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ucflibrary · 3 years

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How do we define American history? Who decides what information is important to study and remember? Do we only look at the ‘good’ or lionize notable figures by placing them on pedestals and forgetting they were only human? Or do we do the hard work of studying primary sources and reading about all the facets of historic American figures? Do we learn about past mistakes and hidden horrors so we can prevent them from happening in the future?

As an academic library, UCF Libraries is committed to not only teaching our community how to do their own research and providing scholarly resources but to broadening our own horizons and looking critically at our national past. After all, America is us, the people who live, work, dream, hope and endure on these shores. It is shaped by our ideals and grows as her people do into the future we want for ourselves and future generations. The American dream is not static; it is what we want it to be.

The more informed and engaged we all are as citizens, the better our country becomes. To help with being informed, UCF Libraries has suggested 16 books on American History. Keep reading below to see the full list, descriptions, and catalog links for the featured titles on American History suggested by UCF Library employees.

For members of the Knight community looking for ways to get involved are many options available:

Volunteer in local communities. VolunteerUCF can help you connect with an organization.

Join a student group to make a difference here at UCF. The Office of Student Involvement has a list of almost 800 student organizations that can meet any interest.

Connect with your federal, state, and local representatives. You can let them know your opinions on pending legislation, volunteer, or even thank them if you think they’re doing a good job. Don’t know who your legislators are? Check out this list at USA.gov.

Most importantly, if you haven’t done so already, register to vote. If you have voted in previous elections, confirm you are still registered. Find details for how to register in your home state at Vote.gov.

A Crisis of Peace: George Washington, the Newburgh Conspiracy, and the fate of the American Revolution by David Head On March 15, 1783, General George Washington addressed a group of angry officers in an effort to rescue the American Revolution from mutiny at the highest level; the Newburgh Affair, a mysterious event in which Continental Army officers, disgruntled by a lack of pay and pensions, may have collaborated with nationalist-minded politicians such as Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and Robert Morris to pressure Congress and the states to approve new taxes and strengthen the central government. Fearing what his men might do with their passions inflamed, Washington averted the crisis, but with the nation's problems persisting, the officers ultimately left the army disappointed, their low opinion of their civilian countrymen confirmed. Head provides a fresh look at the end of the American Revolution while speaking to issues that concern us still: the fragility of civil-military relations, how even victorious wars end ambiguously, and what veterans and civilians owe each other. Suggested by Cindy Dancel, Research & Information Services

Craft: an American history by Glenn Adamson Adamson shows that craft has long been implicated in debates around equality, education, and class. Artisanship has often been a site of resistance for oppressed people, such as enslaved African-Americans whose skilled labor might confer hard-won agency under bondage, or the Native American makers who adapted traditional arts into statements of modernity. Theirs are among the array of memorable portraits of Americans both celebrated and unfamiliar in this richly peopled book. As Adamson argues, these artisans' stories speak to our collective striving toward a more perfect union. From the beginning, America had to be-and still remains to be-crafted. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

Fever, 1793 by Laurie Halse Anderson In 1793 Philadelphia, sixteen-year-old Matilda Cook, separated from her sick mother, learns about perseverance and self-reliance when she is forced to cope with the horrors of a yellow fever epidemic. Includes discussion questions and related activities. Suggested by Peggy Nuhn, Connect Libraries

Fire in the Lake: the Vietnamese and the Americans in Vietnam by Frances FitzGerald Originally published in 1972, this was the first history of Vietnam written by an American and won the Pulitzer Prize, the Bancroft Prize, and the National Book Award. With a clarity and insight unrivaled by any author before it or since, Frances FitzGerald illustrates how America utterly and tragically misinterpreted the realities of Vietnam. Suggested by Sophia Sahr, Student Learning & Engagement

Hard Times: an oral history of the Great Depression by Studs Terkel In this “invaluable record” of one of the most dramatic periods in modern American history, Studs Terkel recaptures the Great Depression of the 1930s in all its complexity. Featuring a mosaic of memories from politicians, businessmen, artists, striking workers, and Okies, from those who were just kids to those who remember losing a fortune, this work is not only a gold mine of information but a fascinating interplay of memory and fact, revealing how the 1929 stock market crash and its repercussions radically changed the lives of a generation.

Suggested by Sophia Sahr, Student Learning & Engagement

John Washington's Civil War: a slave narrative edited by Crandall Shifflett In 1872, just seven years after his emancipation, a thirty-four-year-old former slave named John Washington penned the story of his life, calling it "Memorys of the Past." One hundred and twenty years later, historian Crandall Shifflett stumbled upon Washington's forgotten manuscript at the Library of Congress. Shifflett presents this remarkable slave narrative in its entirety, with detailed annotations on the mundane and life-changing events that Washington witnessed and recorded. Suggested by Cindy Dancel, Research & Information Services

Katrina: a history, 1915-2015 by Andy Horowitz The Katrina disaster was not a weather event of summer 2005. It was a disaster a century in the making, a product of lessons learned from previous floods, corporate and government decision making, and the political economy of the United States at large. New Orleans's history is America's history, and Katrina represents America's possible future. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

Killers of the Flower Moon: the Osage murders and the birth of the FBI by David Grann Presents a true account of the early twentieth-century murders of dozens of wealthy Osage and law-enforcement officials, citing the contributions and missteps of a fledgling FBI that eventually uncovered one of the most chilling conspiracies in American history. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

Lies Across America: what our historic sites get wrong by James W. Loewen Loewen looks at more than one hundred sites where history is told on the landscape, including historical markers, monuments, outdoor museums, historic houses, forts, and ships. Loewen uses his investigation of these public versions of history, often literally written in stone, to correct historical interpretations that are profoundly wrong, to tell neglected but important stories about the American past, and, most importantly, to raise questions about what we as a nation choose to commemorate and how. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

Never Caught: the Washingtons’ relentless pursuit of their runaway slave, Ona Judge by Erica Armstrong Dunbar When George and Martha Washington moved from their beloved Mount Vernon in Virginia to Philadelphia, then the seat of the nation's capital, they took nine enslaved people with them. Slavery, in Philadelphia at least, was looked down upon. There was even a law requiring slaveholders to free their slaves after six months. Yet George Washington thought he could outwit and circumvent the law by sending his slaves south every six months, thereby resetting the clock. Among the slaves to figure out this subterfuge was Ona Judge, Martha Washington's chief attendant. And, risking everything she knew, leaving behind everyone she loved and had known her entire life, she fled. Here, then, is the story not only of the powerful lure of freedom but also of George Washington's determination to recapture his property by whatever means necessary. Suggested by Cindy Dancel, Research & Information Services

Team of Rivals: the political genius of Abraham Lincoln by Doris Kearns Goodwin This multiple biography is centered on Lincoln's mastery of men and how it shaped the most significant presidency in the nation's history. Goodwin illuminates Lincoln's political genius, as the one-term congressman rises from obscurity to prevail over three gifted rivals to become president. When Lincoln emerged as the victor at the Republican National Convention, his rivals were dismayed. That Lincoln succeeded, Goodwin demonstrates, was because of his extraordinary ability to put himself in the place of other men, to experience what they were feeling, to understand their motives and desires. It was this that enabled Lincoln to bring his disgruntled opponents together, create the most unusual cabinet in history, and marshal their talents to the task of preserving the Union. Suggested by Peggy Nuhn, Connect Libraries

The 5th Little Girl: soul survivor of the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing (the Sarah Collins Rudolph story) by Tracy Snipe (in conversation with Sarah Collins Rudolph) Once described by the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as "one of the most tragic and vicious crimes ever perpetrated against humanity," the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Alabama, instantly killed Addie Mae Collins, Carol Denise McNair, Carole Rosamond Robinson, and Cynthia Dionne Morris Wesley on September 15, 1963. This egregious act of domestic terrorism reverberated worldwide. Orchestrated by white supremacists, the blast left twelve-year-old Sarah Collins temporarily blind. In this intimate first-hand account, Sarah imparts her views on topics such as the 50th year commemoration, restitution, and racial terrorism. In the backdrop of a national reckoning and global protests, underscored by the deadly violence at Mother Emanuel in Charleston, SC, and tragedies in Charlottesville, VA, and Pittsburgh, PA, Sarah's unflinching testimony about the '63 Birmingham church bombing is illuminating. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

The Black Church: this is our story, this is our song by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. For the young Henry Louis Gates, Jr., growing up in a small, residentially segregated West Virginia town, the church was a center of gravity--an intimate place where voices rose up in song and neighbors gathered to celebrate life's blessings and offer comfort amid its trials and tribulations. In this tender and expansive reckoning with the meaning of the Black Church in America, Gates takes us on a journey spanning more than five centuries, from the intersection of Christianity and the transatlantic slave trade to today's political landscape. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

The Other Slavery: the uncovered story of Indian enslavement in America by Andres Resendez Since the time of Columbus, Indian slavery was illegal in much of the American continent. Yet Reséndez shows it was practiced for centuries as an open secret: there was no abolitionist movement to protect the tens of thousands of natives who were kidnapped and enslaved by the conquistadors, forced to work in the silver mines, or made to serve as domestics for Mormon settlers and rich Anglos. New evidence sheds light too on Indian enslavement of other Indians as Reséndez reveals nothing less than a key missing piece of American history. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

These Truths: a history of the United States by Jill Lepore In the most ambitious one-volume American history in decades, Lepore offers a magisterial account of the origins and rise of a divided nation, an urgently needed reckoning with the beauty and tragedy of American history. Written in elegiac prose, Lepore's groundbreaking investigation places truth itself--a devotion to facts, proof, and evidence--at the center of the nation's history. The American experiment rests on three ideas--'these truths, ' Jefferson called them--political equality, natural rights, and the sovereignty of the people. And it rests, too, on a fearless dedication to inquiry, Lepore argues, because self-government depends on it. But has the nation, and democracy itself, delivered on that promise? Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

Witnessing America: the Library of Congress book of firsthand accounts of life in America, 1600-1900 edited by Noel Rae Presents a portrait of America's social and cultural history between 1600 and 1900, told through letters, diaries, memoirs, tracts, and other articles and first-hand accounts found in the collections of the Library of Congress. Suggested by Peggy Nuhn, Connect Libraries

#ucf library #featured bookshelf #american history

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margridarnauds · 3 years

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dvd commentary 1: [ she wraps the rough, woolen cloak tighter around herself, the rough, warm fabric scratching her arms. It is an old thing, not the sort of thing fitting the station of the ollam of the High King of Ireland, no stripes of gold or silver on it, no ornamentation, a plain brooch of faded bronze at her breast pinning it into place. She has washed the paint from her face, wearing a plain léine taken from a beggar woman in exchange for her necklace, anything that could distinguish her wiped away like a line drawn in the sand, but still she served for many years as Flann’s mouth throughout the land, and no doubt she would be an easy target. ] - Glasmartrae

THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME TALK ABOUT MY CHILD.

I feel like a lot of my work on Glasmartrae was really trying to reconcile my world, the world of the manuscripts, with the wacky world of Valhalla. And, to do that, I thought it was really important to establish, off the bat, what this world looks like. And I felt like, fittingly, one of the best places to begin would be Ciara herself, because an ollam was so important to a king, and because that bond was so important.

I knew, going in, that any potential AC fans wouldn't quite understand the importance, so it was important to establish that Ciara is of MASSIVELY high status. A bard isn't just a figure who goes around and sings twee songs, this is a figure of power, someone who can raise or destroy kings with a satire, and, if you listen to Keating, who was a 17th century Irish historian, there was actually a sort of sumptuary code in place:

Am I absolutely convinced that this is REAL? Not entirely, but Keating had access to a lot of old sources we don't, and even if it isn't strictly true, it's definitely true that who you were in the world of medieval Ireland, like anywhere else, determined how you're dressed. Contrary to images of medieval Ireland as this sort of savage, underdeveloped backwater, you're really looking at this world that's chaotic, undeniably, that's dangerous, but that is also lavish and luxurious, and Ciara's normally at the top of that.

