kill a person just moments before.

He didn’t need to dismiss you. You knew once the tea ran out, he would have no further need for you.

The tea set wobbled on the tray as you made your exit, but only started to clatter when a new presence was made known.

“Thank you, my dear [Y/n],” the doctor patronized as he sidled up to you with a bemused smile. “You seem to have quite the hold on our Balladeer. I can’t imagine what would have happened to poor Henry had you not stepped in.”

You draw in a shaky breath to respond. “It is my pleasure to contribute to the Fatui’s cause.”

“Is that so? With your new attire, I would have thought you were trying to distance yourself from the organization,” Dottore remarked, his smile turning into a grin. “Not that it looks bad… Though, they did get your corset size off by a couple centimeters.”

As your earlier suspicions are confirmed, the lights flicker. You can’t know for certain, but your instincts tell you that you’ll be safe, like someone’s watching out for you.

Squaring your shoulders, you looked Dottore directly in his eyes. Or where they would be. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, my lord. I will visit the tailor first thing in the morning and request that they alter it,” you responded evenly. “That said, I’ll need to retire early so I can do that without impeding my work. If there’s nothing else, I must bid you goodnight.”

Even in Sumeru’s warm weather, Dottore’s chuckle sends shivers down your spine. “I could think of a thing or two…” he starts and the lights flicker again. “...but I suppose I can wait.” 

With that, the light fixtures around him finally fizzled out and you went your separate ways. Once you were far enough, you let out a sigh of relief, thanking the Archons for watching over you.

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tags: @lacunaanonymoused, @dollpoetwriting

[dangermousie]

2023 brought us two epic, excellent dramas about devastating invasion of period Korea by foreign armies - My Dearest and Goryeo Khitan War. Watching Injo "handle" the Qing invasion and watching Hyeonjong handle the Khitan invasion makes me think of those old Goofus/Gallant kids' magazine lessons. My mind breaks imagining Injo showing one hundredth of smarts, selflessness and care for his people and his country that Hyeonjong does. In both cases, the country is overrun, the odds are grim, and the ruler blamed by some and protected by others. But the difference between how the two kings handle the disaster is stark. But then, this is the danger of absolute monarchy - it's a pure luck lottery, isn't it? You may get My Dearest's Injo or GK War Hyeonjong or anything in between and you have no choice.

Hyeonjong's reaction on being attacked by armed peasants on his escape to the south, and watching his soldiers and "his" peasants kill each other pointlessly, as the peasants try to capture him on orders of local lords who want to give him to Khitan to curry favor, is pretty amazing. The man has no fighting skills and very little in the way of protection, but he is insanely brave. But also - compassionate. His soldiers would probably win against the rabble but it would be his people who'd die, either way. Unlike vast majority of drama rulers, Hyeonjong (perhaps innately, or perhaps due to his monk outside palace upbringing) seems to get that loyalty and devotion are supposed to go both ways. (He is, ironically, the king the scholars in My Dearest wished and believed Injo was, and the king the Crown Prince could have been if he wasn't murdered.)

I love this! The narrative shows that he is not perfect, that he has a steep learning curve and that behind the walls of his capital, he had little knowledge or control about what went in the provinces (and bigger emergencies, tbh) but the crucial thing is when confronted with new information, he learns and he understands and he accepts when he's at fault and wants to do better.

He has a quality almost unique in a fictional absolute ruler (and likely real ones also) - empathy.

This is AMAZING.

This is pretty much unimaginable for a royal, and one who rules by a divine right equivalent of sacred royal blood etc. I love him!

But the thing is, he's not a soft person, not really - not against people he believes he needs to take down. That display of royal arrogant temper against the traitor lords is DELICIOUS!!!!

The thing is, with all of this, he never comes across as a preachy patterncard, he just comes across as a truly good human being. Kudos to the writer!

[tropes-and-tales]

Living for all of these Horacio minis! What about, THE SHY PERSON A INITIATING THE FIRST KISS ADJKSF with him? But maybe it’s the reader that’s shy????? Please and thanks! Hope you feel better soon! Take care of yourself!

It’s one part liquid courage and one part inside intel.

The liquid courage?  You’ve been steadily nursing enough Mai Tai’s to shed your usual painful shyness.  As office staff, it’s rare to be invited out with the agents and the Search Bloc soldiers, but you helped crack Escobar’s code language, which led to a windfall of intel.  Which led to a series of well-executed raids, which hopefully will lead to Escobar’s capture.

