#so neither of us have experience working in the art field unfortunately

[nebulous-rain]

Hello! My name is Moriah and I am a junior in high school. I was wondering if I might be able to get your insight on a few questions I have?

I am in my final years of high school and am starting to think about college but I have no idea what I want to pursue. I know I love art, so for a long time I have been thinking about getting an art major or going to an art school.

I’m reaching out because I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR ART and I think you are a very talented artist! I have been in love with your art for so long and I am curious and wondering how you are able to fit drawing into your life?

1.) If you are going to college for art, or went to college for art, what is it like? Do you think going to school for art or having an art major is worth it?

2.) how can I fit art into my everyday life? I’m sure you have work and other things to do in your life so how do you balance it out? (I just want to know how you can draw as much as you do!)

3.) do you do art as a hobby or a career? If it is a hobby how to you balance art, work/school, and home life? If it is a career or part-time career is it an alright source of income?

Thank you so much! And sorry if these questions might seem personal. I just want to know how other artist manage to draw and create their work and still have an adult life. Thanks again, and thank you for being a huge inspiration in my life to create the art I love! Your art means so much to me!❤️❤️ ❤️

i am going to CRY this is the sweetest message ever. i'm happy you found your niche and i'm even happier that i could help inspire that!!! i'm not sure if i'm gonna be able to answer all your questions, but i'll try to squeeze in some possibilities where i fall short:

1) growing up i definitely figured i was going to end up in art school because that's what everyone told me i should go into. but as i got older in high school i was kind of panicking cuz i really didn't want to turn my hobby into a job, and i figured out that i wanted to go into education!

but that's just me- my wife is actually going to college for graphic design sometime soon because she loves what she does. if it's something you really enjoy, and that you think you can monetize while still enjoying it, then it's definitely worth it! money is important but you need to put you and your happiness first.

2) to be honest, i haven't had the time or energy to do much art lately (if you look at my post dates you can see how spread out they've been the past year)- but this entirely depends on how you manage your time and your workload. i'm horrific at time management! so that's my problem. BUT, i think sneaking in drawing time in little ways helps a lot, as i tend to sketch small panels of a potential comic or animatic on notebooks and papers while i'm listening to lectures. i've even posted ms paint doodles i've drawn during class

i always have plans for what i'd like to draw once i have the time. it's kind of motivating, but also frustrating, and it's hard to efficiently empty my brain of ideas while still keeping up with everything else. this might be something you'll have to wiggle around once you get settled into a routine each semester!

3) i really wanted art to stay as a hobby for me. the idea of drawing and creating art every day for things i wasn't inspired to do made me really nervous, because what i really wanted was to make fanart and draw my little guys all day lol

if you take anything away from this, i think the most important thing is that if you want to keep art in your life, you will. if you desire having time to make art just for yourself, you'll find time to work that into your life, one way or another- but in order to do that you absolutely need to have a positive mindset about what you're going into, and if you can't find that positivity, maybe it isn't for you

thank you for asking!!! i'm not sure if this'll be any help, but i appreciate the questions <:')

[grandhotelabyss]

It seems like a lot of contemporary literature tends toward the present tense. Any thoughts on why that might be?

I believe as a technique for creating immediacy it began in the 19th century. The third-person portions of Bleak House are often cited as a touchstone. Dickens had a theatrical instinct. Ruskin famously described his style as operating in "a circle of stage fire." So the idea must have been to get a sense of performance into fiction rather than modeling novelistic prose on historical narrative, a sense Dickens would replicate in the live performances of his work to which he gave so much of his later life.

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor’s court this murky afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before mentioned? There is the registrar below the judge, in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning, for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the cause in hand), which was squeezed dry years upon years ago.

Then stream-of-consciousness fiction in the modernist moment gave the present tense a different kind of dramatic motive: the direct presentation of the inner life as it's lived in the moment—the interior monologue—as in the Joyce of Molly Bloom's soliloquy or the Faulkner of As I Lay Dying:

Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file. Although I am fifteen feet ahead of him, anyone watching us from the cottonhouse can see Jewel's frayed and broken straw hat a full head above my own. The path runs straight as a plumb-line, worn smooth by feet and baked brick-hard by July, between the green rows of laid-by cotton, to the cottonhouse in the center of the field, where it turns and circles the cottonhouse at four soft right angles and goes on across the field again, worn so by feet in fading precision.

But the contemporary version of present-tense fiction aims neither at a consummate entertainer's instinctive bid for theatrical immediacy, as in Dickens, nor an experimentalist's attempt to capture the vagaries of the mind, as in Faulkner. It derives instead, in the first novel said to deploy the technique systematically in third-person narrative, from an attempt to compete with cinema, as its author recounts:

INTERVIEWER

But if I'm not mistaken, you once expressed a desire to write for the films and I think Rabbit, Run, in particular, is quite a cinematic novel. Do you have any such plans now?

UPDIKE

Rabbit, Run was subtitled originally, “A Movie.” The present tense was in part meant to be an equivalent of the cinematic mode of narration. The opening bit of the boys playing basketball was visualized to be taking place under the titles and credits. This doesn't mean, though, that I really wanted to write for the movies. It meant I wanted to make a movie. I could come closer by writing it in my own book than by attempting to get through to Hollywood.

Unfortunately, because it's become a routine technique of literary fiction, it's also begun to feel not dramatically or experimentally vivid but rather stilted, artificial, and mannered. As Samuel R. Delany observed in About Writing,

Today, the present tense has become the easy sign of the literary. It functions the way "thee," "thou," rhyme, meter, and grammatical inversions functioned in poetry in the first half of the twentieth century. The simple present is the quick way, requiring no necessary thought, to announce, "Hoo-ha! I'm bein' literary!"

For this reason, I try to avoid it myself—not to mention that neither theater nor cinema remain hegemonic as models for narrative prose.

As fiction will have to be devoted more and more to a kind of ekphrasis of online experience, the present tense might remain relevant as the tense the critic traditionally uses when recounting a work of art's narrative content. And yet I can't help but feel that this would be too obsequious to rival media, in the same way that Dickens and Updike were too obsequious to theater and cinema. A power of prose narrative not shared by the more immediate media—the media less mediated than is language—is its capacity to memorialize what is passed and passing. To memorialize, we need not the present tense but the past.

[rancim]

10/23

A mental exercise where we imagine ourselves as a highly profitable writer.

Academia would be a no go, because we are neither one who would profess towards having an intellectual brilliance, nor are we good at self promotion. The imagined scenario for us as a lecturer would deign towards the stereotype of the overworked and underpaid: us, dressed in flannel, trying to make Homer relevant to Tik Tok, driving across the whole of LA's community colleges to dip in and out of introductory courses in an attempt to make a living.

No, if we were to get rich off of writing, it would have to be creatively, and moreso, in a field where money thrives. Fiction could be a beginning, sure, but it would have to lead to something more profitable, like heading a film or a television show. Or, we would have to work as an assistant on set, hoping for our big writing break while enduring coffees and lattes thrown at us by producers, head writers, actors galore.

Maybe in this imagined scenario, we add a drop of nepotism to the mix in order to get our foot into the door. Or we know people that know people. That isn't so much of a stress. Afterall, your social media feed is, unfortunately, filled with as many successes as there are fuck ups such as yourself. Those that managed to carry themselves into their dream jobs somehow.

So you would write for a show. A successful show. Something contrived, but contrived in a self aware way. After all, high ended art doesn't pay the bills. It might get you into the conversation, it might be cited in papers to come or what have you, but delving into something thoughtful instead of something shallowly relatable does not get you a very good home. No, you would write a sitcom.

The sitcom you write would be exploitative of certain characteristics that you were born with, but that you would let others highlight for you instead of promoting them yourself. The world feels like it owes to everyone but the whites, you will tell yourself in your head, and so when you do the press junket for your new show, you have no qualms talking about as if you represent all of the experiences of First Gen culture, to the point where you'll let your voice be sanitized and digestible for an audience at large. Emotional abuse is not relatable, but having a parent wander the aisles of a grocery store staring at sour creams? Give me that ABC money.

As a profitable writer, you know you don't need much, and you're not in the spotlight to necessarily have to play along with the popular culture that pays you so. When you go to bars and tell them what you're working on, they'll remark, oh, my dad watches that show, or oh, I see reruns of it at the gym sometimes I guess, without necessarily knowing the name of the cast and crew, the people you employ, or even the showrunner themselves. Your show is a comfortable anathema. It doesn't need to be known, but simply felt, its importance simply being a thing that eats up thirty minutes at a time without leaving so strong an impression. You'll wrap up each episode with a bromide about caring for one another, and that will be enough to pull on the heartstrings, to keep you in syndication, to let you collect royalties from TBS and FX and so on and so forth, to let you keep both the condo in the hills and the mansion in the gated community.

[ohmyartref]

hi, i need advice

i am trying to improve my anatomy for poses (I've been drawing for nearly 10 years) and I just can't seem to get it.

I've tried figure drawings but they all look so bad, I get discouraged and I never want to do them again. And I have anatomy books but I don't know how to use them.

Right now, I'm tracing over the refs and trying to copy the pose but it's never accurate and all my artist peers point this out constantly due to its many tiny mistakes.

I don't know what to do and I'm afraid I'll never be an illustrator because I can't draw anything right. I don't know if college classes will help me out neither :(

Now, I'm not the most articulate or best at wording what I think, but I'm going to try my best, because I genuinely think this is an issue of perception and perfectionism, and not an issue of not actually growing.

Figure drawings, in my opinion at least, don't really need to look 'good'. They are meant to be quick practice that breaks the body down into simple shapes and lines of action. Generally, with a lot of figure drawing practice, you start small and with reference, 10 second sketches, to 20 second, 30, etc. They are rough, they are messy, they are practice, and honestly? Practice doesn't often look 'good' or perfect. It will look bad, it will look messy. The key with those figuring drawing practices really is to just keep doing them, no one can have enough practice and no one stops learning or is a master that is no longer in need of practice and warm ups. Repetition will help you learn and experimenting will help you develop your own style.

Tracing over a reference is a valid way of practicing and learning! If you don't already, try not relying on the tracing too much. For example: When I need a hand in a specific pose and I just can't find the reference? I will pose my own (or a friends) hand how I need, take the picture, and trace it, but the tracing is very basic, the basic shapes, the details and fine tuning I do on my own.

I didn't go to college, when it comes to art some find it helpful, some find it to be a waste, but definitely look into colleges in your area or online that might have some free classes or events that you can attend. Some places have walk in figure drawing classes, and in this post I've discussed online resources.

But again, I think perhaps the actual issue here is perfectionism and self perception. And this is coming from personal experience:

The idea of 'pretty' and 'perfect' practice drawings or figure drawings is unfortunately a negative effect of social media and perfectionism. I think most people are guilty of it- spending time on a piece that is definitely more than a sketch, posting it, and captioning it with 'quick doodle' or 'rough sketch'. It creates an illusion of something being easy, natural, seamless, 'perfect' for other artists viewing it, and though no one should compare themselves to the work of another, I know we're all guilty of doing it.

I know I am extremely guilty of perfectionism, its something I tackle a lot with my therapist. This I think might be a useful resource and group of module work books to help anyone dealing with perfectionism, these are the exact ones I use and they are free! Sometimes we are our own worst enemies with growth, and we're the ones that stop ourselves from growing the most with our feelings of discouragement. I know it can really suck when artist peers critique and point out mistakes, sometimes it can come from a place of wanting to help and sometimes it just sucks. I certainly get discouraged, much like you're talking about, its important to focus on yourself, and your own goals rather than the opinions of others unless you are asking them specifically for advice.

Its not always easy to combat discouragement and those feelings of perfectionism, but I believe that you can! You can absolutely be an illustrator! There are so many professionals and illustrators that have struggled just like this or who took their time getting into the field. You can absolutely do it!!

[robininthelabyrinth]

Nie Huaisang is the cutest thing monsters have ever seen, they can be yao dragons or giant turtles one look at nhs and they want to feed hug or kidnapt him nmj trainning involved recovering his baby brother from every monsters nest around qinge

ao3

“I’m sorry,” Nie Mingjue said, his teeth gritted together and his arms shaking from the strain of holding Baxia up. “He’s mine.”

The massive tiger glared down at him over Baxia’s blade, currently stuck in its teeth, and growled something.

“I know,” Nie Mingjue said. His legs were shaking now, too. “I know, trust me, I know! I’m human, he’s – young, yes, yes, I know. But he’s my little brother! I’m not giving him up!”

The tiger spat out the blade, knocking Nie Mingjue backwards on his ass.

“And when you change your mind?” the tiger demanded. “Will you abandon him then?”

“No!” Nie Mingjue exclaimed. “Never! He’s my brother!”

“Mark your words,” the tiger said ominously. “Or else.”

It turned and stalked off, its tail waving arrogantly in the air, until its towering white form disappeared into the distance.

Nie Mingjue sighed in relief. “Huaisang?” he called, and a small head popped out of the nest the tiger had started building, blinking owlishly at him. “Come on, come to da-ge. It’s time to go home.”

“But Master Tiger said we were going to play…”

“Yes, well, he wanted to play for too long,” Nie Mingjue said. “Only a few centuries, give or take. Let’s go.”

-

It started back when Nie Huaisang was born.

No, more accurately, it started when Nie Mingjue’s father fell in love with someone he probably oughtn’t have, which according to the sect was not a terribly uncommon problem for him to have, and decided to bring home a bride.

Nie Mingjue could still remember the first time he’d seen the Second Madame Nie. They’d all been lined up to greet her, all the sect and close members of the clan in rows according to rank, Nie Mingjue fidgeting in the inside of the house proper in his first tangle with formal clothing outside of the discussion conferences. She had come sweeping in with her head held as high as a princess, seductive and bewitching.

Every movement had been perfect, the eyes of all the men fogging over in lust and the women in admiration – or visa versa, depending on their personal preferences – and a wicked smile had lit up her face when she had stepped across the threshold, officially becoming the sect leader’s wife, and maybe everything would have gone along with whatever plan she’d had back then if she hadn’t next seen him.

“Oh, look at you,” she exclaimed, rushing over to pinch Nie Mingjue’s cheeks between her hands. “What a delectable little morsel you are!”

“Uh,” Nie Mingjue said, staring up at her with big round somewhat-worried eyes.

“You charming little dumpling,” she said. “You adorable mouthful of meat! Spoonful of egg yolk!”

Nie Mingjue cast his eyes around to see if anyone would be willing to help him.

“My eldest son,” Nie Mingjue’s father said, not without pride – albeit perhaps a puzzled sort of pride. “He’s probably just about old enough to come to the forecourt, if you don’t want him to live with you –”

“Oh no,” she said. “He’s definitely living with me.”

And so she stayed, and Nie Mingjue stayed with her, and she doted on him in a way he found pleasant if mildly disconcerting. Within a year, she was pregnant, and irritated with it; six months after that, she was round and complaining, even though Nie Mingjue solemnly assured her that she was as beautiful as ever.

“This is your fault, you know,” she told him, and he blinked at her. “It is! Don’t get me wrong, your father’s a charming bull when he wants to be, and of course he fucks like a champion stud, but I stayed here for you, my little cabbage roll, my charming chunk of liver.”

She patted her belly.

“That means this here is all because of you. So you’d better take responsibility!”

Nie Mingjue considered the issue for a little. The argument seemed plausible, so he raised his hands and put them on her rounded stomach. “I will take care and watch over him for all my life,” he vowed, and the baby inside kicked his hand in response, sealing the pact.

“Oh you are so cute,” she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “My darling pork bun! My little fish cake! I could eat you right up, if only you were just a little bit older!”

When Nie Huaisang was born, she disappeared in a welter of blood, but Nie Mingjue’s oath remained.

The trouble started after that.

-

“You can’t raise a cub like that properly,” the winged lion argued, bating its wings as if that would help it make its point better.

Nie Mingjue glared at him. “Watch me!”

“It’s for your own good, little human. He needs his own kind –”

“I’m not listening to a treasure-seeker!”

The lion scowled at him. “I’ll have you know that most humans think I’m good luck!”

“You’re not trying to steal most humans’ little brothers, are you?!”

The winged lion sighed, a deep sound, so very noble and long-suffering that Nie Mingjue couldn’t resist the urge to lift his foot and kick the lion right in the paw.

“Brat!”

“Don’t care!” he shouted. “You leave my brother alone! He’s my responsibility, not yours! Piss off!”

“You can’t even feed him properly -”

“I’ll figure it out!” Nie Mingjue bared his teeth and wished he was old enough for a saber.

“You little…fine. Fine! I’ll bring you a book on how to feed a huli jing kit, and you keep to it, you hear me?”

“I will,” Nie Mingjue said. “But don’t you even think of taking him away!”

“On your own head be it,” the winged lion grumbled. “Not everyone’s as understanding as me.”

-

“Why are you wet?” Nie Mingjue’s father asked him.

“Water monkeys,” Nie Mingjue said shortly. “There was a nest.”

“Water monkeys? Don’t they normally stay away from people…? Or, I suppose, were these ones feral?”

“Thieves.”

“Ah. Well, nothing to be done about it, I suppose…bad luck for you to run into them here, of all places. But good experience! How many people your age can say that they fought water monkeys?”

“Can we go home?” Nie Mingjue asked, a little plaintively, and rubbed his nose. “How much can you really have to say to the Jiang sect, anyway?”

His father chuckled. “More than either of us would like, unfortunately. But if you’ve had enough of water, which no one can blame you for, maybe you and Huaisang can go shopping in the pier instead?”

That would work, Nie Mingjue thought, and nodded happily.

(Sect Leader Jiang was extremely embarrassed about the ghostly rats in the night-market – he claimed they’d never seen neither nose nor tail of them before the Nie brothers had accidentally tripped over their trap and had to flee from the swarm...)

-

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nie-er-gongzi,” the white-clad cultivator from the mountain said, smiling broadly and saluting deeply.

Xiao Xingchen had made himself famous during his first half-dozen night-hunts alone for his extraordinary grace, bearing and strength, and he said he was on a mission to help the world. He was beautiful, virtuous, and matched each ideal of gentlemanly arts.

Sects throughout the cultivation world were drooling at the thought of enticing him to join them, fighting for the opportunity to put in a good word with him.

Not all sects.

Nie Mingjue stepped forward, purposely putting Nie Huaisang behind him.

“Don’t you even think about it,” he said, hand on the hilt of his saber. “Buzz off, birdbrain.”

Xiao Xingchen might wear white, but Nie Mingjue knew a zhuque chick when he saw one.

-

“I found something for my aviary, da-ge!” Nie Huaisang, seven years old and delighted with his clumsy autonomy, announced.

Nie Mingjue, less than a full year into his new role as sect leader, rubbed his eyes. “Oh?” he asked, only somewhat wanting to scream endlessly into the void, which was better than usual. “That’s nice, Huaisang…”

“Come look! It’s so pretty!”

“I’m a bit busy –”

“But da-ge!”

Nie Mingjue sighed and got up, following Nie Huaisang to the door only to come to a complete stop.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he said to the fenghuang currently pretending to be a rooster in a cage, as if anyone would actually mistake phoenix flames for regular feathers. “Do you have no dignity left?!”

-

“You can’t adopt the bashe,” Nie Mingjue said to Nie Huaisang, who pouted. “It eats elephants; we’d be broke within three months.”

He turned to the giant python.

“You can’t adopt Huaisang,” he said. “I will literally murder you.”

-

“Why can’t I go watch the eclipse?” Nie Huaisang complained. “Everyone else is going!”

“I’m not risking a tiangou.”

“The…dog that eats the sun? Really, da-ge, is that even real?”

“You know what,” Nie Mingjue said, “you’re grounded just for saying that.”

Nie Huaisang grinned.

-

“Maybe I want to go and live among the qilin!” Nie Huaisang screamed, fourteen and hormonal about it.

“Well you don’t get a choice!” Nie Mingjue bellowed back.

“You’re not my father! I don’t have to listen to what you say!”

“I’m your fucking sect leader and yes you do!”

“I hate you!”

“I don’t care if you hate me! You still aren’t going to go live in a field with some magic pointy deer and that’s final!”

The qilin herd wisely chose to withdraw.

-

“Da-ge,” Jin Guangyao hissed, and Nie Mingjue looked up from his work at him – he hadn’t heard Meng Yao this upset since he’d shoved him into a closet to get him out of way during the whole dangkang boar hunt debacle. “Da-ge, there’s a dragon outside.”

“Again?” Nie Mingjue said, standing up to stretch and feeling oddly unbalanced. They’d just finished another session with the song of Clarity, so he really shouldn’t be feeling like this; he would need to write to Lan Xichen again about his fears that the treatment really wasn’t working. Lan Xichen would probably only say to give it more time, another chance, but still… “Let me go talk to them. Dragons are the worst.”

“No, da-ge, you don’t understand,” Jin Guangyao said. “It’s not a water-serpent or – or even a jiaolong – it’s a dragon.”

“A flood-dragon is a type of dragon,” Nie Mingjue said, following Jin Guangyao outside. “You know that, it’s in the name, what’s the big – oh, I see. It’s a celestial dragon.”

Jin Guangyao glared at him with an expression suggesting that he was under-reacting, but Nie Mingjue really didn’t have the capacity in him to reach with appropriate fervor at the moment. He and Nie Huaisang had been fighting a lot recently, every little thing escalating into a giant argument, and he was no longer sure if he was doing the right thing in trying to force Nie Huaisang onto the path of his ancestors. After all, unlike Nie Mingjue, Nie Huaisang had – somewhat different ancestors, on his maternal side.

And, he supposed, Nie Huaisang was old enough to decide otherwise, if he truly wished…

Still, Nie Mingjue was as stubborn as a mule and had no intention of giving up his baby brother without a fight, so he braced himself and went over to the frankly massive creature draped over the entrance gateway and much of the training yard that the entirety of the Nie sect was doing its utmost best to pretend that they weren’t seeing.

Nie Huaisang was sitting on the thing’s five claws – an imperial celestial dragon, apparently – because of course he was.

“Excuse me,” Nie Mingjue called up to the dragon, which turned its head to regard him, an entire production that took nearly a quarter ké to accomplish. “The brat there is mine, please return him.”

“Da-ge!” Jin Guangyao hissed again, but Nie Mingjue waved him away.

“You have raised him well,” the dragon said, which was…a good deal nicer than most of these interactions usually went.

“…thanks?” Nie Mingjue said suspiciously, ignoring Jin Guangyao’s splutters of “It talks?!” “I think?”

“I have chosen to grant you a boon,” the dragon announced.

“…right,” Nie Mingjue said. “If this ‘boon’ is that you’ll take him off my hands, I’m afraid I’m going to have to refuse. He may be trouble, but he’s still my brother.”

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed, indignant. “Don’t be rude. I asked him for this!”

Nie Mingjue frowned at him, unable to resist the feeling of hurt even though he’d already told himself to expect something like this. “…you want to leave?”

“No, da-ge, don’t be ridiculous. I asked him to improve your health!”

Ah.

“Huaisang –” he started to say.

“Don’t you ‘Huaisang’ me!” his little brother shouted. “I know you’re trying to hide it, but it’s getting worse, isn’t it? San-ge told me so! He said I should get ready!”

Nie Mingjue made a mental note to strangle Jin Guangyao, who had no right to say something like that to Nie Huaisang even if maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to emotionally prepare Nie Huaisang for the upcoming bereavement and inheritance he would need to face.

“Anyway, he said to get ready, so I did!”

“You can’t just ask a divine dragon to fix me, Huaisang. That’s not how this works.”

“Uh, it totally does, and I did, and he agreed. So there!”

Nie Mingjue crossed his arms and glared. “And what did he want in return?”

“The boon is a reward for your past merit, not a trade for the deeds of the future,” the dragon said, not even slightly hiding how its whiskers were shaking with suppressed laughter. “You have travelled a difficult road, and borne the weight of it well. And besides…”

“Besides?”

“If you were to die, he would undoubtedly petition the creatures of the underworld to return you.”