......which is also why I chose to strip her of that. Because Ciara, in-game, stands out like a sore thumb, and, when I thought of it, it was like "Of course she has to go in disguise -- Because even if no one knows exactly what happened, it'd be like if, say Kamala Harris suddenly went into exile." Like, she's constantly at Flann's side before this, she's one of the highest ranked members of his court, she officiates at his coronation ceremony...even without the same level of social media that we'd have today, of COURSE people would recognize her, so it was really important to show her sort of fall from grace (though, from a medieval Irish standpoint, it's less a fall from grace than one more aspect of her penance -- Removing the vestiges of her old life to move on.) I had this idea of her kind of running around, taking everything off, wanting to be done with it, because everything's a reminder, and everything is actively endangering her. (Bit of a medieval Irish Elsa moment.) There's this sort of tension that I wanted to introduce really early on, that idea that she's constantly looking around, scanning the crowd, waiting for the ball to drop because, even though she's sworn to not do any harm, she's still only recently faced down a future where her people were nearly killed, and she herself is in this place of "I can't just walk away."

...but then that brings the question "How do you get this? Did she just have a Poor Person Costume lying around?" And my obvious answer was "No, she had to get it from somewhere", and so I brought that in, which also gave me the chance to get rid of her necklace, which would also be a distinguishing feature. (I kind of had the thought, when writing it, that the necklace had been something that either Flann or her mother had gotten for her, which further seals that idea of her cutting ties to the past.)

I feel like a really big...ongoing theme of my stuff is always the people who are close to power and, specifically, what happens to people when that power goes away for whatever reason. Because, throughout history, you have these people (especially women) who attach themselves to royalty and then, for whatever reason, fall out of power. Margrid is probably the most obvious example, with her relationship with Orléans -- Lazare and Olympe are another example, I touched on it with both Marie-Anne de Benoit and Madame Roland, I feel like Blodeuedd fits in there, Rhiannon (from one WIP of mine), Jane Seymour (if I ever finish my one-shot) etc. You know, you're launched into this absolutely obscene level of influence, power, and rank, but then suddenly you don't have that anymore, and you're left wondering what to do. The same thing that got her that position is suddenly endangering her, and she doesn't really have anyone that she can rely on or that she trusts -- Not because no one cares (Eivor and Deirdre would have helped in a heartbeat), but because she feels so guilty over the entire thing that there's no one she can trust.

And then she runs into Flann like this, at this liminal space where just about anything can happen (an ongoing Thing with my stuff on medieval Ireland is the sea and water in general, because it's where SO MUCH happens in the myths, it's one of those places where Otherworldly stuff is very prone to happening), and he recognizes her like that. You know, there's something of a chivalric romance in it, to him recognizing her even now, even though he ultimately can't be what she needs. He still KNOWS her, and she still KNOWS him, and that's part of that tragedy -- That you have these two people who worked that closely together, who still can recognize one another in a crowd, without their rank behind them, but who CAN'T know one another now.

(I deliberately left it ambiguous to whether he could ever have been what she wanted, which, to be honest, I go back and forth on myself, because that's almost secondary to anything else. You know, with, say, Orléans and Margrid, my thinking was always very much "In another life, they'd have been happy", likewise for Peyronan and Bres/Sreng. And there are a lot of tragic ships that got to be together that's like "They had a thing, but it couldn't work due to who they were" -- Cú Chulainn and Ferdiad and Fritz/Katte, where, even if one of them hadn't died, I never wrote it to be a lasting thing. With Flann/Ciara, on the other hand.....they never got to be ANYTHING, and Flann will never know if they could have been anything, because he fucked it up. And I’m not sure that Ciara herself knows, because anything she MIGHT have felt is so totally drowned out by the betrayal. Though a part of me, chalk it up to the romantic in me, thinks that, sometime, in the future, before they both die, they see one another again. Maybe not in a fully romantic way, but in a way that gives them some closure.)

#long post

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areyougonnabe · 5 years

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Gerry Keay learns that the last place a very dangerous Leitner was seen was an international rare book fair in London, just last week. He intimidates the trader into giving him the information of the buyer, and hopes it’s not too late by the time he gets there, he hopes that his mother hasn’t beaten him to it, hasn’t arrived and done something unspeakably awful to the shop owner in order to get her hands on that 17th-century tome, Athanasius Kircher’s Ars magna lucis et umbrae, which Leitner’s catalogue indicated had the power to induce a catastrophic hallucinatory state in the reader.

When he gets there, prepared to intimidate and bargain and wheedle and terrify his way into possession of the book, his heart falls as he steps in to see a pale, bookish man seated in a chair, the book propped open on his lap.

“No—!” he yells, panicked, horrified. This is worse than being beaten by his mother, somehow. With that, at least, he could have had somewhere external to direct his anger. But now, the idea that if he’d just been a bit faster, a bit quicker to research, he could have saved this poor man from a ruined mind— there is only one person to blame, and it’s himself.

And then, as Gerry rushes forward, prepared to see the telltale swirls of distorted light behind the man’s eyes, marking him out as a lost cause, yet another casualty of a Leitner, the man looks up at him. His eyes are clear and blue, utterly and obviously entirely lucid. How the fuck—?

The man snaps the book shut. “Mr. Keay, I presume,” he says. "Um,” Gerry stammers, and the man smiles kindly and stands up from his chair, holding the book in wide, solid hands.

Gerry points at the book, trying to regain some sense of his mission. “That book,” he says, and before he can continue the man interrupts, “It’s quite interesting, isn’t it?”

This nearly draws a laugh out of Gerry. Interesting isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe a Leitner tome that has permanently incapacitated six people in the last year. “It’s dangerous,” he says, as seriously as he can. “I don’t know how— look. If it hasn’t already done its damage on you, it’s only a matter of time. It’s got to be destroyed. Please. You’re in danger, as long as you’ve got it with you.”

The man— who Gerry realizes must be the A.Z. Fell of the store’s marquee, though that hardly seems like a real name a person would have— looks him up and down, with a stare that seems to penetrate to the very heart of him. Gerry feels like he’s being— well. Read, like a book.

“I appreciate your concern,” Fell says, “but I assure you, it’s not needed. A little thing like this could do just as much harm to me as you could.” He smiles, a little twinkly smile wildly at odds with the outlandish implications of his statement.

“But my mother—” Gerry begins, wondering how he could possibly convey the threat Mary poses to anyone who stands in between her and her precious books. Fell, in his waistcoat and reading glasses, looks like he’d last about five minutes against the fearful torments she’s capable of dishing out, even in her weakened state of undeath.

“Your mother,” says Fell, stern, like a schoolteacher, “is, I’m sure you won’t mind me saying, an utterly horrid woman. She knows very well that she’s not to come anywhere near this bookshop, and the consequences that await her if she should even so much as try.”

“...You know her?”

He raises his eyebrows. “In this profession, one must be acquainted at least superficially with one’s competition."

Gerry’s eyes are drawn inexorably to the book Fell still holds in his hands. “I don’t want to take it from you by force,” he says, “but I will. If I have to. I’m telling you, it’s no good, I’ve got to destroy it—”

Fell tsks softly, letting his gaze fall to the book as well. “Such a beautiful book,” he says quietly. “A shame, what’s been done to it...”

And now those eyes are on Gerry again, and he feels pinned beneath their weight. He’s suddenly conscious of the dirty blonde roots showing at his scalp, clashing with the black dye above; he’s aware of the holes in his shirt, worn down from constant wear; the pitted acne scars on his face and his crooked teeth.

But Fell is not looking at him with judgement, not the way his mother did, constantly condescending, rating him short of standard. It’s whatever the opposite of that is— a look of pure acceptance. Pride, even— but how is that possible, when he’s never met this man before in his life—?

“My dear boy,” says Fell, “you’ve done so very well. I think it’s high time someone told you that.”

He places the book gently into Gerry’s hands. Gerry is frozen in place for a moment, mind whirring prematurely with plans of how to destroy it (would it respond to flame? Necessitate drowning? Shredding, burying, a single stab to the heart of it?)

But then Fell snaps his fingers, and the air around them shivers, sings silently like a ringing bell, and the book crumbles cleanly to white ash in his hands.

Gerry’s seen enough to not question the mechanics of such an act.

Instead, he asks: “Why?”

Fell smiles now. “You remind me quite a bit of an... associate of mine. Someone who’s done me many a favor over the years. Sentimental of me, I suppose, but I have my vices.”

Gerry finds it hard to believe a man like Fell would associate with someone like him— if Fell were to have a friend, Gerry would imagine them to be another stuffy academic type, not a shabby goth with a sarcastic streak fathoms deep.

"Thank you, sir,” says Gerry, because Mary may have utterly failed to impress up on him her worldview and morality, but she certainly taught him his manners.

“Oh, please,” says Fell, “call me Aziraphale.”

He extends a warm hand and Gerry takes it, and mid-handshake something clicks in his mind. A tome in his mother’s library, an ancient and obscure manuscript containing illuminated portraits of the hierarchies of angels— one of the few books with pictures, so naturally one he read over and over as a child. One of the pages rattles around in his head and then settles, coming into focus. A white-robed, sun-haired angel with great white wings, bearing a flaming sword, and underneath it in black ink against gold leaf: The Principality Aziraphale.

Gerry steps back, a bit shocked. Aziraphale sees the flicker of recognition in his eyes and raises a single finger to his lips conspiratorially.

There’s a moment where Gerry thinks he might do something embarrassing like beg for help, or ask to stay a little longer, here in this wonderfully warm and bright and safe bookshop— but it passes, as his purpose reasserts itself inside of him with the burning force that’s kept him going for so long on his own.

“Aziraphale,” he says, testing the ancient name on his tongue. “Well. If you ever come across any more Leitners—”

“You’ll be the first to know, you have my word.”

Gerry nods. “I— You— you’ve got a very nice shop.” Aziraphale beams at him. “Best be off, though,” Gerry goes on. He dusts off the last of the white ash that used to be the Leitner from his hands and turns to go.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale understandingly.

At the door, Gerry pauses, and turns back.

“Your friend,” he says. “The one I remind you of. For your sake, I hope he’s better than me at staying out of trouble.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. “He is trouble.”

“Much better,” says Gerry, and with that, steps back out into the busy Soho street, and disappears into the crowd.

#the magnus archives #tma #good omens #my writing #LOVE TO POST FIC AT ONE THIRTY IN THE MORNING #in an act of pure self sabotage

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thesmileprevailsthesword · 4 years

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Fanfic Recs of OC/Self Insert fics

Fics from Naruto

Aioka: A Career Genin by ShadowAccio6181 and UncertainAngel

When the term Career Genin comes up in casual conversation, it is often tied to failures and ninja-wanna-be’s. It is spoken with pity and undertones of dismissal by other shinobi. They were the ranks that other shinobi were thankful they were not apart of and were considered as useless individuals.

To Aioka, the Genin Corp was a gold mine of untapped potential. While most saw a cest pool of stagnation and misery, she saw talent waiting to be directed. Watch as an orphan from Tsuchi no Kuni, reforms Konoha by building up those who've lost hope.

(My Notes: Unfinished but not abandoned. A very good example of taking a very rarely used part of canon and fleshing it out wonderfully.)

Doing the Work by MarbleGlove

There’s more to peace than the absence of war. The work is as hard and uncertain as any Shinobi mission.

AKA: A highly self-indulgent fic in which a civilian woman helps an orphaned Sasuke and winds up saving the world.

(My Notes: Asexual main character with incredibly satisfying plot progression. Subtle worldbuilding with very good use of politics.)

Dragonfly by peccolia

Being reborn into the Uchiha clan in the same generation as Itachi promises nothing but a short-lived second life. But, hey—if I'm going to die with certainty, I might as well go out with a bang, right? SI Rebirth.

(My Notes: Heartbreaking. This story will murder your feelings with no remorse. It is frustrating(in a good way) and has no problem pointing out the faults of it's main character. It feels very human.)

A Stranger by Loeka

How did it come to this? Oh wait, I remember now. My weakness for all things cute.

(My Notes: Probably one of the most realistic depictions of caring for kids in fanfiction I have ever seen. The kids are not there for brownie points. They are there and they are hard to look after. Also true depictions of the writing process as well as respect for mental wounds and boundaries.)

Dragon Age

Dislocated Souls by Lonely Again

When the breach opened in the sky, spirits and demons were “driven mad” as they came through. No one mentioned all the people who were driven mad at the same time. Except they weren’t, you know. They were just dropped here, into a place most people know nothing about. People like me.

(My Notes: I love this concept. So fucking much. Breach opened in the sky and brought people from earth to thedas. Not just modern day America but different time periods and countries. I love how they crafted the different parts of this fic.)