It was Murphy who clapped you on the back, told you that you were coming out with them.  You had no time to object or come up with a convincing excuse why you couldn’t, and now here you are.  Nursing Mai Tai’s and getting steadily braver.

The inside intel?  That was pure luck.  A lot of intel is, you’ve found.  A lot of it is being in the right place at the right time, which you had been.  You had been tucked away in a small file room, paging through old paperwork as you tried to crack that code language.  The door to the room hadn’t been shut, only cracked, and when Agents Peña and Murphy stood outside (the coffee maker is on a nearby shelf), you heard every blessed word as clear as day.

Murphy was the one that makes the joke.  It’s the usual joke about Peña and his prowess, how the man has run out of available women in Medellín.  Murphy was the one who said your name, suggested you as a next possible conquest. Your face burned immediately—you waited for Peña to scoff at the suggestion, to say something rude about your shyness, your ability to blend into wallpaper.  

Peña did scoff, but he didn’t say anything disparaging.  Instead he said, “are you fucking kidding me?  Carrillo would kill me if I went after her.”

Then it was Murphy scoffing until Peña clarified.  He spilled all the intel, even single bit of it.

“The man can’t look away when she’s in the room.  Remember that one Embassy fuck?  The one who said she looked like she needed a good fuck to loosen her up?  Carrillo pulled that asshole aside and put the ever-loving fear of god into him.  Told him if he ever heard him talk about her like that again, he’d find himself dumped out of a helicopter over the mountains.”

“Shit,” Murphy replied.  “Seriously?”

“Don’t fuck with a man in love,” Peña said sagely.  “Which is why I stay far away from her.  I like being alive.”

The thing with intel is that you have to prove it out.  Which you did, after that bit of unintentional eavesdropping.  You paid closer attention to Colonel Carrillo.  You watched him out of the corner of your eye, watched him in the reflection of windows.  You watched how he interreacted with other single women of the office.

You think Agent Peña is right.

Hence the liquid courage.  You’re office staff because you aren’t naturally brave, so you lean on rum and Curaçao and plan your next move.

There’s no art to it, in the end.  It’s not like the movies where you gracefully pull him in for a kiss and a swell of orchestral music marks the moment.  The night is winding down and many people have already gone home.  Carrillo remains, and you can guess why.  It’s another thing you noticed—how he never lets you stay at the office longer than him.  How he follows you in his car until you’re at your apartment complex.

You guess he’s waiting to see you home safely.

When you approach him where he stands at the bar, his stern expression melts into a soft smile that few ever seem to see but that you see plenty of.

“Ready to go home?” he asks, and you nod, but you take a deep breath and don’t let him move from where he’s leaning against the bar top.  You imagine the rum in your veins, burning away the painful shyness that has crippled you since you were a child, that has kept you living a lonely half-life.  You look the Colonel square in the eyes—a feat in and of itself—and you find him gazing back at you, a question in his dark eyes.

He’s not that much taller than you, and you have the advantage of being in heels.  You’ve never once instigated a first kiss with a man, but with enough rum, anything is possible.

Which is how you find yourself kissing him:  you press your palm against his chest, then rock onto your toes.  You catch the surprise in his expression just as your lips touch his, and you feel the sharp inhale of his breath…and there’s a split second that seems to last an eternity where he doesn’t move or kiss you back.  

Then he leans back and breaks the kiss.  He peers at you.  

He asks, “how much did you have to drink?”

“Just enough to feel brave enough to do that,” you reply.

You’d despair at the searching way he looks at you then, but then…then he smiles, that rare Carrillo smile of his that few people get to see.  You feel his hand curl around your shoulders as he pulls you close to him, bends his head, and kisses you back.

[heliads]

Leave It

Based on this request: "male reader gets hurt and try to hide it, but nikolai sees it and is worried about him, so he tries to help the reader, and it ends with confession of their feelings"

masterlist

The wind whips cold and dark above the battlefield. This close to the Ravka-Fjerda border, the air is always gray and thin, cutting to the quick. The Fjerdans should be pleased to know that their climate will kill you even if their soldiers cannot.

You won’t be under attack for a while, though. You shouldn’t, at least. You’re still on the Ravkan side of the border. That doesn’t stop some of your fellow soldiers from stalking back and forth in the snow, all but daring the enemy to materialize and shoot you where you stand. They are blustering idiots in need of a scare, but you get the feeling they’ll get that soon enough.