“Well, fuck,” Nie Mingjue said, having not considered that. “Fine. Whatever. Heal me and I’ll try to keep an eye on my health going forward.”

Maybe more Clarity? He could try to free up his schedule, get in a few more sessions…

“I just give up,” Jin Guangyao said behind him. “I just fucking give up.”

Nie Mingjue, assuming that he was talking about Nie Huaisang’s nonsense, agreed whole-heartedly.

[greektravelblog]

Day 2

Day 2 started off with the land line in our apartment ringing off the hook at 2am. That was easily ignored by me, since I turned around and promptly went to sleep. The next time I was alive was when my alarm went off at 7:15. We had a scheduled campus and neighborhood tour at 9am. I was up and ready before anyone else in my apartment, and spent the time on our porch and in our living room since it's lined with windows. We were meant to meet the Orientation Leaders in the lobby of the building R1 (I live in R3 right across the street,) at 8:45. My roommate didn't wake up in time, unfortunately, and neither did a bunch of the other girls that I live with. So, we walked the 12 minutes up to campus and luckily made it there in time. Today was very hot, but there was always a cool, shady spot or a nice breeze flowing, so it was bearable. We stood and talked with the orientation leaders and amongst ourselves until the tour started. The campus is tiny. And I mean tiny. For those of you following that know WVU, it could fit in less than half of Downtown's campus. It consists of three buildings, DC (Deree College), AC (Arts Center), and CN (Communications Building). Along with a gym, library, theatre, amphitheaters (yes, in the ground, yes, there's more than one, and yes, it is made of stone), pool, and track field. All-in-all it has everything needed in order to be a successful school, including the friendly people.

The tour was forty minutes at most, and the farthest building was like walking from the lair to high street at WVU- long but nothing compared to the hike that is Evansdale to Downtown. The library has a digital museum inside, and a whole fish tank. The buildings are pretty modern, yet simple, and the hallways are all open-air. Only the classrooms sit inside. There are several beautiful nooks and crannies outside in the shade for studying. The AC building is the same, except there is in fact a Starbucks. However, the drinks and pastries aren't the same as the US. Currently, they're featuring a banana split drink and a raspberry passion fruit drink.

I have not tried them yet, but the latter is on my list of things to try.

Once we returned, we went for ice-breakers and lunch. We gathered in a circle and took turns introducing ourself and saying 2 truths and 1 lie. So of course, I lent on my old reliables. (I've had to play this game way too many times because of theatre.) So mine consisted of: My parents work for NASA, I was in Paris when the Notre Dame burned, and I've been on the radio three times. Outrageous a bit? Maybe. But it's what I've used since middle school. (Well not the Paris one, that was in 2019, but I always choose what I think to be the most impressive experiences in my life, what has changed me the most, or what I'm most proud of.) The girl next to me picked out the lie, but thought I had been on the radio four times when I've only been twice, but what was the most hilarious was the girl next to my roommate (who knew the answer so I forbade her from saying anything). She looked at me and said: "You're parents don't work for NASA. I remembered you said you're from West Virginia." I had to force back a laugh at that. I'm not sure if she meant that as a vague insult, or just a simple "there's no NASA in WV." She didn't elaborate, and I didn't ask. Either way, I found it amusing to think that there was no possible way my parent's could work for such a high level government organization simply because of where I lived. Telecommuting is a thing now, no? Anyways, after we disbanded and went to grab some food, a Greek high school student who was on the tour stopped me and asked about your careers, mom and dad. I told her you were optical engineers and worked on GPS' and satellites and she responded by saying that her brother's dream was to work for NASA. She asked me about how he should look into a career there, so I informed her about the internship program and that it was a wonderful opportunity to segway into a career there. She thanked me and told me she'd pass along the info. So mom, dad, if you end up with a greek boy as an intern soon, you'll know where from.

The food was wonderful, it was only a simple turkey sandwich but good Lord how I've missed European bread. I forgot just how amazing it is. But what surprised me the most was how delicious the orange juice was. I genuinely haven't tasted anything better, even in Florida, and I would bring it all back home with me if I could.

After that, they rest of the group went on a neighborhood tour. I stayed behind because I wanted to get a sticker I need for my ID to use the pool or gym saying that I was in good physical condition to use everything. However, I ended up not getting it and won't receive it until Monday. But hey, I'm still getting it. My roommate (M) said there wasn't anything important on the tour, nor was it that informative, so I relaxed some at that. Once I got the news back on the athletics sticker, I made my way back to the Bazaar from day 1 and that little fruit market. I wanted to pick up some eggs, milk, and after having those amazing kiwis last night, I wanted more. I got what I needed and made my way back home where I promptly fell asleep for a few hours. I was still reeling from my lack of sleep on the plane, and needed to do some catch-up after an exhausting half-day. I woke in time for a 5 minute orientation (literally only 5 minutes) and watched a bit of the Simpsons. My other roommate (R) messaged me and M, asking if we wanted to go out with her to grab some coffee before the pizza night the RA's were hosting at 7. M isn't a big coffee person, so R and I went alone to Lola's. It's a beautiful café/bar with good coffee and (what looks like) good grilled cheeses.

This is where I found out Roe V Wade was overturned.

A friend of R's messaged her during our outing, and her and I were stunned into silence. I won't get much into the politics of things here, but I will say that R and I both want to stay longer here than we did even before this happened.

Anyways,

Pizza night was a blast! Greek Domino's is the only Domino's I can tolerate. And the RA's were so sweet. R became close with the RA's since she's been here for both sessions, so she introduced me to everyone. They were a breath of fresh air compared to the rest of the crowd.

Everyone that I have met that works at the college or is from Greece has been nothing but kind to me. There has been no awkward silence you get in the US once the basic pleasantries have been answered. They genuinely want to know about American culture and love to spend time with one another until late in the evening. We had to inform them that the reason no one was answering the landline in the apartment other than R was because no one in America answers their phones due to spam calls.

Needless to say, we'll be answering the phone from now on.

We talked for hours about cultural differences, personal interests, hometowns, and Greece itself. One of the RA's braided my hair and asked me about D&D. She's a theatre major herself so she suggested a book to me that's a retelling of Shakespeare's The Tempest. Returning to my apartment, I feel fulfilled and more settled than I did yesterday. I was concerned about meeting friends and fitting in but R, M, and the RA's (and a few of the other students), proved to me that there were in fact people here who could have fun without needing to be consistently drunk. I also have a few built in guides to help me in getting familiar with the area.

Overall, day 2 was successful and very enjoyable.

Things I have taken away from today:

Both motorbikes AND cars park on sidewalks.

Turtles are everywhere here.

3 kiwi's will cost you 1.50 Euros.

Greeks give a head jerk (chin up) to say "no."

The juice here has crack in it- there is no other explanation for it to be so good. (This includes the lemonade).

Greeks never say opa as cheers. More so as an "oops." (And they don't even realize they say it, they'll deny they say it at all.)

There is no cheese pizza in Greece, it's called Margarita pizza.

Greeks will talk about anything and everything casually. Nothing is off-limits.

Eye-contact is huge here.

Greeks don't know that the American "Hi, how're you?" Is a greeting, not an invitation to describe every detail of your life, currently. (Same for "what's up.")

Greeks are appalled at the lack of rights Americans have.

[quazartranslates]

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH37

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

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Chapter 37: Star Death Reality Show (XX) {cw: gore}

With a loud noise, the ground shook violently. Lara, who was squatting outside waiting for news, fell in the snow and looked at the ground in horror.

What happened? Was it an earthquake? No, it wasn't. There was a big explosion underground!

Even if this degree of an explosion occurred outside, it would be enough to break through the armor of a tank. If it happened indoors... No one within a range of more than ten meters would survive under the power of the explosion!

Lara's heart sank. She couldn't listen to the warning from Qi Leren anymore. She got up and rushed toward the house!

A light like the dawn, quite different from that of the polar day, pierced the earth. It rose from the abyss like a slowly blooming flower, spreading out its silvery white light like layer after layer of a gauze curtain. This polar world of ice and snow seemed to have returned to its mother's warm and comfortable womb, eliminating any sense of harm.

Lara just stood there and didn't know what had happened. She seemed to have entered an incredible world. The blooming silver light was getting brighter and brighter, not only emitting from the ground, but also rising gradually. There was a reflection of Heaven in this light! It seemed like a rolled-up picture, unfolding slowly, revealing a piece of Eden at dusk in front of her eyes!

Lara’s mouth fell open as she witnessed this cognitive subversion with audiences hundreds of millions of light-years away.

Countless flowers fell from the sky, reflecting the beams of light rising slowly from the ground. This silvery world was expanding its boundaries, and there was no coldness as in the area that it touched. She was like a little girl who was hungry and cold, with tears in her eyes as she saw the phantasmic light of a match.

It turns out… It turns out that in this world, there really is a God.

There was a tremor below the ground again, and a hole suddenly appeared in the outer wall of the house. A shining white figure flew out from the inside, stretching its white wings behind it and lightly landing in front of Lara.

He was glowing, and the "angel" shrouded in silvery-white spots of light nodded at her, like a dream that was too unreal to be true.

"Qi... Qi Leren?" Lara hesitated before speaking his name aloud.

The angel smiled slightly: "It's me."

Lara could imagine how excited the audience on the other side of the cameras would be at this moment, because she was the same.

A miracle. They actually existed, and one had happened here!

　　

　　&&&

　　

A few seconds ago, Qi Leren, who was targeted by a rocket launder was in a desperate situation.

S/L? Ignoring that it was still in cooldown, even if it was used, in this confined space, the high temperature produced by the explosion could easily kill him instantly after the file loaded. Even if he had three chances, it was not enough! He couldn't be like a hero in a movie, hitting his opponent's wrist with one shot and stopping him from shooting this rocket launcher.

In this deadly one thousandth of a second, Qi Leren's naked eyes caught Mark's movements. He had already lifted the rocket launcher and was ready to fire...

He had only one choice, there were no other options.

Qi Leren tore out the gift given to him by the Prophet, and his strength was so great that he broke the thin chain. This winged piece of metal was instantly stimulated by his mind, and then the next second, the rocket launcher was aimed at him, and Qi Leren in the center of the explosion should have been blown to pieces...

But he saw a light, and the illusion of a huge angel came from the void, which lightly descended to him and brought him the power of the Prophet.

Qi Leren felt as if he had returned to the waters where the Prophet laid dormant. The gentle water wrapped around his body, making him feel comfortable and slowing his breathing. Some great power beyond everything he knew was in his blood, which made him reach out and block the rocket launcher approaching the speed of sound with the palm of an ordinary human, but at this moment he felt as if he was catching a floating balloon with his palm.

As if it were a collision between magic and science and technology, the rocket launcher exploded, but the explosion slowed down countless times in his eyes. The silver spots on his body easily blocked the terrible destructive power around him. Even if everything around him was shattered in the explosion, he could safely wait for it to end.

And at this moment, he felt inner peace, neither fear nor worry. It was like overlooking the human world as a god in the sky, who wouldn't panic because of the wind, rain, and thunder.

He also "saw" a huge clock behind him. The gears and rivets clearly visible on the dial made it give off the mechanical sensibilities of the industrial revolution. On the dial, a hand was walking fast.

Once, twice, and three times, the power he borrowed from the Prophet's item would be returned to its original owner.

[Prophet’s Heart: A god-level item handmade by the noble and great Prophet that can make you feel the pleasure of turning into a bird. Holders can summon an archangel to come and fight on their behalf for 3 minutes with a cooling time of 24 hours.]

Three minutes was enough to solve everything in this dark basement.

The parasitic octopus in Annie's body had been killed; even the stones on her body were blown to pieces. Most of the space in the basement had become a collapsed ruin. Qi Leren, who hovered in midair without touching the ground, waved his hand. Some kind of psychic force made him easily lift the heavy stones, and "drive" them aside like a sheepdog driving sheep, revealing a spacious passageway.

The tunnel leading to the institute had collapsed again, but this time, Qi Leren didn't have to work so hard to move the stones like Mark had. He just waved his hand, and these stones were swept aside, as if they were not much heavier than dust. Only the clacking sound told him that these stones were not without weight.

The stones were cleaned up, and Mark, who was also affected by the explosion, remained in human form.

Half of his face was smashed by the flying stones during the explosion, and a soft sticky tentacle was sticking through the bone out of his eye socket that had lost its eyeball. After discovering that there was no barrier between him and Qi Leren, the octopus let out a shrill scream, instantly bounced out of Mark's body, and fled into the tunnel of the Institute in a hurry—this was probably the last time it used the human brain to think out a countermeasure.

Because the next second, Qi Leren raised his arm.

With a distance of more than twenty metres, the power of his mind pressed the pause button on this crazy fleeing monster. It became motionless and collapsed to the ground. Time had cruelly bound it in a cage.

Qi Leren’s outstretched hand gently clenched.

Unable to move, the monster was pinched into a mass of bloody pieces of jelly, which scattered on the ground one by one.

In just a few seconds, it was all over.

The light surrounding his whole body was still bright. In this silver light, Qi Leren felt as if he could do anything.

Was this the power of field-level masters? Even if the item only borrowed a little strength from one, it had far exceeded Qi Leren’s imagination. Facing this absolute power that was beyond the limit of human beings, Qi Leren could hardly believe that the Prophet was still a human being.

Fields were much more profound and terrible than he had thought. Through the process of getting stronger and closer to the field level, it almost seemed like a person evolved to another higher species—such as a god.

He was afraid that the world of these field masters was quite different from that of ordinary people. Unfortunately, for now, he has no qualification to know.

The two amphioctopuses in the basement were dealt with, and Qi Leren was in a good mood. Although the wings behind them seemed like they would get in the way, they were not corporeal. The archangel possessing him did not have any material existence, as if it was just a courier who had brought him the Prophet’s power. He would wait three minutes for Qi Leren to sign for it and then leave calmly.

The mechanical clock in the void had already finished more than one rotation, and Qi Leren could not delay any longer. Although he intended to enter the underground research institute again to find traces of He Yi, as well as Dr. Lu and Du Yue who may have also gone in, he still had to say hello to Lara first.

Qi Leren waved his hand and tore a hole to create a passage above him. The wings behind him fluttered gently, making him rise. This novel experience impressed him deeply. It was good to be a bird man.

Flying out of the basement, at a glance, Qi Leren saw Lara in a trance.

She stared at Qi Leren in a distracted manner and shouted in a whispering voice: "Qi Leren?"

It seemed that this poor girl's atheistic views had been blown to pieces. The initiator should continue to maintain the inscrutable style of a painting, so as to avoid the audience at the other end of the distant camera attacking his identity crazily.

Hopefully his present magic act would fool the audience. Amitabha— Oh, no: God bless.

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Editor’s Note: Qi Leren using the Prophet’s Heart is the cover art for vol 1 of the physical edition! The full art without the cover text can be found on the artist’s Lofter [here]

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[forasecondtherewedwon]

Unhallowed Arts

Threesome: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones x Brad Davis Rating: E Word Count: 11,077

This is a submission for Thotumn, organized by @spideysmjs!!! Today’s prompt: Threesome (but this fic also includes previous prompts: Semi-Public, Face-Sitting, and “Don’t Be Gentle”).

Summary: “What’s the compromise between abruptly shutting this down (her sex drive weeps) and getting in bed with a guy who will make the experience too emotionally intense?

'Have you ever had a threesome?’ Michelle blurts.

'…What? No.’

‘Neither have I. But I’ve been, um, wanting to try it.’

Have you? she demands of herself, wiping a damp palm on her jeans.

‘You, me, and someone else?’ Brad’s eyebrows are very high on his forehead. ‘That’s a lot of bodies, uh, coming together.’”

Brad Davis has a Mary Shelley mug. He used to drink from it—coffee he brought to work in a thermos from home, which smelled so delicious that Michelle would go out of her way to inhale it over his shoulder, pretending to let him show her something on his monitor—until the mug cracked and he switched to using it to house typical office junk. She asked him about the mug exactly once, fearing it was bait to intrigue a certain kind of person, to make him seem like a certain kind of person himself. But he surprised her. Turns out he’s not a douche (or at least not a douche who lures women in with female authors of historical significance), just a genuine Shelley fan.

He’s not many things Michelle initially assumed him to be, striking them off a mental list over the months they’ve worked together: not a guy who takes the last free seat at the table during a team meeting, not a guy who checks out his own reflection on his black phone screen, not a guy who wears sturdy hiking boots for show. When they troop out to conduct surveys on behalf of the conservation initiative they work for, Brad scrambles up the side of eroding banks and squelches into marshland until water soaks his socks and surface residue clings to his leg hair.

Brad’s not pushy, though she’s well aware that he’s been watching her as long as she’s been watching him.

Early on into them working together, she fell into his arms. Literally fell. The team encouraged Michelle to wait for the second truck, the one bringing the ladder, but she got stubborn and climbed the tree to check the bat box the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately, some of the branches were dead and hollow inside, but Brad caught her when she dropped eight feet. And then flirted with her before she could catch her breath. She had some less friendly words for him in return. The first time he surprised her was when he immediately respected her clear boundaries and backed off. They’ve learned to work easily with each other and drink together in the same booth when people from the initiative hit the bar—on evenings they don’t smell too much like they spent the day in Mother Nature’s armpit. They’re friendly, could almost be friends, except that she’s incredibly conscious of his persistent attraction to her, even if he doesn’t do anything about it because he’s not a douche. It’s a knowledge Michelle simply lives with.

But there have been an awful lot of evenings lately of smelling like whatever swamp she waded into during the day, of either going straight home to shower the stench away (thank fuck for rent with utilities included), or hunching over her laptop as she tries to get a grant application finished before a midnight submission deadline. Nobody she works with is holding their breath for the day the government decides it should just give them the money to protect local habitats without making them prove themselves over and over and compete against other worthy environmental projects for the funds. So, Michelle works, and she wades, and she loses many of the evenings she could be out getting laid.

On a regular they-better-pay-us-for-the-overtime evening and not a marshy/swampy/boggy one, she’s comfortably stretched out in a booth with Brad across the table. Two of their colleagues were here a minute ago, but they got up to… go to the bathroom? Grab another round? That’s a little hazy, but Michelle can feel something becoming clearer to her. Observing her own hand as she twirls the base of her latest empty across the tabletop, she asks a question.

“You like Mary Shelley, right?”

Brad, glassy-eyed but still trying to look professional with the way he has his hands folded on the surface in front of him, smiles at her. She can feel it.

“Yes. Her creativity was astounding. If I were in the running for the Miss Universe pageant—”

Michelle jerks her chin back and looks up to make a face at him.

“—and they asked me what historical figure I would most like to have dinner with, I would say Mary Shelley. Hands down.”

“Cool story, bro. Hey, Brad?”

“Mhmm.”

She can tell by his drifting gaze and expression of introspection that he’s planning out his pageant answers.

“Do you still want to sleep with me?”

That focuses his attention. He laughs uncomfortably.

“Why… why would you think that?”

“Oh, so, what’s your limit?” Michelle presses, slightly snide with the alcohol in her bloodstream. “You’re not interested in going past holding hands? Making out for no more than five minutes? Because you obviously want something,” she rambles on. “You look at me, I know you do.”

“This isn’t just an idle question, is it?” Brad asks.

He leans forward to look at her as carefully as his tipsiness will allow. As if he already knows the answer. Their thought patterns are very similar, she’s found. It’s why they’re effective at work and why it’s possible to fall into a discussion on books during their overlapping lunch hours. She likes him—not a lot, but enough to have started this conversation. She stares back at him.

“I wouldn’t say no to it,” he offers quietly, though the bar is crowded tonight and Michelle doubts their words are traveling beyond the booth.

Now, Brad’s looking at her in a way that makes her realize, all this time, he’s barely been looking at her. With the permission to think of her in this way, there’s a clear desire there, a gaze that slips again and again to her mouth. Huh. Ok. Maybe she didn’t completely think this whim through before sharing it with him. She can’t fuck that Brad. She’s been imagining the drinking companion, the nice forearms he reveals when he literally rolls up his sleeves in the field, the man who will always be a little on her nerves for flirting with her as he cradled her against him. Someone whose world she could casually rock with the assurance that they both have enough self-confidence to carry on afterwards without getting clingy or feeling disposed of.

What’s the compromise between abruptly shutting this down (her sex drive weeps) and getting in bed with a guy who will make the experience too emotionally intense?

“Have you ever had a threesome?” Michelle blurts.

“…What? No.”

“Neither have I. But I’ve been, um, wanting to try it.”

Have you? she demands of herself, wiping a damp palm on her jeans.

“You, me, and someone else?” Brad’s eyebrows are very high on his forehead. “That’s a lot of bodies, uh, coming together.”

“Come on, Brad—”

“‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’” he guesses.

“I was going to say, I thought you loved Frankenstein.”

She rounds her impulsive invitation off with a smile.

—

Michelle doesn’t volunteer to select the third person. When she considers which of her friends and acquaintances she’d be comfortable having sex with, well, there’s Brad. That already hasn’t gone the way she predicted. Everyone else she’s close to either feels like family, is in a monogamous relationship, or just isn’t attractive to her in that way. She consoles herself over putting the choice of their third into Brad’s hands with the thought that he seems like he’d be the most suspect person in a friend group (yes, they get along, but there’s something sleazy about the way he tries too hard), so whoever he asks can only be more tolerable than him.

“So, a buddy of mine said he’d be into it,” Brad says as she’s passing his desk one day. Michelle stops dead and he swivels in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“You’re talking about…”

“Yeah.” He darts a look around, then hits her with a conspiratorial smile.

“Oh. Ok. Good. Turtles,” she says more loudly to cover for them. Her gaze darts to the nearest desk, but Jocelyn’s wearing headphones and bobbing her head as she populates a spreadsheet. Reassured, Michelle takes a step towards Brad and lowers her voice again. “What’s his name? How do you know him?”

“His name’s Peter. We play soccer together.”

“How the hell do you have time to participate in organized sports?”

“That’s what I do while you’re working your way through the New York Times Best Seller list,” Brad jokes.

“Fair. But who is this guy?”

“You want his résumé?”

“No, I want to know he’s not going to give me an STI or try anything freaky.”

“Freaky,” he echoes. “As opposed to threesomes, which are an incredibly common thing to do with your boyfriend.”

“Or your friend from work,” Michelle retorts, to keep things very clear. Brad appears fleetingly wounded. Too bad. He can say no any time, but it’s obvious that he’d rather see her naked in a threesome than the alternative. Which is never.

“Yeah, of course. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about Peter. He’s responsible, he’s single, he was raised by his aunt and they’re still really close. She comes to all our games.” He lets out a derisive sort of laugh and Michelle narrows her eyes at him.

“That’s sweet.”

“I guess,” he concedes.

“Why’s he single?” she asks, rapid-fire.

“I don’t know, because he wants to be?”

“‘Wants to be’ like he’s emotionally stable and waiting for the right person to come along or ‘wants to be’ like he’s a flake with commitment issues?”

Brad gives her a look like she’s overthinking this; it betrays an utter lack of comprehension of a woman’s perspective on relationships. The validity of her questions goes over his head.

“Why does it matter if he has commitment issues?”

“Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not trying to date him, it just says something about his personality. I don’t want to do this with somebody selfish, because if he’s selfish in other areas, he’s probably selfish in bed.”

“He’s a good passer,” Brad says. “On the field. He always ends the season with more assists than goals.”

“That’s… not a totally useless testimonial.”

“I appreciate your approval.”

Michelle would laugh if his tone weren’t a little too earnest. The way he really wants to impress her can be grating. Well, he’ll soon have his chance to impress her in a situation where she actually wants to be impressed.

“Get back to work, slacker,” she tells him, returning to her own desk.

Fifteen minutes later, Brad texts her with three different dates to choose from. Michelle pulls up her calendar, colour-coded with deadlines and days she’ll be working out in the woods. Taking late nights and the need for long showers into account, she picks a date, then leaves her thumb hovering over ‘Send’. She puts her phone down.

