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aenaxes · 3 years

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chasing fountains

[fives x afab!reader] it's so easy to forget that the man you love is war incarnate. and maybe that's exactly why he can't be yours.

warnings: nsfw, angst, breakup sex, cunnilingus, unprotected vaginal sex

w/c: 2.6k

a/n: wrote this while listening to the reverb edit of good days by sza and definitely didn't cry idk what you're talking about

"Are we gonna be adults about this, or are you gonna give me the silent treatment until I guess what I did wrong?"

Fives's tone is no longer a novel sound in the dark walls of your apartment, a jagged sneer sawing through the silence as he sets his helmet down hard on the countertop. It's the kind of sound that doesn't cut deep but cuts wide, leaving a broad swath of gnarled scar tissue that will never heal quite right. (The worst kind.)

The holodrama in front of you drones mindlessly over the midnight channel.

You tell yourself that you've grown used to it, the cold and bitter thing that found home between you after the rosy light he flooded into the room faded away leave after leave, tour after tour. It helps you cope. But your body remembers what your mind tries to forget—memories of first leaves in months and boyish glee as Fives swept you into his arms and kissed you breathless in the narrow berth of your kitchen—and you flinch anyways.

"Isn't it obvious?" you sigh. It's a labored thing that crowds the bottom of your lungs up to your collarbones and chokes your throat with what's left of your straining heart.

You don't think it's anger.

It's something muted, something like the ache of a rusted plasma turbine sputtering out what last dregs of fuel it has left, numb and rote but the only thing it's ever known before it careens off the side of a landing bay and into dark waters. It happens, disrepair, discord. But the fact that it happens somehow makes you feel even worse, makes it feel like it was bound to happen.

"No, cyare, it's really not," Fives frowns.

You can hear the scowl in his voice.

"You forgot to call," you mumble, shifting your arms tighter over your chest, and you aren't sure whether the pressure in your chest is anger or the desperate claws of sorrow trying to remind you that you used to care. That he used to care.

"Cyare, I'm sorry I forgot to call, but I was in an active warzone. I can't just call you whenever to tell you goodnight because I'm usually writing condolences to the training squads of the men I bury."

You can hear the anger tearing at the fine threads of his restraint, his voice rising and rising until it's another sound away from a full-bodied yell. Before now, that sort of volume, that sort of presence, had been exclusive to late-night speeder bike joyrides and chasing fountains of youth over sandy dunes—the types of adrenaline rushes that felt good. You wonder if it's now become resentment or regret or a combination of both.

"You forgot to call for our anniversary," you say at last. Maker, you can't believe how pathetic you sound.

"I'm sorry, but I almost lost my entire squadron out there. I have to prioritize... differently, on the field," Fives says after a moment's pause (so he really did forget), his voice soft again but no less cold, no less tired of raising hellfire and being greeted with an impassive glaze over your eyes.

Silence settles through the room again, thick enough that the holodrama playing before you is reduced to a low buzz, and you tell yourself that your fingers feel numb because you always let the air conditioning run colder when Fives was on tour.

"Look, I'll try to make it up to you next time, cyar'ika," Fives murmurs, picking across the threshold and dropping down onto the couch beside you.

You aren't sure if there ever will be a next time when Fives only exists because of this endless war that cracks open the earth and swallows battalions whole. But when you drop your head onto his shoulder; when he tugs you close and cradles your head with a rough, warm palm; when you both pause and breathe the same breath together, you can pretend for just a moment that things are good again.

"'m tired," you mumble.

"What can I do?" It's the most earnest his voice has been all night, seeking gaps in the armor, places where he can reach in past the stony impasse and to that pearlescent light you've long since hidden from him. It's the closest to an apology you'll get.

"Take me to bed," you say.

Fives gently untangles you from around him, clicking off the holo before he secures his arms beneath you and carefully lifts you into his arms. Bittersweet memory, fragrant and dusted from months of disuse, floods your tongue as you loop your arms around Fives's neck and feel him press a kiss to your temple.

It's muscle memory, really. Nothing more. But it completes the little show of normalcy. It shifts you away from the hazy fugue of the present and back into better days when touch carried with it tender intent, more than ritual motion.

Fives presses a second kiss to your neck when you reach the bedroom door, mouthing his dry lips softly over your pulse. You cling to him and sigh. A third on your jaw, the next on your cheek, and another, another, another over your lips as he shifts you upright and lets you wrap your legs around his waist so you can tilt your head and push your tongue into his mouth.

It's muscle memory when, after he's thrown his armour off into the darkness of your room, you shift your hips down against his, gasping softly over his tongue as you catch the bulge in his blacks and heat floods your core. He groans into your mouth, fisting one hand in your hair and kissing you so hard it's almost crushing. It's muscle memory.

"Fives," you breathe, and it's becoming harder to tell performance from truth as something else hums in your chest.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "I'm right here, cyare. I'm always gonna be here." And the way he says it almost makes it believable.

You kiss him before he can say anything else, your teeth clacking against his as you swallow his words with a low moan, too afraid that if he says any more, you might actually convince yourself that this is more than an elaborately rewound memory.

Fives is no fool.

He knows, too, laying you carefully on the bed where he would usually toss you onto the mattress with a gleeful laugh and tumble in after you. In the darkness, you catch him hastily twisting out of his top, the low light catching over rippling muscle and warm skin before he rushes between your thighs and drops to his knees. He kisses the soft inner skin of your thighs like he always does, but this time, he does not linger instead kissing you for the sake of motion than playful desire.

This is choreography.

But performance as it might be, you do not need to pretend your pleasure when his heady exhale over your clit serves as a brief warning before Fives licks a broad, wet stripe over your cunt.

In the early days, you had been eager to chalk it up to the end of the gilded shimmer of the honeymoon phase, an entry into a stabler shared life that would be just as sweet. You're not certain what you've become, he and you, but it isn't that.

Whatever you are now, it has no concern in this moment because Fives still knows how to coax pleasure from your deepest parts, finding your softest, most vulnerable places and calling you to something better than a frigid spat to welcome him home.

