#project character clearance

[petepaintswarhammer]

A little bit more progress tonight. Need to do the cloak next before I can add anything else.

[m00n-pr1sm]

me making a cosplay 4 days before my ap chem exam (with 2 more exams and 2 big assignments due, all in the same week) from a game that has been out for 2 days to distract myself bc I feel sick from stress and my period and I’m sleep deprived is so mecore tbh

[bookofbonbon]

strut: in the snow - coriolanus snow.

Characters: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.

Summary: Secrets are discovered, deals bartered and announcements made.

Word Count: 800+

A/N: Curious if this will make people regret their choice on the poll lol.

Your employee file proves to be almost entirely useless to Coriolanus; though the file was thick, the majority of it had been redacted, large chunks of information scrubbed out in thick, black, blocks. He learned part of it was because of Capitol laws that had come into place to prevent the exploitation of child labour; not that that had done anything to protect you. 

The other part being your participation in highly classified projects that required the highest levels of security clearance to gain access too, information that wouldn’t be lying around in a  regular old employee file in the back of the Archives. 

Your file was a mess quite frankly and clearly no one had bothered to do a thorough check of it, only adding in new pieces of information as required.

Almost entirely useless but, still he’d learn three things of high value about  you:

You had been in the Capitol for as long as Sejanus and the Plinth family however, judging from the photograph attached to your file, even longer - something told Coriolanus the photograph had been an oversight and should not have been in your file.

You’d been officially employed by the War Department at 15, primarily working in the Capitol’s Experimental Weapons Division under Dr. Volumnia Gaul - doing what? He was unsure. 

Four years later, you’d transfer out of the Experimental Weapons Division - almost immediately after Sejanus’s death - remaining in The War Department but now, in the private sector of Munitions and under the tutelage of your uncle; coming out of the shadows and making yourself known to Capitol society - Coriolanus just couldn’t figure out why; there had to be more to it than just him. 

Despite the limited and missing pieces of information however, Coriolanus was able to put one important truth together: Strabo Plinth was once notoriously known for his refusal to supply The Capitol with munitions in The First Rebellion. His stance however, had taken an unexpected and dramatic turn as he began to supply The Capitol with military weapons in droves. None knew what caused the sudden change of heart in stubborn Strabo Plinth but many assumed it was the first-class ticket it bought the Plinth family to Capitol Citizenship - given his new discoveries, Coriolanus knew that this was not the case, it had something to do with you.

It's what brings him to the door of Strabo Plinth’s office in the early hours of the morning. Strutting past the older man, the threat you posed to Coriolanus and his claim to the Plinth Munitions Empire; that loomed largely over him was about to grow smaller as he prepared to leverage his newly discovered secrets (and ambiguous claims) about you to his advantage and bring you to heel. 

-

Your footsteps are hard and heavy, striking loudly against the marbled floors and echoing throughout the empty university hallway. Most students had gone home for the day and the sun was long gone from the sky - not that you noticed, eyes focused only on the ballistics report in your hands; you had been waiting for it in anxious anticipation all day and finally it confirmed what you already knew to be true.

So, focused however, you don’t notice the figure creeping in the shadows until she makes herself known-

“Trapped in the Snow, she is- trapped in the Snow and she doesn’t even know, she is trapped in the Snow and she doesn’t even know there is nowhere she can…”

Go, you think, but don’t say it aloud. 

“Volumnia,” you close the file, not appreciating what sounded to be a veiled threat. “I hope you’re not still upset about me killing the upgrades to your laboratory. I’m sure you can understand why it had to be done.” 

She laughs her usually maniacal laugh, quietly, her hands pressed together as if she knows something you don’t. 

It unsettles you in ways it had never done before. 

- and she doesn’t even know - 

You straighten your back, all senses on high alert - something was wrong, something was very wrong. 

“Come to kill me like you did my cousin,” you eye her wearily, waiting for her to pull one of her mutts out from one of the many pockets of her clinical looking dress. 

She laughs again, louder this time. 

“You insult me, Miss Plinth, you know very well that I prefer to take my enemies out in a spectacle,” she tuts at you. 

“So then why are you here? You never just show up somewhere, there’s always a reason.”

“There is always a reason,” she repeats with a smile and speaking in rhyme. “Why I only came to congratulate you on the new season… he only just told me a few moments ago, so glad I am, to be one of the first to know - given the role I have played in your life, it seemed only right I congratulate the soon to be wife .”

“Who? What are you…” you trail off, blood draining from your face. “What are you talking about?’

She smiles wide, all her teeth showing. 

“Your engagement of course, to Coriolanus-

- and she doesn’t even know she is trapped in the - 

Snow.”

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2023. All rights reserved.

[astrolocherry]

The Archetypes of Venus in Leo - Golden Girls of the Astrology Age 

Nobody puts on a celebration like Venus and Leo together. While it may seem unusual for socialite Venus to relish in such a self-focused sign, there seems no doubt that Aphrodite delights where she can shine in the direct sun spotlight. There is natural sass and style, the heart illuminates an inner glow that cannot be replicated through cosmetics. 

Venus and Leo stand together on stage in the design of a magnificent character type. The heart is the audience’s object of desire, and the heart is never quite as tender, sensitive, raw, childlike, and big as when in Solar Leo. The self-gratification is giving and receiving love in return. 'Beautiful' to the Venus in Leo is all about demonstrating, enhancing, and utilising her organic beauty in the most enriching possible way

She is highly responsive to the feeling of being desired, being hungered and wanted for, being the climax of anticipation. Venus in Leo is a creative romantic. Though far from being hopeless, she is a hopeful romantic who knows that true love will come one day just like the sun rises each morning.

Southern Belle - Light and Dark Feminine: Interplay between the Feminine Angelic play with love, and the suggestive seductive Feminine following desire. Wholesomeness expressed with eroticism. Personal style as a dispensed aphrodisiac; visual innuendo, 'eye candy' The High Queen - even simple robes and aesthetics look majestic on her Royal Blood - Personification of the Royal Birth/Heiress

Lady in Red - Creatively generates feelings of lust and arousal. Exciting, enticing, tantalising; though dangerous should she be crossed. Exudes sexual command and prowess.

Based more on projections than actual intention. Intimate partners pass a clearance test, she is not readily available - to simply abide would only reduce her aura of mystery 

Queen of the Jungle - Bombshell, leopard fur two-piece, wild mane. Obeyed and protected by undomesticated animals. Strongly self-willed and directed by instinct, the rescuer romanticised by the rescued 

Amy Winehouse

Madonna

Coco Chanel

Dita Von Teese

Nicole Kidman

Cherry

[thejoggingdead]

Their little animated proof of concept was really well done, and I love the Hanna-Barbera looking art, and then I thought, “Z, you do this for a living. You can just whip up some fruity little character designs in your own style and upload them to the four people still on tumblr dot com!” So I drew some up. Then I realized Mike and Rich have similar body types, but I was too far along in a haze of discontinued Voodoo Ranger Devilishly Light Lager (on clearance and probably not fit for human consumption due to that previous WE ARE NOT BREWING THIS ANYMORE tag) to change it. So here you go. As an aside, I would kill to work on a RLM animated project eventually so if there’s an audio clip or story you want to see animated by a guy who hasn’t actually animated anything since 2020, please, send them to me.

[nervousd]

OBSESSING OVER RECOM!

→ CONTINUATION

━━━ : © NERVOUS.D

#SYNOPSIS— in which all recoms are obsessed with their recom teammate

#WARNING(S)— yandere(?), unhealthy fixation, unhealthy obsession, non consensual touching, groping, implications of forced mating, implications of noncon/dubcon, abuse of power, manipulation/manipulative, forced tsahylu

#CHARACTER(S)— Recom Group/ Deja Blu squad

Seeing your teammates being brought back from the dead was difficult to say the least. It was hard to accept that you had died and that this was the outcome. You had followed the Colonel’s steps in agreeing to project phoenix like a dog. And this is what you were given— not that you didn’t appreciate it. During the first week of waking up there were various test and blood sampling along with motor control and whatnot. It didn’t take long for everyone to be cleared. It was the clearance the squad needed to be sent out to Pandora.

During the expedition you had encountered a strange looking plant. It was beautiful— entrancing to look at. You were drawn closer, fingers brushing against the petals. In defense the plant spurted out a sweetening mist, coating your body in the smell. You reeled back in alarm, trying to dust off the pollen. You were given explicit orders by the Colonel to stay near the team. Stressing out his words, knowing you were the type to wander off. You didn’t listen— and now here you are, coated in a sweet substance. You scurried off to your teammates, stumbling in your own footsteps.

Heading back to base, you rushed to the communal showers scrubbing every inch of your body. The sweet smell didn’t go away, your teammates nagged you about the smell. Questioning where you had gotten such a nice smelling body wash— the teased you about it. Touching you far more often than you were used to. But something was odd— it was a nagging feeling. One that had left you constantly on edge. Your teammates however seemed to know something—Staring you down as if you were nothing but a piece of meat to them. They’re gazes gave you a shiver, tail curling inward as you tried to appear smaller to them.

They began acting oddly— Lyle was someone you often went to the gym with. He would be there spotting you when you would bench press. But his actions were questionable, groping your flesh and even pressing his hips against yours. At one point you even caught him sniffing one of your borrowed shirts, humping a pillow like an animal in heat. Unbeknownst to you the others seethed in jealousy. They wanted nothing more but to be near you, to have your eyes only on them. Their past feelings only amplified their primal instinct. They wanted a taste of you.

Z-Dog was passive aggressive with her courting. Flirting coyly and purring, she would take advantage of your confusion. Asking for a partner to stretch with, pressing her clothed cunt against your hips, exaggerating her groans. She was temptress, fingers skimming over your abdomen, trailing lower as she pressed her chest towards you. She knew exactly what she wanted and knew how to get it.