This is where she could still back out. Brad’s mentioned it to his friend, but she’s under no obligation to either of them. Would it be awkward to change her mind and see Brad at work every day? Yes, though she could always say she just wasn’t that serious about it to begin with. Which she wasn’t! For someone who’s soothed by referring to her colour-coded calendar and progressing through life with each forward step carefully considered, tossing out a suggestion to have a threesome was rash.

Michelle eyes her phone.

On the other hand, Brad likes her too much to be a dick post-ménage à trois, which, as far as she can see, is sort of an ideal trait in a threesome companion. If she were going to do this. She wheels her chair back and cranes to peer across the room at him. Focused on his screen, he brushes his black hair out of his face with a quick swipe of his hand. Damn, he is nice-looking. The kind of guy Michelle would definitely approach at a bar for a one-night stand if he flashed a smile her way. If picturing him naked intrigues her, then the idea of lying down between him and another muscled body (Brad said soccer, so she’s assuming this friend has an athletic build) while the three of them wind over and under each other like a braid definitely ticks a big ‘YES’ box in her brain. Her hand shoots out for her phone. She hits ‘Send’.

Three bodies which will, in Brad’s words, be coming together. Maybe not what Mary Shelley had in mind, but anticipating this threesome does more for Michelle’s libido than an electrified jigsaw of corpses ever could.

—

It’s a different bar, and she’s in different clothes, but otherwise, it’s not a totally foreign way for Michelle and Brad to spend their Friday evening. Provided he shows up. She darted home after work and a loaded glance at Brad, showered, and starred deep into her neglected makeup bag like it was some sort of prophetic tool. Michelle, it said to her, you don’t want lipstick smeared all over your face and eyeshadow fallout stinging your eyes. Leave it at mascara and a whole whack of waterproof eyeliner. She obeyed these wise words with trembling hands, nearly prodding herself in the eye with her mascara wand because, even with a doable task to concentrate on, she was nervous.

She adjusts her short, black skirt, rocking side-to-side on the stool. For a regular date, it’s the kind of item she would borrow from a friend, but it struck Michelle as incredibly gross to wear a friend’s skirt to a threesome and then return it to them afterwards, so she bought this one online. During work hours. Feeling incredibly furtive, though everybody dabbles in online shopping during lulls in their workload. The skirt was never a normal purchase; she knew it was going to end up right here, right now, between her ass and a barstool. She gulps the end of her whiskey and goes back to cradling the beer that’s been her emotional support as she waits for the guys.

Arriving ten minutes early has felt like an age—time stretching wretchedly like those clocks in ‘The Scream’—but she finally hears a familiar voice calling her name. Flipping her hair out of the neck of her leather jacket and grabbing her support system, Michelle turns to spot Brad’s face. He smiles and waves, stepping through the crowd that’s building steadily as the after-work drinkers are exchanged for the cutting-loose-for-the-weekend drinkers. When she slips down from the stool, her skirt rides up, and the man who is usually just a co-worker allows himself to notice. His gaze on her bare legs feels good.

“Sorry we’re late,” he says, though they both know she’s early. But Michelle will take this pleasantry over an implication that she’s overeager.

Since they were at work together only a few hours ago, she skips small talk.

“Where’s your…” Friend, she’s going to say. She doesn’t need to.

Brad—tidy in a partially unbuttoned blue shirt—angles himself towards her side, making room for the woman taking the barstool she vacated, and Michelle sees a man approaching with the two of them as his clear destination. Her first sense of him is filtered through Brad. Once, through Brad’s description, twice, through Brad’s cologne. It may be coming off her friend’s skin, but the scent clings to Peter in her brain. What she’s smelling is the woods, only more expensive somehow, like a perfume company bottled the idea of glamping. Doesn’t matter that the scent doesn’t suit him at all. He walks with his head up, eyes openly excited, and it makes her think of a schoolkid progressing through a museum’s dinosaur exhibit. All he’s missing is a backpack with straps for him to clutch. Letting her gaze skim down from his face, Michelle actually can’t picture him trying to haul on a backpack; his shoulders look broad and strong, even under the incongruous red hoodie he’s wearing.

“Oh,” he says when he sees her standing next to Brad. Under any other circumstances, she’d be taken aback by his eyes scanning the full length of her body, but she’s going to fuck this stranger tonight and when he looks back up to her face, he’s grinning. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she replies, more guarded, less forward, until Brad suggests trying to find someplace to sit and Michelle’s able to check Peter out from behind as he leads them away from the bar. Nice butt.

They snag a coveted corner spot as a small group in business attire is leaving it, settling with Brad between them. Peter makes himself useful by dashing back to the bar and returning with the fingers of one hand twined between the necks of a trio of beers and the fingers of the other slightly dipping into the liquid in a pair of tumblers.

“I didn’t know what you’d like beyond what you’re already drinking,” he says, jerking his chin towards the beer Michelle finished while he was gone.

“That’s fine,” she assures him. “I don’t want to be too… I want to be aware of…”

God, trying to discuss the imminent threesome directly is making her flustered. She has a swig from the new bottle he placed in front of her. Peter leans across Brad and offers his to clink with. Where Brad’s face is aggressively handsome in the heavy line of his eyebrows and the sharp perfection of his teeth, up close, Peter’s is cute and unintimidating.

“Here’s to being a consenting participant tonight and remembering it tomorrow,” he says.

Unintimidating, but not uncompelling, especially when he tilts his head back to drink and she can watch the line of his jaw.

Michelle blushes, but knocks her bottle against his.

Two rounds deeper for them and one for her, the heat of the bar and the alcohol in her system are getting to her. She winds her way back from the washroom and shrugs out of her jacket before sitting down. Peter manages to get the end of his sentence out, but Brad doesn’t even try to respond as he takes in the low sides of her silky top. Michelle slides closer to him than she was sitting before and puts a hand on his knee as he finally turns his head and stutters out a reply to Peter. Peter looks past him and catches her eye. Her heart’s springing up and down in her chest because she realized, staring at her reflection as she washed her hands, that, if they’re going to do this, somebody’s gotta make a move. Peter, sleeves shoved up, is staring back at her like he’s been thinking the same thing. His hand smooths over Brad’s thigh.

Under the table, Brad keeps his legs still, his feet flat on the ground. His comfort in his own skin is something Michelle’s always respected. He even succeeds in raising his glass steadily to his lips and taking another drink while Peter runs his hand higher. With a little throat-clearing, Brad parts his thighs further. She doesn’t mean to be, but Michelle’s waiting for Peter to go first. They were talking about something innocuous when he said just enough to imply that he’s never been in a threesome either. Regardless, there’s a confidence in the way he touches Brad. She trails her fingers up Brad’s thigh and Peter locks eyes with her as their gazes cross watching their friend swallow.

Suddenly, the man between them is a little less present, even with the sharp breath he takes at the moment Peter tucks his hand against his crotch. Michelle rests her hand over his. She feels his skin, lets her fingers slip through his, as Brad gasps and swells beneath Peter’s palm; she can tell—they have to change the curve of their grip to accommodate the erection. Brad’s arm curls around her waist and presses her into his side as her and Peter’s hands move together, stroking through Brad’s pants, rubbing him. He glances at her, heat in his eyes, but she’s looking at Peter again by the time she leans in and kisses Brad’s throat. She draws it out into a lick at the slack way Peter’s mouth is hanging open. Hopefully, the fall of her hair is blocking the necking from the view of other patrons, but that hope is tough to keep in mind when Peter’s tongue appears to wet his lower lip. Like she’s kissing him.

There’s a squeeze between Michelle’s thighs that has her gripping Peter’s hand more firmly, urging him to jerk Brad off faster. She glances towards Peter’s lap and he lifts his hoodie with his free hand to expose the bulge in the front of his jeans. The scent of her perfume rises as sweat trickles between her breasts. They knead Brad rapidly until he chokes out a plea for them to stop, begging to take this someplace private. She grabs her jacket in one hand and links the fingers of her other through Brad’s. Tugging him to the exit, she trusts Peter to bring up the rear.

—

Making out in the back of a rideshare is bad behaviour, so Michelle takes the passenger’s seat when the car pulls up. Because she is feeling the need to go back a step from risky under-the-table handjobs and just kiss someone. And that someone is not the friend she arranged this with. She glances at the sidemirror as they’re passing under a streetlight and Peter’s staring at her. He winks. Slowly, like she’s just looking idly around as they drive, she turns to glance into the backseat. Brad has his arm stretched out along the top the seats and his fingers have dipped into the neck of Peter’s hoodie. Michelle’s pulse accelerates just imagining the warmth of that throat. Scrambling for her phone, she sends Brad a text.

Put your fingers in his mouth.

She faces forward again for about a block, prolonging her outward nonchalance even as she hears a vibration, followed by Brad’s soft snort of acknowledgement as he reads her text. She glances around the edge of her seat and sees him act. His hand comes out of the sweatshirt to take Peter by the chin and turn his face towards him. Briefly, he inclines his head towards his friend, speaking too quietly for her to distinguish the words, but Michelle guesses it’s something about her watching because Peter’s gaze jumps to her as he opens his mouth and accepts two of Brad’s fingers. She can see him sucking as Brad withdraws, cheeks flushed. He looks to her—for approval, she thinks, until he holds his wet fingers up and curls them in the air in a highly suggestive motion. Oh shit. Michelle feels herself pressing down on the floor of the car like she’s in the driver’s seat with the accelerator under her foot.

They’re going to her place where: she’s on home turf, she knows it’s clean, she can go right to sleep after kicking them out. Also, the one luxury of her second-story apartment is the king-size bed her friends seriously, outrageously got on ladders to help her push through the sliding door of her balcony because that was easier than carrying it up the narrow staircase. Tonight, she plans to get some good use out of all those acres of mattress.

As with the hijinks in the car, she knows both men are watching her as she lets them into the building and then through her front door.

“Kitchen,” Michelle says, with a loose wave of her hand. “Living room, bathroom. And the bedroom’s at the end of the hall.”

Brad excuses himself to empty his bladder and/or psych himself up in the mirror above the bathroom sink and she’s wondering how to entertain his friend during these uncertain moments of transition when Peter basically lunges forward and kisses her. She moans into his mouth because it’s sudden but it’s good. His hands go right to her ass and her arms wrap around the back of his neck, holding him against her. With her heels, she has a handful of inches on him, but that doesn’t appear to make him pouty or daunted. It’s less than a minute, probably fewer than thirty seconds (understanding the flow of time is temporarily lost on Michelle), but they separate panting.

“You can tell Brad to stick his fingers in my mouth all you want,” Peter murmurs, still staring at her lips, “but I’ve got something I wanna to stick places too.”

“Understood.” She nudges her thigh into his groin.

“So, you guys aren’t waiting for me, huh?” Brad asks with a tight smile as he walks out of the bathroom to see Peter’s hands on her ass and her pressing back against him.

This is kind of the idea, all three of them experimenting with each other, but she can tell he’s annoyed that anything went on while he was out of the room. That he’s possibly jealous. Though it doesn’t feel right to move away from Peter, Michelle knows how to rectify this. She strides to Brad and puts her hands lightly on his chest before kissing him, more coyly than Peter kissed her. She lets Brad come down to her as he hunts out what he wants from the kiss. This feels nice too, though it has more of the familiarity of kissing a friend—even though they haven’t touched in this way before—than the bubbling lust that went with kissing Peter. As she continues, tracing her fingers to the center of his chest to stroke his skin and begin undoing his buttons, Peter comes up behind her and helps her out of her jacket. She hears her keys jingle in the pocket and tap against her phone. When his hands sneak through the sides of her shirt to run across the underside of her breasts, Michelle pushes Brad back, back, back, and the three of them stagger to her bedroom.

She and Brad make out in the dark for a while, and without light, the kissing get rougher, their breathing ragged. Once she has all the buttons of Brad’s shirt undone, she reaches back for Peter and he grips her hand tightly as he grinds his erection against her ass. They’re pressing snugly into her front and back when she thinks of things like being able to locate condoms and ogle muscles—both activities require some light. Michelle squeezes out from between them and turns her bedside lamp on, angling the shade so the light stays low. Turning to check on them, she sees one man standing there with his shirt open and dishevelled and the other rigid in the front of his jeans. Brad’s hard too—she felt it when she stood against him, but his erection’s not visible from where she’s standing now. It’s odd, seeing the space between their bodies and knowing she was just in it. But with Peter rubbing Brad’s dick at the bar and Brad clearly turned on by having Peter suck his fingers on the way here, they’ve been messing around too. Why should they pause to get her back in the middle? Stubborn and curious, Michelle crosses her arms where she stands and gives them an expectant look.

Peter reacts first; he grabs the back of Brad’s neck and stretches up to kiss him. The instant their mouths meet, Michelle understands the three of them have a problem. Trading off sexual favours, these guys are ok, but being on two sides of the same kiss makes them competitive. Fucking weekend athletes. Countering the dominant neck-grab, Brad bats Peter’s arm away and takes his face in his hands. It’s not sweet, it’s controlling. Peter’s next move is yanking Brad’s body against his by crumpling the open front of his shirt in his fists. Oops, well, alright, Michelle decides. Maybe it’s better to put herself back in the equation.

Because she has no intention of babying Brad through this experience, when she slips between them, she puts her back to him. Picturing his disappointed face, she raises her arms.

“Take her shirt off,” Peter interprets, tearing his hoodie over his head in a flurry that peels the t-shirt beneath halfway up his torso.

It’s evident in his method that Brad isn’t interested in being told what to do with her. He makes sure to drag his hands over her as he takes his time. Maybe he’s being a dick about it—that’s what the narrowing of Peter’s eyes tells her as he stares at Brad around Michelle’s head—but she’s enjoying this. There’s something about having spent so much time with Brad and those hands that has her pressing back against his erection. She’s witnessed him performing countless practical tasks, like driving the stakes for ‘Trail Closed’ signs deep into semi-frozen ground with a sledgehammer to protect new plant growth in the spring, knotting a rope leash around the waist of one of their colleagues as overkill when they wade into a pond to collect a sample, or just his impressive typing speed. (Not as many words per minute as she logs, but still.) He’s only quick when he pushes the material above her breasts and shifts his hands down quickly to cover, then massage them. She can almost hear him internally screaming at Peter that he beat him to this, only she doesn’t care. He’s tugging her nipples now and she shuts her eyes with a sigh.

“You like that?” he asks into her ear, which is when Peter loses patience for this display and removes her shirt the rest of the way himself.

Michelle retaliates by dropping her arms and edging his shirt up his stomach while Brad continues to caress her chest, now also kissing her shoulder. Though Peter lets her remove his t-shirt herself, she can add a willingness to get naked quick to the few things she knows about him; he seems like he’d be just as happy to whip all his clothes off at once as go through the foreplay of undressing each other. She remembers what he said to her in the kitchen. He has his own aspirations for tonight and the grin he gives her when she gets his t-shirt off makes her wonder what he wants and how soon she’ll be giving it to him. Michelle can’t feel any part of her resisting. It’s… surprisingly freeing.

Brad shuffles behind her, slipping out of his shirt, and her heart leaps as his chest presses to her back, skin to skin. Peter makes a grab for her crotch, but she lifts her eyebrows wryly and spins to face Brad instead.

“This fucking skirt,” she hears Peter mumble behind her as he slides his hands up her thighs to play with the hem.

It’s not exactly a sexual fantasy she’s fulfilling when she digs her fingers into Brad’s hair and combs it back, but it’s definitely a fantasy. He just has great hair. Sometimes, when she’s bored in a meeting, she’ll look over at him and feel this compulsion to run her fingers through it. She discovers that the strands feel soft and wonderful, so there’s one dream realized.

As she’s moving the palm of her hand down to cup his cheek, she shifts her head to the side, catching Brad’s eye and nodding back towards Peter.

“Kiss him nicely,” Michelle instructs.

Brad’s dark eyes bore into hers for a moment, then he breaks the stare and looks to Peter.

“Let’s go, Parker.”

Satisfied, she gets out of the way, circling behind Peter. While he’s partly distracted by the kiss (tamer than last time, by the looks of it), she rests her hands on his waist. Then, Michelle thinks, Screw it, and feels him up all over his chest, shoulders, and stomach, before wending her way down to his hips. His jeans are probably really putting pressure on his erection right now. She’ll help. After flicking the button open, she means to move away, but… plans change. She’s barely dipping the tips of her fingers below the waist of his jeans when Peter pulls away from Brad’s insistent mouth to mutter, “Well, that’s not fair.”

Instead of continuing, Michelle delights in retreating. Peter’s protesting noise is absorbed by his friend’s lips and she pats his ass before going to tease Brad. First, she guides the hand Peter has on Brad’s shoulder up into his hair so he can share her joy at how touchable it is. Then, she grazes her palms down his back. His friend’s body is dense with muscles, like somebody who goes to the gym a lot, where Brad’s is lean. Their work is a decent split between time indoors and outside, fairly physical, so she knows he has strong legs, good lungs, all the endurance he needs for the days they have to park far from a trailhead or navigate gullies. She forgot to ask what position they each play on their soccer team, but she’ll be concerned with another type of position for the foreseeable future.

To keep things even, Michelle unbuttons Brad’s pants. He makes a needful sound and goes momentarily loose between her body and Peter’s. This is not the reaction she expected from a man so socially comfortable, who apparently maintains a far better work/life balance (and, presumably, a steadier sex life) than she has lately. These noises, which continue as she works his zipper down against the push of his erection, expose him. He makes himself vulnerable. Something zinging through Michelle’s body compels her to take advantage.

She and Peter propel Brad’s co-operative body towards the bed. The guys land with a thump and continue kissing; Peter’s fingers form a gun as he angles Brad’s jaw, driving his tongue into his friend’s mouth. Michelle stares at them, breathing hard for having done nothing. Not breaking the kiss, Brad raises a hand to reach for her, but she’s quicker than that, dropping to her knees. She and the band of his underwear get along immediately—it’s easy to uncover his dick and the elastic cradles him instead of trying to snap back into place against his abdomen. Though the access with his pants still on isn’t amazing, she kisses his stomach, then the head of his cock. Up above, Brad moans.

With a smirk, Michelle repositions a little on her knees and grasps her friend’s thighs. He’s whimpering. He’s full-on whimpering. She leans in and licks slowly up his length. Her heels are already starting to bother her, so she reaches back and tugs them off one at a time. The next thing she means to do is gather her hair out of the way as she shallowly sucks Brad’s erection and strands swing forward, trying to tangle in his open zipper and stick to the saliva she’s coating him in, but Peter’s hand is there first. Still making out with Brad (she can hear it if she can’t see it), he encircles her hair in his grip and rests his fist lightly on her shoulder. Dammit. She’s a soft touch for his soft touch, closing her eyes to the sensation of his knuckles brushing her skin. This stranger is ruining the nice underwear she put on tonight.

“Please, Michelle, please,” Brad breaks free of Peter’s mouth to say.

He reaches out to hold her ribs, cup her breasts, but while he and his friend might share the field on Saturdays or whenever, they don’t seem to be on the same team tonight.

“Nope,” Peter informs him. “I get her next.”

“None of that possessive shit,” she warns.

“Can I please have you next?”

“You must be a real pain for your friends,” Michelle guesses sarcastically, letting him guide her over to his lap instead of Brad’s. (Who’s probably looking sour. She doesn’t know. Her eyes are glued to Peter’s.)

“No pain, I promise. I’ll be gentle.”

She rolls her eyes and settles in, straddling him.

“Oh my—” There is no ‘god’ because he kisses her before she can finish.

That’s his second annoying offense in seconds and she’s going to let him know. Really, she is. But he’s reminding her that he never let go of her hair by lifting it and slipping his hand against the nape of her neck to caress her skin. Michelle angles her hips and grinds up and down the swell in his jeans. Peter doesn’t mess around stroking her legs and hips, he just darts both hands beneath her skirt and traces the edges of her underwear where they curve around her thighs and narrow between them. She can feel him draw the fabric aside and gasps into his mouth, anticipating his fingers, when Brad tips the both of them over.

It’s disorienting, but they twist onto their sides and her friend scoots close behind her, so she decides she doesn’t mind.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Peter speaks quietly against her mouth when she thinks he’s about to kiss her again.

Michelle finds herself smiling, almost laughing, as he flips her skirt up and elects to take her underwear off. There’s only so much he can do like this, so she takes over, kicking them to the floor. That’s annoying offense number three; those underwear are sexy and she thought she’d be showing them off some before they hit the hardwood. Weirdly, Peter’s disregard only makes her smile broaden.

“Like I was trying,” she quips.

“Are we bantering,” Brad checks, “or are we fucking?”

“Dude, I am so sorry for the people you sleep with. Banter is an important part of the process,” Peter instructs.

“Fuck you, Parker.”

“And when you do, I guess I can’t expect any banter. I’ll adjust my expectations.”

“I’ll adjust your nose with my fist,” Brad responds in a playful tone. Michelle isn’t completely sold and she wavers, sandwiched between the two of them.

“Cool,” she says, “but actually, I am here to get laid.”

Two sets of male hands collide where her thighs are pressed together. She takes a deep breath at their enthusiasm, unable to tell whose fingers are skating along the skin just above her pubic hair and whose are subtly attempting to wedge between her legs.

“After you,” Brad says smoothly.

“Thanks, man.”

Her friend’s hands retreat a short distance and Peter insinuates one of his thighs between hers to create some space.

“This ok?” he checks, sweet face even sweeter horizontal.

“Be my guest,” Michelle says, copying Brad’s formality and reaching up and back to squeeze his shoulder so he realizes. She gets a kiss on her neck in response.

Peter’s fingers run slickly through her arousal. It’s a methodical mapping, feeling as though it’s meant to arouse her rather than him, but their eyes meet and he’s wearing an expression like he’s the one being fondled, though his erection cleaves to his abdomen, twitching under his clothes as he fingers her.

“You’re teasing me,” she points out, pulse jumping at her inner thigh.

“Am I not supposed to?”

Michelle tries to rock harder against the pass of his fingers and he moves them away with a grin and a chiding, “Ah!”

“Just give her what she wants,” is Brad’s disgruntled input.

She turns to watch as he sits up and undresses from the waist down. He gives her a smile like they’re on the same side, demonstrated by him advocating for her pleasure—something Michelle’s quite comfortable doing on her own. And yet, alright, her friend’s heart is in the right place, and it is difficult to monitor and decipher the fluctuating moods and responses of two other people, and his directive is obeyed. Peter’s fingers return and push through the wetness he helped generate, touching her entrance and gliding inside her, one finger, then two. Michelle groans deep in her throat because finally.

Brad lies down at her back again and, with Peter working her up, she fumbles behind her and grabs her friend’s ass to encourage him closer. She can feel him hard and hot against her, partly touching her rumpled skirt, partly her skin. He rubs against her and reaches an arm around, greedily squeezing her hip, then sweeping down to feel for her clit.

She’s sweating between their bodies, breathing hard and shuddering involuntarily when Brad gets his fingers positioned to trap her clit and begin gradually cracking her mind like peanut brittle. Where he’s painstaking, Peter’s exultant. He increases the pace of his fingers until they’re shuttling in and out of her. Michelle grips Brad’s wrist with one hand, Peter’s neck with the other, then switches, then moves both hands, grappling for some constancy that the part of her brain currently squashed beneath her need for satisfaction knows she’s not gonna get. Her hips are writhing in their hands as a clear goal fights its way through the fog of lust: unzip Peter’s jeans. It’s tricky, with the over- and underpass of arms, but she does it and he thanks her with a sloppy kiss that only seems to land on her mouth by miracle.

“Close,” she gasps.

Behind her, Brad groans and nips at the base of her neck, making her shake. He’s humping her quickly, pushing with his hips as he pulls back with his fingers on her clit. Good thing Peter hooks his fingers firmly inside her so he doesn’t get jostled off this ride. Good thing too that his curling motion strikes her so, so right. Michelle cries out and comes, his fingers still pumping ruthlessly inside her, Brad pinching her clit, and then coming himself; she feels the jet spurt up her back, probably some on her skirt too.

Which is why she did not borrow clothes for this threesome.