You clap your hand over your mouth as Fives wraps his lips around your clit, pulling a raw euphoria from your heaving lungs that has you moaning louder than you have in too long. He groans your name into your own skin, gasps, and delves deep again.

"Fives, Fives," you plead, reaching down to grope for his head in your blind pleasure.

"Cyar'ika?" Fives pauses only to respond then plunges his tongue back into the saccharine wetness of your cunt, feeling you jump and spasm around him.

"Fuck me," you cry over a groan, knotting your fingers in his hair.

"You didn't come yet," he murmurs into your skin, almost irritated, his voice thrumming straight to your core as you cry out again.

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," you chant. The intimacy will only prolong the ordeal of greed, will only make you want more when you're already drowning under the weight of what little remains now. "Need you inside me, please."

Fives hums his assent, curls his tongue into your cunt one last time, and leaves you with a ghost of a kiss pressed over your clit. He staggers up off his knees, hardly bothering to lick your slick smeared over his lips—to savor it with the mischievous delight he no longer shares before you—and cups the back of your neck to pull you into a crushing kiss that might almost be painful if you weren't so desperate to soak up every last touch he has to give.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says like he has every time he's pulled you into his arms and parted your thighs. Except this time, there is no lingering gaze, no silent professions of something more than physicality in a moment of heat. Fives only kisses you one last time before he buries his nose in the crook of your neck.

This is a performance, you tell yourself as you press close.

And then he's pushing into you, stretching you open around him and filling you in every way you forgot that you needed, in the way only he could as he cages you between his arms.

He sets a pace that is altogether the same and yet nothing like how you remember him. You're playing out something you had done before arguments lasted weeks and couches became occasional beds. Yet it feels just like the real thing, his thighs sticking to the skin of your ass as he plunges up into that spot that whites out your vision and curls your toes tight.

It feels so real that if you squeeze your eyes shut and release the tension coiled at the base of your neck, you can pretend that when you meet his eyes, Fives will flash you the smile that crinkles around the corners of his eyes and bubbles laughter from his chest.

Instead, he shifts your ankles from the base of his spine, his brows knit tight and his chest heaving as he hefts your legs over his shoulders. You sob as he fucks into you harder now, hard enough to nearly fold you in two and fill the bedroom with the sharp clarity of his skin pressing into yours. You wonder if it's to crowd you close, to mold himself as close as he may ever be and take one more fleeting taste of you.

"Fives," you cry out one last time, the flared ridge of his cockhead catching your clit as he pulls out.

Desire crests so high in your core you almost feel sick with want for more. You cling to the feeling, committing to memory what you will later try to scrub away: how you flutter around the ridges of Fives's cock, how he fucks you in the way only months of true, genuine desire would allow him to know, how when your legs jerk and he lathes his tongue your shoulder that you might have called this love.

It's ironic how that's the one thing that crosses your mind when you squeeze your arms around his neck and come with a strangled sob. His hips connect hard with yours, fucking into you in one swift motion that has your back arching off the sheets. You blindly kiss over the coarse stubble of Fives's jaw, and it crushes the air from your lungs as he takes your chin in his hands, all gentle and trembling restraint, and kisses you so sweetly it burns.

A few more sloppy thrusts, and Fives bows his head low and pushes deeper than he has all night. Groping over his shoulder for his hand, he frantically laces his fingers with yours, squeezing tight. And when you squeeze back, you hear him make something of a moan and a sob pushed into one as he finishes inside you.

He overwhelms you with one last gesture of him as you pulse around his softening cock, and you can't help how you look to him with stars in your eyes, just like before, just like how it was supposed to be. He notices—opening his eyes to reveal something forgiving and warm—but before whatever it is drags you both into its inescapable orbit, he takes you into his arms and collapses onto his side.

Fives pulls out of you with an obscene noise, something you might have laughed at before the thorns of distance had grown long and sharp between you. You only sigh at the slow drip of his come sliding over your skin and pooling over the sheets as he pulls out.

For a while, you lie there, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed and your cheek pressed to the sweat-slicked skin of his chest. You don't remember what you would do to fill the buzzing silence of afterglow, but you remember it felt better than what you're feeling, the slow descent of gilded curtains in a dark room, falling, falling.

Fives takes the guesswork out of it for you, though. There's a semblance of real tenderness when he kisses your brow and shifts away just enough that he can't meet your eyes but instead can keep you close enough to touch.

"When's your next tour?" you whisper into the quiet as he lifts his hand to your face.

"I have a week of leave," Fives responds. He traces his fingertips over the highest points of your cheeks and nose, memorializing in touch what the darkness tucks away.

"Where to?"

"Ringo Vinda." His fingers curl over your chin, cradling you to his skin before he slowly sweeps them up the edge of your jaw.

"That's far," you say.

"Not too far," he chuckles, hollow and weak as he runs his thumb over your ear. "I can still call you at night."

"You don't have to."

"I want to, y/n."

"Don't," you whisper, and you hear his inhale catch in his throat.

It's where this entire evening has been going from the moment he stepped foot into your apartment until now: one final, cresting movement pressed into the absence of space between you, impossibly wide and impossibly close all at once as Fives's hand stills over the skin just beneath your eye.

"Don't call?" He knows his answer, but he says it anyways, desperate rhetoric clinging to something that has already been gone for months.

"Don't," you manage to say over the heat in your eyes and the asphyxiating swell at the back of your throat. "Please."

There's still a part of you that wants him to fight. Wants him to rear back, raise his voice, and look you in the eyes to say horrible things to fight for the sum of you and him like he always has. Because it isn't right for it to end like this, a lonely blip over the comm channels that cries once then blinks out forever. It isn't right.

But you're tired.

"I'm sorry." Your calm breaks with a trembling sob.

And when pries his fingertips from your face to wrap his arms around your shoulders and pull you close, you know it is the last time you will fly this close to the sun; the last time you will bear witness to the glorious, warm light that had only soured in the time you shared.

"I'm sorry," you hiccup.

