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huramuna · 4 months

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downpour - oneshot.

modern aegon ii targaryen x nanny reader minors dni, you will be smited.

this is for @targaryen-dynasty sleepover challenge 🤭 i got the babysitter au + the prompt 'why so shy?' i had so much fun with this, modern aegon is a menace and also a sopping wet cat.

word count: 4.5k

content: smutty smut smut (specifics under cut), aegon being a little shit (we love it), saltburn spoilers (lol), allusions to drug / alcohol abuse and rehabilitation, mullet aegon, jaehaera and jaehaerys are hel's kids but they have an unnamed / unrelated father, gratuitous use of song lyrics, probably a touch of power imbalance because of her job

murder on the dance floor - sophie ellis-bexter

warnings: oral (m receiving), face slapping w/ cock, degradation, dirty talk (this man never shuts up), face fucking / deepthroat, cum on face

“Jaehaerys! Jaehaera! Please don’t run in the house with muddy boots!” you called fervently, trying to collapse the umbrella with one hand, two teddy bears slung in the other.

“We won’t!” they both called in unison, followed by the unmistakable sound of muddy galoshes squeaking over the marble floor. You suppressed the urge to groan as you entered the exquisite home through the french doors that led to the backyard.

“Boots off, little ones!” you called again, kicking off your own shoes in a haste to catch the gremlins before they tracked grime all over madam Alicent’s home. You had been working at the Targaryen estate for the better part of a year as a live-in nanny for Lady Alicent’s two grandchildren– twins, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. It was a wonderful job for the most part, as the twins were a delight and you had grown to have a strong friendship with their mother, Helaena. She was a bit dreamy-eyed and wistful, but was a wonderful mother nonetheless, even if she did have her melancholic days.

The estate was huge and ancient, passed down from generations through Helaena’s father’s side, which was apparently a near royal bloodline from days long foregone. Viserys Targaryen, the father in question, was hardly ever home. He managed the family business (whatever it may be, you didn’t find it in you to ask– all you knew is that they were dirty rich) with his other daughter, Rhaenyra, from his first marriage. He had four children with Alicent, Helaena being the only one of the brood to still live at home.

You’d met two of the others as well; Aemond, a lawyer in the family business who was, in short, all business and no play. He never regarded you, really, besides a quick glance or stiff nod. He had, however, slipped you a eight-thousand dollar bonus at Christmas time with a simple card that read;

Thank you for taking care of the twins and my sister. And keeping my mother sane.

- A.T

The other sibling, Daeron, was the youngest of the bunch, visited usually during holidays, as he constantly was studying abroad. ‘Sowing his wild oats��, as Helaena had put it. He was cordial to you and very much had a boyish charm, and Helaena loved to joke that he had a crush on you. When he had come home for New Year’s, he brought you a souvenir from Iceland, an authentic lopapeysa sweater, made from wool and sewn with a beautiful geometric design.

“Awh, Daeron wants you to stay warm, lovey,” Helaena teased.

“I-It’s just– her hands are always so cold, a-and the wool is supposed to help keep warm! The inner layer is insulating.” Daeron had stammered, the tips of his ears growing red.

“Uncle Daeron has a brush!” Jaehaera squeaked, her words whistling through her tooth gap, she’d lost her first baby tooth just the week before.

“A crush, he’s got a crush!” Jaehaerys corrected softly.

Alicent thought the whole thing very amusing.

That left one child you hadn’t met. You didn’t know much about him aside from small bits of conversation you’d picked up on between the rest of the family. Aegon. The eldest of all of them, and apparently the troublemaker of the bunch. You knew what he looked like from the portraits– blonde hair like the rest but with severely more bags under his eyes. Upon entering the home, one would see the chronological order of family portraits.

It starts with Viserys, Alicent, and baby Aegon; the latter of whom is happy and chubby and bubbly.

Then, it moves to the three of them, plus baby Helaena, with her wide blue-eyed stare at the camera. Aegon is still happy.

The next one adds the addition of baby Aemond– there is a glint of sentience in Aegon’s eyes, but he hasn’t experienced the crushing blows of reality yet.

You weren’t exactly sure, but as he got older, he became more morose– more bags, less light in his eyes. Then came the ear piercings, the tattoos, the head shaving, the bloodshot in the whites of his eyes. The portraits ended with this past year’s Christmas photo. Aegon was noticeably missing from it. You’d heard during one of Alicent’s phone conversations with her father that Aegon was in rehabilitation for a myriad of issues, and looking at his photos, you could only guess which one was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

A particularly harsh clap of thunder broke you from your thoughts, coming back to yourself. You scooped up Jaehaera before she stepped on the carpet with the muddy shoes. “C’mon, let's get cleaned up for lunch, yeah? What do we want for lunch today, lovies?”

“Grilled cheese n’ tomato soup.”

“No! I want mac n’ cheese.”

The squabbling ensued, the twins arguing back and forth for a few moments before you butt in. “Alright, how about– whoever gets the floor the cleanest and puts their galoshes by the washroom the fastest gets to pick?”

The twins squealed in delight as they absconded from your sight, effectively going to do your bidding for you. You would, however, just end up making both meals anyway. As you moved to the kitchen, the sound of the doorbell rang. You bustled to the door, not sure who to expect– there weren’t many roving visitors in and out of the estate unless Alicent was explicitly expecting company– which you had triple checked the calendar when you woke up that morning.

You opened the door, expecting to see a debutante or someone of Alicent’s social circle– ‘twas not the case. You recognized him immediately, seeing his mother’s face in his own. Aegon. He was muddy, dirt flecks splashed on his face as he stood under the stoop trying to get away from the pouring rain. His face was a bit healthier than you’d seen it, the dark circles were still there, but not as prominent. It was like a gloomy day, rather than a full blown storm under his eyes. He had the wisps of a beard starting on his jawline, and his hair was cut into a makeshift mullet, longer in the back.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, hands in his pockets.

“Erm– the… the nanny. For the children.” you stammered, his tone catching you off guard. You glanced behind him, seeing a beat up dirt bike caked in mud– that was probably how he got here.

“A nanny? You’re a bit young for that, yeah? My nanny’s were all wrinkly old prunes.”

“Oh– uhm, come in, Mr. Targaryen.”

He perked a brow at the name, but didn’t say anything. He beat the bottom of his boots on the doormat, which didn’t accomplish much. He immediately began to track mud on the floor. “Mum home? Hel?”

“Lady Alicent is… upstairs,” you offered, following behind him at a quick pace. “Helaena is taking a nap– the storm–”

“Yeah, I know ‘bout Hel’s issues with storms. Don’t need to tell me twice. So, you got a name, or are you just the nanny?”

You gave him your name as you glanced at the clock– it was almost time for the children’s lunch and you hadn’t even put it on the stove yet!

“Got any food around here? Fuckin’ famished.” he added then as he nosed around the kitchen, hands still in his pockets.

“I’m just about to make lunch for the twins– uhm, I can make you something too if you’d like.” you walked past him, quickly putting some pots on the stove and starting the gas. You and the twins were on a strict schedule, and if they didn’t get their lunch on time, they would turn into hellions.

“Sure. Whatever the kids are having. I’m not picky.” Aegon waved his hand behind his head as he disappeared from the kitchen and clomped up the stairs, likely to speak with his mother. You fretted for Alicent’s mental state once that was done, and you felt even guiltier for not giving her a heads up.

As the tomato soup heated on the stove and the water began to boil for the macaroni, you unlocked your phone– you were curious about Aegon and why he’d come back, exactly. Well, of course, besides the fact that he lived here (or did, at some point) he was still supposed to be in rehab for another three months. You went to instagram, rolling your eyes as you saw that his profile was on ‘suggested for you to follow!’

You clicked to his most recent photo, the first that he’d posted in over a year.