Peter’s expression is impish as he tries to keep coaxing her through the pleasure, but she pushes at his chest and he finally takes his hand away.

“Oh my god,” Michelle sighs, flopping back and half onto Brad.

“Go team,” her friend pants from beneath her.

“Yeah. You guys have some kinda cheer you do at your games?”

“Sometimes we bump chests,” Peter offers, hands suddenly on her boobs.

She twists, trying to see Brad’s face without lifting up. Her temple makes contact with his chin.

“Does your friend have an off switch?”

“If he did, I’d skip that and just pull the plug,” Brad says. He wraps an arm around her and she wiggles until he relaxes the hold, forcing him to make it less territorial.

“Aww,” Peter says, managing to cup her breasts in a perfunctory way, like he’s pushing them up to prevent under-boob sweat while she cools off post-orgasm, “you guys are bantering. I knew you could do it. Also,” he adds, “I don’t know if anyone happens to be keeping track, but I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten off.”

“That sucks, man.”

With effort, Michelle sits up and glares at Brad’s unconcerned face.

“Don’t be a dick,” she says.

“Yeah, Brad,” Peter joins in.

Shaking her head, she puts her back to her friend and checks Peter’s face for her go-ahead. He nods in rapid approval, so she grips the waist of his open jeans and pulls down while he lifts his ass from her bed. Fuck, the three of them never even got under the sheet. Then again, it’s easier to be mobile above it. Plus, it’s an extra layer between her expensive mattress and the fluid drying on her spine.

Because Peter doesn’t seem like the kinda guy who cares to be undressed layer by layer, Michelle doesn’t striptease herself with taking off his clothes slowly. At some point, he kicked his shoes away, meaning it’s straightforward to yank the boxers and jeans down his legs. Her intention is to remove them completely. He doesn’t seem to have a hell of a lot of regard for her intentions.

“That’s far enough, I swear,” he says, when she has his jeans around his shins. “I’m good. Nike time. Just do it.”

“Just do what exactly?” Michelle asks indulgently. She rests a hand on his naked thigh and tries not to stare openly at his dick, red as a slap.

“Anything. Whatever you want. Brad says you’re multitalented.”

Brad rolls over lazily to glare at Peter.

“What the hell, Parker? Don’t make it sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I talk about Michelle like that!”

“I get it,” she says, cutting him off. Please shut up, Peter, she thinks. “You talk to him about work. You appreciate me as a co-worker.”

“That’s definitely why I’ve heard so much about you,” Peter agrees provokingly. “Because he appreciates you as a co-worker.”

“You know what?” Brad bites out.

“What?”

Michelle rolls her eyes and opts to terminate this snippy little back and forth by grasping Peter’s cock and bending over to wrap her lips around the head. That shuts both of them up. Thank god, some fucking peace.

He emits a deep groan of approval and weaves his fingers into her hair, slightly bucking his hips. As she sinks to take him deeper, she hears another groan—hoarse with an entirely different emotion—coming from Brad. She doesn’t stop. If he has something to say, he can damn well use his words. Michelle clutches the inside of Peter’s muscular thigh and sucks as she starts to withdraw only to plunge him farther into her mouth. Peter’s hand finds hers and tangles their fingers together next to his hip, catching some of the sheet in his grip too. The gesture dizzies her heart.

While he’s seeing god, Brad’s apparently seeing red, because he taps, then tugs, at her shoulder, until she pulls off of Peter and shoots her friend an impatient look.

“What?”

“I’ll do that,” he says, nodding towards Peter’s straining, saliva-slicked erection.

“Somebody better fucking do it,” Peter says in the tragic tone of an established sufferer. They ignore him for the moment.

“You want to?” Michelle asks skeptically.

When Brad averts his eyes from hers, she realizes that, no, he doesn’t want to, he just doesn’t enjoy watching her blow Peter. She wavers, wondering if she should cancel tonight halfway through. Maybe that would be sacrificing what she wants for the self-esteem of these two men, but they’re just so goddamn annoying. They’re supposed to be friends and they’re acting like rivals. Michelle doesn’t owe loyalty to either of them, she’s nobody’s girlfriend, and yet she’s getting the feeling that she needs to pick a side. Even a novice like her can tell this isn’t the way a threesome’s meant to go. If they were worse at this, she might be able to walk away.

Abruptly, Brad kisses her, then nudges her gently aside as he drops to his elbows to pick up where she left off. Peter draws a fraying breath. Well, either these two aren’t combative enough to present her with an ultimatum, or they just want to get laid as badly as she does. If Brad bites Peter or some shit though, she’s throwing them both out and leaving the necessary medical care in their hands. Michelle will not be responsible for these men and their egos.

Peter tweaks her fingers, their hands still clasped. She leans in close to observe his heavy breathing and the way his hair’s sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I still want you,” he whispers. The words are like static shock, like a finger tracing unexpectedly down her neck. “And you better be quick because I think Brad thinks he’ll get extra points for speed.”

He gasps, eyes rolling back, and Michelle instinctively cups his neck, running the pad of her thumb along his throat. She doesn’t glance over at Brad; hearing the frantic wet noises paints a sufficiently informative picture.

“You think you can concentrate while he’s doing that?”

“Totally.” Immediately, a desperate, guttural croak leaves Peter’s lips.

“You sure?”

“No, but I still want to put my tongue inside you and that should count for—uhhh!—something.”

“Such as?” she asks with a wry smile, straightening her legs out so she can remove her unspeakably defiled skirt.

“Hell if I know, my concentration was pretty shitty to begin with.”

“Center yourself,” Michelle says in the calm, instructive tone of a yoga tutorial as she levers herself over his chest and rests her ass lightly on the hard planes of his pecs.

“Brad,” Peter begs, “cut me some slack for one fucking minute, dude.”

“One minute, huh?” she teases.

“Are you doubting me?”

“Peter Parker, I don’t even know you.”

But, somehow, she’s beaming down at him as her hair falls around her shoulders. For an instant, he looks completely focused on her and not the sound of Brad switching from giving him head to pumping him in a fist (his version of slack-cutting, evidently). Peter eyes her from her face down to where her legs are spread above his body. Then back to her face.

“I’d like for you to.”

Her teasing expression softens. She parts her lips to respond and he wrenches her forward, onto a mouth that opens at once. He licks up into her, then keep his tongue tensed and prods her clit back and forth. Michelle curls into herself, thighs suddenly snug against the sides of his head, fingers locked in his hair.

This is, perhaps, the single event within the larger experience that sells her on threesomes. Peter’s mouth feels incredible on its own (like he’s fusing the peanut brittle shards of her mind back together again and going too far, melting them into goo), but the intermittent moaning that leaves it due to Brad’s contribution down below means Michelle’s riding something that licks, sucks, and vibrates. She’s a mess. Tilted forward, she’s nearly crying out to plant her hands on the bed and just grind across Peter’s tongue, but the hand not hold hers has her hip in a formidable hold and she can’t reach far enough to be comfortable. Each time she thinks to force her eyes open and check his face to make sure he’s enjoying this as much as she is (and still breathing), Peter’s eyelids are flickering as he absorbs the combined pleasure of taking from Brad and giving to Michelle. She’s shaking and trying not to get too rough with him, smoothing a hand over the hair she’s been practically pulling out at the roots. Peter counters with a quick smack to her ass before seizing her hip again. Fine, she won’t be nice.

Michelle shifts and rolls her clit against the tip of his nose. It positions her entrance above his wide-open mouth and he slides his tongue thickly back inside her. The sound of him tongue-fucking her is graphic. He loses his rhythm and gets even more aggressive with his mouth—she figures he’s close to release. Peter groans and arches his neck and chin up when he finishes, so she lifts swiftly away, hating to do it, aching and slippery.

She throws herself off of him, collapsing back onto her elbows with her thighs quivering. Dazedly, she observes Brad hurrying from the room with his lips clamped together (not a swallower then—the things she’s learning about her friend tonight). Peter’s lying there, spent. With her emotions high, their tableau causes her to despair. It’s over. It’s all over. One of them’s too wiped to carry on, the other’s just finished giving oral and won’t want to return just to bring her to orgasm. Michelle lets her head hang back and swipes two fingers over her clit, catching it and adding pressure on the upstroke.

Peter rolls over like he’s risen from the dead.

“You don’t—” she begins, but then he’s there, between her quaking knees, suctioning his mouth to her and using his tongue to fiddle around with her clit. His arms are limp and heavy as they hold her thighs down and open. Any energy he has is converted into strokes and twirls, from there into her overwhelmed sobs. Brad walks back in to Michelle yelling, “Peter, fuck!” as she climaxes with her head thrown back and his pressed insistently into her groin by her stiff hand. When Brad comes to sit on the bed, Peter’s leg kicks out and catches him right in the stomach. The kick drives him off the mattress and onto the floor with a thud.

Michelle scrambles away from Peter, to the edge of the bed, as Brad stands and starts putting his clothes on, his back to her.

“Are you going?”

She sees Brad’s shoulders rise and fall as he sighs, but he doesn’t answer her. Once he’s dressed from the waist down, he lifts his shirt from the floor with a swish and slips his arms in as he walks back out of the room. Uh oh. Michelle glances to Peter who appears maddeningly unsurprised. She yanks at the bedsheet until he moves off of it, but touches her wrist as she wraps it hastily around herself to chase after their friend.

“I’m sorry if I wrecked this for you,” he says.

“No.” She shakes her head. “He wanted tonight to be something it was never going to be and I thought, when he invited you, that he could handle it, but… I gotta go talk to him.”

“I think I’m already lucky he didn’t jump up and break my nose, so I better stay here.”

“Alright.”

Michelle almost stumbles trying to keep the end of the sheet off the floor, but she gets to Brad while he’s still buttoning his shirt, patting his pockets to check for wallet, phone, keys, maybe the little Swiss Army knife he carries because it always comes in handy eventually.

“Brad,” she says, cautious in cotton and bare feet.

He cuts a look at her with his dark eyes.

“Better not,” he suggests.

“You’re really leaving?”

“Do you need me to stay?”

She hesitates, leaning away from him slightly at the question.

“Well, it was supposed to be—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Do you need me to stay?”

His eyebrow twitches with everything he’s suppressing: hurt, hope, jealousy. Brad’s smart, he knows the answer, but he still ventures forward with grave determination, the way he’d lead a group of their colleagues down a forest deer path that may or may not be crossed with poison ivy. But Michelle is not something for him to sweep clear and overcome.

“We can only be friends, Brad,” she tells him, straight and honest. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy doing this with you…”

He grins ironically, giving her a glimpse of his bright, perfect teeth.

“Please. You two were shutting me out before Parker booted me in the stomach.”

She doesn’t really have a defense for that. They might have touched Brad, grabbed him, licked and kissed him, but none of that compared to how she felt whenever Peter took her hand. She’s actually a little scared to walk back into her bedroom and face that.

“He didn’t mean to,” Michelle asserts awkwardly. Brad lifts his eyebrows. “Probably,” she qualifies. He nods tiredly.

“If he tells you I was a dick to him after our next game…”

“What makes you think I’ll still be in contact with him then?” Brad gives her a look and she frowns, chastened. “I’ll believe him,” she says instead, “and I won’t blame you.”

“This sucks,” he admits, smiling tightly at the floor.

“Can I get you a glass of water for the road? Transit fare?”

“I’d actually rather get out of here and begin the process of trying to forget what Peter’s dick looks like close up as soon as possible.”

She says nothing to champion the dick in question. That would be cruel.

“This was… something I hope we can laugh about someday,” Brad says, and quickly kisses her cheek.

“I’ll—” they say together.

“—text you tomorrow.”

“—see you on Monday,” Michelle says. “Oh. Uh…”

“Space,” he says, understanding.

“Probably good for right now.”

“Yeah.”

When he leaves, she locks the door and bangs her forehead against it. Fuck. She’s going to have to get a new job, isn’t she? Walking in to spot his heartbroken face every day is more than she wants to deal with. Their initiative has a bigger office downtown, not the outpost-like space they work out of. She can apply there. Probably should’ve ages ago, when she started outgrowing the place she’s at. She’ll miss traipsing around outside the city, having to check her legs for ticks, her hair for spiders, and her arms for dead-branch-inflicted scratches deep enough to require infection-preventative measures, but she can buy some fucking plants. Start a garden in her windowsill. Hike on the weekends. Regain some of that thankless grant application time by devoting it to projects more clout will actually allow her to push forward. Be the chooser instead of the beggar.

Michelle laughs at herself, faintly tipsy and two orgasms deep, standing alone in her entryway in a poor man’s frat party toga.

She gets herself the glass of water she offered Brad. She pees with her goddamn adult white sheet scrunched up in her lap like a bride’s dress on her wedding day. She strides back to the bedroom and drops the sheet at the door.

“Hello,” Peter says, perking up.

“Hello yourself.” The man is stark naked and unashamed. “You’ve been, what, chilling?”

“I also eavesdropped.”

“You’re a loser.”

“I’m the loser you haven’t kicked out of your apartment,” he points out. His gaze slips naturally to her chest as she climbs onto the bed on her knees and takes a seat beside his prone body.

“Why is that?”

She asks rhetorically, but Peter either doesn’t pick up on that or ignores it. She kinda likes that about him. Where Brad tries so hard with her, Peter leaves her room to try a little too.

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately, that is possible.”

“Unfortunately? Give me back those orgasms I gave you then,” he demands.

“Orgasm,” Michelle corrects, emphasizing the singular. “The first one was assisted. You can’t take full credit.”

“Bullshit.”

She shakes her head but Peter grabs the back of her knee, pulling her forward, stretching her out, until she’s on her back, laughing, and he’s hovering over her, inches from a kiss that she really, really wants to receive. Strange.

“Is not,” she tells him flatly.

“Then I’m earning that plural.”

“Oh yeah?”

Instead of kissing her or lowering himself down onto her or otherwise touching her in any way at all, Peter leaves. Michelle sits up and looks after him, baffled.

“Where are your washcloths?” he shouts from the bathroom 30 seconds later. A laugh bursts out of her.

“Tall cabinet next to the shower!”

She listens to him running water in the sink. Laughs again when he returns at a run.

“Flip over!” Peter says wildly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Come on, while it’s still hot. It’ll feel nicer.”

Michelle rolls her eyes and maneuvers onto her stomach. He washes her back with the warm cloth. He washes her back. She folds her arms under her head and pillows her cheek on them, candidly observing him. In a practical sense, Peter’s wiping away what Brad left behind, and buying himself time to get hard again, she’s certain. But it doesn’t all feel like practicality. Not when every pass of the cloth is so careful, or when Peter makes another sprinted trip to the bathroom to heat it up for her, or when he’s lying down alongside her by the end, beginning to lightly kiss her clean skin.

“I don’t understand you,” she hears herself confess.

“I’m an enigma,” he agrees. Michelle snorts.

“I do like you though.”

“Called it.”

He chucks the damp, cooling washcloth over the side of her bed and she glares at him.

“This room has wood floors. Which I pay for. As a feature of this apartment.”

“It’s not on the floor, it’s on my jeans.”

“So, it’s soaking into your jeans right now? That’s convenient for you.”

“Is it?” Peter asks vaguely. His hand is rubbing back and forth very low on her back.

“I’m assuming you’re not planning to get back into wet jeans tonight and make your way home.”

“I would if you asked me to,” he swears, giving her puppy-dog eyes.

“Are you forcing me to say this out loud?”

A winning smile. She sighs in exasperation and turns onto her side, propping her head up with her hand.

“Peter, would you like to stay over?”

“Do you want that?”

“You’re a pain,” she says for the second time. Peter continues smiling, waiting. Michelle takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes on his, not letting her gaze drift around the apartment that is nice but lonely, tranquil but lifeless. It has life with this surprising person in it. “I want that.”

He shuffles close to her with a grin.

“I want that,” he says, brushing his lips across hers.

“Mmm,” Michelle agrees. Her eyelids fall. She parts her lips for his tongue. His hand fits into the curve of her waist and slips over to touch her back. His thickening erection nudges her mons, then her abdomen as he swells against her. Her moan skips and drags and Peter clutches at her more purposefully, tipping her onto her back.

“Condom,” she remembers, and points him to the box tucked out of sight. Discrete for the fact that she bought it for use in a threesome with a work friend and a total stranger.

Peter holds up her copy of Frankenstein, resting beneath the box.

“You a fan?” he asks, returning it to its place and tearing open the wrapper on the condom.

“I’ve read it twice, but I think I prefer Dracula.”

“Aw, I’m a wolfman guy,” Peter offers. He puts the condom on like it’s a sock or a baseball cap; there’s definite familiarity there. And Michelle doesn’t care. “Dracula and Frankenstein’s monster are creepy, sure, but the wolfman is two different people: the regular guy and then this creature in the shadows during the full moon. I don’t know, I think there’s something really cool about that. You ever watch the old Lon Chaney movies?”

Ok, she more than likes him. She likes him quite a lot. Smiling, Michelle shakes her head.

“Well,” he says, but he stops talking then. There’s a depth to the look in his eyes as he gazes at her. She lets him in and stands as horizontal witness to his existence in blinks and breaths and the pound of his heart she can almost feel from here.

“Why don’t you get the light?”

Click.

In the dark, it’s less of a performance, not that Peter doesn’t clearly intend to perform. Michelle’s eyes rest without the light and she breathes deeply as Peter comes over her and kisses her neck. Her eyes are still adjusting while he takes a meandering route down her chest, pressing his mouth harder against her breasts. He licks across her nipple; she scratches her nails up the back of his neck and into his hair. When she lets out the smallest huffing sound of enjoyment, he cups his hand between her thighs, skates a finger along her entrance. As if she wouldn’t be wet. As if the foreplay didn’t start the minute he walked back in with that warm cloth and draped it across her back.

“Any specific requests?” he asks, lifting his head from her chest. She can see his face now. Enough light gets in around the edges of her blinds. She runs her fingers through his loosely curling hair, then arches her body up against his.

“Don’t be gentle.”

Michelle feels the eager tremor of his hand against her inner thigh as he lines himself up and eases inside her. His breathing catches. She tilts her hips and raises her knees from the bed, urging him in, farther, all the way. Peter withdraws and she’s assuming he’ll build up to what she asked for, but he slams back in. Though she clenches her teeth around the sensation of him filling her so hard and so well, a whine escapes.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” she acknowledges, accuses, admires.

He pauses, hands planted to either side of her on the bed.

“Like I said, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ve been waiting for this since I convinced Brad to tell me your name.”

She wants to think and hide and hold him close, but she can reflect later. He seems to agree. Peter’s thrusts are rough and rhythmic. Pounding into her like a machine one minute, he’ll be playfully grabbing her wrists and licking her neck the next. When she tightens her legs around him, he lets her change their positions, only to haul her beneath him again—on her stomach this time—as he rocks in and out and wedges his hand under her to rub her clit. They chase each other across her mattress and Michelle comes clawing at her pillow, invigorated by the certainty that this is the best time she’s ever had in bed. Peter bites her earlobe as he snatches one of her scrabbling hands and spills into the condom.

He doesn’t help her remake her bed with clean sheets because he claims to be “bad at it.” She’s debating the potential truth of that when he returns with a bowl of popcorn after leaving her alone to do it herself, joins in, and somehow puts a lavender pillowcase on inside out. Michelle sets it right with a laugh and they get back in bed together, popcorn and her laptop playing Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man between them.

She slips away to shower after Peter falls asleep with his head on her lap. When she gets back, she quietly removes the bowl and the laptop. The bed’s a king—she’s used to her space and she doesn’t need to sleep close to him—but Michelle squirms into the warmth his body radiates. He stirs enough to breathe in the scent of her hair, kiss her forehead, and thrust his hand into hers. Confused by the gesture, she frowns at his face, with its softly closed eyes.

“By the way,” Peter mumbles, shaking her hand, “nice to meet you.”

Michelle smiles and pats his arm as he drops it over her, instinctively pulling her close.

[deviant3lover]

The Trio, but what if they were young Gods?

Honestly, these are my own personal headcanons ever since I watched a bit of Okami’s boss battles, but I definitely welcome other ideas on what sorta gods y’all would see them like.

I was primarily inspired by in game artworks such as these:

And I wondered, 

“Hmm. How would people see the trio if they were feared/revered Gods? What kind of deities would they be?”

DISCLAIMER: 

In this list, all three of them had died as mortals.

Genos is a vengeful fire god, whose flames have burned and purified great evils that had come to torment the populace, and just as often, have found themselves extinguished at the hands of a greater threat. Everyday it gets harder to do so, with the deity’s power exploding in growth and size due to his diligence.

His mortal body isn’t one of flesh or blood. Not anymore. Instead, his avatar is created from a mass of metal and burning coal as his fuel, furnaces smoldering inside his body. Magic engravings are carved into the metal, acting as his blood and bones, twining the inorganic materials together just as they would for veins and nerves in a human.

A lone old man is one of his most dutiful attendants, and is his first follower. When the young god departs the mortal world to return to the celestial plane, he repairs his broken avatar, or creates a new one with different metals and engravings to house more of the young God’s power in his fights against the demons that plague the world. Too often has his own flames, or sheer recklessness, had been the cause of his own defeats in battles.

Kuseno should know. He’s seen it far too many times when he was still a mere boy. These same markings and metals were the ones that were tattooed on and built into his burnt and distorted skin; they had saved his life and blessed him with magic. 

But they weren’t enough to protect him from death when the boy had found himself getting swarmed by demons. 

All that was left of him was patches of blond hair, blood splattered all over the scorched open field where he fought, and bits of tattooed skin found beside deformed and clawed metal that had long grown cold when he found him at daybreak.

For his follower, the one that had acted as a father figure to him when he was still mortal, Genos makes sure that he will always come home to a place filled with warmth and good food, no matter the season, taking care to protect his crops from overheat or fires. He’s not known for his blessings, but for the people that he loves, he won’t hesitate to cultivate their quality for their loyalty.

He isn’t a cruel god, but he isn’t a forgiving one either. For those whom have wronged him, he makes their crops die, their residences swelter, their precious metals too hot to touch, much less trade: even with the best rubber gloves.

This is his mercy in the face of their blasphemy. If they refuse to seek forgiveness from one of his shrines or messengers, Genos will burn down the protections they use on their most valuable items and gifts, cursing them to never again be used by their hands, nor by the hands of anyone they conscript or affiliate with. His fire is too damning to be stopped by insulators of the finest quality, too persistent to be stopped by barriers of any kind.

Never again will their treasures be theirs to hold, and even Genos’ messengers cannot be entreated to remove it themselves: they must call upon his name and presence if they wished to dispel it.

The cursed ones who insist on using them will find their fingers burned, the items eventually melting and burning down into nothing.

For this, he’s often a god of good fortune for the unfortunate and desperate, for the displaced victims whose homes have been destroyed. Many people praise him for his blessings, and just as many curse and fear him for the damage he can cause to their lives. 

Farmers who’ve kept a good record in respecting him will see that their crops never overheat or burn, and wouldn’t drown from merciless rains. When winter comes, they will not freeze, and neither will them and their families. 

Merchants and rich lords are careful not to offend him, while the poor and unremarkable make small, heartfelt blessings when he punishes acts of cruelty made by authority figures abusing their power.

For some reason, a wandering bald ronin finds himself in the favor of this God, so much so that his acquaintances balk at the sight of all the blessings heaped upon him. Others joke about how an unremarkable man such as himself had a divine being worshipping him.

He mostly remains oblivious to this, until winter rolls around. His stay at a shabby inn remains uneventful and freezing, until a blond stranger greets him at his door and asks to be let in, eyeing Saitama with an intensity that he’s unused to seeing. 

He attributes the sudden burning warmth in his face as body as embarrassment. He’s not used to this much attention being directed to him after all. Introverted as he was, he didn’t hear the other residents softly exclaiming at how warm their rooms became, nor did he notice them staring wide eyed at his new disciple, knowing exactly what his presence meant.

