#only you live your life unconcerned by the ridicule you experience

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

A Small Price to Pay

doing this thing | day 1 - makeshift gag

"I cannot and will not." Jaskier puts his foot down - literally and metaphorically - and crosses his arms in Geralt's direction. Geralt just rolls his eyes and sighs at him.

"Then how do you propose we get past half the Nilfgaardian army?"

He's being ridiculous, of course; a few dozen men hardly constitute half their army, but he does have a point - Jaskier is disappointingly low on ideas. But the idea of being bound and gagged is just... well, it's not detestable but he'd prefer it under very, very different circumstances.

"We'll just go back. Or wait for them to move on." Geralt glances over to where three men are setting up a tent and quirks an eyebrow at Jaskier. "Oh, I don't know! There has to be something else we can do? Surely we can go around, through-"

"We've been delayed enough already. If we don't make it to Vengerberg in the next three days Yen and Ciri will leave without us."

Jaskier frowns. He does so enjoy travelling with Ciri, but the entire trip to Kaer Morhen without Yen sounds like a dream come true if he's honest. He wants to say as much, but he suspects it won't be taken well. Instead, he just continues to frown at the grass beneath his feet.

Truthfully, Geralt has a very good reason for not wanting to upset Yen - or to confront the army, to be fair - but has failed to take into account that Jaskier also has a very good reason for not wanting to be tied up. Nor does he seem to care as he rifles through his pack and produces a length of rope short enough to bind Jaskier's hands behind his back.

"But why does it have to be me? They're looking for you! I could just say I'm bringing you to them!" He takes a step back as Geralt moves into his space and the look he gets is incredulous.

"And risk both of us getting killed because I can't use my swords? I don't think so." Geralt reaches out to him and Jaskier takes another step back, promptly hitting the trunk of a badly placed tree.

Realizing he's trapped and Geralt is smiling about it, Jaskier sighs and relents. He turns around reluctantly and Geralt takes his hands, placing one wrist over the other. Under other circumstances, he would revel in this much contact, but right now he just feels defeated and apprehensive.

It takes all his concentration not to think while Geralt binds his hands. It's bad enough that Geralt is practically holding his hand, rough, calloused fingers curled around his own to steady him, but the rope. He doesn't know where it came from, but it's surprisingly smooth against his skin without even the reliably scratchy bits to distract him from the feeling of, well, being entirely at Geralt's mercy. And that- that is something he really can't focus on right now.

"Is it too tight?" Geralt asks and Jaskier doesn't trust himself to speak so he just shakes his head. "Your heart is beating too quickly, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mutters, staring too hard at his boots. "Nervous," he adds as an afterthought; Geralt won't shut up about it until he gets an answer that satisfies him and sometimes it's better just to lie.

"Do you trust me?"

Fuck, what kind of question is that? Trust is not at all the problem here. "Of course," Jaskier whispers and his voice comes out light and wispy, not at all what he was hoping for. But Geralt seems unfazed.

He finishes his task and returns to their packs. When he returns, he's got a scrap of fabric in his hand and if Jaskier's heart was beating quickly before, it's outright pounding now. Because Jaskier would recognize that fabric anywhere. He's the one who washes and mends their clothes and that right there is a piece of Geralt's unsalvagable shirt and it's not going anywhere near his face - not in a million years.

He opens his mouth to tell Geralt as much, but he just splutters indignantly as Geralt slips the material between his lips. With his hands bound behind him, Jaskier is helpless to resist.

"Surely, you've had worse," Geralt mutters and Jaskier doesn't know if he's referring to traumatizing experiences, embarrassment, or bondage but the answer is no almost straight across the board.

Because this smells like Geralt. And Jaskier doesn't know what he tastes like, but this is probably as close as he'll get, tasting the soap he uses to wash it and something he can't place but feels remarkably like Geralt. A sharp stab of want breaks through his composure and for a horrifying moment, Jaskier wishes the gag was covered in dirt or blood or monster innards.

"Ready?" Geralt asks and Jaskier just groans. He most certainly is not ready and if he thought pushing down his arousal was hard with his hands bound, it's ten times worse with Geralt's scent flooding his senses.

Geralt steps away to collect Roach and Jaskier takes a moment to try to breathe and compose. It works for the briefest of moments before Geralt appears out of nowhere, wrapping a firm hand around his bicep and hauling him forward. Heat spreads through Jaskier's entire body and he stumbles to catch up.

Either he's going to blow it for them because the guard will take one look at him and realize he is in no way a prisoner against his will, or they'll make it through and he'll be horrifically embarrassed for the rest of his life. It's not that he's ashamed of his sexual preferences, he'd just rather not share them quite so blatantly with Geralt.

As expected, a soldier stops them just as soon as they step out of the trees. Geralt's hand tightens a little around his arm and Jaskier tries to keep as close as he can to him without seeming suspicious. Geralt speaks before the Nilfgaardian even has a chance.

"I need to speak to your commander," he growls, low and commanding, "this man claims to have knowledge of princess Cirilla's whereabouts."

He isn't even questioned, the guard just mutters something and Geralt grunts a response and hauls Jaskier forward a little more roughly than necessary. Jaskier's cock twitches and he pretends not to notice as Geralt makes a self-satisfied noise at him. So he was right then. There'll be no living with him after this.

They make it to the opposite side of the Nilfgaardian camp, a safe distance away and Geralt finally released him, but it's too late for that now. Jaskier's cock has taken a distinct interest, what with the growling and manhandling and bondage that fucking smells like Geralt and is now pressed firmly against the front of his trousers, unmistakable in his current position.

Jaskier angles himself away from Geralt, and Geralt naturally reads him wrong and slips up behind him to untie the gag. Which is little relief at this point and then, as Geralt presses up against his back, actually so much worse than just keeping it on. Because Jaskier can feel the heat radiating off his body, can imagine what it would feel like if Geralt just took one more step forward and slotted their bodies together. Jaskier bites back a moan, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think of anything else, but then Geralt's hands are on him.

And who touches someone this much just to untie a gag? Someone who seeks Jaskier's imminent death via spontaneous combustion - or, apparently, Geralt. His fingers slip up the back of his neck, press lightly against his head. And if it's not bad enough that he spends an eternity untying the damn thing, he pushes his fingers through Jaskier's hair after before finally stepping away.

Which, Jaskier quickly discovers, is only because they've been followed. He drops to his knees to further hide his... situation and peers over his shoulder as Geralt strides toward the soldier, apparently unconcerned.

"What are you doing here?" the Nilfgaardian asks. Geralt cocks his head to one side.

"Nothing. And you're going to go back to your camp and forget you ever saw us here. In fact, you're going to tell your commanding officer the surrounding area is clear, no reason to send out scouts."

Jaskier just sits and gawks, horrified and betrayed, as the man nods and echoes Geralt's words back to him before turning away.

"Are you-" he splutters when the soldier is a safe distance away, "are you telling me you could have just done that the whole time!?" The faintest smile tugs at the corner of Geralt's lips and Jaskier could kill him. Might, even, if he wasn't still bound.

Geralt casts a final look to make sure the soldier is gone and crosses over to him. Jaskier shifts, but his mobility is limited without his arms to balance and Geralt crouches down in front of him, clearly pleased with himself.

"Maybe," he shrugs, reaching up to tip Jaskier's chin up. Jaskier's heart is in his throat and he can't fucking believe this is happening to him. Either Geralt has some very surprising feelings about humiliation or he's a grade-A dick. "But then I wouldn't get to see you like this." His voice goes very soft at the end and Jaskier shuts his eyes, biting down on a groan.

Either Geralt is a very cruel man or somewhere along the way Jaskier passed out from the lack of blood to his brain and he's dreaming. But Geralt's fingers feel solid and real where they slide against his jaw and he's close enough now that Jaskier can feel his breath on his face and oh-

Geralt's hand settles on his thigh and Jakier's eyes flash open, searching Geralt's for any sign of hesitation but there's nothing. If he doesn't do something soon, Jaskier's going to do something incredibly stupid that he'll probably regret. He sits back on his heels, pulling out of Geralt's touch and looks up at him.

"You knew?" he asks.

"No. I was joking when I said I could tie you up and take you through the camp, but the way you reacted-" he hums and Jaskier's resistance fails him.

Geralt shifts toward him, dropping to one knee as he reaches out, running his fingers down Jaskier's chest. And Jaskier is weak to resist him. He presses up into the touch, only barely conscious of how needy he must look and Geralt huffs a soft laugh.

"I wanted to see how far you'd let me go," he breathes, "I didn't think you'd actually let me do it."

"You're an arse," Jaskier huffs and Geralt grins at him.

Jaskier doesn't know what he's supposed to do here. This is a side of Geralt he's never seen before and he's not sure how far he'd actually take it. Geralt moves closer, kneeling between Jaskier's thighs and it's all Jaskier can do not to lose control right there. Geralt's breath dusts over his jaw and Jaskier lets a soft moan slip out as he shuts his eyes.

"You didn't think I'd just leave you like this, did you?"

Everything in Jaskier's head comes to a screeching halt and before he can even consider whether or not that means what it sounds like it means, Geralt's hands are on his trousers, working them open and slipping inside. Steady fingers curl slowly around him and Jaskier loses control of his body in an instant. A sharp whine slips, unbidden, from his throat and his hips snap forward against Geralt's hand.

Fuck, he doesn't even remember the last time he was this turned on.

"What was it," Geralt asks, sliding his hand maddeningly slowly against Jaskier's cock, "that got you so worked up - the rope or the gag?"

"Both," he whimpers, "and the uh- manhandling."

"Hmm. I was just trying to make it seem realistic."

"Mission- ah!accomplished."

Geralt shifts to sit on the grass and with one quick motion gets both arms around Jaskier's waist and tugs him into his lap. Jaskier shuffles forward, encouraged by the way Geralt's hands slip to his ass, squeezing almost playfully. Jaskier tips his head up and Geralt catches his mouth in a rough kiss, nearly dislodging him in his enthusiasm.

Jaskier's head swims. He's never known Geralt to be so forward with anyone, much less with him, and the thought of it makes him impossibly harder. He aches for Geralt's touch again, rolls his hips forward encouragingly but Geralt's hands remain firmly in place, pulling him in closer. Here, Jaskier is pressed right against him, can feel the firm lines of his chest and the surprising press of Geralt's cock, thick and hard where it fits up against his own.

"And what about you?" Jaskier tries, feeling much more suave than he sounds, "what's got you so hot and bothered."

One of Geralt's hands slips up his back, right up his neck and into his hair, pulling his face right up against his own. Their noses bump together and Jaskier can feel Geralt's breath against hi, and then they're falling, dropping back into the grass beneath them.

"Just you," he breathes and Jaskier feels like he could combust. Geralt keeps a hand on him, rocking up against him and gods, he feels incredible. Geralt mumbles something against his lips that Jaskier doesn't quite catch and then Geralt is reaching between them, tugging his trousers open and pushing them down.

Jaskier rises up as his cock slips free and he finds himself staring, unable to look away. His lip is trapped between his teeth and Geralt reaches up, gently freeing it and running his thumb along the sensitive flesh. Geralt tugs him forward, grinding up against him and Jaskier drops his head against his shoulder, hips shifting quickly.

"Should I untie you?" Geralt breathes and Jaskier nods enthusiastically, pressing his forehead into Geralt's skin.

"Please," he groans, "I want to touch you."

Geralt doesn't move, but reaches around, fumbling with the rope as Jaskier kisses him again. As soon as he's free, he gets one hand on Geralt's face, sliding the other up through his hair, groaning as Geralt rolls him onto his back.

He should probably be more concerned about the Nilfgaardian camp only a few hundred meters away, but all he can think about is Geralt's cock against his own, his hands, his mouth.

Jaskier comes with his legs wrapped around Geralt's hips, completely entangled and the sky darkens above them. He doesn't move for a long time afterward and Geralt kisses his neck, slides a hand up under his shirt to brush his fingers over Jaskier's skin.

When he finally settles, he rolls onto his back, tugging Jaskier up against his side.

"Yen's gonna be pissed," he mumbles, tipping his head to press a kiss to Jaskier's temple.

"A small price to pay."

#geraskier #october prompts 2k20 #rex writes #the witcher

[applsauss]

The Date

Description: You and Kakashi go out on a date.

Fandom: 
Naruto

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Reader


Word Count: 
2.9k+

Warning(s): 
None.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-


      You’re out to dinner with Team Gai, which doesn’t happen as often as you’d all like. Lee and Tenten are often busy with missions, as are you, and Gai has been spending so much time at the academy that he might as well sign on full-time; He’s good with kids and he’s good for kids, with his endless enthusiasm and praise. 

The barbeque sizzles in front of you, and you’re beginning to feel full, but Tenten and Lee are still leading the charge through your ridiculously large order. Twenty minutes after the sake comes out is when the conversation shifts from prospective Jonin promotions to yours and Kakashi’s flowering romance.

“You guys just don’t get it. Our relationship is… Relaxed. I don’t really like going out all that much, and neither does Kakashi. We spend time together in our own way.” 

“But where’s the romance?” is the immediate response you receive. “In order for a relationship to last, you need to woo each other,” Gai states enthusiastically, taking another gulp of sake before pointing at you and exclaiming: “You need to sweep him off his feet!”

“W-What?” you stutter.

“Have a date night!” Lee suggests.

“Yes! A date night!” Gai latches on to the idea, and refuses to let go of it. “You need excitement! To surprise each other with romantic gifts and occasions. You have to keep things fresh - To feel the heat of your eternal summer!” 

You don’t think they know what they’re talking about because as far as you know, Lee’s never dated anyone and Gai is more often off-color than anything else. “Sweep him off his feet?” you repeat, unconvinced. 

“Exactly, my friend! You and I, we’ve known each other for a long time. Would I steer you wrong?” Gai attempts to convince you further, waving his arms around and gesturing so loudly he rocks in his wheelchair. Some of the other patrons glance at your table, but quickly avert their eyes once they realize you’re all shinobi. 

You hold your tongue when you think, amused, about all the times Gai has absolutely steered you wrong. You won’t ever forget when you were still Genin and he’d led you and Raido so deep into Tsuchigakure controlled territory that you were nearly captured, and you were only looking for a lost cat!

Unimpressed, you take a chance to gauge Tenten’s reaction to all of this because she’s usually the voice of reason, but she remains quiet all the while, shovelling slices of barbecued pork into her mouth, unconcerned with appearances. She catches your eye and shrugs, not necessarily disagreeing, but not jumping to your rescue either. It hits you that you’ve known Tenten and Lee since they were genin, and now they’re fully fleshed-out Chunin. Equals, in yours and Gai’s eyes. 

Maybe they’re onto something. 

So you shrug and promise Gai and Lee to consider their suggestions, and the night unfolds after that.

***

      A week later, and you still haven’t been able to get Gai and Lee’s advice out of your head. You think about how you and Kakashi haven’t done anything ‘official’ yet every time you see him, and see him almost everyday so you think about it a lot.

You’re picking apart the pack you take on missions, when you think again about Gai’s advice of ‘wooing’ Kakashi, and suddenly, you can’t keep it to yourself anymore. You’re calling out for him before you have a plan of approach. 

“Kakashi…” 

“Hmm?” he’s sideways on the couch, reclining, with his nose in some book he plucked off your shelf. He’d been taking up space in your living room since he decided he wasn’t needed in the Hokage’s office earlier this morning. You’re sitting across the room at the kitchen table.

Though Kakashi is no longer considered an active duty shinobi (he’s only sent out when he’s specifically required) and barring his little, personal excursions to check up on states of affairs, you’re still very much on the active roster and sent out regularly. 

“Would you like to have dinner? Sometime when I get back?” Maybe you feel confident and bold because you know you’re leaving and won’t be returning for at least a week to face his reaction to what you’re about to suggest. 

“Dinner? Do you want me to cook for you or something?” he looks up from his book, amused, to tease you, thinking maybe you don’t know how to ask him to make you something. He’s been told he’s very good in the kitchen. 

“No, I mean… like a… hmm...” This is dumb. You’re an adult and you’re lack of experience in these sorts of situations is leading you to lose your resolve. You can confidently carry out all your duties owed to your village, you can pull on a snake mask and wield your tanto in the face of death, but you can’t ask the man you’re already sort-of dating out on a date. 

He’s waiting patiently for you to finish.

“Like, on a date.” You conclude quietly, gripping the kunai you’d been sharpening tightly. 

Without his mask on, you can see a blush crawling up his pale cheeks and it makes you feel a little more confident, in control. “A date.” he states. 

“Yea,” you can feel yourself start to resume sharpening the blade, “A date. When I get back. Lee and Gai were talking about a new restaurant that opened, that serves food from Suna.” 

He looks back down at his book, but you can tell he’s not reading from how his eyes stare at the same spot on the page. He shrugs. “Sure, sounds like fun.” But the blush doesn’t go away and it makes you smile wider than you probably should. 

He catches the hint of amusement in your tone and glances back up at you. “What?” 

You only shake your head and return the Kunai to its proper pouch. “Nothing. I look forward to it, then.”

***

      When you return, Kakashi isn’t at the village gates, but you don’t necessarily expect him to be there. He’ll make his presence known when he wants to, and you understand that you’re both busy professionals anyways. 

You’re also not surprised when you find him sitting with half his ass on the window sill under the window you usually enter your apartment through, with his faded copy of ‘Icha-Icha: Paradise’ comfortably in hand. In such an odd sitting position, five stories up above the alley cats pawing at garbage bins, he looks like a stray. 

He looks up when you round the corner, then scooches over and drags the window to the side with him so it opens as you approach without so much as greeting you. You pause below him, looking longingly up at your open window and the bottoms of Kakashi’s feet before pushing your tired legs to just make it up to your apartment one last time. 

Rocking back on your heels, you force your chakra to pool on the soles of your feet, then expand outward, assisting your jump as you leap halfway up the building next to yours, then spin around and propel yourself past Kakashi, and into your living room. 

As you stand for a moment, in the stale apartment, you hear Kakashi swing around into the living room behind you. “How was the mission?” he asks as you drop your pack, rolling your shoulders. Afterwards, in a practiced set of motions, you loosen your armor and gear just enough to be able to pull it all off in one motion. He catches the hard chest plate in a hand before it can hit the floor and make a sound. 

You’re too busy with your hand up your shirt, pulling apart the knot keeping the bandages tied tight to your chest to come up with a better response than “Fine. Successful.” The knot loosens and you sigh as your breasts are given space to breathe, “How’ve you been? Do anything fun?” 

You turn to watch as he flops down onto the couch and runs a hand through his hair, dragging his forehead protector off and leaving it on the cushion beside him. “Mm,” he hums thoughtfully. “No. Just a lead on more of Orochimaru’s research that went nowhere.” 

You pause in undoing your sandals, and drag your eyes up to finally get a good look at him. Your eyes meet, warm each others gazes, and he holds his arm out in a silent invitation. You toss the sandal in your hands to the floor and flop into his side without another word. 

Now on the couch and huddled into his warm side, you toe your other sandal off while he pulls his gloves off, the two of you jostling each other a bit until you settle back into a comfortable position. He pulls you up farther and tugs the tie out of your hair, letting it fall around your face, and you hiss at the ache, but he begins to run his naked fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp and so you close your eyes and wrap the arm not wedged between your body and the couch around his torso, eventually dipping down to push your fingers up under his shirt just to touch the warm skin of his midriff. 

“Anything else happen while I was gone?” you ask absentmindedly, rubbing circles into his side with your thumb. 

He pulls his fingers through your hair one last time, sure that there are no tangles, and then twists his body to hold you more fully, resting his cheek on the top of your head. His breath is hot through his mask, and he grunts, then pulls it down below his chin. 

“No,” he says, resting his cheek back on your head, “honest. It’s been unusually quiet. No life-threatening incidents, no non-life-threatening incidents. Naruto even seemed bored when I gave him my report.” 

“Report?” you ask.

“Just a quick border check.”

You sigh heavily, already feeling yourself being lulled by the rumble of his voice in his chest and the secure warmth of his hold. “That’s good… Sounds like you… Got to relax a little.” Your train of thought begins stalling, and Kakashi laughs warmly at your loss of concentration. 

“Yea, and it sounds like it might be your turn to take it easy.”

“Mhmm?”

“Yea.” 

You yawn, and then pull your hand out from under his shirt and set it on his chest, curling your fingers into his shirt when your hand begins to slip. “But what about our date?” 

“Tomorrow,” he says, “or the day after. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Alright, then,” you breathe, “I’ll hold you to it.” 

***

      In the morning, before the sun rises, you leave Kakashi with a gentle kiss and a promise to see him later, tangled in the sheets of your bed. 

As the sun begins to stain the sky red, you’re once again out in the training fields with Gai, Lee, and Tenten, working through the same set of morning exercises you’ve practiced since your days as a stringy genin, with an unreadable teacher and over-confident teammates. 

As the sun pales, and shines its damp rays over Konohagakure, you kneel before your hokage and deliver your mission report. 

As the sun begins to harden in the sky, cutting through the cool mist left over from the night, you find yourself leaping once again, through your window into a now empty apartment. You don’t have much else to do, so you find yourself puttering around, watering the plants Kakashi no doubt watered for you while you were away, and inspecting your various shinobi gear for wear and tear, a habit meant to pass the time. 

Your thoughts eventually drift back to yours and Kakashi’s relationship, and the date he agreed to. He’s never needed much for as long as you’ve known him, and left to his own devices, he becomes rather domestic; but Gai, and by extension Lee’s, ideals regarding a relationship have you as worried as you can be over personal matters like these. Above all else, you don’t want to risk losing Kakashi. You’re glad you decided on action, rather than letting the idea of taking him out on a date burn a hole in your skull.

After checking all of your gear twice, you gather the unrepairable scraps and toss them in the trash bin, then meander into the kitchen to begin considering your choices for lunch. Your fridge is disappointingly empty except for some fresh herbs that Kakashi no doubt brought from his own apartment, so you settle for a plain meal, and after eating, a simple nap.

You don’t see Kakashi again until you sense him strangely at your front door. It’s now late-afternoon-pushing-evening, but the summer sun does nothing to betray the time. He knocks, like a respectable visitor, and so you pad over to the entrance way and when you slide the door open, you find him standing there in his usual uniform, but holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“I promised you a date, didn’t I?” He says with a sheepish smile, raising his hand to scratch the back of his head. 

You purse your lips, and when he sees your lack of reaction, he lowers his hand and looks at your slight frown seriously. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing,” you say, forcing yourself to straighten your back and smile, “but I just wanted to take YOU on a date. Not… The other way around, I guess.” 

“Well… I guess,” he looks thoughtful for a moment, “we could both take each other out… on a date.” 

You smile immediately. “You always know what to say, Kakashi.” you bounce up to peck his cheek over his mask then turn on your heel, “Let me get some clothes on.” 

***

      You both decide on Yakisoba after finding out the restaurant Gai told you about was reservation only. Neither of you have lost any spirit over the slight snag in plans. 

You take your bowls graciously from the vendor and perch yourselves up on a high retaining wall, backs to a small community garden within walking distance of the ever developing commercial center of Konoha. More and more, you’re bearing witness to all of the changes as the village grows. 

Kakashi has already told you of the Hokage’s tentative plans to build another, larger wall encircling the current boundary of the village to give the residential district some breathing room, though he also told you it was difficult negotiating with some of the civilians who own the land just outside the walls. 

“Have you talked to Gai lately?” you ask before shoving another mouthful of noodles into your mouth. Kakashi shakes his head while chewing, and you let out a sharp, reprimanding puff of air. “Gai was complaining about you this morning, you know.”

Kakashi shrugs helplessly, “I’ve been busy...” 

“You just told me last night how weirdly quiet it’s been.” you accuse, and Kakashi smiles the way he does when he knows he’s been caught in a lie. 

“... Avoiding him. I’ve been busy avoiding him.” he finishes lately, and you snort, then nudge your elbow into his arm. 

“Don’t be mean to him,” you say, “I’ll kick your ass.” He looks at you with such sudden admiration that you feel your face flush and immediately look back down into your bowl of Yakisoba, cursing yourself for being so easily embarrassed. 

“I know. I’ll catch up with him sometime. Promise.” 

***

      The sun sets far later than it should, and you and Kakashi find yourselves strolling aimlessly through the old commercial district as paper lanterns are lit. A couple minutes later, you blink as one by one, flickering light from the neon lettering most shops nowadays are adopting drowns out the mellow lantern light. 

New and old, the juxtaposition of technology and entrenched traditions is something strange to witness. Much like the strange, out of place life breathed into the village after the third shinobi war, the death-bred boom in industry, you’re watching once again as the world progresses faster than you can keep track of. Everything is just swept along with the leaps and bounds each new generation brings about. 

You mention the popularity of neon to Kakashi, and he stares at the bright lights for a few moments before uttering, “It reminds me of how after Pein, or the… Third Shinobi war, the village just seemed to come back twice as strong.”

Your wandering eventually leads you both to Kakashi’s apartment complex.

“That was fun,” Kakashi says at his doorstep. You’re loitering, suddenly embarrassed and unsure if he’s going to invite you in. “It didn’t really feel like a date though.”

“... Yea.. Just sort of like… We were just spending time together,” you say distantly as he opens the door and flips the lightswitch next to the entrance, warm light spilling out and over you into the hallway. You stand there, just inside the threshold, wanting to sink into the warmth of his apartment, but unable to do so without invitation. 

He’s taken off his shoes and shrugged out of his outer layer before he realizes you’re still standing there, not entering. “Do you not want to come in?” He turns to look at you, mask still stretched over his nose and mouth, eyes curious and dark. 

You scoff, relief flooding your body, and shake your head. “I was just enjoying the breeze. Y’can’t blame me for that.” You step into the apartment and shut the door behind you, content in the wake of an evening that will follow a successful date.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-


Masterlist in blog desc.

#hatake kakashi #naruto #hatake kakashi x reader #naruto x reader #hatake kakashi imagine #naruto imagine #kakashi x reader #kakashi imagine

[travllingbunny]

The 100 rewatch: 5x05 Shifting Sands

After four really strong episodes at the beginning of season 5, this is a slower episode focused on developing the new dynamics. This episode is by no means bad, and there are some lovely character moments in it - but this is, unfortunately, where the plot starts getting kind of boring. It’s the start of many subplots that, either intentionally or unintentionally, ended up not mattering much for the overall story.

Some of the subplots introduced:

the mutant worms - I’m not a fan of this subplot, which the show will literally chuck out 5 episodes later. Also, it’s gross. I don’t like to have to actually avert my eyes from the screen. The show was really going for the Alien vibe here.

Zaven romance was probably meant to be Raven’s endgame, but unfortunately, Jordan Bolger got another role and we know what happened. And now all that screentime devoted to the development of their relationship feels like a waste of time, which may be unfair to season 5, but it is what it is. In itself, it’s not the worst romantic subplot by any means, but it’s another rushed romance.

It seemed like the show was going somewhere with the friendship between Diyoza and Kane (with some flirty moments that could have at least suggested even more) - don’t get me wrong, I was very much against it being a ship (not a fan of Stockholm Syndrome romances, and Kabby is one of the very few well developed romantic relationships on the show), but every relationship involving Kane got pushed aside when Henry Ian Cusick decided to leave the show. In S6, only Kabby and his friendship with Indra were addressed. On the other hand, it’s always it’s nice to get more Diyoza backstory, which we get when she tells her story to Kane: her suicide attempt - when marines who used to be her own team came to arrest her and after they killed her father. 

Both Diyoza’s shock collars and Vinson are introduced. Vinson is a very unusual character for The 100 - which is full of leaders, warriors and cult leaders, but which doesn’t usually feature cannibal serial killers. I have to say that I quite liked where they went with this character - he was like an embodiment of Abby’s demons (addiction, cannibalism during the Dark Year) and the demons that almost destroyed the Kabby relationship.

The last scene sets up the main plot of the next episode, which is Octavia and Bellamy arguing about Echo… Not the best subplot out there.

In Eden, Diyoza shows again that she may be ruthless but she’s smart - she is against waging war in Eden and potentially destroying the only habitable land on Earth. Not such good news: she wants to use missiles on Wonkru, which makes sense - especially since they are, from her POV, a bunch of dangerous fanatics. (Actually, they are a bunch of dangerous fanatics, period.)She is aware that the rest of Spacekru are still somewhere in the woods, as is Madi (since she knew 5 of them were almost captured by her people, when Madi saved them). The rivalry between her and McCreary is highlighted again - and we also learn about their history. (Which is going to be important because of a certain reveal that will be coming soon…) I guess Diyoza was more honest than McCreary knew when she dismissed his sexual prowess as “that was torture, too” - since we learn in S7 that she had sex with him to get him to be on her side in the rebellion.

Diyoza’s choice of sex partners may not be the best, but she has good taste in music and hates speed metal or trash metal or whatever that was just as much as I do. “Play something with a beat” - exactly!

Kane in the meantime offers intel on Octavia in exchange for a guarantee of protecting Raven and Murphy, but his other reason is that he thinks Octavia will get all of Wonkru killed and wants to stop her.

And we get more of McCreary torturing someone, this time Raven and Murphy. McCreary torturing various people is a recurring thing this season. Is there any episode where he isn’t either murdering, torturing or both? I guess no one has told him that torture is not an efficient or reliable way of extracting information… but it’s quite possible he doesn’t care. Shaw gets to be reluctantly present during someone’s torture again - not a great way to get to know your future girlfriend. The fact that she’s in pain and tortured for who-knows-which-time may be why Raven is showing her judgmental streak again, this time dissing Shaw for lying about the fact he was the one who disabled the missiles and accusing him of getting them tortured to save his ass, which is technically true but ignores the facts that 1) he saved hundreds of Wonkru, 2) he saved Raven’s and Murphy’s lives, and 3) admitting the truth wouldn’t have helped anyone. But Raven also shows her smarts and comes up with a good plan how to get Murphy out so he can inform others about the missiles - and does some really good acting when she pretends she’s furious with Shaw.

One of the highlights of the episode is Murphy meeting Madi for the first time (”hobbit” as he refers to her), as everyone is in the Rover that Madi is driving. Murphy is not happy when Madi says she thought he would be funnier, and even less so when she says Octavia is her favorite. (It’s OK, Murphy, Hope and Jordan (during his rebellious phase) will love you.)

Contrary to what you’ll often hear in the fandom, Spacekru have been, in these early episodes, talking repeatedly about the fact that Clarke saved them and thanking her. They mentioned it all by themselves in 5x03. Bellamy told Clarke ‘Clarke, you saved us all!” in 5x04 and Raven tearfully thanked her for saving their lives. And now Echo tells Madi they wouldn’t have made it without Clarke, and Harper confirms it.

When Murphy realizes that his shock collar/tracker can be used as a bomb, he tells the others to leave him and save themselves and go warn Bellamy - which , I believe, is the first time that Murphy has been really unselfish and unconcerned with saving his own life. Emori has, up to that point, been hostile to him, accusing him of selfishness (she even jumped to the conclusion that he left Raven to die to save himself). But the moment he says this, you can see her face and her whole attitude changing. She says nothing, just staring at him - and then stays with him instead of going with the others. (Murphy will again be unselfish and ask others to leave him to save thrmselves in the season 5 finale, and Emori will refuse to leave him.)

………..

In Polis, there are more reunions: Clarke gets to interact with Jackson and Miller. Jackson tells her they could have used her in the bunker (Clarke replies that they had her mom, and Jackson’s silence hints that something is wrong, but she’ll only find out what much later).This is an interesting “What if” - what if Clarke and/or Bellamy had been in the bunker? How would that have affected everything - Octavia and Abby, above all? Indra later tells Bellamy that Octavia needs him. She is clearly not one of those who drank Kool-Aid and hopes for Bellamy to be a good influence on her, the way she obviously wishes she could be, but Octavia is not listening to her. Cooper, on the other hand, is Octavia’s yes-woman and clearly encourages her worst behavior. Miller still seems somewhere in between at this point - unlike Jackson, he tells Clarke not to get involved, but then changes his mind and tells Blodreina that Clarke has something to tell her.

(This is also a rare occasion: an actual Mackson kiss.)

Clarke and Bellamy are starting to realize that Octavia is pretty scary now, starting with the way her cult worships her and turns against anyone daring to criticize or question her, and then with the way Octavia herself has changed. The episode does a good job of showing that she has been losing her grip on reality,  and apparently drinking her own Kool-Aid a bit too much. She is obsessed what she sees as her messianic role pf delivering her people to Eden, and trying to get her people through the desert during the sandstorm, contrary to the advice of Clarke, who actually knows the terrain, (Maybe she’s taken it too much to heart to continue Jaha’s legacy.) Some of the things Octavia says in this episode:

“The wind hasn’t met Wonkru” - many people mock it as one of the worst lines in the show, but I like it, I think it’s intentionally hilarious, one of the few funny moments this season - and meant to show what ridiculous things Octavia says when she’s boasting in front of Wonkru. All the Wonkru members fully accept it while only Bellamy and Clarke are looking at her with WTF? faces.

She also says “Wonkru doesn’t retreat” And then orders retreat at the end of the episode. She’s not fully delusional.

“That valley is (our home) and we’re taking it back” - Back? When did she/they have it exactly? I guess she may just be considering everything that any of the clans had/where they lived as belonging to Wonkru… but she’s never even been there

“Thanks to you, we’re at war” to Bellamy again (would it have been better to stay locked in the bunker forever?)

“You don’t understand because you’re not one of us”

and finally, she straight up threatens her brother if he keeps questioning her.