“Jesus christ,” you muttered under your breath as you put down your phone on the counter to stir the soup.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Aegon teased behind you. When the fuck had he gotten there? “Soup n’ mac and cheese?”

“Tomato soup and grilled cheese for Jaehaera, mac and cheese for Jaehaerys.” you responded plainly, trying not to notice that he was practically breathing down your neck. You glanced over as he leaned on the counter, where you had left your phone. Unlocked. Like an idiot. On his instagram page.

“Curious about me, are you? I’m surprised you haven’t heard enough about me from my mum.”

“I don’t like to pry into Lady Alicent’s affairs–”

“I wouldn’t consider myself an affair, more like a one time fling, eh?” Aegon snorted, grabbing your phone. It took every fiber of your being to not break all sense of decorum you held to snatch it back from him. “You’re not following me– let’s change that,” he mused, beginning to scroll through your page now. “Lots of pictures of the kids here– ooh, a trip to the seaside. There’s no pictures of you on here, eh? Only of… my family n’ other stupid shit, like the ocean.”

“I’m a live-in nanny, sir,” you grit out, stirring the soup with more force than necessary. You consider yourself a patient person, and have become accustomed to how people in the Targaryen’s circle made their jabs. High society and filthy rich people had their own language of insults– ones that you wouldn’t realize they were insulting you until much, much later. It was like a game with a slow burning poison. But Aegon, apparently, was different. There was nothing meticulous about his jabs, no filter, no slow burning poison. It was all punch and sting, like a bite from a rabid dog rather than a viper. “I usually attend family trips.”

“Live-in, huh?” he drawled, his arm leaning over the counter in such a laissez-faire manner that you could feel yourself scowling. “Don’t get much action then, I take it? Let’s see if there’s any nudie judies on here, then…”

“N-no!” you broke then, all sense of manners flying out of your body as you struggled to take back your phone.

“Why so shy? Got something on here you don’t want me to see?” he staved you off, a hand planted firmly on your shoulder as he scrolled through your photos, making all sorts of gaudy faces. You didn’t really have anything overtly scandalous, maybe a few lingerie shots for an old boyfriend.

“Aegon, leave her alone. Give her back her phone.” Alicent’s voice cut through the room like a knife, stunning both of you.

He sheepishly gave you back your phone as she crooked a finger to her son, ushering him to a room on the farther side of the house.

As you fed the twins their lunch, you overheard some yelling, arguing and heated voices. You only saw Aegon later when going to your room to get ready for bed. His eyes were teary and red.

—

The next few weeks went by with some normalcy— everything was as usual, except it was like you had a third child to care for; Aegon. Except this child didn’t listen at all and had terrible habits. He was constantly flirting with you, but also would weave in jabs at the same time— you couldn’t quite tell if he even liked you or not. Not that it mattered, anyway.

You were sneaking in your own lunch one afternoon, eating scraps from the twin’s lunch while they napped— basically just the crust you cut off of the grilled cheese and the small bit of soup left in the pot.

“You eat like a mouse.” Aegon said, always managing to be there to annoy you.

“Too much food makes me tired— I won’t be able to keep up with them if I’m sluggish.”

“Could always drink a red bull or a monster, instead.” he offered, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it in the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t do that inside. It’s bad for the children’s lungs. Lady Alicent says—,”

“Well, it’s my fuckin’ house too, innit? I can smoke in here if I well and bloody like,” he growled, exhaling a puff of smoke into your face. “My mum must be paying you extra to be my nanny too, then? The way you’re up my ass all the time.” he flicked ash in your direction.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. He was goading you, baiting you into a reaction. He was being insufferable on purpose. You could tell by his pearly white smile he currently had plastered to his face, like a smug little—

“Never had a nanny so pretty, though,” he continued. “If I asked real nice, would you feed me soup? Dress me up? Give me a bath if I’m real dirty?” he got closer and you could smell him— the smell of marlboro reds and cheap aftershave that had become synonymous with Aegon blew out your senses until it was all consuming.

Your mouth parted as you tried to think of some witty response, some barb, some jab— but nothing came out. You just huffed and turned away from him in an attempt to hide your red cheeks. Why were you blushing?

You could practically hear the cockiness ooze from him, his mouth perked into a cheeky smile as he stole one of the crusts. He knew he’d gotten to you.

—

It’d now been over a month since Aegon moved back home and the building tension between you two hadn’t let up a bit— you constantly felt trapped and elated all at once. When you saw him, your chest fluttered slightly in anxiety and anticipation. What was wrong with you?

It was a dark, gloomy day. The seasonal storms were in full swing, pelting the estate in rain and hail. Alicent, Helaena, and the twins were out on an escapade to Alicent’s father’s house— you guessed Aegon hadn’t gone. But, it was a huge house, so surely you could enjoy some of your time off without seeing him?

A rumble of thunder shook the house, rattling its constitution— and then the lights flickered. Flickered… flickered… then… out. It was dark, then, even with your window shades open. You turned on your phone flashlight and tiptoed out of your room, going to see if perhaps you could smack the backup generator into working.

You hadn’t expected to work today, nor see anyone, as Alicent had given you the day off. So, you were subsequently dressed in your pajamas— a hilariously oversized Bass Pro Shop shirt (a gift from your dad in America) and cat-patterned sleeping shorts. Your toes cracked and creeped on the floorboards with each movement, and to your chagrin, as you passed Aegon’s door, it opened. He was wearing a shirt that said “MILF: Man I love Fishing”, with just his boxer briefs on, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Oh. You’re still here.”

“Yes?”

“Sorry, thought you were gone with the rest. Sad, I can’t do the Saltburn thing now.”

“The… what?”

“The Saltburn thing? Dance around the empty mansion to myself with my cock out.”

“What.” you responded with the most deadpan tone.

“Dance… with my cock out?” he repeated.

“No– I know what you said– but why?”

“Why not?”

You rolled your eyes, shifting the conversation. “So, the power is out– uhm, do you know where the backup generator is?”

“In the wine cellar. Nifty, huh?”

“... the… wine cellar. I can’t say I’ve been down there yet.”

“I know it like the back of my hand, c’mon then. I’m sure I can kick the old gen in the nads and get it to work.” Aegon said with surprising confidence, turning on his phone’s flashlight and half blinding you.

You followed behind him, to which he hummed ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ while doing a half-assed dance, apparently from some movie that was definitely something you hadn’t watched– you don’t remember the last time you watched a movie that wasn’t geared towards the twins.

“So basically… he had the whole mansion to himself, and then he dances through it with his cock out, hanging massive brain, y’know? It's murder on the dance floor, you better not kill the groove,” he imitates the dance, sprawling his arms out in the doorway to the wine cellar and shaking his bottom a bit, which was, admittedly, nicely fit in his snug boxer briefs. You felt a strange heat flush to your cheeks.

“And this… is a… what? Comedy?”

“Well, categorically no– I’m not a film aficionado. I guess it could be considered a psychological thriller, but I thought it was pretty funny,” he stopped before continuing into the cellar. “It gets pretty hairy in here, so stick close, okay? Ever seen The Conjuring?”

“... yes, actually. Horror movies are kind of my favorite.”

“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” he mused. “Well, think of the basement in that movie, but instead of a bunch of old useless shit, it’s a bunch of old wine.”

“And… instead of ghosts?”

“Oh, there’s definitely ghosts.”

“... what.”

“Yeah, estate is haunted. You haven’t noticed?”

“Shut up.” you murmured. You were a huge fan of horror movies while simultaneously being a huge chicken shit when it came to scary things– you were prone to hiding your face before the big jumpscare or running up the stairs from the kitchen when it was dark, just in case something was chasing you– and your feet had to be covered by the blanket at all times when sleeping.

“Aww, you scared?” Aegon teased, turning to you.

“I mean– ghosts are scary. Of course!” you offered sheepishly, pulling up the collar of your oversized shirt to cover your nose and mouth in an almost hiding manner– a nervous habit of yours.