The Editor by lunaemoth

Doleen was reborn in Thedas and became an editor in the Free Marches. Old memories come back to her when the manuscript for Varric's first book ends up on her desk. All the storylines from the games are a bit fuzzy to her but she knows one thing: she wants to meet him.

(My Notes: Short but very well done. Self indulgent in a good way.)

Fire Emblem

A Tactician's Testimony by katriona_subasa

I know what you're thinking. How could a campaign, a war, of such a high stakes have occurred without the entire continent knowing? How could a ragtag bunch of misfits, an army consisting of everything from assassins to knights to half-trained civilians have saved Elibe? Well, this is my log, my testimony if you will, of everything that happened. My name is Katri, master tactician, and this is our story. (FE7 Novelization)

(My Notes: This is one of my favorite novelization works ever. It is in depth and wonderfully crafted. The author does incredibly well at making an unlikable main character and redeeming her through many trials. Also she has an entire trilogy connected to this one and it's big. Worth it but you're going to lose a day or two.)

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awesomenightfall · 4 years

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[’til death]

Haven’t written in 5ever and this is my first time writing Furuba ficlet! Rated PG, Ritsu/Mitsuru, Ayame/Mine, some mentioned others. Unbeta’d. 1,887 words.

With Ayame’s wedding looming, Mitsuru thinks, not for the first time, that they should definitely elope.

---

The invitation to the Sohma/Kuramae wedding was so big, so bedazzled and lace filled, that it had to be hand delivered to Mitsuru’s doorstep because it was too enormous to fit into the mailbox.

It was more box shaped than a standard paper invitation, Mitsuru observed, and knowing the ostentatious nature of her boyfriend’s relative, she wouldn’t have been surprised if live doves flew into her face when she opened it.

This was even fancier, if possible, than Ayame's baby announcement from the prior year. The pink lace monstrosity had taken a lot of people by surprise, but Ritsu sobbed hysterical happy tears for “Ayame-’niisan” and knitted no less than 12 pairs of baby socks for his new little cousin.

The older Sohma relatives were apparently not as impressed with the gaudy announcement or the out-of-wedlock baby girl that Ayame had brought into the world. The whole thing had been "Terribly scandalous," Ritsu's mom told her in a stage whisper, clutching her metaphorical pearls, "a baby before marriage and with his employee, no less… his mother almost had a nervous breakdown."

Her first thought: Wow. Rich people sure do things differently.

Her second thought: Am I going to have to see The Spawn of Satan - Shigure-sensei - at this wedding?

Ritsu, the sensitive, romantic soul that he was, was already blinking back tears by the time she pulled the velvet invitation out.

“I’m so happy for Ayame-’niisan and Mine-san. They’re such a kind, wonderful couple,” Ritsu sniffled, pausing from his knitting. He was curled up on her worn brown couch underneath an old blanket, hands working diligently at the tiny mittens he was knitting for one of his relatives' upcoming babies. They were adorable, of course, with a kitten motif in soft orange. “And it will be so good to see Hatori-’niisan and Shigure-’niisan again!”

Mitsuru shivered violently at the mention of her old boss. It was a Pavlovian response at this point and no amount of therapy in the world would help her work through it. Her worst fears were confirmed: she was definitely going to have to see Shigure-sensei and she was definitely going to have to be on her best behavior in front of Ritsu’s parents and relatives.

Ritsu lifted the blanket, looking concerned. “Mitsuru-san, are you cold? You should come under here before you get sick.”

She smiled to herself as she slid next to him. In the five years they had been dating, Ritsu had come a long way in terms of shyness and self confidence. He still asked if it was okay to kiss her and he blushed from neck to navel at the thought of anything beyond an innocent smooch, but they had gotten past the “apologize hysterically for holding her hand too long” stage and that in itself was a miracle.

“You’re so cold,” Ritsu said softly, setting the knitting needles down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He tucked her into the blanket next to him and took her hands in his, rubbing them for warmth. “Maybe we should plan a trip to my mother’s hot spring resort sometime soon, they’re the best in the winter. And she would love to see you, she’s always asking for you.”

Mitsuru rested her head on his slender shoulder and took this opportunity to stealthily stare at him. He was so cute, she thought. Beautiful, even with his cropped hair and more masculine clothing. And he was so darn sweet, always worried about her, worried if she was working too hard, if she had enough to eat, if her new clients were treating her right.

She had always thought she would die alone in her house surrounded by Shigure’s unfinished manuscripts with only cats to keep her company; Mitsuru never thought she could be so happy.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, catching her gaze with his own. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Do you not want to see my family? You -- you don’t have to, I mean. I don’t want to pressure you. Are you too warm? Do you want me to--?”

She put her fingers to his lips, shushing him. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

Her words had their intended effect and Ritsu nearly shot off the couch in embarrassment. “N-no no no no, Mitsuru-san! I’m the one that’s lucky to have you!” he babbled, face red. “I’m not --”

Mitsuru cut him off with a gentle kiss; the most effective way, she learned over the years, to stop his self deprecating apologies. “Ritsu,” she said with a smile. “I love you.”

Immediately his eyes glistened, even though he had heard this from her hundreds of times before. It never failed to make him emotional and it was infectious -- Mitsuru could feel her throat tighten at the look of gratitude on his face. “Thank you,” Ritsu said quietly, hugging her to him tightly. “I love you, too. And I’ll work so hard to make you happy.”

They sat in silence for a long while, enjoying the company and warmth.

“Weddings are nice, aren’t they?” Ritsu asked, somewhat hesitantly, not quite looking at her. “Being married must be wonderful.”

Mitsuru wondered if he was feeling her out on the subject. She knew he was getting some pressure from his family on proposing and while it was amusing, she didn’t want him to stress too badly. There was only so much knitting and yoga he could do to stave off a freakout. “I think so, too.”

“Y-you do?”

“Of course,” she said, snuggling closer. “To be with the person you love every day -- is there anything better?”

He let out a quiet, “Oh,” but said nothing further, only kissing the top of her head absently, looking deep in thought.

As the comfortable silence returned and she drifted off, a thought so horrifying nearly jolted her from Ritsu’s embrace:

If Ritsu and I get married, does that mean I’ll be related to Shigure-sensei?

The things people do for love, she thought with a heavy sigh, and let herself succumb to sleep.

---

The Sohma clan in its entirety was overwhelming, to say the least. The grounds of the complex were decked out with an explosion of flowers, beautiful against the autumn backsplash. There were gazebos and arches and tables upon tables of food, alcohol, and desserts that spanned as far as the eye could see.

Mitsuru recognized a lot of Ritsu’s relatives -- mostly the ones that had once lived at Shigure’s house -- so she didn’t feel entirely out of place. Shigure had yet to make an appearance because of course he would be fashionably late, even to his best friend’s wedding.

“Mitsuru-san, you look beautiful,” Ritsu said at her side. “I love your dress.”

“Oh? Thank you.” She didn’t even bother to hide how pleased she was that Ritsu thought so. The black, long sleeved cocktail dress has been a safe choice and not nearly as lovely as the kimonos Ritsu once donned, so it was nice to know it made an impression. “Is your suit warm enough? It’s a bit chilly out.”

He squeezed her hand. “Oh no, I’m fine. If you get cold, I brought an extra shawl in the car.”

How was it possible, Mitsuru thought as they walked towards familiar faces, that this angel shared DNA with Shigure?

Ayame’s brother, Yuki, looked resplendent in a dark gray suit but, well, the pinched look of stress sort of ruined the ambience.

“Bets on if you think Aya-’nii is going to wear a wedding dress?” another Sohma relative, the one with black and white hair, asked.

“He would look so good in one!” a blond, perky Sohma replied. He paused from digging into a huge plate of desserts. “Do you think they’re wearing matching dresses?”

Yuki looked pained. “Please, don’t even breathe life into those words. My mother is already having an aneurysm at the whole situation.”

The redheaded one -- Kyou, Mitsuru remembered -- handed Yuki a very full glass of champagne. Yuki took it gratefully and immediately started imbibing. “Kind of serves her right, don’t you think?” Kyou asked with a snort. “She bitched and moaned about him not being married before. Well, wish granted.”

A very pregnant Tohru beamed up at Yuki. Her hand cradled her round belly, a modest gold ring twinkling on her slender finger. “I think it’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see what Ayame-san and Mine-san wear!”

“Are you okay?” Kyou asked her, a protective hand on the small of her back. “Are you tired? Do you want to go sit down?”

Yuki rolled his eyes good naturedly, turning to Mitsuru and Ritsu. At least something was distracting him from his existential dread. “He’s only gotten worse since the pregnancy. I’m surprised this idiot hasn’t implanted a GPS chip into her neck so he can keep track of everything Tohru is doing at all times. It’s borderline obsessive.”

Yuki’s girlfriend - Machi? - gave him an even look. “As if you’re one to talk. Who is the one browsing baby websites at 2am and reading all the reviews to make sure Honda-san only has the safest baby toys?”

“Thank you, Yuki!” Tohru trilled over Kyou’s protests. “You’re so kind.”

Before Yuki could retort, the lights dimmed. A literal orchestra started playing as Mine -- wearing a breathtaking lace and crystal ball gown with a hoop skirt that would put Victorian novels to shame -- slowly walked down the aisle. Mitsuru could hear Ritsu sniffling and she immediately handed him some tissues from her purse.

Before anyone could inquire where Ayame was, the music stopped. The spotlights zoomed in on one of the temporary partitions that separated the food area from the reception area.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yuki muttered. “‘Niisan kept mentioning a ‘surprise’.”

Hatori, arguably the one sane person at this event, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just remember… this will be over soon and we can all go back to ignoring him.”

The partitions slowly opened to reveal Ayame -- not wearing a dress, to his credit, but a white tunic and pants outfit that looked like it belonged to an Arabian king-- in a lavish, horse drawn carriage, baby tucked in one arm, being pulled down the aisle. He waved benevolently to his subjects with his free hand and then blew a kiss to Yuki and then to his future wife.

“Please repress my memories of this night, Hatori,” Yuki said miserably. “It’s the least you can do for making me come.”

“Yuki, your mom fainted,” Hatsuharu said helpfully.

“Holy. Shit,” Kyou said.

Yuki grabbed an entire bottle of champagne from the nearby waiter. “I formally renounce the Sohma name and am now an orphan.”

Ritsu wiped at his eyes, passing a tissue to an emotional Tohru. “What a beautiful wedding. I can’t wait to see what they have planned next!”

“I hate this family,” Yuki said and honestly?

Mitsuru couldn’t blame him.

---

“Ritsu,” Mitsuru said a few hours later, once they were back in the safe haven of her house, “let’s elope.”

Ritsu dropped all of the plates he was washing with a loud crash, hands pressed to his burning cheeks. His voice went up at least three octaves. “Elope--? As in-- marriage?? Mitsuru-san???”

Elopement would be perfect, she thought happily.

The further away... the better.