The other recoms had taken this as an act of war, each whisking you away from the other. At one point you were often stuck in quarreling fights, ears flattening against your skull as your comrades hissed at each other. It took a while for everyone to reach a compromise. It became overwhelming at one point, there wasn’t a moment someone didn’t have their hands on you. Becoming rather aggressive and demanding more from you.

Quaritch was surprisingly needy, often commanding you to be near him. Even going as far as using his rank to get what he wanted from you. He was curious on how the na’vi mated officially and was quite persistent on the topic. When he caught wind of the information he couldn’t help but dream of having such a life with you. One way or another he had used his rank over you. Extending out his braid towards you, gesturing for you to follow his lead. Your refusal at first was understandable but he kept pushing.

At one point Quaritch decided to take things onto his own hands. He cornered you in an isolated corridor, offering an ultimatum. You can either accept his offer and be kind about this experience he wants to share with you or he’ll force the bond. It wasn’t hard to choose the safest option. Sean was one of the many who became increasingly aggressive, hissing at others when his time with you was interrupted. He would tug on your braid enacting painful hisses from you. Deep down he enjoyed causing such a painful reaction. Even going as far as dragging his canines down your throat, nipping and biting the skin.

Authors note: Other recoms will be mentioned during part two

[greenleopard49]

FOP: A New Wish Season 2 Episode Ideas

I believe that at the end of the season finale of FOP: A New Wish that Dev Dimmadome still has his memories. This is due to him having his sunglasses on when Jorgen tried to erase his memories. If there is a season 2, then Dev's character arc will be for him to make amends with Hazel and Peri for all the bad things he did while trying to impress his dad. However,Dev will not be able to reveal to anyone that he still has his memories or he'll risk losing his memories for good if Jorgen finds out.

In the meantime, he pretends to not have his memories of fairies, magic or even being friends with Hazel. This does lead to situations where he gets on Hazel's nerves which he secretly hates.

Idea One: Wishing Overload

One day, Dev notices that the world is out of wack due to too many wishes being made in one day. Turns out, Hazel has been taking requests for wishes from her friends and now those wishes are conflicting with each other. Hazel tries to unwish the wishes but Cosmo and Wanda are too exhausted and they don't have enough magic to unwish the wishes. Over hearing this, Dev sees this as an opportunity to do some good for a change and try to secretly corral some of the wishes away from the town while Cosmo and Wanda are recovering. When everything returns to normal, Dev decides it would be best to help Hazel in secret if anything magic related goes wrong.

Idea Two: Where's My Super Suit

In a later episode, the class goes on a field trip to the Galax Institute to tour the facility. While there, Hazel notices her dad going into a door labeled "Top Secret: High Clearance Only". Curious as to what her dad is working on, Hazel sneaks through the door as well. While Hazel is gone Winn and Jasmine agree to cover for her while she is away from the tour. Catching this, Dev decides to sneak into the Top Secret area through the air vents as to not draw attention to himself. Turns out the Top Secret area is a Research and Development facility dedicated to creating power suits that helps combat magical threats. Hazel's dad was called to present the prototype power suit he helped to develop.

Hazel has conflicting feelings on what's going on. On the one hand she is very worried about the safety of Cosmo, Wanda and any fairies unlucky enough to be caught by someone wearing this power suit. However, on the other hand she knows that her dad worked hard to develop that suit. If the project were to be shutdown, then her dad would lose his job and her family would have to move again. She reasoned, if the prototype suit were to somehow go missing, then maybe it will buy the fairies some time to look over the suit and find ways to counter the technology and then she can return the prototype before her dad suffers any consequences.

Hazel then makes a wish to send the prototype power suit to Fairy World to have it studied. Cosmo and Wanda eagerly try to make that wish however, when they raise their wands nothing happens. Turns out there is something in the Top Secret area that is able to block their magic. So the only other option is to physically steal the prototype power suit 'heist movie style'. Hazel excitedly goes over a full heist scenario involving her friends and Anthony to steal the power suit.

However, her synopsis of her heist plan is interupted by the sound of alarms going off in the facility. Turns out the prototype power suit had just been stolen. Startled by the noise Hazel, Cosmo and Wanda rush out the Top Secret area before the facility goes into complete lockdown and rejoins her class before the tour ended.While Hazel is happy to be able to rejoin her class safe and sound, she is worried about who stole the prototype power suit and what their intentions with the power suit are. The episode ends with Dev in the prototype power suit, successfully able to steal it because he was in the air vents over the room with the power suit inside.

Now with the power suit, Dev can help Hazel with weird wishes and to combat against anti-fairies without showing himself and losing his memories to Jorgen. Sadly, Dev doesn't know that Hazel's dad's job is at risk if the power suit goes missing for too long.

I think this would be a good way to go about the rest of the season. Hazel spends some episodes trying to find out who stole the prototype power suit and needs to deliver it to Fairy World so it can be studied. Hazel's dad needs to find the prototype power suit so that he can keep his job. Finally, Dev wants to keep the prototype power suit so that it stays out of the hands of the Galax Institute and to use it to help Hazel when wishes go wrong without getting caught by Jorgen.

Power Suit Design

As for what the power suit looks like; I wanted it to be a callback to a couple of suit designs from Butch Hartman's previous works, such as:

Danny Fenton's ghost catching suit before he becomes Danny Phantom, the suit Timmy wore when he fought against Denzel Crocker during the special Abra-Catastrophe and Timmy's Cleft the Boychin Wonder suit.

Now I just need a theme to tie these suits together. After doing some research, it seems that crows have a strong connection to fairies. According to @the-fae-folk "crows/ravens are messengers, transformed humans, disguised faerie folk, or secret keepers.If someone in the world has a secret, then within the hour, a crow or raven somewhere will know it. They are excellent friends, and terrifying enemies. They are very intelligent birds, even when not connected to the unseen world."

There are many types of crows, but I landed on the "Hooded Crow". I chose this crow because it matches the color scheme of Danny Fenton's suit and I can translate the hooded aspect of the crow's look into the design of the power suit.

For additional details that I would like to add since the theme of the power suit is going to be a hooded crow would be the mask and and the style of the suit. I chose the following references:

The mask of a plague doctor and the costume design from an old anime that I remembered called G-Force.

All this together lead to this design. I'm still learning how to draw so I am using Heroforge to show my vision of what the prototype power suit would look like.

I really liked how the design turned out. If you would like to look over the design and improve on it, then here is the link to the design.

Please let me know what episode ideas for season 2 you would like to see.

[im-tired1124]

It’s crispy leaf season gamers!!!

I really want to do the Castoff fanart marathon challenge, but I kept putting it off because A: I have my own Webcomic to work on, B: I have schoolwork I need to focus on, and C: I have far too many art projects that I desperately need to finish. Unfortunately, for my horrible time management skills, I made a little drawing of Frankie in my sketchbook in a very pretty dress while I was bored in a movie theater, and it was a sketch that I liked very much. However, once I threw on the lineart and colors, I realize that I did not have the proper combination of T.J. Maxx clearance section alcohol markers to color and Frankie skin, and the poor fellow end ended up looking like crispy fried Oompa Loompa, so I thought, “Hey, why don’t I just remake this on digital?” And I created the most time-sparing art peice that I have concocted in what feels like years. As for my previous mention of the Castoff fanart marathon, I did desperately want to do it, however, the reason why decided that I couldn’t because I could not decide who my favorite character was, however seeing how Frankie been included in the most art pieces out of all of them (18-19) and he’s probably the one I talk to my friends about the most, I suppose I shall submit this little doodle as my first addition to the challenge.

[pjsk-headcanons]

omg i have so many hcs for the characters and video games. warning this is probably the longest ask ill ever write

ichika - big classic sonic fan, also likes rhythm games (like rhythm heaven n stuff)

saki - played a lot of pokemon in the hospital bcs tsukasa would bring her his gameboy and pokemon ruby (or smtg) bcs once he showed her a surskit and she begged him to let her play bcs it was cute. she is now a die hard pokemon fan

honami - doesnt really play video games but she has lets go eevee and a bunch of eeveelution and pikaclone plushies

shiho - plays like everything, but she especially likes fighting games and ace attorney. also plays every mario game when it comes out but only bcs "of how popular he is"

minori - LOVES needy streamer overload and cute rhythm games like melatonin. she also deff plays like harvest moon & stardew valley & stuff

haruka - before she became an idol she would play like silly mobile games but she never really got into games

airi - she is obsessed with the legend of zelda and completes every game on release (unless she has a show) (thats the only exception) shes tried other games simular to tloz but none have really stuck

shizuku - she knows like the basic controls of super smash bros brawl but she sucks like hell

kohane - still cries over abandoning her nintendogs sometimes. she plays a lot of raising animal games and tycoons on roblox sometimes

an - name one rhythm game she hasnt played i dare you. any game that can slightly require musical tallent or a sense of rhythm has been played by her (not in full but like). also she likes warioware

akito - sonic nerd. tails is his fav character with shadow in close second bcs of a middle school phase he went through but shadow stuck as a fav. ena has also played a lot of sonic bcs of this man

toya - wasnt allowed to play video games but vbs and the tenmas are slowly introducing him to those like combining games like tetris and suika game. hes surprisingly good

tsukasa - hyperfixates on pokemon like every other month. he makes a persona for every character he plays and gets emotionally attached and stuff (totally not projecting)

emu - kirby lover!!! also plays splatoon at least every splatfest and cooking games. she deff plays a lot of vr and has liked that job sim vr game with the tv robots

nene - we all know she likes shooting games (but idk that many so bare w me). she deff is the one who introduced emu to splatoon & they always chiose the same splatfest team. she also plays just any arcade shooting games and used to play fortnite but shes more into cos & apex now

rui - rui makes his own video games (rom hacks the shit outa every game he plays) (also has homebrewed his wii and wii u)

kanade - likes low stress games like melatonin and animal crossing. she also plays like stupid sims like bee simulator and placid plastic duck sim (one of her favs). she doesnt like multiplayer games that much though

mafuyu - she had a gameboy advanced that her dad got her when she was younger and she played like any game on clearance bcs her mom would get pissed if a game cost too much. that gamebot is now smashed and sold for parts, so are all the games

ena - HATES sonic with a passion. i wonder whos fault that is. she would always play those dress up games but woukd mess with photoshop and stuff more

mizuki - she wasnt allowed to play like rhythm games or fasion games when she was younger. she was told to play mario, or the legend of zelda, or starfox. she managed to convince her parents to let her play kirby and shes been obsessed ever since

🍼 anon (SO SORRY THAT THIS IS LONGER THEN MY FUCKING BODY)

.