“I’ll keep you safe, love, no worries about that.”

“... that’s what they always say, right? Then they totally leave behind their girlfriends to get stabbed by the killer or… eaten by the monster.”

“You my girlfriend now?” he asked, that stupidly annoying and somehow charming smug energy exuding off of him in waves.

“Shut up.” you grumbled as you both approached the generator. It was covered in dust and hadn’t been touched or tended to in a long time, it looked like. “Do… you know what you’re doing?” you asked Aegon tentatively, watching as he inspected it.

“Me? Oh, fuck no. I never know what I’m doing, honestly,” he shrugged, giving the metal box a kick and haphazardly pressing some buttons. “No dice, sweetheart. ‘Spose you’ll have to dance in the dark with me for a bit longer, huh? But, if there's a ghost, you'll be... ghost food, or whatever.”

You pinched your brow in annoyance. “I don’t understand you.”

“What’s there to understand? I’m a pretty open book, you know.”

“No– you aren’t. You flirt with me but also… insult me? I don’t get it.”

“It’s called teasing– picking? Picking on? Getting the goat?”

“What? So, like a little boy pulling a girl’s pigtails on the playground because he likes her? That makes absolutely no sense, Aegon.”

“If you spend your time trying to find a reason for it, you’ll go insane. Why not just enjoy the point of it? I like you.” he breathed, suddenly very close to you. He set his phone aside on top of the generator, flashlight up. It illuminated the walls of wine and cast shadows of cobwebs and dust all around the both of you.

“What?”

“Are you deaf– I. Like. You.” he repeated, his knees bumping yours as you were practically glued together, your back now against the ancient stone wall.

Your lips parted as you inhaled a breath– okay, you weren’t exactly expecting him to say that, or even like you at all– you figured the flirting was all hot air, a defense mechanism, something for fun, not… real. Your heart was pounding in your chest and you became all too aware of the fact that you hadn’t been touched since you got this job, maybe even before that– and your previous boyfriends never made you feel… flustered like this. You couldn’t form words as he, uncharacteristically cautiously, put his hand on your cheek. He was so close, so close– his body heat mingled with your inherent coldness and warmed you instantly. You weren’t sure what came over you, but you leaned forward, slotting your lips against his. What the actual fuck were you doing– you were kissing your boss’ son, her notoriously bad mannered, foul mouthed, sloven slob of a son, and you liked it. Your hand instantly went to the back of his head, fingers grazing through his choppy curls– even giving them an experimental tug, which he seemed to enjoy, by the indication of something poking you in your thigh.

His lips moved against yours like a dance, and you couldn’t get the fucking song he was singing earlier out of your head– It’s murder on the dancefloor– you grasped at his hip, it was fleshy and pleasant, the tips of your finger slipping under the elastic of his briefs– But you better not kill the groove– his hands were exploring, too, under your stupid Bass Pro shop shirt, groping at your breasts with reckless abandon – If you think you're getting away, I will prove you wrong – the heat rose in your body until you couldn’t take it any longer, the two of you were practically eating each other alive in this dank, dusty cellar and it was undoubtedly the hottest experience of your life – I'll take you all the way, boy, just come along – your lips parted for a moment, still connected by a string of saliva, bridging the gap between the two of you – Hear me when I say, hey –

“On your knees for me, love?” he asked, his voice suddenly so deep and husky, his thumb skimming over your collarbone.

You fell to your knees for him so quickly– how pathetic. He wriggled down his briefs, already leaking at the fat tip of his cock. He wasn’t overly long, but he was girthy, like a beer can. Your eyes widened, which he must’ve noticed, as his face was plastered with a shit-eating grin. Your mind immediately went to an image of a so-called ‘American delicacy’ (your father’s words, not yours) called Beer can chicken, in which a can of beer is shoved in the ass end of a chicken and grilled. It is apparently as delicious as it is horrifying. Your throat bobbed as you surveyed it, a tentative hand around the base. He shook his head, prying your hand from him.

“Nope, mouth only. Open up, be a good girl.” Aegon muttered, looking down at you, the light of his phone flashlight illuminating him from below– he looked like a God. Or maybe a devil.

Your mouth parted as his hand guided you forward. You wholly expected him to nestle in your mouth, but he surprised you with a slap to your face with his cock. It didn’t hurt, just caused you to yelp in surprise. He smeared some of the pre-come across your cheek, then slapped the head of his length on your waiting tongue. It was somewhat degrading, what he was doing– but it lit a goddamn fire under your ass, the neurons of depravity in your body, wherever they may lie, were alight with each nasty little gesture Aegon gave you, before he finally slid home. It stretched out your mouth, prodding at the back of your throat.

“What would everyone else think, hm? If they knew you were such a fuckin’ slut.” he growled, gathering your hair in his fist like it owed him money, beginning to fuck himself into your mouth, careful to pay attention to your body language to make sure he wasn’t working you over too much. He made sure to be extra careful with his toys, rather than break them.

Tears welled, spilling down your face as you let him use you, degrade you– and yet, he also praised you.

“–such a good girl for me–”

“–you can take a little more, there you go–”

“–prettiest throat I’ve ever fucked–”

You felt like you were on fire, set ablaze by arousal you’d never experienced before– was this what they sang songs about? Dirty, borderline pornographic songs but the point still stood.

You had to chalk it up to the barometric pressure of the storm, right? Aegon wasn’t your type— your type was… well-adjusted, non-addicts, non-bad boy, non-troublemakers. Aegon was the antithesis of what you were into.

And yet— you were into him. You were into him in a pathetic, pitiful way. It made you cringe to think about but you couldn’t resist his puppy dog eyes, nor could you forget the way he was whimpering— fucking whimpering! You squeezed your thighs together slightly at the sound of it, at the blurry-eyed, teary sight of him looking down at you on your knees, eyes half lidded.

He pulled out with a particularly throaty grunt, painting your face in his unnaturally warm seed, somehow careful enough not to get it in your eyes– small mercies. Your lungs inflated with oxygen once more as you caught your breath, trying to gather yourself. You felt the swathe of cloth over your face as Aegon cleaned you up with his ‘MILF: Man I Love Fishing’ shirt, which he had apparently taken off.

“You good?”

You nodded slowly as he helped you to your feet, brushing off your knees with the clean part of his shirt.

“Um– so,” he still held onto you, as if he was afraid you’d run away. “Do you want to watch a movie with me later, when the power is back on? Like, actually watch it– I won’t fuck your face, I promise.”

“... are you asking me on a date?”

“Umm… yeah. I think.”

“Maybe we could watch Saltburn?” you offered with a shrug.

–

“Your mum texted me,” you whispered. “The bridge is temporarily washed out from the storm, they won’t be back ‘til tomorrow.”

“Do you know what that means?” Aegon said, suddenly giddy. You both had just finished watching Saltburn, and you finally understood what the ‘Saltburn thing’ was.

“You know your mum has like ten security cameras set up around the house, right?”

“Okay… and?”

“I’m not dancing naked in the hallway, Aegon.”

“How about just in my room? Please?”

You gave a sigh, beginning to take your clothes off.

“Siri, play ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ by Sophie Ellis-Bextor.”

‘Okay. Now playing ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ by Sophie Ellis-Bextor, as featured in Saltburn.’

It's murder on the dancefloor!

But you better not kill the groove, hey-hey, hey-hey!

It's murder on the dancefloor.

But you better not steal the moves.

DJ, gonna burn this goddamn house right down.

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 10 months

Text

↮ for the sake of having you near [two]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Christ, woman.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

More silence.

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

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

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

“I—okay. Okay, Prem. It’s.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

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

“…I love you, too.”

+++

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

#john price #captain price #captain john price #captain price x reader #price x reader #john price x reader #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #mw2 #my work #work has now been extended to three parts despite my hardest efforts lmao #hope your enjoy!