#fruits basket #ritsu sohma #mitsuru #ayame sohma #mine kuramae #k writes trash #ayame is an icon

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thelonguepuree · 5 years

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Eleven Stars Over Andalusia

I. On our last evening on this land On our last evening on this land we chop our days from our young trees, count the ribs we'll take with us and the ribs we'll leave behind … On the last evening we bid nothing farewell, nor find the time to end … Everything remains as it is, it is the place that changes our dreams and its visitors. Suddenly we're incapable of irony, this land will now host atoms of dust … Here, on our last evening, we look closely at the mountains besieging the clouds: a conquest … and a counter-conquest, and an old time handing this new time the keys to our doors. So enter our houses, conquerors, and drink the wine of our mellifluous Mouwashah. We are the night at midnight and no horseman will bring dawn from the sanctuary of the last Call to Prayer … Our tea is green and hot; drink it. Our pistachios are fresh; eat them. The beds are of green cedar, fall on them, following this long siege, lie down on the feathers of our dreams. The sheets are crisp, perfumes are ready by the door, and there are plenty of mirrors: enter them so we may exit completely. Soon we will search in the margins of your history, in distant countries, for what was once our history. And in the end we will ask ourselves: Was Andalusia here or there? On the land … or in the poem? II. How can I write above the clouds? How can I write my people's testament above the clouds when they abandon time as they do their coats at home, my people who raze each fortress they build and pitch on its ruins a tent, nostalgic for the beginning of palm trees? My people betray my people in wars over salt. But Granada is made of gold, of silken words woven with almonds, of silver tears in the string of a lute. Granada is a law unto herself: it befits her to be whatever she wants to be: nostalgia for anything long past or which will pass. A swallow's wing brushes a woman's breast, and she screams: “Granada is my body.” In the meadow someone loses a gazelle, and he screams, “Granada is my country." And I come from there … So sing until from my ribs the goldfinches can build a staircase to the nearer sky. Sing of the chivalry of those who ascend, moon by moon, to their death in the Beloved's alley. Sing the birds of the garden, stone by stone. How I love you, who have broken me, string by string, on the road to her heated night. Sing how, after you, the smell of coffee has no morning. Sing of my departure, from the cooing of doves on your knees and from my soul nesting in the mellifluous letters of your name. Granada is for singing, so sing! III. There is a sky beyond the sky for me There is a sky beyond the sky for my return, but I am still burnishing the metal of this place, living in an hour that foresees the unseen. I know that time cannot twice be on my side, and I know that I will leave— I’ll emerge, with wings, from the banner I am, bird that never alights on trees in the garden— I will shed my skin and my language. Some of my words of love will fall into Lorca's poems; he'll live in my bedroom and see what I have seen of the Bedouin moon. I’ll emerge from almond trees like cotton on sea foam. The stranger passed, carrying seven hundred years of horses. The stranger passed here to let the stranger pass there. In a while I'll emerge a stranger from the wrinkles of my time, alien to Syria and to Andalusia. This land is not my sky, yet this evening is mine. The keys are mine, the minarets are mine, the lamps are mine, and I am also mine. I am Adam of the two Edens, I who lost paradise twice. So expel me slowly, and kill me slowly, under my olive tree, along with Lorca … IV. I am one of the kings of the end And I am one of the kings of the end … I jump off my horse in the last winter. I am the last gasp of an Arab. I do not look for myrtle over the roofs of houses, nor do I look around: no one should know me, no one should recognize me, no one who knew me when I polished marble words to let my woman step barefoot over dappled light. I do not look into the night, I mustn’t see a moon that once lit up all the secrets of Granada, body by body. I do not look into the shadow, so as not to see somebody carrying my name and running after me: take your name away from me and give me the silver of the white poplar. I do not look behind me, so I won't remember I’ve passed over this land, there is no land in this land since time broke around me shard by shard. I was not a lover believing that water is a mirror, as I told my old friends, and no love can redeem me, for I've accepted the “peace accord” and there is no longer a present left to let me pass, tomorrow, close to yesterday. Castile will raise its crown above God's minaret. I hear the rattling of keys in the door of our golden history. Farewell to our history! Will I be the one to close the last door of the sky, I, the last gasp of an Arab? V. One day I will sit on the pavement One day I will sit on the pavement … the pavement of the estranged. I was no Narcissus; still I defend my image in the mirrors. Haven't you been here once before, stranger? Five hundred years have passed, but our breakup wasn't final, and the messages between us never stopped. The wars did not change the gardens of my Granada. One day I'll pass its moons and brush my desire against a lemon tree … Embrace me reborn from the scents of sun and river on your shoulders, from your feet that scratch the evening until it weeps milk to accompany the poem's night … I was not a passerby in the words of singers … I was the words of the singers, the reconciliation of Athens and Persia, an East embracing a West embarked on one essence. Embrace me that I may be born again from Damascene swords hanging in shops. Nothing remains of me but my old shield and my horse's gilded saddle. Nothing remains of me but manuscripts of Averroes, The Collar of the Dove, and translations … On the pavement, in the Square of the Daisy, I was counting the doves: one, two, thirty … and the girls snatching the shadows of the young trees over the marble, leaving me leaves yellow with age. Autumn passed me by, and I did not notice the entire season had passed. Our history passed me on the pavement … and I did not notice. VI. Truth has two faces and the snow is black Truth has two faces and the snow falls black on our city. We can feel no despair beyond our despair, and the end-firm in its step-marches to the wall, marching on tiles that are wet with our tears. Who will bring down our flags: we or they? And who will recite the “peace accord,” O king of dying? Everything's prepared for us in advance; who will tear our names from our identity: you or they? And who will instill in us the speech of wanderings: “We were unable to break the siege; let us then hand the keys to our paradise to the Minister of Peace, and be saved…” Truth has two faces. To us the holy emblem was a sword hanging over us. So what did you do to our fortress before this day? You didn't fight, afraid of martyrdom. Your throne is your coffin. Carry then the coffin to save the throne, O king of waiting, this exodus will leave us only a handful of dust … Who will bury our days after us: you … or they? And who will raise their banners over our walls: you … or a desperate knight? Who will hang their bells on our journey: you … or a miserable guard? Everything is fixed for us; why, then, this unending conclusion, O king of dying? VII. Who am I after the night of the estranged? Who am I after the night of the estranged? I wake from my dream, frightened of the obscure daylight on the marble of the house, of the sun's darkness in the roses, of the water of my fountain; frightened of milk on the lip of the fig, of my language; frightened of wind that—frightened—combs a willow; frightened of the clarity of petrified time, of a present no longer a present; frightened, passing a world that is no longer my world. Despair, be merciful. Death, be a blessing on the stranger who sees the unseen more clearly than a reality that is no longer real. I’ll fall from a star in the sky into a tent on the road to … where? Where is the road to anything? I see the unseen more clearly than a street that is no longer my street. Who am I after the night of the estranged? Through others I once walked toward myself, and here I am, losing that self, those others. My horse disappeared by the Atlantic, and by the Mediterranean I bleed, stabbed with a spear. Who am I after the night of the estranged? I cannot return to my brothers under the palm tree of my old house, and I cannot descend to the bottom of my abyss. You, the unseen! Love has no heart … no heart in which I can dwell after the night of the estranged … VIII. O water, be a string to my guitar O water, be a string to my guitar. The conquerors arrived, and the old conquerors left. It is difficult to remember my face in the mirrors. Water, be my memory, let me see what I have lost. Who am I after this exodus? I have a rock with my name on it, on a hill from which I see what's long gone … Seven hundred years escort me beyond the city wall … In vain time turns to let me salvage my past from a moment that gives birth to my exile … and others’ … To my guitar, O water, be a string. The conquerors arrived, and the old conquerors left, heading southward, repairing their days in the trashheap of change: I know who I was yesterday, but who will I be in a tomorrow under Columbus’s Atlantic banners? Be a string, be a string to my guitar, O water! There is no Misr in Egypt, no Fez in Fez, and Syria draws away. There is no falcon in my people's banner, no river east of the palm groves besieged by the Mongols' fast horses. In which Andalusia do I end? Here or there? I will know I've perished and that here I've left the best part of me: my past. Nothing remains but my guitar. Then be to my guitar a string, O water. The old conquerors left, the new conquerors arrived. IX. In the exodus I love you more In the exodus I love you more. In a while you will lock the city's gates. There is no heart for me in your hands, and no road anywhere for my journey. In this demise I love you more. After your breast, there is no milk for the pomegranate at our window. Palm trees have become weightless, the hills have become weightless, and streets in the dusk have become weightless; the earth has become weightless as it bids farewell to its dust. Words have become weightless, and stories have become weightless on the staircase of night. My heart alone is heavy, so let it remain here, around your house, barking, howling for a golden time. It alone is my homeland. In the exodus I love you more, I empty my soul of words: I love you more. We depart. Butterflies lead our shadows. In exodus we remember the lost buttons of our shirts, we forget the crown of our days, we remember the apricot's sweat, we forget the dance of horses on festival nights. In departure we become only the birds' equals, merciful to our days, grateful for the least. I am content to have the golden dagger that makes my murdered heart dance— kill me then, slowly, so I may say: I love you more than I had said before the exodus. I love you. Nothing hurts me, neither air nor water … neither basil in your morning nor iris in your evening, nothing hurts me after this departure. X. I want from love only the beginning I want from love only the beginning. Doves patch, over the squares of my Granada, this day's shirt. There is wine in our clay jars for the feast after us. In the songs there are windows: enough for blossoms to explode. I leave jasmine in the vase; I leave my young heart in my mother's cupboard; I leave my dream, laughing, in water; I leave the dawn in the honey of the figs; I leave my day and my yesterday in the passage to the Square of the Orange where doves fly. Did I really descend to your feet so speech could rise, a white moon in the milk of your nights … pound the air so I could see the Street of the Flute blue … pound the evening so I could see how this marble between us suffers? The windows are empty of the orchards of your shawl. In another time I knew so much about you. I picked gardenias from your ten fingers. In another time there were pearls for me around your neck, and a name on a ring whose gem was darkness, shining. I want from love only the beginning. Doves flew in the last sky, they flew and flew in that sky. There is still wine, after us, in the barrels and jars. A little land will suffice for us to meet, a little land will be enough for peace. XI. Violins Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia Violins weep for a time that does not return Violins weep for a homeland that might return Violins set fire to the woods of that deep deep darkness Violins tear the horizon and smell my blood in the vein Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia Violins are horses on a phantom string of moaning water Violins are the ebb and flow of a field of wild lilacs Violins are monsters touched by the nail of a woman now distant Violins are an army, building and filling a tomb made of marble and Nahawund Violins are the anarchy of hearts driven mad by the wind in a dancer’s foot Violins are flocks of birds fleeing a torn banner Violins are complaints of silk creased in the lover's night Violins are the distant sound of wine falling on a previous desire Violins follow me everywhere in vengeance Violins seek me out to kill me wherever they find me Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia —Mahmoud Darwish (1992), trans. Mona Anis, Nigel Ryan, Aga Shahid Ali, Ahmad Dallal

#mahmoud darwish #eleven stars over andalusia #poetry #contemporary poetry

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therunawayscamp · 5 years

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I will tell you now that it is impossible to fluster, ruffle, or otherwise disturb the captain. Try whatever you like, nothing gets under his skin. I imagine on the day he was born he calmed his mother down with a few stern and well-chosen words before getting on with the business of arranging his future education and first appointment in the navy, where he of course advanced to the rank of commander within minutes...

R'khan's fingers rested on top of Vilayn's manuscript. The first mate had strictly forbidden any of the crew from reading it, especially the captain, which of course meant it had been passed around everyone at least twice and ended up in R'khan's own private quarters, laid out in full sight on the desk where he was unable to miss it. It left him with the decision of which would provide more entertainment: drawing attention to it when Vilayn arrived with the watch report, or simply leaving it there without comment and watching his officer's discomfort as he tried to work out whether or not he would be punished. Or, of course, he could move it back into Vilayn's bunk, as if it had never been touched, and keep the secrets of his omniscience to himself. All options had their advantages, and while most of Vilayn's descriptions employed an amount of artistic license which would have made Rythe Lythandas blush, it was true that R'khan was a swift decision-maker.

And yet, and yet...

He read the paragraph again and found his mind drifting. Days long lost in Morrowind. A newly-commissioned brig, decked out in the colours of House Hlaalu, transporting fresh mages to reinforce Tear against the Argonians. The paint on her stern. It was fresh, barely dry, sharpened the air with its smell, and spelled out the words Gah Ruhn. The set of scales embroidered on the pendant stood out against the gold background, as it fluttered back and forth on a breeze. R'khan remembered that well. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off it, not when the alternative was looking at the crew waiting for him on deck. The entire complement was present and arranged in a line. The mages were balancing flames on their hands. An honour guard for the arrival of the new captain. Bols Faulen, first mate, bawled,

'Relkhan on deck!'

And R'khan's feet, the captain's feet, thudded onto the deck, into the expectations of a hundred mer. How strange the words had sounded. Relkhan on deck. Relkhan, a title which wasn’t his, yet would be his name to the crew for the duration of his command. On deck, in charge. Suddenly all the responsibility, every life on board, rested in his hands.

He had never felt that way before. Up until then he had always been one of many, just another face in the crew, doing his part along with everyone else to keep the ship running. His stomach twisted like the knots holding the sails in place and his head swam. It had felt as if the eyes on either side of him were stripping him to the bone, from the lieutenants' stares down to a certain bosun's wide-eyed, scruffy-haired gaze of awe. All of them were wondering the same thing, and R'khan had wondered it, too, in countless sleepless nights before that day. In the thick of battle, when lives hung in the balance, when the waters rose and the blood ran and they were all alone on the open seas, and all eyes turned to him -- what sort of a captain would he be?