"It's okay," Fives's voice rumbles under your ear, backgrounded by tight, shallow breaths that only close the vice tighter around your throat. "I'm sorry, too."

And you let him go.

(He doesn't call.)

#(screams into a pillow)#i just want fives to have everything good in the world is that so much to ask #also heheh a week before ringo vinda because im a sucker for pain #fives x reader #arc trooper fives x reader #the clone wars x reader #yaej.writes

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staarshines · 3 years

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You. 5/17: Rey & Finn Are Playing Matchmaker Now || P.D.

| You. Masterlist | Note that this can be read as a oneshot; just ignore the first and last parts.

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of sex

Word Count: 1.4k

Poe decides to snoop around in your datapad and discovers a folder called “You”. Upon opening it and reading through the entries, memories are brought back and he discovers something he was never supposed to know about.

[A/N]: LMAO IT’S BEEN FOUR MONTHS SINCE THIS SERIES HAS BEEN UPDATED NO- also i hate this part with all my heart. it’s basically just crack fluff and nothing else, but i was too tired to take it out of the masterlist plus i had to fulfill this. the next chapter is going to have a bit more substance and the one after that is just pure crack, but all the chapters after that? the plot develops.

I don’t even know why I’m adding this as an entry, but I can’t stop thinking about your little “Sure.” after I asked why it was so surprising that I liked someone. Maybe I’m overthinking. I’m overthinking, right? Nevertheless, I guess I’ll just put this down as the date that Rey and Finn officially started playing matchmakers. Anything awkward and out of the ordinary that seems like it was staged somehow probably happened as a result of them.

"Slow days like these are rare," Finn mutters, slumping down a little lower in his chair. You scan the cantina, noting that it was busier than usual due to the low number of people out on missions or doing their jobs. Rey quickly slaps Finn's shoulder, to which he jolts a bit forward at, giving Rey a dirty look before leaning back in his chair.

"Don't jinx it!" Before you can remark on their antics, Poe plops down in the seat right next to yours, startling you for a moment.

"And where have you been, flyboy?" He gives you a tired smile before ruffling his hair and sighing.

"I fucked up Black One pretty bad last mission. I had to make sure my mechanic didn't have a heart attack after seeing the state the hyperdrive generator was in." You chuckle a bit at his words, sliding your soda over to him and watching him take it with a grateful nod. Rey raises her eyebrows and you can see the hint of a smile on her face, to which in turn you roll your eyes at.

Her and Finn have been making offhand comments about you and Poe for a while ever since you told them about the recon mission, and it's starting to get annoying. Not because they want you both to get together—that actually makes you oddly happy—but because they won't directly say it. They're beating around the bush, and as much as you want to believe that they're hinting at you and Poe getting together, you know you can't trust your thoughts—especially because you know firsthand how love could cloud your thoughts faster than Han Solo could finish the Kessel Run.

You drum your fingers on the table inattentively, eyes darting all around the cantina while your mind thinks of ways to cure the boredom that the four of you were suffering from—that doesn't involve taking more missions or finishing reports.

"Snap, where'd you get the slushies?" you hear Poe call out, your eyes falling on him holding two—one blue, and one orange.

"Someone from the Dagger Squadron lost a bet and now we have a slushy machine," he shrugs, making his way back to his table where Oddy was sitting.

"Is this really what happens around here?" you remark a bit teasingly, having expected the Resistance to be all "business". It wasn't until you actually joined the rebels that you realized being all "business" wasn't exactly how a team with a bond this strong was formed. And honestly? You loved the dynamic between everyone more than anything.

"I mean, the only reason we have a pizza kiln is because L'ulo said that Poe couldn't barrel roll into hyperspace," Finn adds, and your jaw drops.

"You did what?"

"I'm going to go get us some slushies—"

"You barrel rolled into hyperspace—"

"I can't hear you—"

"You're such a child—"

"Am not! Slushies aren't just for kids. Fuck society!" He gives you a teasing middle finger before getting up and heading towards the kitchen, leaving you speechless at his antics.

"I hate him so much," you mutter, leaning across the table to grab your soda once again.

"Sure you hate him." Finn snickers at Rey's remark but you just roll your eyes, flicking a stray wrapper at him. "I'm just saying."

"He's not wrong," Rey adds on. Great, here we go again. "How are you two not together yet? You're obviously hopelessly in love with him. You two casually fucking?" You choke on your soda, coughing to the side. When you thought you wanted them to directly say they wanted you and Poe to get together, you didn't expect a complete 180º.

"What the hell—?" you ask with an exaggerated breath, trying to force air into your lungs.

"See? Blind," Finn tells Rey, who just nods. You arch an eyebrow, eyes darting over to find Poe out of sight, much to your relief.

"Okay, maybe I have the slightest crush on him—"

"Knew it. Karé owes me twenty," Rey dismisses, much to your dismay.

"It was not that obvious!"

"Right, like you making heart eyes at him every time he gives your squadron commands in the morning isn't obvious."

"Wha— I do not!" You look to Rey for reassurance, but she's hiding a smile. "I do not!"

"Just keep telling yourself that," she winks, and you groan, slouching back into your chair.

"Oh look, he's coming back with two blues and two reds. Maybe your tongue will be purple by tonight." It takes you a minute to understand—wincing when you do—but Finn just bursts out in laughter, nodding. Yeah, and what about you two?

"Fuck, that was a good one."

"Both of you just— shut up! He doesn't like me like that, so there's no need to make fun of me for it. You guys are some best friends," you mumble, feeling a bit discontented with the deck you'd been dealt this afternoon.

"He doesn't like me like that," Rey mimics, earning a glare from you.

"You want me to say the same thing?" It takes her a minute to catch on, and she immediately bites her lip nervously, much to your amusement. "Everything that you said to me applies to you."

"Wait, she has a crush too?"

"Who does who like?" Poe sits down at the table, slowly unloading the glasses from his hands. You immediately go for the red and bite your tongue when Poe picks up a blue, Rey's comment still echoing in your head.