During a meal by the campfire at night, while Wonkru are chanting “All of me for all of us”, we find out that Octavia is trying to live by the “Love is weakness” maxim, which is here retconed as something that all Flamekeepers teach all Commanders (and that Gaia is teaching her now, accordingly), rather than just a Titus/Lexa thing, as it seemed in season 3. (Which in itself was a retcon, since it first seemed in season 2 that it was just something Lexa came up with as a result of her tragic experience with losing her lover Costia.) And yes, it’s love in general, not just romantic love. “Love no one, and no one can hurt you”, says Octavia, and she clearly includes her brother in that. Indra rejects that and replies with “I love you”, asking if that makes her weak. This is a recurring theme in the show: Clarke and Octavia have both gone through “Love is weakness” phase. (And now in season 7, it’s time for Bellamy - only this time, this idea came to him in the form “love is selfish”, and that he should love all mankind rather than focus on love for individual people.)

Clarke finds something “beautiful” and impressive in Wonkru’s unity - maybe because she has been alone for so long. The long isolation has changed her - she seems less assertive when she’s around others, although, to be fair, it doesn’t help that she’s not in the position to be a part of the leadership while they are around Wonkru. But she’s also shy and vulnerable when Bellamy - after telling her how amazing she was for surviving so long on her own - tries to make her talk about that time. She starts saying “Well, I wasn’t alone” - and if she immediately answered “I had Madi”, that would be nothing strange, but the way Clarke makes a long awkward pause and seems to catch herself, before saying “I had Madi”, and then quickly leaves, almost as if running away - suggest that maybe she was, for a moment, thinking and going to say something else - something about radio calls that allowed her to keep her sanity. Subsequent events have certainly supported this interpretation - we will learn in 5x13 that Clarke has been keeping it a secret from Bellamy (when Madi tells him, she says “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this”), and when Bellamy finally reveals in 6x01 that he knows about them, Clarke is again very shy and embarrassed and almost runs away from the conversation.

But at this point, Bellamy doesn’t know any of that, and I don’t think he understands Clarke’s state of mind. To him, it must seem like she’s withdrawing into herself. 

Later on, the two of them get another moment, and this time it’s Clarke’s turn to tell Bellamy how awesome he is. She praises him for not killing the prisoners in cryo and for saving her, and says “the Heart and the Head” - recalling their conversation from over 6 years ago,. in 4x13, when she told him to use his head and not just his heart. She’s saying that he’s using both his heart and his head now. Bellamy repeats “The Heart and the Head”, and I believe that’s the first time they’ve said that phrase to each other. Now they have another canon catchphrase to describe their relationship, in addition to “Together”. (They will say it again - a little different - in 6x10: “The Head and the Heart”.)  Clarke then asks Bellamy “What does your head say about fighting a war (etc.)” and he replies “Same as yours”. Which is just crying for a callback to happen in the final season. Will we get Bellamy and Clarke saying “What does your heart say…”?

Clarke - in a rare moment of medically treating someone (something she did a lot in season 1, but rarely after that), saves Octavia’s life from the worms. And - in one of her better moments in this episode - Octavia thanks for her saving her life. Sadly, their relationship is not going to be that harmonious in the rest of S5.

And at the end of this episode - more reunions! The rover comes with Madi, Monty, Harper and Echo, with three memorable reunion moments:

I love the moment when Monty greets Octavia (he still has no idea how much she has changed) and she greets him back with the most awkward smile ever. It’s like she isn’t sure if she can be Octavia now that she’s Blodreina but she’s acting like her old self for a moment with an old friend who has no idea what she’s like now. 

And this is just moments after she has threatened her brother. This camerawork in this episode is quite interesting - the way it plays with focus. When Octavia threatens Bellamy, while Clarke looks at them, concerned, we have Octavia/Bellamy in focus and Clarke out of it, and then the reverse.

And then in the reunion scene at the end, after we see Clarke and Madi running into each other’s arms for a big hug, and then we also see Echo and Bellamy running towards each other - it’s interesting and very telling that. as we see Clarke and Madi hugging and Bellamy and Echo kissing, in the same frame, the Becho kiss is out of focus throughout, while the camera zooms on Clarke’s reaction. While the first Becho kiss we saw (in 5x01) served the purpose to reveal the relationship to the audience, this time, the kiss is there just for Clarke’s and Octavia’s reactions to it, and this frame screams - what matters here is Clarke finding out about Becho.

Does this look familiar? Oh yes, we saw the same kind of scene and the exact same facial expression from Clarke in 1x05 when she learned that Finn had a girlfriend.

(But in case you ignored this moment, since it’s subtle - the dramatic music only starts with Octavia’s reaction to seeing her brother with her old enemy, which is the cliffhanger - don’t worry, you’ll get another scene of Clarke looking sad while Becho are kissing, in the next episode.)

And here’s the (melo)dramatic cliffhanger! I guess the audience is supposed to be on Bellamy’s and Echo’s side as Octavia is showing once again she can stare daggers - but I suspect many were on Octavia’s side on this one, since we’re pretty much in the same boat as Octavia and Clarke -, for us and for them, comes from nowhere, after we’ve only known them as enemies. Especially Octavia - Clarke did spend semi-amicable moments with Echo and witness Bellamy spending them just before Praimfaya. Octavia's last memories of Echo are… Echo mortally wounding Ilian, Bellamy almost strangling Echo for trying to kill Octavia/cheat them all out of the bunker, and Octavia banishing Echo. and Echo briefly trying to threaten her with telling the other Grounders about the Skaikru rebellion.

Was this really necessary in terms of the conflict between the Blakes? I don’t think so. They’ve already been butting heads over Octavia’s leadership and actions and her intention to fight a war - but yay, we are getting an episode centered around Octavia objecting to Bellamy’s girlfriend, which will ultimately go nowhere and matter little in terms of overall Bellamy/Octavia relationship this season.

Body count: 12 Wonkru members died: Obika died a horrible death from mutant worms. (His death will haunt Miller, who was with him when he was attacked by the worm, during the red sun eclipse in 6x02, when Miller hallucinated having bugs inside of him and yelled he would end up the same as Obika.) 11 other Wonkru members died from Diyoza’s missile, which means there are 801 left.

Rating: 6/10

#the 100 #the 100 rewatch #the 100 5x04 #shifting sands #the 100 season 5 #octavia blake #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #charmaine diyoza #abby griffin #marcus kane

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: My granddaughter is 16 and in the us navy sea cadet program here in the USA. She hopes to become a naval aviator. She love reading military books. Any recommendations for her. Her mom says she reads anything military from equipment to history. I could use advice on a reading list to buy books for her. William Law

Thank you William for sending me this. It’s certainly one of the most interesting asks I’ve ever had the pleasure to reply to because it involves my love of Classics and also being a former military aviator.

So I put some thought into it because I can sense a kindred spirit in your grand daughter. She must be a remarkable young girl if she is as focused and committed as you say she is in terms of her life goals. If I may say so she is also blessed to have a grandfather like you who recognises the value of reading books to aid her and inspire her.

I have tried to confine myself to the narrow parameters of recommending books that can appeal to a precocious teenager that have a connection to naval and maritime themes (rather than the landed military) and have a general connection to women in the navy or as aviators. So the list is broken into personal memoirs, naval and maritime history, fictional works, and finally a select Classics list.

If you will indulge me I have included the Classics because I firmly believe a grounding in the Classics (from as early age as possible) is so culturally enriching and personally rewarding. In my experience the wisest military leaders and veterans I have ever had the privilege of knowing were grounded in the Classics.

To my mind Classic history, literature and poetry belongs in any library relating to maritime affairs. It provides a flavour of sea life, helping strategists understand this alien element. Just as important, it enlivens the topic. As you will know, ships and fleets do not make history; people do.

It is by no means a comprehensive list but something to start with. I’ve decided not to give you a bullet point laundry list but add some notes of my own because I found it fun to do - and in doing so I found myself looking back on my teenage years with equal icky amounts of embarrassment, regret, foolishness, fun, and joy. 

1. Personal memoirs

West with the Night by Beryl Markham

‘Poetry in flight’ best describes this 1942 memoir from aviatrix Beryl Markham of bush flying in Africa and long-distance flight, which includes her solo flight across the Atlantic. Lyrical and expressive her descriptions of the adventure of flying continue to inspire generations of women pilots, including myself when I learned to fly.

Markham was a colonial child and was raised by her father on a remote farm in Njoro, British East Africa (present-day Kenya). After a tomboyish childhood spent roaming the Kenyan wilds, she moved upcountry to Molo, becoming a racehorse trainer. There she saw her first plane and met British pilot Tom Black, who became her flight instructor and lover. Soon Markham earned her commercial pilot’s license, the first woman in Kenya to do so, and began to freelance as a bush pilot. Much of West With the Night concerns itself with this period in Markham’s life, detailing her flights in an Avro Avian biplane running supplies to remote outposts or scouting game for safaris.

Since airfields were essentially nonexistent in Africa at the time, Markham’s flights were particularly dangerous, punctuated with white-knuckle landings in forest clearings and open fields. In fact the dangers of African flying claimed the lives of a number of aviators. Markham eloquently describes her own search for a downed pilot: “Time and distance together slip smoothly past the tips of my wings without sound, without return, as I peer downward over the night-shadowed hollows of the Rift Valley and wonder if Woody, the lost pilot, could be there, a small pinpoint of hope and of hopelessness listening to the low, unconcerned song of the Avian - flying elsewhere.”

Markham’s memoir shies away from personal details - she is rumoured to have had an affair with an English prince - and straightforward chronology, instead focusing on vivid scenes gathered from a well-lived life. Rarely does one encounter such an evocative sense of a time and place as she creates. The heat and dust of Africa emanate from her prose. Anyone interested in aviation, in Africa, or in simply reading an absorbing book will find much to like in its pages. Ernest Hemingway, a friend and fellow safari enthusiast, wrote of Markham’s memoir, “I wish you would get it and read it because it really is a bloody wonderful book.”

It is a bloody brilliant book and it’s one of the books closest to my heart as it personally resonated with my nomadic life growing up in foreign countries where once the British empire made its mark.

I first read it on my great aunt’s Kenyan tea farm during the school holidays in England. I got into huge trouble for taking a treasured first edition - personally signed by Markham herself - from the library of my great aunt without permission. My great aunt - not an easy woman to get on with given her questionable eccentricities - wrote a stern letter to the head teacher of my girls’ boardng school in England that the schools standards and moral Christian teachings must be in terminal decline if girls were encouraged to pilfer books willy nilly from other people’s bookshelves and thus she would not - as an alum herself - be donating any more money to the school. It was one more sorry blot in my next school report.

Fly Girls: How Five Daring Women Defied All Odds and Made Aviation History by Keith O’Brien

For pioneering pilots of the 1920s and 1930s, the challenges were enormous. For women it was even more daunting. In this marvellous history, Keith O’Brien recounts the early years of aviation through a generation of American female pilots who carved out a place for themselves and their sisterhood. Despite the sensation they created, each “went missing in her own way.” This is the inspiring untold story of five women from very different walks of life - including a New York socialite, an Oakland saleswoman, a Florida dentist’s secretary and a Boston social worker - who fought and competed against men in the  high-stakes national air races of the 1920s and 1930s — and won.

Between the world wars, no sport was more popular, or more dangerous, than airplane racing. Thousands of fans flocked to multi-day events, and cities vied with one another to host them. The pilots themselves were hailed as dashing heroes who cheerfully stared death in the face. Well, the men were hailed. Female pilots were more often ridiculed than praised for what the press portrayed as silly efforts to horn in on a manly and deadly pursuit. The derisive press dubbed the first women’s national air race “The Powder Puff Derby.”

It’s a brisk, spirited history of early aviation focused on 5 irrepressible women. Florence Klingensmith, a high-school dropout who worked for a dry cleaner in Fargo, North Dakota, and who trained as a mechanic so she could learn planes inside and out but whose first aviation job was as a stunt girl, standing on a wing in her bathing suit. Louise McPhetridge Thaden a girl who grew up as a tomboy and later became the mother of two young kids who got her start selling coal in Wichita. Ruth Elder, an Alabama divorcee was determined to be the first woman to fly across the Atlantic. Amelia Earhart was of course the most famous, but not necessarily the most skilled. Ruth Nichols who chafed at the constraints of her blue-blood family's expectations of marrying into wealth and into high society.

In 1928, when women managed to get jobs in other male dominated fields, fewer than 12 had a pilot’s license, and those ambitious for prizes and recognition faced entrenched sexism from the men who ran air races, backed fliers, and financed the purchase of planes. They decided to organise: “For our own protection,” one of them said, “we must learn to think for ourselves, and do as much work as possible on our planes.” Although sometimes rivals in the air, they forged strong friendships and offered one another unabated encouragement. O’Brien vividly recounts the dangers of early flight: In shockingly rickety planes, pilots sat in open cockpits, often blinded by ice pellets or engine smoke; instruments were unreliable, if they worked at all; sudden changes in weather could be life threatening. Fliers regularly emerged from their planes covered in dust and grease. Crashes were common, with planes bursting into flames; but risking injury and even death failed to dampen the women’s passion to fly. And yet their bravery was only scoffed at by male prejudice. Iconic  oilman Erle Halliburton believed, “Women are lacking in certain qualities that men possess.” Florence Klingensmith’s crash incited a debate about allowing menstruating women to fly.

And yet these women still took off in wooden crates loaded with gasoline. They flew over mountains, deserts and seas without radar or even radios. When they came down, they knew that their landings might be their last. But together, they fought for the chance to race against the men - and in 1936 one of them would triumph in the toughest race of all. And When Louise Thaden became the first woman to win a national race, even the great Charles Lindbergh fell curiously silent.

O'Brien nicely weaves together the stories of these five remarkable women in the spirit of Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff who broke the glass ceiling to achieve greatness.

Thoughts of a Philosophical Fighter Pilot by James Stockdale

Thoughts on issues of character, leadership, integrity, personal and public virtue, and ethics, the selections in this volume converge around the central theme of how man can rise with dignity to prevail in the face of adversity- lessons just as valid for the challenges of present-day life as they were for the author’s Vietnam experience.Vice Admiral James Stockdale, a senior research fellow at the Hoover Institution, served in the U.S. Navy from 1947 to 1979, beginning as a test pilot and instructor at Patuxent River, Maryland, and spending two years as a graduate student at Stanford University. He became a fighter pilot and was shot down on his second combat tour over North Vietnam, becoming a prisoner of war for eight years, four in solitary confinement. The highest-ranking naval officer held during the Vietnam War, he was tortured fifteen times and put in leg irons for two years. It’s a book that makes you think how much character is important in good at anything, especially being a thoughtful and wise leader in the heat of battle.

Make Your Bed: Little Things That Can Change Your Life And Maybe The World by Admiral William H. McRaven   On May 17, 2014, Admiral William H. McRaven addressed the graduating class of the University of Texas at Austin on their Commencement day. Taking inspiration from the university's slogan, "What starts here changes the world," he shared the ten principles he learned during Navy Seal training that helped him overcome challenges not only in his training and long Naval career, but also throughout his life; and he explained how anyone can use these basic lessons to change themselves-and the world-for the better.

Admiral McRaven's original speech went viral with over 10 million views.

Building on the core tenets laid out in his speech, McRaven now recounts tales from his own life and from those of people he encountered during his military service who dealt with hardship and made tough decisions with determination, compassion, honour, and courage.

The book is told with great humility and optimism. It provides simple wisdom, practical advice, and words of encouragement that will inspire readers to achieve more, even in life's darkest moments.

Service: A Navy SEAL at War by Marcus Luttrell with James D. Hornfischer 

Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell is more known for his other famous best seller Lone Survivor but this one I think is also a thrilling war story, Service is above all a profoundly moving tribute to the warrior brotherhood, to the belief that nobody goes it alone, and no one will be left behind. Luttrell returned from his star-crossed mission in Afghanistan with his bones shattered and his heart broken. So many had given their lives to save him-and he would have readily done the same for them. As he recuperated, he wondered why he and others, from America's founding to today, had been willing to sacrifice everything - including themselves-for the sake of family, nation, and freedom.

In Service, we follow Marcus Luttrell to Iraq, where he returns to the battlefield as a member of SEAL Team 5 to help take on the most dangerous city in the world: Ramadi, the capital of war-torn Al Anbar Province. There, in six months of high-intensity urban combat, he would be part of what has been called the greatest victory in the history of US Special Operations forces. We also return to Afghanistan and Operation Redwing, where Luttrell offers powerful new details about his miraculous rescue.

Throughout, he reflects on what it really means to take on a higher calling, about the men he's seen lose their lives for their country, and the legacy of those who came and bled before. I did rub shoulders with the US special forces community out on my time in Afghanistan and whilst their public image deifies them I found them to be funny, pranksters, humble, brave, and down to earth beer guzzling hogs who cheerfully cheat at cards.

The Spirit of St. Louis by Charles A. Lindbergh

Being one of the classics in aviation history, this well written book is an epic aviator’s adventure tale of all time. Charles Lindbergh is best known for its famous nonstop flight from New York to Paris in 1927 as it changed the history of aviation. “The Spirit of St. Louis” takes the reader on an extraordinary trans-Atlantic journey in a single-engine plane. As well as provides insight into the early history of American aviation and includes some great fuel conservation tips!

20 Hrs. 40 mins by Amelia Earhart

How can any woman pilot not be inspired by Amelia Earhart?  Earhart's first transatlantic flight of June 1928 during which she flew as a passenger accompanying pilot Wilmer Stultz and co-pilot Louis Gordon. The team departed from Trepassey Harbor, Newfoundland, in a Fokker F.VIIb/3m on 17 June 1928, landing at Pwll near Burry Port, South Wales, exactly 20 hours and 40 minutes later. The book is an interesting read but I much prefer her other book written in 1932 The Fun Of It. The book is Earhart's account of her growing obsession with flying, the final chapter of which is a last minute addition chronicling her historic solo transatlantic flight of 1932. The work contains the mini-record of Earhart's international broadcast from London on 22 May 1932. Earhart set out from Harbour Grace, Newfoundland on 20 May 1932. After a flight lasting 14 hours and 56 minutes Earhart landed in a pasture at Culmore, north of Derry, Northern Ireland. The work also includes a list of other works on aviation written by women, emblematic of Earhart's desire to promote women aviators.

2. Naval and military history

The U.S. Navy: A Concise History by Craig L Symonds

Symonds’s The U.S. Navy: A Concise History is a fantastic book from one of the doyennes of US naval history. I cannot think of any other work on the US Navy that provides such a thorough overview of American naval policy, navy combat operations, leadership, technology, and culture in such a succinct manner. This book is perfect for any reader - young or old -  just wading into the waters of naval history and not knowing where to start, or for someone who wishes to learn a little bit about each era of the navy, from its founding to its modern-day mission and challenges.

His other distinguished works are more in depth - mostly about the Second World War such as the Battle of Midway and the Normandy landings - but this is a good introduction to his magisterial books. His latest book came out in 2019 called World War II at Sea: A Global History. I have not read this yet but from others who have they say it is a masterful overview of the war at sea.

Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy by Ian W. Toll

Before the ink was dry on the U.S. Constitution, the establishment of a permanent military became the most divisive issue facing the new government. The founders - particularly Jefferson, Madison, and Adams - debated fiercely. Would a standing army be the thin end of dictatorship? Would a navy protect from pirates or drain the treasury and provoke hostility? Britain alone had hundreds of powerful warships.

From the decision to build six heavy frigates, through the cliff-hanger campaign against Tripoli, to the war that shook the world in 1812, Ian W. Toll tells this grand tale with the political insight of Founding Brothers and the narrative flair of Patrick O’Brian.

The Pursuit of Victory: The Life and Achievement of Horatio Nelson by Roger Knight

The starting point of Roger Knight’s magnificent new biography is to explain how Nelson achieved such extraordinary success. Knight places him firmly in the context of the Royal Navy at the time. He analyses Nelson’s more obvious qualities, his leadership strengths and his coolness and certainty in battle, and also explores his strategic grasp, the condition of his ships, the skill of his seamen and his relationships with the officers around him – including those who could hardly be called friendly.

This biography takes a shrewd and sober look at Nelson’s status as a hero and demolishes many of the myths that were so carefully established by the early authors, and repeated by their modern successors.

While always giving Nelson his due, Knight never glosses over the character flaws of his heroic subject. Nelson is seen essentially as a "driven" personality, craving distinction in an age increasingly coloured by notions of patriotic heroism, traceable back to the romantic (and entirely unrealistic) depiction of the youthful General James Wolfe dying picturesquely at the moment of victory in 1759. Nor does Knight take Nelson's side in dealing with that discreditable phase in 1798-99, when he is influenced, much for the worse, by his burgeoning involvement with Lady Hamilton at Naples and Palermo. Knight accepts that this interlude has left an indelible stain on Nelson's naval and personal record. But he traces the largely destructive course of Nelson's passion for Emma with appropriate sensitivity.

Nelson was a shrewd political operator who charmed and impressed political leaders and whose advancement was helped by the relatively weak generation of admirals above him. He was a difficult subordinate, only happy when completely in command, and capable of great ruthlessness. Yes he was flawed, but Nelson's flaws, including his earlier petulance in dealing with higher naval authority - only brought fully under control towards the end of his career - pale before his remarkable strengths. His outstanding physical and moral courage and his inspired handling of officers and men are repeatedly and effectively illustrated.

1812: The Navy’s War by George C. Daughan

When war broke out between Britain and the United States in 1812, America’s prospects looked dismal. British naval aggression made it clear that the ocean would be the war’s primary battlefield - but America’s navy, only twenty ships strong, faced a practiced British fleet of more than a thousand men-of-war.

Still, through a combination of nautical deftness and sheer bravado, a handful of heroic captains and their stalwart crews managed to turn the tide of the war, besting the haughty skippers of the mighty Royal Navy and cementing America’s newly won independence.

In 1812: The Navy’s War, award-winning naval historian George C. Daughan draws on a wealth of archival research to tell the amazing story of this tiny, battle tested team of Americans and their improbable yet pivotal victories. Daughan thrillingly details the pitched naval battles that shaped the war, and shows how these clashes proved the navy’s vital role in preserving the nation’s interests and independence. This well written history is the first complete account in more than a century of how the U.S. Navy rescued the fledgling nation and secured America’s future. Daughan’s prose is first-rate, and his rousing accounts of battles at sea will certainly appeal to a popular audience. 

I was given this book as a tongue in cheek gift from an American friend who was an ex-US Marine officer with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was obviously trying to rib me as good friends do. But I really did enjoy this book.

Among the most interesting insights is Daughan’s judgment on the effect of the American invasion attempts in Canada; all ultimately defeated. Demanded by enthusiastic War Hawks unencumbered by knowledge or experience who predicted that the Canadians would flock to U.S. banners, these incursions became the groundwork for a unified Iraq Canada - Ha!

What I liked was the fact that Daughan places the war in its crucial European context, explaining in detail how the course of the Napoleonic Wars shaped British and American decision making and emphasising the North American theatre’s secondary status to the European conflict. While they often verbally castigated Napoleon’s imperial ambitions, American leaders were in the uncomfortable position of needing Napoleon to keep winning while they fought Britain, and his defeat and (first) exile to Elba prompted an immediate scramble to negotiate a settlement. Despite its significance, few historians have bothered to systematically place the War of 1812 in the context of the Napoleonic Wars, and Daughan’s book does exactly that.

Empires of the Seas: The Siege of Malta, The Battle of Lepanto, and the Contest for the Centre of the World by Roger Crowley

In 1521, Suleiman the Magnificent, the great Muslim ruler of the Ottoman Empire, dispatched an invasion fleet to the Christian island of Rhodes. This would prove to be the opening shot in an epic clash between rival empires and faiths for control of the Mediterranean and the center of the world.

In Empires of the Sea, acclaimed historian Roger Crowley has written a thrilling account of this brutal decades-long battle between Christendom and Islam for the soul of Europe, a fast-paced tale of spiralling intensity that ranges from Istanbul to the Gates of Gibraltar.

Crowley conjures up a wild cast of pirates, crusaders, and religious warriors struggling for supremacy and survival in a tale of slavery and galley warfare, desperate bravery and utter brutality.

Empires of the Sea is a story of extraordinary colour and incident, and provides a crucial context for our own clash of civilisations.

One hundred Days: The Memoirs of the Falklands Battle Group Commander by Admiral Sandy Woodward RN

Written by the man who masterminded the British victory in the Falklands, this engrossing memoir chronicles events in the spring of 1982 following Argentina’s takeover of the South Atlantic islands. Admiral Sandy Woodward, a brilliant military tactician, presents a complete picture of the British side of the battle. From the defeat of the Argentine air forces to the sinking of the Belgrano and the daring amphibious landing at Carlos Water, his inside story offers a revealing account of the Royal Navy’s successes and failures.

At times reflective and personal, Woodward imparts his perceptions, fears, and reactions to seemingly disastrous events. He also reveals the steely logic he was famous for as he explains naval strategy and planning. His eyewitness accounts of the sinking of HMS Sheffield and the Battle of Bomb Alley are memorable.

Many in Whitehall and the armed forces considered Woodward the cleverest man in the navy. French newspapers called him “Nelson.” Margaret Thatcher said he was precisely the right man to fight the world’s first computer war. Without question, the admiral’s memoir makes a significant addition to the official record.

At the same time it provides readers with a vivid portrayal of the world of modern naval warfare, where equipment is of astonishing sophistication but the margins for human courage and error are as wide as in the days of Nelson.

3. Fiction

The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk

The majestic novel that inspired the classic Hollywood film The Caine Mutiny with Humphrey Bogart. Herman Wouk's boldly dramatic, brilliantly entertaining novel of life-and mutiny-on a US Navy warship in the Pacific theatre was immediately embraced, upon its original publication in 1951, as one of the first serious works of American fiction to grapple with the moral complexities and the human consequences of World War II.

The Sand Pebbles by Richard McKenna

It’s a fantastic novel that inspired a Steve McQueen film of the same name. Watch the movie if you haven’t, but read the book. It’s impossible to do a story of this sweep justice in two hours, even with the great McQueen starring.

Naval friends tell me The Sand Pebbles has been a fixture on the US Chief of Naval Operations’ Professional development reading list, and thus all mariners should be encouraged to read. And it’s easy to tell why. Most American seafarers will interact with the Far East in this age of the pivot, as indeed they have for decades.

Told through the eyes of a junior enlisted man, The Sand Pebbles recounts the deeds of the crew of the fictional U.S. Navy gunboat San Pablo during the turbulent 1920s, when various parties were vying for supremacy following the overthrow of China’s Qing Dynasty.

It’s a book about the mutual fascination, and sometimes repulsion, between Americans and Chinese; the tension between American missionaries and the sailors entrusted with protecting them; and China’s descent into chaos following the collapse of dynastic rule.

How do you separate fact from fiction or myth when writing a historical novel. Wisely, McKenna lets the reader to conclude there’s an element of myth to all accounts of history. Causality - what factors brought about historical events - is in the eye of the beholder. The best an author of historical fiction can do, then, is devote ample space to all contending myths and leave it up to readers to judge. Sailors, missionaries, and ordinary Chinese get their say in his pages, to illuminating effect. Authors report, the readers decide.

Ghost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War by P.W. Singer and August Cole 

The United States, China, and Russia eye each other across a twenty-first century version of the Cold War, which suddenly heats up at sea, on land, in the air, in outer space, and in cyberspace. The fighting involves everything from stealthy robotic–drone strikes to old warships from the navy’s “ghost fleet.” Fighter pilots unleash a Pearl Harbor-style attack; American veterans become low-tech insurgents; teenage hackers battle in digital playgrounds; Silicon Valley billionaires mobilise for cyber-war; and a serial killer carries out her own vendetta. Ultimately, victory will depend on blending the lessons of the past with the weapons of the future.

The book’s title, Ghost Fleet, comes from an expression used in the U.S. Navy that refers to partially or fully decommissioned ships kept in reserve for potential use in future conflict. These ships, as one might imagine, are older and naturally less technologically sophisticated than their modern counterparts. Singer and Cole cleverly use this concept, retiring older ships and weaponry in favour of newer versions with higher technological integration, to illustrate a key motif in the book: while America’s newest generation of warfighting machinery and gear is capable of inflicting greater levels of punishment, it is also vulnerable to foreign threats in ways that its predecessors were not. The multi-billion dollar, next generation F-35 aircraft, for instance, is rendered powerless after it is revealed that Chinese microprocessor manufacturers had implanted malicious code into products intended for the jet.

I’m a huge sucker for intelligently written thrillers and I found Ghost Fleet to be a page-turning speculative thriller in the spirit of Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October. The debut novel by two leading experts on the cutting edge of national security, it is unique in that every trend and technology featured in the novel - no matter how sci-fi it may seem - is real, or could be soon.

Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian (Aubery-Maturin series)

This, the first of twenty in the splendid series of the famous Jack Aubrey novels, establishes the friendship between Captain Jack Aubrey, R.N., and Stephen Maturin, ship’s Irish-Catalan surgeon and intelligence agent, against a thrilling backdrop of the Napoleonic wars. Details of a life aboard a man-of-war in Nelson’s navy are faultlessly rendered: the conversational idiom of the officers in the ward room and the men on the lower deck, the food, the floggings, the mysteries of the wind and the rigging, and the roar of broadsides as the great ships close in battle.

I have the first editions of some of the series and I have treasured them ever since I read them as a teenager. I felt like stowing away on the first ship I could find in Plymouth. The Hollywood film version by Peter Weir with Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey is a masterful swashbuckling film and perhaps a delightful way into the deeper riches of the other novels in the epic series.

Beat to Quarters by C.S. Forester (Horatio Hornblower series)

Horatio Hornblower remains for many the best known and most loved of these British naval heroes of Napoleonic Age. In ten books Forester recounts Hornblower's rise from midshipman to admiral, during the British navy's confrontation with Revolutionary and Napoleonic France. For readers, the books work as a window into history because of the outstanding details that appear in these books. Through this singular series, according to critics, C.S. Forrester - like Patrick O’Brian - has contributed his own uniqueness to the confluence of fact and fiction.

They are above all ‘ripping good yarns’, with fast-moving plots, stirring battle scenes, lively dialogue, and vivid characters, but they also offer a picture of the British navy during the period; and Hornblower himself is an original and memorable literary creation as fictionally charismatic as James Bond.

Young Hornblower is introspective, morose, self-doubting. He is crippled by the fear that he does not have the qualities to  command other men. He is harder on himself than anyone else would dare to be – and is, simply, one of the most complete creations of character in fiction. This is why many teenagers love Hornblower because they can see something of themselves in his adventures from from chronic self-doubt to soaring swashbuckling self-confidence. Hornblower is much more relatable than the brooding seasoned Jack Aubrey for instance.

I recommend reading the books in the order they were written rather than chronologically. In the first written novel, Beat to Quarters (also published as The Happy Return), we find Hornblower in command of a frigate in lonely Pacific waters off Spanish Central America. He has to deal with a mad revolutionary, fight single-ship duels with a larger vessel, and cope with Lady Barbara Wellesley (who provides a romantic interest to the series).

In A Ship of the Line Hornblower is sent into the Mediterranean, where he wreaks havoc on French coastal communications before plunging into a battle against the odds. Flying Colours is mostly set in France: in it Hornblower escapes captivity and returns to England a hero. In The Commodore he is sent with a squadron into the Baltic, where he has to cope with the complex politics of the region as well as helping with the siege of Riga. And in Lord Hornblower a mutiny leads to involvement with the fall of Napoleon — and brings him to prison and a death sentence during the Hundred Days. Forester then went back and described Hornblower's earlier career. Lieutenant Hornblower is perhaps my favourite of the Hornblower books.

Piece of cake by Derek Robinson

It’s an epic tome covering the opening twelve months of World War Two, from the phony war in France to the hasty retreat back across the Channel and then the valiant stand against the might of the Luftwaffe in what became known as the Battle of Britain.

The book follows the exploits of the fictional Hornet squadron and its members, a group of men who work hard and play harder. Though fiction, this immaculately researched novel based on an RAF Hurricane fighter squadron in 1940 highlights the ill-preparedness of Britain in the early stages of Word War Two.

Its British black humour is on full throttle with its nuanced observations of class politics and institutional ineptness. The manic misfits, heroes and bullies of Hornet Squadron discover that aerial combat is nothing like what they have been trained for. The writing sears the reader’s brain and produces some of the finest writing on the air war ever put to paper.

Be warned, though, this story isn’t about one specific character or ‘hero’. Indeed, just as you get to know a pilot, they are either chopped or killed; such is the nature of war in the air. Even though this is initially frustrating, you soon come to realise just how authentic Robinson’s storytelling is, and that this is exactly what it must have been like to be part of an RAF squadron on active service, never knowing who of your comrades would be alive from day to day. And, although the war proper for Hornet squadron doesn’t start until late in the book, when it does come the rendition of the dogfights in the air are so gripping that you’ll feel like you are actually there, sat next to the pilot in his cramped Hurricane cockpit, as Messerschmitt 109s scream by spitting death from all points of the compass.

All in all, this is a thoroughly entertaining (and educational) novel, and a must read for anyone interested in the RAF and how so few stood against so many. It has the dark humour of Heller’s Catch 22 but with a very distinctive British humour that can be lost on other foreigners. I recommend it as a honest and healthy antidote to anyone thinking of all pilots and the brave deeds they do in some deified light when in fact they are human and flawed as anyone else. Anyone who’s ever been a pilot will recognise some archetype in their own real life in this darkly comic British novel.

Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad

Lord Jim has it all. It's not just a novel of the sea but a work of moral philosophy.