[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

More Than An Intern (Tony Stark X Daughter!Reader) *PARENTAL

Characters: Tony Stark X Daughter!Reader

Universe: Marvel, Avengers

Warnings: Mention of drug addiction, child abandonment

Request: Imagine: Tony has a daughter in a one night stand when he's 21. He doesn't know of the kid's existence. Mom has post-partum depression, struggles financially, becomes an addict and sells the baby to random guy (he works for Hydra and knows that the kid is Tony's-It's an extension of Project Insight and they wanna train people with brilliant ppl DNA). Around Ironman 1 and 2, she gets inside Stark Industries as an intelligent intern and Natasha catches her spying and the rest is left to you. 😊

The silence in the stairway where you were sat against the wall between floors was deafening, so quiet that you were certain that if someone was to step into it they’d hear your heartbeat from the top floor. You could definitely hear it, so loud that it was like standing beside a speaker at a concert, but you tried to act calm and collected like any other day, hunched over your phone, a half eaten sandwich in hand, like you did every other day in this internship that you had been working for the past 3 months.

Nothing to raise suspicion. Nothing to make anyone think you were up to anything. Nothing to make anyone think you’re a spy.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were so nervous about this. You’d done similar things before in the past despite your age, but this was a much larger project for you. You were stealing weapon blueprints and plans from one of the greatest minds and also in one of the most secure buildings you’d ever seen. Normally you would be able to do a simple sneak in and out within an hour, but you quickly realised that this would be a case of sneaking in, hiding in plain sight, not raising suspicion, gaining their trust, gathering the intel, and then sticking around a while afterwards instead of booking it to maintain that trust and also to get them off your scent and tie up any loose ends if needs be. You couldn’t mess this up. They’d kill you. 

After finishing your sandwich, you checked the clock on your phone, having memorised the routine of those who use the lab just down those stairs, and knew it would be empty now. You packed your things up, before heading down the steps, going through the door at the end and into the hallway. You tried not to look around too much, instead heading straight to the lab door, going on your phone, and after clicking a few buttons you glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, seeing it power down, before you walked to the door, finding it unlocked and letting yourself in. You wasted no time in searching the space quickly for anything important, not wanting to focus your time on something and as your leaving realise you’d missed something even more valuable. You spotted Tony’s desk as well as some of his suits in the corner in the midsts of construction and repairs. Seeing no cabinets, you walked over to the desk looking over everything on the table- papers, blueprints, and the interface instead of computer. Unfortunately for you, you knew that to get in you’d have to temporarily disengage JARVIS to get inside unnoticed, so that was down, so you were relying on the physical copies, which luckily it seemed that Tony had out- usually to show to the ‘old people’ like Mr Rogers and the God who you kept away from. You looked over the papers, not moving any of them, just looking for anything of importance. You saw design ideas for his suits, suits that didn’t exist yet, designs for their unique abilities- notably weapons that fit in your hand. Bingo. 

“What’cha doing?” The voice made you jump a little, eyes shooting up to the door of the lab, seeing a familiar red head leant against it with a smirk, arms crossed. You of course knew who she was- Natasha Romanoff, one of the most deadly assassins in the word, and she just caught you somewhere where you didn’t have clearance. 

“Oh- I’m so sorry- I was looking for Mr Stark. My clearance pass keeps messing up and my supervisor didn’t know how to fix it so I hoped he’d be able to…” You switched to the personality you’d perfected the last 3 months, a shy, anxious, fly on the wall girl fresh out of college, eager to learn and a goody-two-shoes… okay some of those traits might have already been yours, but it just selled the character. “And now I’m saying it aloud I realise that’s… stupid. Sorry. I’ll go.” You tried to excuse, but as you went to rush out embarrassed, she stepped in front of you, making you halt. She glared down at you, and you shrunk into yourself. “I’m really sorry, I won’t come in here again, I promise.” She raised an eyebrow at you, before grabbing your arm, pulling it out, showing her your phone, and she plucked it from your hand. She removed the case off the back, turning it over, showing the small chip on the back- a small tracking device that also sent all info on the phone to another location. HYDRA. You were anxious before, but the second her eyes landed on the chip, it vanished. You’d failed your mission, and now it was a lose- lose situation, all options probably ending in you tortured or dead, or both. Now, you were terrified. 

Her eyes came back up to meet yours, and it felt like she was reading you like a book, dissecting you piece by piece. She knew your name was fake, your background fake, your credentials fake.The person she’d seen around the tower didn’t exist, and now she was piecing together who you really were. A Hydra agent. A young one at that- she thought you looked a bit young for 23, but clearly had at least some decent skills to have snuck under her nose and get past Tony’s security checks for months. “Are you going to co-operate?” She inquired. 

“I don’t have a choice.” You huffed, dropping the act. The red head grabbed your arm, leading you out of the lab and to the elevator, taking you up to the floor where the meeting rooms were (why Tony needed more than one you never knew), shoving you into one of them, sitting you down in one of the chairs. “JARVIS?” She called, hoping that the AI would still be working here. 

“How may I be of assistance Miss Romanoff? I am aware that I seem to have lost connection to Mr Stark’s lab-”

“I’m also aware of that. Please let Mr Stark know immediately that I’ve caught an undercover agent in his lab- that was why you’ve been locked out.” Natasha interrupted the AI, not wanting to waste any time. “I’m keeping her in one of the meeting rooms.” 

“Of course Miss Romanoff.” The AI responded. You slumped into your seat, chin resting on your chest as you kept your eyes on Natasha who guarded the door to ensure you didn’t make a run for it, and it wasn’t long till you could see Tony Stark through the glass walls of the room, and he looked back at you as he came into the room.

“So, who’s this little troublemaker, Romanoff?” Tony asked her as she shut the door behind him and locked the door. 

“Undercover agent, probably HYDRA, it’s their usual style, though I think this one has been here a while… JARVIS?” Natasha called again. 

“Our files say she’s been working here for 3 months. I’ve done a deeper background check on her files and it seems she does not exist, and is using a fake identity.” JARVIS answered. Your eyes were kept on Natasha after Tony entered the room- she was the deadly one, one of the main ones they had warned you about, and your eyes were focussed on her so closely you didn’t spot Tony stalking closer till he stepped in front of you, blocking your line of sight on the woman, and squatting down in front of you. In that moment, your fear of Natasha seemed to diminish as Tony looked at you like a disapproving parent or something. You felt almost ashamed. Almost.

“What’s your name? Your real name?” He asked you. You paused, not answering him. “Don’t make this difficult. If you cooperate then we-” 

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked, interrupting him. Your question seemed to catch him off guard as he straightened his posture a little, blinking a bit. 

“No. Of course not.” He spoke confidently, but also bewildered, which gave you some comfort that he was probably telling you the truth. “Is that what they told you? That if you failed this mission they put you on you’d be killed by us?” 

“Or them… You caught me, if they find out they’ll kill me.” You spoke lowly and oddly calmly despite how terrifying that thought was. 

“Were you in the Red Room?” Natasha inquired to you. It was something she remembered being told when she went on missions before she graduated, a way to control her and the others, and it seemed to line up with your age, but you shook your head. “How long have you worked for HYDRA?” She asked instead, and she caught you swallowing in response. 

“Better question, how old are you?” Tony asked. “I’m not sure if you have a baby face or if you’re actually a child.” 

“I’m not a kid.” You huffed. 

“That’s something a kid would say. More specifically a teen.” He responded. “Especially a teen who’s close to no longer being one and wants to be seen as an adult. 16? 17?” He questioned, and when your eyes averted at the second guess, he knew he hit the jackpot. He knew from his own guessing that you were a kid, but to actually confirm it seemed to light something inside of him, a sort of despair and fury. You were a kid, a kid with training that would have taken years, and the brainwashing they’d ingrained in you to make you think they’d kill you is something they’d have to have put into your head at a young age. So young you knew nothing of the outside world. “Do you know anything other than HYDRA? Parents? Siblings?” He asked far more softly, tilting his head a little.

“...I had a mom. She gave me to them.” You answered him in barely a whisper. 

“How old were you when she did that?” He asked, getting a shrug in response. “So young. Really young, probably younger than 4, maybe a baby or a toddler?” He asked, and you nodded. Your sudden willingness to respond to his questions didn’t go unnoticed, and Tony knew he had unlocked a way to get you to open up- softness and kindness, something you probably hadn’t seen… ever. “Do you know what her name was? Or what she called you?” He asked.

“I don’t know her name, but HYDRA called me Y/N, so I think that’s my name.” You answered him. 

“Alright. I really want to find out more about you so I can help you, okay? Would you be okay if we get Dr Banner here so he can get a few swabs and maybe some blood to try and find out more about you? Who knows, maybe you have some siblings or some grandparents wondering where their granddaughter is and we can give you a fake name and you can start afresh, alright?” He suggested to you, and when he didn’t get a disagreement, he turned to Natasha, standing up. “Let’s up security to ensure she’s safe.” 