Maker, you all were such middle-schoolers, but fuck—you kind of loved the childish nature. After all, you four were exhausted from fighting. You all deserved a break.

"Rey over here—"

"I will impale you with my lightsaber—"

"—has a little crush on someone." She glares at you and the thought of sleeping with one eye open passes through your head, but you just shrug, feeling a little bold. "On base. Who knows her."

"Oh please, who doesn't know her?" You raise your eyebrows at Finn's remark and with that small twitch and Finn's one sentence, Poe immediately catches on.

"And who doesn't know you, Finn?" You close your eyes, sighing at how obvious Poe could be. You were barely holding yourself back from smacking him.

“You’re literally terrible at this,” you mumble, taking a pointed sip of your slushy and smiling a bit at the offended look on his face.

"Who I like isn't the point," Rey blurts out, clearly flustered. "The original conversation was about who Y/N here likes." This time, it's a death stare that Rey gets, but she just shrugs like what did you think I was going to do?

"Darling, you like someone?" You smile a bit at the nickname—that damned nickname, but try your best to remain indifferent.

"That's such a surprise?" you counter, watching him hold his hands up in surrender. He winks, making that Maker-damned fizzing feeling in your stomach return.

"Sure," he shrugs, suddenly very interested in his slushy. You're not sure how to read that, but you need to figure out what the hell Rey is trying to tell you first.

She makes a kissy face and looks at the both of you. C'mon, you two obviously are in love. You guys doing it?

You roll your eyes, frowning a little bit before eyeing Finn. Shut up. Are you two doing it?

Her face goes red before she fervently shakes her head, toning it down when she sees the silent conversation has caught the boys' attention. No! Maker, tell you about a crush and you'll hold it against me forever.

Raised eyebrows. I'm the one holding it against you?

Eyes rolling. I'm not holding it against you, dummy! I'm playing matchmaker!

A scoff before you're interrupted by Poe. Right. Well, you're terrible at it.

"If you two are done, can we have a conversation in a language all of us understand?"

Rey glares at you as a last remark. What, do you want me to downright tell him to kiss you?

Under your breath, sure that nobody can hear, you decide to let out a bit of your hopeless romantic.

"Would that really be so bad?"

“I fucking knew it. Well, we gotta get back at those two,” he whispers, rejoicing in the memory for a sweet second before the next entry catches his eye. “What the hell, protective me? Since when have I—” He clicks the entry, immediately stopping himself mid-sentence. “Oh. Right.”

Masterlist

All taglists are open! Send me an ask or a message :)

Permanent: @becausewhyknotme, @browneyedhimbo, @theladyoffangorn, @officialtonystarkprotectionsquad, @justmebeingtheweirdmeiam, @fantasticcopeaglepasta, @talk-geek-to-me, @letsmellowjello, @thescarletknight2014, @bbluespiritzuko, @brooklynsmorales, @marvel-dameron, @marvelinsanity, @softly-sad, @yourbucky084, @mcolbz14, @houseofthirst, @arkofblake, @asianravenpuff

Star Wars: @kittyofalltrades, @m1rkw00dpr1ncess, @propertyofdindjarin, @coldbreadbouquetworld, @melvls, @thedevilwearsbeskar, @agentshortstacc

Poe Dameron: @poe-damnnn-eron, @lapilark, @peterhollandkait, @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol, @twomoonstwosuns, @lady-sloan, @poes-stardust, @legamelo, @xremember-me-notx, @imtheoutgoingsidekick-baby, @yourbucky084, @agents-assemble, @daydreamerinadazedworld, @darthadeline

“You.” Taglist: @dameronsgalaxygal, @pretty-stupid-but-not-thatstupid, @cloud-leader, @rae-rae-patcha, @eternallyvenus, @lanatheawesome, @multifandomlife22, @jerusomeeno, @hasrct-ay, @slut-for-bumblebees

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x y/n #poe dameron fic #poe dameron imagine #star wars fic #star wars imagine #my writing #rip to my entire posting schedule i stg #i only posted this bc jess wanted it otherwise this series wouldve been canceled oops

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moominquartz · 4 years

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rating: G fandom: Steven Universe prompt: Grief/Mourning warnings: Death word count: 1k requester: @kohakhearts

Grief Talking

The very first true, poignant grief Pearl feels is the loss of Bismuth.

[Read on AO3]

Pearl has never known grief.

In thousands of years of loyal service to Pink Diamond, Pearl does not “get to know” many gems. She “knows of” plenty; the Nephrites who command her ships, the Rubies who act as guards, the Lapis Lazulis who begin the great journey of terraforming Earth. The Pearls who serve the most elite gems. But Pearl does not feel any great connection to any of it. She follows her programming, line by line, as she struggles to please a Diamond that tolerates her at best.

Then comes the Gem War.

Pearl does not grieve her life on Homeworld. It was a different time, and while she enjoyed it, it was an empty life; she enjoyed it not because she wanted to, but because she was supposed to. And isn’t it grand, that she can enjoy her life by her Diamond’s side in a new form, in a new way, with a new purpose? That her Diamond looks at her now without contempt, but with genuine joy and love? That Pearl can find a new purpose in her new friends, in the Crystal Gems, as she and her Diamond finesse the line between Ruthless Dictator and Rebel Leader?

— Then.

Gems shatter. It happens, especially in war. When Pearl watches Homeworld ship out yet another squadron of quartzes, Pearl feels no remorse even as she knows the Crystal Gems will vanquish them. Some of them may be chipped or fractured by accident, as this is no game they’re playing, but her Diamond has gone out of her way to see to it that no Homeworld gems are shattered with malicious intent.

Homeworld does not have the same handicap.

Even as she watches her comrades be shattered in familiar hands, the very first true, poignant grief Pearl feels is the loss of Bismuth.

The worst part of all of it is that Pearl at least knows what happens to all of the soldiers she’s lost before. But shortly after the Battle for the Ziggurat, Bismuth vanishes. Or maybe it’s during the fight? The battlefields are always so chaotic, the fights always going longer than they plan for, but Pearl had sworn she’d seen a head of rainbow dreadlocks in the sea of survivors.