Night Flight by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

In my humble opinion the greatest aviation fiction book ever written. It made the celebrated French aviator famous and Antoine de Saint-Exupery would go on to write the timeless classic The Little Prince.

Saint-Exupéry, though born into French nobility was always the odd one out as a child. Portly but jovial, he had bags of courage and curiosity to match his thirst for adventure and travel. He doggedly pursued his dream of becoming a pioneering pilot. In the 1930s he was an airline pilot who flew the north African and south Atlantic mail routes. During the long lonely hours in the cockpit he had enough time to accumulate experience and reflections which could be fit into Night Flight.

The novel itself narrates the terrifying story of Fabien, a pilot who conducted night mail planes, from Patagonia, Chile, and Paraguay to Argentina in the early days of commercial aviation when it was dangerous and pilots died often in horrendous accidents. The book romantically captures the danger and loneliness of these early commercial pilots, blazing routes in the days before radar, GPS and jet engines.

Night Flight is a good gateway into his other aviation themed books. Each of them are magical in capturing the austere feelings of seeing the world and its landscapes from above. Southern Mail, The Aviator, and Wind, Sand and Stars are fantastic reads.

Night Flight is inspiring for every pilot by sharing a unique magic of piloting an airplane.

These books changed my life as it inspired me to fly as a late teen. I still re-read Saint-Exupery’s writings sometimes as a way to tap into that youthful joy of discovering the wonders of flying a plane and when the impossible was only limited by your will and imagination. I cannot recommend his novels highly enough.

4. Classical

The Odyssey by Homer translated by Emily Wilson

Homer should the read at any age and for all seasons. I’ve chosen Emily Wilson’s recent translation because it’s good and not just because her publication was billed as the first woman to ever translate Homer. Wilson is an Oxford educated Classicist now a professor of Classics at Pennsylvania. Every discussion of Emily Wilson’s Odyssey is prefaced with the fact that hers is the first English translation of the poem by a woman, but it’s worth noting that Caroline Alexander’s Iliad (Ecco 2015) was also published as the first English translation by a woman to much less hoopla (to say nothing of Sarah Ruden’s Aeneid, Yale University Press 2009).

While a woman translating Homer’s epic is certainly a huge milestone, Wilson’s interpretation is a radical, fascinating achievement regardless of her gender. Disregard the marketing hype and the Wilson’s translation of Odysseus’ epic sea voyage home still stands tall for its fast paced narrative.

Compared with her predecessors’, Wilson’s Odyssey feels more readable, more alive: the diction, with some exceptions discussed below, is straightforward, and the lines are short. The effect is to turn the Odyssey into a quick-paced page turner, an experience I’d never had reading this epic poem in translation.

The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians by Thucydides translated by Jeremy Mynott

This is the classic treatise about what is essentially rowboats and spears of one of the most important and defining wars of Western civilisation. A long story of people killing one another, cynically justifying their cruelties in pursuit of power, making gross, stupid and fatal miscalculations, in a world devoid of justice. It's a long, drawn out tragedy without any redeeming or uplifting catharsis. If you are not already an extreme pessimist, you will lose all illusions about the inherent goodness of human beings and the possibility of influencing the course of events for the better after you read this book. You will be sadder but you will be wiser. Thucydides called his account of two decades of war between Athens and Sparta “a possession for all time,” and indeed it is the first and still most famous work in the Western historical tradition.

People look at me in a shocked way when I tell them that you can learn 90 percent of what you need to know about politics and war from Thucydides. Maritime strategy falls among the remaining 10 percent. If you want to read about the making of strategy, Clausewitz & Co. are your go-to works. If you want big thoughts about armed strife pitting a land against a sea power, Thucydides is your man. Considered essential reading for generals, admirals, statesmen, and liberally educated citizens for more than 2,000 years, The Peloponnesian War is a mine of military, naval, moral, political, and philosophical wisdom.

Finding the best and most accessible translation (and commentary) is key otherwise you risk putting off the novice reader (especially the young) from ever taking an interest in the Classical world e.g. I would never give the Thomas Hobbes translation to anyone who is easily bored or is impatient with old English. There are many good modern translations to choose from and here you have Strassler, Blanco, and Lattimore that are more used in America. Richard Crawley’s is the most popular but also the least accurate.

My own personal recommendation would be to go for Jeremy Mynott’s 2013 work which he titled The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians. Mynott was a former publishing head at Cambridge University Press and emeritus fellow of Wolfson College, Cambridge, as well as a leading expert on birds and natural history. Mynott’s aim is to re-introduce Thucydides to the reader in his “proper cultural and historical context”, and to strip back the “anachronistic concepts derived from later developments and theories”. Hence the name of the book: The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, not, as it is usually called today, The Peloponnesian War.

But what is in a name? In this case, a great deal, since it contains Mynott’s mission statement in miniature. He has dropped the conventional name for the work, for which he correctly says there is no evidence from antiquity, in favour of a less one-sided title derived from Thucydides’s opening sentence. This is just one example of the accretions which Mynott’s edition aims to remove, so that the reader can come closer to being able to appreciate Thucydides’s work as it might have been received in classical Greece. In my humble opinion it is a minor miracle that Mynott has achieved in conveying in modern English the literary qualities of this most political of ancient historians.

The Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan

I’m deliberating ignoring Victor David Hanson’s book on the Peloponnesian War (A War Like No Other) not because it’s not good (because it is in parts) but because I prefer Prof. Donald Kagan’s book.  Professor Kagan at Yale is one of the foremost scholars of Ancient Greek history. He has written a concise but thorough history of the Peloponnesian War for a general audience It's not the least bit dry for those with an interest in ancient history. The book’s an easy read. Kagan’s writing style is clear and straightforward.

Like any scholar worth his salt, Kagan is conversant with the scholarly consensus, with which he is for the most part in step, though he occasionally offers alternative scenarios. Much of the book is simply riveting. Like when the Spartan general Brasidas retakes Amphipolis, or the naval battle fought late in the war for control of the Hellespont. Woven throughout is the longer story of the Athenian turncoat, Alcibiades. Kagan’s analysis of the tactics and strategy of the conflict always seems on target. Interestingly, despite their reputations, the aristocratic Spartans usually come across as vacillating and indecisive while the democratic Athenians are aggressive and usually seize opportunity with successful results. Kagan refrains from drawing analogies to modern politics, although there’s certainly plenty of opportunity for it.

Professor Kagan preceded this one-volume history with a four-volume history of the war that took him around 20 years to write. That four volume series is a much more detailed and academic consideration of political motives and military strategy. But with this single volume, Kagan was able to produce a fast-moving tale, full of incident and colourful description easily readable for the general reader.  

Lords of the Sea by John R. Hale

This book spans the history of the Athenian navy, starting with its founder, Themistocles, and carrying the story through to the fall of Athens - its real fall at the hands of Alexander the Great, not the brief unpleasantness at Spartan hands - in 4th century B.C. Along the way Hale furnishes a wealth of details about naval warfare in classical antiquity. Lords of the Sea profiles Athens' seafaring culture fascinatingly, probing subjects on which Thucydides remains silent. An invaluable companion to Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, and a rollicking read to boot.

Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

Meditations is a series of personal writings by Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor 161–180 CE, setting forth his ideas on Stoic philosophy. Marcus Aurelius wrote the 12 books of the Meditations in Koine Greek as a source for his own guidance and self-improvement. It is possible that large portions of the work were written at Sirmium, where he spent much time planning military campaigns from 170 to 180. Some of it was written while he was positioned at Aquincum on campaign in Pannonia, because internal notes tell us that the second book was written when he was campaigning against the Quadi on the river Granova (modern-day Hron) and the third book was written at Carnuntum.

It is not clear that he ever intended the writings to be published, so the title Meditations is but one of several commonly assigned to the collection. These writings take the form of quotations varying in length from one sentence to long paragraphs.

When US Vice-Admiral. James Stockdale was shot down and became a prisoner of war in Vietnam, he attributed his survival to studying stoic philosophies, particularly Marcus Aurelius’ “Meditations.” Aurelius, the Roman emperor, wrote his simple rules for living by candlelight and they have been a source of strength for the thoughtful man of arms or the cultured citizen ever since. I also think teenagers would gain a lot from reading Meditations than endure reading angst-ridden nihilism of many tacky teenage books out there.

SPQR by Mary Beard

Anything by Cambridge Classics professor Mary Beard is worth reading. Everyone loves Mary Beard, fast becoming one of Britain’s national treasure. I’m not just saying all this because she was one of my teachers at Cambridge. I think SPQR is a wonderful book. Ancient Roman history is so very dense and intricate that it can be difficult to teach and learn about. Mary Beard makes it accessible- and she goes through it all, from the early days right up until the present day.

Ancient Rome was an imposing city even by modern standards, a sprawling imperial metropolis of more than a million inhabitants, a "mixture of luxury and filth, liberty and exploitation, civic pride and murderous civil war" that served as the seat of power for an empire that spanned from Spain to Syria. Yet how did all this emerge from what was once an insignificant village in central Italy? Mary Beard provides a sweeping revisionist history to get to grips with this thematic question.

‘SPQR’ is just four letters, but interwoven in those four letters are thousands of years and pages of Roman history. Cicero used to talk about the ’concordia ordinum.’ He said there was a harmony between all the orders in Rome. It’s like a pyramid hierarchy structure. At the top you have the ′senatus′ or the Senate—the aristocrats, the rich men who make decisions. Underneath that you have the ’equites’ who we don’t talk about as much , but they have their own spheres of power. They’ve got a bit of money and are a lower level. And underneath that you’ve got the ’populus’ or the people. SPQR is the harmony between the senatus and the populus and how they work together. That’s where Rome comes from: it’s not just about the Senate. The Senate can’t work without the people and vice versa. So ‘SPQR’ is basically a four-letter summation of the Roman constitution. It’s what it should be, though often isn’t. One of the reasons why - and she writes about this very well - Rome falls apart is because that relationship of harmony and hierarchy does fall apart under Caesar and Pompey in the 1st century BC.

Imperium by Robert Harris

This is one of my favourite novels, even if it weren’t classical, because like all Harris’ books it’s written like a smart thriller. I’m a huge Robert Harris fan. A lot of Robert Harris’ books are quite similar: they have a protagonist and you see the story - all the machinations - through his eyes. In Imperium we see the life of Cicero through the eyes of his slave, Tiro. We know Tiro was a real person, who recorded everything Cicero wrote.

The late Republic is one of my favourite periods of any period of history ever. You get all the figures: Cicero, Caesar, Pompey, Crassus, Octavian, Antony and Cato. Robert Harris paints compelling portraits of these people so nicely that even with Crassus, say, who comes up every so often, you get a sense of who he is. There are actually two more books in the trilogy: Lustrum and Dictator. Once you get to Dictator, you know who Julius Caesar really is, you know why he’s doing it.

#ask #question #books #reading #naval #maritime #classics #literature #fiction #history #personal #war #military #antiquity

[grimoire-of-geekery]

Wicked: a Gamer’s Look at Morality

(pic is from an Etsy store, I really want these dice, they’re freaking gorgeous)

A few years back, I was one of a handful of admin on a roleplaying sim on Second Life, and I was put in charge of teaching basic roleplaying skills to people new to our game.  There’d been a shift in our rule structure, a move towards a more formal rule set very similar to Dungeons and Dragons, and I had to adapt my workshop to reflect that.

Some of you who know me are already cringing on my behalf.  Yep, I’m one of those gamers who loves tabletop roleplaying games, but just... really dislikes D&D.  A lot of my friends already know about my laundry list of complaints (unrelatable magic systems, the ridiculous idea of “evil gods,” unrealistic rules... it’s a long list), and I’m not going to dig too deep into it for this story.  Suffice to say, I have some opinions, and we’ll leave it there.

Ordinarily, I leave my list at home, and just try to avoid playing standard D&D.  This time, however, I had a bunch of friends counting on me to help our players adapt to the new rules, and that meant dealing with some of my prejudices, and turning some of my objections into experiments.  One such experiment, and arguably the most successful one of the set, was an experiment in D&D morality alignment.

I should preface all of this by saying that I told this story in a shorter form on a Facebook group I follow, a DnD players’ group, and that’s what got me thinking about it and wanting to share it with all of you.  Yes, I do realize the irony in being a member of a group centered around a game with which I have so many issues.  I’m a geek, we’re allowed to be inconsistent in the pursuit of our fandoms.  Anyway, someone asked about alignment, and it brought up the whole story for me again, so I’m sharing it with you now (and I’ve also shared it on Facebook), as I feel it’s kind of relevant these days.

Now, those of you who are familiar with D&D already know what the alignments are, but for those new to it: every character you play gets a moral alignment based on a combination of two sets of three traits- Lawful, Neutral, and Chaotic, and Good, Neutral, or Evil.  You can play a Lawful Evil character, a Neutral Good character, a Neutral Neutral (called True Neutral) character, a Chaotic Good character, and so on.

Dungeonmasters and storytellers and writers have expounded for years on what those alignments really mean.  Before we nerds had “what is your Hogwarts House?” quizzes and discussions, we had “what D&D alignment are you?” debates.  And frankly, I always hated the whole system.  What rational person would willingly choose to align themselves with “evil?”  How the hell are you going to find someone who’s objectively “good,” or “neutral” for that matter?  And how about the whole “lawful” vs. “chaotic” concept?  These are none of them rational or practical character motivations or personality frameworks, and they afford players the ability to become unrepentant murderhobos far too easily, to the point where there’s a whole genre of roleplaying centered around that mentality called “hack n slash.”  Like, that’s part of the appeal for some people.  I don’t get it, I don’t enjoy it, and it bothers me enough that I decided to change things around with our new players.

We had a character sheet and some various “character HUDs” that allowed players to use abilities like in a video game, with special effects and such.  They came with an alignment choice.  That alignment choice was set up with a grid of nine cards, each with two letters.  Lawful Good wasn’t spelled out, it was just “LG.”  Likewise, Neutral Evil was “NE.”

This gave me an idea.  A WICKED idea.

I sat my players down, and said to them, “forget what you know about alignments, I’m changing the rules.  We’ll choose your alignment after you design your character.”  They went about the business of designing who they were going to play in our game.  At the end, they were to choose an alignment, based solely on what they thought those letters meant.

They chose.  One guy chose LE because he wanted to play an evil character who still played by the rules.  Another girl chose CN because she wanted, and I quote, “to do whatever she wanted without concern for morality.”  All of the players finished their choices, and that’s when I unveiled the surprise.This is what I told them:

Those of you who chose an E, congratulations, E= Elphaba.  You each get a small starting advantage of some kind- a power boost, like a feat or an extra cantrip.  It’s small, but useful.  However, you also gain an uncanny mark which puts you at a social disadvantage, causing people to vilify you or be intimidated.  Good for intimidation checks, bad for making friends.

Those of you who chose an N, N= Nessarose.  You get a physical disadvantage that causes people to infantilize you.  You may choose a magical method to circumvent the physical side of that disadvantage, but you can’t get rid of the social aspects of it.  Bad for intimidation, good for getting people to feel sorry for you.

Those of you with a G, congrats, you’re all Glinda.  You get a social advantage with strings attached, and a single fatal mental flaw, causing you to miss certain information and misjudge things.  You will be good at making friends and manipulating people, but you’ll also be dependent upon them.  Choose what social group you’re connected to now.

My final declaration: your letter determines what kinds of options you have.  Glindas can’t make decisions that are only available to Nessaroses or Elphabas, and vice versa with all three.  You are limited in your scope, and you will have to deal with the consequences of your actions in a way that’s in keeping with your alignment.  And no, you can’t just choose a new alignment, you’ll have to change it in character through story.

Suddenly, I had a bunch of players who thought they were done with their character creation, scrambling to figure out how to revamp their sheet and make their characters playable.  Naturally, I got a number of “it’s not fair” complaints, and one player stormed out and threw a tantrum.  Eventually, though, we had a large chunk of people with characters which had a lot more intricacy and detail woven into their design than they had previously attempted.  We had players who were actually excited to play with the others, because they no longer knew which way their character would go.

I had left the whole “lawful/neutral/chaotic” thing alone, so people could use it as a touchstone in their behavior choices.  I also gave them the option of changing their alignment in character, with the understanding that the changes would cause them to lose whatever advantages their previous alignment granted them.

The axiomatic side of things actually helped some of the players understand character motives and moral choice, which was awesome.  They learned that the letters are in that order for a reason- Lawful Good instead of Good Lawful, because the axiomatic aspect was about choosing for oneself, and the moral aspect was for how one deals with one’s consequences.

People who are good aren’t people who only ever do good.  People make mistakes, they screw up, they lose their footing or have bad judgment or get confused or experience temporary states of insanity.  People who are evil aren’t people who only ever do evil.

Being “good” is about accountability, about accepting that not everything is about us.  A “good” person is someone who chooses to accept that their choices affect the world in ways they cannot always predict, and that they will one day have to pay the piper for their actions.  They accept their accountability for their actions, they endeavor (rationally, and in a way that serves them as much as anyone else) to make the world a better place for everyone, even if it’s just in small ways.

A “neutral” person is someone unconcerned with consequences.  Maybe they just are in it for the experience, maybe they see no moral quandary with their actions or their situation.  Maybe they’re not able to see the longer view, or they haven’t had a reason to look yet.  Maybe they’re not in a phase of their life where they’re interested in responsibility.  Neutral isn’t a way to drive though.  It’s the setting in your car for “not going anywhere.”  A person is neutral when they’re reactive, and they’re often not thinking about whether their reactions are acceptable or not.

Conversely, an “evil” person is someone who refuses to be accountable.  They don’t just ignore consequences, they aren’t ever wrong, and their constant efforts are towards advantage and maintaining their position at the top of the heap.  They don’t have to answer to anyone for anything they do, not even themselves.  Maybe they have a nihilistic “nothing matters anyway” philosophy about the world.  Maybe they’re convinced that the ends justify the means.  The difference between them and the other types is, their choices are corrupting and make the world a little harder to live in for everyone involved.  Not that they care, they sleep just fine, thanks.

Now, I have been all three of these people at one point in my life, and I’ve learned that there aren’t good or evil people, just choices and consequences and how you deal with both.  I’ve learned that I’m pretty much never okay with being a neutral person, it stresses me out.  I’ve also learned that I’m not fond of evil at all, because I genuinely like life and the world we live in.  So, good it is, as often as possible, even if it’s just in small ways.

I think it’s important, especially now, for us to recognize that chaos can be good, that law can be evil (and obviously vice versa), and that being neutral is rarely the way forward.  Nobody who strives to make the world better for themselves or those they care about ever thinks they’re doing evil.  And, they’re right, because they’re not doing evil or good.  Good and evil are in the consequences, they’re in how they’re going to deal with the fallout of their mistakes, or how they’re going to handle their success or good fortune.

Those of you looking for good in the world?  Do good, even if it’s small.  Don’t worry about being perfect, focus on making a small difference and making the world a better place.  I promise you, it’s never a bad choice.  And if you have to get a little Wicked to do it, that’s fine.  Chaos can be good.  So can law.  And only those who don’t value good would not try to make good out of both.

Addendum: maybe this is important, maybe not, but out of twelve players I instructed in that class (I went back and counted names in my records), none of them ever tried to change their alignment.  They all became very fond of their character’s personality and identity, and felt no need to change what they’d fought hard to develop and understand.  When a person’s identity is in question, it can often become a fight for survival to change one’s behavior.  To be different means that the old self dies, and nobody takes death well.  I think that might be useful information for some of us right now.  For me, I’m keeping in mind that good and evil are about consequences, and I’m striving to make sure that any fighting I do, whether for my own identity or for the safety of what I love, will be towards making this world a better place, especially for those who have a hard time finding safety or hope.

[scandalsavagefanfic]

Joey Wilson / M, picking each other up at a gay bar and the hilarity of them both attempting to establish they are the opposite of what most people would expect (top Joey, bottom M). 👀 You know what I like...

We’ve already talked about it so, without further ado, the rarest of rare pairs! Teetering on the edge of the crackiest of crack ships!

Midnighter/Joey Wilson

This was way too much fun.

Goldilocks and the Grumpy Bear - Read on Ao3!

Rating: ExplicitWarnings: None (Joey uses his powers a couple of times but M is into it)Words: 1997

(Smut under the cut)

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

Midnighter has seen the blonde twink at the other end of thebar casting glances at him out of the corner of his eye. So he’s not especiallysurprised when the kid approaches him.

“Not interested,” he says before the kid can open his mouth,not taking his eyes off the drink in his hands.

Blondie doesn’t miss a beat. “Ok. May I ask why?”

“Just not my type, twinkle toes,” M answers, finallyglancing up at him.

It’s not strictly true. The kid is a bit bigger up closethan he looked leaning against the bar. He got bright eyes and golden hair anda bright aura which is definitely Midnighter’s weakness.

But the pretty little ones are never offering what M wants.

“Not into blondes?”

Midnighter snorts. “I thought I was clear—”

“Ah,” the kid hums, sounding unsurprised and a bitdisappointed. “I see. Typical.”

“Hardly.”

It’s the kid’s turn to snort. “Oh? In my experience, it’spretty standard. Big guys like you think they have to live up to their image.”

Narrowing his eyes, M turns on his barstool to look at theblonde beauty straight on for that ridiculous comment. “What the hell are you—”

“Have you ever even tried it?”

It’s not often someone manages to shock the Midnighterspeechless so M just stares at him, perplexation twist his face.

“Of course I have.” He snaps. Just like some punk baby gayto question his preferences in the bedroom.

The boy is pretty. In the same warm, golden way that Apollois. Midnighter catches himself reconsidering for a moment. It’s been a longtime since he plowed some twerp into the mattress but it’s not like he neverhas.

If he takes the boy from behind he could almost pretend itwas Apollo.

That’d be rude though. And it’s not what he needs tonight.

“You know,” Midnighter says, turning back to his drink,“It’s pretty shitty to keep pestering someone who told you to beat it. Whydon’t you run along before I have to teach you some manners.”

“Oh believe me, kitten,” the kid practically purrslow, smirk dangerous, “if you tried it, I’d put you in your place realfast. Guys like you think everyone should bow down but you’re all so muchhappier on your knees.”

Midnighter practically breaks his neck snapping his gazeback up to the wicked-witch green eyes laughing back at him.

He lets himself look the kid up and down. Maybe he misjudgedthings.

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with, sweetheart.”

“Neither do you, princess.”

They stare at each other for a moment, measuring, gauging.

“I’m Joey,” the kid says, stepping back as if he expectsMidnighter to follow. “I’m staying at the hotel around the corner. Penthouse.Up for a little fight? I win, you stay the night. You win you can do whateveryou want.”

“You’re pretty confident for a rug-rat who weighs, what? 200pounds soaking wet?” He stands and lets the full effect of their heightdifference become apparent. This kid could be a Bat and still not takeMidnighter even without his enhancements. He towers over the younger man byhalf a foot and outclasses him in weight by at least 50 pounds.

“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he assures him.“What’s your name?”

“M.”

A nicely shaped eyebrow quirks up. “M? Just the letter?”

“The only letter you’re gonna get.”

“Alright, M. You up for the bet or worried about losing yourbig bad bear cred when I hand you your ass? Or rather take it.”

It’s Midnighter’s turn to raise his eyebrows. Thisdefinitely seems to be going the way he’d like. It’s probably worth a coupleminutes to walk to the kid’s place, kick his ass real fast, and see if he’swilling to do what Midnighter has in mind. If not he’s only really wasted…maybe 10 minutes of his life on this.

“Lead the way, Goldilocks.”

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

Midnighter blinks the black from his vision, instantly awarethat he’s missing time.

A minute? Maybe two?

One second he’s squared up to a smug, relaxed looking Joey,teasing him about not having a proper fighting stance. The next the buzzer goesoff, the computer in his brain tells him blondie isn’t planning on moving(maybe he wants to lose and isn’t that disappointing).

The next is darkness and then he’s on his knees, shirt off,arms cuffed tightly behind his back.

“What the fuck—” he snarls and tugs on his bindings,preparing to snap them.

This little shit really pissed off the wrong meta.

“Before you slip the cuffs, can you give me a second toexplain?”

Joey is sitting in the armchair in front of him. Lounginglazily and unconcerned. He can see that the kid isn’t planning on stopping himif he does leave. Seems to know M can get out of this, doesn’t seem interestedin taking advantage of him beyond having removed his shirt.

And boy is that a concept Midnighter had thought long gonefrom his life. Being at a disadvantage.

“Better talk fast, kid. What the fuck did you do?”

“I took over yourbody. Jumped out of me. Jumped into you. Though not in the way I’d really liketo.”

His smile is bright as the sun and just as dangerous;screaming trouble at max volume.

Midnighter likes it.

“Not many people can get the best of me in a fight, squirt.”

“And I doubt I could have taken you in a fair fight.”

“You’ll never be able to take me in a fight again. Now thatthe computer in my brain knows your ability, it’ll work out how to beat you.”

The pupils in Joey’s eyes blow wide. “You’re Midnighter?” Heasks and when M confirms, follows with, “My pop hates you.”

“Who’s your old man?” Mid asks, positive he’ll have neverheard of him.

“Deathstroke.”

Huh. He has heard of the mercenary. But he can’t recall whythe guy would hate him.

“I’m pretty sure it’s because he doesn’t know if hecan take you. He doesn’t like that kind of unknown.”

Then the kid reaches out and takes M by the chin. A littlerougher than necessary, but nothing Midnighter can’t handle. Nothing he doesn’tenjoy.

“I’m gonna take you though. The fun way. Unless you leavenow.”

This kid is so confident, and not in the usual wayattractive, young people are. It may border on arrogance but Joey is clearlyexperienced and comfortable with taking charge.

He licks his lips as he nods, noting the way those greeneyes follow his tongue. “Do your worst, sunshine.”

“Careful,” Joey hums, wasting no time in pulling out a long,thick cock that makes M’s mouth water. It’s mostly hard already as the kidstrokes it, putting pressure on the prominent raised vein. “My worst could bepretty bad.”

Oh, Midnighter is certain it is. Absolutely. But thecomputer is telling him that Joey’s not going to risk scaring him away so soon.Now that the kid knows who he is, he seems interested in fucking more than justtonight. He’ll build up to his ‘worst’.

Not that M expects to get off easy. Especially when Joeypulls him forward with the grip on his chin and shoves his cock down his throatwith no preamble.

Joey hits the back of his throat, fists a hand in M’s hairto shift the angle, then slips deeper.

Midnighter takes it all, no problem. The kid is bigger thanexpected but not as monstrously huge as Apollo.

Everyone else is child’s play.

It might be cheating but Midnighter is pretty good at this.He probably would be, even without the computer in his brain but fuck if thatdoesn’t make it a lot easier. Every twitch and flinch and nearly inaudibleshift in breathing is like reading an instruction manual for how to getGoldilocks off.

So Midnighter finds himself half disappointed, half amusedwhen it’s only a few minutes later a telltale pulse rolls across his tongue.

But he’s thrown off the brat before the younger man canfinish.

He sees that wicked smirk hovering over him as he lies onthe ground, weight a little heavy and uncomfortable on his cuffed wrists.

Then there’s darkness and somehow he’s bent over the coffeetable, air cooling something wet on the fingers of his right hand.

Hands holding his cheeks apart. The blunt, slick head of acock poking at his hole before popping in.

Groaning as he’s split open, Midnighter manages to gruntout, “You—hmgh—fingered me while you—gah—possessed my body?”

“You already seemed pretty excited,” Joey says, smug grinapparent in his tone. “You’re not allowed to come before me. Didn’t know if Icould trust you to do it yourself.”

It’s true. Sucking dick has always made M horny as hell. Andhe’s still painfully close. Especially as he pictures himself, fingers buriedin his ass, with no control over his actions.

Midnighter hasn’t felt out of control since… so long ago hedoesn’t even remember.

Joey twists his fingers into M’s hair again, gripsMidnighter’s shoulder hard with the other hand, and snaps his hips, rocking Mforward and back on each deep, ruthless plunge into his body.

“You like that, big guy?”

Mid just groans and presses back to meet every thrust aseach one punches his prostate hard. Christ, a good dicking is exactlywhat he needed tonight. Not many men who can throw him around. Or at least, makehim bend over.

“Yeah you do. I knew you were my type, papa bear. Big,ripped brute who needs a strong hand to put him in his place. Shown that he’sjust another cockslut.”

“Shit,” M curses and is just about to tip over theedge when Joey takes his hand from M’s hair, reaches around him, and squeezesaround the base of Midnighter’s cock.

Snarling in frustration, M tries to fuck into the hold forfriction but it doesn’t budge.

A warm chest layers over Mid’s back so Joey can whisper “Itold you. Me first,” into his ear.

The bastard drags it out too.

He switches from cutting off M’s orgasm, to stroking himback to the edge, only to cut him off again. Rinse and repeat.

Even when the kid’s pace stutters and hot, sticky comefloods into Midnighter’s well-worn passage, Joey doesn’t stop torturing him.

It’s at least three minutes after blondie finishes when hefinally jerks M to completion. Keeps pumping Midnighter’s dick even as it goessoft, getting it slick with his own release.

Then Joey raises his dirty hand to M’s lips and the olderman dutifully sucks each finger clean and licks the palm.

“That was fun,” Joey says, dragging his hands over therounded swell of Midnighter’s ass like he’s wondering what else they can do.

“Yeah. I already know you’re gunning for second date, kid.”

“Mmmm. I am. Not a lot of people who don’t mind me using mypowers.”

Midnighter snorts. Still hasn’t bothered to move from wherehe’s bent over. The gentle movement of the hands against his skin feels nice.“I don’t doubt that.”

Then Joey’s laying over the top of him again, arms wrappedaround his waist and holy shit, kids these days, don’t need any rest at all. Mdoesn’t either of course, but other than the demonic possession, he’s prettysure blondie is a normal 20-something.

The kid’s fingers are tracing over his abs, move up to tugon one of the piercings in his nipples.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice these,” he says. Then lower,huskier, “You know that leather thing you have going on gave me some fun ideas.If you’re up for it, old man.”

He knows the brat is goading him.

But he’s pretty sure he’s physically incapable of passing onan offer like that.

#midnighter #joey wilson #midnighter/joey #mind the rating #so much fun #50 fics/500 followers #celebratory prompt-a-thon #Romi #romiress

[fairycosmos]

chloe i agree 1005 w your post about makeup. its so fucking stupid and we all know why we feel the need to wear it (hardly ever fun purposes) but i wear it everyday when i go to public places and i feel so guilty but i just honestly get treated with kindness from boys now and they used to bully me so im so conflicted what i should do bc makeup has become a shield to protect myself :( anyways i wanted to ask u how do u deal with this? do you wear makeup? love you

to be honest i still haven't found an all encompassing answer but!! i think if you look at the relationship you have with your body as a mentality that has been ingrained into you from a young age, and not as something you need to feel guilty for, then it's easier to come to terms with your insecurities. the world counts on your self hatred just as it counts on mine. it's not your fault that girls are only seen as human if we meet a certain standard and it's not your fault that sexism exists. i don't blame you at all for wanting to live a peaceful and happy life, for wanting validation. when you're a woman, how you look seems to determine whether or not you experience those things. :/ but ultimately the blame is not on those who wear makeup, it is on those (companies, influencers, cooperations) who dehumanise us - even indirectly, even just through implications - simply for existing in our natural state. yeah i wear it, even knowing it's a whole scam. because the years i spent being taught to literally despise myself have not disappeared just because now im old enough to comprehend the logistics behind it. the shame runs deep, intercepts with other factors such as lack of money n mental illness. they set it up that way. it is malicious, we should be upset. being aware of it is a good place to start but it doesn't solve everything.

that being said here are a few things that helped me a bit:

a. try to remain bare faced at least two days out of the week. familiarise yourself with your natural appearance n acknowledge that it is nothing to be ashamed of, nor does it define you.

b) periodically remind yourself of the extent of consumerist and makeup culture. you're just another customer in the eyes of those who make u feel bad. it has nothing to do with how you look and everything to do with making money. recognize that. understand how truly ridiculous it is to be expected to buy this shit/meet these ideals. it's very freeing. they want it to seem like contentment is impossible, so you keep buying. that's their business model.

c. control your online space. try not to follow people who are simply walking advertisments. there are thousands of artists and cool creators to focus on instead. if you're constantly being fed these falsified images of performative life styles, your existence will never feel up to par because it is real and unedited.

d. work on self neutralisation if self love is too hard. your mouth is unconcerned with beauty, it's there so you can eat and breathe. your legs don't care about being slim, they're getting you from one place to the next. your body is working hard to keep you healthy, to carry you through the world. it deserves some appreciation for that. it's not just your friend, it's you as much as your soul is you. try to go easy on yourself even if it feels like a lie.

e. self reflect. if you catch yourself thinking less of someone bc of how they look, examine where that urge comes from n try to deconstruct it.

anyway this got too long and it's very messy but im so. tired of being marketed to, shamed, consumed, sexualised, scorned etc and i believe......if we just take back control in any way we can, even through the smallest of efforts, then we will notice a difference. apparently just leaving the front door with a fresh face is a radical act. and even if at the start you can only manage to do that a few times a month, at least you're trying. we'll spend our whole lives purging ourselves of toxic messages bro. it's ok for it to take time. the dualism of 'i want to be hot' vs 'i want to feel comfortable being myself' is something a lot of people struggle with, but the latter will win if you want it to. because there is no choice but to accept yourself when you realize this is a cultural game we're supposed to die trying to win. boys and the world will have to suck it up. literally WHAT is the alternative

#sometimes it's not enough tho. logically i know these things and i cry every day about how ugly i am #it might be like that for a while. eye love dystopia! #anon

[dokidoki-tae]

Sorry if this is to political, but how would La Squadra deal with a s/o in the United States. Like a long distance relationship. Trump has rubbed me the wrong way. I just want to call Formaggio to bitch about this vile man. Like this stale Cheeto of a man doesn't understand that people immigrating is normal.