There were footsteps on the deck. R'khan recognised them instantly. A long stride, but quick, and avoiding the creaky plank without giving it a thought. Before the door moved he called,

'Yes, Vilayn?'

'Ald Varay report, R'khan. All running smoothly, except for Braskan getting at the plushers again and between you and me, sir, I already know it was Jo'Raya's fault, and also a personal item of mine has gone missing...'

R'khan glanced at the manuscript, then brushed his hand against it, nudging it beneath the rest of his paperwork. He would return it to Vilayn's bunk later, without comment.

#the works of master vilayn #captain r'khan

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rubyleaf · 6 years

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So I just rediscovered an old unpublished manuscript I still need to edit sometime, and boy is it a gold mine. Some quotes entirely out of context:

”You can’t just judge an entire group of people if you haven’t even met them! Why don’t you at least give them a chance? Who knows, maybe they’re all really nice?“ ”To people like me.“ ”Yes!“ ”Chronically broke scholarship students.“ ”Very nice, smart and beautiful scholarship students, you mean!“ ”…Your optimism scares me.“

To me, everything was crystal-clear. I wasn’t going to this frilly-named elite school, not for a full scholarship and not for a million dollars or anything else they could possibly bribe me with. All right, maybe if they offered me world peace in return I’d think about it a second time. No promises though.

“So you can do it?“ I asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow. He glared at me, offended. “You think I’m stupid or what?“ “Well,“ I mumbled under my breath, “actually…“

“Sorry, Princess,“ I snapped, and she gave a shocked gasp. “I’ll try getting bit by a mutant spider and using my superpowers next time.“

“Don’t be so negative! I bet your prince is right around the corner! Or do you want a princess?“ “I wanna be left alone.“

Oh, great. I was worried, and it was irking me.

The kids backed away a bit, probably intimidated by my age now, on top of my harsh expression. I forced an awkward smile on my face, hoping I didn’t look like a bad copy of the Joker. “Uh…“

“Look,“ I said impatiently, “you can’t be like the others. Either you’re different by being you, or you’re different by sucking at being like the others. Your choice.“

“Do you…hate me?“ I blinked. The hell kind of question was that? What did he want? “I…well.“ I closed my eyes, forcing myself to ignore Jared’s nervous eyes fixed on me and just speak my mind, without caring about his reaction. “I think you’re an overgrown entitled man-baby with serious anger management issues.“

You’re pretty interesting though, you know that? You’re fun when you’re angry.“ Turning around, he waved as he started disappearing into the crowd. “Bye!“ “Die in a ditch!“ I yelled after him.

I needed a break. And for once I was actually glad April wasn’t there and I wouldn’t have to talk to any human being for this class. Screw participation grades, you’d have to pry every word from me from my cold dead hands.

#i love the heroine of this story actually. she's grumpy and tsundere. i need to get back to this #writing #snippets #romance #me and my writings #personal

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terminallydepraved · 6 years

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Scintillate (Hisokuro Thieves!au)

this was a patreon commission for the wonderful @ekeu who requested a snippet of an au i came up with forever ago. enjoy!

Read on Ao3 Here

[Support me on Patreon] x [Commissions Page] x [ Buy Me a Coffee]

The café was bustling with the energy of a late afternoon, warm and fragrant with the scent of fresh pastries and newly brewed coffee. Chrollo sat at his table, quiet, contemplative, and lulled by the utter normalcy of it all. Hours had passed and dozens of people came and went. Their voices faded, replaced with new ones; their faces filled his mind but disappeared quickly, melting away into ephemera he wouldn’t remember come the evening.

Same old, same old. Another city and another afternoon spent pretending he was one with the ones he watched. Chrollo propped his chin on the back of his hand. He tore himself from the quaint café and looked down into the depths of his chai tea. It had long grown cold while he waited. He still stirred it anyway, enjoying the swirl that followed the eddies of the spoon.

He was late, Chrollo mused. Not exactly a surprise, but a disappointment all the same.

Chrollo let out the breath of a sigh and leaned back in his chair, checking his phone again. He thumbed in his passcode and glanced a little at the time. Nearly twenty minutes late now. A tap brought him into his emails. At the top sat one he’d starred. How Hisoka had gotten ahold of his email, he didn’t know. He couldn’t be too surprised, though. Hisoka was nothing if not resourceful.

To my dearest muse,

I heard all about your success with your latest job. A chained manuscript this time. Don’t you ever find your eye caught by something a little shinier? You never fail to surprise me, but that certainly is part of your charm. You are as unpredictable as you are talented, and even more beautiful besides. I hope your spoils were worth the effort. It was masterful work. So masterful in fact that it has me thinking…

You’re vacationing in Madrid currently, last I heard. A wonderful coincidence, really, because so am I! Why don’t we meet for coffee? I know the perfect little spot for a chat. You can tell me all about your recent job and in turn I can share with you a proposition I’ve set aside especially for you. Meet me at La Café Blanca at four p.m. this Friday. It’ll be a date <3

I do hope you’ll come. I’d hate to chase you like I did in Paris…

Hisoka Morou <3

Chrollo rolled his eyes when he saw the heart by Hisoka’s name, much as he rolled them the first time he read the email. As far as most thieves went, Chrollo had to think Hisoka was far too forward. In their trade anonymity was as valuable as diamonds. Notoriety… Well, that was anathema.

Hisoka, on the other hand, seemed to embrace everything he shouldn’t.

“Oh, someone’s early,” a voice crooned in his ear. Chrollo blinked and turned. Speak of the devil.

Hisoka peered down at him from on high, his smile wide and his eyes narrowed as if he’d just spotted something particularly lovely just within reach. His outfit was casually opulent, comprised of a dress shirt worth more than Chrollo’s entire outfit. His hair… Well, his hair was certainly different. Chrollo stared at Hisoka as he moved around the table, pulling out the empty chair to seat himself with a smile.

“Blond?” Chrollo remarked, fixating on it just a bit. It was a stark difference from his natural red. “Did your photo get leaked again?”

Hisoka rolled his eyes, gesturing to a waitress with his hand. She seemed to understand what he meant by it, because she quickly set to making him a drink. When the man looked back at Chrollo, he did so indulgently. “Perhaps I just felt like a change was in order?” he offered. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Chrollo laughed a little. “I’ve told you before; you can’t be so attention getting. It’s bad form in this profession.”

“Funny how you say that,” Hisoka replied, taking his coffee from the woman when she paused next to his shoulder. A rumble of Spanish fell past his lips faster than Chrollo could understand. The woman blushed and then returned to her counter. “You act like I’m the one drawing eyes when it’s you who I can’t seem to look away from.”

That prompted Chrollo to roll his own. “Flatterer. What did you call me here for?” he asked. If he let Hisoka have his way, he’d dance around the issue for hours just for the excuse to keep him here. Chrollo lifted his phone, the email still on display. “How did you get my email?”

“Well, when you won’t give me your phone number, I’ve had to make do.” Hisoka swirled his spoon through his drink, taking a pleased sip. It was annoyingly grating how good he made that hair color look. “What I’ve called you here for--besides for a chance to luxuriate in your intoxicating company--is to offer you a job.”

Chrollo raised a brow. “A job? I don’t think I need you to bring me one of those. I’m fairly good at finding my own.”

“Ah, yes, you really are. But don’t you tire of stealing musty old books? What I’ve dug up promises to be… Let’s just say it’ll prove to be far shinier than some bound tomes of parchment.” Hisoka’s eyes positively sparkled. “And even if you aren’t interested in the contents of this particular safe, I certainly am. I’d be willing to compensate you either way.”

Oh? “If you’re so interested in it, why bother splitting the spoils by bringing me in?” Chrollo asked. His tea had long gone cold, but he took a sip from it anyway.

“We all have our particular skill sets,” the thief sighed, drawing his gaze skywards. “The intel I have on this safe suggests that it’s guarded by a security system I’m not familiar with. As much as I adore your company, I also could benefit from it. Leave all the heavy lifting to me; all I need are those graceful hands of yours to open the door.”

Lowering his cup back to the table, Chrollo cocked his head. He couldn’t say his interest wasn’t piqued. “What’s in the safe?” he asked next. Hisoka usually stole bonds and gold, diamonds and rubies. Pretty things worth a lot universally, unlike Chrollo who went for the niche, the esoteric.

Hisoka grinned. He leaned back in his chair and gave a lazy shrug. “I don’t know,” he said teasingly. “But I’ve heard it’s good. It’d make a fun evening to find out.” He blinked languidly, his smile growing wider. “It’d make an even better date. That is, if you’d care to join me.”

Ah, there it was. That typical Hisoka fickleness that kept the man chasing long after Chrollo had made his exit. What a shame it was that the man knew just how to catch his attention. Chrollo sighed and rested his head on his propped up hand, smiling when Hisoka leaned in.

Well, it sounded interesting enough. What was the harm?

“You’re paying for dinner,” Chrollo told him. “And the disguises. And the hacking tools. I lost mine in Sicily.”

“Oh, of course,” Hisoka said, covering Chrollo’s hand with his own. “What kind of date would I be if I didn’t?”

---

In hindsight, Chrollo really should have been a little more suspect when Hisoka came to him offering him a shot at a mark he’d never heard of before. Curiosity might be an attractive quality to some, but for Chrollo, it really was proving more of a hindrance than help.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be doing this in a broom closet,” Chrollo muttered, voice pitched low so as not to alert the guards patrolling just outside the door. He needn’t worry about Hisoka hearing though; the man was pressed firmly against his back, his broad chest burning straight through Chrollo’s shirt.

“Why? Feeling claustrophobic?” came the soft reply directly in his ear. Hisoka hooked his chin over Chrollo’s shoulder, sneaking a kiss to his cheek while Chrollo fiddled with the drill. “I’ve heard all about your exploits in Paris, Chrollo. You really can’t tell me you’re not accustomed to doing all sorts of things in tight places.”

Well, that was certainly true, except… “You’re leaving out the part where I work alone,” he replied, finally succeeding in removing the panel hiding the rear end of the safe situated in the room on the other side of the wall. Chrollo pulled it free and nudged it at Hisoka’s thigh, urging him to hold it. “Usually I don’t have another body to worry about on top of killing the alarms.”

“Mmm, consider it an added challenge,” the man purred, nuzzling him now. His free hand snaked around Chrollo’s waist, hugging him close. “You like being excited by your jobs, don’t you? Isn’t this stimulating?”

The laugh he gave sent goosebumps down Chrollo’s spine. Something firm nudged his ass. “Or perhaps that’s just me,” Hisoka mused.

“You’re the worst,” Chrollo mumbled. The absolute worst. Getting hard at a time like this… Chrollo tried to ignore it even as the arm around his waist gave his hip a squeeze. He reached into a pocket and pulled out the leather pouch that held his tools. A flick of his thumb popped the button on it, and he brought it to his teeth to pull out the tiny little wire cutters he needed for the next part. The safe back would be simple to break open once the outer sensors were taken care of. It was just a matter of cutting the right wires.

“You really do know your security systems,” Hisoka observed, watching him work with rapt attention. He turned his head and kissed at Chrollo’s temple, sniffing his hair and rocking his hips ever so gently against Chrollo’s ass.

“You’d know them too if you ever applied yourself.” Chrollo dropped the pouch back into his pocket and pulled the wires through the hole. Seven of them, just as he knew there would be.

That earned him a low, rumbly laugh. “Oh, I’d rather apply myself to you,” he said, because of course he did. “We all have our skill sets, Chrollo. Mine err less towards things with a tender touch. I’d much rather leave that kind of thing to you.”

True enough. Getting this far into the mansion during a gala this high end had required a certain… forcefulness that Hisoka had been able to deliver in spades. Chrollo typically eased his way through security employing less physical means, but results were results and in this case, they spoke for themselves.

His lips curled into a frown when he felt a warm hand slip beneath the hem of his shirt. That certainly spoke for itself as well. Hisoka ran his fingers up and down his stomach, tracing nonsensical shapes against his skin in a way that sent goosebumps traveling down Chrollo’s arms.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, cheeks hot and pout firm as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

A hum teased his ear. “What do you think I’m doing?” Hisoka posed, nipping at his ear in a way that broadcasted his intent far faster than words ever could.