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stellarcoachman · 7 months

Text

Novembmas Day 5: Stars / Outdoors

Another similar one to yesterday's. I promise the next one is a bit happier.

Emmet didn’t want to do this. He argued that he would rather spend the time catching up on work. Or sleeping. But Elesa insisted that he come with them. ‘For his health.’

So he’s sitting on a grassy hill outside Mistralton, sandwiched between Skyla and Burgh and looking at the stars. He has to admit, it’s a good night for it. The moon is full and bright and the weather is still reasonably warm.

Skyla keeps pointing out constellations, and although he doesn’t always see exactly what she’s talking about, her explanations of how they’ve been used for navigation for centuries are verrry interesting. To his surprise, Burgh also knows a lot about them, although his interest lies in a much different direction. As it turns out, there have been a lot of different artistic interpretations of the constellations over the years.

He learns the names of a lot of them and the stories behind them, which he finds interesting. Many are named after famous people and Pokemon from myth, some of which Emmet has heard of and some of which he hasn’t. The story of Scorpius, the Venipede partner of one of the twin heroes, is famous in Unova. Less familiar are the stories about Capricornus, the Gogoat, or even Pisces, the matched pair of Basculin. Skyla points out the constellations called Ursa Minor and Ursa Major, which apparently depict a Teddiursa and an Ursaring, the same Pokemon before and after evolution. The story of Vulpecula is much more vague, many of the details lost to time. All that’s really known is that the Pokemon in question was a Zoroark, and that the story, oddly, originates from Sinnoh.

All told, he can begrudgingly admit that he has fun. When they finally part ways, much later than he would like to have stayed up typically, he makes sure to thank Elesa for making him come along.

Ingo shivers as he sits in the snow with Warden Calaba and Warden Gaeric. He appreciates them taking the time to teach him the survival skills he’s so badly lacking, but he feels he could do without the freezing temperatures of the Icelands at night. He doesn’t voice this, not wanting to be rude when they’re trying to help him.

Instead, he tries to ignore the cold and focus on the lesson. They’re teaching him about the constellations and how to use them to orient himself should he get lost in the Icelands. Again. It’s an important skill, for obvious reasons, and he really is trying, but he has a hard time seeing the shapes they’re pointing out to him. This is partially because the stars simply look like, well, stars and not various Pokemon, but also because he can’t quite shake the feeling that the stars look just a bit wrong. It’s very distracting.

When he asks, they tell him the stories behind some of the constellations. They tell him about Pisces, the pair of Basculegion, one of which is supposedly the original Noble Basculegion, and Rangifer, the Noble Wyrdeer. Warden Calaba points out Ursa Minor and Ursa Major, which she says depict a Teddiursa and an Ursaluna respectively. The Ursaluna is apparently chasing after Draco, the great Gyarados which twists around the other side of Ursa Minor. Warden Gaeric points out Vulpecula, and tells the story of a Zorua pup, which uses its illusions to trick a Staraptor into becoming its meal.

The story is transparently a warning about how dangerous the Pokemon can be, since even such a young one can take down a Pokemon much larger and stronger through nothing but trickery. Ingo knows that the Zorua and Zoroark are dangerous, he’s experienced this first hand, but even so, the story feels a little unfair to them. They’re only acting in their nature. He doesn’t voice this, knowing that it would only draw attention to his own strangeness and quite possibly earn him another lecture about being cautious of wild Pokemon.

When the lesson finally ends, Ingo is very glad to be able to return to the warmth of his tent, but he does make sure to stop and thank the two Wardens for going out of their way to help him. He really does appreciate the effort, even if he’s not sure he would actually be able to navigate by the stars.

#novembmas #submas #my writing

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 2 months

Text

Love Me Bitterly [Chapter Five] Labyrinth [Adam]

Warning(s): Foreshadowing, OC, short chapter, Adam being Adam, mixed emotions, religious themes.

Tag list: @lala-1516

Previous Chapter

No Minors Allowed!!

“I'm so jealous,” Rilea whined. She fell back in her seat and despite Marcella's plea to be quiet, she continued to wiggle restlessly until the blonde turned to her and raised a curious brow.

“And why might that be?” She asked. She was not curious, but she knew Rilea would not be quiet until she asked.

Rilea got up and moved to sit beside her near the viewing portal. Her green eyes stared at the glistening cosmos in front of her before she turned to Marcella.

“Because Adam is so into you and he's hot.”

He's OK, in Marcella's opinion. His personality is terrible, but he can be nice if he feels motivated.

“I honestly think he's into me just because he's bored.”

Rilea frowned. “Did he say that? Assumptions and truth are frequent bedfellows.”

Marcella snorted.

“So is love and desire.”

The redhead turned up her eyes. She understood the point Marcella was trying to make, but honestly, she didn't think her assumption of Adam was the case. Yes, he was a jerk, but based on what Nera told her, he talked frequently about the Commander's daughter. Her recent performance in Seraphim Square really struck a chord with him.

Even so, it was not her business to push them together. If Marcella gave him an option, something to think about, then it was between them. She and Nera were already giving Adam information; he was just too ignorant when it came to relationships to know what to do with it.

Rilea took an uneasy breath.

“What do you want out of this?”

Marcella hummed. She reached forward and touched the portal, watching as it switched to Earth, a peaceful meadow somewhere in Iceland.

“I'm not sure and for some reason, I'm fine with that.”

On one hand, a relationship with Adam seemed impossible. He was too loud; too full of himself. A one-night stand, on the other, meant that there were no strings attached. Adam did have sex appeal; his mouth made it hard to like him, however.

“It's up to Adam at this point.”

Rilea said nothing more about it. She sat in silence with Marcella until the door opened and Leena sauntered in. She was an anthropomorphic lioness with a brunette mane styled in dreads and dark fur. Sometimes she swapped duties with Rilea but today she was meant to be in the field.

“Is watch over today, sister?”

Leena turned up her slitted brown eyes.

“No. I left Earth early. The observee is grating my nerves.”

Marcella knew the feeling. She gave the lioness a sympathetic look.

“I'm sorry, sister. Perhaps it will get better.”

Leena hummed.

“Perhaps. But I doubt it. I reported him to the Commander once already for misuse of his authority, but she insisted that I ignore it. You would understand, Marcella, he was yours before your demotion.”

That creep. Marcella tightened her jaw and turned to the portal, switching it to a view of the man. He was Caucasian with salt and pepper hair, a charming manipulator, in her opinion. At the moment, he was writing in a ledger of some kind, listing names and ages.

“That is…ominous,” Rilea stated.

No kidding. What was he doing?

“Self-proclaimed Saint Hunter,” Leena mentioned with a frown. “He is currently amassing followers who share his views.”

“And Imelda is ignoring this?” Rilea asked in disbelief.

Leena nodded. She had no idea why and based on the look Marcella was giving him, neither did she.

“The best we can do is keep an eye on him.”

If things continued to escalate then Marcella would have no choice but to take the matter to a Seraphim. Wickedness no matter how small had a connection to the Root of All Evil, and it was the “Powers” job to find and eliminate it.

This was not good.

–

‘Saint’ Hunter stayed on Marcella's mind long after she left headquarters. He put her on edge and the more she tried to ignore him, thinking that things would fix themselves, the more worried she got. She was starting to question whether the Seraphim would intervene or not.

Her mind was a labyrinth. Marcella did not even hear her name being called until whoever had addressed her chased her down, nearly frightening her when they leaped in front of her.

“Sorry, mate. Yor an easy one to spook,” Willow stated with a laugh. She was the lead singer of Frisson, a songbird with white plumage and ombre feathers that faded to mint green.

Marcella sighed in relief.

“I'm sorry. I was distracted. How are you?”

Willow snorted.

“Good ‘nough. Yor gonna freak when I tell ya this, but we got a gig.”

A gig. Marcella widened her eyes.

“Where? When?”