The next couple of hours were admittedly quite boring. You were placed into a holding cell, searched for other weapons or technology, Dr Banner came, took some swabs from your mouth and some blood, and Natasha quizzed you about your entire time under HYDRA, what you had worked on prior, names you remembered and the sort of thing they put you through. Admittedly, you weren’t very talkative with her- she was quite stern and cold with you, and you were expecting that as soon as she got her answers she’d just put a bullet between your eyes, which was why you purposely kept some of your own information from her. Inevitably she gave up and left you be, and after another half an hour of boredom, you tried to get comfy, eventually finding yourself resting your head on the cold table in front of you, and closing your eyes, drifting uncomfortably between sleep and enough conscious to know when someone was walking by your cell, and it was enough to know when the door opened. Your eyes opened, your head already turned to see the door, letting you see it was Tony stepping in, stopping when he saw your eyes on him, before he shut the door behind him and moved to sit down as well, and only then you raised your head to look at him. You noted the slip of paper in front of him, which was odd since he usually liked to keep things digitalised, though he took one glance at it before placing it face down so you couldn’t read it.

“Did you find anything?” You asked him, his eyes looking up to meet yours, and you immediately knew from the emotions swimming in them, he had. There was a heavy feeling of guilt emitting from him, weighing his eyes down and making it hard for him to meet yours, and you knew it wasn’t good news. “If it makes you feel any better, I have no memories of my life before HYDRA, so I have no emotional ties. I’m not gonna cry.” You tried to assure him, mostly hoping he’d just spit it out. He cleared his throat finally, leaning on the table, resting his arms on the piece of paper. 

“You had a mother.” He started, and your mind immediately noted the past tense. 

“Dead?” 

“Complications due to drug use. A few years ago.” He confirmed. “She formed the addiction a few weeks or months after your birth- I got records of your birth, they gave her a blood test then and she was clean and healthy. It was probably Postpartum Depression that led her there, and after your birth there’s no trace of you, so you weren’t taken by social services, or reported missing…”

“So she handed me over to them? Is that what you’ve established?” You inquired, sticking to your word and not showing emotion, remaining calm and collected and cold, and Tony nodded, his eyes dropping again, the guilt he was emitting seeming to only weigh heavier. 

“I knew her… your mom.” He admitted after a pause, still not looking up. “Before she had you, before she… I knew her when we were in university together. She was studying something else in a different building, I don’t remember what, I never really got to know her despite the fact that…” He seemed to catch himself before he said anything, shuffling in his seat, and his nervousness was starting to rub off on you as you shuffled in your own seat, crossing your arms against your chest, not sure what he was getting at. Did HYDRA know he knew your mother? If so, why did they send you to do this mission? Why does that matter? 

“How is this relevant?” You asked him blankly. 

“We were…” He seemed to stumble over his words, before he rethought the, and spoke again. “We were able to track down a paternal line as well, and that proved that you’re… mine.” He confirmed, and it was like there was a flick of a switch, and you felt the change both in the room and in your body. Ah. That was why he was so anxious all of a sudden. His eyes stayed on you, but remained quiet, waiting for a reaction, though you weren’t giving him much. Your expression barely changed, with no signs of shock or joy or sadness or anything, other than confusion, judging by your eyebrows coming closer together. 

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would HYDRA send me to do a mission involving you if they knew we were father and daughter?” You asked him. 

“I don’t think they knew. We don’t know what kind of detail your mom gave about your background before handing you to them, or if she even knew I was your father to begin with. But that doesn’t matter right now- what matters now is that you’re here, you’re safe, and you’re my top priority right now. I need to keep you hidden to the best of my ability until we can even convince HYDRA it’s a lost cause to go after you, or think you’re dead.” 

“So, a safe house?”

“Exactly. I’ve got this little cabin on the edge of a lake that surrounded by woodland, little to no internet connection, it’s practically hidden from a birds eye view. I’ll up security there, but I’ll have it excused by me also being there as a sort of getaway with me and Pepper. That’ll also let us get to properly know each other, see where we stand, what you’re comfortable with and how involved you’d like me to be. If at the end of the time there you decide you want to go and do your own thing I understand, I’ll support you with whatever you want to do. If you want to go live in a tiny town in Wyoming then I’ll find you a nice place there and I’ll just want to keep tabs on you to ensure you’re safe. If you want to make up for lost time, go to college and live with us until you’re ready to go, then I’m happy with that.” He explained, almost rambling in nature, but it brought a faint smile, but a smile none the less to your face. 

“Thank you.” You interrupted him, making him stop, and relax a little and smile back. 

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in! 

*Not my gif

TAGS:  @klanceiscannon14​ @marvelhoeingismyhobby-blog @bellamyblakemorley @dummiesshort  @freyathehuntress @abbybills22-blog @mutantjediavenger @theoraekensnotsosecretlover @alicedanganh @sleutherclaw @sleepy-coffee-bean @stawwpp  @courtneychicken  @graysonmalfoy @bellero @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @lady-of-lies @lenaswritingandstuff @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980 @cdwmtjb8 @caswinchester2000 @determinedpines @huntheimpossible @automaticbakeryfreakshoe

[visit-new-york]

How tall are the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge?

The Brooklyn Bridge, an iconic symbol of New York City, stands as a testament to the ingenuity and craftsmanship of its builders. Completed in 1883, this marvel of engineering connects the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn, spanning the East River. Among its distinctive features are the two majestic towers that anchor the bridge and have become iconic elements of the city's skyline. In this article, we delve into the heights of these architectural wonders and explore the significance they hold in the history of bridge engineering.

Historical Background:

Designed by John A. Roebling, a German immigrant and civil engineer, the Brooklyn Bridge was envisioned as a suspension bridge that would surpass any of its kind in existence. Tragically, Roebling died during the early stages of construction due to a ferry accident, leaving the project in the capable hands of his son, Washington Roebling.

Construction of the Towers:

The construction of the towers began in 1870 and required immense precision and skill. The towers were built on massive caissons—watertight chambers that were sunk to the riverbed and filled with compressed air to keep water out. These caissons served as the foundation for the towers and were an engineering feat of their own.

Tower Heights:

The Brooklyn Bridge towers stand at impressive heights, contributing to the bridge's grandeur. The height of each tower from the riverbed to the top of the parapet is approximately 276 feet (84 meters). The clearance above the mean high water level is about 119 feet (36 meters). These dimensions make the Brooklyn Bridge towers not only a visual spectacle but also a technical accomplishment considering the technology available during the late 19th century.

Architectural Details:

The Gothic-style arches and intricate stone detailing on the towers add to their aesthetic appeal. The limestone and granite used in construction were sourced from locations in the United States, giving the bridge a distinctly American character. The towers were designed not only to be functional but also to serve as iconic landmarks that would endure the test of time.

Symbolic Significance:

Beyond their architectural and engineering significance, the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge hold symbolic value for the people of New York City. They represent the spirit of innovation, resilience, and the unyielding determination of the individuals who contributed to the bridge's construction. The completion of the Brooklyn Bridge marked a turning point in bridge engineering, setting new standards for future projects.

Conclusion:

The towers of the Brooklyn Bridge stand as enduring symbols of human achievement and perseverance. Their heights not only physically connect the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn but also bridge the gap between the past and the present. As we marvel at the skyline of New York City, the Brooklyn Bridge towers continue to inspire awe and admiration, reminding us of the timeless beauty and engineering prowess that went into their creation.

[petepaintswarhammer]

With the sad news of Kevin Conroy’s passing, at the young age of 66, I took the opportunity to finally enact my plan of painting this Death Jester as the Clown Prince of Crime. Whenever I read a Batman comic he was the voice I heard in my head when it was Bruce/Batman/Matches Malone. It needs some tidying up but at least it’s started.

[armoredtitanmistress]

𝙖 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙡𝙤𝙦𝙪𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙙 | Toji Fushiguro | first acknowledgments

characters: toji fushiguro x gojo!reader, toji zenin x gojo!reader

summary: As the future head of the Gojo clan, a certain persona needs to be projected at all times; calm, calculated, and reserved. Not a single soul other than your younger brother has seen you be anything other than that. All except Toji Zenin, the enigma who has been following you for as long as he can remember.

tags: toji x gojo!reader, gojo’s older sister, pre-star plasma vessel arc/star plasma vessel arc, mentions of misogyny, Toji is enough of a warning, strangers to friends to lovers to ?, angst, fluff, eventual smut

series masterlist

next

To be a part of a community, you gain a collective of like-minded people; when you're born into a clan, you lose the right to your individuality the day you are conceived. Being the oldest of the esteemed Gojo family expectations were set upon your birth. The fact that you were born a woman and not as a man certainly left many within the clan apprehensive of your potential as the future of the clan leader. Your parents were praying that you would inherit either Limitless or the Six-Eyes; or better yet both. The universe had delivered upon your parent's prayers, and you had awakened Limitless at the age of six. You could still recall the tears of joy your mother dropped upon your shoulders when she found out, the look of contentment from your father that never graced your presence since that day, and the sighs of relief amongst the higher-ups. Your whole future was solidified that day at the ripe age of 6.

Of course, a grand party was thrown for you and the blurred faces of people praising you remain a permanent image in your mind. Trying to go play with the kids your age but being blocked by someone awarding you praise. You didn’t know them but they knew you, rather they knew the potential you had. The praises all held the same undertone:

You are the future

You are the new era

You are the future head of the Gojo Clan

As per this pressure, you’ve been very thorough in breeding a certain image for yourself as aloof and recluse. No one had clearance to see any other side of you. Your parents had the luxury to witness it when you were a child but later joined the majority as you realized your purpose in their life. Only one soul witnessed and would continue to witness your most vulnerable side. At the age of 14 when your little brother Satoru was born. He was the most adorable baby with the brightest set of eyes rivaling your own, tufts of snow-colored hair, and just the overall essence of innocence that a baby is known to have. The notion that the expectations that were placed upon you would soon transfer onto him left a strong desire to protect him from this world. His existence was a beacon of hope for the Jujutsu world but to you, his existence was your reason to continue abiding by the rules of the clan.

He was your baby, Toru. Since the day you laid eyes on him, you knew that he would be basking in your enshrouded love for eons and centuries to come. Even if there were to come a day when he no longer needs you in his life, you would remain omnipresent.