This really wasn’t the time or place for something like this. Unfortunately for Chrollo, he knew Hisoka too well to think logic would deter him from instigating it anyway. His hands shook as he fumbled with the wires, trying and failing to make out the tiny little numbers along the colored seams. The sharp tease of Hisoka’s nails tickled the flat plane of his stomach. Were these…? These were the right ones, Chrollo thought. It was too bad he couldn’t double check, though. Every time he tried that hand moved an inch lower, unbuttoning his slacks before Chrollo could process the weight against his zipper.

“H-Hisoka,” he hissed, closing his eyes tight. “I can’t work like this.”

“Come now, that’s no way for a professional to talk.”

Professional? Hisoka was supposed to be a professional too, yet here he was, sticking his hand down Chrollo’s pants. One wrong move from either of them could set off an alarm or signal something was amiss to the guards just outside. There was nothing at all professional about what they were doing.

As Hisoka palmed his heat through his underwear, Chrollo just wished he could care more about it. When it felt this nice… Well, Hisoka definitely made it hard to complain.

“Hisoka…”

A warm breath tickled Chrollo’s ear. “What is it?” he murmured. “Do you want more? Do you want me to fuck you while you work? Let you test your skills under pressure?” On the word pressure, he gave Chrollo a roving, all-encompassing squeeze. Chrollo’s knees buckled beneath him. The arm around his chest kept him standing, but only just.

He’d sent that email just for the chance to do this. To trap Chrollo in one place long enough to pin him down and have his way with him, just as he always tried to do when they met on the job unawares.

Gasping for breath, shaking from head to toe, Chrollo didn’t bother trying to answer him. He just turned his head and sought out Hisoka’s lips, and Hisoka--generous and wanting and terrible as he was--met him halfway without needing asked.

One thing was for sure, Chrollo mused, losing himself in the kiss.

Jobs certainly were more interesting with a partner.

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#hisokuro #fic #check ao3 for warnings #hisoka #chrollo lucilfer #hxh

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my-honourable-barbarian · 6 years

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I doubt nicknames will be necessary - Part 5

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

AO3 Link

“What,” said Damen, “are you wearing?” He was unable to let the last remnants of surprise suppress a growing smile proportionate only to the delight that was slowly spreading throughout his entire body.

“Congratulations, you have just uttered the one single sentence I hear the most often.” Laurent’s smile was sharp, his demeanor carefully languid, and his eyes were glinting with-… with what? Damen couldn’t tell if Laurent was amused or if he’d poisoned the office’s coffee supply.

“Damianos. Explain,” Nikandros cut into his observation. Out of all the people immediately involved in this exchange, he was the only one easy to read. Jokaste was easily as opaque as Laurent, but Nikandros looked just about ready to whup Damen over his head with that terrible manuscript again.

“This is Laurent. My neighbor. I’m assuming he’s here for our date,” Damen did not miss Jokaste’s eyebrow slowly inching upwards, and he had a feeling it was less surprise at the reveal as it was a comment on his own obvious happiness at the prospect.

“Why,” said Nikandros with a growl, “is he pretending to be some French intern named Charls?”

“People talk a lot if they don’t think you speak their language,” Laurent said. His eyes remained solely on Damen. Any hint of a smile was gone.

Before Damen could even try to analyze that, Nikandros pulled him back into his office and spoke in a low voice, “I know you’re not going to listen to me, but I object. Emphatically. With all the power vested in me by long, long years of very patient friendship.”

“I like him,” Damen simply said.

Nikandros ran a hand over his face, the way he only did when he was supremely and entirely done with the world and everything in it. What exactly had Laurent done to him in the few minutes they’d met?

“Of course you do. He basically walked out of your wet dreams.”

“It’s not just his looks.”

Nikandros scoffed.

“He’s a snake. He’ll ruin you worse than Jokaste did.”

“He’s scared.” The words dropped between them with finality and Damianos was startled to realize they were very likely true. He doesn’t know if he can trust me and he dislikes being at a disadvantage. Damen should not have told Nikandros this. Laurent didn’t even want Damen to understand this much.

“He’s a better man than he gives himself credit for,” Damen amended.

Nikandros looked like a man in desperate need of a drink, but his next words were the soberest of this entire conversation. “You’re in too deep already.”

There was nothing Damen could say about that.

“Listen, Laurent is half an hour early, but I think I’ll take him out of here before he and Jokaste have any more opportunity to catch up.”

“Catch up?” That vein at Nik’s temple started pulsing again somewhat fiercely. He looked like his uncle Makedon when he got like this.

“I’ll tell you later,” Damen said quickly, already halfway through the door.

Maybe. Actually, he’d better not.

* * *

Laurent had not spoken much during the short tour Damen had given him of the building. It was hard to tell if any of it met his approval, and Damen didn’t linger to introduce him to any more of his colleagues.

When he’d come back out of the office, Laurent and Jokaste had stood silently side by side like twin gods of judgement, Jokaste with one hand on her hip, Laurent with both arms crossed before his baby blue oversized sweater. On anyone else wearing that outfit, it would have looked like a gesture of childlike self-comfort, but on Laurent, it was deadly.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Damen was currently saying as he brought them back to his own office, “but many of our editors work from home.”

Laurent did not follow Damen inside, but Damen did not miss the quick darting around of observant eyes. The glasses had disappeared.

“You mentioned milkshakes,” he said finally, and Damen laid all plans of maybe asking his opinion on one of this morning’s better scripts on ice.

“Oh yes, of course. I’ll just get my wallet.”

Laurent remained standing against the doorframe. It was eerily reminiscent of past conversations, Damen's office or not.

“I’m paying for myself. You may be the type to purchase phone sex, but the rest of me is not so easily bought.”

Damen stopped rooting around his desk.

“I wasn’t trying to-… Would you rather not do this today? You seem upset.”

The ice did not lessen. If anything, it was being fed by something like cold fury. “I said I’d go out with you and I will.”

“It’s not obligatory.”

Laurent breathed out, but it was clearly more in annoyance than anything else.

“I would like a milkshake, Damianos. If you aren’t coming, I’ll find the place myself.”

His posture was so tense Damen almost started aching just observing it.

“Okay. We’ll go.”

Laurent didn’t say any more. Nikandros shot them both dark looks as they passed.

And Damen wanted so desperately to know what he could do to make this easier on Laurent, or even just to make sense of what it was about Damen, that was at the moment so offensive to him, he almost forgot to greet Erasmus.

“Oh, excellent! Charls did find you!”

“What?” said Damen, eloquently.

And just like that, Laurent’s entire demeanor changed. Gone were the tension and the glower and the ice. Instead, his body turned into that of a dancer, easy and graceful and as light as if any moment he might defy gravity.

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful? That grumpy man brought me to Mr. Akielos and now we’re about to go do some intensive studying of ice creams and skimmed milk,” said Laurent, in gushing French.

“That’s-… good?” Erasmus shot Damen a confused look, as if Damen had any more idea about what was going on than he.

Laurent went on, undeterred and with lively exasperation. “And no one told me what a hunky brute he was! Look at the size of that bicep!”

“What are you doing?” Damen managed, finally. “He doesn’t speak any French, I think.”

When Laurent’s eyes met his, this time there was no trace of malice. He was having fun. Well, if that was all it took.

“You, however, apparently do, sweetheart,” said Laurent, with a challenge sparkling in that blue. He’d switched over to an accented Greek. Erasmus’ eyes went very round.

“I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart,” said Damen, sticking firmly to French.

Something dark and unpleasant flashed through Laurent’s eyes and Damen was sure he’d just ended this date before it even began.

And then, miraculously, Laurent laughed.

Genuinely, mirthfully, laughed. It transformed him entirely. More so than any affected French character even.

He was a young man, suddenly, blindingly beautiful, and for one blissful moment, unburdened.

And Damen was on a date with him.

Damen was the luckiest brute in history.

* * *

“Do you take all of your dates here?” was the first thing Laurent said after they’d entered ‘Shake It Till You Make It’.

“Only the ones with a sweet tooth,” countered Damen.

“Hmm, I wonder how many those have been.”

Thankfully, Laurent had kept his light-heartedness for the two blocks it had taken them to walk here. This, Damen was at least eighty percent certain, was teasing.

“We can go somewhere else, if you’d prefer,” he offered anyway. “I merely thought you might enjoy this place.”

Laurent was still semi-critically inspecting the pastel countertops. He fit in almost comically well here, with his baby blue ensemble. Damen very respectfully kept his eyes off those extremely tight jeans. It was an effort.

“I think I might.” Laurent stepped up to the counter and turned to face Damen with a clear challenge in his eyes. “What are you ordering? Let me guess, vanilla.”

That curl of Laurent’s mouth that hadn’t faded entirely since they’d left Akielos Publishing (and a very confused Erasmus) behind widened just a smidgen and Damen’s mouth dropped open.

“Was that a dig at my sexual preferences?”

“Of course it was,” said Laurent with a mild eye-roll. “You’re the most vanilla caller I’ve ever had.”

Damen leaned against the counter next to him and pretended to scan through the different options written out in pink chalk with a put-upon pout that probably didn’t look much like anything at all. “I feel obligated to get something else now,” he said, though nothing particularly jumped out at him.

Laurent’s eyes were steady on his when he chanced another look.

“It wasn’t a complaint.”

And there was simply no way Damen would keep his cool throughout this, none at all.

“Oh, okay then,” he said, quite nonsensically. “I do prefer vanilla.”

Laurent’s smile turned devious again. In a flash, he’d turned to the barista and said, “I’ll have double chocolate with mint.” And strolled over to an empty table, leaving Damen to gape after him.

It was quite possible, he realized suddenly, that this man might be his death and Damen was walking to it willingly.

“So that’s one vanilla milkshake and one double chocolate with mint?”, said the barista, who had not listened to enough of it to understand what this exchange had been about.

“Apparently,” said Damen. Laurent had settled down at the table and closed his eyes against the sunlight. It turned his hair into a halo of gold.

He really wasn’t giving Damen much opportunity to get a grip.

“First date?”

Damen swallowed. “Of an infinite amount, if I have anything to say about it. Could you bring them over there?”

Sitting down, he saw Laurent had made a braid out of one strand of his hair and tucked it behind one delicately shaped ear. It made him look playful.

“Do you actually have any French roots or are you just very good at subterfuge?” Damen asked over the pounding of his poor heart.

Laurent opened his eyes. Which were an even more wonderful shade of blue in the sunlight.

“I’m excellent at subterfuge,” he confirmed easily, and held Damen’s gaze. After a beat, he did deign to grace Damen’s actual question with an answer. “But my family obviously is from France. I believe my parents emigrated when I was small.”

“You can’t have grown much since then,” said Damen, in an attempt at finding regain some footing.

“I will have you know,” Laurent said evenly, “that I am a perfectly normal sized person. It is simply a matter of scale standing next to you.”

“How old were you when you came here?”

Laurent rolled his eyes in something like exasperation.

“I don’t remember, Damianos.”

As to Damen, his cultural identity was an integral part of who he was, that this was nothing short of incomprehensible. “Did you never ask your parents?”

“There seemed to be other things on my mind before they died. Like learning to walk.”

Oh.

Of course.

Damen could kick himself.

“I apologize. I did not mean to bring up any bad memories.”

Laurent, however, only leaned back.

“Believe me, the loss of my parents is hardly the most crippling trauma I could have endured.”

There was a moment of quiet, in which Damen tried to make sense of the strange mood that seemed to have come over Laurent. But he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

So instead, he broke his rule about not talking about himself too much during a date.

“My parents were both born here. My grandparents were the ones who came all the way from Greece. Both sets of them, actually. My mother’s side is from the Cyclades, and my father’s from Crete.”

Laurent, thankfully, went with the topic change easily, and recommenced his only mildly biting teasing. “Have you ever actually been to Greece then? If you don’t even speak the language.”

“I speak Greek just fine,” said Damen, in Greek. “Your accent, however, is atrocious.”

Laurent scrunched up his brow as if he couldn’t place the word and Damen quite desperately wanted to kiss that soft crease on his forehead.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Laurent inquired with narrowed eyes, switching their conversation back to English.

“You’re wonderful.”

Laurent blinked once, then looked away.

“Our milkshakes,” he said, indicating the two tall glasses the waiter was setting down on their table.

“I’m serious, Laurent,” Damen insisted, not letting himself be distracted, because this mattered. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

“Change the subject, Damianos.”

His voice was low and without any viciousness. It left no room for discussion.

So for now, Damen dropped the subject. Watched plump lips wrap around a straw in almost the same soft shade of pink instead and quickly looked away.