But maybe she hadn’t. Maybe it had been a different gem. Bismuth is gone, and her Diamond tells her this in the form of a Rose Quartz with tears in her eyes and trembling hands, and Pearl can’t comprehend it.

Bismuth, captured? It’s unthinkable.

Pearl goes back to that battlefield many, many times. Over hundreds of years, she searches on hands and knees, the grains of sand slipping through her hand like time in an hourglass, hoping desperately that somehow she’d been missed. Somehow Bismuth’s form had dissipated, and she’d been left behind, and perhaps something was keeping her from reforming — though Pearl doesn’t know what. It doesn’t matter what; it’s just her grief talking.

Rose Quartz joins her, sometimes.

Bismuth leaves a hole in Pearl that she can’t seem to fill. She sobs so hard, her form dissipates, and she reforms a harder, more resilient gem.

Then comes what the four of them call “the Great Corruption,” and then it isn’t just Bismuth. Everyone is gone in one instant, and all of their thousands of years of fighting is over. The Diamonds abandon the Earth, abandon the battle on its surface.

Pearl loses almost everything in the same breath of victory, and isn’t it awful? Even in war, gems think they’re invincible until it’s proven that they aren’t.

The Crystal Gems mourn their fallen friends. Slowly, they pick themselves back up; slowly, they decide to bubble all of them, to care for them and to search for a cure. A new banner to rally under, a new cause to pursue, a new mission. If Rose could heal a gem’s physical wounds, then perhaps, with time, she could heal… this.

Pearl still wonders if it’s their grief talking.

Steven warps into the temple on their central warp pad. Pearl turns, expecting to see Bismuth with him. And she does; in his hands, he holds her bubble. He’s been burned, his shirt torn, hair askew and clothes smelling of the Forge.

“I have something to tell you all,” he says with a trembling voice.

Pearl stares at her surrogate son with eyes wide as he recounts everything. He and Bismuth had a fight, he says; she thought he was Rose Quartz, because he refused to use a gem-shattering weapon that she’d proposed, and if he was Rose Quartz, that meant he’d bubbled her.

His eyes stay on the bubble in his hands as he speaks, which is good. Pearl refuses to break apart in front of him, but it’s so incredibly difficult to keep her form together.

It’s not even the idea that Bismuth would attack Steven that has her so distraught. And oh, isn’t that just horrible? Steven’s been through so much, been under attack so many times, and it isn’t right, but it’s not surprising. But when Steven tells her that it was Rose Quartz who dissipated Bismuth’s form and bubbled her away, something clicks into place in a way it shouldn’t.

Rose’s tears back then may have been genuine, but her words weren’t.

“Oh, Pearl,” Rose had said around sobs, “she isn’t anywhere. You don’t think — could we have lost her? Could they have shattered her…?”

But Rose had never lost her at all. And even knowing that, Rose had ‘helped’ Pearl search. This is a revelation that terrifies Pearl.

What else did Rose keep from her? What other moments that had felt like genuine sorrow, genuine joy, genuine moments kept between all the hell and chaos that surrounded them, had been lies?

Pearl looks at Steven and she wonders.

But that is just her grief talking.

#su #su fic #steven universe #pearl #pearl su #isaiah writes #isaiah original #bad things happen bingo #bthb

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blood-fangs-talons · 7 years

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Hellsing Opinions No One Asked For (2): Actual Authority of the Helsing Family

Warning! this one can get kinda dry, since there’s quite a bit of trying to figure out exactly what the hell rank these people have, when Hellsing was written in a time before Wikipedia had quite the information it does now. and it’s a lot of Government speak that i’m only tangentially knowledgable of at best.

1) What’s in a name?

Hellsing is the Organization. Van Helsing is the family. Abraham van Helsing. Arthur van Helsing. Integra van Helsing. Wait, this means that the family isn’t even that British. Abraham was Austrian. Integra is a third-generation immigrant.

2) It’s who you know, It’s how you walk, It’s how you talk.

Abraham had lots of trouble establishing himself in Aristocracy, and the van Helsing family is still semi-ostracized by most of the old-blooded gentry. He had help from Sir Arthur Godalming to gain some social merit, but Royal approval only counts for so much.

3) Hereditary positions of Authority

There are positions that exist called Great Offices of the State (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Officer_of_State) which are eight offices that are largely ceremonial, but hold quite a bit of power and a bunch of fancy titles. Some of them are Hereditary, and some of them are appointed. Some of them are also shared positions, sometimes with multiple people taking responsibility for the many responsibilities of the office. All of the eight officer positions had authority over their jurisdiction of responsibility. For example, the Lord High Treasurer had authority over monetary matters, Lord High Constable over military, and Lord High Admiral over the Naval matters. They have less authority now than they did 500 years ago, but they’re still associated with a lot of honor, ceremony, tradition, and honor. Did I mention Honor.

They also exert some authority over each other, but it’s weird and changes a lot.

I’m telling you right now. Creating a new Great Officer of State would be complete and utter hell. But it could probably be done. I don’t know. I’m not actually a professional royal legality adviser or whatever, I just write fanfiction. If Abraham van Helsing could somehow convince her Majesty Queen Victoria, it could be done, and Victoria would be the lady to do it. While not revolutionary, Victoria was in some ways unconventional, in a time when the monarchy was coming into more and more public view.

That said, it’s unlikely that the van Helsing family has as much power as His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Philip: The current Lord High Admiral. But the position exists, there’s precident for modern, militant, hereditary positions. So even if Lord High Huntsman isn’t a real position and the Helsing family doesn’t hold it, there’s probably a similar position they can hold. Maybe something subordinate to the Lord High Constable. Something Extremely subordinate, given that Abraham van Helsing is Literally A Foreigner Immigrant.

4) Is the Hellsing Organization really military?

They are of course, government sanctioned. But so is the CIA. so is the FBI. and MI5. and MI6. And they’re not military.