Politics is fine. I follow politics quite a bit because it affects my way of life, my family and friends, my community, and other disenfranchised communities, so I see it as my responsibility to pay attention to politics. But I’m actually pretty curious about the views they would hold if they existed in real life. They probably experience Silvio Berlusconi’s leadership (Italy has a president though? How does that work?). But Italy seems to have it’s own “complicated” relationship with immigrants and people of color too :/

This would be easier if I understood Italian politics though haha Italians give me your opinion on American and how it compares to your elected officials

Risotto: He doesn’t know (or care) much about American culture, but he wonders if you are around or experiences the amount of violence against minorities as he hears about on the news. What chances do you have in getting shot, he might wonder. He calls you to make sure you are alright whenever an incident happens. He’s never followed another country’s news, but here he is. He’s no stranger to what happens with the rise of fascism. His beloved country was a victim of it and he worries that you will directly experience it, and it does worry him. He tells you ways you can take precautions to be safe. It will probably stress you out more, but he has to teach you to watch out for yourself because he’s not there.

Prosciutto: He hates the long distance because he can’t check up on your mental, emotional, and psychological health regularly. He has to settle with calling you when he wakes up (the end of your day) and calls when you wake up (the end of his day). He always asks how things went. He wants you to use him to let out your frustration. He hates how stressed you get because of the state of your country. He understands since Italy has had its fair share of idiot leaders who he regularly complains about to the others. Eventually, he’ll ask if you’re willing to move to Italy to escape the toxic environment. He wants to be able to comfort you and be able to actually protect you.

Pesci: Doesn’t follow politics even in his own country, so he doesn’t understand how you’re feeling. In his mind, politicians lie, tell people what they want to hear, and are not good people. So you shouldn’t be surprised by it, right? It’s something he’s heard many people say before and what he learned through history. If you send him clips though, even he’s stumped when hears Trump speak. At first, he thought the translator was bad at his job, but no that’s how the man talks. He feels sorry for you for having to deal with that. He’s there to lend an ear because he doesn’t know what else he can offer to comfort you. He does always tell you to be careful though just in case you run into a bigot.

Formaggio: He doesn’t pay attention to politics either, and he bases all his judgment of what’s going on in your country based on your rants. He listens to you open up your heart to him about your anger and frustrations and fears. He never suspected this kind of thing was going on because he’s run into American tourist, and they always seem pretty happy and unconcerned. If you were to tell him he’s similar to, say, Mussolini, he’s going to understand immediately and might open himself up to rant. He’s another one to suggest to you to come to Italy because their food is better anyway. Italy also has its share of bigots but Formaggio promises to beat the shit out of them if they say anything to you.

Illuso: If he comes across American news, he finds it quite entertaining because it’s just so outlandish and ridiculous to him. He’ll make fun of your country’s politics and how ludicrous things are over there. You’ll have to be vulnerable to get sympathy from him because he doesn’t quite grasp the severity of human rights being stripped away from your or your loved ones. If you tell him that, he’ll become more serious and hear you out. He won’t make jokes at your expense especially if you’re genuinely concerned and scared about the things happening in your country. He too will offer to open up his room for you to live with him. 

Melone: IMMA be real with you. Melone doesn’t seem to have the highest regards when it comes to women, BUT I don’t think he approves of your president's vulgarity. Melone has lived through Silvio Berlusconi leadership to know where your country might head. He will give warnings about the dangers of that sort of man being elected again. Overall, he won’t care too much about what happens to your country; he’s only concerned about you and will do what he can to take your mind off the things happening in your country. 

Ghiaccio: Doesn’t really pay attention to American news, but when he somehow comes across it, he’s going to call you and scream, “WHY CAN’T YOUR DAMN PRESIDENT FORM A SINGLE FUCKING SENTENCE.” And you’ll be able to hear him punching something. It might be enough to get you to laugh, but he’s genuinely distraught about how this man got elected. He stereotypes Americans as being stupid (gee thanks) and your president is pretty much confirming his beliefs (but you’re enough to remind him that isn’t true). Don’t tell him about the electoral college.

#risotto nero #prosciutto #pesci #illuso #formaggio #melone #ghiaccio #jojo hcs #my writing #shay replies #Anonymous

[theangrypokemaniac]

@its-whitetomorrow

I appreciate that you take the time out of your day to read my witterings, and respond to them in detail, but I'm somewhat intellectually limited and it takes a while to write an answer.

The final one is a bit of a problem. The original post is long, your bit is long, and my addition is probably twice both put together.

Did you know Tumblr has a limit: no more than two hundred and fifty text blocks per post? I discovered this from experience, unsurprisingly.

I think the only solution is to split it across several posts.

I wasn't going to say anything, but I suppose I should.

I started this blog last May, to relieve the boredom of my main embarrassment, whose only likes (all three of them) were from porn bots.

It wasn't even meant to be about Pokémon. I'd left the fandom years previously. It was odds and ends, but I happened to find a few silly screen shots so wrote a couple of joke remarks, not expecting a ripple of interest.

Within a couple of hours I got more notes than t'other's managed even to this day. I had the idea this was where I was more at home, so I started taking it seriously.

My pseudonym was just daft thing I'd made up previously, to reflect that, whilst still in love with old days, I'm not exactly pleased with how it's gone.

I thought it might stand out as memorable, plus I like acronyms, so it affords me the opportunity to call myself 'T.A.P.'

In the early days the focus was on the 'maniac' aspect. Anger as a description didn't fit at all. The farther back you go, the more stupid and clownish it gets. It's not been like this all the way through!

Seriously, it used to be an entertainment blog, designed to make people laugh. It's all ages: no swearing, no porn, nothing to put anyone off.

(This post under discussion contains the only profanity I've ever deployed. I thought saving it up might add some oomph.)

I mean it, it's was all light-hearted ridicule. Every so often, there would be a slightly cutting remark, but mild compared to now.

Then, last September, someone I spoke to regularly, who assured me we were friends, suddenly cut off all contact.

At first I wasn't aware of it, but by October it became too glaring a silence to ignore.

I thought rifts started because of massive disagreements, but as far as I remembered our last exchange ended normally.

I found out by accident that the reason for it was because I am repugnant and morally inferior and so swollen with my own ego that the existence of others doesn't register. Instead they are but soulless droids built to worship the great T.A.P. mollusc.

Well that was news to me. I had no idea I came across like that. As far as I knew, I was on my best behaviour when we interacted.

I was polite. I tried to be ingratiate myself. I kept talk to the fandom. I didn't pry. I attempted humour when the opportunity arose.

I thought I'd done all I could to be liked, but apparently I hadn't. It was a revolting experience for them, for all of saying they loved me and I was 'honey'.

It really, really, really got to me, and the feeling hasn't abated, if anything it's worse.

As I said, I don't know what I did wrong, and because I don't, I can't mend my ways. If I am this repellant waste of flesh I'd like to change, but if I'm not told my offence, what am I meant to do?

If what I thought was the best I could be wasn't good enough, and instead was so sickening I don't deserve their presence, then I have no idea how to interact with people.

Maybe every time I respond to someone, thinking I'm at worst, civil, is really grotesque conceit, because my arrogance is so extreme I'm not even aware it's there. In my head it sounds normal.

It'd be too easy to scoff that they were the one with the problem, but, given all the arguments that happen in life, it can't always be someone else's fault. It's got to be you at least once.

They obviously think they were justified, so who's to say they weren't?

You may say not to let it worry me, that I should just get over it, and you'd be totally right. Being bothered makes me feel pathetic and petty on top of the rest, but this is me you're talking to, not a sane person. Self-hatred is more instinctive to me than breathing.

I always dwell on the negative. If one hundred people were assembled, ninety-nine of whom declared me the most wonderful being ever to live, and one remarked I wasn't all that special, it's him I'd remember. 

It's called ghosting because that's what happens. There comes a moment when you accept that, no, it's over, rejected again, and it's like realising I'd died, and had been gone for a while.

Except I hadn't noticed the process, so I was always dead in a way, and they spoke to the silvery silhouette left behind, until that too dispersed into untraceable nothingness. Again,  the silence is my fault for dying, not theirs.

I feel there's no point in messaging anyone, because I'll only disgust them too. Some blogs encourage contact, and when I see it I always think:

Yeah, but they don't mean YOU.

If it's another person I already spoke to, I can't shut up. I bombard them with text in the hope they know I don't think they're a menial droid. Every one I immediately regret, and wish I could take back, because that will irritate them until I'm just a sad, nagging past.

The Ghost-Maker used to reblog 99% of my work. This dropped to nothing overnight, so not only am I worthless, but so is everything I do.

Posts G.M. didn't like got 0-5 notes. Ones they did had 20+. Many a time, it took their reblog for anyone else to notice.

It was like others used that blog as a filter to pull the fool's gold from the murk of this one. Once their favour evaporated, so did a lot of the goodwill from elsewhere, so it's was as if Tumblr agreed I was scum.

Saying that above just shows they were right, because it takes one smug bastard to believe their existence registers with anyone else.

Please don't think I'm demanding likes, that my stuff deserves them, although as I'm arrogant I am. It's just that 99% to 0% is a bit of a fall.

Up til then, I held back much of what I thought about the current state of the anime, as they liked it, but now I have no reason to stop.

If I'm to be accused of all these vices I might as well have them. I'm dead, so who cares what I say? No one listens to a ghost.

It's not that I'm unconcerned if I upset anyone, it's just the truth that I don't matter enough for what I write to be valued enough to offend.

As a ghost, I think of this blog as invisible. It's there, but not really, so how can anyone mind?

Incidentally, the first week I was here I got blocked by someone who hates all fans from the Nineties. I don't care about that, as they sound like a cretin, and I'd have to be defective to gain their approval.

I just want to say I find that moronic. I don't hate new fans at all. I wouldn't block someone because we disagreed.

Blocking denies people access to your blog, stating they don't deserve your ART. That's arrogant to me.

Blocker likes Ghost-Maker, but...

Ever since around October, I've progressively become angrier and angrier. Whenever I'm here or Pokémon enters my head, it just reminds that I'm pond slime, about the most crude, malformed half-life freak you can envision.

I don't like being here anymore. I keep intending to leave, the site and the fandom, and set fire to it all before I go, wipe away the slug trail to spare people's stomachs.

I kept quiet until now, but holding it in just made it more intense. If I may describe myself in ridiculously flattering terms, I feel like a shaken champagne bottle, but the cork is welded in, so the only option is for the glass to shatter.

If anyone's reading this, wondering where the fun went, well this is why I flipped. The red mist won't clear. I can't see beyond it.

I won't name Ghost-Maker, because I don't want to start anything, plus most will take their side. They may see this as they still rifle round these parts occasionally for posts that aren't mine.

Well done, Ghostie. You're the lucky one. We'll never meet and you haven't seen me. Pity the poor sods I've encountered. There must be vomit trails across the land provoked by my vile condition. I wasn't aware of this until you let me in on the secret.

There's an English television presenter called Caroline Flack. She killed herself yesterday and everyone loved her. I feel guilty that I'm alive and she's not.

#Pokémon #Tumblr

[helenarlett-rex]

Goosebumps Review #4

When I started this project, someone who will remain nameless asked me to do Camp Jellyjam. I understand now why you asked for this. You knew didn’t you? You knew what I was about to get myself into and you wanted to see my reaction. You wanted to see me suffer. 

Well, moving on with my quest to read all the Goosebumps books I never got to read as a kid…

(Spoilers ahead)

The Horror At Camp Jellyjam

Goosebumps (Original Series) #33

I have a lot to say about this one. More than I normally do. And let’s start out by saying, WTF did I just read? I remember this book from when I was a kid. I remember not reading it. That cover just freaked me the hell out. The man pictured on the cover is camp counselor Buddy, and just look at him. He’s pure nightmare fuel. Looking at the cover you would think this has the potential to be a really scary book. But then there’s that title. Camp Jellyjam? What kind of name is that? I had visions of a camp where they feed you some kind of weird jelly that turns you into a super happy, upbeat zombie, with an unnatural grin on your face, no longer in control of your mind as you try to force others to eat it while jelly gushes out the sides of your mouth… I think that may have actually been a thing… somewhere… I can’t remember… Maybe it was Are You Afraid Of The Dark… Well, that wasn’t what this was about… 

So this story ended up being about something that is truly scary… to me… Sports Camp. The most extreme sports camp, where kids are never given a moment’s rest, rushed from one sport to the next, constantly playing sports from morning to dusk, and being pushed to always win. There is no such thing as 2nd best. You have to win, win, win! This terrifies me. Sadly the story itself did not. 

So the story is about Wendy and her younger brother, Elliot, who are on a boring road trip with their parents. They decide to ride in the travel trailer hitched to the back of the car to get a break from their parents and as they are going up a mountain the trailer comes unhitched and they roll down the side until crashing into the woods. When they get out they find they have crashed right outside a summer camp called King Jellyjam’s Sports Camp and are instantly greeted by Counselor Buddy, who tells them they can rest at the camp while he contacts the authorities and tries to find their parents. And yeah, Buddy is described exactly as he is pictured on the cover. There is no doubt from the moment you see him that this guy is a grinning, mindless, forced to always be happy, zombie of a human being. So I find these kids really stupid for going with him. 

In fact, everyone in this book, other than Wendy, is too stupid to live. I’m of the opinion that Wendy should have been the soul survivor and everyone else would have deserved to die. And don’t say, but this is a Goosebumps book, people don’t actually die. You clearly don’t know what book we are reading here. This thing has an actual body count. And I’m not talking about ghosts. Yeah there are a lot of Goosebumps that have ghosts in them, and for there to be ghosts, it means someone had to die. But in those books any deaths have already happened and they are already ghosts when the book started. We don’t actually see anyone die over the course of the actual story. I’m talking about people who are alive when the story starts, but by the end of the story they are dead and there is no bringing them back. We actually have that in this one. 

I don’t know if this is the first, or only, Goosebumps to actually kill kids outside of the implied deaths in some of the twist endings, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it. So you may be thinking this sounds kind of awesome? What’s my problem with it? Well I have a number of problems with it. 

As soon as the kids get into the camp they aren’t treated like two kids who just went through a traumatic experience and need to find their parents. They are treated like normal campers and the counselors start pushing them right away to start competing in sports and even assign them bunks. And the kids just go along with this. Elliot, in fact, revels in it. He thinks the camp is the greatest thing ever and he doesn’t even seem to care about his parents, who are probably having a heart attack at this point. Wendy at least thinks something is off and wants to get back to her parents, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight when she is told to go play sports and act like the rest of the campers. These kids are dumb as mud… And they aren’t the only ones. 

There is a thing at King Jellyjam’s Sports Camp where every time you win a competition or something, you are awarded a gold coin with a picture of the camp mascot, King Jellyjam, on it. (King Jellyjam is a big purple blob with a gold crown on his head and his picture is everywhere.) And when you win 6 “King’s Coins” you get to walk in the victory march that night. There is a victory march every night for all the campers who won 6 coins, and no one who walks in the victory march ever comes back. Her first night there, Wendy’s bunk mate, Diedre, is in the Victory March and she doesn’t come back. Wendy and her other two bunk mates, Ivy and Jan, decide to sneak out after lights out and try to find her but instead they find a younger girl named Alicia running through the camp crying and screaming, telling them “I followed them! It was horrible! We have to get out of here!” So what is their reaction? Once Alicia runs away they decide to go back to their bunk. Because that seems natural. Clearly nothing is wrong here. But oh wait… Now all of Diedre’s clothes and things are gone. They have been removed from the cabin. So yeah they just go to sleep…

Next morning Wendy asks Buddy about Diedre and he just checks his clipboard and is like, “Oh yeah, she gone. Don’t know where. It just says she’s gone. Oh Alicia? Hmm… Yep, she’s gone too.” And when Wendy tries to tell this to Ivy and Jan? “Sorry Wendy can’t talk now. Got to go to our next event if we want to win 6 coins!” After everything they went through literally the night before, the next morning they have already stopped caring and are back to trying to win coins so they can be in the victory march… that no one ever comes back from… Even her brother, Elliot, suffers from this unimaginable stupidity and lack of concern for anything. Wendy is all like, “We have to get out of here and find Mom and Dad. The kids are disappearing every time they go on the victory march.” And Elliot is all like, “I can’t leave yet. I haven’t won my sixth coin yet. Don’t you ruin this for me. We will find Mom and Dad after I get a victory march.” 

See what I’m saying? Everyone in this book is too stupid to live and it’s ridiculous. Wendy is at least trying, but she’s not trying hard enough. And it’s not like there is some kind of supernatural force making the kids forget or compelling them to need to be in this victory march. The whole time I was waiting for that to be revealed as a thing, but it never was. They are just all literally that stupid and unconcerned with anything other than winning at sports. 

But when you stop to think about it… Maybe this is actually quite brilliant. Have you ever known any super hard core sports fans? People who only care about sports and if you aren’t talking about sports they won’t even give you the time of day? Those parents who just watch ESPN all day long and the only time they spend with their kids is when they take them to play sports that they forced them to sign up for? I’ve been related to people like that. It’s part of the reason I hate sports. Could it be that R.L. Stine was trying to make a point here? Taking this obsession people have with sports and stretching it out to it’s most extreme lengths? Showing us what happens when you let sports rule your life and stop caring about everything else? That’s actually really brilliant and quite frightening. Maybe I misjudged this book… 

Oh… wait… I just read the last few chapters… Never mind. I retract all statements of this being brilliant. 

So in the final few chapters we see Wendy sneaking out after dark again and following the camp counselors who all sneak off into the woods. They all meet up in a building that is shaped like an igloo for… no reason that was ever given… where they all sit in front of a stage and watch as Buddy uses a gold coin on a chain to hypnotize them. Every night Buddy hypnotizes all of the counselors, himself included, into emptying their minds, forgetting everything and becoming blank slates just there to serve their master. And who is their master? Well down in the basement of this secret cult igloo is King Jellyjam, the purple blob who’s image is posted all over the camp. 

Oh but he’s not a blob like you are thinking. He’s not made of slime or goo. He’s a giant (the size of a house) blob of flesh, with a head and two arms. And he stinks. And his body is covered in slime. And he sweats snails. No you heard that right… When he sweats instead of liquid, he has living snails push themselves out through his pores. I can’t make this shit up. And all the kids who win 6 coins? They are taken to him to be his slaves. It’s their job to wash him constantly because he stinks so bad he has to be bathed 24/7. The kids have to just keep washing him constantly, never given a break. If a kid stops working, even for a minute, King Jellyjam eats them. This is the most batshit insane, out of nowhere crap I have ever seen in a Goosebumps. 

But this is also where our body count comes in. Diedre and Alicia, who are still alive somehow even though they have been down there for like 3 or 4 days by this point, tell Wendy all of this. They emphasis it by informing her that he already ate 3 kids today. There’s 3 kids who have actually died in a Goosebumps book and there is no bringing them back after the monster is killed. They are just gone. But when you think about it, if he eats someone the moment they stop working, how many kids has he eaten over the 5 or so days Wendy has been there? Working non-stop? Not even aloud to sleep or eat? I’d be amazed if most kids could last 2 days. This is the point where you have to realize that most of the kids you saw go on the victory marches through the course of the book are already dead at this point. That just strikes me as interesting because it’s the first time I’ve seen it in Goosebumps.

Now naturally Wendy kills King Jellyjam. She tells all the kids to stop washing him and lay fat on the floor. Because King Jellyjam’s fingers are so fat that if they are laying flat on the floor he can’t pick them up. I’m not sure how the logistics of this actually work, but for the sake of the book it works. He can’t pick any of them up to eat them and when all the kids stop washing him it only takes a matter of minutes before the smell is so bad King Jellyjam actually chokes to death on his own stench. I kid you not. 

Again I’m questioning the logistics of all of this because if the smell is bad enough to kill King Jellyjam in only a couple of minutes, how does it not kill all the kids who are having to lay on the floor until he’s dead? For that matter, how did any of this even get started? Has King Jellyjam always been like this? What did he do to keep from stinking to death before he had a camp to help him enslave children? I’m assuming the hypnotized counselors built the camp for him but how did he get a bunch of hypnotized counselors in the first place? This is a summer camp… if he eats the kids the moment they are no longer able to keep working, what does he do during the rest of the year when he doesn’t have a daily supply of fresh kids brought to him? 

But none of those questions will ever be answered. King Jellyjam dies, the kids all leave the igloo, and within minutes the police are storming the camp to rescue them. Apparently the smell was so bad that it only took a matter of minutes to attract the entire police force… I’m not sure how… Was there a police station just minutes away in the middle of the woods on the side of a mountain? But whatever, I’m not sure how anything else in this book worked either. 

I would like to give this book credit for not having a ton of fake out scares at the end of every chapter. There are some but not a ton. Although I did find it weird that Stine ended the book on a fake out scare instead of the traditional “not out of the woods yet” twist ending. Maybe after actually killing a bunch of kids in this book he wanted to end it on a more comical note… But I also have to take away credit for all the sports stuff. I kid you not, the first 12 or so chapters focus more on sports activities than the actual scary stuff you are reading it for. I mean describing every action of every game being played for the first quarter of the book white the scares are just an afterthought. It’s not until Diedre goes missing somewhere around chapter 13 that Stine finally stops talking about sports and starts trying to scare us. 

All in all I just don’t know what to make of this thing. Is it brilliant social commentary? Is it lazy story writing? Or is it just the batshit crazy ramblings of a mad man?

[rwbyremnants]

WARNING: Weiss/Neon. Ear-licking, fingering, erotic oil massage, grinding, pierced nipple play. Also, invasion of privacy.

Happy New Year everybody!

=Chapter 31

Halfway across the country, Weiss and her date were just getting back to said date's apartment. Over the course of the preceding week, the two had exchanged a few more calls, texts, Skype sessions - and had met for lunch once in between. But this was their third official "date", inasmuch as the lunch had been very chaste and mainly focused on casual conversation.

Also, it had been at a public enough café that they were spotted together, and a single picture of Weiss laughing at a silly face Neon was making made it onto a dozen or more tabloid websites. Other than the novelty of it being two celebrities who hadn't been associated together in any way other than Lisa Lavender's show before, there wasn't much to report, so the story didn't gain much ground – though it would at least nudge them a little further under the microscope.

Today, however, had been more like their first date. Neon had suggested bowling, which Weiss turned down with a "But what about my nails?!" When Weiss expressed interest in going to a natural history museum, Neon made snoring noises until she gave up that plan, as well. Finally, they had settled on an elegant dinner at an Italian place, and a movie.

But as it turned out, the movie had merely given Neon an excuse to tease Weiss mercilessly. Hands wandered and kisses were exchanged in the dark, nearly-empty theater; they had specifically chosen a movie that had been out several weeks in the hopes there would only be a few other people inside, which turned out to be true. Grateful for the solitude, Weiss had even allowed a hand to briefly tease its way up her skirt and along her inner thighs before she pushed it away with a nervous giggle and moved it up to her own waist. Even if she wasn't ready to go that far in public, it didn't mean she hated the attention altogether.

"…so stupid," Weiss was saying as Neon's door swung open and they flicked on the lights. "How are you supposed to time travel in a hot tub? Honestly, it doesn't even make sense regardless of if you turn off your brain and try to enjoy the ludicrousness."

"I know, it was ridiculous! I heard it got a less than ten percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes, that says more than enough to me." Neon laughed, tossing her bag to one side and flicking her shoes off in the small hallway, before she waited eagerly for Weiss to do the same. It was quite late, but Weiss had informed her driver, and in turn her father, that she would be out all night tonight. Neon knew that fact just as much as her, that things tonight may take their relationship further along.

Could they call it a relationship now? Sure, there was a lot of kissing, and making out, even a dry humping session last time they ended up here and somewhat in the movie theatre; more than nothing. But was that enough to consider the two girlfriends? Still, Neon seemed unconcerned. Whatever their status, they were going to have a lot of fun tonight.

“ Yeah, oh well; we made our own entertainment. ” Stepping out of her heels, she sighed and padded into Neon ’ s living room, throwing herself on the couch and deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. “ Ooh … I must be getting old for my age or something. I couldn ’ t go clubbing now even if I wanted to. ”

"Old?!" Neon protested, soon taking a seat right by her side and lifting her feet to the edge of the coffee table so she could relax fully. Yet again, she threw her arm around Weiss, bringing her in close just like she had all through the movie. "I'm three years older than you, pipsqueak! If you're old, then what am I?"

"Grandma Moses," Weiss giggled, nudging her with her arm and propping her own feet up next to Neon's, sighing in contentment as she absently gazed at twenty pedicured toes. Bizarre how she could need this so much without having even the slightest clue she did; just a friendly presence. One she could flirt with when she was in the mood, and could stop when she wasn't. No strings, no expectations. Perfect.

And it seemed Neon was just as pleased as she leant in toward her, pressing a kiss on the top of her head as they lay side by side. A hand started to brush up and down her arm gradually, just idly petting.

"Well, you got a bit handsy with this grandma in that movie, huh?"

Pursing her lips, she hissed, "Oh, shush. I was going for maybe second base, maybe - but you wanted to strip down and make the sticky floors even stickier! Are you out of your mind?!"

"Nothing wrong with a little grope in the dark." She smirked, pressing another kiss on her head once again. "And besides, you feel so amazing that it’s really hard not to wanna make floors sticky."

A long moment passed. Weiss inspected her fingernails, checked her phone. Then she finally muttered, "Fine. It was pretty exciting, I guess."

This time, when she pressed another kiss in, Neon remained close to her ear. Her breathing could be felt right against her skin, especially when she whispered, "Things can get exciting tonight, if you want."

Then Weiss faltered. "Oh… can they?" But she cleared her throat and attempted to regain the carefree mood. "You really want in my skirt, don't you? Shameless."

Rolling her eyes, Neon moved her efforts from Weiss's ear to her neck instead, beginning to plant kisses every so often against it. She allowed her spare hand to land on Weiss's leg, gradually petting that as well as her arm.

"Can you blame me?" she allowed herself to whisper, slowly pushing the skirt upward with each pet. "When what's wearing it is such a plate full of yummy?"

"W-well…" Flattery was doing the trick. Smiling even while Neon caused her to tremble, she glanced over and whispered, "Guess that would be a pretty dumb thing to blame you for."

Neon only continued to pet, continued to look into the blue eyes. This time, she waited for Weiss to make the first proper move; after all, Weiss was the one who always became nervous after a while, the one who pulled away. Which was fine, but Neon assumed letting her lead would ease it.

Weiss felt the shift in the atmosphere. Desire spiking deep within her, reaching out for the nearest available target. In this case… her hand found its way to Neon's thigh, returning the same gesture. One she had been enjoying, despite all of her many and varied fears. Nothing else had changed about her reaction to the nibbles at her neck and ear, but this was a small start.

Those nibbles and licks only continued. Neon really was like a cat at heart! But all the while, she never stopped the petting, never stopped bringing her in closer toward her. She wanted to make it known that she wanted her, even if she wasn't making the moves.

Well, except for one. As she leant back up to Weiss's ear again, this time she went right in, seeming like she was about to whisper. She wasn't. Instead, her tongue wriggled its way inside, right against the entrance of the ear canal. She knew from her own experience it was a fantastic way to drive someone crazy by barely doing anything.

"A-AAAHHH!" Weiss burst out, drawing back and away. Not completely off her couch, but enough so that the tongue was not anywhere near her ear. "You… wh-what was that?!"

Drawing herself back, Neon was still wearing that cheeky smile of hers when she giggled, cheekily licking her lips. "What, you didn't like it? That used to be an insta-wet move for me."

"NO!" she answered immediately… even if it was only partially true. The unorthodox action had definitely flipped some switches, but she was far too taken aback at the very notion of doing that to someone to feel them properly. A tongue? In someone's ear?! The very idea set her skin crawling, both in good ways and bad. Then again, her own tongue had been equally-unscrupulous places before.

But that reaction only made Neon laugh even louder, releasing her from her grip so she could reach up to the ties in her hair, starting to pull them out so it would flow free instead. Different tactics. "Alright alright, we'll try other stuff instead then."

"Good. I mean, is that really something you want done to you? My tongue in your ear?" This question had a slight sarcastic tone to it, but if Weiss were honest with herself, she was very curious about all the things Neon seemed to be into.

Once her red hair was free again and she began running her hands through it to neaten it down, she giggled softly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Hey, can’t explain why, but it just feels really good. Kinky and weird, but good. Most of the girls I've been with were the same."

Something about seeing Neon with her hair down was oddly… enchanting to Weiss. The girl was too much of a partier to wear it any way other than fluffy twin tails, but when let out of their trapping ties, they became a singular orange cloud, just resting on her shoulders. Noticing that set her at ease, for reasons she couldn't quite figure out.

"You're so gorgeous," she found herself whispering out of nowhere.

Tilting her head, Neon shrugged her shoulders. "Tell me something I don’t know ." And then she leant in toward her again, softly whispering, "And I can be yours. Here, or the bedroom, or anywhere you want."

A determined look settled over Weiss’s pale features. She didn't want to be afraid to find out where life would lead her anymore, what she was missing out on because she had to stick to rules that no longer seemed to apply. So she leaned in and flitted her tongue very briefly into Neon's ear. Just enough to feel that it had truly happened before she drew back again, watching for her reaction.

In that very small moment Weiss's tongue was in contact, she shivered, eyes closed as she let out a small moan. Of all things, this was something that she would moan at? It seemed crazy. But then again, Neon lived for crazy.

"Really?" the white-haired diva half-gasped out of shock. Then she shrugged. "I mean… I guess everybody has to like something." Then she leaned closer and wrapped her arms around her gently, nuzzling her mouth closer to the little ear. Her lips barely breathed, "Do you want me to do that again?"

No verbal response. Just frantic nodding. She wanted it again, definitely. So much so that one hand fell to the back of Weiss's head, petting the hair to keep her there.

And so Weiss did as she was bade. The salty tang of skin mingled with a slight tinge, one that she didn't mind as much as she had expected to. Calling it "pleasant" would have been a lie, but it was a tolerable act… and the strangely rigid contours of Neon's tiny ear were enough to send a chill down her spine every time the surface of her tongue ran over them. This shouldn't feel good to both of them, should it?

"Oh…"

Another strange moan was coaxed from her as she gripped Weiss's hair even tighter, eyes remaining closed all throughout the teasing. Heat started to spark already from the small movements and flicks of her tongue, the warm wetness that shouldn't be there. She even found herself biting her lip purely to prevent any moans being too loud.

When Weiss drew away, she left a soft kiss on Neon's cheek as her hand came to rest on her exposed midriff. An excited smile played across her lips, one that hinted at so many things…

"That was, um, unique. And you sounded like you really enjoyed yourself there, buster… did you?"

"I did," Neon confessed, leaning into Weiss's touch all the while. Anything she could get, she would be satisfied with. No matter what form it came in. The hand she had in Weiss's hair was beginning to scratch lightly as she was starting to think of more ideas. "How about we continue this in my room?"

Something about that request irritated Weiss. Made her want to challenge Neon's plan, to alter it - but not in the way she had before. Not by running away, hiding, denying both of them the enjoyment they could have. Just changing the nature of their game a little. Maybe it was her competitive nature rearing its head.

"How about instead… we don't?" Weiss sighed directly into Neon's ear… as her hand drifted down to her thigh and slid up under her skirt in one fluid, swift motion.

Having to bite her lip to suppress her reactions again, Neon looked downward to what Weiss was doing. Hands were now under her skirt, and gradually gaining height to square in toward their goal. For someone who hadn't done this before to her knowledge, Weiss sure was brave. She parted her legs further, showing she wanted more.

But fondling wasn’t new for Weiss, even if this particular territory was as yet unexplored . Encounters with Yang had already proven to her that she was a lot more at ease with teasing someone else than letting them tease her. And she was going to do just that; her fingertips glided over the thin fabric of Neon's underwear, pressing into her obvious wetness through them.

"Lace? Wow, you're really putting out the welcome mat."

"Again, can you blame me?" she asked, continuing to relax into the sofa more and more as Weiss had her way with her. But after a while of toying with the lace, she thought it safe to assume that Weiss liked it. A lot. So she whispered, "You don't even have to take them off, just push them aside if you want."

"What if I tear them off?" But she was only joking. Her fingers edged the panties aside…

And for the first time in her life, Weiss Schnee felt labia that were not her own. Luckily for Neon, she had been "practicing" with the pictures of Yang still on her phone, torturing her own flesh once or twice a week when she became too restless to keep her hands off of herself. Though at first she had been so ashamed of that fact, hating that she was needy and had no willpower, now she was glad for the experience. It would make it that much easier for her to give the gorgeous example of femininity beneath her hand the pleasure she deserved.

"Hmmh…" No protest at all from the adventurous redhead. In fact, from the feel of things, she had been waiting for this for a long time. Wetness was a complete contrast for Weiss, since where there would be rock hard arousal was only the softness she was beginning to touch. Nothing to pull about and jerk at, only lips for her to gently entice.

Though Weiss wasn't as gun-shy as she might have been before her own solo experiments, she did take a moment to recover. Her breath was shaky as she breathed in and out, closing her eyes as she got used to the sensation. Neon's silky lips. Right there, right up against her index finger. And her middle finger now, she was moving them back and forth… pressing up into them, amazed at how they could be almost identical but with subtle differences. And how odd to not be able to feel it herself! That was the primary thing throwing her off so much.