I kissed him. He kissed me. We kissed.

He took a quick gulp of his own milkshake, then. Damen wasn’t one for sugary drinks, but he did like vanilla. And right now, he was parched.

We kissed, and this is moving too fast for him.

Seeing as Laurent seemed disinclined to come up with a topic of conversation on his own, and Damen very seriously needed something else to think about, Damen said the first thing that came to mind.

“I noticed the desk I dropped is the only antique in your apartment. Is there a reason you have it?”

Laurent’s face, previously occupied with trying to hide that he enjoyed the chocolate, shuttered close. It took a long time until he spoke, voice dangerously soft.

“It was my brother’s.”

And there were alarm bells going off that Damen should probably listen to, but like an idiot, and because Laurent had decided to answer his question, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why do you have-…”

“Auguste died as well.”

It was a sentence that barred all further questions on the subject.

“Oh,” said Damen, feeling vaguely faint now.

One corner of Laurent’s mouth quirked upwards just a little bit. The tiniest bit. “You do have a particular talent for unerringly steering the conversation towards the most awkward subjects possible.”

“Please,” said Damen, with no small measure of desperation, “choose your own.”

Laurent casually leaned back against his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. For a moment, he did nothing but regard Damen.

“Tell me about your company,” he said eventually.

Relieved, Damen did.

* * *

Damianos gave him everything. He answered every question Laurent asked, with an easy smile and obvious pleasure both in his work itself and at Laurent’s apparent interest.

And it was interesting.

Despite Laurent’s earlier assumptions, Damianos displayed an astounding amount of intelligence when speaking of the complicated processes he was involved in every day, and a good hand in picking out promising authors. When trying to steer Damen towards revealing something about his investors, he didn’t so much as blink in alarm, but merely insisted on how lucky he’d been on that front.

The only halfway useful thing Laurent got out of him was the confirmation that his brother Kastor was indeed not to be trusted, and that Damen did so implicitly.

“Kastor is less open perhaps than I when it comes to showing affection, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

It must be nice to see the world that way.

“Jokaste kept insisting he was resentful of me, but I imagine she merely couldn’t deal with her attraction for him.”

“You should give her more credit than that.” If Damen was surprised to see Laurent take her side, he did not show it. “I doubt she had to try very hard to get him to sleep with her.”

“Oh, I was angry at him. Especially as neither of them apologized. But it’s in the past.”

From there, Laurent let the conversation drift to favorite novels and dreadful first drafts.

And still, he did not have to fake interest. Not even remotely. Damen was a skilled conversationalist and Laurent found astoundingly natural to indulge in idle small-talk that still felt profound. That felt like getting to know each other as people and potential romantic partners. The milkshake was delicious and Damen was courteous and extremely handsome and Laurent was frustrated, because it was far too easy to let himself fall into the exact kind of false comfort his date was likely hired to invoke.

Damen even had a surprisingly dry sense of humor that Laurent found as pleasing as the way his upper arms looked underneath that dress-shirt.

“Tell me,” said Laurent, mostly to distract his mind from wandering to their strength, “have all the myriad people you’ve brought here for milkshakes been blond?”

Damen laughed.

“I may have a preference, but I don’t discriminate based on looks.” Then, considering it, “Though to be fair, all the people I’ve been serious about have been.”

He said it as easily as anything and Laurent watched his lips wrap around the straw of his vanilla milkshake.

And suddenly, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“You should get back to work,” he said and Damianos, who had clearly been very aware of the passing of time, made a show out of looking at the clock behind the counter.

“Unfortunately, you’re right.”

You’re a bad liar.

Damianos took his hand and pressed a quick and entirely enchanting kiss on Laurent’s knuckles. As if they were in one of the horrible romance novels he apparently edited as a stand-in for a pregnant colleague.

He didn’t even do so suddenly. He gave Laurent plenty of time to both recognize his intention to touch him and opportunity to pull away.

And Laurent couldn’t tell himself he only allowed it to keep Damianos interested.

It was utterly foreign, this simple touch of hand to hand, of lips to hand, but instead of making his skin crawl, it made him tingle.

Damen’s eyes were very dark and very lovely and Laurent thought, I kissed you once and it was enough to think I could allow you to touch all the rest of me.

He felt warmth flood his cheeks and broke the moment to take out a few notes for the milkshake. Damen, he noted, did not insist on paying for him. It might have been easier if he had. If he had forced this money on Laurent. If he made it less easy to ignore where at least some of it came from. But all he did was compliment the waiter on how good it had been.

“I had a very good time,” said Damen while he walked him to the closest bus station. Laurent remained silent, and he didn’t insist on a reply.

He was over half an hour late for work, but he waited right there with Laurent, calmly withstanding the growing awkwardness. Laurent couldn’t summon his earlier playfulness, nor anything more vicious than that. He couldn’t look at Damen, because he might forget what this truly was and kiss the man.

It felt like hours before the bus arrived.

“I hope you’ll allow me to see you again,” Damen said, still a respectful distance away.

And Laurent had to face him now and decide how far he was going to allow this thing to go.

Damen looked beautiful with the sunlight filtering through his hair. Gold was kissing the slope of his nose and the soft swell of one cheekbone. He was smiling and it was doing things to Laurent’s heart. His young and foolish heart.

Laurent laid one hand on Damen’s chest and felt the heartbeat underneath his palm accelerate ever so slightly.

I need more information, he thought, and his fist closed around skin-warmed fabric to pull Damen down. Just far enough for Laurent to follow the path of the sun and press a kiss just underneath that cheekbone.

I have never done this before either.

Laurent hopped on the bus and let the door close behind him.

#lamen #captive prince #phone sex operator au #and they were neighbors

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wanderlustwonderlots · 6 years

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South of France - Day 4

Another day, another trip to a nearby city! This time it was to Narbonne, to see the giant, incomplete cathedral there. My dad said it was big, but oh man, I didn't have a good concept of big until we saw the town. It absolutely dominates the town, towering over it very impressively. It wasn't completed because apparently while planning construction, they didn't take into account the city wall that was soon to be in the way. Rather than knock down the city's defenses, the architects decided to leave the cathedral incomplete forever. It would have been unbelievably big had it been completed. By the time we got to Narbonne access to the inner parts of the cathedral had shut down for lunch (as things do in France...) so we went to find the vegetarian restaurant my dad suggested for lunch. It was a short walk to the restaurant, and what a nice place! It was so exciting to be able to choose between more than two things on the menu. It's much more exciting for me but also harder, having access to almost the whole menu. This restaurant boasted a large menu of galettes, savouty buckwheat crêpe style things fried up with various fillings. They also had a good selection of pizzas, all made to order. My parents both got different galettes and I got a half-pizza with a side salad. The pizza was spinach, pine nut and cashew, potato, sundried tomato, and a vegan soft cheese. Vegan cheese in France?? Who knew! The salad was just as delicious, heaps of greens with grated carrots, lightly pickled slivers of beets, red cabbage, alfalfa sprouts, and more nuts. What a healthy and filling lunch for the day we had ahead of us. I somehow managed to finish it all and still have room for dessert. We shared a selection of three mini desserts and some ice cream - chia pudding with passionfruit and mango, strawberry sorbet with fresh strawberries on top, a tiramisu with lemon and yuzu (a Japanese fruit I believe?), and coffee and caramel vegan ice cream. The caramel ice cream was quite possibly the best ice cream I've had, certainly in a long time. It was so soft and sweet, and I think it might have been a slightly salted caramel. It was the perfect sweet end to a wonderful meal, and a good compliment to the strong espressos we all got. Filled up with good food, we went back to the cathedral to get a ticket to all of the areas within.

First off in the cathedral was up to the top of one of the towers to see the city from more than 40 metres up. It was a lot of stairs, round and round, something my knees don't handle well. I was getting pretty sore and tired of stairs but once we got to the top the view was absolutely worth it. My mom with her fear of heights might not have thought the same thing, but I was having a great time. We could see out to the countryside but we could also see the other parts of the cathedral, even more interesting. The amount of care that was put into each and every part of the architecture amazes me. There were so many cool gargoyles and carvings even this high up, where very few people would see it day to day. I'm glad it was a clear day because we could walk around the perimeter of the tower and see the view from all sides. After taking it all in we had to suffer the many stairs back down, luckily always easier than up.

We continued on up another flight of stairs (they're neverending), this time to an art museum within another part of the cathedral. There were plenty of portraits and religious paintings but I found the mosaics on display on the floors and the intricately painted ceilings to be of more interest. Another section housed a big collection of porcelain dishes, painted in various colour schemes, also cool to see. Some lid handles were in the shapes of fish, or ducks, or vines with fruit. What I wouldn't give for my dish collection to be so beautiful! We continued on to an exhibition on Orientalism - their words, not mine. It was all about the French/European fascination with the "Orient" and all things exotic, focusing on the Middle East. Paintings by European as well as Asian artists were featured, and it was a refreshing exhibit to see after so many European paintings of stale old white men. There were some haunting portraits of "exotic" women, and a few paintings that really caught my eye because of the way they showed the light. Desert light is so different from what I usually see painted by European artists, with much more high contrast and vibrant colours, an evident change in style. One painting showed intricate wall carving/decoration in the background and you could still see the artist's ruled lines and guiding sketches to get the carving perfect with the perspective.

After the art galleries we saw the part of the cathedral that housed archaeological history and more mosaics, something I'm seeing a lot of this trip! There was one setup showing the different kinds of marbles quarried in the area, listing where they were from. I'm certainly familiar with the Caunes-Minervois marble now and was able to pick it out immediately! It was really neat to see the mosaics on display. There were many mosaics that had only been partially discovered and reassembled, with sketches showing what the full piece was thought of to look like, but there were also more whole or nearly-whole ones than I expected. I can't remember where they were excavated, or in what years... I'm bad at remembering these things. They were beautiful though, showing geometric designs or daily life scenes or fruits and birds and other animals. I haven't seen a lot of mosaics before and the ones I have seen weren't this old or big, it was a cool exhibition. Our last stop in the cathedral was a room dedicated to treasures. Silver dishes, gold jewelry, a few items with inlayd gems, massive tapestries in amazing condition, and an illuminated manuscript from the ~1350 (if I remember correctly) also in impeccable condition were a few things that caught my eye.

For the rest of the afternoon we went to a beach on the Mediterranean, in Gruissan. It wasn't a far drive and soon enough we were parking somewhere we weren't entirely sure we were allowed and walking along the shoreline. It wasn't the warmest day, especially when the wind picked up, but I brought a bathing suit on this trip so goddamnit I was going to change into it. When we were walking along the shoreline I still had my shirt and shorts over top, gradually warming up in the sun. By this point in the day it had become a bit cloudier than the morning so I was waiting for full sun before I committed to the bathing suit! It was so nice to walk along the water's edge and have it lapping at my feet, sucking the sand away from beneath my toes, a calm noise punctuated by the occasional gull calling or child yelling excitedly. The water was pretty cold so we certainly weren't going to be swimming today. I feel like as a Canadian accustomed to swimming in cold lakes I should have just jumped in.. I'm a bit of a weeny though so I stuck to walking up to my ankles and wandering through the pools of water a bit higher up from the shore, warmed by the sun. Having walked for a bit, picking up pretty shells on the way of course, I wanted to settle in on the beach and get a bit of sun because apparently I hadn't had enough of that yet this trip... My dad and I sat down to rest while my mom kept walking along the shore. I didn't put on any sunscreen, a risky move for a pale af ginger with no sun tolerance, but somehow I was okay? I was lying in the sun for a bit and suffered no sunburns. I attribute it to the fact that it was fairly late in the day, past 5, and I was moving from my back to my front often enough. It was nice to soak up the sun without feeling gross and sticky from sunscreen, a feeling I despise.

It was getting a bit late and dark threatening clouds had started to form so we called it a day and retrieved our car which had thankfully not been towed. On our way home we only got a few drops of rain, the most we've seen since coming to the south of France! Once home we made dinner (or rather my parents made it while I showered), tagliatelle with a homemade red sauce filled with vegetables we'd gotten from the market. We drank a bottle of red that our hosts had kindly left in the house for us, from a winery not far down the road. It was another tasty home-cooked meal, one I appreciated after many meals out.