She honestly needed a distraction to clear her head, at least for a brief moment.

“At Seraphim Square in two days,” Willow chirped. “The Celebration of Lights festival, ya know. The band ‘as to keep it cleaner than usual, but that's no problem.”

“That's amazing,” Marcella stated.

She was excited, but her mind was so exhausted, a notion that reflected on her face.

“Yor up for this, right mate?” Willow asked, raising a worried brow. “I ‘eard the “Arches” might show. Ya know what that means.”

Azrael. The blonde felt her face heat up. Was he really going to be there? She had never performed in front of the “Archangels” or the “Seraphim” before. All this was so exciting.

“You don't have to worry about me. I'll have my head in the game by then.”

“Rock on,” Willow retorted, bouncing on her feet. “I'll see ya at Lita's house tomorrow for rehearsal.”

Marcella agreed with a nod, then saw her off as she flew away. She felt a bit better, but work still put a damper on her mood. Opting to turn in early, after a long shower, she hurried home unaware of the attention that she had drawn.

–

Two months and fourteen days was what stood between the Exorcists and Extermination Day. Two months and fourteen days, Lute reminded herself, and Adam was not feeling it.

The stoic woman watched him shove a donut into his mouth from across the table, having been dragged to some café on the square with him. At first, he was attentive, then like the flip of a coin, his attention went elsewhere. It was not unusual for Adam to lose interest in what she had to say, but when his attention diverted to a certain blonde-haired Heaven-born, she grew curious.

“She must live around here,” Lute stated.

It was just a test, but Adam fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Does she?”

“I'd imagine, sir. The “Powers” set up their headquarters near here.”

Adam tossed her a glare.

“No shit. Like I hadn't fucking noticed.”

She knew he had. Adam went there to talk to their Commander. Her point was that it made sense for Marcella to live nearby. He could be dense.

“That bird is a bandmate of hers,” Lute pointed out.

Adam didn't seem to care. He puffed his cheeks and blew bubbles in his cup via the straw. Lute turned up her eyes.

“They might play at the festival. You can see her there.”

Adam groaned. His mask flashed to show a look of annoyance.

“If you don't want me to get to know you as a person, then we need to draw a line here and now.”

What did he want?

“She wants to get to know me,” he blurted out.

“And?” Lute asked.

Adam shot her a glare. What the hell did she mean?

“And what?”

“It's not my place to tell you what to do, sir, but if you want her to get to know you better you might want to put aside your insecurities,” Lute stated. She tapped her face to emphasize her point.

Insecurities. What a joke.

I'm Adam. The first-fucking-man. I don't have–

His mask glitched, interrupting him. Adam frowned. His mask. He hid his face for a reason. Hesitantly his hand went to his stomach, feeling the pudginess beneath his fingers. So what; he wasn't muscular, but he also wasn't overweight. It had been so long since he let a woman get to know him.

What would Marcella even think?

Insecurities. Yeah, he had a few, he reckoned. But he understood what Lute meant. For once he understood.

Frowning, he took a drink from his soda.

“Who the fuck asked you?”

His lieutenant grinned.

“No one, sir.”

#hazbin hotel fanfiction #adam x oc #hazbin hotel fandom #adam hazbin hotel #oc

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aotopmha · 1 year

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I'm finally catching up with the manga for Vinland Saga because the season 2 material overall is just ridiculously solid, but I'm also always sad when a great story defaults to old, uninteresting tropes that I think could fairly easily be avoided.

After episode 18 of season 2 I decided to finally pick up the manga to see what happens next (so spoilers here) – and, yes, as is easy to assume, Arnheid dies.

It "makes sense" that she dies in context, but so few stories seem able to avoid this trope of killing the cool female character to make you sad and the more it is done, the older it gets to me.

And the biggest issue to me here is that I feel like you absolutely could've made the same narrative point without killing her.

As far as I know Ketil and his farm, Einar, Arnheid or almost anyone else in this arc aren't even historical. Thorfinn, Leif and Canute are the only characters to currently have the most historical backing.

Vinland Saga is a hyper-dramatised narrative combining history and the fantastical Icelandic sagas and it usually does a good job balancing the historical and fictional aspects of the setting, but the discussion of "realism" within these types of stories is always interesting to have.

Thorkell can throw Thorfinn against trees and long distances in the air, breaking countless bones and he survives and is fine through so much hurt, yet the story can't bring itself to have Ketil hit Arnheid a few times less or just a little less hard or even have Snake interrupt a few moments earlier, so she could at least recover.

I only made it to her death scene right now and it almost even made me tear up. (I think I probably will cry when it happens in the anime.)

It's a well-written scene in isolation, but there is also an element of strange thematic disconnect to have the characters directly tell you the very solid reasons she could have been kept alive on the narrative level.

She could've found new hope and a new life travelling with Thorfinn and Einar and be one of the women joining them on the ship to their journey to Vinland.

The whole arc was about Thorfinn finding/rediscovering (new) meaning to live, so why couldn't have Arnheid?

It's the first time I've taken issue with the actual writing of the story, which is fairly impressive (took almost 2 whole seasons) – any issues I had prior to this were fairly minor (pacing with Canute's arc, for example), but this really bothered me because the narrative literally kept none of the reasons to write Arnheid out, either.

Her previous husband (and child) already died. Leif gave money for her and aside from that, Ketil seems to be heading to be captured, dead himself or simply surrender to the king and stay where he is.

(We'll see where that goes.)

Einar, Thorfinn and Leif are now free men and have no beef with Canute and even if they were to run into issues with him, Arnheid would have little to do with it.

And even if they all survive and at one point give chase, I think Ketil, Thorgil or Snake could be taken on by Thorfinn and Einar.

My point is, it feels like killing Arnheid was writing a sad scene for the sake of writing a sad scene.

I think tragedy works when it has backing. And I think this has some character backing (her rejoining her husband, additional motivation for Thorfinn and Einar), but I think at this point not much thematic backing or even plot backing.

People often say characters deserve better simply because they like them, but I think Arnheid absolutely not just deserved better because she was a cool character, but because she deserved better writing backing her character.

It's so strangely jarring to me because I think the story has been so good otherwise.

I know at least one other important female character should show up to be a mainstay if the story keeps to history and that character should be there to stay up to the end, but it's also a bummer that the first female character in the story with any depth got such a jarring ending.

I'll hear the story out (I'm currently at chapter 93) because this is still right after Arnheid died, but I really doubt there could be any reason the story could give me that'll make her death feel less like shock value.

#Vinland Saga #Arnheid

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usafphantom2 · 6 months

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F-35A fighter loses side panel while flying over Okinawa in Japan

The absence of this part could potentially compromise the aircraft's stealth capabilities.

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 12/20/2023 - 20:26in Incidents, Military

An F-35A Lightning II poachback returned to Kadena Air Base, Okinawa, on December 18, 2023, without a panel of the aircraft body. (Photo: Satoru Kuba)

An F-35A Lightning II jet fighter from the 18ª USAF Fighter Wing of the Air Base in Okinawa, Japan, suffered an incident during a routine training flight when a right panel loosened during the flight on December 18.

Upon realizing the problem, the pilot started a landing and, during the subsequent ground checks, it was found that the hexagonal side panel on the right side of the fighter was missing, weighing approximately 2 kilos. The panel that crashed is crucial because it covers external connection points for electronic devices. The absence of this part could potentially compromise the aircraft's stealth capabilities, specifically its low radar cross-section.

In response to the incident, a spokesman for the Okinawa Defense Office, which represents Japan's Ministry of Defense on the island, issued a statement on Tuesday night. The spokesman urged the U.S. military to take preventive measures to avoid similar accidents in the future, emphasizing the importance of ensuring the safety of U.S. military aircraft operations.