After all, they’re not truly without fear, not really. You are soldiers drafted to protect your kingdom. There is no way you will leave this fight without shedding at least a little blood. If you do not die, then it will be one of your friends, and that is both better and worse depending on how strongly you let your heart speak for you.

A commotion of boots stalking through permafrost signals that you’re no longer alone. You don’t have to turn your head to recognize the pattern of footsteps nor the rhythm of the walk.

“My prince,” you remark by way of greeting.

Nikolai Lantsov rolls his eyes. “Always so formal, Y/N. Can’t we skip to the part where you’re threatening to steal my rations because I didn’t shine my boots to company standards? It’s what everyone else has done.”

You grin to yourself. “I’m not everyone, Nikolai.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says, although judging by his tone, he’s quite pleased with that.

So you managed to befriend a prince in your time serving in Ravka’s troops. It came as a shock to you as well, to be sure. You had already been in the 22nd Regiment for about three months before Nikolai came along. It wasn’t a whole lot of time, but it still gave you a bit of superiority in address that he didn’t have when he was still as green as the grass he left behind in Os Alta.

Nikolai rose up quickly through the ranks, though. He has this way of winning anyone over, even the most hardened of the captains and generals. You suppose that’s a sign that he would make a decent king, or at least be able to try his luck at politics if Vasily doesn’t die before Nikolai grows too old to ascend to the throne.

In all his time of regaining status, though, Nikolai only seems more determined to make you like him. Any advantage you had over him regarding leadership favoritism is long gone now, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Nikolai still chooses your company over that of any other soldier. Even now, when he could be off messing around with the other servicemen, he’s out standing in the cold with you.

He’s been like that since the beginning, actually. It’s as if Nikolai marked you out as a primary target the day he arrived at camp and won’t give up until he’s crossed some imaginary finish line of friendship in his head. 

He’s damn good at it, too. You were dead set on not letting him charm you as quickly as the others, but Nikolai found his way into your head regardless of what you decided. He did it slowly, carefully, a master bluffer playing his cards just right. He signed up for the bad watch times with you, so it wasn’t just one boy up at dawn watching empty fields but two. He always chose you as a partner for those awful training drills, even if it would have benefitted him more to keep switching out people to network as much as possible.

Maybe, if Nikolai were to have one political misstep, he would be content with letting it be you. He always seemed to have more fun that way, at least. And when is Nikolai ever pleased if he’s not going about things his way? Stupid boy, to enlist as infantry instead of letting his royal lineage rise him to an officer’s established and bloodless spot. Brave would-be king, to give his people one fewer reason to hate him.

No, you suppose you couldn’t ever hold him back. Not forever, at least. Nikolai seems to know this and appreciate it, too, so you gave up that battle long ago. Now it’s just the two of you against the world, or at least it will be until his tour of duty ends and you’re alone again.

That, at last, is what made you fear friendship with him the most. It’s one thing to become as close as brothers with another village craftsman or scholar, someone you have a decent chance of finding again once you’re done slinging guns in the name of Ravkan soil.

Nikolai, though? Prince Nikolai? He will leave you behind in the icy dust and never think of your name again. In your place, he will meet a thousand princesses and noblemen, and if he ever muses over past war memories, it will only be that of long-gone days and misplaced faces. He is yours for a very brief time now, and then never will be again.

Nikolai doesn’t have to know that’s what you’re thinking, though. He just has to entertain your friendship now while he’s got it, so both of you can pretend that it isn’t going to end just as abruptly as it started.

So you force yourself back into the present moment, the snow, him looking back at you. “Got any exciting plans for the day?” You joke to him.

Nikolai chuckles. “Oh, tons. I think I’m going to start out my morning with some light meditation, then maybe a few rounds of intellectual discussion with my fellow man. In all honesty, though, I’ll probably just be watching those idiots get in trouble.”

Nikolai jerks his chin towards the soldiers still goofing around near the border. Their shouts are loud, too loud for what is supposed to be a peaceful holding of the line. If they’re not careful, they’re going to get themselves killed.

Killed. The word echoes around your brain for a touch too long, and you stare around the snowy forests, wondering what’s suddenly got you feeling so uneasy. It’s not just Nikolai’s laughing comments getting to you, it’s something else. Something like the sensation that you might not be alone any longer.