#france 2018 #may 24 #france #europe #south of france #travel blog #travel tumblr

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kingmaker-thac0hno · 4 years

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The Kingdom of Thornvale: Stone and Gold

The month of Lamashan, 4711

Near the beginning of Lamashan, the Lords call for the annexation of lands east of Haven, in the foothills of the mountains near the potential quarry site. In addition, they announce the annexation of lands north of Haven, near the gold mine. With a huzzah, the villagers of Haven cheer as surveyors head out to grid and mark the territories for Thornvale.

Early in Lamashan, Evrin heads off towards Restov carrying a number of personal letters from various Haven villagers for delivery. The brisk autumn weather seems to be setting in a little early this year, but for those that enjoy the changing seasons, the journey is a pleasant one.

Arriving in Restov, Evrin is struck by how distinctly different the city is from his last visit. The normally teeming streets are nearly devoid of men of fighting age, and instead are filled with women, children, or the elderly. Arriving at the Aldori Academy, he spends some time reviewing the progress of the young students there. Several show promise, though none have hit puberty yet. A quick meeting with the headmaster grants Evrin access to the small, dusty library to search for manuscripts on siege warfare. After spending hours pouring over novellas and biographies of daring duelists, endless debates on heavy vs light armor preferences and benefits, and detailed discussions on the finer points of sword balance and construction, he is able to find something useful. A single, very old, very delicate scroll case contains some antiquated schematics for the construction of some simple weapons: ballistae, battering rams, siege towers, catapults. The headmaster, seeing the find, permits Evrin to 'borrow' the manuscripts for copying, to be returned at some later date. It is obvious that the old swordsman doesn't much care about the topic.

Stopping by a few favored watering holes to pick up copies of the Quill before ending up at the Marching Mustang, the halfling quickly discovers that nearly all fighting age men ( and far too many boys, according to their mothers) have headed north, where conflict between Rostland and the Surtovan forces has been far more fierce than many foreigners would know. Though most commoners seem to swear outright war is happening, the more astute among them point out a distinct lack of any news from the nobles; you know how them nobles love they proclamations! winks one bartender. Nearly all of them complain about shortages of one thing or another, and how all the good stuff they load up on wagons headed north, including the bulk of the fall harvest. Focused on such things close to home, finding widespread news of the other expeditions is turns up very little.

Stopping in at various magic shoppes, Evrin sees that the commoners aren't lying about shortages. Most shelves lie barren, with the normal selection of healing balms, salves, and curatives entirely missing. Even simple items like bandages look small and utterly overpriced, though the more affluent shops still have some inventory in other alchemical items ( acids and the like). Evrin is able to pick up the scroll case left at one of the shoppes over a year ago, but the wizards' ramblings about the bone of a Naga strike him as confusing and nonsensical.

*** Saryn's presence in Haven continues to enliven and uplift the town. The crowds for his evening performances grow ever larger, and have expanded to include some dancing for those who desire. The elf Lord begins hosting small dinners for various townsfolk, inquiring about their lives and desires. Most of the people tell very similar stories - they want something to call their own: land or a business; they want to be able to raise a family in safety; they want to leave the conflict and strife of their former lives behind. Nearly all of them speak of building their own home, or raising children, and describe a sense of pride and community around what they have helped build here in Haven so far.

A few stand out as different: Cedrin speaks of fulfilling his duties as aide-de-camp, and helping the lords manage their responsibilities to the kingdom. Herr Brasse seems more obsessed with creating the perfect brew than anything else. Ardberg reveals that he, like Arna, desires to see the lost dwarven clan restored. Lady Garess, while passing through Haven for supplies, admits to a feeling of searching for something she can't quite pinpoint. An occassional commoner here or there speaks of a newfound faith in Erastil.

A private visit from Mikmek ( as official envoy of the Chief Sootscale) reveal that the tribe is still very weak and limited in number. Though Kobolds grow quickly, it will still be some time until they can properly defend themselves; The Chief is concerned about open conflicts that could result in the deaths of more Sootscale Kobolds, and would seek to avoid them if at all possible. Those concerns aside, the tribe has been diligently expanding and reinforcing their home in preparation.

Odis of Blackstag arrives by canoe a few days after being summoned. He appears stressed, discussing the responsibility he feels to care for the families of his fallen brothers-in-arms, as now more than ever they look to him to make decisions. He is concerned that the reduced hunting and trapping will diminish the fur trade with Mivon, or that the distant city may make moves to enforce some long-standing bounties on the villagers. He has concerns about the village being mostly women and it's ability to defend itself should the need arise. He's worried about the lights across the lake on Candlemere Island. When asked about direction, he thinks that anything the Lords can do to help Blackstag feel more connected to the kingdom as a whole would be good. He hopes there is something that can be done to help alleviate the feeling of isolation they have in the absence of their menfolk, and the growing sentiment that Blackstag is unimportant.

Corax bluntly states that his main issue right now is a bottleneck around exporting. Haven has been a good customer, and some trade with Varnhold has borne fruit, but by and large they are small potatoes. He could easily produce more timber, but getting it to major cities is a challenge. A complete route to the major cities would benefit all. He inquires (again) as to the existence of other reports of something wandering the forest.

Melianse happily meets Saryn on the banks of her pool, she chats for a bit on small talk. She does know Tiressia, saying she can be a force of nature if riled up, and is glad to hear of the slaying of the scythe tree. She is able to travel to Haven, though it has become a little more crowded (with people) than is her preference. When the topic turns to the woman-creature in the old elven tower, Mel shuts down, saying very little and sinking into her pool as if to hide. Mel quickly relates a story of the woman being the Dancing Lady, a once-lovely fey who roamed the lands in the time before the men came. The Lady had ensnared a male with her sensual dances, and somehow this angered a powerful foe who imprisoned her in the tower for eternity as punishment. Sensing she has perhaps said too much, Mel sinks below the surface and disappears, leaving a trail of bubbles in her wake.

Time with the owlbear and the wyvern goes really well, and the creatures are clearly bonded. You're not sure they are old enough to fully internalize the lessons on food choice, but there are positive signs. The owlbear cub in particular seems to have a growing preference for cooked food. As always, the curiosity of the local populace remains high, leaving many observers for outdoor trainings sessions, but most are too cautious to approach.

*** Arna engages in a long and extended meeting with the People's Council, as Odis makes an impassioned plea for the pier at Blackstag, including some expressions of the preferential treatment of Northern Thornvale and Haveners compared to Southern Thornvale and Blackstag. That night, Arna arranges for a dinner with commoners and announces that Ardbeg has advanced from apprentice to journeyman stonemason after all of their joint efforts on the Armauk memorial. Over ales she also says that she is going to approach the Lords to suggest Ardbeg be made in charge of the eventual quarry site as well.

The next day Arna approaches the Lords with Odis. She recommends Ardbeg for management of the quarry site, and expresses her desire to return with Odis to Blackstag. She feels her skills could be better used in Blackstag and she is also closer to the ruins “Tar Greyforge” she has taken to calling it invoking the dwarven word for ‘stronghold’. Arna plans to return to Haven for council meetings, and emphasizes her desire to explore with the Lords still. She plans to repair the great door at Tar Greyforge and survey and map the area surrounding as well as she intends to winter there. She will also come if summoned by the Lords, and asks permission to inquire of Haveners desiring to join he to Blackstag or even Tar Greyforge.

Heading to Blackstag with Odis, Arna sets about seeking for some potential apprentices and workers. Unfortunately, pickings are slim, with many of the menfolk either too old or too young, and so many of the womenfolk busy with daily activities of hunting, cooking, and fishing. Worse yet, Arna overhears a quiet discussion among some of the hunter-women regarding areas of the Narlmarches to avoid, due to the growing presence of a heavy, acrid fog permeating the wood. ***

Karis spends many mornings working with his wyvern hatchling, developing a growing trust between them. The creature seems to have overcome some of its initial hesitancy from earlier, and now an attachment seems to be deepening with the Eldarin.

Approaching Tesh'lahi and Lady Garess, Karis opens discussions to offer them positions within his operations. Lady Garess politely refuses, though you sense a touch of noble superiority and perhaps a disdain for that line of work in the tone of her voice. She states that she has dedicated herself to traveling the roads of Thornvale, bringing Desna's aid and blessings to those who journey upon it, and wishes not to leave the country. Tesh'lahi, however, appears flattered, then excited at the opportunity, and accepts immediately. Calistria would favor this, don't you think? she asks.

Travelling to Blackstag, Karis spends time watching and evaluating the villagers there. Most of the women seem very attached to community, and there is a growing effort among them to build back what they have lost with the death of their menfolk. However, one orphan child, a young lad of 8 or so, seems particularly adept at evading detection, sneaking food, dodging chores, and the like.

Returning to Haven, Karis passes by Candlemere island, perhaps a little closer than usual. Nearing the shore, he once again sees faint lights flickering up near the rise and the tower ruins, and decides perhaps discretion is the better part of valor for now.

*** Stonewalker spends bits of his time walking about town, offering to lend a hand fixing and repairing broken things. The commoners seems somewhat surprised, but accept the help nonetheless. In addition, the gnome creates numerous fliers advertising his search for apprentices, posting them everywhere about town and asking guards, traders, and innkeepers alike to distribute them. Some folk, particularly the guards, seem annoyed by the order to hand out fliers, but obey the newly appointed Lord nonetheless. The fliers however, have their intended effect, and the gnome is soon overwhelmed by mothers bringing their children to be chosen as apprentice. A flood of younglings parades through Stonewalkers residence, and it quickly becomes apparent that none of these have any particular aptitude for much in the form of knowledge or wisdom.

With a slight delay due to the flood of would-be child apprentices, Stonewalker convenes his first meeting of Thefina, Ardbeg, Quill, and Odis. The meeting is a cacophony of ideas and items Haven needs. Ardberg argues strongly for a proper quarry, stone defenses around the town, and the need for horses to transport such large amounts of stone. This leads to a discussion of the town not having a stable, nor a reliable source for trained, domesticated horses. Quill, for his part, is willing to shoe the supposed herd of horses, but comments that he needs to import iron and steel from Restov at the moment - a difficult task as shortages of such materials have recently left him working with scraps. In fact, he would need a proper forge to even begin to do that amount of work - something the town does not yet have. Furthermore, Quill laments the poor quality of the militia's weaponry and armor, and thinks something should be done about that as well, but not after a proper barracks has been established, and maybe even an armory and training grounds. He muses that perhaps the old Stag Lord's fort may be repurposed for this. Thefina points out that Haven has a solid supply of wood from the Corax timber site, but no school for its youth, no library for learning, no facility to craft ships for the lake ( and no skilled people to do it!). Odis sighs, and falls into a mini-speech that appears to have been repeated many times - how Blackstag both feels disconnected and IS disconnected from the rest of the Kingdom, how it could benefit from the development of piers or docks to take advantage of opportunities on the lake, how he fears for it's defenses, slumping trade. He ends with a sarcastic chuckle - and how could I forget a drunk giant?

Though his conversations with various Havenites throughout the month, Stonewalker documents important locations around the region as told by the people living in town. This, in addition to the extensive work done to survey the region as well as annex portions of it into Thornvale proper, helps establish a comprehensive map of the area, though there is remarkably little interest among the commonfolk in the so-called Cartographic Society.

Near the end of the month, Stonewalker ventures out on a quick tour of the region, he stops by Madame Beldame's hut to drop off some small foodstuffs, joins Saryn for a quick visit to Melianse's grove, and stops over in Tiressia's grove to trade friendly greetings. Then, he heads up to the gold mine to speak with master Malum about his gold mine. The young fellow scowls at the return of the gnome, but is not surprised to hear of the claiming of the surrounding region into Thornvale. Malum states that he will pay his fair share of his taxes in exchange for being left alone to run his business.

The end of the month brings the successful return of the two annexing parties, replete with detailed maps of their respective areas.

Turn 15; Neth, 4711 AR

Petitions:

Arna and Odis petition the Lords to begin the construction of piers in Blackstag.

Oleg and Grutzner petition the lords to allow Thornvale to once again celebrate the Night of the Seven Veils on the 23rd of Neth.

A sealed envelope bearing the markings of Lord Megar Varn of Varnhold arrives, seeikng to discuss matters of extreme importance. The Lord Varn requests a meeting of Lords at the border pass as soon as possible, and cautions against the possibility of spies in Haven.

Edicts:

You may issue two (2) edicts for the month of Neth

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zanytimetravelenthusiast-blog · 4 years

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