—

Garou is a fearless and awe-inspiring air god that takes great delight in being a spirited competitor and a trickster, pushing his mind and body to the limits of what he can do: both as a celestial and as a mortal. Man, beast, or demon, Garou had taken many forms to combat and play clever tricks on others, constantly experimenting and learning new ways to become a more formidable threat to his enemies, and an incredible ally to those who’ve won his genuine care. 

He’s more active during the night. Demons and monsters are plentiful under a starless sky, and the quieter nights has him travelling the lands in relative peace: unless he decides he’s bored and finds something, or someone, to play tricks on.

He inspires plenty of respect, awe, and even humor for his exploits. His sense of justice however, is notably somewhat distorted in the eyes of the public. Scholars have written about his achievements and debated at length at how he came to be, who he truly is, for how easy it is to misinterpret or misunderstand his character when writing plays featuring the deity. He’s an attractive and rightfully arrogant man, so it becomes all too easy to paint him in a better or worse light depending on the writer. 

Illusions, tricks, impressive physical, magical, and mental prowess, as well as being notoriously devoted to himself, his beliefs, and the select few he deems to be good, it’s not guaranteed that he’ll work with, or against you. He’s a force of chaos with his own code, for better or for worse.

His former master, an older and wiser god, had taught him how to fight from what he had learned from the flow of water- from the steady stream of a river to the thunderous force of ocean waves crashing against a jagged cliff face. Garou had repaid the lessons with sewing discord in the mortal world with his misguided ambitions, using his lessons to learn how to harness the wind to do his bidding, away from Silverfang’s techniques.

Lessons from other age old masters and their followers has him learning every style of every kind, magical and martial art alike, never paying attention to the philosophies surrounding each one out of disinterest.

His insolence had casted him out from the rank and file of the celestials, and he wanders the mortal plane as a demigod in search of a challenge and purpose after Saitama stops his naïve onslaught against the world.

In another life, maybe he would’ve had a more merciful upbringing as a child. But his mortal life was cut short: how? He can’t remember. 

Maybe it was his tormenters at school.

Was he cursed? Were they just cruel?

Maybe it was a stormy night on a treacherous mountain when he tried to journey to a far off dojo for strength, away from what little he can remember from home.

Did he slip and fall to his death?

Maybe he had an unlucky encounter with a demon or two.

Or three. Or ten. Maybe they swarmed, razed, and devoured his village.

All he can remember was that his past life was filled with cruelty, where the world worked against him. When he awoke at the steps leading upwards to a dojo that gleamed an unearthly gold, the ground being amassed of clouds that didn’t touch his skin, and the skies jet black with stars shining like faraway lanterns, the boy-spirit didn’t hesitate on climbing the steps.

Storms and violent winds are heralds for the oncoming chaos he brings to the lands he wishes havoc on: the young god can be as theatric as he is destructive. He may have expressed the desire to become one with the demons, but his acts against humans are significantly less lethal than the ones he commits against demons, more mischief and punishment than cruelty.

A young boy had saved him when he took on the form of a wolf. Call it bad luck, or underestimating the threat, but Garou had been hunted to near death by man and monster alike. 

Tareo stumbled across his unconscious, bleeding wolf form and took him as close to his home as he dared, housing him in an abandoned den safe from the weather’s damage. From there, he travelled to and from his house as days went by, patching him up as best he can while talking about his life and what today had been like, somehow oblivious to the danger that comes with caring for a wild beast, who’s staring at the kid incredulously, knowing this very fact.

In time after the wolf had disappeared from the den, leaving him dispirited and lonely for some time, he becomes acquainted with a ‘Mister’ who frequents the town he lives in, who teaches him how to defend himself against his bullies.

And in the dark hours of the night, when he ventures too far into the more dangerous parts of the village when his ‘friends’ forced him to, an eerie howling can be heard over the wind. They flee not long after when they see and hear the illusions that Garou had conjured in the dark thickets of the forest.

Tareo learns to associate the cold winds with danger. He may be in awe of gods and folk heroes, but he finds himself wondering who he managed to win the favor of to justify divine intervention. Just how often do cold winds press so insistently against him when he goes to dangerous alleys and areas?

Maybe Mister will know. He’ll ask him about it sometime.

—

Badd is a formidable and intimidating thunder god, whose displays of power have kept enemies in fear of committing cruel acts, lest they find themselves lost in a violent thunderstorm, their meager attempts to return home making them look like lost pieces of cloth getting battered around by the wind as the sound of thunder grows louder in the distance.

A cruel mortal will find themselves nearly dying from a tree almost crushing them on a dark night, with only Badd’s occasional flashes of lightning acting as their sole warnings for their brush with death, searing the experiences into their minds, prompting them to avoid the more vile crimes out of fear. Demons will find themselves stricken right where they stand, instantly killed on the spot.

If his followers have strayed to the dark arts in his name, Badd will angrily strike his condemnations on a surface that can withstand his thunder. If they forget, he strikes down his commandments instead, the words white-hot and glowing from his divine power.

Despite his brash and fearsome demeanor, he is the kindest out of the three, the most paternal figure in the trio. Many families dedicate their offerings to him; in return, he makes sure that they are safe from danger, and that their children aren’t stolen away by demons in the night.

He takes a shine to earnest folk. Good, hardworking people will be safer when travelling into more dangerous situations. There are plenty of books written on the patterns of thunder and lightning he sends down, and what kind of omens they are to prepare accordingly. 

Most of it is psuedo-science. Badd may not be the most cunning god, but he knows that enemies can learn different patterns and work against him. 

Zenko had cried with a grief she had never known when he was killed trying to protect her and their home as a young Ronin. Growing up, the pain dulled, and she took up the mantle he had chosen to take, teaching her students on how to protect their village just as he did, travelling the land to spread Badd’s name.

She knows exactly who her brother is now, and acts as his messenger and regent for his followers. It’s been years and she’s grown up, while he’s a busy god defending the other side of the planet from dangerous threats, so their meetings are few and far in between. 

But every now and again, they cross paths and reunite; he always cries and she always comforts him, sighing with equal amounts of affection and exasperation at how sentimental he always gets. Every time they meet, he thanks her for all the offerings she’s made to him, all the devoted followers she’s inspired to carry out his name and commandments. Every time they meet, she hugs her brother as tight as she can and swears his heartbeat now sound as loud as the thunderstrikes he summons on his enemies, the static crackling on the clothes at his newfound power, but he’s still the same big brother that raised her as best he could when she was little.

Zenko misses Badd everyday when they have to go their separate ways, and know he’ll be left devastated when she lives and dies a mortal life, but they treasure what time they have when they manage to reunite.

All Three

Due to their ferocity and fearlessness, many, many warriors pray to them for power and success. They’re far more popular in young fighters seeking to make something out of themselves, just as old gods are more popular with veterans and experienced warriors. Revitalizing food are often offered to them, with the occasional sweet cakes dedicated to Badd. Trophies of their successes (such as a horn from a slain demon, some scales from a malevolent dragon) are offered to shrines for safekeeping after they’ve prayed to them successfully.

All three have soft spots for children and the victimized, and such, many family offerings and whatever could be spared from folks who have little to offer are often found at their shrines. 

They strike a sense of home for the ones who don’t truly fit in. Badd was not well mannered or refined, Garou was mischievous and disillusioned with the world, and Genos had everything he’d known and loved torn away from him when he was young. All three aren’t the best at socializing, are intimidating in their own rights, and are known to be aggressive at times.

For them, they don’t leave much, except for heartfelt prayers and confessions they’d never dare to tell others. The three fulfill it as best they can: in person if they have to, though they are careful to use a slightly different form each time. Who knows what could happen if people started recognizing you when you take on a mortal form?

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 5 FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

Summary: Harry Hart reminisces about his own military past with the British Armed Forces. He recalls the tenent that enabled him to survive as a member of the22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces.

WORD COUNT: 3377

Notes: These later chapters have had less time to plan - kind of literally trying things on to see what fits... :)

-----

In person, Harry Hart was also a man who had to make impossible decisions under unrelenting pressure. He had done it many times, during his time in the British Armed Forces, not just Kingsman. Many thought him to be cold and unfeeling in these instances. But even within these circumstances, he was still Harry Hart. Brave, dependable, strong and honourable. He was an advocate, a protector, an anchor. A rock within the Kingsman agency. Everything a mentor and leader should be. If fellow agents found themselves more and more often at his side, they would catch themselves beginning to wonder about the man who wore the impeccably tailored suit. The man behind the smooth, deep, steady voice. About the man himself. The man whose code name was Galahad.

He was an agent that lived up to his handle.  It was a noble name. Courageous. A name for a figure renowned for his gallantry and purity. A name bestowed upon the most perfect of all knights. It befitted him.

Harry was a gentleman through and through. It was impossible for him to be anything else. He was not only a gentleman in traditional terms, an upholder of chivalry, civility, well-mannered and unerringly polite. He was also a gentle man. This would seem incongruous with his work. However, it was part of the reason he was exceedingly good at his job. As soon as the work was done, the target neutralised, the mission complete, he let it all go. Letting any hardness or indifference fall away. Completely. He consistently put his life and the lives of others on the line, many times in very unpleasant circumstances, to say the least. To maintain a sense of balance, to maintain his sanity, not to speak of his humanity, the moment he took off his glasses, he was no longer Agent Galahad, he was Harry Hart.

Deadly assassins were not typically regarded as gentle. But Harry was not by nature a violent man. Neither was he destructive or combative, unlike many of his contemporaries who were drawn to the work because of its brutal nature. Harry was a Kingsman agent because he believed strongly in their purpose to uphold the good and protect the innocent, but also because he was just exceptionally good at the work. The art of spy craft and engagement. Exceedingly good. Disconcertingly good. In the same way one might be a talented piano player, or dancer or an artist. Like Gwendolyn mentioned, it was part a part of him.

He never questioned these skills. He considered them as natural to his character as his height or his brown eyes. He lived them for the majority of his life. He applied them in a manner that would best serve himself and the greater good.

Though he never spoke of it, most of his experience prior to Kingsman, he received during his training and deployment in the British Armed Forces. When he left the military, he was an officer of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces, a highly trained and specialised division of the British Army.

If Kingsman was the buffer that had honed and polished Harry Hart into the refined gentleman agent he was today, the SAS was chisel that first carved the man out of the potential stone. The SAS Special Forces had much in common with Kingsman.  Special operations were already a part of his lifestyle. Much like the agents of Kingsman, the men of SAS were especially designated, organised, selected, trained and equipped. They utilised unconventional techniques and modes of employment.

The 22nd Special Air Service Regiment was responsible for covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, unconventional warfare and hostage rescue. Much of the information and actions regarding the SAS were highly classified, and were never commented on by the British government nor the Ministry of Defence due to the sensitivity of their operations. For Harry, discretion was not just advised, it was demanded.

He operated behind enemy lines, avoiding direct combat and detection by the enemy. He led commando operations, highly mobile , highly intense surprise raids. His role frequently involved covert direction of air and missile attacks, in areas deep behind enemy lines, placement of remotely monitored sensors and guerrilla operations.

The similarities only went so far. SAS utilised more traditional weapons of combat and warfare, riffles, machine guns, flash bangs, grenades. Whereas Kingsman had the freedom to me more creative, or constraints that made it necessary for additional ingenuity with it’s artillery, often fashioning gentlemanly accessories into lethal weapons. The SAS formal dress khaki uniforms weren’t as stylish and well tailored as Kingsman’s suits, but he did note that as SAS, the cap badge on his sand coloured beret depicted a downward pointing Excalibur, a sword wreathed in flames. Perhaps the sword was a foreshadow of his future as one of the twelve Kingsman’s knights.

If any of his colleagues were to know of his history with the SAS, the would probably respond with confusion. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe Harry Hart to to have the necessary skills. It was that they couldn’t imagine, their stylish, debonair, perfectly appointed quintessential gentleman secret agent in any other role other than Galahad. They were much more familiar with Harry in a Kingsman suit, taking out thugs with his weaponised brolly, rather than the iconic black overalls and the S6 British Army respirator of the SAS, carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5A3, or a C8 Carbine assault rifle, as well as any other item or weapon he might need in battle.

For those agents that were employed long enough with Kingsman, or heard stories passed around the years, it was suspected that Harry was a part of the Counter Revolutionary Blue team for Operation Nimrod during the Iranian Embassy siege. In 1980, from April 30th for a period of 6 days, a band of six heavily armed men overtook the Iranian Embassy in London. 26 people were held hostage. On the last day, after days of unsuccessful negotiations, the gunmen executed a hostage and threw his dead body from the Embassy windows. On that day, the SAS, implemented Operation Nimrod by abseiling from the roof of the embassy and breaking the windows for entry. The raid was over in just over 15 minutes. They were able to rescue all but one hostage and killed all but one of the six hostage takers. No one could confirm whether he had been involved or not. No one had the nerve or balls to ask Harry directly.

The last time Harry was on a mission of similar nature, was the capture of Falcon, a terrorist in the Middle East. He, Merlin and their recruits at the time, James and Lee, fast roped into enemy territory.  Fast roping, also known as Fast Rope Insertion Extraction System (FRIES), was a technique for descending a thick rope to access difficult locations by air. It useful for Kingsman to deploy agents into enemy territories where their helicopter could not touch down. Unfortunately, that was the mission where Harry’s mistake cost Eggsy’s father’s life. That was the last time anyone ever saw the sight of Harry in a combat jumpsuit and respirator for a mission.

“Who Dares Wins.” It was the motto of the SAS unit of the British Army Special Forces. During his time in the service, this motto was the catalyst for many dangerous operations. In regards to Kingsman, he also found it appropriate as spies weren’t in the business of truth.

The selection for the Special Forces was as brutal as Kingsman recruitment, just in different ways.They would, however, fight for the title of the most dangerous job interview in the world. SAS selection was reported to be one of the most demanding military training courses in the world with a pass rate of less than 10%. It was a six-month test of strength, endurance, and resolve over the Brecon Beacons and Elan Valley in Wales, and in the jungle of Belize. With SERE Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape training to be the most psychologically challenging aspect. A Kingsman recruit had a one in 12 chance of securing said spot. It was also a test of strength, endurance and resolve mostly over the land and sky of London and the surrounding country side. It also included some fairly challenging psychological tests including one with a train tunnel with a false floor and another with a puppy and a gun. Many candidates failed out at this point. It took about the same amount of time.

In the field, he was indispensable. His experience in the military prepared him for life as a spy. He was exceptional at nearly every aspect of being an agent as he was as a soldier. Harry was able to fit seamlessly into Kingsman’s ranks because he already had specialised skills and experience. He was a highly-trained operative, specialised in sufficiency, stealth, speed, and tactical coordination. If there was a man designed to be a Kingsman agent, Harry Hart would be that man.

——

He did not get any enjoyment from destruction, violence or bloodshed. However, he was not opposed to participating or even instigating moments of sheer mayhem. During the course of his time at Kingsman, he had obliterated many targets and had amassed a shockingly high body count. He didn’t carry any guilt or blame, nor did he celebrate the bloodshed that resulted in their victory over a target. Harry simply accepted violence as part and parcel to the work of a Kingsman agent. To be limited, when possible, though, not altogether unavoidable.

Emotions played an important role in how he operated in life, in the greater world around him. Emotions were a path to a deeper understanding of one’s self and one’s relationships with others. They motivated one’s actions or inactions.  Feelings, along with survival instincts were key to one’s decision making processes. But when there was too much or when the emotion was overwhelming, as it could be in extreme cases of conflict or in the chaos of combat, it could make a soldier dysfunction. One of the tenets that had allowed him to not only survive, but to thrive in the military was “be smart now, feel later.”

Part of his success in the SAS was due to his ability to “switch off” his emotions on-demand in moments of chaos or conflict; combat, crises and other high stress activities, basically his entire time in service. He carried this over to his work at Kingsman. His ambivalence allowed him to remain cool, composed and collected in some very unnerving, seemingly impossible situations. In these instances, when other agents might panic, freeze, or be blinded by outrage, fall victim to their own anger and lose control, time would almost freeze for Harry. Allowing him very few precious moments to hyper focus on every minute detail of the circumstance they faced. His senses would sharpen, his mind would calm, his heart rate would slow and remain steady and even. His mind would become a blank slate where every piece of information crucial to their survival was at his fingertips. Irrelevant information fell by the wayside. Emotion was set aside. Sentimentality had no place. Feelings were insignificant.

Agents who accompanied Harry on the field and found themselves is one of these dire situations, would attest to this severe, drastic, unyielding and unfamiliar Agent Galahad. Someone who could evidently act without regard for their safety, well-being, or even survival. At times, even purposely placing them in even more danger or putting another agents lives on the line as if they were inconsequential to him. He would act as if it was nothing to leave behind an injured agent if it could protect the mission. It was as if they were as insignificant to him as an empty clip, a weapon that no longer had any use to him. To be discarded and tossed aside. During these times, Harry would be the cold, dispassionate, ruthless killer that was his reputation.

It was in these hard, stone-faced moments, where he fell into a meditative state or even hypnotised himself in the matter of seconds. Sometimes, only a split second was needed for him to see the solution, the way out, the answer that would get them out of what seemed like a “death and death” situation.

Emotions defined his humanity. But it also could get in the way when he needed to be operative. Thus, on occasion, he had to defer his humanity and be cold and analytical in the field, just as he had been in battle.

In these crucial moments, he needed to see all his available choices and not just what his state of emotions gravitated toward. The more severe an emotional response was expected from any given situation, the more likely it could negatively impact his ability to resolve a difficult task, complication or crisis.

Occasionally, that solution had to disregard his agents humanity, for that sentimentality would surely cloud his judgement, make him hesitate or doubt himself at the most critical moment. They could no longer be considered friends, or even colleagues. It was necessary to strip them of their identity, regard them without pity or remorse. As collateral damage. How hard would it be to achieve this state with family or loved ones, he thought. It was in these times that pure logic had to drive his actions and not be directed by his emotions.

Emotional detachment meant that he could focus and think clearly and act with precision in matters of life and death.

In these moments, there was space in his mind for nothing else except the situation at hand. And without fail, often past the point of all hope lost, no more options, no more cards to play, he would act in a manuever that was incomprehensible to them. Unthinkable. A tactic unfathomable and impossible for anyone else but Harry. Everyone, even the agent he seemingly had no problem disregarding, would come out alive. Often disbelieving, shell-shocked, nerves shot, not unscathed. Confused and outraged. But alive. Agents who experienced this side of Harry Hart, while they continued to admire and respect him, their esteem would now also carry a touch of reverence, incredulity, and awe.

Soldiers and agents not personally involved or had no emotional interest in their work, were able to perform their jobs better. It was a form of professional detachment.

It was not that he was unfeeling. Quite the opposite. It was as if he felt too much. His ability to remove and distance himself from situations was one of the main reasons he was so successful as an agent and continued to be so. Without this survival skill, the inevitable, at times, devastating losses he had faced, and would no doubt face in the future, would break even a better man. Though one would be hard pressed to find a man better than Harry.

What was seen as dispassionate, emotionless indifference was a preservation mechanism, designed to fiercely safeguard and defend a singularly compassionate soul, with a deep reverence for human life, and an immeasurable capacity to love.

But he had never been put in as difficult a position as Merlin.

———

There were not many stories that affected Harry on both a personal and professional level, but in terms of having a difficult past lead you down the path of becoming a spy, he found hers to be the most compelling. He was, not only impressed by her skills as an agent, he was moved by her emotional resilience, fortitude, courage, and most of all, like she said her mother had, her grit.

This was a young woman, whose odds were not just against her, they were set up for her to fail and fail hard. Who was able to overcome the most brutal experiences that anyone can face, let alone a child, and come out, not only adjusted, but stronger for her experience. The last time he had witnessed such strong will and raw, natural talent, was Eggsy.  And Eggsy’s father.

He sensed what she was going to ask. What would be the ramifications if she were to join Kingsman? They could certainly use the manpower. Their ranks had been severely depleted since the Golden Circle. Merlin’s expertise and guidance was missed almost as much as they missed the man himself. He understood why Merlin, Hamish, sent her away. A constant reminder of not only the lives he lost, but also the terrible way they were taken from him. A reminder of the life he had sacrificed so much for. The constant fear for her safety. Every time she was out in the field, wondering if he had to prepare for another situation like his wife. For Harry and Eggsy, she would always be a reminder of the friend they lost and the sacrifice he made.

He softened. How would it be, to have everyone send you away because your presence would only be a painful reminder of loss?

Eggsy turned to face him, looking absurdly forlorn as well. Like she was a lost puppy that he wanted to keep.

She smoothed her hair away from her face, brushing the length of it behind her while she squared up her shoulders.

She spoke frankly. “You are the last link that I have to my father. I want to take his place.”

When neither of them replied. She added plainly.

“You clearly have some issued that need to be addressed.” Referring to the car with the shooters and that someone was actively trying to kill them.

“It looks like you could use the help.”

Harry, in his most grave and serious voice, a voice that made even Eggsy straighten up.

“This decision on your part, should not be taken easily or lightly.” He watched her intently. He leaned forward to emphasis his point. “Do you understand all of the ramifications of your choice? You could find yourself in the exact same situation you were in when you were a child. Is that a possibility you can handle?”

Also leaning forward, she matched the seriousness of his tone.

“I have no family, no connections, no ties. I have nothing of value that can be used against me. I’m a trained and experienced agent. I was raised Kingsman and there is nothing of your organization that has been hidden from me. I understand very well.”

Not anything of value now, Harry thought. But considering the future? Yet Harry himself was of the same mentality as Merlin and his wife. Nothing came out of acting now for an eventuality that may never materialise.

There was silence from the two men. She certainly wasn’t going to plead or beg. She had done her part. She told her story. If they couldn’t recognise her value, she would leave right then and there.

She tried to hide her sarcasm, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. She leaned back into her booth, crossed her arms over her chest. With a bit of added confrontation.

“I’ve just saved your lives. What else do I have to do to prove myself?”

Harry contemplated. Eggsy contemplated the same. Even though they didn’t know what the other was thinking, they were both thinking the same. We are agreed. For Merlin.

Harry faced her again and with all of nobility, chivalry and honour that was based on centuries of tradition. “Welcome to Kingsman.”

Gwendolyn, in equal measures of dignity and respect. “Thank you.”

Now that was done, she thought, with a little more drama than she expected, but it had all been manageable.

“So it seems we have a problem. How can I help?”

And with that simple question, Gwendolyn found herself within the ranks of Kingsman.

----

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Comments, suggestions feedback always welcome and appreciated. Even if it's just to say Hi!