Shots ring out seconds later. Nikolai grabs for you, pushing you down to the snow and behind cover. His breath is hot over you as he scans the white hills for any signs of the sudden attackers. “I take it back,” he whispers in gasps, “I shouldn’t have said a damn thing about trouble. We’ve certainly got it now.”

You nod, trying to keep your breathing steady. Your gun is in your hand seconds later, and one glance towards Nikolai confirms he’s done the same. You can make out three figures of Fjerdan soldiers moving through the snow. One of the Ravkan men is on the ground, but you think you see movement. The other is screaming for aid. You pop up quickly from behind the snowdrift and take a shot at one of the moving shapes. You see a spray of red, but he doesn’t go down. Not yet.

“Good shot,” Nikolai whistles after you come back down, “nailed him in the arm, I think.”

You shake your head, murmuring swears under your breath. “Would have been better if I could get him in the heart.”

“Let me do that for you,” he grins, cocky as ever even when you’re under imminent attack.

Nikolai stands up, taking careful aim. You peer over the top of the snowdrift and see the Fjerdan you’d hit go down in a flash. One of his comrades comes out from behind a stand of trees and you fire at him, too. This time, you don’t miss.

“We’re tied, then?” Nikolai challenges.

You grin even as you take aim at another enemy soldier. “That’s two,” you say, pulling the trigger. It isn’t a lie, and the Fjerdan collapses in an untidy heap of limbs.

Nikolai pivots slightly, chasing something to even the score, and while he targets a man to his right, you see someone else to his left. He’s already raising his gun, and you only have time to push Nikolai to the ground before the shots rattle out. Several strike the snow in front of you, but one hits you.

You don’t think Nikolai saw it, because he’s still firing even from his reduced vantage point, but you can feel the gunshot like a firebrand forced against your shoulder. Saints, it hurts like death itself. You try to clamp an arm over the wound to stop the bleeding, but you can tell that it will only do so much.

Nikolai notices you shift slightly and frowns. “Y/N, are you hurt?”

There is nothing he can do right now, so you shake your head. “Focus on the fight.”

Nikolai’s brow furrows, and he stares at you further. “No, you’re hurt, aren’t you? I can see blood in the snow. Y/N, show me.”

You hesitate a second longer, and his eyes grow wide with imagined fears of lungs shot out and hearts pierced. “Show me,” he repeats.

You relent at last. It’s not bad, just a wound to the shoulder, and the bullet only clipped you. So you tell him, at least, but Nikolai doesn’t seem all that inclined to let you go that easily.

“We have to get you back to camp,” he says, “come, you can lean on my arm. I’ll get you to the medic.”

You shake your head firmly. “We have to get rid of the threat first.”

Your fingers are still tight around your gun, and you move to straighten up and fire again, but Nikolai stops you, pulling you back down beside you once again.

He’s frustrated, one hand clawing through the pressed gold wire of his hair. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

You let out a harsh breath. It ends up as a sigh. “Because–”

Because he’s a prince and you’re not. Because, at the end of the day, your entire damn regiment is there for one purpose and one purpose only. It’s not to defend Ravka, it’s to defend him. You’ve never had a problem with it before. In fact, the only one who seems to want to challenge that is the very Lantsov you’re meant to be saving.

You cannot say any of that, of course, but you think Nikolai gets it anyway. His jaw is set. “I’m not letting you get hurt again.”

“Then help me kill the rest of these soldiers,” you plead.

Nikolai still looks like he’d rather drag you back through the snow to base by himself, but you’re just as stubborn as he is, so he caves at last and joins you in taking out the rest of the Fjerdans in quick, efficient shots. The moment the last of them are gone, he grabs you around the waist and helps you to stand.

“Healer. Now,” he says. You don’t exactly have a lot of other options, so you let him help you out. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood by now, and the amount of scarlet staining the snow makes Nikolai’s first step almost as wobbly as yours. He manages to pull himself together in a second, though, and you’re at the camp medic before you know it.

Nikolai doesn’t leave the whole time they’re stitching you up. His brow is furrowed, and he denies every single soldier who tries to come up and talk to him. His attention will not be dragged from you until he knows that you’re going to be alright.

He waits until the last of them are gone to finally say what’s on his mind. You can tell that he’s been stewing over it for a while, what you didn’t say back there on the battlefield.

“Let me love you,” he says, “Please.”

Princes aren’t meant to ask for things. They demand and they are satisfied. Nikolai is not asking you this as a royal, though. At this moment, he is a boy, a bastard, and he wants to be loved. He will love you regardless of what you say back to him. All that he can gain from this is someone else’s opinion of him, and Saints know he gets enough of those already.