I’d say, given that Integra’s loyalty is directly to Her Majesty, the ordinances and weapons they have access to, and that Hellsing appears to be funded by the government, that Maybe. Let’s consider two different Options

Option 1)

So Hellsing is Military. What branch? Well, it turns out that the UK has special forces (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Kingdom_Special_Forces) that are... Special. Since you probably don’t want to click the link and parse through, i’ll give you a summary.

The Ministry of Defence(AKA the the British Armed Forces) has the United Kingdom Special Forces (UKSF), which provides a hub for special operations to interact with and play with each other. That means that select air force squadrons, army regiments, and naval forces can work together to do special things, ranging from reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, counter-revolutionary warfare, close protection (Bodyguard), Direct action ( “short-duration strikes and small-scale offensive actions”. The CIA and Navy Seals and others have the authority to do this too), some other things, and training of other nations’ armed forces. Being a part of the UKSF would give Hellsing the ability to act independently of other branches of the military, act within the UK, and call on resources as needed.

Therefore, Hellsing is probably a branch of the UKSF under the Director Special Forces. The organization probably goes something like

Ministry of Defence > British Armed Forces > British Army > UK Special Forces > Hellsing

Option 2)

Here’s the thing: Armies do some protecting at home, yeah, but there’s not much point when they aren’t actively fighting someone else. In the US we have the National Guard, but I’m not sure how much authority the British army can have when the things they’re hunting can be considered naturalized British Citizens, or are legitimate, documented citizens.

However, there’s an Issue. The Secret Service Bureau (From which the modern Secret Service is derived) was founded in 1909. It eventually split many things, from MI1 all the way to MI19. MI5 and MI6 are the most famous ones, but they all existed AFTER 1909. Nowadays, only a few of the MI departments still exist.

The events of Dracula happened in 1892. Dracula was published in 1897.

That’s it folks, the timeline says it all. Hellsing is Military.

4: Brief Summary

So! Hellsing is the nickname/callsign given to a branch of special forces, and the position is strangely hereditary ((due to a remarkable exception that was probably authorized by the Monarch herself and is probably periodically reinforced with reports and meetings with the monarch because despite what you’ve been told, nobles actually do have responsibilities)).

4: What’s in a name, part 2

Oddly enough, it looks like Hellsing doesn’t actually need a regiment number or anything. There are a bunch of army regiments that are just... called... names. They do have naming conventions (Dragoons, Hussars, Lancers, Regiment of Foot) but Hellsing is such a unique branch that it would make sense if it was just called... the Hellsing Regiment of Huntsmen. Which sounds pretty cool actually. I’m going to use that.

5) Secrets!

We know that, to the general Populace, Monsters aren’t Real. But we also know that Local Police know to call Hellsing when they have certain kinds of issues, so SOME people in the Police Department know that monsters are real.

And to fund a small Government Organization, the bean counters HAVE to know where the money is going and why. Those Taxpayers pay money, and someone has to arrange for a trickle of funds to go to Hellsing. They must be convinced that it’s a worthwhile branch of the military to fund.

So what i’m saying is

Hellsing isn’t a secret.

Not among the military higherups. Lord Van Helsing’s peers and superiors have to know, at the very least, as do the people distributing funds, whoever that is.

#And that's all I have to say on that for now #this one was very dry #sorry #but this is mostly for me anyway #i write #the bat speaks #hellsing

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64616e6e79-blog · 7 years

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"Halo Wing"

An older story from about a month ago. Feel free to criticize. ___________

“Operations, this is Halo Lead. Squall line is looking worse from ten thousand. No bugs, the storm seems to be keeping them grounded until further notice, over.”

++Copy, Halo. We’d ask to finish your run now, but atmospherics are playing hell with our sensors, and we need scans of the storm before it hits us. What’s your fuel status? Over.++

“Ops, all birds are running at three-quarters capacity. We’ve enough juice to run for about three more hours, if need be, over.”

++Understood. Get readings of as much of the storm as possible before heading back, Halo. Good flying, Operations out.++

“Ten-four, Ops. Halo out.”

Venn-11 put his hands behind his head as the comm-link light on his dashboard blinked out. Today was a beautiful day for flying. No Fallen, no wind, and little contact with Operations had left him ample time to enjoy the view, or so they say. He pressed a button on the dash, relaying the order to his squadmates. Four little ‘received’ icons pipped yellow, and Venn sat back, listening to the thrum of his ship’s engines. Far in front of him, sunlight spilled over the twelve-thousand-meter high wall of the approaching hurricane, casting golden rays over the coastline to his rear. As he watched, a little flicker of lightning made a spot of darkened sea under the wall flash bright white. He looked around for the telltale beetle-shell shape of Fallen 'bugs,’ but as expected, the storm was keeping all of their aircraft grounded.

Venn’s Ghost, Bree, suddenly appeared in the cockpit. She looked at the view-screens for a moment. “You know, seeing the screens just isn’t the same as actually *looking*,” she remarked. Spending most of her time interfaced directly with the ship’s systems, Bree could effectively use the outer cameras as her own eyes. The sights from there must be breathtaking, Venn thought. Not that either of them could actually breathe.

“Not usual of you to make an appearance up here. What’s up?”

Bree sighed. “Well, the weather is certainly getting worse. We’re looking at a category 3, maybe 4 storm if we’re unlucky. Operations is going to take a beating.” She whirred and clicked, considering her next words. “But you know I’m not worried about that. I wanted to talk, in private.”

Venn’s eyes narrowed. “Look. I know that this Halo isn’t the same as the old one. I know that I don’t have enough combat experience to be a wing leader, that I’m effectively acting commander. I’ve heard it enough times. I don’t need to hear it from you.” Venn crossed his arms and stared subbornly ahead, refusing to look at Bree.

“You think I’m *doubting* you?” she said, indignant. She floated in front of his face, forcing him to meet her eye. “I know you keep thinking about Manhattan.”