But the everlasting 'hmm' coming from Neon was telling her she was doing something right. Especially as she began to push her hips that bit more forward against the movements. She couldn't get enough, and continued to lightly scratch at Weiss's scalp as their play continued. The breathlessness from her Weiss was able to tell quite a lot; was she a complete virgin? Did she and that ex of hers never go this far? Somehow that prospect was making it even more exciting as Neon's breath got faster as well.

Of course Weiss did know what she liked on her own body. Simple math: if she transferred those tactics onto another body, they should have the same effect, right? That was her hope, anyway, as she traced a finger up to press gently against the clit that was just beginning to emerge from beneath its protective hood, firm and ready to be lavished with attention.

"Ho- boy!" That certainly increased the volume! While before she was content with simply panting and quietly moaning, now those moans had gotten louder, far needier . Yet another difference between her and Yang, it seemed; while she was loud from the beginning, Yang was usually far quieter, only moaning in unison with her breathing and truly yelling when she was close, or even at her limit. All different experiences for her, and there were more to come.

Encouraged by the moans, Weiss leaned closer as she continued to tease the nub of flesh, fingertip moving in a small circle. This time, she poked the tip of her tongue deeper, teasing the rim of the canal inside Neon's ear.

"Hah! Ah! Oh my god! Yes!" The grip on Weiss's hair became so much tighter as she called out. Her legs also twitching lightly. All these sensations, there was just so much for her to encounter. And she loved it! How on earth was a virgin girl this good, it made no sense! But Neon was beyond caring. "D-don't stop — Weiss, you're too good! Too good to me!"

The fingers picked up in speed, trailing up and down the entirety of Neon's wetness, dipping down into her fragile lips and then up again to the nub. She remembered how Yang had teased her the most… and considering Neon probably had tons more experience in this area than she did, she would simply have to use every iota of knowledge she had.

"Ready for more?" Weiss breathed as two of her fingertips began to slide very slightly past the entrance, edging the skin aside.

"Yes! Yes, I'm so ready…" Yet again, this was so different to Yang. Not just their bodies, but the very reactions themselves. Neon was like Weiss, very vocal… sometimes too much. Yang would have just nodded, or showed signs that she was okay for everything to continue. However both of them would have done what Neon was doing, pushing herself up against the fingers as best she could needily.

Which sealed the deal quite easily; Weiss didn't hold back and only pressed her fingers in harder, until she began to squeeze in past the barrier of lips. To feel the insides of another eager wetness. It was incredible! Since she had first discovered she was somewhat attracted to Yang, she barely had a few opportunities to mentally entertain the possibility of touching another vagina before finding out Yang didn't even have one. That had been a relief, at the time; she had still firmly believed she was only meant to please a "male" organ, and doing anything else was taboo, unnatural, insane. Finding the one girl who just so happened to have the equipment that meshed with her own was a blessing.

And now here she was, thrilled to death that she knew how to make Neon moan, where to apply pressure that would shatter her senses. Satisfied that she wasn't just some horribly unfortunate lesbian-who-only-handled-dicks. Now she knew that genitals didn't matter to her; she only leaned toward the fairer sex, and could go wild on them no matter what they had in their pants.

Suddenly gasping when she felt fingers penetrate her entrance, Neon found her legs twitching, eyes rolling into the back of her head. Those slender fingers were doing wonders, brushing against her inner walls each time she felt them beginning to push in and out. More moans fell as she arced her back into the movements, still trying to keep ahold of herself. But she was failing.

"Yes! Yes, thaaaaaaat's it!"

"Mmhhh," Weiss moaned against her ear, tongue entering again as she began to curve her fingers in, groping for that spot Yang had managed to find within herself. Had to be in there somewhere. A flutter pierced her heart as she worried she'd never find it, that she was too virginal, too inexperienced with all this …

Until there was another gasp, and an instant spasm of Neon’s body. That was it, that was the sweet spot! Her spare hand quickly grasped the nearby cushion, gripping so tightly she swore her nails would puncture its surface. But Weiss wasn't letting up, she was fingering and touching that spot over and over again.

"Oh my God!" she moaned out, gyrating her hips in unison to Weiss's moves. "God, Weiss! Keep going and I'm gonna… be close soon!"

Pressing her palm right up against her clit with every thrust up and into that throbbing spot inside of Neon, the white-haired novice felt like she had graduated early. This was clearly a hidden talent that had been inside her all along – or at least she lucked into being decent at it. She raked her teeth against the shell of the ear, hoping to drive her as wild as she could before the moment of release. To make it all the heavier .

But she pulled away just enough to growl, "Come for me, you glowstick-waving rainbow cunt!" before her tongue stabbed deep into her ear again, writhing back and forth.

The surprise of such a harsh word, and the stroking of two of her most pleasurable spots was enough to do the trick, and make Neon Katt quiver with pure joy. Finally, her moans became a screaming as she shook in pleasure, felt her insides trying to clamp down onto those fingers and milk them for all they were good for. Along with her hand pulling at the hair rather firmly.

Once she was done, she went slack against the sofa, panting heavily as she released the handful of hair, eyes only just beginning to open. But even then, they were filled with stars.

When she felt the body she was plying go limp, Weiss's lips moved gently across the expanse of a cheek toward lips, taking them very gently before she pulled back, both with her face and her fingers. Then she smiled a very knowing, very self-assured smile.

"You were pulling my hair and flopping all over the place, Neon. I must not have messed up too bad."

Still coming down and settling into the afterglow, Neon could only let out a weak laughter, reaching up to cup her cheek instead and keep her close. "You went a little crazy on me yourself," she whispered. " ’ Glowstick cunt ’ ? Wow, harsh."

"Oh…" Though she hadn't felt flustered at all in the entire time they had been enjoying each other, she did now; her cheeks reddened and she added, "Um… I was trying out that whole 'dirty talk' thing on you. Was I supposed to warn you first? I'm sorry!"

"No no! It’s fine, you… hah…" Still gasping for breath, she pressed her lips against Weiss's again for another kiss while she recollected herself. "You just surprised me! I thought you were against swearing and all that stuff. It was kinda hot, to be honest."

Slowly, Weiss let the smile return, kissing her back as she giggled. "Okay. I tried to tell you that I'm not very experienced, I'm making it up as I go." Then she raised her hand to her lips and flicked the tip of her tongue against the wetness lingering there.

"Not very experienced?!" Neon laughed as she looked toward what Weiss was doing. Incredible, she was going to lick off her essence like a pro.

"Hmm? Something wrong?" Another long lick, this one taking its sweet time as she sampled Neon's wares. Truth be told, it was almost as delicious as Yang, if in a completely different way; sweet and thin instead of heady and thick.

"I-I… well… you…"

This was new. The girl who wouldn't shut up, had been rendered speechless. All she could do was keep catching her breath and watch with wide eyes as Weiss lapped everything away, sending a fresh wave of warmth down below. In all honesty, it was doing the same for Weiss. She had been able to keep her own arousal at bay throughout sending Neon into throes of ecstasy, but now? Now they had done that, finished her off… and only one of them was left.

"Mmm, that was fun," she breathed as she lowered her hand, the sweet tang lingering on her lips as she turned and sat down on the couch. Her entire posture was suddenly tense, anxious. "You sounded fantastic, by the way - a true vocal performance from Neon Katt."

"Why thank you." She couldn't help but giggle to herself, reaching her hand down to pull her underwear back into place before she sat upright again. There was a slight smirk on her face as she looked back toward her, that same mischievous glint in her eyes. "And how about… I repay you somehow?"

Rolling her eyes, Weiss tried to play it off as a joke. She knew Neon was completely serious, of course, but the last time she had let herself try Neon's brand of repayment, she had bolted; avoiding that at any costs would make her a lot less panicky.

"You can repay me by making this weird crick in my neck disappear with your magic glowstick," she finally scoffed.

Although Neon was giggling again, raising a hand to her lips, she did begin to stare outward into thin air, deep in thought for a moment. "Actually," she began, a small smile forming on her face, "I can do that, easy."

"Your glowsticks aren't magical, sorry," she chuckled, turning to look at her… and pausing, her head tilted when she caught the expression on her face. "What?"

Grinning, Neon got back to her feet again, turning around and holding out a hand toward her guest to help her up. "You remember what I said about my past on Lavender's show, right? That I was a masseuse before this?"

That got Weiss blinking, though she did allow herself to be helped to standing. "No, I guess I must have missed that part… a lot was going on that day. Napkins with notes on them, just crazy stuff."

"Well, I guess that ’ s true." And then straight back to the point. "But yeah… If you want a massage, totally fine by me. I have some oils and stuff in my room, if you ’ re down?"

"Really? Oh… wow, you're legit, aren't you?" Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "It's been a while since I had a good shiatsu, so I guess… yeah, if you're sure you don't mind? This is supposed to be a date, not your worknight!"

"It ain't work if it’s for you , dummy," she giggled, taking Weiss's hand as she pulled her with her back toward the hallway, heading straight toward the bedroom. No playing around with Neon; she got straight to business.

She pushed open the door to a small room, with the main features being the circular bed that sat against one of the walls, and the desk and dressing table against the opposite wall. Unlike Weiss's, there was plenty of decoration; mostly rainbows and stars all over the place, but it certainly made it seem homey. Made it seem more Neon.

"I love your room," Weiss sighed, even though she had glimpsed it through her doorway once before. As she stood there, she said, "So, um… how do I do this? On the bed, or do you have a massage table thing?"

"Well I don't massage people regularly anymore, so having a table would be pointless," she joked, however flicking a couple of switches on the wall turned the main lights back off again, leaving only a few much dimmer lights around her bed and the desk on. Light enough to see, but dark enough to set a relaxing mood. And to show off the painted rainbows as Neon intended: glow in the dark.

Walking toward the desk, she pulled open a few of her drawers as she called back, "Bed's fine, but if you want me to do it right, strip to your undies."

"WHAT?!" Clearing her throat, she tried to save face, at least marginally. "Um… I mean, uh, well, I knew that. Normally you do, don't you? I’m just not normally dating the masseuse." Then, as she reached behind herself to unzip her dress, she asked, "And do you have the traditional white towel to drape over me once I'm exposed for your professional needs?"

Pulling out one bottle from the drawer, she looked back toward Weiss with a small smirk. "I think that's optional in these more… personal circumstances."

As Weiss fought with her zipper, which was being distinctly uncooperative, she read the label once Neon had come a bit closer. "Apricot kernel oil? I didn't even know they made oil out of that!"

"Oh you'll be surprised what oils you can get." But she tilted her head when she noticed that Weiss was struggling, putting the bottle down on the bedside table. "Want a hand?"

"If you could, thanks," she sighed in defeat, turning to face away from her friend. Or whatever she was to her. "Sorry about this. Um, how long did you study massage?"

Quickly taking the zip in one hand, Neon gradually eased it downward, continuing to chat as she got her ready. "A year or so. I was naturally talented at it, but actually found that while I was working I'd be singing at the same time. One day I just got the right client who was connected in the industry; he gave me my big break, asking me to perform at a small function. Just to see how I handled the limelight."

"Just like that?" she asked as she felt cool air hit her back. "That's so lucky… I'm glad, though. You're really good out there." Then she let out a little chuckle. "I know I've been a little judgmental of your methods before, how you're always simulating sex acts and things like that on stage, but I guess just… partly, I'm jealous that you have so much more freedom to do whatever you want. No squeaky-clean image to maintain."

"Yeah, sure; just have to act like a slut and suppress my true sexuality. But I get what you mean." She helped slide the dress down Weiss's body, admiring her bare back for a moment, using this time to gently stroke her hand up and down one of her arms. "See, this is what I don't get, though. If the squeaky-clean image isn't by your choice, then who's?"

The temptation to stop speaking was strong. In fact, she was already halfway through saying "None of your business" when she cut it off in the middle of the third word, trying to soften her tone. "I mean… sorry, I didn’t mean to snap; this is a sensitive topic. You didn't do anything wrong." Stepping free from the dress, she raised her hands to cross over and touch her own shoulders, shielding her small chest from view before turning around.

"It's… my father. He's a decent man overall, but very conservative and a little tyrannical. Manages my entire professional and professional life, and my equally-tightassed sister picks up whatever slack he leaves. So I'm a little boxed in."

"Ah… wow, a regular mafia of music." Now Neon was beginning to understand. Of course, Yang knew from day one what background she had, having been given a brief introduction in her interview. But for Neon, she was learning as they went. Weiss had her chances handed to her on a silver platter; Neon had to build her career up from scratch. But at least her situation was slightly more flexible.

But then she was starting to think about other things. Like the video, the song; what it was about. "So… that viral video your pal Ruby put out… did he approve?"

"Not really. Of course, he was of the opinion that people were 'reading too much' into the lyrics — not seeing what he didn't want to see, and I let him believe his own fantasy. But he was also mad that I didn't keep a better eye on my 'unpolished material'."

"Yeah, I can understand that." She finally paced back, enough to allow Weiss to lie down. There were a lot of questions she had, about her father, about why the video even came to be… and about the other girl in it with her. But those could wait. Especially since she could see Weiss wasn't ready to answer them.

"No, you can't… and thank your lucky rainbows for that. He's just…" Sighing deeply, Weiss crawled onto the bed, closing her eyes at the soft feeling of the cotton sheet. All of the other blankets and pillows were wadded up in the corner, far away from her. "You have to put up with that Adam creep, which sucks, but at least he's not your father. Maybe someday you can get away from him completely."

"Yeah… maybe." She was beginning to agree. Sensing Weiss would be in no mood for her to be teasing, she grabbed the bottle again from the table and knelt by her side. Now she was there, she could drizzle the oil on her back, and then begin to rub it into her shoulders. After the "AAAHH!" of the cold fluid first landing on her back, Weiss lapsed into silence.

"But you don't need him much longer, you know," Neon continued. "I mean, that snippet of a song has got people going crazy… If you and that girl got together, wrote a whole album, you could get any recording contract you wanted – without his help."

After nearly a minute of rubbing, Weiss finally grunted, "I can't get ahold of her right now. She's, um, on vacation."

Beginning to press her thumbs into the shoulders, Neon worked away at the tense muscles she was finding there. All the while, she had no idea this subject would be such a deep one, one that would spark old memories. "Cell phones are a thing though, right?"

"To some people," she grumbled – but immediately afterward, let out a long, low groan of relief. "Ohhhhhh, God … wow, that's incredible…"

Starting to smile as she edged gradually closer to her neck to try and loosen that as well, Neon continued to work the oil all over her back. Her client seemed to instantly give, but it was a noticeable difference. "Geez! You really were tense…"

As the subject of Yang ebbed away, so did Weiss's stress, and she squirmed very slightly to get more comfortable on the bed. "And your hands… are magic, Neon! Oh wow… can't believe you stopped doing this, even if it's because you can sing rings around me…"

“Don’t be dumb; your pipes are as good as my pipes.”

Gradually she worked her way down Weiss's body, along her spine and slowly toward her hips. Anywhere she could reach, she would take care of, continuing to lather her body in the sweet-smelling moisture and working it into her skin. And Weiss kept up the groans of relief when she wasn’t sighing like a happy little kitten.

"Maybe I still got it," Neon giggled. "Or maybe it's just because it's you and me."

"Maybe, mmm… do you…" Her voice trailed off in a weak, contented laugh as she flipped her head from one side to the other. "Nah. This is great, never mind."

"No no, go ahead," she encouraged, continuing to work with her hands even as she leant in toward her, whispering. "I'm listening."

Another gust of delight, this one higher and turning into a groan toward the end. "Ooh… can you do my legs next? All that stage practice, dance moves… you probably get what I mean…"

"Oh, is that all?" she asked, as though it were no big deal whatsoever. In truth, it wasn't.

And that was proven as she crawled downward toward the legs in question, lathering them in the fluid and then immediately working into them with her thumbs. But it could not be denied, hearing Weiss groan in pleasure from her actions was spurring her own heat again. Maybe this would eventually lead somewhere yet.

"Ohhhhhhhh, yeah," Weiss bleated, one of her calves angling up, toes curled tightly inward before the leg fell limp again. "DAMN! Oh, I needed this! I needed it bad!"

And her noises were becoming very nearly sexual; just barely in front of that line, and occasionally darting across it before coming back to the platonic, massage-only side. Either way, Weiss was enjoying herself more than either of them had anticipated.

"Hmm, you really were tense." Continuing to make her way downwards, she smiled back up toward Weiss. This could be the perfect chance for them to try things again, for her to attempt to return the favor for those throes of pleasure she'd had a quarter of an hour ago. Testing those waters, as she finished on one side, and was going to move on to the other, she whispered, "I also provide… Intimate services…"

Partly due to the fingernail that brushed the sole of her other foot, and partly the proposition, Weiss shivered all over and let out a noise that sounded like a goat in heat. Then she kicked Neon very gently with the non-trapped leg.

"Silly… but I'll keep it in mind." When thumbs dug into the arch of her foot, she groaned, "NNnnnnnNNhhhh, that's criminal! You can't be this good with every part of the body, it's not possible!"

"Oh but it is." She giggled, continuing to knead into the flesh with her thumbs, grinning as she watched the woman below her completely come undone. Although when the sighs were becoming rather suspect again, she began to smirk, continuing to whisper sweet nothings.

"Are you sure I can't do more for you?"

"Well…" She was contemplating, as hard as that was made by the thumbs gouging into her feet, moving up her other calf. "You… you're already doing so well, but do you do… front-massages? Is that a thing?"

"I can make it a thing." Neon then took a few steps backward, watching her movements like a hawk as she stepped out of her own skirt. "Turn over."

Two words had rarely brought Weiss to such a standstill. She would be showing far more of her body off if she were to roll onto her back… but on the other hand, this was her idea. Slowly but surely, she did turn, and lay rigid as a board with her arms pressed up against her sides.

Now the redhead could just about see it all. Last time she was here, she saw her petite diva with a bra on, so not to this full extent before. Now she could see things to the full, the small mounds of her chest, the smooth stomach… everything but what her panties were covering. This was going to be just as much a treat to her as it was going to be for Weiss.

Before pressing hands inwards, she leant downward to press a kiss against her stomach. "Beautiful."

Another shiver. This one seemed to be due to the nearness of Neon's lips, how she was lingering so close to a certain region… but she was covered entirely. No real cause for alarm. Therefore, she followed up that shiver with a whispered, "Thank you" before trying her best to relax.

"Now then…" She began again, leaning upright as she grasped the bottle once more, holding it above her. But now there were choices to be made. Choices that could make this experience even more extreme. "Would you like for me to be sat here still? Or…" The next movement was gestured as she stroked Weiss's outer thigh. "Do you want me to straddle you?"

The further coating of her leg with oil convinced her. "Straddle me. I… think it should be easier for you to oil me up if you're like that." Her arms twitched again; they wanted to shoot up and cross over her front, to shield her nakedness from the other woman, regardless of how much she also wanted her to drink it in with her glittering eyes. So many conflicts inside of her …

As she wished, Neon slipped a leg over Weiss's body, straddling her hips just as she was commanded. Yet again, the fabric of their underwear was meeting again, grinding against one another just as it did their second date. But Neon couldn't focus on that. For now, she squirted more of the oil onto her hands, and began to rub it onto her shoulders, kneading in with her thumbs each time just as she had with her back. This time, they could maintain eye contact.

Clearly, it was a struggle for her, but Weiss eventually managed to close her eyes and enjoy the feeling of bliss her new girlfriend was gracious enough to bestow upon her. Those hands worked miracles! Letting out mewling sighs with every breath now, she relaxed into the motions as the hands began drifting down in the direction of her chest a little at a time.

And eventually, she was massaging around the petite mounds. Delicately kneading her fingertips into them, purely just for pleasure and pleasing her girlfriend this time. That's what they were now, right? Girlfriends? Maybe it was the right word, it certainly felt right for Neon to use at least.

Once satisfied she had been coated in the sweet-smelling oils, she moved her hands inwards, starting to grasp and grope at her modest assets. Weiss arched her back up into the touch, a shaky gasp erupting as she felt palms on her peaks, taunting and invigorating her flesh. Again, Neon knew exactly what to do to get her going… and she was probably using every last shred of that knowledge to persuade her to let go and let God - even though in this case, God was a glowstick-waving redhead with tattoos and glitter on her cheeks. Very marginally, for the first time, she began to feel like their relationship might really work out after all.

If she could get over the fears that she had. Speaking of which, Neon was gradually beginning to explore. Shuffling herself down Weiss's body, she was straddling her legs instead, leaving her stomach and what was below exposed. It was covered with her panties for now, but as one hand began to trail toward them, it appeared that barrier wouldn’t hide her for much longer.

Within seconds, there was a discernible change in her breathing. Fingertips getting close to the waistband made the muscles of her stomach clench, her own hands grasping at the bedsheet. The conflict within her was like a raging storm; should she let this happen, or resist?

"Do you want this?" Neon asked, trailing a fingertip over the top of the band. It was both to fall into their play, and so she could genuinely find out. She needed to hear Weiss say it before she continued.

Both of her well-oiled shoulders shrugged. "Maybe. Do you?" Then she smiled bemusedly. "Like I really have to ask that."

"I wanna repay you." Neon continued to trail her fingers over it. Even though she was smiling, she was worried it would be a repeat of their previous two encounters. Anything to avoid that was a smart idea in her book. "But I need to hear you ask me for it."

"Yeah," Weiss sighed, eyes closing for a moment as she suppressed a reaction to the way the girl on top of her insisted on getting the okay. She knew it had been all her fault, that she was the one holding both of them back from enjoying each other so completely. That guilt was crushing. "Yeah, just… I'm sorry in advance if I'm nervous, but I really do want this. I promise."

"Thanks… I just don't wanna put pressure on you, okay? Well, not the bad kind." Finally, the moment had arrived. She trailed her hand upward and then dipped down into the band, slowly trailing further and further down. Through the patch of sparse hair, then eventually, toward the lips themselves…

"A-ahh!" she breathed as her body seized, her head tossing to one side and eyes screwing shut. This was more like it! Though she would have been fine if nothing more than petting and massaging happened, there were needs that had been going unmet. Having someone to tend them again was… nice. Exciting, but also comforting.

There was another comfort in all this. Weiss's first time with Yang, she had to get over a huge obstacle; her body confidence. Before, it took forever for her to work up the courage to allow Yang to look or touch her down there. But Neon wasn't even exposing it. She knew just how to get someone based on feel alone. It said enough about her skill, how much she had practiced; but also unintentionally served Weiss’s needs.

Two fingers trailed their way between her lips, venturing up and down the wetness she found there, gathering the moisture. "Ohh, Neon…" Her lips slowly turned into a vague smile. It had taken some effort of will, but she was going to enjoy herself. A beautiful girl was touching her intimately, teasing her body, and it was ridiculous for her to ignore that just because of a few old hang-ups.

"Weiss," she responded, her voice in a much lower tone as she purred in delight at what was happening to the woman below. It was more than enough of a response to get her going again – but no, this was Weiss's turn, and she was going to make it every bit as good as what she had received on the couch. Unconcerned for if the oil would stain her clothing, she laid herself on top of Weiss's body instead, pressing her lips against her exposed neck over and over as she continued to grind those fingers. Gradually, as she was getting into it, she felt her hips thrusting forward into it as well, in unison with her finger's movements.

So much of this was too familiar, too reminiscent of how things had been with- but no, not now. This was Neon on top of her, Neon who was worming fingers up against her vulnerable petals and kissing her neck. Neon whose shirt she was yanking off over her head frantically, in an effort to bring them closer, to make their activities more intimate.

"S-sorry," she breathed shakily once she realized there was an obstacle to taking it off one of the arms, letting the shirt hang from Neon's elbow awkwardly.

Neon instead giggled at her, stopping the movements of her fingers a moment as she came back into her view. "I get it. You want to see the ladies again, huh?"

Biting her lip, Weiss nodded. "I��� want to see them… to feel you." Her face was burning up, almost as much as the flesh Neon couldn't resist sliding her fingers through continuously. She wanted to be with Neon so much more than she had expected — to feel something besides regret and loss. And she was past the point of worrying about how the other girl would react to her thinking that way, past holding herself back.

Neon drew her hand out, quickly using that time to shuck her shirt and toss it to one side, then to throw her bra atop the growing mound of clothing. Straight away however; she returned to what she was doing before. She pressed herself right up against Weiss's body, eagerly delivering more and more kisses to her neck. This time, Neon's own set of breasts was pushed up against her, the pointed piercings could be felt up against her chest as her fingers got straight back to work. She was on a mission, and was going to get there.

To Weiss's surprise, the steel of the piercings wasn't as cold as she'd been expecting. Already warm from being trapped up against her chest, there was only the sensation of rigidness that didn't belong next to the softness of her peaks. Weiss raised a hand to tease one again as their hips bucked, weighing it in her hand, pushing the stud from side to side.

Neon hummed contentedly, pushing her hips up against her repeatedly in unison with her fingers. Slowly, painfully so while she was gathering what she needed. But finally, she was trailing her hand lower, beginning to circle her entrance over and over. For Neon, she knew to save the best until last, which meant Weiss would have to wait if she wanted the sensitive nub played with.

The other hand suddenly shot into Neon's fluffy cloud of hair and gripped hard, dragging her down for a heated embrace, devouring her mouth with recklessness and need. And as she kissed her so hard… she also nodded. The orange-haired vixen could be felt smirking in the middle of the kiss as she did so right back, instantly allowing her tongue to find Weiss's as she passionately embraced her. No more waiting.

And below, two things were happening at the same time. The fingers dove into her, pushing back and forth along the inner walls over and over again. And her hips… Those hips kept moving in unison with the diving fingers, almost like that was the force that was pushing her in and out. Like they weren't her fingers at all, but a part of her to only function for this purpose.

Something about those motions were familiar… but Weiss again chose not to delve too deeply into that thought. This was Neon she was within the here and now. And she gratefully arched her back and moaned aloud into the other mouth as she was destroyed with a pair of fingers that had obviously been down that road many times before.

They must have done. Given that in such little amount of time, they were curling to find that sweeter spot, massaging it with every thrust forward, every gyration of her hips. It may have been such a different person, but the actions almost mirrored Yang's. Her kiss with Weiss intensified, just as it would have if it were Yang. She continued to massage and touch Weiss's breast with her spare hand, just as Yang would have. And then her moaning was beginning to get louder and louder in Weiss's mouth – again, as she would expect from Yang.

"Nnhhhh!" she groaned into the lips above hers as that vulnerable cluster inside of her was assailed over and over, turning her into a writhing, orgasm-mad mess. No longer able to keep toying with Neon's chest without hurting her somehow, she abandoned that to reach up and dig her fingernails into her supple back, to cling for dear life. She was so wound up that it couldn't take much more of this before she was screaming into the ceiling.

"Hmmmhh…" Neon disengaged from her lips, and instead began to kiss and nibble at her neck over and over again, continuing to push in and out, back and forth with her hips. Weiss was close, so close. And she was going to send her rocketing there. Extending her thumb to rub against the cluster of nerves above as well as thrust against those below, she was prepared for Weiss to finish. So she whispered to her again, "Go on, you want to. You wanna come for me. Come for me, Princess!"

Oh, how that thumb pushed her beyond her limits! Losing all control of her body, she arched up into the hand that was punishing her body so completely, the lips laying waste to her neck and the words of her lover spurring her onward, coaxing her out of the shell just enough to let herself relish the climax crashing down around them.

"YES! FFFFUCK YES, HARDER! That's right, that's- I'M- I'm g-gonna- ohHHHHHHHH, YAAAAAANNNNGGG!"

As she felt Weiss's orgasm roll over her body, felt the muscles clamp on her fingers over and over again, Neon pumped her fingers a few more times, milking her lover's orgasm for all it was worth. Yet another satisfied customer it seemed, making her grin with joy.

That was until she was starting to realize something… That wasn't her name Weiss had called. Nor was it just Weiss yelling out profanities to try and control herself. Weiss had called out another name. From how it sounded, another woman's name. What did that mean?

She let Weiss have the last remnants of pleasure before she gradually eased away, drew her fingers back out of her body. Allowing a few moments for Weiss to regain her breath before she asked.

"What's a Yang?"

"A wha…?" For a few glorious seconds, Weiss just reached up and caressed Neon's cheek as she gazed up at her gratefully, trying to get her breath.

Then it hit home: she had said that in their final moments. Done the unthinkable and mentioned her ex during sex.

Fuck.

And she was still laying there, nearly nude next to a half-clothed goddess whom she had insulted by calling the wrong name out, who looked only politely interested instead of horribly offended, the way she should have been. This was all wrong. The entire situation had gone from beautiful to terrible in less than ten seconds, and it was all. Her. Fault.

Upon seeing Weiss's expression begin to shift, Neon was growing increasingly worried herself, backing away slightly and tilting her head. It seemed that really was true, from Weiss's reaction. That it was another name rather than a pure noise of passion.

But maybe she should give her the benefit of the doubt. "Are… you okay?"

Tears began to sting Weiss’s eyes, and she had to get away. Though she had told herself she wouldn't run again, this time she had done worse than just being uncomfortable; she had slighted Neon in a really profound way, and it might not be something she could take back. Never before had she felt like such a whore .

"I'm… gonna need a minute," Weiss whispered as she pushed up from the bed, facing away from her. She took two breaths, the second one beginning to sound suspiciously like a sob as she added, "Excuse me," and headed out and toward the bathroom.

And for a moment, Neon was left on her own in the bedroom with nothing but her own thoughts, and an all new worry. If that really was a name, who was it? Was this 'Yang' a threat to her and Weiss's blossoming relationship? Or was Weiss even dating this person without telling her?! No, that couldn't be it. She wouldn't have been this upset if it was cheating; more scared and trying to make excuses.

It was getting more and more confusing by the minute. Until there was a faint buzzing she could hear, coming from the mound of clothes on the floor. Probably her agent trying to get contact with her at the worst of times again, like she usually did. But as she scrambled to try and find her phone, she didn't find hers.

She instead found Weiss's. And curiosity was getting the better of her. Quickly looking back around to the door to check, she unlocked the phone; not even a password or anything. Maybe she could find out who this Yang was through here. She felt bad, but after that name slipped out she felt like she had to see what she could see.

Though everyone knows what they say about curiosity…

Weiss’s phone background was a simple picture of a beach at sunset, a palm tree arching overhead. Lovely, exotic, and common; the kind of thing you set as wallpaper when you first buy your phone. As it turned out, the incoming text was from someone named "Ruby" — that friend she had mentioned in the interview.

Hey Weiss, hows it going with Neon?? Im so excited for you, maybe you can introduce me to her on Skype!! : D

Neon found herself smiling at such an adorably supportive message. It was good for her to see that Weiss had someone who seemed to know about who she was as a person, and about her sexuality. It made her feel rather special even to know that Weiss had told someone about them, even if it was one person.

She decided not to go through the rest of her text messages. Even if she wanted answers about her potential competition, she wasn't going to go that far to get them. That was Weiss's life, very private conversations. But maybe there was a photo. Scrolling to the photo album app, she was welcomed by a few photos of her and a smaller girl with glasses and dark hair. That seemed to fit the description of Ruby, at least.

"Cute," she muttered to herself, beginning to scroll upward to see what else was there. “I’d tap that if I wasn’t with Weiss.”

The next few were of Weiss and a cute blonde girl with distinctly Asian features; the one from the impromptu music video. They were just selfies, like any girl would take with her friend. She had a few of her and Weiss on her own phone. But as they progressed, they started changing gradually. Sitting closer, glancing at each other more. One of her sleeping, looking entirely peaceful.

Next she saw her wearing a gorgeous traditional dress, looking both elegant and bashful. Was this at a wedding? Had Weiss been a bridesmaid or something? That would make sense if Weiss had feelings for her and now they were no longer in each other's lives.

That was when she found pictures she would regret seeing. Blondie in the nude, being toyed with, teased… a pale hand that could only belong to her Weiss doing the teasing. And among those pictures was a video file.

Which turned out to be even more graphic than the pictures. Not only was there an ice blue length pounding into her — and into somewhere she had not been expecting — but there was another aspect to the woman in the video she discovered that was not readily apparent in all of the other pictures.

She was a DUDE. Well, that was inaccurate, and she instantly felt bad that it had been her first thought, but there was definitely something between her legs that came as a complete shock to the snooping woman. All that time, Weiss had been dating a girl, who dated a girl… who didn't have what most girls have. Which would explain some of her reticence to try new things, even though she was comfortable with others. This helped slot in several more pieces of the puzzle that was Weiss Schnee.

"You have… no idea how sorry I am about what happened just now, Neon,” said diva began as she returned to the bedroom, wrapped in a bath towel and still looking completely ashamed of herself – and as Neon jumped, closing the gallery app and dropping the phone onto the bed. “Seriously."

Neon felt caught. It was deadly obvious what she had been doing, and she belatedly felt like a terrible person for snooping – even if she felt like she had a good reason to snoop at the time. Competition. But perhaps she could get away with not telling Weiss of the erotic video she had just witnessed on her phone, and merely blame the ridiculously red cheeks on her coming down period from their play. Or that she was just caught with Weiss's phone in her hand the once.

"U-um… Ruby messaged you," she answered honestly, but then patted the bed for her to sit down. "But um, I just… I have a few questions? If that's okay?"

A flicker of anger passed over Weiss's face when she realized what she had interrupted, but given her own slip-up during their sexual encounter, she didn't have any room to point fingers. Yet she didn’t sit. She remained standing, entire body language guarded. "Alright. I wish you had let me check for messages myself, but… yeah, go on. Questions like what?"