When you had enrolled in Jujutsu Tech at 15 and had to leave him for the first three years of his life. You would visit the compound regularly to uphold your duties but allowed for that time to equal spending time with Satoru. Howbeit, it was never for longer than an hour you made use of the time. Your time as a student was perhaps the first ounce of freedom you had ever experienced yet also just another reminder of what you were bred to be. As per the clan's expectations, you started and ended your career as a student as a special-grade sorcerer. The clan had allowed you to continue as a sorcerer and even allowed for you to become a teacher at Jujutsu Tech once Satoru was of age to attend. Though that was years away, you were excited about that future nonetheless.

The clan held a grand celebration when Satoru inherited his cursed techniques as they invited all the other clans to join in on the festivities. They held it in one of the banquet halls in the compound and though you loved your brother with an amount that could never truly ever be calculated, you couldn’t bear to watch your brother become another victim of this fate and for any questions relating to your potential marital status. Though you were the next heir, the guest was too engrossed in their own political commentary to notice you slip away.

Much like any other heroine in a novel, you whisked yourself away into the family gardens. It had become your sanctuary ever since you stumbled upon it on a random night when life had become too overbearing. It was secluded away from the other homes on the compound and hardly ever frequented by anyone. When you discovered it, it was hard to even tell it was a garden. The whole area was polluted with dead flora and you felt the only sense of normality you had in your life was tending/visiting the garden. It’s sad to say but in your twenty years of life, this is the closest you’ve felt to being calm in your life.

As you walked upon the garden, you flopped yourself down in the midst of all the flora as you let out a breath you hadn’t even considered to have been holding in. You stared up at the stars that would always greet you at this time of night. You had given up on trying to memorize constellations and their names, what's the use? There would be no one to share your knowledge with at the end of the day. You wholeheartedly believe that you have had longer conversations with yourself than with anyone else. Even the stars had a community they could relate to. In some ways, you believed they could be compared to you. They were bright enough for people to look at and find interest in but not important enough to get to know. In your mind, you theorized that they probably listened in on the planets when they discussed kicking Pluto out.

“What a life.” You uttered as you watched the scenery above you. The trees swayed in and out of your view as they synchronized with the wind, the stars performing their constellation dance, and the moon watching over you in pity. Similarly to the attendees in the banquet hall, it would seem that you didn’t notice that someone else had entered your sanctuary.

Who could? Toji Zenin thought as he observed the oldest Gojo who was far too invested in your world to notice him. Your white hair fell around you in resemblance to snowflakes, your eyes as icy as a body of water in the height of winter, and your lips parted like the fish stuck in said body of water. You were undoubtedly beautiful and even Toji could admit that. He had thought as much since you were children. Throughout the clans, everyone was trying to have you married off to their sons while their sons offered no retaliation as they too were pleading for your hand. Of course, for the sake of having a Gojo but you were a sight to behold. He had seen you plenty of times during these kinds of events but you would never see him. You would run away and he would follow but never interact. Toji would never give an answer as to why he had begun this one-sided tradition for he also had no idea.

Over the years, out of precaution, Toji would maintain a relatively large distance between the two of you on the off chance that you would notice him. As the tradition progressed, the less cautious of the distance he became. Each year, he would inch closer and closer to you until now where he could consider himself to be within view of you if you had tried but obviously visible.

He watched as you lifted your arm into the sky, opening your palm out, and letting it stay like that for a few moments before hastily dropping your arm over your eyes with yet another sigh. If he had seen your perspective, he would have noticed the positioning of your palm being directly under a star. However, he didn’t need to be in your perspective because this was a habit of yours that you had developed over the years. He knew, that you knew, that you’d never catch a star. You had always a stoic and professional among the general public, no one could have guessed that the next Gojo head would be stargazing, much less, trying to “catch” a star without a thought in mind. For someone as low-ranking as Toji was in the jujutsu world, he could only find amusement in the situation.

“There you are!” A young Satoru enthused as he ran full throttle toward you before plopping down on top of your fallen body. You let out a noise at the abrupt action, coughing a tad bit as the wind was knocked out of you. The young boy notices and begins to laugh at your predicament. You cherished his happiness and made it a mission to always provide him with a smile during each interaction.

“You think attacking your older sister is funny, huh?” You began with a mischievous smile adorning your features. He didn’t need to be a wielder of the Six-Eyes to know what his sister’s next move was as he began to scurry off of you but was far too late as you sent a barrage of tickles his way.

“S-Stop! Ha-Ha! I-I w-wasn’t laughing! I swear!” He pleaded between a fit of laughs.

“Hmm, I don’t know ‘Toru seems like you were laughing to me. Say you were and I’ll stop.” You teased as you continued your “attacks” on the young boy. He tried to remain strong in his claims but ultimately surrendered.

“Fine!I did laugh!” and just like that the tickles stopped but were soon met with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek from you. Toji fleetingly wondered how that felt.

“See in return for being honest, you get rewards. Remember that in the future ‘Toru.” The young boy nodded at the statement before nuzzling himself further into the conjugation of your neck urging for the affection to last.

“So what do I owe the honor of having you here with me?” You asked as you lifted your body in a sitting position inevitably taking his up with yours and letting your head rest atop his head. “Certainly, Mother and Father didn’t allow for you to roam off by yourself.”

“These things are always so boring! I thought today was supposed to be about me.” You could feel the pout on Satoru’s lip and held him tighter. If only he knew that today was all about him, the him of today and the him of the future.

“You and I can celebrate another day. Just you and me.” You reassured yet since the day he was born every day has been about him. This easily excited the young boy as he babbled about all the things he wanted to do.

Yet, another sight to behold is the next Gojo clan leader being affectionate. Each passing year you had come to surprise the outcasted Zenin. He had seen many things but he had never seen you interact with the youngest Gojo. The garden looked like an accessory compared to how at ease you were with Satoru.

Toji watched as the siblings both stood up, you brushing out everything and anything that could tamper with each other's appearance before leaving hand in hand back to the venue. Feeling safe enough to emerge from his hiding spot, he enters the pathway with folded arms over his chest standing behind the two Gojo’s watching them leave. In accordance with the routine, he would stay a little longer before making his own exit.

What wasn’t a part of the routine was Satoru turning his head and making direct eye contact. Toji has spent his entire life being an invisible man. No one could ever tell he was standing behind them and no one would particularly care if they did know.

Satoru tugged at your hand urging you to look as well and you did. You gave the man a nod of acknowledgment with a ghost of a smile before turning to Satoru.

“He’s a friend of mine.”

[o-uncle-newt]

Cabin Pressure Advent Day 9: Ipswich

IIIIIIPSWIIIIIICH!

In my opinion, Ipswich heralds a really key moment in the development of not just Cabin Pressure, but John Finnemore's (solo) projects in general- it's his first really genius episode in terms of plotting, where he first utilizes Chekhov's Gun with pinpoint precision while also building a watertight and well-structured plot that incorporates great character work.

He shows signs of it earlier in the show, obviously, but this is the episode where he first does it basically seamlessly. Douz is the closest, for sure, but the culminating moment of the plan, however genius it is, still handwaves away a few inconvenient questions like "is it any more legal to drive a plane on the highway than to take off without clearance?" Other episodes also have some good moments but the Chekhov's Gun placements are a bit obtrusive (Cremona and Edinburgh, for example).

(I'll make a note about Gdansk- it has some great Chekhov's Guns, but the plot is basically constructed AROUND them. That requires a lot of its own skill in plot construction, but is different than here.)

What I think is so great about Ipswich is that

a) the Chekhov's Gun is not just planted seamlessly, it's also planted unobtrusively- the masterful way that the number "nineteen" is hammered into our heads at the beginning, only for there to be a red herring appearance of the question/answer that puts us off our guard, and then that final moment of realization and resolution... it's just so good. Smaller ones like Martin's inner ear issue are also handled super well- we hear about it in a very specific context that is relevant to the plot and we don't even think twice about, only for it to come back in a new way later out of nowhere. Chekhov's Gun blends in perfectly with the decor.

b) everything is directly in the service of the plot, and makes sense. This is where there's the difference from Gdansk- there, there wouldn't BE a situation in the first place without some of those Chekhov's Guns that were planted (like the seven dwarves game), whereas here there is a very specific plot (how does MJN do when they need to prove their skills in front of regulators) and all of the Chekhov's Guns directly relate to that. Douglas's use of the "hey chief" line is hilarious both the first time and the second, and is used in utterly characteristic ways that also fit in completely logically with what they've been doing in this episode. There's of course a certain amount of coincidence that you have to allow because that's what makes it a sitcom episode rather than real life, but everything is still done incredibly realistically. (At least, from a human perspective- I don't actually KNOW whether the trainings are like that, but from what others have said they seem to be at least somewhat based on reality so that's cool!)

c) everything is directly in service of the theme! There is also a theme and it melds perfectly into the episode- who is the alpha dog. From beginning to end, we know that this episode is about power struggles, and the fact that something that just seems like a (fucking hilarious) joke- Douglas's whole "hey chief" routine- ends up coming back in something that he addresses, in a certain amount of seriousness, to Carolyn is just perfect. It shows what is only confirmed in the next scene- that Douglas knows who the alpha dog is. And, incidentally, one of the reasons why he knows this is his own realization that if they don't pass, it will "make him feel unemployed." He HAS to concede and that makes the moment only more powerful. (I'd also add that the "Marvin and Dougal" convo serves as a kind of textual evidence for Martin and Douglas, in this episode's power struggle, really being equal beta dogs, but that's not a Chekhov's Gun, just close reading.)

Anyway, I may be overly reading into any of this, but the upshot is that I listened to this, after listening to the prior eight episodes, and was just so massively impressed by the structural quality in a way that surpassed any of the prior episodes- but which I know, as an obsessive listener, is only a harbinger of some brilliantly plotted episodes to come- and the next one is, of course, the fantastic Johannesburg tomorrow!