You exhale slowly. This isn’t going to last. Of course it won’t. Still, you have just enough time that you think you’d like to try.

“Alright,” you say, “I can do that.”

When he smiles, you think you can do just about anything. It’s a good thing that you’ll have Nikolai there with you to make sure of that.

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[mydysfunctionalvampirefamily]

Now that my secret identity has been revealed (by me) I shall bravely soldier on like nothing has changed and scream into the void.

Wynn! I know subtlety is not your strong suit, but damn.

Look at them! They're actually just talking and not arguing! I'm so proud.

Guys, I'm gonna be real honest. They've been talking for like 10/15 minutes now and I don't really know whats going on, my brain is so tired. I tried relistening. Absolutely nothing was retained. I might have to do this episode again, or maybe just not and see how big of a issue this will be.

So far I know that the sabat is attacking and they are debating what to do.

Johnny asking Miles to be his date. 👀 We all. Know Miles is saying hard to get.

😂😂😂Britta idk what you were expecting they'd say, but I know you didn't expect them to go oh okay no problem, because you're smarter than that.

Britta you cannot stay with Eden, there are people who would be upset. Here in the real world.

I mean Britta or someone needs to reach down deep inside her, if you know what I mean. 😏

This is hard though, because I totally get what Johnny is saying, but my social anxiety is agreeing with Britta. Tbh I'm surprised she hasn't just walked into the sun.

Neil, sweetheart, baby, love of my life. What is going on with you and the obsession with Britta? Like you are grilling her way too hard, and this is not the first time. Is this because she was kidnapped? Idk it's very strange, I can't place it.

Poor Britta, so much has happened to her that I had completely forgotten that Shaw had promised to 'give' her to some Bruja.

Johnny you don't know the half of Britta and Pendragon.

Wynn, you're a goddess for offering to go with Pendragon.

NEIL?!??! WHAT THE FUCK???? Idk if this is confirmation bias or what but you're being so weird about Britta!

Wynn: can we let Britta choose how she comes (to this). 😏 I'm so sorry, I am Really tired.

Neil: Britta, how do you wanna come?😂

Omg Wynn: I like mouth stuff. 😂😂 Thank god I am not alone on this train.

Do aunts and uncles usually talk about sex at thanksgiving???? That feels very unamerican.

Aw Britta I get you, being scared is the absolute worst. And having to do smth you're scared of sucks.

Wynn being her guidance councillor self.

Wow look at Johnny being all tactful and doing this dividing the invitation.

Neil, goddamn that is so sad. Why would Johnny just tell you good luck?? Dude you are a part of this coterie! When will you get that into your thick skull?

Wynn immediately catching it. She had a full time psychologist job with this coterie damn.

Miles just being a shithead: I heard you got invited to a ball recently.

Miles: I am used to being hated. (😭 what is going on you guys??? Youre the best!)

Miles actually thought that Wynn hated him now. Goddamn Wynn, I hope you charge by the hour.

Hell yeah, Britta!! I know this is all under duress, but if you can stop yourself from fleeing the scene when Pendragon shows up (which I wouldn't blame you for, let me be clear) the you're going to do a great job at this rave!

What if Delgado brings Carmen and Britta is going to get sucked into some bisexual maelstrom.

Neil!!! Sweet lord, why does it sound like you exactly know what's going on and yiu just want to hear her say it. Calm down.

Johnny getting a new jacket for Britta without question. 🥰

Neil omg are you seriously going to steal that jacket back??? Is this a weird Britta thing? Or a weird ownership of stuff thing? Or both or neither?

We all knew it, but it's still gratifying to see Miles being a great boy toy.

I don't think anyone has called a Bruja rave a soiree before. Lmao

Lmao Neil being pulled around by Jane.

Okay say what you want but this Rave is making everyone look good!!

Lmaooo Jane just collaring Neil without explanation. 😂

Wait what diablerist?? Ohh because of the trial??

Jane is the best, I love her.

I know it's such a small thing overall, but I love the mount of detail we always get clothes wise. It really helps me visualise, even though my visualisations are often wrong and offend people (see: Johnny's shaved head and Britta's light blonde curls)

Whethers is such a dream boat!

Johnny doing his iron heart thing. 🥰 I know he has done it a few times alrwady but it always warms my heart.