The F-35 involved in the incident is part of a rotating deployment from Eielson Air Base, Alaska, to Okinawa. The F-35A, which lost the right panel, serves as one of the aircraft that temporarily replaces the 48 old F-15C/D fighters that were previously stationed at Kadena Air Base until a permanent solution is determined.

Okinawan residents have been particularly sensitive to incidents involving air accidents and falling wreckage due to past occurrences. Notable incidents include an accident of the CH-53D Sea Stallion of the U.S. Marine Corps on the Ginowan campus of the International University of Okinawa in 2004, as well as an incident in December 2017, where a window fell from a CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter of the Marine Corps near a school athletics field, causing minor injuries to a child.

This recent incident with the F-35A underscores the constant concerns and requires enhanced safety measures to mitigate the potential risks associated with military aircraft operations in the region. Authorities on both sides are likely to conduct investigations to determine the cause of the detachment from the panel and prevent future occurrences.

Tags: Military AviationF-35 Lightning IIIncidentsJapanUSAF - United States Air Force / U.S. Air Force

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Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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myrddin-wylt · 1 year

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I love writing messy relationships. not necessarily volatile ones, but definitely ones where there is still high conflict because no one involved can communicate or really understands how to do this whole relationship thing in a healthy way. writing that kind of unintentionally mean, inexperienced love for certain ships can be so [chef’s kiss]

anyway early medieval DenEng is such a complete disaster. Mathias is so full of love he’s about to burst and Arthur will spook if you so much as look at him and neither of them are sure how they should be handling this so they handle it in the worst ways possible. at some point one of them is going to get overwhelmed by something incredibly minor and just burst into tears or explode as the other is frozen in the headlights like ????????????????

meanwhile, Signy/Nyo Norway comes back from Iceland with a new baby, sees these two idiots in their self-destructing trainwreck of a relationship, and immediately goes back to Iceland.

#deneng #north sea lovers #jk Signy walks in with a baby and Arthur is instantly enamored #can't believe the first recipient of Arthur's baby fever was Iceland lol #who still needs a name but I'm not sure what his usual fandom name is

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jargonautical · 16 days

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Somewhere To Be / A chapter at a time

The Smith

IT’S STANDING ROOM only at today’s guest lecture, hinting at either a popular topic or compulsory attendance. Possibly both. The Archchancellor himself is at the lectern, and beside him is a blonde giant of a man Mainder hasn’t seen in a very long time. According to the schedule this is one Dr Tor Sónnarson, expert in prehistoric metalworking and jewellery making techniques, flown down from Reykjavik after the discovery of the second brooch. Sónnarson isn’t the name Mainder knows him by, but this isn’t the time - nor the venue, and most definitely not the company - to remind him of that.

He quickly spots Mainder taking up a relaxed slouch against the wall at the back, nursing a cup of scalding hotel coffee, and a grin lights up his face. Fortunately this coincides perfectly with the tail end of the Archchancellor’s introduction.

“… and I’m delighted to introduce our guest Doctor Sónnarson. I’m sure you’ll all join me in giving him a warm welcome.”

So saying he pointedly raises his hands and leads the applause while Sónnarson lumbers to his feet.

“That is indeed a warm welcome.” His English is impeccable, precise if faintly accented. “I am not a man given to long speeches, so I will simply say that I am very excited to join you all on this project, and I look forward to talking to you all individually in due course.”

He beams at the room in general and takes the lectern to more applause, possibly for the sentiment of his speech but equally likely for its commendable brevity.

“I understand you have been wondering why you are finding so many of this style of brooch. If we include the splendid specimen from the Vernon collection which is claimed to be the brooch of the famous ‘moon princess’ of local folklore, that would make three. A treasure trove!”

There’s a ripple of uncertain laughter; after all, you’re not supposed to laugh at the speaker unless you can be absolutely certain they’re intentionally cracking a joke. Maybe he only meant to be enthusiastic?

“Ah, you are allowed to laugh.” he advises with a knowing nod. “I mean to be sarcastic, and now I will tell you why.”

Relieved smiles at this - damn him, for all his diffidence the smith always did know how to have the punters eating out of his hand. It doesn’t hurt that he’s put together like the gods saved all the best bits for last, tall and broad-shouldered with pale blond hair sweeping back off his forehead like some Icelandic hero from the sagas. Girls used to practically fall at his feet.

Maybe they still do, a horrible thought in the present context. Evie is down there at the end of the second row, leaning like him against the wall and turned back to scan the crowd. Looking for someone? Himself, possibly - a brief warming of her expression lets him know she sees him, but then she’s all solemn attention as the lecture begins in earnest.

The first slide is a simple drawing, a diagram really, of a typical fibula-style brooch. “Of course this style is very common,” he’s saying, “very common for the period - think of it as being the equivalent of coat buttons for our era. This is how we hold our clothes together, nothing more, and if one day archaeologists dig up Saville Row I am sure they will be very excited by the ritual significance of the tailor’s shop and the many buttons sacrificed there to the minor deities of Finance!”

He twinkles with delight at his foolish joke, twinkles directly at Evie as it happens, and expands his chest pridefully when she grins back. Mainder will have to give him a warning. She’s off limits, he’ll have to tell him, because …

Because why? She doesn’t belong to him. She’s an adult, by mudside standards anyway. She can do as she pleases. He’ll warn him off anyway. If it would be inappropriate for Mainder to pursue her, the same goes for him. There are rules, aren’t there, about relationships in the workplace? That ought to cover it.

“You are very lucky indeed to have discovered so many such beautiful examples.”

His slides advance to show the two recent finds. The contrast between the magnificent red, amber and gold piece against the mud-coloured and pitted bronze is shocking now they’re side by side. Garnets versus pebbles, silver flames versus empty channels.

“I hope to examine them more closely later, but from what I see here I can tell you that you are looking at, how should I put it, a Versace next to a Walmart.”

Blank looks greet him.

“You do not have Versace here?”

“We don’t have Walmart. Primark, maybe?” Evie volunteers, and he bows slightly in gratitude for the clarification.

“I see. What you would have then, is your cheapest clothing store of reasonable quality. Where you may buy something that is similar to whatever Versace was showing on the catwalk five years ago, but of course in much cheaper materials and a much poorer fit.”

Confused faces clear, smiles of understanding dawn, and he smiles happily at Evie again.

“There, we have an analogy - thank you, miss. This is the same thing. A fine lord may command a beautiful bespoke piece in the colours of his choosing, using the most expensive materials he can afford. He wears it, the lower levels of the feudal nobility observe, and a fashion is born. They ask their craftsmen to make them something similar.”

The slide advances again, showing just the bronze and agate version now.

“And so this is the next step. Lords and ladies bring the fashion home and any skilled metalworker may observe the design, how cleverly it fits its purpose - for holding the cloak together, you see? Perfectly designed.”

To make his point he advances to the next slide where a sallow young man stares awkwardly just off-camera as if trying not to laugh. He’s wearing a swathe of bright red fabric over his T-shirt and jeans, with a replica of a simple one-piece brooch in thick bronze wire gathering the material at one shoulder and holding it in place. Behind him the outlines of ugly concrete buildings and a patch of tragically uncared-for lawn suggest the photo was captured in haste at Sónnarson’s home institution, with an unlucky student co-opted as the model. His next words confirm it.

“My thanks to my lovely assistant Klaus for modelling for this picture.” Sónnarson intones with another twinkle. “And also my apologies to him for having him wear red, which is most definitely not his colour.”

This raises a roar of laughter at poor Klaus’s expense, but presumably it’s okay since he’s not here to endure it. Sónnarson flicks back to the previous slide.

“And so these clever metalworkers make many more now in the most basic materials. For bronze, there will be scraps remaining from making larger pieces - weapons, torcs, drinking vessels. Agate and quartz may easily be found in the riverbed if you are prepared to sift the gravel for them. What we would call, an easy profit.”

He beams at his clever analogy, regarding his audience’s obvious approval with pride.