[adraarts]

...Warning. The following information is classified... Subject SS04: Simela Simeonidis Age: 28 Gender: Female (She/Her) Nun of the Eye of Michael & Gung Ho Gun The Dragon "...Subject was scouted from the orphanage in December for Sister Mirofora's Melee Weapons Project. The fourth subject and only successor to survive and achieve outstanding results from The Spear's training regimens, programs and testing..." ...Error. Board clearance required to read further information. Access denied...

Character Information Spotify Playlist O.C Tag Please click on the images for full view and the ALT text for a little bit more information! Further artists notes beneath the cut!

PLEASE NOTE: - That the head scarf that my O.C is wearing on her head is known as an 'epimandylion', otherwise known as the 'apostolnik'. A lot of her imagery is drawn upon Christian Eastern Orthodoxy (Particularly the Greek Branch). E.g. Her gun lance, Ascalon, named after the spear that Saint George used to slay the dragon. - While the only thing separating Simela's appearances between her Trigun: Maximum/Trigun: 1998 and Trigun: Stampede looks is the Eye of Michael symbol on her nun's habit for Trigun: Stampede, the difference is mainly in the personality. In Trigun: Maximum/Trigun: 1998 she is a lot more reserved with her true emotions, thoughts and feelings, she is a lot more cold. In Trigun: Stampede, she is very open with her thoughts, feelings and emotions, and actively goes out of her way to be assertive and stand up for herself. Not to say that her Trigun: Maximum/Trigun: 1998 self doesn't, it's just that the Trigun: Stampede version is more extroverted and a little bit more brash.

But boy.

What a passion project this was.

I feel like I don't have the words to accurately describe how much this O.C has healed me.

This whole thing was almost a years worth of progress, and one of the many contributions involved in my journey of falling in love with art again and wanting to draw more after many years of not drawing and/or being inconsistent and unhappy with my art. Making Simela after a particularly rough December 2022, and discovering Trigun in 2023, was what I needed. I needed to make an O.C that was equal parts me and the things that I loved; The NieR series, One Piece, Pontic-Greek culture, Greek culture, Dragoons from the Final Fantasy series, strong female characters, the list goes on. There was a time in my life where I was made to feel ashamed for putting cultural and ethnic aspects of myself into my O.C's; what representation was for me out there, as a person of Greek background, in anime? None. This is where my Trigun O.C came in and turned my goddamn life on my head! Thick brows? Check. Dark, thick hair? Check. Hip dips? Fuck yeah!

Making and further developing this O.C (Along with being in the Trigun space in general) has made me discover parts of myself that I otherwise would have never known of/discovered. Fuck, Trigun made me write again freely without any restrictions or rules, it made me make art again.

Thank you Trigun, and the people I have met in the fandom ;v;/

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

↮ for the sake of having you near [two]

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ]

captain john price x f!veteran!reader (no use of ‘y/n’) 5.7k words

cw: descriptions of gun violence & gunshot injuries, suicide, murder, minor character death, reader is an amputee & the same age as price, foul language, mentions of terminal cancer, extremely divorced-but-still-in-love behavior from two people that consider one another soulmates (some of these aren’t out-and-out cw’s, but points that deserve noting) ↮ Twenty years you had known John, and for seventeen of them you were married. After a career-ruining injury in the field, you were forced out of the service, and the marriage did not survive your survival. But: when John goes on leave, he always finds his way home to you. (another shoutout to @alittleposhtoad who has been nothing but an on-going cheerleader and inspiration for this project, for whom this entire work is for. it wouldn't exist as well it does without her, and i owe her the hell out of my gratitude.)

The first bookend holds in place a cold, but dry for-now day in November 2003, where you shriek awake in bed beside John. You do this because he pole vaults out of bed, shouting, “We fuckin’ overslept!”

“Are you fucking kidding?! We’re going to miss the bus. What happened to the fucking alarms?” You lurch up like you’ve been electrocuted, legs tangled insanely in the bed sheet. 

“I don’t bloody know!” he grunts, bare-assed and running around the room, trying to get his clothes back on. You jump up and run as well, and take the clothes he throws your way—his shirt, your flannel sleep pants, one sock of his and one of yours, but your bra is simply gone. Perhaps it’s gone to heaven. Perhaps it’s stuck to the headboard and neither of you’ve simply looked. Altogether too busy rushing.

You both tear through the hotel room, and you’re almost out the door when he turns sharply, busting your nose with his chin, leaving you both hissing and confused. “Dress—your dress, on the loo door,” he starts, squeezing back past you as you swear and straighten. Almost forgot the damned dress!

On any other day forgetting the dress or missing the bus might not be as big a problem—it would be a total nothing, because you and John have scored a fat two weeks of leave together, and you’re going to go to Iceland at the end of the week for four days. 

The issue is, if you forget the dress, and miss the bus, you can still go to Iceland at the end of the week for four days, but it won’t be a honeymoon. You’re getting married today, in John’s mate Grisham’s back garden in Sussex. 

He bombs back with the £60 clearance wedding dress over his shoulder in a garment bag, clapping you on the ass, “Go, go-go-go-go!” in a jittering singsong. His Jordan’s aren’t even tied. 

Between checkout and the wild, harebrained sprint down the empty lane, you almost don’t make it. It takes you pounding on the side of the bus as the engine growls as it starts to pull away to get it to stop. You rush aboard, dumping your fare in spare change, telling the driver between gulps for air, “Thank you. So much. Jesus. We’re getting married.”

“Mhm! Lovely!” the driver looks like she wishes you’d not talk to her. John scoops up your hand when you’re sat, giving you a bright-eyed grin. It doesn’t bother you at all that you’ve only known one another for three weeks. Felt like you were finding him after a lifetime of looking. 

You make it to Grisham’s in time for the clouds to darken and brood angrily as a hen waiting on eggs. Grisham, a battle hardened Staff Sergeant in John’s unit, is in the midst of a shave when he answers the door. He grabs John’s shoulder, grumbling, “Need to shave, piss-ant, to the water closet with you,” causing John to laugh and bully his way from the grip. To you, Grisham says, “Mornin’, sweetheart, Jezza’s got the bedroom sorted for you,” giving you a squeezing half hug. 

You look back on the day with bittersweet fondness. So many there and gone memories, places once full that now were left empty in the halls of your life. 

John had pulled his squad mate, Darian, to the side, and only sounded joking when he said, “Skeeter, mate, I respect your fashion choices. You know this, yeah?” slinging an arm around his neck. “If you wear that fuckin’ footie jersey to my ceremony, I will beat the fuckin’ piss out of you.” Darian put his hands up in surrender and changed, grinning so beautifully and widely it showed his perfect molars. A gorgeous man, always laughing. 

He’d been court-martialed and found unfit to stand trial for murdering his fiancé during a psychotic episode in 2010. He was adamant that he was saving her from being kidnapped by the sex traffickers his unit had been dealing with for years in Thailand. The episode never ended. Last you’d heard, he was still being held custody in a mental facility. He’d just…cracked.

The rain broke open as you read your vows off a sheet of printer paper, and it ate away at the words you worked so hard to put together. John gave you a look that asked in challenge if you could hack it, and you’d just stuffed the paper down your bodice and freestyled your vows off the cuff. Soaking wet, intoxicated to the point of shaming each and every lotus-eater on the man in front of you, you grab the lapels of his dress uniform and haul yourself up to his ear. 

You don’t know why this quote comes to you, other than you know his love of crushingly sad Russian novels, all thick enough to act as door-stoppers. Other than the fact that the exact moment you fell in love with him was the moment he’d restarted Doctor Zhivago for you, to read to you as your fucked-out bodies cooled against one another in his bunk, reaching behind your head for the faded paperback on the window sill just beyond his bed. 

“You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.” You were panting at the end of the passage, unsure entirely how badly you’d mangled it, and John sat tight and straight under your hands, rain soaking his hair almost black. 

You push through. You are nothing if not deadset on seeing a job done, and he’d thrown a challenge down at your feet. Picking up another quote that had burned into your mind endlessly, you finish, “I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely,” pressing a kiss to his neck before dropping back on your feet, heart slamming against your ribs as if it were borne of a wrecking-ball instead of a mother.

John’s heartbeat slams like war drums in his chest, and you can see his pulse jumping in his neck. Everything. Everything. Everything. That’s what the look in his pale blue eyes calls you, reading loud and clear that you were the reason his soul had made landfall on terra firma, and not a planet circling a different celestial body.  

Grisham swears, starting to gather up food, running it back indoors. It wasn’t supposed to rain for another two hours, enough time for a small reception, enough time to send the two of you trotting off to another friend’s house to borrow their loft space until you were to leave. He tells most to sit still, to finish watching the ceremony, and his fiance, Jezza, helps him in the mad rush. 

But they both stop to watch John snap his arms around your waist, pulling you in tight, kissing you to close out the ceremony. Then they jumped and yelled like football hooligans, cheering for the both of you. And so did the rest of the gathered.

Grisham met his end at the barrel of his own sidearm, watching the sunset through the window of he and Jezza’s bedroom. It was a soft, temperate afternoon in late March of 2014. He had simply seen too much, his heart had always been gentle, he had loved and cared deeply for nearly all he met. When he accidentally killed a child who’d bolted in front of his scope at the last moment, running for his mother, it had broken the last thing tethering him to this place. He’d imagined the face of his youngest son as the bullet cut through the boy’s chest. A barrel to his temple, a quiet afternoon, and Jezza found his brains painted across their bedspread moments after the muffled pop that sounded throughout the whole home.

There are faces in the small crowd, one after another after another, that you recognize from military portraits displayed at their funerals, but, then, at that moment, with freezing rain soaking your hair, and pouring down your back, you couldn’t imagine a single death occurring in the next seventeen years.

It feels selfish, really, to count your marriage among them, when so many of your mutual friends had faded into the dark and gotten lost.