Manhattan. Ambushed by a House Kings squadron none of them had seen coming, using aircraft nobody had ever seen before, and the three most senior members of Halo killed in minutes. Venn could remember the day like it was printed on his forehead. Overcast sky, but little wind. Low visibility. The Fallen had used that to their advantage. He remembered gaping like an idiot as a sleek tan interceptor flew out from the cloud cover, past his left wing and turned Mohr’s bird into scrap before his eyes. He remembered Jenara, oh-so-fearless Wing Leader Jenara, desperately trying to rally them. She clipped one of the bugs, barely. For her trouble, the Kings crashed her burning ship into a rusted skyscraper. He remembered Aguilero. His fuel lines had been cut by a lucky shot and his ship was slowly dying. Aguilero had screamed at Venn and Aria, the only two remaining members of the wing, to run. He killed two interceptors before his craft, the *Fatal Vision*, dropped like a stone behind Venn and Aria into Hempstead Bay, fatal to the end.

The thirteen remaining Fallen craft harried Venn and Aria all the way back to base. Aria managed to take down two more, and Venn killed a few himself. The Kings only backed off once support finally arrived, and by then, Aria had nearly lost an engine, and Venn was sporting several dozen new plasma holes along *Little Light*’s fuselage. He managed to touch down without much incident, but Aria’s ship begain wailing alarms at her during descent, and she was only a few hundred feet from the landing pad before her beloved *Mind Bleacher* detonated. Venn was the only one unscathed, in the end.

In the wake of the disaster, Venn was promoted to Halo Lead, and Aria Halo Two. Three new pilots- Farlund, Tirtouga-2, and Lin Kai- were assigned under him, and they were re-based to a backwater recon port that was little more than a glorified weather station. Venn was completely unprepared for the realities of command. He was a Hunter. Having to manage people under him, especially three greenhorns, went against his very blood. And besides that, he knew he shouldn’t be in command. He had failed his wing over Manhattan and he felt he was always an inch from failing them again. He’d tried to open up to Aria about it. She was uncomfortable too, but her troubles went as far as acclimatizing to her new *Hebridean Thoughtcrime*. She didn’t understand what Venn was going through, and although they were close before Manhattan, they’d grown distant in the months past.

Venn shifted in his seat. “Manhattan is behind us. I can’t do anything about it now. Better for me to face my problems head-on than dwell on the past.”

Bree snorted. “Yeah, you go ahead and keep telling youself that. But both of us know you don’t actually believe it.” She turned away from him, looking out at the storm. “Your problems now boil down to the fact that you don’t believe that you deserve command. That you shouldn’t be anywhere near it. That by beating yourself up about Manhattan, pretending it was your fault, will somehow make it okay. But guess what? That isn’t how life works. People die. Mistakes happen. That’s reality. Your place now is to lead, and not just because you got promoted. It’s because you’re one of the best damn pilots the Tower has to offer. You killed five of those new bugs. Five! That’s more than any Guardian in existence has right to claim. You deserve this command, no matter what you think you deserve.”

Struck by her words, Venn opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by an insistent pipping noise as the commlink light on his dash blinked red. He pressed it, and radio static immediately filled his ears.

++H–o Le–, this i- —rati-ns. W–th-r is gett–g w-rse, definit- –te—y f-ve storm, ple— return t- bas- –mediately, -ver.++

Venn fiddled with the gain dial on his dashboard, trying to clear up the signal. “Operations, I’m having comm trouble. You’re fading in and out. Please repeat last, over.”

++Halo, re—n t- –se. Repeat, r–urn to b—++

“Operations? Operations, please respond, over.” Venn tapped the monitor on the dash. Nothing but dead static. Venn immediately sensed that something had gone wrong. It could have just been the storm screwing with their comms, but he knew better than to assume. He opened a comm channel to his wing. “Halo Wing, this is Halo Lead. Be advised, we are having communications issues with Operations, so consider this a head-count, over.”

The responses rolled in one at a time, accompanied by a little green light next to each wingmate’s name on the dashboard. ++Halo Five, systems appearing nominal, over,++ came the constantly-worried voice of Tirtouga.

++Halo Four, flying directly into a hurricane, but otherwise okay, over,++ said Kai, dry as usual.

++Halo Three, present, over,++ growled Farlund, mechanically.

Aria was the last to report in. ++Halo Two, reporting in.++ She paused, still transmitting, thinking. ++Venn, if long-range comms aren’t working, but unit frequencies are functioning fine, shouldn’t we-++ Aria gasped, suddenly. ++Holy Traveler’s Light, *look at the radar!*++

Venn glanced down at the green scanner in front of him. The signature vortex shape of the hurricane hadn’t changed, but inside the storm’s eye lay a cluster of angry red dots, buzzing around a huge diamond-shaped return.

A Fallen Ketch.

Venn’s suspicions were instantly confirmed. Fallen often jammed long-range communications, but lacked the ability to interfere with lower-power unit transmissions. They had used the storm to cover themselves and try to make landfall without alerting any ground forces in the area, but they obviously hadn’t planned on air units with long-range scanners.

Kai made a low whistle. ++Damn. What are we gonna do about that particular hornet’s nest, Lead?++

Venn stared at the radar screen, watching the red glow of the Fallen move slowly closer. They should try to return to base and warn Operations, but the fact that the Fallen were attempting to move in covertly implied that they knew about the Guardian outposts scattered across the West Coast that would easily see them without the storm’s protective cover. They would be hit quickly, and without a coordinated Guardian defense, the Fallen would soon have control of the entire West Coast. Venn cursed. The Ketch hadn’t sent out any outriders to deal with them yet, so he must have the element of surprise on his side, but there was’t any way through the storm. Venn looked up at the squall line, watching the light of the afternoon sun pour over the top… Over the top.

“Halo, increase altitude to sixteen thousand. The Fallen don’t know we’re here, so we have the jump on them, but the only way in there is to fly directly down into the eye.” The plan was coming together. “Once we’re in, target any interceptors and anti-air weapons the Ketch might have. Skiffs come second. Manouvering space will be tight, so make sure not to fly into the eyewall. Understood?”