“I will be happy to say more about the specific techniques after I have seen them more closely, perhaps a little talk at the end of the week?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE HOTEL’S RESTAURANT is a safely anonymous venue, with the busy clatter of cutlery against plates and other diners’ conversations to mask what these two have to say to each other. In any case who would question the two experts, the local historian and the distinguished specialist, sitting down over lunch to compare theories?

Mainder isn’t astonished to see the smith occupying this new role. His wily friend has apparently been hiding in plain sight for the last few decades, literally writing the book on early Romano-British metalworking techniques. Which makes perfect sense once you know that he personally invented most of them.

“So you haven’t seen the brooches in person yet? I was pretty sure the jewelled one is one of yours.”

“It may be.” Smidur rumbles. “I think it was a young miskin with a commission for his master. Such a long time ago! If this is the same then I recall he said, ‘as fine as you please, and you may be sure he will pay well if he’s satisfied’. So I did, and so he did, and I heard no more.”

The waitress bustles up at that moment to deliver the list of today’s specials followed by the other, slightly longer, list of things they’ve run out of. Smidur listens attentively, leaning forward and giving her a look of deep approval until she starts to blush and fidget, before solemnly announcing that he believes he’ll try the salmon. Mainder settles for the same and she disappears off to the kitchen to place their order.

“And when were you going to tell me you’d come into town?”

“Right after this, I promise you.” Smidur barks a laugh, throwing his head back and making nearby patrons turn to stare briefly. “I knew you would not be far away. This is still your place, yes?”

Mainder meets the jibe with a gleam of challenge in his eye. “Yes. This is still my place.”

He endured some teasing from them all back in the day for being here so often, for taking an interest in the folk that lived here, but he never regretted the time spent. It needed done, he would argue. If you break a system (and that’s what destroying the Vernons effectively was, bringing all their feudal plans, however benign, to dust) then you have to be ready to make good any damage down the line. The Queen would have her way, but she wouldn’t see innocent folk suffer either - and as long as she approved, he was in the clear. He could never seem to make them appreciate that crucial point. Or perhaps they did, and they simply didn’t place the same weight on it that he did.

Anyway Smidur has already shifted to his next thought.

“The girl at the side, the clever one, what are your thoughts? I think I saw her looking for you in the lecture.”

Trust him to notice.

“That depends on what you mean by ‘thoughts’.” Mainder deflects.

“Perhaps I should say, intentions. Is she yours?”

“Not exactly.”

Mainder isn’t ready to be having this conversation, not until he’s resolved the same question in his own mind. But that cautious non-answer isn’t what Smidur is digging for, and they both know it.

“‘Not exactly’, what is that? It is a yes-or-no question, my friend. Do you lay claim?”

The formal language, the old language, gives Mainder pause. Technically he could, since he saw her first; and if he did then Smidur would have to back off gracefully and without question.

It’s not that simple though. Living among the people here for so long has changed him, changed how he sees them. They’re not animals to be branded. Anyway even if he laid claim with all formality, would it make a difference to her? What if his handsome friend suits her taste better?

He can’t explain, and chooses to ignore, the twist in his gut at that idea.

“She’s just a child. Between you and me I’m not sure she even likes me.”

Smidur leans back and ostentatiously makes a show of looking right and left at the people around them.

“My friend, from where we stand they are all children. It seems to me that you have been here too long.”

Mainder shifts uncomfortably under the truth of that statement. Both of those statements.

“If you say so.” he responds at last. “Take my advice and watch your step around her.”

And I’ll be watching your step for you, just in case, he mentally adds.

#fantasy #fiction #somewhere to be #books #booklr #reading #faerie #storygraph #goodreads #a chapter at a time

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hassiegfrieddoneanythingwrong · 8 months

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Sure. I was more angry that the writers are conflict-avoidant when it comes to Kriemhild and passed over not one, but two large, potential character arcs that Siegfried could play a minor part in rather than the only, major part. Only one I easily understood because Byrnhildr is from Sigurd's legend, so she's not the Queen of Iceland and it would be silly to linger on Kriemhild's conflict with her.

Mind you, I'd still like to see an interlude on it, much as I'd like to go over Gudrun and Sigurd, but let's not kid ourselves here. The FGO writers nowadays don't seem like they ever want to bring it up given Sigurd's line on it.

Remember when I said I wanted a Enkidu-like interlude for Kriemhild? In that interlude, Enkidu spared nothing for Ishtar and went straight into catty dialogue with her. There was no delicately dancing around their hostile relationship nor any retcons regarding what was already said before in FGO regarding Ishtar and Enkidu.

Kriemhild, on the other hand, gets two lame excuses that cut off parts of the Nibelungelied she could possibly grow from: Brynhild's conflict with her and the long time she spent with Attila and the Huns.

I wasn't talking about the event entirely as it was a breath of fresh air from the last two events where she spent time with Siegfried. That's expected. No. I was talking about the small part between her and Altera where she said that she couldn't remember her time with Altera and the Huns - which contradicts Byrnhildr saying she smells Siegfried's scent on Altera. Which hints at Altera having spent time with Kriemhild. That little aside soured the rest of the event as it not only confirmed the writers don't want to dedicate time to fleshing out Kriemhild beyond her Fate-only conflict with Siegfried (thanks Higa), but that they're content in using any out to avoid going over Altera's time as Etzel/Attila. Want to know what I wanted when saving a pity for Kriemhild? Character expansions for both Siegfried and Altera on top of Kriemhild herself. Guess I wished on a monkey's paw. I'm now sure her kids with Altera are also retconned out of existence. Not too sure about Gunther II, though.

Oh yeah, want to know the best part? In the same cop-out dialogue, the writer of this event said there's another version of Kriemhild that remembers her time with Altera instead of casting away the memories as not important (even though Kriemhild's tactics in Traum say otherwise). I remember another servant version promised by the writers that never came out: rider Caesar. Yeah, it's been years and he still hasn't shown up. Sorry Cleo. Odds are, that version of Kriemhild won't show up either. And it's been nearly a year since the last batch of interludes too.

So yeah, that's what I meant about her being Siegfried's shipping attachment. It seems the writers only want to focus on their romance part of the Nibelungelied and not go over Kriemhild's personal development as a character herself. One issue I do have when it comes to couples in this game, regardless of who's being shipped.

But I suppose this comes with the territory of loving the character from the source material first before getting their Fate version. You start getting disappointed when the writing doesn't meet what you expect.

Anyways, I hope this explains it. And thanks for not immediately assuming I hate Kriemhild herself just because I have issues with how she's written.

OOOOOOOOOOHHHH, yeah that makes more sense now. As much as I would also love to see more focus on both Kriemhild and Siegfried (especially on the former), as well as possibly for Altera, the sad fact is that it will possibly never happen.

Kriemhild forgetting why she politically married Altera is like as if Artoria forgot why she abandoned her humanity to be a good king, or Gilgamesh seeking out the herb of immortality, or why Yu Mei-ren/Akuta Hinako initially wanting to summon her beloved Xiang Yu. It makes no sense on any level for her to forget it. Perhaps this'll be ignored and actual focus on them if Kriemhild gets an interlude, but I sadly don't have high hopes (or even a medium level of hope).

And for Altera, none of the writers seem to be interested in fleshing her out in FGO. All of them seem content enough that everything interesting about her is just locked behind another game. Like, her second interlude is the only one that's actually about anything while her first and third interludes are more vague memories before and after she became the leader of the Huns. There's a small (and I mean small) possibility that there probably could be an Extella collab at some point in the future, with a guest writer who is really damn passionate about the character(s) similar to what happened with Samurai Remnant, but again I wouldn't hope for it.

TLDR the only way to deal with the giant, tangled, unfocused mess that is the situation between Siegfried, Kriemhild, Altera and potentially anyone else is to Cope™️.

Or write fix-it fics, either way.