"Oh I didn't…" Sighing rather than arguing any further, she ran a hand through her hair. She could cover what she was doing halfway through the conversation, if the questions led to it. "Okay… this… Yang," she began cautiously. "Is she the chick on guitar?"

"Yes." There was no use in hiding anything anymore, despite how each word stole yet more light from her eyes. "She was my bodyguard, who became my best friend… and yes, we ended up writing that song together."

But Neon knew better. She didn't need to have seen the video to piece things together. Pictures of Yang in a beautiful dress, then of her sleeping, the meaningful glances… They all told her that Weiss definitely had feelings for her somewhere. And another gesture told her that those feelings were returned. Something that wasn't in the phone.

"Your necklace in that interview… the yellow guitar pick. That's something she gave you?"

Again, she shrugged her shoulders, but her voice was more strained when she went on. "Why not? Friendship bracelets exist. Why not… friendship necklaces? Is that so crazy?"

"Weiss…" She spoke more softly this time, enough to try and get her to look at her. But the expression wasn't that of someone who was going to joke and be childish about the situation like she would have expected. It was one of sympathy. She wanted to try and show that she was willing to listen.

"What do you want me to say? That all the rumors are true? That Yang and I had a- a torrid love affair, that we fucked like rabbits during the entire tour?! Is that what you need?!" Tears were already sliding down her cheeks, but her voice only got louder, harsher and less stable. "Well, what's the point in telling you that?! It's not a story that has a happy ending! And it has nothing to do with you and me! It's just… history now, that's all! Just…"

She crumpled to her knees in the middle of the floor, sobbing and unable to continue. No longer willing to sit around and do nothing, Neon got up from the bed and knelt down by her side. There were no more words she could say, nothing that would make the situation any better for the one she cared about in question. She wanted answers, but wanted to show Weiss she cared about her more than she needed those. So she only petted her back gently, giving her that time to cry that she so desperately needed. Judging from how abrupt it was, she hadn't been able to do this with anyone.

The first sign that Weiss was recovering came when the arms came up to grip Neon tighter; she at least could acknowledge there was another person there now, that she needed her there. Wet eyes pressed against her neck as she sobbed and shook, as her fingertips stabbed into her naked back. Clearly, she was somewhat broken… but Neon would only find out why a few minutes later.

"She left me," Weiss finally forced herself to growl out between racking, awful noises. "I d-don't know why, I don't know what I did, b-but she left, and she won't even answer my calls or anything! I c-can't- nobody would tell me anything, I don't understand! I th-thought she lo- I thought she loved me!!!"

The words hurt Neon. She'd heard break up stories all the time, but all had reasons for the split somewhere. At least reasons the other party could safely say. Cheating, not working out, even abuse, she'd heard it all. But for Weiss, there was no explanation whatsoever. One-day Yang was there, the Yang which she seemed to share an emotional bond with judging by some of the pictures; the next she was gone, out of her life. Without even a goodbye, from the sounds of things.

Stroking her back, and trying to keep herself from crying with her, she looked downward. What could she say? She had a few theories of why, but a lot related to that intimate video. It seemed she would have to admit to seeing that if she was going to ask.

"So um, this Yang… Yang isn't exactly a girl like you and me, right?"

"She… what?" Drawing back and swiping at her red-rimmed eyes with one hand, she asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"Well… okay, guess I gotta fess up." She was blushing red raw again as she ran a hand over her face, starting to tremble with fear. "After I checked the message, I, uh… glanced at your pics to see if I could find who this Yang possibly was. And I found a… um… very nice video…"

That had the poor, distraught girl looking like she had been slapped. "You… what? You looked through m-" Instantly, she was jerking away from Neon's grasp. "Oh my God… oh my God, oh my GOD, I can't believe you did that…"

"I'm sorry! God, I really am, I just… I didn't think. I was just trying to find out who Yang was, why you were calling her name when I fucked you. I got really jealous, I… guess I didn’t even notice it until… right now." The realisation flooded her with shame. But she knew she deserved it, she deserved Weiss’s anger, for her to react as harsh as she did. All she could do was apologise.

"If I ever catch you on my phone again, I'll…" But she didn't even have enough fight in her to finish the likely-empty threat. Instead she just crumpled further, turning away. "Shit… I really messed up - you found out about Yang, th-that wasn't supposed to- I've been thinking I should set a password for my phone, but I never… I'm so lazy, and stupid…"

"Hey, I'm not gonna tell anyone. About you or about Yang. Promise . But y’know, that got me thinking…" She didn't attempt to pet Weiss again. Not after that. She didn't deserve to touch her. But Weiss did at least deserve the theory. "You said your dad's pretty conservative, right? Could it… could he maybe have found out?"

"No… no, I don't think so. He would have said something to me… my sister knows, but she already threw it in my face, so that's out." The white-haired girl's voice was flat and emotionless as she stared off toward the corner of the room. Her hand pressed into her mouth for about ten seconds as she breathed hard through her nose, then she lowered it. "I… appreciate you not telling anybody about Yang. Even if she's… whatever happened, I promised myself I wouldn't put her in danger by outing her. And I intend to keep that promise. Not going back on it just because I’m hurt by her dumping me."

Nodding to herself, Neon was only just starting to smile slightly. After a moment or two, she even let out a soft laughter, looking toward her bedroom window as she stared out blankly. "God though, I'd have never have guessed. I mean, that video, she looked so great. Had me fooled; hell, had the entire nation fooled."

"Had them fooled? How?" After a second, Weiss's forehead wrinkled up as she crossed her arms over her chest. "What are you trying to say, exactly?"

"Well, you know, that she's a tranny and all." Wrong move. Neon was clearly in the same boat Weiss was in when she first learnt who Yang was; meaning well, but saying all the wrong things. And this was getting worse. "Like I had no idea… Does this mean you're bi, then?"

But of course, Weiss also remembered how she had been back then, and only sighed wearily. "Listen. Yang isn't like that; she's not wearing a costume. She is a real live woman, just… got born differently than we did." Then she threw up both hands, adding, "And what's so great about vaginas, anyway? They bleed a few days every month and get yeast infections! I'd swap mine out for a dick if I could!"

"Hey, whoa whoa whoa, I never said anything about it being bad!" She held up her hands, waving them back and forth to show she meant no harm in what she said. "It's a great dick, seriously! And if she likes having it, then… yay! But I'm just saying, I'd have never have guessed she was born a boy. She looks great, for a trans… person?"

"She looks great for a person ," Weiss continued to correct stubbornly. But mentioning Yang's looks only made her feel more depressed, and she ran a hand through her hair. "God… you sure walked into a minefield. I'm on the rebound, and the last girl I was with had a totally different body… and I don't know, I'm really into you but I can't seem to… to move on, and…" More tears fell, but this time she wasn't quite falling into the pit of sorrow the way she had before. Just grieving, yet again.

It was only now Neon was leaning toward her again, wrapping her arms around her and hugging her closely, gently petting her shoulders. She had far more answers this time, but at what cost? Her possible girlfriend was so hung up over another woman, still grieving over answers she never got. Was it something she could even cope with? That either of them could? She would have to tread very carefully here. A part of her could tell that deep down, Weiss still loved this girl. Still wanted her. But she wasn't here. And unless she was going to turn up out of the blue, Neon could feel reasonably secure in her new relationship.

But it was still a possibility.

"Look…" she began, leaning back to wipe away one of the stray tears from Weiss’s cheeks. "I can tell she meant a shit tonne to you, that you're really broken up about this. And no matter what happens, you can talk to me about it, okay?"

"But you shouldn't have to! Sh-shouldn't have to pick up the pieces of me, I should… be ready to be with you right here, right now, all the way!" Weiss leaned up and kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry I'm still so hung up on her, b-but I really like you, okay? That's not changing!"

"You don’t have to do that," she insisted, wiping away another stray tear. One of her own fell down her cheeks, over the little heart shaped tattoo specifically. She couldn't help it, all of this was emotionally draining. But what kept her going was the knowledge that if this was hard for her, it would be so much worse for Weiss. Finally making sure she was looking into her eyes, she spoke softly and genuinely.

"We all have baggage, okay? It took me well over a year to get over my first girlfriend. And you're doing completely fine! But I want you to know…" She swallowed. This was getting to a more difficult part. If she was this hung up over Yang and the possibility of her returning was still there, she needed for Weiss to know. "If… you want to slow things down, or even pump the brakes until you feel less, um, weird… It's fine with me. We'll still be friends, no hard feelings, no worries. I'm not saying you gotta, but the option is there."

Weiss's reaction was not what she had been expecting – since she had been expecting to get dropped right away. Especially because of her snooping; she wouldn’t blame her in the slightest. Instead, those baby blue eyes got even wider, and she began to hyperventilate. She was shaking like a leaf as she drew away from her, curling into a ball on the floor. She was whispering something over and over, but it wasn't easily distinguishable until Neon leaned slightly closer.

"Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me…"

It plucked at Neon's heartstrings to see Weiss like this, so terrified of being abandoned. She may have been one to speak about baggage, but this was something new altogether. The question was, would she be able to handle it? Weiss was so hung up on this other girl, so hung up on this Yang, that everything was in the air. She may never get over it if they never found out why, or she could leave her in an instant if Yang returned. It may never work out at all. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to do her damn best to help her however she could in the time they had.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered into her hair as she cradled the shivering diva close. “Neon doesn’t bail on friends. Pinky promise.”

#White Noise #rwby fanfiction #schneeon #rwby smut #rwbyremnants #i would tag this with n ess eff dubya but like... tumblr lmao

[moiraineswife]

Adronitis + Molly/Caleb

Adronitis: Frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone: Molly/Caleb: 

“Do you think you could just…Tell the truth to us? Just once?” Caleb snapped, suddenly. 

Molly blinked, glancing towards the wagon that he’d been riding beside as they made their steady way along the road towards the next city. He had been chatting animatedly with Jester, who had been asking him things about himself for the better part of an hour, and he’d been doing as he was wont to do and giving her ever more ridiculous, and utterly bullshit, stories. 

He hadn’t even been aware that Caleb had been listening. His head had been buried in one of his books, as usual, and he seemed as oblivious to Molly’s conversation as he would have had been sitting at the bottom of a lake while it took place. 

“Excuse me?” Molly replied, mildly, raising his eyebrows at the wizard, who was staring up at him, book still open in his lap, but for once not holding his entire attention. 

“Everything that has ever come out of your mouth from the day we met you has been a lie,” Caleb said. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Molly could see Beau muttering something to Jester, while Fjord watched on, quiet, but with a keen interest. None of them made any move to interrupt. “Whenever we ask you a question, or whenever you tell us anything about yourself, or your past, it’s all bullshit. Why say anything if you’re not going to say the truth?” 

Molly felt that this was rather rich coming from Caleb who, by all accounts, had been more tight-lipped than a thousand years dead ocean clam. 

However, not wishing to cause a fight on the road, knowing from experience how painful that could make things for everyone, he simply cocked his head to one side and said, easily, “In my experience, people don’t often care about the truth. Particularly not when they’re on the road, passing the same scenery as they have been for the last twenty miles,” he added, with a sidelong look at Jester, who nodded vaguely in agreement. 

He shrugged again. 

“At the end of the day, we care about stories. We remember stories. They’re the things that make us laugh, make us cry, make us love them and live for them. Compared to that, whether or not the story is true is of little consequence.” 

“It is of consequence to me,” Caleb replied, stubbornly. 

Molly stared long and hard at him, then manoeuvred his horse to trot closer to the wagon, so that only Caleb could hear his next words, “Why does it matter to you?” he asked, staring at the wizard intently. 

As usual, Caleb didn’t quite meet his eyes, but Molly had rather quickly learned this had much less to do with honesty and lies than it had to do with Caleb simply being Caleb. 

“Why do you care whether I tell the truth or a pack of lies? My past doesn’t matter to you, doesn’t matter to any of this. It’s got nothing to do with why I’m here, or who I am, or what we are. it’s just a story.” 

“It matters,” Caleb gritted out, “Because…”He hesitated, for just a fraction of a second, then said stoutly “It matters because I am travelling with you, and Nott is also travelling with you. We are putting ourselves in dangerous situations with you, and our lives in your hands.That is why it matters.” 

Molly laughed, a soft, silky, dangerous thing, “It doesn’t matter for that, either,” he said, smoothly. “All you need to know for that is that I know how to handle a sword,”  he drew one of his scimitars in a single, fluid motion, and tossed it into the air, catching it with ease and deftly spinning it through the air around him before slipping it deftly back into its sheathe. “And you know perfectly well I can handle myself. It’s saved your life on more than one occasion, don’t forget.” 

“I don’t forget that,” Caleb said, keeping his voice a little lower, too, so the others couldn’t hear, though Molly noticed Nott’s ears twitching slightly from where she sat up front driving their wagon. “But I feel as though I have been travelling with you for months now, but I don’t know a single thing about you, and that troubles me.” 

Molly smiled easily at that, “That just makes life more fun, Caleb. A little mystery, a little uncertainty, a little danger.” 

“Yes” Caleb replied drily, “Because we all need more danger in our lives.” 

Molly laughed. “I’m not a danger to you, Caleb” he said, letting his voice soften, “If you know nothing else about me, know that. I will never hurt you. Or Nott. I’ll protect you both as best I can. And likely die some day, riddled with arrows, to stop you becoming a walking hedgehog again. I’ve made my peace with that. Make your peace with me. That’s all you need to know to travel with me.” 

With that, he dug his heels into his horse, and trotted ahead, out of earshot of the wizard, up to the head of the party to chat to Fjord a little. 

***

Later that night, when they had made camp and settled themselves, Caleb was interrupted by the soft crunch of boots on stone. 

He glanced up to see Molly picking his way towards him, deliberately making noise so as to alert Caleb to his presence and not startle him. Which was annoyingly considerate of him. 

Molly was a riddle of contradictions, and had been from the day they had met. He was so relaxed, and unconcerned, and uncaring about seemingly everything…Yet he would also take care to signal his approach so as not to startle him. Pull him back to himself in the middle of a battle and kiss him gently on the head afterwards. Stand in front of him and use his body as a shield to take wounds that would otherwise have been meant for him. 

Caleb couldn’t understand him. His world was governed by structure, and order, and information. Once he understood something he knew what he could do with it, how he could use it, whether or not he should avoid it, whether or not he should keep it around. Molly stubbornly refused to be neatly placed into a box in Caleb’s mind, where he could be filed away and understood. Instead he flitted from point to point, like an insect, resisting all attempts at capture. 

And now he marched up to him out of the darkness with a rather alarming air of purpose around him. 

“Can I help you?” Caleb asked because that what you were supposed to say, not because he actually felt any inclination to help Molly with anything at the moment, absorbed as he was in his studies. 

“We’ll see,” Molly replied cheerfully, plonking himself down on the ground beside Caleb, leaning casually against the broad-trunked tree at their back. 

“Uh,” Caleb began, frowning slightly, “Do you mind? I’m rather busy at the moment,” he gestured towards the books that were spread out around him, “Perhaps we could do this another time?” 

“Oh I’m sure we could,” Molly replied, evenly, “But we’re going to do it now. I promise not to take up too much of your precious study time.” 

Resigned, Caleb sighed, and waved his hand for Molly to get on with it. The sooner he said whatever it was he had come here to say, the sooner Caleb could return to his reading. 

“You don’t like liars,” Molly said, boldly, apparently just getting right into it, which he appreciated. 

“What gave me away?” he deadpanned in answer. 

A wry grin spread across Molly’s face at that, but he continued as though Caleb hadn’t said anything at all. “But you lied to me earlier, back on the road, when I asked you why it bothered you that I had lied about my past. You don’t give a fuck about making sure I’m a worthy travel companion. I’ve proved my worth on that front a hundred times over. So what ‘s the truth, Caleb?” 

Caleb blinked, rather shocked by the bluntness of this statement, but rallied quickly. “If you thought I was lying to you back then, why didn’t you challenge me then?” 

“Oh, well,” Molly said, shifting slightly, angling himself away from the tree, planting his hands behind him in the long grass, and stretching back, head tipped up towards the star-strewn sky. 

Caleb licked his lips, unable to stop his gaze drifting over the sweeping, delicate lines of the tiefling’s body. The shirt he always wore was parted in that deep, slashing v down t he front, revealing his light, lavender skin, criss-crossed with scars, flowing up into the strong column of his throat, the angled jaw, those beautiful, elegant lips. 

He gave himself a little shake as he realised Molly was talking again. 

“I thought the others had had enough of a show as it was,” he said, jerking his head lazily in the direction of their main camp, “And besides, I wanted to discuss this matter with you more privately.” For some reason, the emphasis he put on that last word made Caleb shiver. Molly widened his eyes innocently at him, “That’s not a problem, is it?” 

“No,” he ground out, automatically, even though it was. 

Molly let out that soft little laugh again, “More lies, Caleb?” he challenged, arching forwards now, red eyes gleaming in the glow from the dancing lights Caleb had conjured earlier to light his reading. “I promise I don’t bite…Unless you ask nicely.” He laughed again, and Caleb shivered once more. “What’s the problem with being alone with me, then?” 

What was the problem? The problem was that his heart had gone into a frantic gallop the moment Molly had settled himself beside him. The problem was that the intimacy of this situation was raking its claws down every raw, shredded nerve he possessed. The problem was he didn’t trust himself alone with Molly, didn’t trust himself to have the self-control he needed to have, the self-control he always had for everyone but this gods-damned tiefling. 

The problem was that Molly’s proximity, the heat that burned from his skin, the smirk curving his beautiful lips, and the fact that there was no-one around to see made Caleb want nothing so much as to slam into the tree behind him and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, much less utter any of those clever comments of his. 

“The problem is,” he said, because he couldn’t very well say the truth, for all his desire for it from Molly, “That I was busy  reading, and you interrupted me for apparently no reason.” 

Molly’s smile just broadened at that, as though he knew precisely what Caleb had been thinking, and had decided to respond to that as opposed to the load of bullshit that had just come out of his mouth. 

“I’m feeling generous this evening,” Molly said, settling back, his tail swaying lazily back and forth, like a snake before a charmer, “So I’ll let you answer again. Why do you care, Caleb?” 

He stared for a long moment at Molly, idly tapping the point of the quill he was holding against the parchment balanced on his lap. Finally, he gave the answer as close to the truth as he could, “Because I do not know you. And I want to.” 

Molly stared back at him, the silence enveloping them both, clearly unsure how to respond to that, apparently not having been anticipating it.  Caleb felt a ridiculous rush of pride at the idea that he might have actually managed to unbalance Mollymauk, when he was usually so composed and unflappable. 

Finally, he said, “You’ve been travelling with me for months now, Caleb. We’ve fought, and killed, and brushed death together. I think you know me.” 

Caleb shook his head, the frustration he’d been feeling for weeks now biting off the end of his patience. “You cannot someone if you don’t know their past. We are all a different pattern of scars. We are all a messy patchwork of the things that have happened to us, stitched together with the things that we’ve done. Your past defines who you are, and I know none of yours, so I know nothing of you.” 

“No,” Molly said, a strain to his voice that Caleb couldn’t place, a deep emotion stirring in those red eyes, something that seemed like sadness when he looked at it. “We’re not defined by our pasts, Caleb,” with that, the usual ease, the casual charm and confidence all returned, so smoothly that he wondered if he had ever seen that flicker of…Something else from the tiefling. “We’re defined by our actions. We’re defined by the choices that we make. The things we protect. The things we pursue. The things that we love. That is what makes us who we are right now, in this moment. That’s all I care about. And you’ve seen more than enough from me, Caleb to know who and what I am.” 

“I have,” he murmured softly, “But I have also seen you lie to me.” 

Molly smiled humorlessly, looking away from him and shaking his head. the jewellery in his horns caught the edges of Caleb’s dancing light spell for just a moment, and they burst, sending a shower of stars spattering across the small clearing he had settled himself in, with Molly at their centre. 

Then he said, quite suddenly, “Do you trust me, Caleb?” 

he wanted to say that of course he didn’t. He didn’t know him. How could he ever trust what he didn’t know? How could he trust someone who lied to him, who considered stories more important to tell than truth? How could he trust someone who did the things that Molly did to him with seeming ease and abandon? 

But he didn’t. 

Instead, he let a single, raw truth spill from his lips before he could call it back, “Yes.” 

And that was the true heart of the matter. Molly had given him every reason, every reason in the world, not to trust him, not to let himself get close to him, not to spare so much as a second thought for him. But he did. He trusted him. And it terrified him. 

A slow, satisfied smile bloomed across Molly’s face, and his eyes danced with victory as he moved in closer to him. “The truth at last,” he said, softly, “You trust me in spite of it all.” 

“Yes,” Caleb whispered again, his eyes closed, his head hanging as shame flooded his lungs, and heat flooded his cheeks. 

Molly slid a clawed finger beneath his chin and gently but firmly tilted his face up again. He licked his lips, dragging his eyes slowly, deliberately, up, and then down, Caleb’s body. 

He leaned forwards, until his scent was almost overwhelming Caleb’s senses, and the heat between them was nearly too much to bare. Then he whispered, mouth so close to his ear that his fangs gently grazed the shell of it, “Prove it to me.” 

He drew back, his eyes gleaming hungrily, and Caleb knew what he wanted. Knew what they both wanted. He knew what Molly was asking for. He knew, and he gave it to him without thought. 

Cupping his cheek in his hand, Caleb kissed him. 

It wasn’t a thing of gentle confessions and timid feelings. It was a thing of furiously bottled emotions, of burst dams, and finally released explosions. It was everything that had been building inside Caleb for weeks. It was hunger, and it was passion. It was instinct, and it was fever. It was desire and need tangled together. It was truth. And it was beautiful. It was divine. 

When they broke apart at last, Molly was as flushed and breathless as Caleb had always pictured him, and he couldn’t help the faint smile that curved his lips at the realisation. 

“Was that proof enough?” he asked, breathing hard himself. 

“We’ll see,” Molly breathed back, then leaned in to kiss him once more. 

#mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #widomauk critical role #critical role fic #cr2 fic #cr2 #widomauk fic #my fic #mine #answered #lauren answers #prompt fill #lauren fills prompts #robot-guts #what am i doing??? #i don't know but i'm enjoying myself and that's the only thing that matters right? #right #caleb x molly #idddkkk what happenneeddd #or if this is in charcater #or literally ANYTHIGN #but like it Exists so #ur welcome for that i guess??? #ANYWAY

[pomearch]

What we suffer from is an ugliness from their hearts, an ugliness from which there is no cleansing.

Everyday their conduct kindles the flames of their own humiliation.

Consider that there is no success in this life, just endlessly pursue an ever increasing contriteness of your heart.

How precarious are the shabbily constructed, high pedestals they perch themselves upon. The laws they rule from are nothing but hypocrisy. The contractors of their platforms are unskilled drunks. They rule over the righteous from wobbling scaffolds and trembling ladders. 

Shake yourself towards right guidance before misery befalls you; let your retinas not wander from Allah towards any observable object.

They cling to earth in play, though it slips from their fingertips along with its days without judgement. 

Anything outside of Islam is almost assuredly contamininated.

The human being does not issue verdicts, verdicts are issued upon human beings. 

Islam is submission to God, submission to God renders all that is outside of God obsolete. When all frivolity, all ephemerality is obsolete, all that remains is the true human experience; living in pious synchronicity with one’s creator, the creator taking precedence over all else, the human ego dissolved in this humble submission, the being then turned to it’s Lord in devotion and towards its fellow man in charity, for the sake of its Lord. 

MAUMEHT

People stand at a bus stop heedless to the profundity of their own existence. Humanity wallows in the self-mind completely unconcerned with the magnitude of existence itself, though it is miraculous and unforeseen. If they knew the true depth of the profundity of life they wouldn’t even move at all. It’s too heavy. It’s all too beautiful. To know that it all ends is far too bittersweet, they won’t taste it. They run from beatitude. The human being will not put down it’s syrupy, artificially sweetened narratives of their own purpose long enough to entertain the true knowledge and purpose of their own fantastical creation.

The truth is always black and white but you must first weed through rainbows in order to get to it.

I would imagine God ordains a unique dignity to those who choose to practice charity and kindness in their lives. I can only imagine this incredible dignity will become a source of great regret to the those who unknowingly forfeit it when they willfully usurp or degrade the rights and lives of others. I can only imagine this particular dignity would be irretrievable to them. You cannot both oppress others and maintain this dignity.

Do not look into other people’s affairs. They might be curiously terrible people but don’t look into it. Wish them well from afar, and don’t look into their affairs.

Hypocrisy is a siren song to the human race.

At the end of this road there is choice. To truly love God is to then labor towards the best outcome for all things he created, even when their pollution towers over your soul. To do no wrong to anything or anyone, even when burdened, for the sake of God alone. To truly love God is to be burdened and yet still water his earth with tears of gratitude.

Firmness in purity or not? Ignore an unknown yet perceivable God to make your contemporaries feel at ease in their floundering indifference? Skip a prayer to go hang out with some sycophants? Join in with them in their love of praising themselves while at the same time ridiculing others? Ingratiate yourself into pathetic, toxic circles of human diatribe? Hear them out? Lend an ear to their slithery inclinations towards hypocrisy? Towards the denial of that which breathed them into being? It's easier to ignore profundity. It’s profitable. It’s just a little bit, just a particle of yeast they’ll add to your unblemished soul. In the human mind there is an incessant beckoning towards hypocrisy, towards the easy way, the gentle incline; just take it, just take it, this inner hypocrite of ours never shuts up, a near-constant nagging to sidestep the sacredness of life for a trifling gain or towards the procurement of ease. This human being of ours is obsessed with ease. From the individual to a much larger scale, everything the human being does is pervaded by iniquity and self-indulgence.

If you are seeking purity then be at war with yourself and with those around you. Be at pure war with the human race. Nothing good comes from slinking around with them, nothing good comes from ingratiating yourself into their cultural, snakelike modes of conduct. They are only slinking towards temporal indulgences and delusional statuses. They’ll burn the world down for the fleeting intoxication of self-perceived stature. Live benignly amongst them and endure their presence politely if at all possible. Nevertheless, be ruthless in protecting yourself from the spiritual pollution that is the byproduct of their endless carousing, which emanates from their pores like vapor as they exhale in satisfaction with illicit and adulterous satiation.

Should I treat as valid their own arrogant, self-applauding opinion of themselves? Their opinion of themselves means nothing to me, it has no validity in my esteem whatsoever. Neither do their cultural laws have any power over me. Their need of status at my expense is laughable. I am not subjected to the whims or desires of others in any way. If they’re drowning in cultural hypocrisy then they should labor towards truth which will set them free, and which has been made easily available to them. If they choose to embrace such hypocrisy and revel in it then they are deserving of whatever befalls them.

Some people are unmerciful to their neighbor even when it's easier to be merciful and others are merciful to their neighbor even when it’s easier to be hateful.

I have lived with such an iniquity that it disqualified the actual validity of my very existence, as if I was so pathetic in reality that I wasn’t even there at all. To have anything to do with the cultural norms and practices of society will degrade your consciousness to the point that you will be unable to truly conceptualize the profundity of your own existence. To be truly conscious of your life would alter your behavior in such a way that you would appear foreign to those around you. If you really took hold of your existence, if you really felt it and appreciated it, and truly knew you were alive your piety and gratitude would make you look like a laughingstock in the eyes of those persisting in reckless heedlessness all around you.

Don’t let others deny your humanity and don’t yourself deny the humanity of others. Even if some people degrade their inherent humanity with their own wretched conduct you should still uphold their humanity in your heart. Ignore those who are wretched because they may cloud your vision of those who are righteous.

The unseen spirit of God holds no appeal to the materialists even though it is palpable and apparent, shining subtly, as if divinity were nearly cracking through the brilliant ephemera of God that exists unmistakably throughout nature. This is an example of those who buy this life at the price of the hereafter.

If you renounce the garbage, and even the permissible, then all that is left for you is the miraculous.

Life is a circus, and human idiocy is our circus master.

They have pieced together their little cultural identity and now that’s all they are willing to discuss. Anything foreign, any foreign idea no matter how profound will be rabidly opposed. This is a deep and snapping hypocrisy. The human being has a snake in its heart. It would be easier to convince a starving coyote to release its meal than to persuade a human being into admitting it's ineptitude.

When you are blind to everything but your own opinion you are then blind to an unshakable reality at large, and adding further to your loss the opinion you stubbornly cling to is almost certainly delusional anyway. Letting go of your own opinion and opening your tired, stubborn eyes to the unhindered purity of the moment is worth the humiliation.

[unsettlingstories]

A collection of complaints about the youth throughout history

The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. Children are now tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up dainties at the table, cross their legs, and tyrannize their teachers.

Socrates (Attributed) 4th Century BC

“[Young people] are high-minded because they have not yet been humbled by life, nor have they experienced the force of circumstances. ... They think they know everything, and are always quite sure about it.”

Rhetoric, Aristotle 4th Century BC

“The beardless youth… does not foresee what is useful, squandering his money.”

Horace 1st Century BC

Our sires' age was worse than our grandsires'. We, their sons, are more worthless than they; so in our turn we shall give the world a progeny yet more corrupt.

Book III of Odes, Horace circa 20 BC

In all things I yearn for the past. Modern fashions seem to keep on growing more and more debased. I find that even among the splendid pieces of furniture built by our master cabinetmakers, those in the old forms are the most pleasing. And as for writing letters, surviving scraps from the past reveal how superb the phrasing used to be. The ordinary spoken language has also steadily coarsened. People used to say "raise the carriage shafts" or "trim the lamp wick," but people today say "raise it" or "trim it." When they should say, "Let the men of the palace staff stand forth!" they say, "Torches! Let's have some light!" Instead of calling the place where the lectures on the Sutra of the Golden Light are delivered before the emperor "the Hall of the Imperial Lecture," they shorten it to "the Lecture Hall," a deplorable corruption, an old gentleman complained.

Tsurezuregusa (Essays in Idleness), Yoshida Kenkō 1330 - 1332

Youth were never more sawcie, yea never more savagely saucie . . . the ancient are scorned, the honourable are contemned, the magistrate is not dreaded.

The Wise-Man's Forecast against the Evill Time, Thomas Barnes 1624

... I find by sad Experience how the Towns and Streets are filled with lewd wicked Children, and many Children as they have played about the Streets have been heard to curse and swear and call one another Nick-names, and it would grieve ones Heart to hear what bawdy and filthy Communications proceeds from the Mouths of such...

A Little Book for Children and Youth - Being Good Counsel and Instructions for Your Children, Earnestly Exhorting Them to Resist the Temptation of the Devil, Robert Russel 1695

“Whither are the manly vigour and athletic appearance of our forefathers flown? Can these be their legitimate heirs? Surely, no; a race of effeminate, self-admiring, emaciated fribbles can never have descended in a direct line from the heroes of Potiers and Agincourt...”

Letter in Town and Country magazine republished in Paris Fashion: A Cultural History 1771

The total neglect of this art [speaking] has been productive of the worst consequences...in the conduct of all affairs ecclesiastical and civil, in church, in parliament, courts of justice...the wretched state of elocution is apparent to persons of any discernment and taste… if something is not done to stop this growing evil …English is likely to become a mere jargon, which every one may pronounce as he pleases.

A General Dictionary of the English Language, Thomas Sheridan 1780

The free access which many young people have to romances, novels, and plays has poisoned the mind and corrupted the morals of many a promising youth; and prevented others from improving their minds in useful knowledge. Parents take care to feed their children with wholesome diet; and yet how unconcerned about the provision for the mind, whether they are furnished with salutary food, or with trash, chaff, or poison?

Memoirs of the Bloomsgrove Family, Reverend Enos Hitchcock 1790

We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last … it is quite sufficient to cast one's eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressor on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion.

The Times of London Summer, 1816

On the use of you in place of thou in speech:

I know not any we may so properly refer the grammar of the matter to, not only derides it, but bestows a whole discourse upon rendering it absurd : plainly manifesting, that it is impossible to preserve numbers, if You, the only word for more than one, be used to express one...

William Evans, ‎Thomas Evans 1837

...a fearful multitude of untutored savages... [boys] with dogs at their heels and other evidence of dissolute habits...[girls who] drive coal-carts, ride astride upon horses, drink, swear, fight, smoke, whistle, and care for nobody...the morals of children are tenfold worse than formerly.

Anthony Ashley Cooper, the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, Speech to the House of Commons February 28, 1843

... see the simpering little beau of ten gallanting home the little coquette of eight, each so full of self-conceit and admiration of their own dear self, as to have but little to spare for any one else... and confess that the sight is both ridiculous and distressing... the sweet simplicity and artlessness of childhood, which renders a true child so interesting, are gone (like the bloom of the peach rudely nipped off) never to return.

"Children And Children's Parties", published in The Mothers' Journal and Family Visitant, S.B.S. 1853

Household luxuries, school-room steam-press systems, and, above all, the mad spirit of the times, have not come to us without a loss more than proportionate...[a young man] rushes headlong, with an impetuosity which strikes fire from the sharp flints under his tread...Occasionally, one of this class...amasses an estate, but at the expense of his peace, and often of his health. The lunatic asylum or the premature grave too frequently winds up his career...We expect each succeeding generation will grow "beautifully less."