Four simultaneous aye-aye’s crackled over the radio, and Venn smiled for the first time that day. He pulled back on the stick and opened the throttle, and *Little Light*’s powerful engines roared as it soared up to sixteen thousand meters. From up there, Venn could see the huge, malevolent vortex of the hurricane from out of his cockpit, and its kilometers-wide eye stared up at him, hungry, like a predator. Venn grinned back and began to nosedive towards it, his wingmates following suit. As the eye grew closer, individual shapes began to become visible. First was the Ketch, the sun glinting off of its arrowhead hull, and then Skiffs and interceptors, flying in ragged formation around the massive battleship. Venn aimed his gunsight at what he assumed to be the leader of a loose group of bugs and waited. The altimeter read fourteen thousand, thirteen thousand, twelve, eleven, ten…

His gunsight suddenly flashed red and emitted a shrill “target lock” tone, and Venn squeezed the trigger on his stick, releasing a hail of coilgun slugs from under his wings. The Fallen craft had only a second to react before it was mulched by the fist-sized bullets. Its fellows milled around in confusion, and Venn watched as four more Fallen ships were explosively killed all around the Ketch. Venn wrenched the stick and throttle back, feeling seven g’s of force slam him into his seat, and waved his gunsight past another bug, turning it into a greasy fireball with another volley from his coils.

By then, the Fallen were wise to the attack, and anti-aircraft batteries opened up on Halo Wing, filling the sky with electric blue tracers and airburst munitions. However, the panicked crews operating the cannons were so unprepared for the attack that their barely-aimed fire managed to do little help in the cramped confines of the eye. An interceptor, trying to draw a bead on Farlund as he raced by, took a direct hit to the cockpit from a friendly battery that had under-aimed its shot, and a Skiff packed full of Vandals dropped into the sea after an airburst shell filled its engines with fragmentation.

Venn flew directly over the Ketch, trying to shake a particularly persistent interceptor. He banked hard as the eyewall grew closer up ahead, but the interceptor matched his move with textbook precision. Unfortunately for it, Tirtouga, who had just finished his first ever kill a few seconds before, loosed a rocket into its engine. The ship banked hard into the eyewall, and seventy-plus kilometer-per-hour winds gusted it straight down, where it joined the Skiff that had been killed moments earlier. Tirtouga waggled his wings at Venn in salute, and went off to find more Fallen.

Aria and Kai moved in concert with each other, flying down the length of the Ketch and blowing apart anti-air batteries as they went. Two interceptors rose up on either side of them, matching speed and firing wildly, but both of the Guardians slowed suddenly and the bugs shot past them, now easy targets for Aria and Kai. The Fallen both took six rounds in either wing and crashed into each other, making a massive explosion at the tip of the Ketch.

Farlund chuckled as a Skiff broke apart and detonated under repeated fire. It was his eighth kill of the day, along with six interceptors and one other Skiff. However, his mirth was brought to an abrupt halt as a warning tone sounded from his dashboard, and he rolled, releasing flares to avoid a seeking shock-missile launched by an interceptor tailing him. He flew under the Ketch, trying to lose the Fallen, which miscalculated its trajectory and slammed right into the battleship’s side. Farlund chuckled again. That made nine.

Solksis the Bloody, Shipmaster of Kingship Karksis-Sen, felt the skull of his senior tactician pop under his armored boot. He raised his foot, smearing purplish gore and white Ether across the deck of his bridge, as he roared at his panicking underlings to coordinate the defense. The tactician had been so confident in his plan. “The storm will hide us surely,” he had said. “Surely as a cloak-field around a blade,” he had said. Solksis had been a fool to trust him. Pulping the screaming wretch had been a small satisfaction, but there was still a battle left to fight, and the accursed Light-wielders were making mincemeat of his mighty fleet. A Baron sprinted up next to him and Solksis turned, boring his gaze into the lenses of the officer’s helmet. The Baron balked slightly, but continued with his report anyway. “Lord, the fight is lost. We must flee, get you to safety, quick-quick, before-” The Baron was cut off as Solksis wrapped a fist around his neck, lifting him off the ground, before abruptly throwing the struggling Fallen against a nearby wall. The Baron made a dull *thud* as he landed, and lay unmoving where he fell.

“We do not turn!” shouted the Shipmaster, to any of his subordinates who hadn’t fled. “We stand and fight in the name of House Kings, in the name of all Eliksni!” His guttural roaring galvanized the few living crew members still on the bridge, though mostly through terror instead of inspiration. “We stand and fight, to… To…” Solksis faltered as he turned towards the great window overloooking the battle, out of which a sleek green-and-black shape was visible, heading straight towards Karksis-Sen’s bridge. Venn saw the huge, imposing shape of the Shipmaster through the window, staring at his bird. Venn smiled, and *Little Light* loosed all four of its rockets into the Ketch’s bridge. Solksis died screaming curses as the raging firestorm consumed him.

Venn swooped upwards, avoiding the backwash of the explosion. The decapitated Ketch’s grav fields began to fail, and he banked sideways to watch the huge ship fall. It fell end-down, leaking fire and smoke from its bridge, the heavy engine section no longer supported against Earth’s gravity. It smashed into the churning waves of the ocean, and scant seconds later a series of explosions ripped it apart, after the raging flames touched off a chain reaction. Venn’s earpiece suddenly burst into life, the Ketch’s jamming disabled.

++–lo Wing, are you there, Halo Wing, please respond, our sensors and comms are completely screwed, return to base immediately-++

“Operations, this is Halo Lead. We just killed what I’m pretty sure was the source of interference, and the House of Kings is now down one Ketch. My wing is cleaning up as we speak. No casualties, over.”

Venn heard whoever was manning the comm station yell back to his superior, and the subdued sound of distant cheering filled his ear. ++Fantastic work, Halo. Finish your cleanup and return to base as you please. Operations out.++ Venn smiled again as the radio crackled out. Today really was a beautiful day for flying.

_____

Please reblog if you like, I want people to read this stuff!

#destiny #my writing #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #scifi #gaming

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