+

After you’d been forced out of the service, you’d come back to an old hobby. Your entire life, you’d sculpted. Often, just small, silly things–an ashtray here, a little horse head there–but the decades had put practice into your hands, and rendered you past the expert level. Not bad for someone who spent their college-aged years humping two and a half stone rucksacks across all the different environs of hell.

The largest shed just beyond the car park shed–which John simply does not park his Jeep in, for reasons still mysterious to you in the three days he has returned to the rectory–is your sculpting studio. 

It’s a utilitarian space, plenty roomy, with pedestals for larger projects. There is a much more comfortable bench running along one wall under a beautiful window looking out onto the rectory, roomy and the perfect height for a barstool. 

Tools are scattered about the entire area, the definition of organized chaos, and you keep yourself occupied by occasionally looking out the window, watching your ex-husband work on a project he has suddenly decided is of utmost importance: a ramp for a neighbor’s elderly dog to get in and out of their bed with. He’s been busy designing all morning, and now he builds in his carpentry shed, leaving the doors wide open to catch the breeze and vent the sawdust.

You think he is, perhaps, distracting himself. It is the second anniversary of his father’s death. The way that you understand the man you had married, you know he has not processed it. He’s endured too much death, and the ability to grieve has been cut out of him, or atrophied. He stays, always, vacillating between denial and depression.

Under your hands is a specimen of your specialty. A living death mask. It is something that had become your signature in the years since your honorable discharge. 

Your busts were built of the faces of the deceased, right at the moment of their last breath. What had started as a grim coping mechanism, starting with your own face all those years ago–now hanging on your studio’s wall, face frozen forever in an expression of wide-eyed confusion, mouth peeled back from your teeth in a gasp–had become prize winning art.

You sculpt the face of an alternative model, who had died of an overdose. It was commissioned by her agent, her own mother, wanting to cast it in bronze, to later reproduce as jewelry. You’d initially thought it had been a reprehensible request, but the cheque was too large to turn down. Your parents’ medical bills are mounting as they grow older and live off a fixed income, and you would not dare ask John for the help.

Not because he wouldn’t give, nor that he would hold it over your head in a power play, no. Because he would open his wallet without thought and tell you to drain him dry, and he’d do it humbly and hopefully.

You look back to the face under your hands–a clay rendering of sloppily-cracked eyes, a mouth sloping open in fogged mid-death, brows knotted in confusion. You brush your thumb over a scar hugging the left nostril. Pressure mounts in your chest, and you have to move, or you will crack. Because the bust will crack if you leave it bare, you pack a damp cheesecloth around it before you leave, stepping out of your studio, stretching your back.

Your steps take you to John’s workshop, waiting at one side of the doorway for him to stop running the table saw. He wouldn’t cut a finger off, but, still, you worry and practice good judgment.

He does turn it off after it screams through a plank of white oak–something a little too fancy for an overweight dachshund, but, it’s his wood and projects, he can choose his materials. It will be a nice piece for the owners, at any rate.

“Everything alright, Prem?” he asks, pushing his safety glasses onto his scalp. You shrug and nod, pushing down on the hip over your amputation, feeling tight and locked up. 

“Just fine. Wanted to make sure that we were still on for dad’s dinner tonight,” you say, trying to choose your words like picking pearls. You do not want him spooked, and you do not want him feeling like his father’s birthday is easily discarded. It is a fine line to walk. “My head’s everywhere today, and I don’t want to head out on errands without confirming.”

He snorts, raising a brow, throwing you one of his signature, closed-mouth grins. “You? Forget anything? Cold day in hell before that happens,” he chuckles, putting the cut planks beside the table. He rubs a dusty hand over his beard, clearing his mind. It’s a quick process, but one you know he has to prime himself for. “Yeah, dad’s dinner. We’re still on. Still going to the fish and chip shop he liked, yeah?”

You snort, crossing your arms and nodding. “Tully’s. Of course. Tried my damnedest, but Terry liked what Terry liked. Whitefish and chips with mayo and malt vin. Good old Scouse boy’s heart never got off the boardwalk.”

“Can take the boy out of Liverpool, but…” he starts, smile pulling into a smirk. “Yeah, it’s a da–it’s a plan.”

Your smile twitches, but you don’t call his slip. Another oldie, confirming plans by it’s a date when it comes to you. Though it’s only the connotation, it’s enough to warrant a slowly changing lexicon. 

+

The yearly dinners on Terry’s birthday to his favorite joint are the only form of mourning John seems to be able to cope with. It was your idea, as so many things were when it came to caring for the man’s heart, and it was something that seemed to help. As you had done last year, on a complete whim, dragging his ass off the couch and saying that you always took Terry down to the shops for this very birthday dinner, he would simply have to suffice, because you quite liked the tradition.

In all honesty, you could not stand the vacant look in his eyes as he stared and thought, and thought, and thought. Your John was a shark. The moment he stopped moving, he began to fall prey to death. If you had to put on a show and almost literally sweep him from the house, you would. If only to maintain the cracks in your heart that were barely sticking together.

You pull on something casual, because you are going to a chippy, and not to the fucking Bar Vendôme at the Hôtel Ritz Paris. Had gone there, once, though, gathering intel. That glass roof haunts you to this day, and never had you seen anything quite like it again.

John has the audacity to be waiting downstairs for you in the tightest black t-shirt known to man, hugging his thick, sturdy waist, and his full pecs. It seems to strain around his biceps, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to wait a moment as he pulls his bomber back on.

It is almost a nuisance, how quickly your body recognizes this man, how quickly it responds. You think if he were ever to offer you both blood and body in the form of bread and wine, you might not be able to turn him down. Even that is a lie. You would eat straight from his hand, you would drink from his collarbones and his mouth. 

“You look good, Prem,” he says, trying hard not to do an up-and-down over your body. It makes your throat dry, the way his head bows a bit, as if he is deferring to you, as if he is bowing. He has always treated you well. Better than you deserve, you think. 

“Ta,” is all you can manage around your cracking-dry throat, trying hard not to swallow in front of him. “I could say that you cleaned up well, too, but you always keep yourself put together.”

This time he is the one to snort and shake his head. “You say that, but I know that you remember Albania.”

You laugh, but your mind says, You would be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, even covered in mud, blood, or shit. What you say is, “Come on, then. Your car or mine?”

+

Tully’s is easy territory. It is paper boats, loads of steak cut chips fresh out of boiling animal lard, and white fish that flakes as if transferred straight from water to batter to fryer. And the pints of lager that go with it are crisp and cold, with a dense, creamy head an inch deep, bubbling ambery-gold and sweating in the glass.

The post-storm air is charged, buzzing, carrying a cleansing breeze that pushes through both of your jackets. The inside is small and intimate, dimly lit, with a footie match on the ancient CRT telly hung over the modest bar. Manchester United v. Arsenal. But neither of you are paying attention.

Instead, it starts as it had the year before, twinned reminiscing spinning together in a double-strand thread, your hands each pulling slowly at the wool of memory, working together to find your way back into history warm and safe.

It starts simply, his memories from childhood. His mother, who’d never wanted to be a mother, slipping out on a hot summer afternoon, never to return, but there was his father in the evening, covered in sawdust and smelling of wood chips and hot saw blades. Terry Price had always stood strong for his son.

It moved into the future, now a far past, and you draw stories out of John as you both sink down pint after pint. 

His first school, his first dance, his first drive. “He’d had this awful Beetle, no interior, all metal. Christ, that thing should’ve never been on the road, it didn’t even have seatbelts.” 

His first kiss, his first formal, his first heartbreak.”Hah. I’ve already told you plenty of times about Dana Rowbotham. But, ah. No, dad poured me a few shots at the kitchen table, and we watched the Liverpool match. He. Well. He was a man of discretion, you know how he was. Didn’t say a word while I did that pinched, angry crying the whole time.”

He polishes off his fish, scrubbing off his fingers over the boat, licking his lip to rid his mustache of foam, huffing a bit of a laugh. “This one I know I haven’t told you before. I just have no bleedin’ idea if he told you while he was living at the house.”

You hold up a finger, knocking back the last of your third pint, and turn your head to belch over your shoulder, shaking a laugh out of him. 

“Christ, woman.”

“A moment,” you grunt, before doing it again.

“I hope you know people are staring. Judging. You’ll be run out by the town council any moment now.”

“Let ‘em fuckin’ try.” You hold position, waiting on whether another will come, and when you are certain you’ve run out of so-called ammunition, you turn back to him. “So what’s this story you’ve never told me? I want to compare notes.”

His amused expression dulls, softens. It morphs into something a bit sorrowful, tinged with either remorse, or longing. And it is incredible how closely linked those two emotions are, twins separated at birth, saints left starcrossed and adrift after the death of Christ. Left standing listless, unmoored witness outside of Christ’s sepulcher with empty hands and no direction, staring at impossibly heavy stone sealing the Garden Tomb.

“The first thing he said to me after the wedding–and the last thing he said to me about you.”

Your amusement slips off your face, as if it was a mask you had always worn, and you aren’t sure what to call your expression as you peer into John’s averted eyes. Is it vulnerability? A weak shade of shock or surprise? Is it simple, strange weakness? Maybe it is a combination of all and one, an unsteadying concoction that makes you way as John shows you a few of the cards he’s kept close to his chest for years or decades.

“Oh,” it’s all you can say, shifting in your seat.

You remember his father’s last words, as clearly as if you were playing them on a tape in front of you, or sitting in his room on the ground floor of the rectory, watching it happen all over again. It was a cold, bright afternoon in February, and John sat next to his father’s bedside, listening to his labored, watery breathing as he read aloud from The Brothers Karamazov. You’d only come in to drop off some tea with lemon for John. His voice had been starting to become hoarse as he read. 

You were at the foot of the bed, leaving the room, when Terry’s rheumy eyes slipped open, and he’d made a sound. You’d stopped and turned, hands resting on the footboard. You’d known he was going to pass that day, it’s why you’d called John home at all, for the first time in your careers, and why you’d been giving as much privacy as you could.