“Degeneracy of Stature”, The National Era, Thrace Talmon December 18, 1856

A pernicious excitement to learn and play chess has spread all over the country, and numerous clubs for practicing this game have been formed in cities and villages...chess is a mere amusement of a very inferior character, which robs the mind of valuable time that might be devoted to nobler acquirements, while it affords no benefit whatever to the body. Chess has acquired a high reputation as being a means to discipline the mind, but persons engaged in sedentary occupations should never practice this cheerless game; they require out-door exercises--not this sort of mental gladiatorship.

Scientific American July, 1858

A mendacious umbrella is a sign of great moral degradation. Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself below a silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends armed with the decent and reputable gingham. May it not be said of the bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets "with a lie in their right hand"?

“The Philosophy of Umbrellas”, Robert Louis Stevenson 1894

“‘We want to get married, but there is nowhere we can set up a house of our own. It is either a case of waiting goodness knows how long, and we've waited all the war, or, going to live with Mary's mother.’ How often is a similar remark heard in those days, for it is the problem that young people all over the country have to face. Thousands of young fellows have come home from the war intent on setting up a home with the girl of their heart only to find that there are no homes to be had… Many men, of course, have not waited for houses, but have got married and gone into rooms or to live with relatives, but neither course can be considered very satisfactory.”

Nowhere to Set Up House, Dundee Courier 1920

Never has youth been exposed to such dangers of both perversion and arrest as in our own land and day. Increasing urban life with its temptations, prematurities, sedentary occupations, and passive stimuli just when an active life is most needed, early emancipation and a lessening sense for both duty and discipline, the haste to know and do all befitting man's estate before its time, the mad rush for sudden wealth and the reckless fashions set by its gilded youth--all these lack some of the regulatives they still have in older lands with more conservative conditions.

The Psychology of Adolescence, Granville Stanley Hall 1904

“We defy anyone who goes about with his eyes open to deny that there is, as never before, an attitude on the part of young folk which is best described as grossly thoughtless, rude, and utterly selfish.”

The Conduct of Young People, Hull Daily Mail 1925

...[The screen artists'] beauty, their exquisite clothing, their lax habits and low moral standards, are becoming unconsciously appropriated by the plastic minds of American youth. Let them do what they may; divorce scandals, hotel episodes, free love, all are passed over and condoned by the young... The eye-gate is the widest and most easily accessible of all the avenues of the soul; whatever is portrayed on the screen is imprinted indelibly upon the nation's soul.

The Pentecostal Evangel November 6, 1926

The bad manners of all parliaments, the general tendency to connive at a rather shady business transaction if it promises to bring in money without work, jazz and Negro dances as the spiritual outlet in all circles of society, women painted like prostitutes, the efforts of writers to win popularity by ridiculing...the correctness of well-bred people, and the bad taste shown even by the nobility and old princely families in throwing off every kind of social restraint and time-honoured custom: all of these go to prove that it is now the vulgar mob that gives the tone.

Hour of Decision, Oswald Spengler (translated by C.F. Atkinson, 1942) 1933

“The Chairman alluding to the problem of young people and their English said his experience was that many did not seem able to express or convey to other people what they meant. They could not put their meaning into words, and found the same difficulty when it came to writing.”

Unable to Express Thoughts: Failing of Modern Young People, Gloucester Citizen

1936

“Probably there is no period in history in which young people have given such emphatic utterance to a tendency to reject that which is old and to wish for that which is new.”

Young People Drinking More, Portsmouth Evening News 1936

“Cinemas and motor cars were blamed for a flagging interest among young people in present-day politics by ex-Provost JK Rutherford… [He] said he had been told by people in different political parties that it was almost impossible to get an audience for political meetings. There were, of course, many distractions such as the cinema…”

Young People and Politics, Kirkintilloch Herald 1938

“Parents themselves were often the cause of many difficulties. They frequently failed in their obvious duty to teach self-control and discipline to their own children.”

Problems of Young People, Leeds Mercury 1938

“…in youth clubs were young people who would not take part in boxing, wrestling or similar exercises which did not appeal to them. The ‘tough guy’ of the films made some appeal but when it came to something that led to physical strain or risk they would not take it.”

Young People Who Spend Too Much, Dundee Evening Telegraph 1945

“How to bring young people into membership of the Church was a pressing problem raised at a meeting… Sunday School teachers in the audience had found that children were apt to leave Sunday School when they had completed their day school education. They were not following on into the church.”

Why Do Young People Neglect Religion?, Shield Daily News 1947

“It’s an irony, but so many of us are a cautious, nervous, conservative crew that some of the elders who five years ago feared that we might come trooping home full of foreign radical ideas are now afraid that the opposite might be too true, and that we could be lacking some of the old American gambling spirit and enterprise.”

The Care and Handling of a Heritage: One of the “scared-rabbit” generation reassures wild-eyed elders about future, Life 1950

“Many [young people] were so pampered nowadays that they had forgotten that there was such a thing as walking, and they made automatically for the buses… unless they did something, the future for walking was very poor indeed.”

Scottish Rights of Way: More Young People Should Use Them, Falkirk Herald 1951

“A few [35-year-old friends] just now are leaving their parents’ nest. Many friends are getting married or having a baby for the first time. They aren’t switching occupations, because they have finally landed a ‘meaningful’ career – perhaps after a decade of hopscotching jobs in search of an identity. They’re doing the kinds of things our society used to expect from 25-year-olds.”

Not Ready for Middle Age at 35, Wall Street Journal 1984

“What really distinguishes this generation from those before it is that it's the first generation in American history to live so well and complain so bitterly about it.”

The Boring Twenties, Washington Post 1993

“The traditional yearning for a benevolent employer who can provide a job for life also seems to be on the wane… In particular, they want to avoid ‘low-level jobs that aren’t keeping them intellectually challenged.’”

Meet Generation X, Financial Times 1995

“They have trouble making decisions. They would rather hike in the Himalayas than climb a corporate ladder. They have few heroes, no anthems, no style to call their own. They crave entertainment, but their attention span is as short as one zap of a TV dial.”

Proceeding with Caution, Time 2001

And one more reflection:

“He felt that the people who were giving that kind of charge, that sweeping condemnation, were generally out of touch with the young people… ‘I think that if we knew the boys and girls — and I am thinking particularly tonight the young people of Britain — of those modern times, we should feel that after all they are very much like ourselves. They think very much like ourselves only their expression of their thinking is a little bit different.’”

Modern Young People: ‘A Glorious Lot’, Cornishman 1934

Sources:

http://www.bbc.com/capital/story/20171003-proof-that-people-have-always-complained-about-young-adults

http://mentalfloss.com/article/52209/15-historical-complaints-about-young-people-ruining-everything

The Friends' Library: Comprising Journals, Doctrinal Treatises, and Other Writings of Members of the Religious Society of Friends - edited by William Evans, Thomas Evans

https://quoteinvestigator.com/2010/05/01/misbehaving-children-in-ancient-times/

Just thought you guys would find this cool. From here.

#history #youth #kids #lol #funny

[jmrsullivan-blog]

SHE OF THE SEA

A short story about an otherwise land with no cat pirates, especially not female ones.

SHE OF THE SEA 

For Aimee Charlotte Brown

On almost Christmas 2017

By J.M.R.Sullivan

Cats hate sailing. Most cats spend their entire lives avoiding the wretched wet and, generally, nobody wants to be a sailor. Sailing is regarded so poorly in the Purisian Confederacy that their navy is almost entirely made up of prisoners and convicted felons. The number is so large that there are entire fleets of penal ships, though state of the art they may be, few of them actively do anything. It was an inherently cultural problem. For the average Volunteer Pursian sailor’s status was so low, that he was likely only to be preened after a Binwhisker or Littersniff. The Purisian Navy was a prestige project, staffed by the unwilling, and in retrospect; what is truly shocking is the inevitability of the tale i am about to unfurl.

Sailing however, is not to be confused with the act of piracy, or rather, the occupation of being a Pirate. A cat who sails for the nation is a wet slave and a sad whiskers, but a cat who sails for himself braves the wretched wet for great reward. To him gravitates a most persuasive romance of daring avarisitc adventure and exotic encounter. Very few cats do become pirates, their natural loathing of the sea deterring but the most irregular, but those who have often become notoriously followed, and perversely admired. A person more regularly immersed in a life at sea might hogwash all these charming fantasies. Indeed, a more regularly immersed person may tell you that for the majority, a buccaneer��s lot is brutality from without and within, his poverty, and very often his death. Regardless to the truth of these perspectives, one thing is consistent, it is “he”.

There are no female cat pirates. Mathematics would dispute this, but cats haven't much time for mathematics. For a Prince* to harness his inner conflicts and unleash them on an unfair world in witticisms and well choreographed swordplay, was perfectly believable, even perversely covetable. But for a Princess to rush so headstrong after treasure, to risk her constitution and beauty, to pursue what could be so easily provided by an admirer, and worst of all, to do so in such proximity to vast amounts of water, was frankly, unthinkable.

But this was all about to change…

*Technically all cats are titled Prince and Princess. This stems from both a pragmatic need to prevent petty quarrelling, and a deep rooted obnoxious pride that instills in them the belief that all Cats are inherently royal creatures. This mixture of arrogance and etiquette created an insufferable, occasionally ridiculous, but sustainable society.

My story begins in my humble island parish. As a noble seeking a simpler life I had taken post on the small port refuge of Saltskerry. Here our island served as a way-station off the north coast of Purisia for the many trout and tuna miners, venturing out to barren northern iceflows. Once there, they would besiege the most gargantuan of icebergs, lay their charges and swing their pics, and liberate the silver trapped within. These ships would return to port bloated with their fishy fortune and after many weeks of labour their crews would disembark upon Saltskerry to trade their newfound silver for gold, and their newfound gold for flesh.

As a man of the creed I discouraged these more illicit activities, and the cohort of gangsters and thuggies that surrounded them. But, I would refuse none my spiritual stewardship, be they miner, cohort or even pirate. All, in time, became the same. and all would be returned to the hand of the keeper. life was hard enough for the people here, few grew to age and fewer saw bounty. It was not my place to judge the many names that would become etched on the beams of the parish.

The trouble began one dawn in August. A most terrible storm had raged the night before, howling and thrashing throughout the night. Vengeful, massive and reported as far as the Lapin coast, It had whipped at our little island all night and away in the distance i could hear the frantic scrabble of man against nature, as so many crews tried to secure their restless and invigorated ships. I, unconcerned with such matters, lay tucked in my Hutching until a great crash startled me from my housing. Unsure of my spectacles and composure I hurried half robed into the hall where I would meet her.

“Do you speak fer keeper, sir?”

Silhouetted in my splintered doorframe lent a soaking wretch. Her female form betrayed by sodden clothes that clung and ran with water. A face scarred with trials, And a most ruined long wig.

“Your long ears, do they work, Myaa?”

As my poor eyes awakened, I took in the distinct pragmatic attire of a buccaneer, complete with sword, belt and now surely ruined pistols. Her high slurred meow proof of breeding as the lowest variety of alleyscratch.

“Yes, madam, I am the father here…” blurted I. “But i assure you,we have no gold to plunder.” Composure finally bleeding back into my character. “Be … be about your way now and we shall forgive the vandalism as rot and strong wind.” I Completed, surprising myself.

A purse was slung into my chest, which i caught ungraciously.

“Oh no sir, Not gold i’m after. Gold will not solve this, Myaa.”

The knave in my nave lurched further, i could now begin to make out her expression. And i saw a desperate invigorating fear. Her eyes, wild and sharp. The fear of someone who had seen death, but was determined not to become acquainted.

“I don’t understand”

“I seek divine protections sir. Upon reception of ‘string of bad luck, I concede, finally, for some holy securities. An exercise in blessed protections. Big year ahead.”

She liberated another purse from her sodden coat.

“When so nearly ruined, when t‘sea tries ‘take it all, worth of things, worth of things aint the same after.” She weighed the pouch in her hand “Way I learn it, value of such varies like the tide, What a drowner wouldn’t wish for a desert, and what the richest thirsty sultan wouldn't wish for a sea.”

“You cant drink sea-water” I responded instinctively, before remembering my mortality in this company.

“Ha, Indeed!” she conceded, winking.“‘self a lesson for another time…”

“So, This big bag a’ gold for ‘tever ward or sacrament will keep keepers hand keen to me interest. Myaa?”

I eyed the jingling bulge for a moment, a moment not lost on my guest. My covetous peep prompting an expansive wet grin that saw my aspirations, of what good could be done with such a sum.

“Alas madam, I have no such trinkets. Nay, do i think any exist outside the stalls of shamsters and quacks.”

She deflated into a pew with a squelch.

“You certain?” she enquired, crestfallen. “You ain’t sat on some tellin’ of a long lost relic of Keepers kindness made manifest?”

“No miss.” My tone softening at her despondency “ if we’ve got any of those, they haven't told me. We could probably use one, out here.”

“Myoh.” She relented, mournfully.

“But, If you repent of your wickedness and that of your crew, then surely i can bless you? That's something?” I encouraged.

She stirred not.

“Do you repent of your wickednesses and that of your crew?”

“Their debts are now paid.”

“Paid..? By who’s account?”

“On account ‘them bein’ dead sir, wrecked upon the rocks yonder.”

This shook the fog from my head, as i realised the reason for her state.

“A wreck!? should we not send help? We can assemble a posse...”

She waved the notion away “No bother, all dead, to a man.”

She reached to doff her cap but it were missing. “A good crew they was too. Definitely a setback.”

I rummaged for a towel for the sopping criminal now in my hospitality. Which she rejected; “Got Wet bones sir, ain’t no bother for me.”

“Then Should we not at least perform some kind of service, for the perished?” I proposed.

Her haggard face turned to me and a light of appreciation glimmered “A kind gesture father…” expression hardening... “But I canne’ stay.”

“So you were a pirate captain?”

She straightened her back and lifted her chin “Captain? I’m Keepers-own pirate Queen! Myaa.”

“I didn't know pirates had queens?”

Her manner dropped conspiratorially,

“In my experience father, What a pirate can and can’t ‘ave is limited only by ability.”

“Well... Your Majesty... do you repent of your wickednesses and pledge yourself to Keepers hand?”

“Not on your life, I’m a careerist” she paused in thought. “And I don’t see how it squares wit’ hangman neither.”

“Maybe not square with this law, but that of the next.”

“Nah, you’ll bless me, just as you would any other wicked monarch.”

“I shan’t”

“You bloody shall, Myaa.” Her hand slipping from her lap to her hilt like magic.

I took a step back

“I shan’t bless you madam, I will admonish pirates, bury pirates, I think i’ve even officiated a pirate wedding once, But i cannot ask of the keeper to favour someone so unrepentant.”

“That So?” Her eyes narrowed defiantly, but her focus snapped off, and her brow furrowed.

I leaned in to the pause...

“Fair ‘nuff” She conceded, popping to her feet and surprising me into instinctive recoil. “A good captain don’t fight ‘tide! Thank You, Father.”

She strode out of my church, wringing out big strands of her wig as she went. I scurried in pursuit to the doorway.

“Who are you, madam?” I called to the retreating figure.

“She of the Sea, Queen of Pirates, and a pleasure it was to meet you, father…?”

“Von Hopp… err.. Your Majesty?”

“Ha! Very good! Myaa.” And she marched down the path, closing my little gate behind her.

As she fled into the growing daylight I gathered the wreckage of the door, mopped the flagstones of evidence of my visitor and, after having had breakfast, ventured down to the town to inform the constable. A militia rapidly formed (more for want of bounty on “pirate royalty” than civic duty) but despite their enthusiasm, no trace of She of the Sea could be found. She had slipped away like a serpent amongst the bustling sailors, Each too rough, disinterested or preoccupied to recollect her presence at the port. And each too intelligent to betray “pirate royalty” in their own line of work.

We then headed down to the rocks beneath the parish and sure enough, the fleeting remnants of a wreck were scattered amongst the shingle, but so savage must have been the the storm upon that ship that no bodies could be found, and any of the vessel present, nought but matchwood. I held a little service with whatever recognisable items i could find upon the beach and lit some candles as the sun began to set. The sea on the horizon became quite calm, and i retired early after a very long day.

Worried of a repeat visit, I had the constable stay with me for a week or so after the incident. He was a portly hamster, more interested in a smooth running island than adherence to the letter of the law. A good enough sort for a such a questionable refuge, to be sure, but he well understood the value of a blind eye, and the community prevailed on the understanding that most misdemeanors would sort themselves out amongst affected parties. Noone benefited from excessive pioty and the boat was best not rocked. When her patronage did not repeat, I returned to my routine as I had the ten or so years prior. I tended the faithful, Kindly proslatised the rutters and vagrants, and admonished the dead. In this way, life continued until about six months later, when I received an interesting Invitation.

Though I have become a humble clergyman in occupation, my heritage of royalty created certain obligations, both mine and otherwise, to the other nobles in the Kingdoms. As a result of this, I received an invitation to the Ceremony of Vantages, A Purisian royal affair acting as the culmination of a years politicking and intrigue. Officially, all Purisian royalty occupies the same rank, but some sit higher than others in the great room of pillars, and this positioning will dictate the influence for the coming year. All Cats are Princes, yes, but a formally informal King is certainly implied as a result of this meeting, and all Royals from within and without are invited to witness this, and assumedly admire the feline decadence displayed.

And so, Duty calling, I packed my Finarries and prepared for the three day voyage that would take me to the northern border of the Purisian Confederacy. From here i would travel down the river Mog to the the Purisian Capital, Clowder. Here the Oppulance and wealth of the Confederacy was in full display, and in keeping with the Purisian character, it’s citizens pretended not to notice. I had always had a degree of polite Contempt for the Purisian Confederacy. I found its overbearing deliberate indifference to it’s wealth and splendor progressively tiring. Indeed, a societal smugness to their success permeated the citizenry from the highest pride to the lowest bumsniff. and of course, the curious omittance and subversion of the source of this wealth, a shame of which i shall not speak of here, alienated many modern minds in the know, of the cost of all these feasts and banners.

As a Lapin royal I was allocated a seat with other Laputians on the lower circle. Our showing was meagre as Lapin was quite removed from Purisian influence. Clearly few of my brothers felt the need to endure the boredom. The Ceremony of Vantages is a very drawn out affair. Purisian royalty would mingle their way around the gantries and pillars subtly and seemingly obliviously, moving into their formally informally preordained positions. The results of months of backbiting, conspiracy and political intrigue. Occasionally there would be awkward pauses as cats, determined to perhaps climb another rung on the societal ladder, would at the last second jockey, sometimes even discretely scuffle for a slightly higher pillar. By the end, a new hierarchy would be determined, and a formally informal king (or queen) would sit highest amongst the court.

Or so it should have been. About two hours into the ceremony, as the lower pillars had reluctantly filled, and the remaining aristocracy politely fraternised to increasing altitude, my eyes finally closed. My head lolled starboard to the already sedate shoulder of Count Hessen von Burrow and everything should have been as it had been the last ten times before. But a very familiar crash provided a welcome intermission.

Striding beyond a broken door into the centre of the hall disrobed a familiar figure. A Purisian royal, slowly discarding her finaries, revealing a rogue beneath. With a long splendid wig and fabulous Bicorne stood She of the Sea, clapping defiantly amongst the discretely squabbling aristocracy. Her sarcastic applause echoed until it held monopoly on the acoustics.

“G’devenin, Sirs…. Madams….” She ventured into the bewildered silence. “Sorry for my questionable punctuality, Myaa.”

A butler type feline rushed forward from the stands to intercept but was swiftly deflected, spiralling behind as she paced the room.

“I did find myself without invitation, making me sneak in here like a draft, such lack of good manners unbefitting such noble nobles, such poor treatment of a fellow Queen.. ”

This statement peaked interest, and the slowly incircling guards held fast.

“Who the devil are you? Meow!” Questioned an anonymous voice.

“By what breeding do you back your claim, Mew?” called another.

“Plenty breeding ma’am...your Da for one, Myaa!”

This retort caused such an audible intake of breath some of candles went out. One or two more delicate minds feinted, and A ripple of delight spread amongst the foreign dignitaries, who had until this point been counting seconds to the feast.

“Queen...Queen of where? Madam, Myow”

“I am She of the Sea. Queen of Pirates!”

This broke the hall into thunderous laughter. Jeering enchoed around the walls as the lords and ladies defied the very notion of such a thing. The six court guards, halberds lowered, needed no further prompting to interject and sprung forth to cut down the vagrant. Alas, each of them came off neutered of their ears. She of the Sea’s cutlass carving each without effort, leaving five of six assailants yowling and bloodied grasping at their ruined heads. The sixth, recalculating his odds, turned and fled for help. Where he was met by two other guards arriving in a doorway, These reinforcements then blunty hacked him down. Indeed, Around the room guards appeared in every doorway, and though in splendid uniform of palace guards, their faces and races betrayed them as imposters, Imposters eagerly anticipating insubordination from the royals.

The Jeering and Yowling petered out at this display of force and intent. The hall fell silent but for the whimpering of the deafened guardsman.

“So, ‘eres t’scratch.” declared the pirate queen. “Things ‘ere are gonna change.”

At this statement all the cats began to look away. Their eyes wide, but staring into space. Not one face engaged with She of the Sea as she paced the room. It was if they were all desperately trying to pretend she wasn’t there.

“See, my title were earned, grafted, what have you tubbards done Myaa? all this sitting on high chairs and constant posturing. While i’ve been out, earnin’ crust, earnin’ respect.”

Silence, but for pacing boots upon the marble.

“Is that fair Sirs? Ladies? I’m doin’ all t’work, risking my tail, and I’m one storm away from t’grave, one shiv away from ‘grave, one dodgy boarding away from ‘grave.”

The audience shifted uncomfortably on their podiums.

“I feel you take your place for granted, Sirs, ladies. Powers made yuh lazy Myaa. I’d say you’re all so comfy you forget yourselves. You’d forget ‘world outsides not all feasts and fussing, Forget some old mog might strole in here and take it all. You’re all Stupid..

Their eyebrows raised.

“... fat…”

Eyebrows raised further, eyes staring furiously at nothing.

“.., and pretty.”

Some conciliatory nods.

“Nuts to that lads.”

The doormen jeered agreement. She of the Sea grinning victoriously at the assembly.

“So heres the deal, in one hundred and sevenee seven days, i’ll be back to marry ‘king Myaa.”

Confusion rippled throughout the hall as she took a conciliatory tone.

“Now Sirs ‘n Ladies, I dont care who it is, that’s your discression. But believe me, I’ll be back in six months, and you make no mistake chummers, I’ll be queen if i have to bugger whichever fairy twat you choose myself.”

Murmurs of outrage trickled around as the Aristocrats could no longer ignore such a proposition.

“Never, Meow!” came a voice

“Scruffer!, Myow” Came another.

As the discontent bubbled, she stood strong as it washed over her. She breathed it deep, like an invigorating lung of sea air, unperturbed.

“That’s t’spirit Myaa. Just remember, one hundred and sevenee seven days, to marry whichever of you fluffed ponces wants to be king.”

She turned, as if to leave, then paused.

“Oh! One more thing, Sirs, Ladies. Since i want you to know im serious, and committed to this... I think a Diet, is in order.”

Outrage. Yowling. Once dignified nobility arched their backs in hate, spitting fury at their unwelcome guest. She nodded like a pantomime villain as the gantries became a furious tantrum.

“Whole confed is gonna cut back on the silver. Now, don’t worry fatties, I’ll remove every scrap of temptation, the whole confed is gonna be trim as a tart for my wedding. Not a fish in the village, as they say, make you all lean ‘n sexy.”

One particular noble, a plump mustachioed cat, chest swollen with medals, lent foremost and put comprehension to the furore.

“This, Meow! Is an Outrage! Meow! What makes you think you can bloodywell come here, Meow! And threaten Diet! Meow! And not have us cut your scruffing head off the second you step out that door! Meow!”

Enjoying every moment of this rich theatre, she paused, and mocked contemplation.

“Well Sir, ‘cause you gone and built a bloody tunnel under yur’ chambers now, didn't ya?”

Tapping thrice upon the marble floor, a great cacophony of smoke erupted from the tiling. As masonry crumbled away into the darkness below, a merriment of cackling sung from the breech, Heinous perverse voices raucous in their miscreancy. The guards on the exits skipped and ran down to their escape, slapping and taunting the audience as they went. And as she stepped into the black below and bid farewell, I thought she a demon returning to hell.

The country was in uproar. Three heads of police became sans in both position and body. The Purisian Press, regarded by even the ruling classes as distinctly sycophantic, roused the proles into uproar. An interruption of the Vantage Ceremony! A declaration of intent to marry! A threat of mandatory Diet?! By a (hitherto impossible) Female Pirate Queen?!! Outrageous!

Impossible!

Revenge!

Murder!

Death!

A little green mouse may as well have floated down from the moon and shat on every cat's nose.

I shall admit, much like other foreign royals, I struggled to maintain discretion in finding the whole scenario deeply amusing. After the immediate threat had passed, of course. The Purisian Confederacy had a very maintained image, and it was fun to see their tree shaken. Not so however for the rulers. Most of whom took it in the height of seriousness. For after all, one of them would be force to wed the Seafairing Bint.

Reserves were mobilised. Prisoners who had until now, languished in warm dry misery, were shipped in their hundred to docks where they languished in cold wet misery. Admirals, Some of whom’s closest interaction with a boat was a vessel for gravy, were suited and booted and marched off to their fleets. The Navy’s orders were simple, blow that pirate out of the water, make her demise so unpleasant and humiliating that the only time the incident at the ceremony will be remembered would be as prelude to a foreboding parable of rue and gruesome woe.

Due to the massive scale of the reaction, the Confederacy became content that victory was inevitable and everything largely went back to normal. The Navy was massively mobilised, and patrolled the northern sea for pirates of all shapes and sizes, at one stage it was said that there were so many ships active in the northern sea, that one could travel in any direction for 300 miles and still be in view of a Confederate ensign.

As I travelled home, it nibbled at the back of my mind. The force of character it must have taken to survive a wreck in such a storm, to breach THE royal gathering, to dictate to some of the most powerful furs on earth, and to escape with no much as a nip was a truly incredible feat. But the game was over now surely, the element of surprise was lost, and the Confederate Navy now eager and mobile, scouring the ocean for anything resembling an upstart cat in a blonde wig.

For the first month or so nothing much happened. The Navy’s alertness gradually wayned at the lack of action and the atmosphere of outrage subsided. She of the Sea was an empty threat.

Until the mysterious disappearance of the the Trout Mining Ship Mr Snuggles.

Then, Princess did not return, Then Colin. Max, Tiger, Fluffy. Whiskers, Tyko. In the Month of June, thirteen ships of one hundred returned, or returned with haul.

Fish prices sored. The rivers and shores (as close to water as most Purisians hoped to get) were fished bare. Rationing was introduced, and then almost immediately subsided as there were no stocks to supplement ration cards. Worse yet, the hugely expanded Navy, mostly made of aforementioned prisoners and penal sailors, began to starve. Particularly vicious mutinies began as some of the ships turned to piracy themselves to survive. It was an absolute disaster for the Purisian Government and many citizens, too tired to riot, became uncharacteristically lean.

The Descriptions of the assailing ship were all alike. A black fog would manifest out of the blue and a giant metal bottle would emerge from the unholy mist. Along it’s spine protruded great lacerating fins, and at its prow, a crowned and ghastly Jolly Roger. The Metal vessel would circle the victim, and the crew would panic and man battle stations, those ships with armaments would fire them upon the predator and amazingly cause it to flee, apparently disappearing into its smog. Then the prey ship would contort with an unheavenly wooden rip. A splintery tear would echo off the iceflows as the keel was brutally dissected, rupturing the hold and its contents and splitting the ship in half like an egg. For most at this point, their fate was sealed. Certain death waited any who so much as dipped in the northern water, and most ships could not survive such terrible damage to their underlying structure. The only survivors who had made it back, were those who had somehow survived their first attack and ran for the hills, or had been picked up in patrolling Navy ships.

Navy ships had taken losses too, in much a similar fashion, though their losses were more sporadic as the assailants attention seemed focussed on the miners. The Navy, on paper the most powerful in the northern Biosphere, had completely collapsed, Those ships who hadn't deserted or been destroyed, retreated to large, escorts for individual miners, demoralised at the ineffectiveness of their conventional weapons on this new foe. Most Mining companies with any sense, had decided to wait out the wedding, and hope that the Pirates deadly blockade would be lifted after her point had been made.

Public pressure began to heavily harrow the aristocracy. Many were now welcoming their previously medically impossible pirate queen. The palace resisted, its official line being “The Purisian People would rather eat paint than perch under a Pirate, especially a lady pirate, especially a lady pirate in a terrible wig.” But these brave attempts at resistance were now becoming drowned out by the rumbling of hungry bellies.

Many speculated who the “lucky” prince would be. Before this crisis, the formally informal high prince was a well bred, charismatic and intelligent Feline by the name of Machiavelli. But lately, he had had a cough, and his presence at court had become much diminished. Many, in suspicious correlation with the fish famine and incoming deadline had come down with mysterious ailments. Count Thomas, one of the most affluent and influential patricians at court, had come down with a sore leg. Prince Sooty, a well bred intellectual and poetic genius had “the sneezes”.

This pseudo abdication of these movers and shakers had created something of an aristocratic goldrush amongst the high born B team. A new cream emerged from the cheese of the high sitting, and ahead of the pack, mainly by virtue of oblivious good health was Lord, Sir. Percy Fennimore of Tumbletum. Lord Percy had generally advanced up the ranks of vantage by being well bred, amiable and cooperative. Considered by some, too dumb to offend, now this opportunity of leadership had thrust itself upon him, and being a good cat, he had impaled himself upon it.

Many of the more devious felines had suggested an ambush during the wedding. Should she arrive, she would be seized and executed, and they could all go back to not being so horribly humiliated. However, as the date drew ever closer, the court received a letter in black envelope, with a seal of melted gold, delivered by hand, by a former captive of a thought-lost mining vessel. The poor fellow reportedly dressed in the rags of his uniform, and quite the worse for his capture. The letter contained, aside from a few fish bones, the names of over three thousand captured maritime crew, both navy and merchantile, who would be executed should she not return. The messenger confirmed these numbers, and spoke of the eagerness with which their captors enforced discipline upon them. Still, many of the high born dubbed this an “affordable loss”. But enough of the captured were related to the higher sat, that this course of action was ultimately suspended.

As the 8th approached, everyone in the confederacy and surrounding territories was on the edge of their seats. Could the confederacy turn into a pirate nation? Would She of the Sea even turn up? Was it all a ruse to plunder the treasury? I was about to discover that my proximity to the affair was to greatly decrease. For on the Monday morning, as i woke and opened my door to collect the milk and eggs of breakfast, A mute in jet black buccaneers garb awaited me. At my surprise and questioning he only offered a black envelope, and once given and in my hands. Turned and marched off down the path.

As i watched the figure retreat,  in similar fashion i had so many months before, I took in the sigil on the golden seal. It was a horrid imprint of a skull upon what appeared to be a confederate guinea. With some effort i broke it, revealing the letter within.

“Dear Rupert Von Hopp

I hereby invite you to ordain my wedding between {this space was blank} and myself.

The wedding will occur on the 8th of August at the Palace of Vantages in Clowder.

Bring whatever religious officialdom you deem necessary.

Participation in mandatory.

Do not be late.

Regards - Her Royal Highness, Queen of Pirates, She of the Sea.”

+++

As the 8th of August dawned it did not dawn. A massive storm that raged throughout the day put the sun into hiding with oppressive black clouds that stretched in every direction. The entire country was buffeted by tree snapping winds and impossible seas. A most foreboding atmosphere as a poetic prelude to the events to come.

The hall of vantages had been refitted now to accommodate the ceremony. Half of the giant octagonal hall was flat as was before, but now a giant staircase that covered half the space stretched up to the ceiling, topped with a platform, where the royal ornaments of marriage were located. Two thrones awaited married bottoms. A podium with my prepared notes sat infront of this and by its side, the murine wand, a golden baton and, constrained by rope, gold mock rodent, to complete the service.

The attendees sat either side of the stairs, creating an aisle up the centre, and fine perfumes wafted about in abundance, presumedly in preemption for the odours that would shortly be joining them. Nobody looked happy.

The storm raged outside the palace, windows shaking in their frames against the blackened furious weather. The river Mog, frothing and spluttering forth great waves of froth and foam upon the undefended promenade. A great wind encircled the forlorn ceremony, a reminder of how the Confederacy had been (soon to be literally) brought to one knee by She of the Sea. As the Congregation waited, I went over my notes again and snuck a shot of brandy from a hidden flask to steel my nerves. A glance at Percy prompted my charity and i slipped him the bottle, which he chugged.

As we waited in silence, punctuated only by the woeful weather outside, the distant whine of strings could be detected. Indeed, it grew on the edge of our perception until it became a tune upon the wind. It grew louder and more distinct, with familiar melody, and as the main doors opened, we knew it had begun. The musicians led the parade, a trio of fiddling loons entered the hall playing the national anthem. As they hopped and skipped, whooping in glee, the congregation, unsure at whether this gesture was patronage or insult, awkwardly shifted between respect and disgust. Behind the fiddlers came the flower mice, plucking their flowers and discarding them, somewhat aggressively into the faces of the onlooking guests. The procession advancing up the steep stairs. A guard of honour six thugs wide and thirteen scoundrels deep paraded in their nonuniform uniform. Bristling with swords and sabers, guns varying in crudeness, every type of thuggish visage imaginable, and each, to a man, a giant.

But the worst was yet to come.

Behind this terrible vanguard strode She of the Sea, And in her crass humour, clad in a dress stitched of stolen ensigns from the multitude of Purisian Vessels lost prior. A train of colours that stretched several meters, carried in shackles by wretched visions of former officers, obviously captured as prizes for this disgraceful parade.