[pavcrti]

chicago’s very own pavarti kumari has been spotted on madison avenue driving a rose gold model x , welcome ! your resemblance to mishti rahman is unreal . according to tmz , you just had your twenty fifth  birthday bash .  your chance of surviving new york is uncertain because you’re fiery , but being eloquent might help you . i think being a pieces explains that .  3 things that would paint a better picture of you would be fresh fields of lavender that expand into a cotton candy sky , the reflection of the sun caught in the glimmer of a crystal , rhyming couplets professing deep - seeded emotion . ( i ghost write songs for artists who like to claim they write their own work . ) & ( cis female + she / her  ) +  ( emily , 25 , sher / her , pst )

holy shit , it’s ya girl . i’m back after needing a bit of a break from being in a group . and bc i honestly adored this place sm and i made so many great friends here i am back . . . 👀 i expect plots with each and every one of u btw so u best deliver . i desperately wanna get this finished before i pass the fuck out . i’ll be joining the server in the morning , but in the meantime if u wanna be my friend  👀 👀 titsiana praises satan#7989

    biography .

name : pavarti kumari 

age : twenty five

gender : cisfemale

zodiac : pieces 

sexuality : bisexual 

profession : singer / songwriter 

hair color : black

eye color : brown

piercings : both lobes , nose 

tattoos : none

voice claim : jhene aiko

released albums : sail out ( ep ) , trip 

miss pavarti was born in bangladesh . her parents are both 100% bangladeshi and immigrated to chicago when pavarti was four years old . she had an older brother who was five years older than her . his name was siva .her family traveled back every summer so she is very immersed in the culture of her homeland and is a very spiritual person as a result . from a young age , pavarti had a fascination with the english language . not only was it so complex , but there was so much that could be done with it as well . she loved poetry and different types of prose . she also developed an absolute adoration for hip hop as a result . she’s been able to work several of her lyrical inspirations in her albums , something she would’ve never anticipated growing up as an immigrant child . when she entered middle school , she joined the school choir as an extra curricular activity which is what inspired her love for music and introduced her to her vocal talents . within time , she began combining her inclination for poetry with her voice . she wrote her first song at thirteen and began to freestyle for her friends . unfortunately , she was never taken too seriously by her peers . she was a female , hardly the usual suspect for the rnb , soul vibe that her voice conveys . before she graduated high school , her brother siva was killed in a car crash . the unexpected death of her best friend and protector sent pavarti into a spiral . this begun her tendency to alter her reality to escape from her pain with the help of drugs . she frequently writes about her brother in her music . when she was eighteen , she was discovered , ironically , by a manager of a local rapper at a poetry slam she was performing at . she impressed him and he introduced her to his client . this is how pavarti entered the hip hop scene , albeit , in secret . in hip hop , it’s very custom for performers to write the tracks that they put out themselves . pavarti learned that she could learn the skills of the trade whilst making her own connections and making pretty good cash , as well . as the years progressed , the notoriety of her clients rose . she’s written bars for multiple big names and by harvesting these friendships , she was able to get signed to a record label and put out her first ep at age twenty one . it was well received by critics and pavarti was thrilled to be taken seriously as an artist doing what she loves . she kept working , kept her nose in her business and released her first full album , trip , just last year . she feels like she is constantly growing artistically and finds herself inspired everywhere she turns . she’s currently working on her second full album and just dropped a new single , p*$$y fairy . other than that , there’s not too much else to note in her history . she did not grow up rich , rather she’s only recently come into wealth . her money is very new and she’s not too skilled at spending it wisely .

    personality . 

okay , so this will probably just be a long winded explanation that no one really asked for / needed but here we go ! first and foremost . . . pavarti is a dreamer in every sense of the word . she’s whimsical , she’s connected to the earth around her . she drifts off into elaborate day dreams and tells herself stories in her head as she falls to sleep . she is very spiritual . she meditates twice a day . her house always smells of incense . she has an affinity for weed and hallucinogenics . she really enjoys writing under the influence . her album trip is literally inspired by several drug experiences she had that had a profound impact in her life . pavarti’s general demeanor is borderline wall - flower . you wouldn’t expect her to be so shy , but she is . she’s the giggly girl who’ll hang back and let someone else come to her first . in the meantime , she’s taking in every single detail . she’s incredibly observant . sometimes she thinks in poetry . she realizes that she isn’t the typical visual for a female hip hop , rnb artist but it’s truly her passion in life and her art flows through her . she says more in her songs than she does to the people she needs to and that can definitely be problematic . with that said , pavarti is very well spoken . girl knows how to sweet talk her way through just about anything . but she also has the temper of a devil . she does not tolerate being fucked around with . she has that attitude about her where she will go and key your car if you hurt her or one of her best friends . people typically wouldn’t expect such an explosion from someone so outwardly sanguine and easy going but she’s the type to scratch someone’s eyes out if she has to . her music is her spouse . this fucks her up relationship wise a lot because she tends to let chances pass her by because she would rather stay undistracted . she has an ego , but not really in the outward way that one would anticipate when ego is involved . she knows she’s talented . she knows she’s attractive . but she also knows that she’s fucking lucky to be where she is and she’s grateful . pavarti is the type who wakes up with a smile because she has another twenty four hours to be alive . she doesn’t take things for granted --- she used to , until she lost her older brother and she realized just how quickly things can change . pavarti is a fiercely loyal individual to her friends . she will stand up for them , no matter what . the thing is , she expects it back . she is very much aware of her self worth and does not react kindly to a one sided vibe . 

    plots . 

ok , ok , ok . . . so how i am going to do this is offer up some songs / song pairings for songs that i believe pavarti has written for specific people with certain plots in mind for at least her side of things . and then i will also list some basic plots that aren’t based on anything in particular , but are still plots that i would like very much to have ! the links go to lyrics ! all plots are gender neutral , so ignore any pronouns that are in the songs .

bed peace / stay ready / while we’re young --- fwbs with feelings : pavarti and your muse have been friends for a while . somewhere along the line things crossed the line and they began hooking up . it’s obvious that they feel something intense for each other but something is always in the way of them being together --- plus , neither are really sure if the friendship could withstand a romantic relationship crashing and burning . so here they are , stuck in this awkward limbo . they hook up , hang out , awkwardly third wheel when the other is dating someone else . it’s an interesting dynamic and pavarti wouldn’t deal with drama with anyone else but your muse . they have a really compelling bond and neither can think of life without the other but things have been like this for a long time and there is only so long a relationship as complicated as this one could actually function .

the worst / comfort inn ending / moments / when we love --- exes that ended badly with lingering feelings : this was . . . just a crazy hot and cold relationship . when it was hot , it was fucking hot . when it was cold ? damn . hell itself could freeze over . they probably have done and said a lot of nasty , nasty shit to each other . at the same time , they could’ve been literally planning their wedding at some point because they both were incredibly serious about each other . in comfort inn ending , pavarti suggests their relationship was a result of her cheating on another boyfriend to be with your muse and your muse ultimately cheated on her as well . we can discuss that but i would high key kill for the extra drama . around the time pavarti was writing her first full album , they had a rekindling that inspired her to write moments and when we love . i don’t envision this relationship having ended in a decent way from there , though . more cheating ? fighting ? they were definitely toxic . she’s definitely planning on dragging their ass some more in her tracks .

lsd / sativa --- platonic soulmates : omg so this plot is . . . so fucking cute . but these two would basically die for each other . there is zero sexual attraction , just genuine , pure love . they do everything together . but what really sealed their bond ? well . . . many different intense acid trips , of course ! they love to get high together and forget about the world . they both feel like they can trust the other because they have been present for so many life - changing moments . they rarely go a day without seeing each other and absolutely never go a day without talking in some capacity . sometimes they fight like siblings . but pavarti would honestly kill for your muse . there is nothing she wouldn’t do for them . 

new balance / newer balance / you are here / clear my mind --- the romantic bad influence : this plot is another messy piece of trash . from the beginning , when they first met , pavarti always thought your muse was too good to be true . they reminded her so much of her brother . she felt this sense of peace with your muse . she fell in love quickly but at the same time , felt like there was something looming over their relationship . like it wasn’t permanent . like it’s all just a dream . the bad influence part isn’t portrayed too much in the lyrics other than stressing pavarti’s fear that your muse isn’t exactly who they say they are and this relationship is doomed to fail somehow . she knows that when this explodes in her face that it’s going to destroy her . i see your muse bringing out edgier sides of pavarti’s personality . they party a lot , they influence pavarti to do crazy things with them and she does and she feels so alive with your muse . that is , until , it all crumbles . the facade is destroyed and whatever it was that your muse wasn’t being upfront about shatters the way she feels for your muse entirely . she feels betrayed . clear my mind is pavarti’s way of trying to hype herself up to be stronger than she really is . 

never call me / --- best friends turned enemies : this is my last long one i promise , wtf , why did i decide to do this . anyways --- this plot is again , a shit ton of angst so enjoy that . your muse and pavarti used to be the best of friends . inseparable . that is until things went south . fast . we can discuss what it was that happened between our muses but it was something huge and preferably something where they both could stubbornly blame each other . pavarti feels slighted because she thinks that your muse should be the one who reaches out and perhaps your muses could be thinking the same about her . 

romantic plots : crushes , unrequited love , hateship , party hookup , friends with benefits , secret fling , summer romance 

platonic plots : give me close friends ! and tons of them please ! thanks . roommates , drug buddies , confidants , unlikely friendship , travel friends , only friends in the dms , enemies turned friend

[fe8meta]

The War’s Legacy

As a volunteer archivist at a local historical site, I’ve worked closely with books and documents largely between 150~250 years old. (If you’re curious, mostly regarding the period between the American Revolution to the Civil War, plus the anti-slavery movement. There’s also more “domestic” stuff like agriculture, science, mathematics, and religion.)

It got me thinking: In Magvel, how will the war, and the people who participated in it, be remembered? Most characters have a good portion of their lives left to live after the war too, but for those who are remembered down the line, their participation in the war will probably be their biggest accomplishment.

To start things off: more likely than not, anyone who wasn’t royalty or an important military figure is probably going to get forgotten, especially if fighting in the war was their only achievement.

(From my experience as an archivist, I’ve noticed that a great deal of people who were seen as the big movers and thinkers during their time have been lowered to one-note and forgettable in some 150-ish years of history. That’s not a lot of time!)

I think the list of characters who are remembered decades after their deaths on a continental scale (some characters may remain important figures in their own communities) would be the royals, the generals (Seth plus the Imperial Generals), and the Demon King (plus his cult).

The Royals

Ephraim: Regarding the war, Ephraim will probably get his war strategies and accomplishments written about. I expect a great deal of historians (particularly Renaian ones) debating his decision to abandon his homeland and bring the fight into Grado, though his later decisions will probably receive praise.

Eirika: Honestly? I think she’ll largely receive praise from future historians. Despite getting tricked at Renvall and the blunder of losing the Sacred Stone (on her route), I think historians would agree that her calculations were solid based on the information she knew at the time. Even if she had Seth advising her, she had no formal training in tactics or the art of war, making her achievements even more impressive.

~ / ~ / ~

Innes: Like Eirika, I think he’d be validated by historians, particularly for being the only one to actually predict and prepare for a wartime scenario. Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but based on what we know of him story-wise, he probably would go down as one of the best leaders of his time.

Tana: She’s gutsy and I think she’ll at least become a popular figure for young women. Some historians may lambast her earlier captures attributable to her inexperience, but hey, if she got out alive than it’s not too bad. I think later in life, being largely free to do whatever she wants (within reason), she’d continue onto a path of public service, which she can probably gather great acclaim for.

~ / ~ / ~

L’Arachel: I think a lot of attention will go towards her theatrics. If you go with the idea that L’Arachel doesn’t actually lead her country (see the Solo Endings JP vs. EN post for details), I think her relationship with the other royals and how she’s involved in continental politics will be the primary focus in biographies. (She also, perhaps not coincidentally, has supports with all the other ruling royals, discounting Tana as she canonically never lands in a leadership position.)

Joshua: Joshua’s reputation will be very, very mixed down the line. He’s still has wanderlust and a gambling addiction, and regardless of his accomplishments as a king and Jehanna’s glorious revival, neither of those traits are a particularly good look. Not to mention that he abandoned his duty as prince for a solid 10 years, and then left Jehanna to its own devices again while going to stop the Demon King.

Even in Joshua’s dialogue after the final battle, he talks about returning to Jehanna in an almost resigned manner; no doubt he knows full well that he might not be received with open arms.

~ / ~ / ~

Lyon: Oh boy, what to say about Lyon. There are a lot of different ways this can go, branching from 3 options: Lyon’s involvement in the war is revealed in full, Lyon’s involvement is revealed but doctored to paint him in a more sympathetic light, or it gets entirely covered up/omitted and he goes down in history as an unfortunate casualty of the war.

No matter how you slice the first two options, Lyon’s legacy would definitely be extremely mixed, leaning towards the negative side. Not only is he on the wrong side of history, he’s also forced basically half the continent into the wrong side of history and ruined their military and did some very amoral things (reviving his father to use as a puppet, and by extension lying to the public, etc). Even the best doctoring can probably only redeem Lyon’s reputation from “the deepest depths of the sewers” to “neck-deep in the sewers.”

In the case where Lyon’s involvement in the war is covered up, it’s still only a matter of time before someone figures out the truth. With enough time, it can be relegated to a highly plausible and hotly-debated theory, but even so, it’s simply a matter of time. For an additional dose of irony, in this scenario, perhaps Grado nationalists down the line twist Lyon’s war into something “assertive” and depict it as the “correct” thing to do, when it was really anything but.

Vigarde: He’s in the same boat as Lyon. It really hinges on how the royals choose to depict Lyon’s situation to the public, because that will directly affect how Vigarde is seen. There’s little doubt that puppet!Vigarde’s actions probably destroyed popular opinion of him during the War. Whether he is redeemed on account of his situation or not is up for debate.

(Because the game doesn’t delve into Fado, Hayden, or Mansel much, I don’t have enough input to say how they’ll be seen by future historians.)

The Generals

Seth: He’s going to go down in history as a badass, let’s be real here. Took an attack from Valter himself to protect Eirika, didn’t let the injury debilitate him from fighting on the frontlines, mentored Eirika in the art of war during life-or-death battles, guided the twins on their journey, and continued helping them after the war’s end. Guy got things done, regardless of his personal sentiment about failing to protect King Fado.

Syrene: Technically a commander and not a general, but close enough that I’ll consider her. She... honestly doesn’t do that much on-screen. Doubtlessly she’ll be best remembered (on the battlefield) for being overpowered by the remnant of Grado’s forces, but at least she lived and (by the player’s discretion) kept all the villagers safe, so that’s something. At the very least, a coward she is not.

Carlyle: He’s going down in infamy. Like, his story can be crudely summed up as “I was loyal to Queen Ismaire partially because I wanted to bang her.” Yeah, that is not a good look. There isn’t even any interesting speculation or interpretations to make of his situation. He probably ruined the reputation of the Jehannan Army while he was at it.

Honestly, the only thing that would salvage his reputation is the fact that everyone who heard his confession is dead by the end of that battle. (Technically the map was a Seize Throne and not a Rout, but let’s be real -- we killed those guards.)

~ / ~ / ~

Duessel: The only Grado general to make it out alive. He’ll probably get a mixed reaction; those who praise him argue that he made the morally correct choice and had the nation’s best interests at heart. Some may criticize him for not acting sooner, while others may very well despise him as a traitor to the nation.

Selena: Another set of mixed reactions, though inverse from Duessel’s. She remained loyal to Vigarde to the very end, but people will debate where a knight’s loyalty should lie. It would also invite much debate over the ethics of Vigarde’s recruitment methods and whether it was a thinly-veiled manipulation tactic that citizens from poorer areas will fall for because it’s the only way to improve their livelihoods.

Glen: He’s like Syrene, except he died without doing much. If someone is interested in finding out more about him before his death, at least they have Cormag to interview. Depending on whether his two adjutants survived against Valter’s goons, if someone tracked them down, they might get a story out of them as well. That said, his history with Valter would probably be of great interest to Valter’s biographers.

~ / ~ / ~ 

Valter: Historians, psychologists, and scholars will have a field day with him and his circumstances. From his upbringing to his descent into madness and subsequent exile, to his reinstatement and brutality during the war before his ultimate death, there is a lot to unpack with him. People tend to have morbid curiosities and oh, will Valter sate that appetite.

Caellach: Caellach will probably be praised for being good at what he did even if he was ultimately on the wrong side of history. Since he started off as a mercenary, I feel like people won’t judge him too harshly. His potential betrayal and murder of Aias will be an interesting chapter to write about, though, since historians may have access to more knowledge on their pre-war relationship that we players don’t have.

Riev: He’s ugly, a Demon King cultist, and directly responsible for Lyon’s (and by extension, Grado’s) downfall. He’s going to be reviled for sure, though he will spark some interesting discussion relating to his history with the Rausten Church. A lot of speculation on how he came to became an adherent of the Demon King... or not, depending how whether that kind of talk is suppressed.

After all, if a former bishop converted, it not only challenges the legitimacy of the Rausten Church, it would also pique the interest of those who want to see what made Riev change his mind. And should someone also adopt his ideology, the continent can’t take another Demon King revival attempt.

Which leads me to...

The Demon King

Now, this will be a little game called “How many generations will it take before the Demon King gets relegated to a legend that no one believes in again.”

It’s also pretty important that the Demon King is not completely destroyed; he just no longer has his huge menacing body to use and will have to make do with those fragile human flesh sacks. But his soul is still intact, and if nothing is done to get rid of it for good, it’s setting up for a Part 3.

Like with Lyon, how information about the Demon King is handled by the characters after the world will probably have a huge impact. Not to mention the many implications the circumstances around his possession of Lyon has. Dark/ancient magic will most certainly face a resurgent wave of discrimination, far more than seen before. (Magvel was, from what we could see, largely apathetic about dark magic before Lyon’s attempts to redeem its name. Ironically, his actions will rekindle hatred towards it.)

As aforementioned, educating people on the Demon King and how dangerous he is may help ensure that nobody tries to mess with him again. On the other hand, it may inspire copycats who for whatever reason want the Demon King to be revived. (The game also never followed up on the implication that there’s a cult that worships the Demon King; we killed Riev and Novala, and destroyed Fomortiis’ body, but there may still be more members lurking in the dark.)

Meanwhile, trying to bury information about Fomortiis can also backfire down the line, especially if people don’t learn what the Sacred Stone is for and one day crack the seal open for one reason or another. (And we saw how well keeping the true Stone hidden behind trinkets while keeping its wearer in the dark of its true purpose went.)

This is making me imagine Demon King apologists down the line that provide an “alternative history” about the war and how it’s all some ancient conspiracy to lock him away and he “isn’t actually bad, just misunderstood”...

Oh hey, isn’t that the direction Dragalia Lost’s main story is going in?

[hyannah]

Anon Archives vol. 4 (right?)

full res: x I miss him too. He was the first of the cast I ever designed and without him, there would simply be no TBoA. Rest assured there will be no shortage of him in the comic :) I understand that the concept of Wolfe with facial hair will be like marmite for most of you, but it’s probably something that you should prepare for regardless! Wolfe no longer has use of his hands due to extensive nerve damage and he has to get imaginative with ways to keep his grip on things - but some tools, like razors - are simply impossible for him to use anymore due to his tremors. Before the gang comes together he will be looking quite worse for wear. 

full res: x She calls him “Marty” :) Her mother called him that so it makes him happy. He’s not her father but he loves her as one would. He was the one who delivered her as a baby, though during the process there were complications. She broke her leg on the way out and though Martin was able to treat her, it caused her to walk with a slight limp growing up. Teaching her to dance wasn't just Martin's idea of physiotherapy but his way of showing her how dearly he cared for her. Music and dance are our good doctor's love languages, you see. He will have Twinkletoes refer to him as “Sir” when he reprimands her, but due to some of Martin’s own issues growing up, he hates disciplining children. If he absolutely must, it’s firm but merciful, and under no circumstances would he ever raise his hand to them.

full res: x Michael Graves is one of three of Ashwick’s Senior Wardens, the other being Hunter Gerhardt and an as of now unannounced third. Wardens are the town’s law enforcers who work directly under the church’s orders. Neither entirely police nor militia, they’re a bit of both. Wardens patrol the streets at night and make sure no one is out after Curfew. Wardens are simultaneously feared and revered amongst the deeply religious townsfolk who view them as God-sent, but no one strikes pure terror into their hearts quite like Graves. While Hunter is known for being terrifying but sometimes merciful, Graves holds no such reputation. If gunshots are heard in the night or blood stains the cobblestones in the morning, townfolk know to keep their mouths shut and heads down.

Thank you so much! I still have some demons to battle but I want to get better, and your support means the world.

Thank you! I kinda wanna die when I look at that piece. Damian deserved better than my art in that funky phase and I will capture his true beauty one day.

LOL Bloodborne has been a huuuuge visual influence on me over the last few years. Expect to see some similarities I'm sure.

Thank you ;.; I used Paint Tool Sai religiously but I've unfortunately fallen out of love with it in the last year in favour of Clip Studio Paint. I would highly recommend CSP and since it comes with a one-month free trial you'd be missing out not to give it a go. I occasionally use Photoshop for some final touches but not enough to say it's worth paying that silly subscription fee for. Lately, I've been using Procreate on my iPad. It was one hell of an investment (😔💸) but it was worth it - the iPad feels great to draw on.

Thank you! Yes, definitely expect that. There are a few timeskips in canon and I have outfit changes planned.

Wolfe can sometimes be seen circling a bed or chair a few times before sitting/lying down not unlike a dog would. Rose cannot - and I truly mean this - fathom numbers. To say she is bad at math would be a terrible understatement. Martin needs a few shots of whiskey a day to keep him going but he never seems inebriated so it’s impossible to tell (unless you’re Hunter). Hunter is so tall that churches are the only buildings he doesn’t have to duck to get in to and he Riker Sits everywhere. Gloria is a little superstitious, and Graves is a cigarette smoker. Twinkletoes likes pigeons.

I would certainly recommend it! If drawing inspires you, give it a shot! Though whether or not I recommend going to school for it is a more complicated question. The good thing about pursuing a career in art is that at the end of the day your work ethic and portfolio are your best friends. Having degrees and connections will help in the industry for sure (and why I DO recommend art courses for people who have the money and want to experience student life), but if you're a poor kid that can't shell out the dough for art school or if you studied a different field, or if college didn't/isn't working out for you, it's not the end of the road. You can build your career on your own terms if you're driven enough.

Hm, let's see. I think Wolfe and Gloria would appreciate some sweet treats! Hunter rarely eats anything that isn't meat, and Rose has lived on the road most of her life so campfire food is what she's used to. She's the kind of person you'd see eat something horrifying like uncooked beans straight from the tin. Gloria appreciates her guilty pleasures and Wolfe recalls her sharing taffy with him as a little boy. But those memories are hazy now, and he's long since forgotten the taste.

Oh jeez, that would mean the world to me! As for the dialogue, it’s probably a bit of both honestly haha.

Hunter: 43, Wolfe: 23, Gloria: 41, Martin: 45, Rose: 19, Graves: 38. Some of you may recall Hunter being younger but I had to make a few timeline adjustments. Otherwise, everyone has remained the same.

Oh, well, it just might be! Wolfe is used to carrying the frail and sickly through the Charnels, but human touch in that regard is alien to him.

You're right about one thing, Ashwick is certainly in the title! I'm pretty close to revealing it so hopefully you won't be stumped for too long. I can reveal however, if I haven't already (and I think I may have, I haven't read the previous Anon Archives in years), that TBoA was going to be called Memento Mori.

He raises an amused brow at your sentiment but if you're under 35 you're all toddlers and babies to him. Plus he can't go 5 minutes without thinking about his wife so it's safe to say he’s settled down.

Haha, yeah! All of the above. Though it goes both ways. Hunter’s antics drive the poor man up the wall for sure but Hunter will be the first to tell you that doc is a force of nature too when he’s got to be. They’ve known each other for decades. They’ve taken bullets and bruises and stabs wounds for one another. Martin makes sure Hunter doesn’t get himself killed (at least he did before Malignancy took that off the table) and Hunter makes sure Martin doesn’t work himself to death. Gloria just wonders why they both have to be so damn dramatic.

1. Rose's candles simulate artificial sunlight and can temporarily vanquish Spectres from the area at night until the wick runs out. These are especially useful to the common folk who may be suffering from seeing their dead loved ones night after night. Her special coloured candles are different, though. They block a Malignant from being able to possess their Host's body and thus allow the Host to keep control of themselves when night falls. You'll learn more about the ins-and-outs of this mechanic in the comic.

2. I can't share that! You'll just have to wait and find out. Though it is a wonder how someone as formidable and self-disciplined as Hunter could fall prey to a Malignant's manipulation … I suppose even men like Father Gerhardt have been vulnerable at one point in their lives, huh?

It’s private, sorry :( It was a kind gesture from a fan who wanted to show their appreciation but it quickly got a little out of hand and very inappropriate. I’m good friends now with the few who did join so it’s not so bad and we have a good laugh, but it’s given me a small taste of “Fandom” on a grander scale and it was enough for me to realise it makes me pretty uncomfortable to be in the middle of it. I love being able to communicate with you all but I don’t love being in awkward situations so much. I might try again in the future, we’ll see.

Malignancy is unpredictable and what happens to one Host won't necessarily happen to the other!

ohohohoh who knowsssssss ;D

Nope, she’s Hunter’s danger noodle gal.