A smile, dulled by painkillers and impending death into something almost childlike with wonder, slid onto the elder Price’s mouth, nestled in his gray beard. John sat forward and picked up his hands. “Hey, dad,” he’d croaked.

“John-John. There you are, pal,” his father had managed, too weak to even squeeze his son’s hands back. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you.”

“Sorry. I.” John stopped to swallow, collecting himself, pulling on the act. His voice steadier, he’d said, “I just got in, ran a bit late.” Four hundred pages into the Russian door-stopper novel, ten hours of bedside, death-watch vigil. 

John’s father’s last words came out, fading by syllables, “That’s alright, lad of mine. Always a good lad,” and he’d slipped into a deep sleep. Another five hours of sitting sentry, and John had knocked on your door. You knew his dad was gone, and you’d let John strangle down his weeping on your bed attempting to begin executing funeral tasks, as dusk dug deeper into the frigid dark of night.

In the present, in Tully’s, he nods, pushing his tongue around his mouth, and, it’s bizarre, you wonder if he is feeling the same things as you are. And you don’t at all know for certain, caught in a moment where you can’t read him as simply as a book. 

Or, no…this is one of his motifs. It has become difficult to pick from the prose, because it has been so long since you’ve poured through his pages with such intimate attention.

He rolls his shoulders, and pushes himself into the back of his chair, as if trying to stretch or pop his back. His biceps and triceps strain the material of his sleeves as he puts his hands behind his head, pulling the cotton tight across his chest and shoulders. You have to fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the image. He is not preening, he is uncomfortable, trying to ease himself.

“The first one isn’t so great, but you were there,” he snorts, finally something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, puts crinkles into the crows feet at the corner of his eyes. It’s dour and wry, but it’s there. 

“Oh, I remember,” you laugh with him, against your better judgment resting on your elbows on the tabletop. You hold onto your empty pint glass, tilting it back and forth on the varnished wood, soft rocking clunk-clunks beating out like a slow metronome. “I think we were the only ones pleased with the two of us, eh?”

He nods. “Yeah. Heh.” He pushes his chair back onto two feet, pulling a mild balancing act that reminds you of him when you’d first met. He always sat like that, and it made his CO so furiously angry. The man thought it was disrespectful. John smirked as he was getting dressed down at a paint-peeling volume. Had fire as a boy. Still held it within his chest as a man, and the like inside of him sought out like. 

Continuing, he says, “I’d met up with him once, after the wedding, before things cooled off. I brought some of those Kodak prints Grisham had developed for us. Didn’t even take them out of the envelope before then, I was scared as shit they’d somehow get ruined before we had a place to hang them.” His laugh is warm and fond, and you feel yourself rising to meet the temperature, chest filling softly with emotion. “And he looked at them. 

“Had this tired look on his face. You know the one, where he looked like he’d just worked eighteen hours straight and was told there was no dinner waiting for him at home. I don’t think dad was ever disappointed in me, but that look came close. Thought I’d die from being under it, honestly,” he laughs, shaking his head. 

“I bet. Dad was just so…gentle,” you say, thinking back on your father-in-law, who’d become one of your dearest friends in those last years. “Must’ve felt like shit.”

“That, my dear, is barely scraping the surface of how it felt,” he says in agreement, and the pet name slides right by the two of you, too comfortable now to comment on, lest the moment shatter. “He was just pushing the prints around on his table, and he looked up at me and said, ‘Lad. I don’t think you’ll be able to afford the alimony for her.’”

It takes a second for that to sink in, but sink in it does, and you burst out laughing, turning your head and covering your mouth with the back of your wrist. “Good lord. He didn’t need to skin you alive to compliment me, but I commend him for it,” you laugh, looking at John and his pleased grin from the corner of your eye. 

“Speak softly and carry a big verbal stick, I suppose,” he agrees. “He knew you were big ticket, even then. And he just.” He tucks his lips between his teeth, wetting them, before he releases them with a soft sigh. “Dad just loved you to bits, Prem.”

“I know,” you tell him, your voice hushing, overcome with a layered ache. “I loved him, too. One of the best men I’ve ever met.”

The absolute best man you’ve ever met sits before you, and you so badly want to tell him that in the moment, but the words fall to ash on your tongue. There it is, again, the bitter gulf. Could you make it across if you ran and leapt? If you really tried?

Your throat pinches, and for one of the few times in your life—a biography that could harrow the very worst of humankind, weathered like a lighthouse on a violent, black sea—you cannot speak. You cannot find a single word to press past your teeth. 

All you can do is look at the man whose last name you couldn’t bear to give up in the divorce.

You fought him on nothing—neither of you fought at all during the division—and he didn’t fight you on that.

“Prem?” he says, checking, reading, thrown. And he says your real name. “You good?”

“Ah, fine,” you lie seamlessly. But John knows the pattern of your embroideries too well. He can scent your stories as a hound could. But he will not bay and call it out. You look down at your paper boat, the few scattered chips in the bottom, the mostly empty cup of malt vinegar. 

You look at his left hand, and you know his wedding band lines in your jewelry box alongside yours. They were made together, a gift on your fifth anniversary, and together they would stay.

“I think I let myself get overtired, quite honestly. And the greasy food didn’t help,” you say, with a lifted shoulder. “What was the other thing? The last thing?”

John’s hand is in the table, you’ve kept it in your periphery. Watching it as one watches something shy, something they want desperately to approach. And that large, harsh hand—capable of dazzling, deathly violence—creeps a centimeter your way. His swallow is audible, even with the humming chuckle he releases afterward to cover it. 

“He said, ‘John-John, that girl—that woman is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. I hope she knows that.’”

+

It’s 31 July, 2020. The hottest day of the year in Somerset. That’s when it happens, where the final bookend takes its place. 

Grisham is long dead, Jezza has married up. Darius stays confined in the facility, visions of villains painting the inner walls of his skull. Grover, and MacNally—Terrance, and Windham—Park and Montgomery—they’re all dead. 

You sit outside of your studio, waiting on a call, smoking one of your husband’s cigars, and the sky is flat, and gray, and unforgiving. There is not a drop of beauty at your home today. 

Covid-19, a modern plague for a modern populace, keeps your husband from coming home on leave. It doesn’t pay to spend two weeks quarantining, not when he’ll only have to turn it around and make a month of it when he leaves. He can’t afford the risk of catching it. If he catches it, it will spread to you. Once it’s spread to you, it will spread to your parents or his father. It’s too great a risk.

Your phone rings, your shiny new Samsung. You think about the girl you were in 2003, who did not ever imagine owning a computer, let alone carrying around one in your pocket. It’s an unknown number, and you know that on the other end is your husband, breaking in a fresh burner, somewhere out in the great, wide world you no longer travel. 

Pressing the phone to your ear, you greet him automatically, “Hello, darling. How very dare you call when my husband is away.”

It was an effort to make the sting of separation lesser. John chuckles at it, trying to play into the bit as well. “Hey, love. What can I say? I couldn’t resist.”

There is small talk, pleasant and aching. If you close your eyes, you can imagine a place you’ve been a million years before—catching each other mid-leave, calling from some far flung airport, alerting the other to an impending homecoming. 

But, oh, isn’t that a pain that does not quiet. A daydream that only deepens the hurt, instead of soothing it. 

Minutes drip by and by, filled with empty talk, dancing around topics that neither of you could open to one another ever again. He cannot tell you where in the world his boots have fallen, and you cannot ask him what foul thing is crawling from the dark this time. 

A panic begins to fill your chest, crushing you, as your conversation begins to run out. What’s next? What comes next in this horrible, cruel life? What can you provide any longer that he can’t find in a one night stand? 

He would never think of you as a warm, wet hole. He would never think of you as a bed warmer. God forbid even entertaining the idea of him considering you a housekeeper, a maid, a cook, an accountant for his home. He would never—but you do. What could you possibly be for him, now that you cannot be his equal?

Everything breaks after a minute of dead silence. You break. 

“You have to ask me for one, John,” you say, your voice so much more shockingly steady than you were prepared for. “You need to do that for us, because I cannot take ruining another thing between us.”

His response is immediate, almost fearful, “Don’t. Prem, don’t make me do that. For fuck’s sake, and don’t ask me to do it over the phone either.”

“It’s dead, John. Jesus fucking Christ,” your panic spirals and deepens, tearing you into ribbons beneath your sternum, “it died in Beirut—”

“Nothing died in Beirut!” he argues, a harsh cut edging into his voice, his fear manifesting in the blade-cusp tone.

“I died in Beirut. Your wife died in Beirut.”

“I’m hanging up. I’m not fucking doing this. You’re not listening to sense. We’ve been married twenty years, Prem. My wife did not fucking die in Beirut, I am on the goddamned phone with her!”

“Stop bassing out your fucking voice to me,” you warn him, a snarl. “You’re not going to growl me down from this. It’s dead, John. We have to cut it off before it kills us, too.”

“What? Our marriage?” he spits, as if throwing out the name of it will put a harsh light of reality into the conversation.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“No, not ‘yeah’. Name it. Name the fucking thing you want to put down so badly.”

“I want you to end our fucking marriage, John.”

Silence, screaming down the line. “Why? Prem, there’s—we…”

“Because I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want you to hate me. I…I love you. But. Good Christ, John. It’s turning into poison. I don’t want us to hate each other.”

More silence. 

He says your real name, beseeches you with it, and tries to find you through the ether with a simple, pleading, “Love, no.”

“Please, John. This. This is the only way we can keep each other. I know you’ve felt it, too.”

Another eternity of silence sits like a fresh corpse between you. And why shouldn’t it. The corpse is seventeen years old, the corpse is what is left of a love story.

“I—okay. Okay, Prem. It’s.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t—just. Don’t. I have to go. There’s…I’ve got to handle something. I—I love you.”

“…I love you, too.”

+++

tag list: @smoggyfogbottom @parttimepr0phet @dotcie @kastlequill @pssytrux <3