#ask #it was a mistake for hoping for her to appear in FGO instead of a new entry 💀#stupid monkey's paw...#the amount of times any of the children between the couple Servants could possibly be counted #on either one or two hands #like there's Caesarion - Aslaug - Mordred (don't know if they/he counts in the grand scheme of things)#+ the Orkney sibs - I think Medea's sons with Jason were alluded to at some point (don't count me on this) -#Cú's son with Aife - Herc's kids with his first wife I think were mentioned or alluded to back in Stay Night - Kiichi Hogen's daughter #Galahad - Solomon - Tomoe's son with Yoshinaka - Kijyo Koyo's son is also mentioned/alluded to in the Requiem event #as well as Marie's son who actually kinda showed up in Requiem - Chacha's/Yodo-dono's son Tsurumatsu appears in a future GudaGuda event #... okay it's more than two hands I believe so. maybe a decent for Gunther Jr. to appear or at least be acknowledged?#as I keep on saying don't put any hopes on this potentially happening 💀#also no prob anon! I would like to think that I can tell the difference when someone says ''I don't like/hate this chara''#and ''I like this chara but Whelmed™️ about their writing''#and again I do get it bc I also like her but rather ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ at like half of her writing in FGO

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jalshristovski · 1 year

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List of Hetalia ships I cannot fucking stand and why, in no particular order ✨

UsUk: I don’t even think I need to explain this one but I will. They call each other brothers, England raised him, they call each other brothers, ENGLAND RAISED HIM, THEY ARE BROTHERS, ENGLAND RAISED HIM, THEY A-

DenNor: This one I don’t see as problematic, more just my personal views. I see the Germanic Nordics as brothers. All 4 of them. And to add onto that, they have referred to each other as brothers, and I just think it makes more sense for them to be brothers, and not lovers. So this includes DenNor, SuDen, SuNor, and ESPECIALLY ships with Iceland. He is too young. He is a child. Anyway

PruAus: They’re… canonically… cousins… no… just no… they don’t even get along…

TurkGre: No. Absolutely the fuck not. 1. Turkey killed Ancient Greece, aka Greece’s mother, would you date your mother’s murderer? I thought the fuck not. 2. Greece is SO much younger than Turkey is. 3. I am Turkish and we and Greeks do not get along in the fucking slightest so even if the first two weren’t relevant, we literally just don’t like each other

RusPol: If you ship this I will actually avoid you like the plague. Russia has done so much bullshit to us, so the toxicity level in this ship is unreal. It’s toxic AND abusive. Historical context makes this a HUGE no no.

Spamano: No. No. No. NO. Romano was a CHILD. Spain made a child do hOUSEWORK. He was a CHILD. A TODDLER. A TEENY GUY. HE WAS LIVING WITH SPAIN WHEN HE WAS STILL WETTING THE BED. WHY. WHY.

TurkIce: I don’t think this one needs much explaining but here we go: Iceland is a child. He is a minor. His country may be old but he is physically 17. Which means developmentally he is 17. He has the mind of a 17 year old. He is 17. He is 17. He is 17. Turkey is OLD. EW. WHAT IS WRONG WITH Y’ALL???

RusLiet: Have y’all ever read about what Russia has done to Lithuania??? This is abusive as fuck. Period.

RusAme: I just can’t see it. On a world stage, America and Russia are enemies, and have been enemies for a long time. I cannot see an “enemies to lovers” type deal either. I just can’t

LietBel: This one I used to not hate until I figured out what kinda relationship Lithuania and Belarus actually have. I’ve yet to see one Lithuanian person who doesn’t claim Belarus rightfully belongs to Lithuania. Not only that but most of them refuse to call it “Belarus” and will usually call it “Belarussia”, or even more often, “White Russia”. This would be abusive, not from Belarus to Lithuania, but from Lithuania to Belarus.

PruLiet/PrusPol/PrusPoLiet: The only reason I categorise these as one is because I usually see them all lumped together anyway. But anyway, abusive. Abusive. Abusive. Abusive. Prussia had a TERRIBLE history with both Poland and Lithuania, especially when they were one country. The commonwealth and the Teutonic Order were constantly fighting each other, not to mention when you read up on how the Knights would talk about Lithuanians especially, it would be highly abusive. Read any part of the Livonian Rhymed Chronicle. The Teutonic Knights were literally read pro-Teutonic, anti-Lithuanian propaganda poetry to increase morale.

Germano: This is just eh to me. Could not care less. These two haven’t had near enough screen time (both in the show and manga) for this connection, and when they have communicated it wasn’t super pleasant. I wouldn’t call this ship abusive or toxic, not that far, I just don’t believe they’re close enough for this relationship.

BelaLiech: I am BAFFLED at how popular this ship is. Definitely not as popular as UsUk for example, but still concerningly popular. Belarus is 19 in canon, and Liechtenstein doesn’t have a canon age, but the fandom site says 12. I’ve seen people say 15, so she’s 12-15 years old. Aka: A MINOR. A CHILD. A C H I L D. NO.

EstLiet: Not much of the fandom knows this I think just because of his appearance and his mannerisms, but Estonia is 17. His physical age is 17. He is the same age as Iceland. While Lithuania’s canon age is 19, he is still an adult. Estonia I don’t think should be shipped with anyone older than 17, or younger than 16. My personal opinion.

Here are the ones from Balkantalia, aka not canon (mostly) but still relevant enough to include here

BulMace: This shit makes my blood fucking boil. It makes me want to commit a crime (for legal reasons that is an exaggeration). Bulgarians are so fucking terrible to us. Not even as a joke, Bulgarians hate us. They want to claim our country, they want to eliminate Macedonians as an ethnicity and a culture, they recognise Macedonian as a dialect of Bulgarian (we don’t even use the same letters???), and there is laws that prohibit us from identifying as Macedonian.

GreMace: I don’t know if that’s the correct ship name but regardless, this one is CONSIDERABLY worse. I haven’t seen it too much, but the fact I’ve seen it at all disgusts me. Did y’all ever hear about the Macedonian genocide? Did you know Greek neo-Nazis just tried to march in Lerin (the city my Macedonian family is from) to protest our existence? Did you know Macedonians are regularly attacked for being Macedonian on our own ancestral land? That we are not legally recognised as people in Greece? That Macedonians face police brutality in Greece? They want us fucking dead. My family did not flee genocide in Macedonia for you to make cute art of them kissing. Fuck you. Personally, and with full disrespect.

SerbCro: I am appalled at the amount of Serbs and Croats who actually ship this. Serbian and Croatian history is FULL of violence and bad blood, and the things they’ve done to each other historically is disgusting. Not only with the Ustaša and Yugoslav massacres. Not only do I HC the Serbo-Croats as brothers, but brothers who cannot go 5 seconds without fighting. Why? Because that’s how they are in real life. They cannot get along. If I had a dollar for every time I saw a Serb and Croat not fighting, I’d maybe have 50¢.

SerbMonte: No. No ❤️. Absolutely not. At least from the POV of one of my Montenegrin friends who used to live in Belgrade, Serbs do not like Montenegrins. They get bullied, harassed, and they’re considered to be second class Serbs. So no. Absolutely not.

I’m here to remind you guys this isn’t a show like most others, where the characters are fully made up and have no actual context. Hetalia, while a comedy show, is still based on history and culture of actually countries personified to be people. You cannot erase historical, cultural, or social context.

When I see my countries being shipped with their aggressors, or being shipped with people they aggressed, it doesn’t make me feel good. I don’t just “Ope well they’re characters oh well” those are representations meant to show you a little bit of the history.

They’re not always accurate, because one man from Japan who writes manga about countries he isn’t from will not always be right, but these are still representations.

Historical context in Hetalia is crucial. ESPECIALLY when it comes to shipping.

#Hetalia #Ships #Hetalia Ships #Ships I literally cannot stand #Most of these if you ship please stay at least 50m away from me

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