Yes, I love them!!!! I recall checking them out after you sent this message quite some time ago. I had heard a few of their songs before but I've been listening to them regularly ever since. I appreciate the recommendation since music is a really big thing for me.

Oh thank you very much! They're my own characters yes :) I first created them when I was 16 for a college project. One day I would like to share that with you all because it's come a long way. The comic is in development. Thank you all for your questions, I think that’s most of them. If you don’t see your ask in here it’s because it was asked already, I got a similar question and took a screenshot of that instead, it was too inappropriate, I can’t reveal the information yet, or I simply didn’t see it. As always if you’re looking for more prompt responses please message me off anon so I can reply privately since I respond to most anons in bulk!

[not-a-space-alien]

Anniversary - or the Horsepersons realise they can get together outside of work

Hi everyone, I just realized today that I never posted my work from this past holiday exchange!  Here was my entry, hope you enjoy!

Title:  Anniversary

Rating:  G

Word Count: 6k

Summary: The horsepersons are summoned for a second attempt at Armageddon, but soon an irritating pattern emerges.    

A note about my illustrations:  I trace stock photos for a lot of my basic shapes because I’m not good at that and really only enjoy the detail work and coloring, so I consider my “art” more like photo manipulation than original artwork, so just keep that in mind!  This one is also partially based in TV canon and partially in book canon fyi

On DW

On AO3

“Who exactly summons them?”

“Not my department.”

************************

The department that did, in fact, summon the horsepersons was not Gabriel’s department, which was the Department of Earthly Affairs.  Summoning the horsepersons, overseeing the signs of the end times, the rains of fish, and all that unpleasant business was a job that nobody really wanted.  It was thought of as something Hell was supposed to do, but Heaven had to take responsibility for it, roll up their sleeves, and make sure it was done properly.  It was shunted off onto whichever angels were unlucky enough to be assigned to the Department of Armageddon, which Gabriel had actually fought tooth and nail to leave.

The Department of Armageddon’s entire purpose was to prepare for the end times: to meticulously plan it out and ensure it went off smoothly.  As these things tend to go, the least desirable job got pushed off onto whomever was lowest on the command chain, or at least the one too polite or too much of a pushover to refuse the job.  And nobody really wanted to interact with the horsepersons.  The DoA was filled with poor souls who had been toughing out a job they’d hated for six-thousand years. It would take a toll on anyone.

The reader can probably imagine that Aziraphale is less popular with the Department of Armageddon than any other angels, who unfortunately already find him quite annoying.

But this story is not about Aziraphale.  It’s not even about Ambriel, the angel responsible for summoning the horsepersons.

No, this story is about the horsepersons, who lined up for Armageddon in the year of 1991 with great fervor and excitement, giddily straddling their motorcycles, finally able to run wild.  The way that one had fizzled out was quite a disappointment to them all.

Adam had banished them for a bit, and that had been no fun, but it’s impossible to do away with Famine, War, and Pollution as long as humans exist.  So they eventually reformed, springing from the minds of men and being unleashed back onto the world.

Somewhere in Europe, freshly spilled blood steamed and boiled, and War rose up, with blood smeared over her naked body like a newborn baby.  In Asia, in a field covered by vultures feasting on the carcass of an emaciated cow, Famine sat up, looking around disoriented and missing his fancy suits.  On the West Coast of the United States, Pollution washed ashore,  having drifted for a while after being spawned from the Great Pacific garbage patch. They picked seaweed out of their hair and took a few moments to orient themselves.  The last thing they remembered was staring down Adam Young.  And as they realised what had happened, they thought the exact same thing their two companions were thinking at that exact moment:

Aw, man!

*********************************

In August 1992, the brave soul known simply as ‘the deliveryman’ had been contracted once again.  The request was again from someone named Ambriel, by whom he had been contracted at this precise time last year, and for the exact same reason:  To make four deliveries in various parts of the world to varyingly strange customers.

He didn’t really want to go, but it was his job, so there he was braving the quite literally riotous streets of a war-torn country scouring the chaos for a particular woman.

War had gone back to doing her reporter schtick, but it was starting to bore her.  She was interviewing an American soldier as he prattled on and on, pretending to write it down*, thinking about what her next possible career could be.  Probably somewhere in the American Military-Industrial complex, she thought.

*******

*She was currently drawing a sketch of him decapitated on the battlefield.

*******

This is how the deliveryman found her.  He doubled over panting from the exertion of running up to her, but managed to wheeze out, “Package for you, Miss.”

War turned to him, an intensely puzzled look on her face.  “What?”

“Package for you.”

War turned her back on the soldier.  “You again?  Aren’t you the same….  You have another package for me?”

He held it out.  It was suspiciously sword-shaped.

“But... “  She took the package and unwrapped it.  It was indeed a sword, long and shiny polished metal glittering in the harsh sun.  “But this means Armageddon is near.  Again?”

The deliveryman held out the signature pad hopefully.

She looked at him.

“I need you to sign for it, miss.”

“But we just did this.”

“This, ma’am?”

“Receiving our artifacts.  Riding to Armageddon.  The whole nine yards.”

“I do recall delivering this same sword to you last year.  Afraid I don’t know anything about it, though.  I’m just the deliveryman.”

“Are we doing it all again?”

“Afraid I don’t know, ma’am.  I just need you to sign for it, please.”

War held the sword out in both her hands, seeing her reflection in its length.  “That was one year ago today,” she realised.  “A year was all they decided to wait?  It took six-thousand to get ready the first time.”

Hope fading, the deliveryman stretched his arms out to full length to get the pen and pad as close to her as possible.  “Just need a signature, miss.”

War relented and took the pen, ripping the paper under the force of her signature.  The deliveryman looked a bit put off and shuffled away, unenthusiastic about his next delivery, which would require him to pick along an extremely dirty industrial oil field.

The soldier waited around to hopefully continue bragging about how brave he was, but War ignored him.  She simply continued to stare at the sword.  All she said was:

“Huh.”

***************************************

“Here we all are, gathered together at last.”

Famine was the one to made this proclamation.  He said this to both War and Pollution, who were uncertainly standing around their motorcycles.  This time they had been summoned directly to the barren field of Armageddon, which was, as it had been at this time last year, distressingly empty.

“Just saw you last year,” said Pollution.  “Not quite ‘at last’ anymore, is it?.”

Famine gave them a dirty look.  “Yes, well, it’s what we said last year.  Seems only right to say it again.”

“They’re trying to make Armageddon happen again on the anniversary of it failing,” said War.  “Is that what’s up?”

“It is significant, isn’t it?” said Pollution.  “I was thinking about having some sort of celebration anyway.  One year and all that.  Seems like we should commemorate it somehow.”

“That’s stupid,” said Famine.  Famine usually hated commemorating things because anniversaries and celebrations always seemed to involve good food and drink.  Eat, drink, and be miserable was usually how it went for him.

“Anyway,” said War, “what are we waiting for?  The Big Guy’s not here yet, but shouldn’t there be, I don’t know, some sort of preliminaries going on?  Wasn’t there all sorts of wacky stuff going on last year, storm in the sky, showers of fish and all that?”

A figure could be seen spiraling downwards from the sky, wings spread wide.  Pollution shielded their face with their hand and stared up past the sun.  “Who’s’at?”

The figure revealed itself to be an angel, a jaunty figure with a halo struggling to keep up with his erratic motion, floating just behind his head as he ran full-speed towards them.

“And who might you be?” said Famine.

The angel huffed and puffed.  “The name’s--the name is Ambriel.”  He caught his breath and looked around at the gathering.  “Where is Death?”

As if on cue, Death appeared with a small pop of expanding air.  I HAVE NEVER HAD TO KILL THE SAME HUMAN TWICE, said Death.  AND I DO NOT ENJOY THE EXPERIENCE.  NEITHER DID HE.  WHATEVER YOU ARE PAYING THE DELIVERYMAN, YOU NEED TO PAY HIM MORE.

“Pay?” said Ambriel.  “Oh, that’s right.”  He snapped his fingers, and the deliveryman’s bank account balance was suddenly a few digits larger, for all the good it would do a dead man.

“So your name’s Ambriel,” said War.  “But who are you?”

“I’m the one responsible for making sure the horsepersons are present at Armageddon!” he crowed.

Famine craned his neck towards the empty, blue, peaceful, quiet, decidedly-not-Armageddon sky.  Pollution kicked a rock through the soft grass.  War scratched her head.

WE ARE HERE, said Death.

“But where’s Armageddon?” said War.  “We don’t start it.  That’s the antichrist.”

“Ah,” said Ambriel, sweating.  “Yes, well, we’re still working on that.  It was supposed to happen a year ago, you see…”

“Yes, you summoned us on the anniversary,” said Pollution.  “Are we going to do it again?”

“Turn the seas to blood?” said War, shaking her fists.

“Unleash ourselves upon the planet until nothing’s left but bones and bare rock?” said Famine, a sparkle in his eye.

“Bury humanity in the consequences of its own actions?” said Pollution giddily.

Ambriel grimaced as the three of them crowded in on him, pumping their fists in excitement.

THE FINAL REAPING, said Death.

“Yes,” said Ambriel.  “Um, yes, for sure, about that…”

The excitement on their faces began to fade.

“Well, you see, I’d thought everything would be ready to go by now.  The timeline they gave me for re-setting the Armageddon fittings was one year!  It should be well underway by now, but…”

War and Famine looked at each other disappointedly.  “But what?” said Pollution.

“But they’re not done with the paperwork yet,” said Ambriel, crumpling.  “There’s been delays and delays and delays.  Our field agent won’t cooperate.  Hell won’t cooperate.  The other departments won’t cooperate.  It’s a bloody mess!”

“That sounds like your problem,” said War.  “What do you want us to do about it?”

Ambriel wrung his hands.  “Well, I...I don’t know.”

War pouted.  “All right, well, this was a bust, then.”  She spun on her heel and marched across the field.  “Call me when there’s some action for me, then, love.”

“Wait!” cried Ambriel.  “Don’t leave!”

“I’ll be down by the river,” said Pollution.  “It’s been looking a bit too clean for my taste.  Too many local community day cleanups, if you ask me.”

Ambriel nervously stuttered as Pollution sauntered away in the opposite direction.  Then he looked at Famine.  “I suppose you’re going to leave me, too?”

Famine checked his very expensive watch.  “Well, my flight back to America doesn’t leave until five o’clock, so I might hang around a bit and see if you can kick off Armageddon in the next two hours.”

*************************************

August 25, 1993

Pollution was the first one to show up this time, bearing a wine bottle and a little party hat affixed in their pale hair.  They’d worn the crown this whole time, so their head was starting to get a little crowded on top.

War had kept her sword.  It was slung casually over her shoulder as she picked her way across the empty field where Armageddon ostensibly was supposed to take place.  Only Famine had returned his artifact to Ambriel, because he thought modern electronic balances were much more efficient and chic than traditional balancing scales anyway, and he stood waiting to meet her empty-handed.

“Back again,” said War.  “I just got a letter in the mail this time, no deliveryman.  You?”

“The same,” said Famine.  “They’re lucky I got it.  Our mail gets filtered pretty thoroughly before it lands on my desk.  Pretty rude too, I had to drop everything to run on over...I thin heaven should start reimbursing me for the travel costs.”

Death popped into existence beside Pollution.  Ambriel was holding onto his arm, looking frightened.

THERE, YOU SEE? said Death.  NO NEED TO KILL ANYONE TO GET A MESSAGE TO ME.  WE CAN SKIP THAT AND HEAD RIGHT ON OVER TO ARMAGEDDON TOGETHER.

“Right,” said Ambriel.  “Sorry.”  He straightened his tunic and marched out in front of the semicircle of horsepersons.  “Welcome to Armageddon!” he loudly announced.  “It begins now!”

“I don’t see any signs of the end times--” Pollution began.

“Yet!” Ambriel thundered.  “They shall begin any moment!”

Pollution popped open the wine bottle.  “Yay.”

Ambriel, his hands still raised dramatically, began to sweat.

“The paperwork still isn’t done, is it?” said War.

“The paperwork still isn’t done,” said Ambriel, shoulders sagging.

“Then why did you call us here?” said Famine.  “Look, I’m a busy man.  I run a corporate empire, you know!”

“I thought it would be done!” said Ambriel, wringing his hands.  “We’re just…  We’re waiting on our field agent, Aziraphale.  He hasn’t turned in his forms yet, and he won’t answer my messages.”

“Should we go find this Aziraphale guy and teach him a lesson?” said War.

“A lesson about punctuality in filling out paperwork?” said Pollution.  “Are you sure you’re the best one to teach him that lesson?”

“All right, all right,” said Famine.  “Look, Ambriel, is there anything we can do to move things along?  This is the third time in a row--”

“The second anniversary,” Pollution interrupted.

“--Right, thanks, White--the third time we’ve done our ride and gone to Armageddon.  It’s starting to get a bit anticlimactic.”

“That’s his job, not ours,” said War.  “Pfft.  Black, what’s next?  You want to tempt sinners to Hell?  Reap souls after death?  Who else’s job do you want to do?”

Famine grew red.  “I’m just saying--”

“Well, whatever,” said War, slinging her sword back into the sheath strapped across her back.  She hooked her arm around Famine’s head and gave him a noogie.  “We can kill some time while Ambriel finishes preparing for Armageddon.”

HMMM, said Death.  YES...SINCE IT SEEMS LIKE TIME IS THE ONLY THING WE’LL BE KILLING.

******************************

August 25, 1994

Famine kept his scales this time.  Their home for the next year was the corner of his desk in his office on top of 666 Fifth Avenue, right next to his extremely slim computer.

Famine played with the chain, strangely delicate and cold, when an email popped up on his computer.

To the Black horseperson of the apocalypse:

Please meet us at the appropriate place at the appropriate time.  The end is nigh.  The four horsemen shall ride and the world shall end in fire and blood..

Famine started to type a response.  But before he could, his computer dinged with a reply: all to the previous email, from czugiber@aol.com:

Can I bring a plus one this time?

A few days and a few thousand miles later, Famine trekked over the dry ground of Armageddon with his scales in hand.  Pollution and War were already standing in the middle of the field, the exact same place Ambriel had appeared the last three years.

War had a demoness hanging off her arm.

“Ah, Black!” said War.  “Just in time.  I was just in the process of introducing my girlfriend, Ashtarte.”

“Call me Ash,” said Ashtarte.  A smile, too broad and with too many teeth that were too sharp, spread Cheshire cat-like across her features.  She wore a punk mesh top, red boots, and had a little pair of horns and forked tail, like she was trying to impersonate a Halloween costume of a demon.

“Uh, okay, Ash,” said Famine.

“The Black horseperson of the apocalypse!” said Ash.  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.  Big fan of your work!”

“Big fan?” said Famine.  He straightened his tie.  “Thanks very much.”

“We met over cocktails in a little bar in Saudia Arabia,” said War.  “Making fun of the same reporters.”

Ash held up her hand in a “V” pose.

“None of us have ever really, uh…” said Famine.

“Had a girlfriend?” said War.  “You don’t know that.”

Famine fidgeted.  “So you have had a girlfriend?”

“Er, well, no, not really,” said War.  She hefted Ash onto her shoulder and flexed her bicep; the smaller woman fit snugly into her shoulder.  “But you should try it sometime!  Armageddon keeps getting delayed, so we might as well enjoy our time here, right?”

“But what’s the appeal?”

“I think he doesn’t understand it,” said Pollution, “because he can’t even imagine how to get a girlfriend.”

Death appeared stormily, his biker boots thumping against the ground a bit too hard.  AND WHERE IS OUR SUMMONER?

“Not here yet,” said Pollution, fiddling with the wine bottle they held.  “But why don’t we have some drinks first?  Enjoy our time here, right?”

They summoned a card table from somewhere, and Pollution pulled up a seat and patted the one next to them in the hope of coaxing Death to sit down.  Famine ambivalently sat down next to War, who had Ash on her lap.

WE’RE NOT HAVING A PARTY, said Death.  WE’RE HERE FOR BUSINESS REASONS.

“Sit down, big guy,” said Famine.  “Nothing wrong with loosening up a little.”

Death remained motionless for a few moments, tense with annoyance.  Then, his biker leathers crinkling, he lowered himself into a seat.  BUT I WON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DRINK.

“Aw,” said Pollution, popping the cork off the bottle.  “Do you not like it?”

Death’s helmet visor reflected Pollution’s face impassively back at them as they poured drinks.

“Have you never drunk alcohol before?” said War.

Death didn’t answer.

“You haven’t, have you?” said Famine.  “Do you want to try some?”

Death lifted his helmet off his head, setting it on his lap.  Then he removed one leather glove, revealing his bony hand.  The white stalk snaked out and curled around a glass, bringing it to his skeletal grin.  The wine dribbled through his jaw and onto his leather jacket.

Famine grimaced.  Pollution thought his jacket looked better with stains on it, but didn’t say so.  They passed the next half hour in jovial conversation, the wine warming their bodies and lifting their spirits.  Ash withdrew a deck of cards from her pocket, which entertained them as they laughed and joked.

They were all quite drunk by the time Ambriel arrived.  He sprinted over at top speed, careening into the table.  “What are you all doing?”

“We’re having a drink!” said Ash, waving her glass in the air and sloshing wine.

“Wh—”  Ambriel took a second to look very confused at the appearance of a fifth horseperson, then shook it off and decided it didn’t matter.  “Whatever!  Get up, put this stuff away!  Armageddon is starting!”

“For real this time?” said Pollution.

A second angel could be seen descending from Heaven.  “Yes, for real this time!” Ambriel exploded.  “The archangel Michael is on his way!  Now get ready!”

War rolled her eyes and folded up the table.  Pollution disappointedly retrieved the half-empty wine bottle, sipping from it as they walked over to Ambriel.

Michael touched down, his impressive dusky wingspan battering them with dusty clouds.  “Ambriel, I was told the armies of Hell are gathering here, yes?”

“Yes!” said Ambriel.  “The antichrist is coming.  He’s on his way now.”

“He’s…”  Michael looked over the the horsepersons.  Famine shrugged.    War examined her nails.  Pollution continued to sip from their bottle.  Death very stormily crossed his arms.

“He’s supposed to already be here,” said Michael.  “I don’t see any of the signs of Armageddon…”

“I gave the antichrist Adam Young a very stern lecture about his role, and demanded he come to Armageddon,” said Ambriel.  “And he said he was coming.”

Pollution cocked their head.  “He said he was coming?”

“Yes.  His exact words were, ‘Okay, Boomer.’”

Pollution choked, wine shooting out their nose.

***************************

August 25, 1998

“Can we meet at your restaurant next time?”

Famine turned to Pollution, the only other figure with him at the yet again empty field of Armageddon.  “What?”

“The next time this happens, can we meet at one of your restaurants?”

Famine sighed.  The first few times this had happened, he’d argued that they didn’t know there was going to be a ‘next time,’ but by now, the anniversary of the Apocalypse usually heralded them gathering to stand around for a while and not much else.  “I doubt Ambriel would go for that.  We’re supposed to be in this spot.”

Pollution shifted from foot to foot.  “But the Newtrition corp has expanded, right?  It has branches around here now.  It wouldn’t be that far.”

“You don’t want to eat at my restaurant,” said Famine, trying to hide his shock that Pollution was so familiar with his franchise.  He hadn’t thought any of the other horsepersons had cared about his silly little business.  Although it was nice that someone was paying attention.  “Why not?” said Pollution.  “It seems nice.  It produces lots of waste paper.  And styrofoam cartons.  Love those things.”

“It doesn’t serve actual food,” said Famine.  “Just a bunch of nonsense.  It has no nutritional value.”

“Well,” said Pollution.  “We don’t actually need to eat, do we?  Back in the forties, I went a good decade without eating.  Too busy with the mills in Pittsburgh to stop and eat.”

Famine opened his mouth to deliver a snappy retort, only to find he didn’t have one.

“‘Course that was before I took the crown from Pestilence, so I was just a minor horseperson then. Well, my point is, it’s not like we’ll be affected by malnutrition.  As long as it tastes good, right?”

Famine lit a cigarette.  “If you want to look at it that way, I suppose.”

The rumble of a motorcycle filled the air, and War pulled up with Ash perched on the back of her bike.

“We can’t meet at my restaurant,” said Famine.  “That’s inappropriate.”  He wasn’t sure why the idea made him so uncomfortable, and he turned to greet War.  “Red.”

“Black,” said War, dismounting.  She put her bike helmet on the saddle as Ash fell off behind her.  “Hey, you don’t have to call me ‘Red,’ you know.”

Famine stopped.  “What?”

“I have a name.”

Famine bristled.  “Whatever.  Where’s that stupid little twig of an angel this time?”

“Geez, who pissed in your cereal,” said Ash, dusting herself off.

“I’m just getting a little tired of this!” said Famine.  “I have to fly over from America every year in August only to be told to go right back home!”

Pollution opened a bag of crisps, savoring the grease.  They looked disappointedly into the bag.  “Black.”

“What?”

“Don’t ruin my crisps!”

“I’m not ruining your—”  Famine suddenly realised he was ruining the crisps, because he was so damn frustrated by how inefficient Heaven and Armageddon and this whole thing was.  He was used to running things like a well-oiled machine, and this….

“Black, stop ruining the poor kid’s crisps,” said War.

“You’ve never appreciated my work,” Famine snapped.

Ambriel chose this moment to appear.  “All right, everyone!” he said.  “This time I’ve really—”

“Black, I was very much looking forward to my crisps!” Pollution said.

“You all only notice how hard I work when it affects you!” said Famine.  “I’m the only one putting real effortinto building an empire—”

“You’re the only one?” said Pollution.

Scared, Ambriel hid behind his clipboard, unsure of how to wrangle them.

Famine suddenly realised that War was gleefully egging on the fight between him and Pollution with her horseperson powers.  “Red!”

The tension in the air immediately dissipated, and War slunk back, looking chastised.  

His head more clear now, Famine smoothed out his tie.  The booted footsteps of Death reverberated in the air before he made his appearance.  AND HOW MANY ANNIVERSARIES IS THIS NOW?  I’VE LOST COUNT.

“You’re late,” said Ambriel snootily.

Death turned to him.  Even though he had no face to speak of, and still had his helmet on, everyone could clearly imagine the expression he would make.

“Seven,” said Pollution through a mouthful of crisps.

A second angel descended from the sky, this one unhurried, dragging its proverbial feet.

AND DO I HAVE ANYTHING TO BE LATE FOR THIS TIME? said Death.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Ambriel.  “Because I have with me the field agent who was responsible for delaying Armageddon last time.  So now he’s going to kick it off.”

A chubby angel with oodles of curly hair touched down, looking around guiltily.  “Er, hello...I’m Aziraphale.”

“Oh, you looked nicer in a dress,” said Pollution.

“All right,” said Ambriel.  “Let’s go, then.  Go on.”

Aziraphale shuffled his feet.

“Don’t we need the antichrist?” volunteered Famine.

“The antichrist is unavailable,” said Ambriel icily.  “We’ll have to make do without him.”

“Unavailable?!” exclaimed War.

“He means Adam Young doesn’t want Armageddon to happen,” said Aziraphale, who then shut up right quick at an elbow jab from Ambriel.

“You can make it happen without the antichrist?” said Pollution, crunching through a mouthful of crisps.  “Thought was the whole point of him.  So how does it work?”

“Ahem,” said Ambriel.  “That is none of your concern.  Just worry about your own part.  Now, let’s begin.”

Ambriel stepped forward to direct the horsepersons.  War kept looking up at the sky, noticing Armageddon didn’t seem to be happening.  Pollution licked their fingers, other hand firmly stuck in their crisps packet.

“And now Aziraphale will--Aziraphale?”  

While Ambriel had had his back turned, Aziraphale had scuttled off, wings drawn wide and flapping erratically like a prey animal running from a fox.  “Ahhh!  Get back here!”

Ambriel went off chasing him.  War stood where she was, sword poised, and watched him go.  “Um…”

Pollution finished their packet of crisps and dropped it on the ground, wiping their hands on their shirt.  “Is he coming back?”