I cannot pretend that I had not, up unto this point, taken a certain degree of enjoyment from the suffering of the Confederate court. The Purisians had always been proud, and arrogant, and to see them laid so low had been a long time coming, to say nothing of the reckoning that would be for the great unnamed shame we shall not speak of here. But this depraved display of vulgarity so deeply disturbed me that it was as if the levity of the situation was sucked from me like a breech into vacuum, like a rude awakening from a dream.

She escalated the stairs to where Lord Percy and myself were waiting. Her distasteful dress aside, Her wig flowed all the way down to her thighs and her scars were painted with a variety of powders and chemicals to hide the disfigurements bestowed by her business. Percy had begun to sweat profusely, his previously cavalier attitude withered and sullen in the face of this new ascending reality. At the head of the stairs she joined us, and presented him with a most sarcastic curtsy.

“G’devenin Sirs.” she snarked “My arent you boys looking trim.”

She wasn't wrong. Many of the Cats in attendance were draped in their robes. Percy had lost so much weight his finaries looked like a tent.

She waited with a shark smile for a few moments, which dropped as she nodded for him to get on with it.

“Oh. Oh’m yes, meow!” Percy Stammered, grasping at pockets about his robes “Will, uh, you, Miss, She of the Sea… Marry me?”

“Why my lords!” she turned to the gathered congregation “What a surprise!”

Her faux humility suddenly shattered as a huge flash of lightning and accompanying thunder rang out about the palace.

“Yes, proceed.” she nodded, anxiously. Outwardly dominant but i could tell that this weather, through perhaps an instinctive fear of the storm, or something other, was pressing on her wits.

Rain, sheeted across the glass panel ceiling, the patter so loud that I had to raise my voice to be heard. As I read the opening statements of matrimony i noticed her face growing in anticipation, she became tense and would continuously glance at the windows and the storm. The Feline royalty did pick up on this, and craned to see her growing nervousness.

More thunder, more rain. The wind shook the paynes so hard that I thought at any moment they would fall lose from their fixtures. The thugs, so stern on entry began to shift in their formation, some subtlety reached for their arms, others sunk inside their posture, as if willing the storms eyre to pass over them.

By the point of the vows, the Pirate Queen had lost all pretense of levity. Her hand spun spurring me to rush the service, and Percy was scolded in hisses for fluffing his lines more than once. As i continued to rush through the vows i misplaced a prompt. As I hesitated and scrabbled amongst the notes of the podium I felt her gaze intensify upon me. But the absence of my voice against the storm left it dominant of sound in the acoustics of the hall. The wind began to strangely pattern, in, and out, the panes, vibrating like a death rattle with every rhythmic gust. Spotting my illusive note, i stooped to pick it up beneath the podium and here we all paused to hear the supernatural voice upon the wind. The winds wheezed words; a name, called over and over.

~Fell~Grass~

~FELL~GRASS~

The pirates began to mutter between eachother.

“Stand firm, you dogs!” she turned and bellowed to the troop.

“Father, look lively! Myaa!” leaning in and nodding, wild eyed.

~FELL~GRASS~

I was tempted to stall here, to probe at what was so frightening to this, herself, intimidating woman. But this weather, this voice was becoming a little rich for my blood. I galloped through the remaining statements, prompting Percy through his promises and I dos.

~FELL~GRASS~

“Speak now, or forever hold thy peace?” I ventured. The Pirate Queen reared up and stared down the congregation, mania in her eyes and hand on her hilt, should anyone dare to scupper the service. Her anxiety beginning to bleed into the crowd, all of whom began to huddle together.

“having witnessed your vows of love to one another, it is my joy to present you to all gathered here as…”

A loud patter of water stole everyones attention to the rear of the hall. There the ten foot palace doors, barred shut, dribbled water lazily into the atrium. A rush of water, like a tide, could be heard again to slosh against the wood, causing a heinous creeking and again a spill of water through the central seam.

~FELL~GRASS~

~creaaaaaaaaak~

~FELL~GRASS~

~CREAAAAAAAAAK~

The loons began to whoop and bounce, fiddling wildly. The flower mice had slipped away. She of the Sea turned and slammed the podium.

“COME ON!”

~CRASHHHHHHHHHHH~

A great tide of water broke open the doors and swept into the hall, lapping against the stairs. The vacuum of the hall pierced, a great wind swept up the congregation, and the voice upon it, given tone and character, and malicious intent.

The Pirate vanguard began to panic. “He’s here!” one cried. “Keeper save us!” another. The terror in the faces of such brutes deeply perturbed the plush royalty who began to cower and scrabble to the corners of the room.

“FELLGRASS, DID YOU THINK YOU COULD FLEE BEYOND MY REACH?”

She of the Sea drew her sword.

“DID YOU THINK YOU SAFE ON LAND?”

The sword leveled at my nose

“Err… Husband and wife… “ I stammered, turning to Percy. Percy had completely frozen in fear, as he stared past his beloved and into the churning water below. A form, A figure, ascended the rising spray.

“FELLGRASS, I SHALL HAVE MY JUSTICE.”

I shook him and he did not move. The Pirate Queen observing the coming nightmare gave me a motivating glance.

“FELLGRASS, I SHALL HAVE MY CROWN.”

“You may now, fuss the bride…”

She practically pulled Percy’s tongue out from his mouth and rubbed it against her cheek. His eyes still transfixed on the horror below, now approaching the stairs. She turned to face the furious guest.

The figure began to take more accurate form, a combination of sea animals, barnacles, and other living sea detritus, formed by commune, the stature of an Octopus. An octopus that now strode toward the stairs.

The Pirates drew their weapons and held them at arms length, each trying to get behind the other infront of the unholy creature. Its composed swarm stood at the foot of the stairs, and its monstrous collage face looked up at the paniced corsairs.

“I AM OCTAVIAN, KING OF PIRATES, KNEEL OR FLEE.”

In a shower of discarded arms the pirates fled up the stairs for the exits. Each avoiding the gaze of their furious queen.

“Get back here, Cowards! I’ll gut you an’ all yur mams! Myaa!”

As she glared after the retreating pirates she eyed the guards of the palace, each themselves overtook with terror at the apparent magic in their presence.

“Get down there and defend your Queen!” She snapped.

The guards steeled themselves and formed line at the head of the stairs, Lowering their halberds, they cautiously descended towards the figure.

“WAS THIS YOUR PLAN FELLGRASS?” water swelling now in the atrium, his boot ascending the first stair.

“CAN’T FLEE, CAN’T HIDE, YOU GET SLAVES OF NATION TO FIGHT ME OFF? A SPINELESS LEADING SPINELESS!”

The guards advanced down the stairs toward the frothing indoor sea. Octavian, atleast six foot five stared each in turn, getting the measure of them. His face a swarm of sea creatures and dark water. He let out a most wicked laugh, and with one sweep of his arm, swept the six aside in a conjured wave. The cats, scrabbling and frantic in the magic surf, were assailed by grasping hands and sorrowed faces, which pulled and bit them down beneath the water.

“ARMIES OF LAND SHALL NOT QUELL ME.”

Another step upon the stairway. The glass panes in the roof, under tremendous weight from storm of water, began to fail, creating pillars of rain within the hall. In these pillars too could be seen the wicked woeful faces of the lost, and horrid wet hands grasped out at any nearby. The horror of this bringing many present guests to tears. The loons were in full hilarity now, some swinging from the fittings and cackled nonsense.

She of the Sea pushed percy aside and stood atop the stairs, sword drawn.

“I am Pirate Queen, Octavian!”

“YOU ARE NOT QUEEN FELLGRASS, YOU CANNOT STEAL WHAT CANT BE STOLEN, THE ONLY RULE THAT CANT BE BROKEN”

Another step, and a rusted cutlass drawn from inside his form.

“A KNIFE IN MY BACK AND DEEP SEA GRAVE, DID YOU THINK NATURE WOULD ALLOW IT!”

“DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T CURSE YOU!”

“DO YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND YOU!”

“EVERY YEAR UNTIL I CATCH YOU!”

“EVERY YEAR UNTIL I STEAL THE CROWN YOU STOLE!”

The storm was now incredible, lighting striking the very palace, wind whipping around the hall tearing banners and candles free in a vortex of natures hate.

“PIRATE CODE IS SACRED, PIRATE KING IS SACRED, I CURSED YOU AS MY LUNGS FILLED, I CRIED OUT T’SEA TO GRANT ME VENGEANCE, AND NATURES GRACE LET ME HAVE MY VENGEACE.”

“I, She of the Sea, Queen of the Purisian Confederacy by law…” Glaring at me, I nodded.

“Do pardon you, Octavian, King of Pirates, of all crimes both maritime and otherwise.”

Octavian threw back his head and howled in laughter.

“HOW DESPERATE, HOW HUMILIATING.”

“WHAT FEAR OF LAW DOES NATURE HAVE? WHAT FEAR OF NOOSE DOES DEATH HAVE? PRAISE BE T’SEA, THAT LET ME HAVE SUCH SATISFYING A JUSTICE FOR KING AND CODE WRONGED!”

He continued his ascent, royals shrieked and cried in terror. I myself sheltered by the podium clutching the keepers hand around my neck. But She of the Sea, where before she had been so anxious, now stood defiant. She even sheathed her sword.

“King of whom?”

“OCTAVIAN, KING OF P…. KING OF PPIR…!”

“Yur a free man now Octavian, Ex-pirate, And your claims t’throne just expired.”

The face of the barnacled monster began to shift.

“Sea ain’t got no interest in ya now. Myaa.”

“NO!”

He staggared, his form deconstructing at its periphery. The creatures of his figure dropping back into the water.

“Sling yur hook ya dead bastard!”

“I AM KING!”

And atop the stairs she turned, grabbed the podium of my refuge, and above her head, slung it t’ward him. Exploding the jilted creature to scattered bilge and seaweed. As the storm fell away, and winds and waves retreated, all that remained of Octavian was Crabs and Cuttlefish.

Daylight shone through the ruined ceiling, clouds dissipated, birdsong began. She of the Sea looked about the place. The Royals still huddled and petrified, Percy stood motionless. and I stood unprotected at her mercy. She slung a purse once more at my chest. And without a word. Fled down the stairs and into the clearing weather.

It took about fifteen minutes for the assembly to regain composure. Percy, snapping out of his trance, Snatched my stash of brandy and ran. I, exhausted by excitement, took a seat upon the stairs and took in the gathering royals.

The Cats of court were all filled with newfound acceptance. Cuddling and rejoicing in their shared experience. Many openly forgave others with which they had quarrelled with for years. Many spoke of a brave new future in which they would all share and develop the nation, so that this kind of hideous witchcraft could never happen again. The conversation began to change to future plans, all voices excitedly talking over each other.

And as they did so the louder voices gained prominence. Machiavelli, who had been so quiet until this dialogue. Subtly ascended a stair to get better projection over the court. Count Thomas rose to counter his argument, slyly slipping another step on the staircase.

In one movement, all the cats of court surged to the top of the stairs, clambering and scrabbling over one another in lieu of the absent Percy. I took good measure to avoid the squabbling felines and watched them all try and reach heights above the rest on the flat platform, some making deals to boost each other in return for favour and gifts.

I left them to it.

That was many many years ago now. To this day i never saw her again, i still operate on Saltskell and the mining ships are largely unmolested by pirates. The Confederacy though shy at first, embraced the tale with gusto. She of the Sea is commemorated in doll and dish throughout the country. Percy didn't manage to retain power, as far as I know he is technically still king. Piracy is still with us, partly legacy to the large scale defection of the fish famine. But the vessel of the pirate queen has not been seen, though i do hear stories of it cropping up in raids on the southern biosphere.

But perhaps we shall meet one more time.

I write this memoir, as once more I have received black envelope with ghastly skull seal. A fleet of black ships sit on the horizon, each at half mast. I feel the final duty i must perform for her majesty, has already been ordained.

#short story #pirates #pirate #pirate fiction #fiction

[sciencevillain]

I just finished reading Lacuna by @johnandsherlocks and now I absolutely have to write a fix-it for the ending -- which was a fine ending, by the way -- I just need to make the scene I’ve been waiting for all along actually happen. You guessed it. The memories are coming back.

(Wordcount: 3,000)

~~~

John walked by the Lacuna clinic every once in a while. Not on purpose, heavens no, purely by chance.

Every time he did, he thought about what he’d done. About the pieces of him that were never coming back. Sherlock could tell him over and over again how they’d first met, really first met, and he could close his eyes and try to imagine it, but it would never be the same.

He’d written quite a few blog posts since they’d gotten the blog set back up. He really shouldn’t have worried about it. But the idea of missing any memory with Sherlock, even if he said it was fine, even if he... well, he still had a lost look on his face whenever it came up. Sherlock still wanted him to remember. They had talked for hours trying to trigger memories, and he would get them back in dreams sometimes... but never enough.

They were happy. They were so perfectly happy, he hated to dwell on the loose ends. Everyone’s life had regrets. But every so often, he’d walk by Lacuna clinic, and have half a mind to barge in there and demand they do whatever brain-mapping thing they’d done in the first place, and reverse the process. Give him his memories back. He didn’t really need them, but they were like jewels -- every memory so precious, every moment even better than the last. And he wanted all of them. Not just the new ones.

Other times when he walked by the clinic, he was afraid. What if he hadn’t wiped his memories? Would they have ever gotten as far as they did? Or would he have ignored and denied and justified things until it was too late to confess how he felt?

If he had his old memories, would he feel the same? Or would it wedge some distance between the inseparable; he and Sherlock? On those days he felt lucky to have lost them. Because he couldn’t imagine things working out any differently than they had. Even if it was a painful path to walk down, it was worth every kiss.

One day when he walked up the stairs to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock caught him reminiscing. Their eyes met, and he could tell immediately that Sherlock knew what he’d been thinking about.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked. Usually he’d be working on some ridiculous experiment, but in the past week or so he’d taken to waiting in his armchair for John to come home from the ER. He’d told John that he sat down at precisely the time he knew John was leaving the clinic, and devoted that time to sorting out John in his mind palace.

“Oh really?” John had asked, amused. His eyes glimmered with and what are you sorting me out for in that head of yours?

Sherlock had smirked and glanced downwards, blushing a little. He’d glanced back up to meet John’s eyes and said, “I spend an inordinate amount of time tending to my mind, John. When I think of you, I’m tending to my heart.”

John had grinned with the sheer delight and surprise of yet another of Sherlock’s eloquent, heart-warming platitudes that he insisted were sheer expressions of the truth, without so-called “embellishments”.

In the here and now, John blinked. “Alright? Yeah. Yeah. I was just-”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupted, standing. “I’m sorry.”

John shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’ve-- We’ve made more than enough memories. I was just... being...” he shook his head again. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock touched the side of his face. “I must be honest with you.” He looked so serious, John tensed immediately.

“I’ve been researching memory loss. Cases, of... loss, and recovery.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You have?”

Sherlock smiled. “I thought, if you’re still searching for those memories, I might as well help.”

They smirked at each other. “Damn you, I tried to keep that a secret,” John said playfully.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “trying to hide it made it that much more obvious.”

John simply shrugged. When you lived with a detective, you lived with a detective.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “And... I think I might have found something.”

(what are you waiting for? keep reading the story!)

John’s heart went cold. He could hardly dare to believe it. “What?”

“It’s a long shot, I’ll warn you... but there are a few cases of success. After 20 years of business, Lacuna inevitably had unhappy customers, and a certain process was developed to reverse it... by one of the patients themselves, in fact...”

~~~

He’d taken the day off work. His heart couldn’t shut up. It wouldn’t hold still. He imagined each of his dreams -- the good ones -- and tried to picture them coming back as memories. Real memories. Not just Sherlock’s retelling, but the emotions and smells and tastes and reactions attached to them. The exact position of each object in every room in every memory. The exact tone of voice, and feeling of terrifying lightness whenever he looked at Sherlock’s face. He had to know what it felt like the first time. He had to know.

Sherlock squeezed his hand. They walked down the street. By now, it was common knowledge which bed each of them slept in. The press had rumor mills, and these turned into facts once Sherlock confirmed them, with that totally unconcerned and bored face that greeted any press member who so much as snapped a picture of them. John grinned at the memory. Nowadays, he had a lot of memories to smile at.

But not all of them.

once at the building, they rang the doorbell. A mousy woman opened the door. “Is this John Watson, here for the reversal?”

“It is,” John said, stepping forward and shaking her hand firmly. “Let’s get started.”

The woman spoke with a slight lisp, and had fingernails that curved downwards instead of growing straight out. “I had my memories removed once.”

John followed her into the building. It really was quite small. He coughed. What smell was this? All of them? He could count at least twelve differently-scented candles burning in this room alone. He turned back to look at Sherlock, just to see his face wrinkle in disgust. “Lovely,” he whispered. John grinned.

“Oh?” John prompted.

The woman nodded, leading them into a room that looked as white and sterile as any dentist’s office. “Not through Lacuna. It was only an accident. Caused by trauma, or whatnot. I searched for years for a solution.”

She patted a machine that looked like an upside-down bowl attached to a chair, roughly speaking. If the bowl were a piece of highly expensive machinery. “This was my solution. Turns out, I hadn’t forgotten much. It was only my absence of memory making me imagine new things I might have forgot.”

“I had lost people, you understand.” She waved for John to sit down in the chair. “People I didn’t want to lose. Memories like that make you do anything.”

Sherlock was examining the machine with keen interest. “...even the impossible.”

She nodded. “They told me it was impossible.”

“Who?” John asked politely.

“Everyone.” She lowered the bowl around John’s head. He looked down at his hand and realized it was trembling. Just like old times. He realized he didn’t want to lose any more memories of Sherlock. And what if this went wrong? Then how would they possibly--

No. He couldn’t worry. He didn’t need to worry. He’d already lost everything once, and hadn’t they gotten back together, even better than the first time? In any place or time, no matter what memories he did or didn’t have, he would always, always be with Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps this knowledge was what made Sherlock look so calm as the woman fastened the device to his head.

They both knew what they meant to each other. On a level deeper than any specific memory, they knew they would never leave each other, even if they became strangers, even if they died, they would always be inseparable. After all, Sherlock had come back to life for him. For him.

“Yes, I even thought it was impossible myself. But then I realized, no memory can truly be erased. All you have to do is connect the mind to the heart.”

Sherlock winked at John. “Lacuna took a piece of your mind. But everything related to love, and people, and emotions, is connected to a deeper part of the brain, apart from your frontal cortex.”

“Your heart,” the woman clarified. “They are buried in your heart. How else could you remember in dreams, and feel familiarity where logically there should be none?”

John nodded.

“I am Dr. Corazon. To do this process properly, we must put you in a hypnotic state. I will connect you to your subconscious. Are you ready?”

John nodded again.

She did some hypnotic techniques -- not the bull of sensational stories, but the few proven tactics that simply relaxed a patient into a sort of almost-asleep state of calm.

“Do you feel comfortable?” Dr. Corazon asked.

“Mm,” John murmured.

“I want you to close your eyes, John Watson, and forget Sherlock Holmes.”

A jolt of panic flew through hs body. “No!”

“It’s part of the process. You cannot truly forget him. Remember that.”

John clenched his fists. “No!”

She sighed. “Alright. Remember that this is to bring you closer to the place beyond memories. To remember him, you must forget.”

He bit his lip.

“Do not forget Sherlock Holmes. Instead, forget everyone you know.”

John tried. It was odd, because in order to actively attempt to forget a person, you had to remember that the person existed, and think about the memories you had of them, and by then it really was like trying to tell someone not to think of a pink elephant...

“Let your mind think of feelings, and not of people. Not of experiences. Only of your deepest self.”

John furrowed his brow, feeling a bit silly. Sherlock seemed to believe in the tactic, but it sounded more like some kind of bizarre therapy tactic than true science. Then again, most science sounded like that when it was first introduced to the world.

He felt so distant. His eyelids slipped shut. As if from across a street, he heard Dr. Corazon tell Sherlock, “He’s going to fall asleep now. He has the best chances of accepting the treatment when his brain is most relaxed.”

And then darkness.

~~~

John woke up slowly. He hadn’t had dreams, or at least, he hadn’t remembered any. There was a kink in his back and neck from sleeping in an odd position.

Hang on... he was at the memory-retrieval place. That’s why his head was cool from the touch of metal, and he could smell thick scents of too many candles all at once. And Sherlock -- where was he?

The first face he saw was Dr. Corazon’s. “I traced your neural pathways and located the damaged portions. If you don’t already remember, the healed neuron pathways should be firing up soon. I simply re-connected the places leading to Sherlock Holmes.”

Simply. Simply. Simply. John tried to remember, but he couldn’t. Sherlock’s stories -- memories -- might as well have never happened.

Dr. Corazon was unhooking the device from atop his head. “Of course, there is no full guarantee. Lacuna has always worked to make their process more and more infallible. They do call it permanent.”

John couldn’t help but feel crushing disappointment. He smiled tightly at the doctor, and thanked her. For what? He paused. “Sherlock?”

Dr. Corazon nodded towards the room with too many candles, and too-soft couches. “He’s been waiting in there.”

When John came in, Sherlock sat bolt upright. His face said it all. Those wide eyes, his nervously clenched jaw...

John shook his head.

Sherlock deflated. “I’m sorry.”

John shrugged. “I’ve still got that memory of the first time.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock protested.

He smirked. “I don’t care what you say. It was perfect.”

“It was perfect. I simply... you still didn’t know. I hate to dwell on the dishonesty that took place in those weeks.”

John pulled Sherlock closer by his belt as they walked out to the car. “Remember that James Bond movie?”

Sherlock looked at him sideways. “Carrying you upstairs beforehand was the worse of the two.”

John pecked him on the cheek. “Whatever happened beforehand, the second time over was much more satisfying, as a beginning.”

“You mean you got into my pants faster?”

“I seem to remember you telling me you never got into my pants the first time ‘round.”

They arrived at the car and got in. “Shut up.”

John stroked his hair. “Let’s forget about the old memories, Sherlock.”

“I can’t.”

“No, I mean... don’t try to bring them back for me anymore. Please. We’ll forget what we have. We’ll obsess over the things we don’t.”

Sherlock was quiet. “That was only one attempt, John. Surely you agree that there’s no point in starting something only to give up at the first notion of discouragement.”

John sighed. He’d said the wrong thing. Now Sherlock would be more determined than ever. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”

Sherlock tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “Of course not.”

“To the other me, I mean. I don’t want you to fall in love with him more than me.”

“John, for all the ridiculous things you’ve said, that by far wins the gold medal. I love all of you. Every single one of you. Back then... we didn’t know each other. Not enough to realize how we felt. Do you really think I would want to go back to pretending to be just friends?”

John, in turn, was quiet for a moment. “No, but... if you’re doing this for me, then shouldn’t you give up if I ask you to? For me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I suppose that resembles some form of logic.”

Phew.

John tried to squash the disappointment of the missing memories for ther est of the ride home. He knew Sherlock knew he felt disappointed, no matter what he said. But searching for some past self felt dangerous, somehow. Like in mental patients who ruminated over and over certain past events until they became distorted and larger-than-life. He didn’t want their love to be like that. He wanted it to stay in the here and now.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. Things kept running through his mind, running and running and running, until sometime in the early morning hours -- and then he slept.

~~~

The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221 B Baker Street.

Heart Palpitations.

Swish. The scene changed. Not even truly a scene... just a dream of a story. Not a true memory. His mind trying to reenact Sherlock’s memories until they became his own.

This time, he was standing in a dark place. It crackled and sizzled softly. He turned his head, and saw a dying fire, flickering just enough to see shadows cast on the dark, cold woods around him.

A machine gun rattled off in the distance. Immediately John leapt to the ground, tasting dirt as he screamed.

The sound didn’t come out. In dreams, in nightmares, it rarely did. No one could ever hear him except his attackers. Not even himself.

So now he knew a sniper was coming. Not through any true intuition... only through that strange dream logic. He knew. He just knew.

The sniper’s footsteps echoed like metal clanking. It made no sense, out here in a forest...

He tried to find safety, a place to hide, anywhere to escape... but when he dove into a child’s hide-out made from planks of wood nailed together and a shoddy blanket tossed over it, the footsteps only grew closer. He pulled a phone out from nowhere and flung it into the blackness. The sniper was tracking him through it. He knew that too, for no reason other than that he was dreaming and he knew. It was a strange phone. A blackberry, with the tedious keyboard and little scroller ball in the center. Well worn. He tried to remember details of it, but couldn’t. Suddenly he could. It was a phone with a cartoonish heart as the lock screen. A piece of clipart reminiscent of early computer programs.

Suddenly he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. He was standing in a dark hallway. Clipart hearts rotated around and around him, flickering like TV static. He felt fear rise up uncontrollably in his throat. The sniper. The sniper.

A gun emerged from nowhere. No -- a joint corridor. From around a corner he hadn’t known existed. Handling the gun was a man with a mad looking grin. A man he had never seen before. He had black hair and a pale face, and an oddly high-pitched, taunting voice. “Got youuuuu, John Watson. Got. You.”

He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. They didn’t stop. The eyes grew to monstrous proportions. John backed away, but couldn’t move. The man reached out and grabbed him by the shirt. “You don’t even remember him.”

John looked around the room at the spinning animated hearts.

“You don’t even REMEMBER HIM!” The man yelled, dissolving into hysterical laughter. “But you remember me.”

A name flickered into John’s mind. Moriarty. The man who escaped the law’s grasp. He and Lestrade had... no, Sherlock had been involved... he just didn’t remember... how had he been involved? the memory was so clear! He and Lestrade poring over evidence. But then that made no sense. He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t clever. He was just a doctor. An ordinary, bumbling doctor. He didn’t fight crimes. He wasn’t like that. Only Sherlock could have done what he remembered doing all by himself.

“I killed him,” Moriarty whispered in his ear. It felt intimate, and sent a shudder of repulsion down John’s spine. “I’ll kill you. I triiiiied to.”

John tried to run away once again, but his feet wouldn’t lift. It was just a silly leg-movement like some kind of dance, or like running through taffy. Moriarty lifted his gun. He could feel the aim of the gun on his back. The back of his shoulder. The bullet struck, and he felt white hot pain sweep through him so potent, it blinded him. He fell to the ground, and tasted mud before he could close his mouth. The surroundings became unbearably loud. He had fallen into the old memory. The terror-inducing flashback. That was all. That was all. No Moriarty. No Sherlock. Just the old fears.

A fellow soldier turned to John and screamed for him to keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving. He couldn’t lift a single finger. He was trembling too hard. The soldier knelt down, panting from adrenaline, and lifted John with a little heave. His shoulder screamed with pain. He blacked out.

A voice. Remember me? No. No. But I wish. I wish I could.

You do. No I don’t. You don’t understand. I erased you. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. How could I ever. I don’t know how I ever-

Shut up. What? Shut up. You’re not listening. Why? Listen to me!

There was a rattle. The sound of a car driving in the rain. It was a cab. He watched as if in third person, yet at the same time from directly out of his memory self’s eyes. John looked down, and realized he was holding that same blackberry phone. The one he’d never seen before. It had a lockscreen that said “I am _ _ _ _ locked”. SHER. He typed in the letters, and the screen caught fire.

“Huh?” John turned to notice Sherlock was beside him in the cab. Talking very very fast. Deducing something. He looked at the phone in John’s hands and deduced his sister. His relationships. His superficial details.

Then Sherlock looked him directly in the eyes. “You found me.”

“What?”

“Come.”

They took each other’s hands and walked into Angelo’s. But not Angelo’s. It didn’t look like the place he knew, but through his dream self, he simply knew this was Angelo’s. Albeit with film flickering, projected against walls upon walls where the dining tables should have been. So many different films, he-

He stopped dead.

“This place doesn’t exist.”

Sherlock kissed John’s hand. “It’s your memories.”

“No. It’s a dreamscape of my memories. An imaginary... an...”

His gut churned. John collapsed, clinging to Sherlock with all his might. It hurt so much, his eyes watered. Sherlock crouched down. “Do you remember the last thing you said to me?”

John almost drifted into unconsciousness within the dream. But he did remember. “I said we had to hide you where the mappers wouldn’t find us.”

“Correct. And you did. Everyone always does.”

John shook his head, uncomprehending. “But-”

“To hide from the mappers, I had to hide from yourself. Deeper than your conscious thought, deeper than your subconscious thought. In all respects and for all purposes, dead.”

John sat bolt upright, screamed with pain, and flopped back down to the floor again, shuddering. “My head-”

Sherlock grimaced. “It’s going to hurt. But you brought me back. My John, my conductor of light, my source of light, like the sun beaming against all darkness... you found me.”

Moriarty lurked in the background, knocking rapidly on the door to Angelo’s. He kicked at the door. He slammed his hands against it. John’s heartbeat quickened. “It’s just in my head. I won’t remember. I never-”

Sherlock, with all the urgency in the world, leaned in and gave John a firm kiss on the lips. The pressure felt like electric shock.

~

John sat up. The covers scrunched back, and Sherlock sat up beside him. “You alright?”

John pursed his lips, unable to reply. He tried to fight it. He tried- and he yelled out, quivering all over. Sherlock jumped out of bed and switched the lights on. John shied away from them. “OFF!” he bellowed.

Sherlock complied instantly. “Dream?” he asked.

John moaned like he was dying -- it felt like he was dying -- and dug his fingers into the sheets, goign back and forth between clenching his entire body into a tight ball and twisting side to side with discomfort.

Sherlock reached out through the darkness to hold his face firmly. “John!”

He tried to hold still amidst the head-splitting pain.

Sherlock let go of his face and sucked in a gasp. He began pacing back and forth while John struggled against the urge to claw his nerves out. His breathing was so heavy, but he tried to breathe faster, as if more air would alleviate this... this...

“ER,” Sherlock said at once, and started dialing.

John couldn’t say anything one way or the other. He simply blacked out from the intense pain.

~~~

Beep. Beep.

John opened his eyes. A heart rate monitor. Beep. Beep.

Sherlock.

His brain felt like collapsing into a million shards and fragments. A distinct image flashed through his head. He knew exactly when and where, although Sherlock had never told him the story of it. Another and another. Flash. Flash. Flash. I’d be lost without my blogger. Flash. Baker Street would be in shambles without Mrs. Hudson. Flash. Dull. Tedious. I say, could you pass me a pen?

John sat bolt upright in bed, and laughed. The pain increased with the movements, but he couldn’t have stopped himself if his life depended on it. The laugh was loud. It died out, and then came the tears. He was sobbing. Sobbing into his hands out of sheer relief. He was laughing again. Or, no -- both. He was shaking, whimpering intermittently from the pain -- but so, so alive.

How had he gone for so long without these memories?

~~~

Sherlock had to force himself not to run into John’s hospital room. He hadn’t gotten one ounce of sleep the night before, and walking beside the decidedly elderly nurse taking him there was so excruciating, he found himself unable to breathe.

Something was building in his chest. Was John alright? Or had Mycroft somehow bribed the entire hospital into pretending John was alive so that Sherlock could “found out for himself”? Or was John alright in the relative sense, such as “he’s not dead, he’s merely in a deep, irreversible coma”.

They arrived at John’s room, and Sherlock burst through the door.

John had been crying. It clearly hurt to sit up, but he was sitting up anyway. His entire face structure seemed... different, somehow.

“I remember.”

Sherlock’s brain shut down.

Impossible.

He stared blankly. He felt his enormous brain go completely quiet for once.

No. They failed. It couldn’t have worked.

He couldn’t get his hopes up. It would kill him all over again to hope....

But.

John’s face said it all.

“Sherlock,” John said. Tenderly. But like addressing someone new. Someone lost, and then discovered. “When we first met, I reached into your pocket and I swear you were flirting, but then you said you were married to your work, but you’d winked at me, but you were a social imbecile, and I loved you, but you would never love me back, you didn’t work that way, you wouldn’t accept me that way, and I didn’t want to lose you, I didn’t want to... you... you saved me.”

Finally, Sherlock snapped out of his stupor. An inexpressible feeling swelled in his chest.

“Sherlock. I remember how lost I felt without you, I remember walking into that clinic and oh, oh, oh, you’re alive, you, I am so glad- ah- ow!”

Sherlock touched John’s forehead. “Shh.” He kissed John’s forehead. “Shh.”

“But SHERLOCK!” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, dragging him closer to the hospital bed.

“There are cameras in here!” Sherlock protested.

John held him tight, looking deeply into his eyes, and his face, and his very soul.  Those eyes searched him like seeing a dead man resurrected. Like seeing the Christ for a Christian, or a long lost piece of himself. In me? Sherlock stared intently back, memorizing this new John. No. No.

This wasn’t new John. He had always been and will always be the same John.

“You will always be my John,” Sherlock whispered tenderly. To make sure he knew.

“You will always, always be my Sherlock,” John replied in a whisper of his own.

Suddenly he felt a pang of anxiety. “Do you remember me differently now?”

John laughed. “No. I just have a thousand more moments to remember why I love you.”

Sherlock relaxed. “Then-”

He was interrupted by the ping of a text message. It was Lestrade.

“Triple murder,” he read with a smirk. “Like old times.”

“No,” John said fervently. “Not like old times.” And he pulled Sherlock in all the way for a kiss.

#johnlock #lacuna #johnandsherlocks #fanfic #sherlock #ficlet #in which I spend WAY too much time writing an increasingly too-long story based on a story based on a TV show based on a series of stories b #and stay up way too late writing it too! and don't bother to spellcheck or ANYTHING! #but it was fun to write so #yeah