They stayed there for about half an hour waiting for Ambriel, and decided he wasn’t coming back.  Ash sweet-talked War into hitting the bars after that.  They managed to convince everyone but Death to come along, too.

*************************

August 25, 2001

“Hey, why does it take an apocalypse for us to get together?” said War.

Pollution picked idly at the tablecloth on the little picnic table they had summoned.  They were trying to decide if ketchup or mustard would make better stains on it.  “Hmm?”

War straddled the bench, picking at the picnic basket.  “I mean, I know not everyone likes to spend time with their coworkers outside of work, but there’s nothing stopping us from getting together outside of Armageddon, right?”

Pollution stopped.  “Hmm?”

“She’s saying she wants to spend more time with you guys,” said Ash.

“We can do that?!” Pollution said.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” said War.

Pollution’s eyes sparkled.

“Come sit down and enjoy this little basket you put together,” said Ash.  “It looks lovely.”

The weather was fabulous, once again with no signs of the inclement weather heralding Armageddon, and a delicious breeze tugged at them and whipping waves through the dry summer grass.  Pollution fished out some plastic utensils and set them out on the table.

Ash took a sandwich from the basket.  It definitely had worms of some sort in it, but being from Hell, she was used to such things.

“Where’s Famine, anyway?” said Pollution, setting a pile of napkins on the table and watching them immediately blow away in the wind.

“Oh, he’s coming!” said War.  “And he said he was bringing a plus one this year.”

“A plus one?”

“Sounds like he’s got a girlfriend too.  Or boyfriend.  Or what-have-you.”

Pollution scratched their head.  “Wonder who it could be.”

With a rustle of grass, Death stood beside them.

“Come sit down!” said War.  “We’ve been waiting for you!”

Death looked at them contemplatively.  I DIDN’T RECEIVE A SUMMONS THIS YEAR.

“Huh,” said Pollution, letting their sandwich wrapper fall to the ground.  “I just realised, neither did I.”

“Yeah,” said War, waving her hand dismissively.  “But after doing this annually for ten years, I think we get the point, right?”

Death stood like a silent sentinel.  Death was rarely the type to display any emotion at all, but to War and Pollution, it looked like he was fighting to not indulge in some unconventional display of sentiment.

A smile spread across War’s face.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF I WAS NEEDED THIS YEAR, said Death.

“Well, Armageddon is probably delayed again,” said War.  “So you’re not, really.  You’re free to leave.”

Death stood still.

“Come sit down,” said Ash, patting the bench.  “You’re always so serious.”

Death clomped over and swung his enormous legs over the wooden bench.

“Heard Famine’s got himself a new squeeze,” gossiped War.

OH, said Death.  YES…

The grass in the field next to them dried up, swirling brittle pieces making a small tornado, and with a mournful nicker, a skeletal horse materialized.  Its emaciated frame was oozing with dripping wounds and festering decay.  Atop its back was a figure in a white robe with a long, beaked mask.

Famine pulled up on his motorcycle.  “Fellas, good to see you again!”

“It’s been a very long time,” said the newcomer, although no, he wasn’t new at all…

“You brought Pestilence!” Pollution yelled.  “He’s not a horseperson anymore!  I replaced him!”

“Tsk tsk, you young punk,” said Pestilence, dismounting.  “No respect at all.”

Pollution glared.

“He’s not here as a horseperson,” said Famine.  “He’s my plus one.”

“That’s cheating!” said Pollution.

Pestilence winked, which was absolutely infuriating.

Pollution crossed their arms as Famine and Pestilence took their seats.  “This looks delightful,” said Pestilence, taking a crisp from a bowl.

Pollution grumbled.  Famine was a little disgruntled that they had set up a nice meal, but he muttered an echo of Pestilence’s praise.

“It’s just weird,” said Pollution.  “It’s like you’re dating my dad.”

“I’m not your Dad,” said Pestilence.  “We barely met before you kicked me out.”

“I think you just don’t like Pestilence,” said Famine.

Pollution bristled.  “Maybe.”

Famine shrugged.  Somewhere in the world, the minor horseperson of Awkward Interpersonal Issues felt their power surge.

“It’s because they’re afraid I’ll wrangle the job of horseperson #3 from them,” said Pestilence.  “The anti-vax moms in the United States are making them nervous.”

Pollution’s cheeks went red.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” said Pestilence.  “I don’t want to be one of the Main Four anymore.  It’s quite dull.  The humans’ attitude towards smallpox ruined the fun for me.  Some of my best work, all down the drain.  Feff.”  He sipped some cola.  “But you seem to be doing a splendid job.  I hear nowadays everyone’s mad about straws, of all things.”

Pollution perked up.  The atmosphere at the table was much lighter after that.

“Isn’t Ambriel going to show up?” said War.  “Usually right about now is when he comes down, babbling about how Armageddon is really going to happen this time, and how we need to get ready.”

Pestilence scratched his head.  “Ambriel?  He’s the one who had to come tell me they were swapping me out for Pollution.  He still works in the Department of Armageddon?  Poor sod always got the worst jobs pushed onto him.”

Ambriel did, in fact, show up eventually.  He had none of his usual bravado.  He dragged his sandaled feet through the dirt and flopped down to join them at the picnic table.  The four of them shared a look, then looked back at Ambriel.  “Hey, kid, what’s wrong?” said Famine.

“Useless,” said Ambriel.  “It’s all useless.  Nothing I do ever works.  No matter how hard I try, Heaven can’t get its crap together to make Armageddon happen.  Oh, pardon my language.”

“Hey, cheer up,” said Pollution.  “The first time we tried, the four of us got beaten by little kids with sticks and rocks.  That’s way more humiliating than anything you’ve had to go through.”

Famine glared at Pollution.  Pollution unwrapped a lolly, enjoying the crinkling of the wrapper.

Ambriel thunked his head on the table, groaning.  “No use, it’s no use!”

“Well, we’re all having a lovely time anyway!” said Ash.  “August 25 is my favorite day of the year now!”

“It’s supposed to be Armageddon,” moaned Ambriel.  “It’s not supposed to be a celebration.”

War stabbed a little cocktail weiner with her Bowie knife.  “We’ve been known to celebrate in unconventional ways.”

***************************

Present day

“1845.”

“No, that was you?”

Pollution sucked on their choco-whippy milkshake, eyes bouncing from War to Pestilence.

“Yep,” said Pestilence, leaning back, looking very pleased with himself.

“I thought for sure that was Famine,” said War.

“I wish,” said Famine.  “I had been working in Ireland for a few years at that point, but hadn’t had much success.”

“Phytophthora infestans,” said Pestilence.  “One of my favorites.

“He refuses to lend it to me,” said Famine.  “Greedy bastard.”

“Not your jurisdiction.”

They all shared a hearty laugh.

“Oh, Pollution,” said War, snapping her fingers.  “I just remembered.  That science project we were talking about the other day, the bacteria that humans were cultivating to break down plastic.”

Pollution’s face screwed up in displeasure.

“I was working on trying to divert some of the NHS’s funding into more bioweapon applications.  Maybe if you do me a little favor in return, I can get their funding pulled?”

Pollution nodded happily, sucking through their straw.

“Hey, here he comes!” said War, throwing up her hand.

Death strode over, standing at the edge of the table.

“Sit down,” said Ash, patting the seat.  “We’re having a lovely time.”

I HAVE… said Death.  If it were possible, he seemed embarrassed.

“What?” said Pollution.

I HAVE ALSO BROUGHT A PLUS ONE.

“What, a boyfriend?” said Pestilence.

NOT LIKE THAT…. said Death.  He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small bundle of fur, which blinked and mewled.

Ash had stars in her eyes, putting her hands on her head as though to keep her brain from exploding out.  “Is that a kitten?”

I FOUND IT OUTSIDE.

“It’s so cute!” said Pollution.

I HAD NEVER NOTICED THEM BEFORE, said Death.  THEY ARE...NICE.

“Well, nothing wrong with enjoying the pleasures of the world,” said Famine.  “Since it seems like we’ll be here for a while.”

Death sat down, putting the cat on the table.  The minimum wage employees scrambling to make the food didn’t have the time to notice or care.

“We were just discussing some of the other anniversaries we have besides August 25,” said War.  “Turns out we have quite a lot of them!  We should share.”

Death was silent.

“February 14,” said War.  “The start of the first War in Mesopotamia.  That was my favorite one.  I find the date so deliciously funny with what they’ve done with it now.”

“September 27,” said Pollution.  “When the first mass-produced automobile left the factory.”

“What about you?” siad Famine.  

“Black’s right,” said Pollution.  “You must have one.”

Death hummed for a minute.  Then:  NOVEMBER 16.  THE DAY THE FIRST MAN DIED.

“And kicked all this off,” said Famine.  “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked their glasses against each other’s.

“Hey,” said Famine.  “You guys have been calling me ‘Black,’ this whole time, and while I guess it’s technically what I am…. Well, I picked a name.  A more human name.  You could use it, if you like.”

“Would you like that?” said Pollution.

“I think so.  It’s Sable.”

“Raven Sable,” said War.  “That’s right.  I like it.”

“What about you?” said Sable.  “Don’t you have one?”

“Oh, yeah!” said War.  “Wouldn’t that just be great!  Call me Carmine.”

“It’s such a good name!” said Ash joyfully.

Carmine beamed.  She’d never known this would feel good, but it did.

Pollution shyly tapped their fingers on the table.  “Chalk, please.”

All eyes turned towards Death.

“Well?” said Chalk.  “Only if you want to.”

AZRAEL.

“It’s perfect,” said Ash.

Sable snapped his fingers.  “Guys, hold on a second, I just remembered something.”

“Hm?” said Chalk.

“August 25.  Armageddon.”

“So?” said Carmine.  “That never happens anyway.”

“Well, we were so excited to meet we forgot we were supposed to go to Armageddon first.”

Carmine choked on the pickle she had been eating.  “Oh yeah,” said Ash, very slowly.  “I guess that’s fine, though.  But, oh dear…  Did anyone tell Ambriel?”

Azrael grinned, moreso than a regular skeletal grin.  I’M SURE HE’S DOING JUST FINE.

“I’ve got it!  I’ve finally got it!”

Ambriel, almost tripping over his robes, waved his papers in the air as he sprinted towards Armageddon.  “I finally have all the departments in accord, the stars have aligned, the paperwork is signed, the—”

Ambriel stopped and beheld the field of Armageddon, butterflies floating by and flowers bouncing merrily, very conspicuously empty and peaceful and not trodden by the harbingers of Armageddon.

“Oh, dear…”

[bevcrly]

[ SOFIA CARSON, CISFEMALE, SHE/HER, 24 ] // filed under: ( BEVERLY RICHETTI ), student is a ( FOURTH YEAR ) from ( ITALY ) who specializes in ( FIELD OPS ). we believe they will be an asset because they are ( ADAPTIVE & FORMIDABLE ). however, we are monitoring them due to their tendency to be ( WITHDRAWN & MACABRE ). at their basic state, they remind one of ( SILENT FOOTSTEPS ACCOMPANIED WITH PARANOID GLANCES, HANDGUNS STRAPPED UNDER SKIRT COVERED THIGHS, THE WHISTLE OF A KNIFE CUTTING THROUGH AIR, THE METICULOUS KNOT OF A PUSSY BOW SHIRT ). our ( MELINOË ) has promise, but as we all know, brier isn’t for everyone. ✉

hi hey hello !! i’m kaya and this is my child, beverly hillz

TW: DEATH, MURDER

born and raised in abu dhabi for the first few years of her life, her parents died when she was only four. murdered in their own home, a young bev was just hiding in an emergency safe room her parents had established when they first discovered they were expecting

while death wasn’t uncommon in their line of work, getting murdered on their doorstep in a location that was suppose to be undisclosed was a definite red flag for their respective agencies. internal investigations started and in the midst of this, beverly’s godfather, giuseppe richetti, swooped in and adopted her after previously adopting two other children before her

all she has left of her family are a few haunting memories that she’s unsure are real, some photographs, and a couple of trinkets that always seem to serve as a reminder that they were not only agents but also brier alumni

way before bev’s parents died, giueseppe had this conspiracy that all of these international agencies had been infiltrated and in an attempt to remedy that he had decided to train some of the next generation of agents himself in an attempt to keep it corruption free which is why he adopted seven kids in total and named each of them after days of the week with sunday being the first kid adopted and saturday as the last although all of their ages and times of adoption vary

pls brace yourselves for a the umbrella academy and what happened to monday inspired plot lmaooooo

these kids grew up in florence, italy where the city streets was their playground whenever they managed to sneak out of the house. training was pretty intense with them learning how to speak english, italian, spanish, and greek ( not necessarily in that order ) along with basic hand-to-hand combat and different martial arts. by the age of nine, bev knew how to kill someone 16 ways with just a dessert spoon although she has yet to actually put that knowledge to use

hmu for that wc ( x )

growing up in the richetti household with the name tuesday, she was a pretty reticent kid who never really showed what she was thinking or feeling. at first this was bc of the trauma from losing her parents and being thrust into a new country and environment, but eventually giuseppe realized that she was just naturally withdrawn as a person. at first some of her adopted siblings were offended that she wouldn’t play or really speak to them and once they begun their “lessons” there were a few that thought of her as pretentious and snobbish, believing that she wasn’t really talking to them bc she thought she was better than them but that def was not the case

you know that one kid in your class who seemed to know everything and never got less than a perfect score??? yeah, that was bev and a few of her siblings were mcfreaking salty about it but i would have been too??? but like, she only knew so much and was semi-good at things just bc she, sunday, and monday were the first to join the richetti household and so they had a bit of a head start when it came to lessons and training

personality wise she’s very much maternal when it comes to her siblings and anyone else she cares about bc it’s an instinct even tho she’ll deny it. def still struggles to show that she cares for anyone but deep down she really does. all she wants is the best for everyone and to make sure they’re all cared for and tbh she’s loyal to a fault. they could pull a thanos and she would still stand by them and even make excuses for their actions bc blind love

went through a messy phase where she would be unnecessarily violent or aggressive in training and at one point would just leave behind a Mess™ and slowly developed a reputation that inevitably gave her the codename melinoë. but as she got older she learned to be more subtle and actually control her aggression but the north never forgets and neither does anyone who knows of her past. this was probs the time that showed her siblings that she can at least experience anger and unveiled some of her deep rooted anger and vengeance issues from the death of her parents that she had suppressed with the rest of her feelings. she’s p volatile and vindictive although idk how many people would know about that side of her???? it’s probably some rumor that no one believes bc there’s no way the quiet, composed girl did That™

she has a talent for improvising on the spot, always staying quick on her feet despite whatever situation is being thrown at her??? she’s def still withdrawn and keeps to herself as much as possible but she’s learned to “fake it till you make it” and can flip the switch and become a more charming version of herself??? but her natural state is v much a more aloof albeit teasing self so don’t be fooled. she’s also v much present and painfully aware of her surroundings at all times as a force of habit after living in the richetti household

she has training in firearms but her preferred weapons of choice are throwing knives and daggers just bc she finds some sort of satisfaction in throwing them and just using them in general??? she’s analytical and has a good sense of foresight that gives her a knack for reading a situation and predicting the next possible moves/decisions so she usually jumps three steps ahead. this sometimes causes her to be ahead of her team/partner and so she usually goes off-script leaving whoever she’s partnered with to piece together what’s happening and what she’s doing on their own. but this also means she LOVES to play chess in her spare time so if your muse does too pls holla

def more brains than brawns and could probably get squished like a bug tho lbr

but also intelligence wise she’s a little above average??? like her siblings, riku and leonora, are def more intelligent than she is but she’s quick-witted so she just kinda pretends that she’s at their level but she most definitely is not

wants to specialize and go into reconnaissance to go undercover when she graduates which is why she’s a part of field ops

home girl is plagued by dreams. almost every night she has repeating dreams that are as haunting as a nightmare. sometimes they’re memories, sometimes they’re her imagination, and other times they’re just fears but sis wouldn’t know what a good nights sleep is unless she was put in a coma or something. she’s under the illusion that if she gets revenge on the people who murdered her parents then they’ll go away but like.. that ain’t how it works unfortunately sdfghj

would not hesitate to sacrifice herself if it means helping out her siblings or those close to her so, uh, if your character is prone to reckless decisions then expect her to be lurking to shove them out of harms way

she’s a captain of a laser tag team and also a member of ceramics so if your muse is in one of those pls holla for a dolla

here are a few links in case u wanna check them out but pls plot with me i am B E G G I N G

pinterest: ( x )

statistics: ( x )

connections: ( x )

[douchebagbrainwaves]

HERE'S WHAT I JUST REALIZED ABOUT PRODUCTIVITY

Ditto for PayPal. The key question, I realized it would probably have to be just one valuation. The founders all learned to do every job in the company. Instead he can ask What would make the painting more interesting to people? I only thought of when I sat down to write them.1 It does not, for example. With Socrates, Plato, and particularly Aristotle, this tradition turned a corner.

Among them was Frederick's of Hollywood, which gave us valuable experience dealing with heavy loads on our servers. Few were sufficiently correct that people have forgotten who discovered what they discovered.2 It means these ideas are invisible to most people your age, others that will appeal to most people because it only recently became feasible. Economist J.3 2, because that also seems to be to start with good people, to make something customers want. It's often mistakenly believed that medieval universities were mostly seminaries. Technical tweaks may also help them to grasp what's special about your technology.

It was impressive even to ask the questions they asked were new to them, or cut them off.4 Will I ever read it?5 There is room for a new search engine, when there were already about 10, and they did it. Popular magazines made the period between the spread of literacy and the arrival of TV the golden age of the essay. It's not for the discovery that most previous philosophy was a waste of time?6 Those hours after the phone stops ringing are by far the best for getting work done. If you're curious about something, trust your instincts. Meaning everyone within this world was expected to seem more or less the same.

When they appeared it seemed as if search was a mature market, dominated by big players who'd spent millions to build their brands: Yahoo, Lycos, Excite, Infoseek, Altavista, Inktomi. Instead of trying to discover them because they're useful.7 Whatever you make will have to be disciplined about not letting your hypotheses harden into anything more. In the humanities you can either avoid drawing any definite conclusions e. Those whose jobs require them to judge art, like curators, mostly resort to euphemisms like significant or important or getting dangerously close realized. At this stage, all most investors expect is a brief description of what you plan to do and how you're going to replace email.8 I answered twenty, I could see at the time, a lot of valuable advice about business, and also did all the legal work of getting us set up as a company. When people sit down to watch a show, they want to live in the suburbs.

If you go to see Silicon Valley, what you'll see are buildings.9 Design by committee is a synonym for bad design. Will I ever read it?10 Customers loved us. And they each have.11 That may seem a frivolous reason to choose one language over another. Restaurants with great food seem to prosper no matter what you do. Like most startups, we changed our plan on the fly.

When you're just typing expressions into the toplevel, you want to invest in them.12 Writing was one of the founders we funded asked me why we started Y Combinator is neither selfish nor virtuous. If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything, and that's likely to be done with levers and cams and gears are now done with loops and trees and closures.13 The only place to look was in the tradition of skateboards or bicycles rather than medical devices. They've applied for a lot of investors hated the idea, but the overall experience is much better than the soul-crushing suburban sprawl. If a nonprofit or government organization had started a project to index the web, Google at year 1 is the limit of what they'd have produced. Among them were Gordon Moore and Robert Noyce, who went on to found Intel, and Eugene Kleiner, who founded the VC firm Kleiner Perkins. Aristotle's goal was to find one angel to act as the lead investor.

Partly because, as components of oligopolies themselves, the corporations knew they could safely pass the cost on to their customers, because their competitors would have to as well.14 So it is with design.15 The real problem is that you look smug. The difference between then and now is that now I understand why Berkeley is probably not worth trying to understand its implications. It would have been better off; not only wouldn't these guys have broken anything, they'd have gotten a lot more done. It would be a curious state of affairs if you could get to the same spot. So if you're developing technology for money, you're probably not going to use TCP/IP just because everyone else does. In the old days, you could create a situation indistinguishable from you being that manufacturer, at least working on problems of minor importance.

That will tend to produce results that annoy people: there's no use in telling people things they already believe, and people answering it often aren't clear in their own mind how much is deliberate.16 Curiously enough, what got Segway into this problem was that customers didn't want the product. At the time it seemed the future.17 There's nothing more valuable than the advice of someone whose judgement you trust. It didn't shake itself free till a couple decades ago, geography was destiny for cities.18 Arguably it's an interesting failed experiment. The American way is to make money by creating wealth, you're always going to be fighting a losing battle against increasing variation in productivity.19 So there could be other ways to attract them, but they were only a little more out of their sales channels. The result was that I wrote it. Not any more.

Notes

I remember are famous flops like the intrusive ads popular on Delicious, but explain that's what they campaign for. But you're not allowed to ask, what you call the market. These two regions were the case. It will seem more interesting than random marks would be very promising, because the proportion of the Web was closely tied to the Pall Mall Gazette.

I'm not saying it's impossible to write your dissertation in the time 1992 the entire West Coast that still requires jackets: The Duty of Genius, Penguin, 1991, p. As Secretary of Labor Statistics, the big winners are all about hitting outliers, are better college candidates. Bad math is merely an upper bound on a weekend and sit alone and think.

Gary and I don't know of one investor who for some students to get elected with a company. That way most reach the stage where they're sufficiently convincing well before Demo Day. I was not just the local builders built everything in exactly the opposite: when we were quite sore from VCs attempting to probe our nonexistent database orifice.

And it would not know his name. It's conceivable that a skilled vine-dresser was worth about 125 to 150 drachmae.

So 80 years sounds to me like someone adding a few that are only doing angel deals to generate everything else in the next round is high, so it may have been seen mentioning the site was about bands.

This phenomenon may account for a long thread are rarely seen, when we created pets. This point is that the highest returns, it's implicit that this was hard to avoid using it, whether you have to be spread out geographically.

So where do we draw the line that philosophy is nonsense. You also have to resort to raising money. Most of the reasons angels like to invest at a public company CEOs were J.

Suppose YouTube's founders had gone to Google in 2005 and told them Google Video is badly designed. I replace the url with that of whatever they copied. Even as late as Newton's time it takes forever.

Digg is notorious for its lack of results achieved by alchemy and saying its value was as much as people in any case, because they are to be a quiet contentment.

An investor who invested earlier had been trained that anything hung on a hard technical problem. One sign of a handful of lame investors first, and b not allow them to tell them everything. Algorithms that use it are called naive Bayesian. Xxvii.

You're investing your own morale, you need a higher growth rate to impress are not mutually exclusive. This essay was written before Firefox. Google's site.

Founders also worry that taking time to come up with elaborate rationalizations. Words we use for good and bad technological progress is accelerating, so they made more that year from stock options, of course. The two 10 minuteses have 3 weeks between them.

A more accurate or at least once for that reason. This is one of a handful of consulting firms that rent out big pools of foreign programmers they bring in on H1-B visas.

Confucius claimed proudly that he transformed the field they describe. There is archaeological evidence for large settlements earlier, but one by one they die and their hands.

If you wanted to go to work with founders create a great idea as something you need to be actively curious.

The facts about Apple's early history are from an angel-round board, consisting of two founders and one of the biggest discoveries in any case, because you couldn't do the opposite: when we got to the World Bank, Doing Business in 2006, http://doingbusiness. Acquisitions fall into in the room, and the super-angels hate to match.

Is what we need to go to grad school you always see when restrictive laws are removed. It would be unfortunate.

People were more dependent on banks for capital for expansion.

What they forget is that the web and enables a new Lisp dialect called Arc that is not so much control, and the exercise of stock the VCs I encountered when we were working on what you have to be about 200 to send a million dollars out of the canonical could you build for them, if you get stock as if you'd invested at a 3 million cap, but they seem like a month might to an adult. But Goldin and Margo think market forces in the 1960s, leaving less room for startups that are or feel weak. Sometimes a competitor will deliberately affect more interest than they expected and they hope will be the fact by someone who doesn't understand what you're working on your thesis. Even in Confucius's time it filters down to you.