#with only eleven torpedoes?

[isagrimorie]

Star Trek Voyager, 4x08 - Year of Hell, Part 1

Captain Kathryn Janeway as a Brilliant Tactician, part 1, 2, 3 (version 1) (version 2)

#star trek voyager #voyager 4x08 #kathryn janeway #year of hell (voyager) #janeway is a brilliant tactician #my edit #trekedit #trek edit #voyager edit #star trek edit #startrekedit #flashing warning #flathing lights #never put janeway on the backfoot #that's where she works her best #no weapons #burned out phasers #decks that's about to blow #with only eleven torpedoes? #i'm calling a medic #but its NOT for janeway #voyager alpha bridge crew #tuvok #chakotay #tom paris #harry kim #brilliant tactician series

[aclowntiny]

Hii! First of all, congrats con 600 followers, you deserve that and so many more, I'm literally in love with your work :) I was wondering if I could request a San scenario with the following prompts (from the lists you reblogged):

“Urgh, why do you always insist on doing nice things for me?” “Because I enjoy it.”

“Can’t you just accept when people do nice things for you?” “No, I can’t.”

“The only reason why I’m letting you get away with shit like this is because I like you, you dense fucking cabbage.”

I was thinking kind of best friend au, but they both have feelings for eachother, BUT, they're both in denial about it. You can decide how the rest goes, thank you so muh in advance!! ~

yELLS thanks sweetheart 🥲 in love with my work whAT 🥹💕 thank you for being here with me! I love this request so here is your SAN-ario 😄 ps: look up the definition of mon petit chou I dare you

Mon Petit Chou- Best Friend!San x Gender Neutral!Reader

Word Count: 2282 | Best Friends to Lovers | Warnings: language, mention of drinking but no actual drinking lol, slightly suggestive?

You weren’t sure when the fuck this all started, just that you hated it with the burning passion of a thousand suns.

Your life had been peaceful, safe, mundane even, and so help you if you’d ever complained about it you were going to invent time travel just to go back and smack yourself one in the face for it.

Somehow, against all common sense, bro or whatever codes, and hope of joy you’d developed feelings for your best friend. The two of you had known each other for the past four years, meeting in your final year of high school at the dance of all places. Neither of you dated then, so you were there in a state others perceived as ‘alone’, each of you seeing it as with friends, with the while school, and leaping into the fray of energetic dancing. And that was how you ended up doing the cupid shuffle together and, for some reason, the old YMCA routine. You’d shook and jumped to Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off and the legendary Amor Fati by Kim Yeonja, all the simultaneously memed and beloved songs you could dream of. Some people assumed you were a couple and you two burst out laughing as you told them you’d literally just met. Like, you exchanged names after they said that.

San was easy to talk to, especially after seeing each other in sweaty teenage abandon first. He was no pressure, no butterflies- until now, for some forsaken reason, when your heart had decided to abandon all reason and beat like a mother when San pulled you into a hug or smiled that dimpled smile you’d looked at countless times- why was it special now?

Sure, you’d always acknowledged he was good-looking, but in the way people talked about celebrities outside their preferred gender- just acknowledgement, nothing deeper. But suddenly you found your brain rushing out from under you like a yanked rug, wondering what his lips would feel like against yours.

And dammit, you were dead-set on never finding out.

Making a move at that point would be platonic suicide, torpedoing the best friendship you’d ever had, and frankly you’d lost too many with age, time, distance, drama to do it again. And not with San. Even if it was like life’s Master Ball and you only got one forever friendship, it was going to be San. You’d already aimed and pitched, and no petty, new, frustrating as all get-out feelings were going to knock that off course.

If only San got the memo too.

Maybe it was simply a matter of increased awareness thanks to your nascent problem, but it was like he’d grabbed the knob full force and dialed all the charm and sweetness to eleven, sensing your pulse skyrocketing for a thousand tiny reasons you wanted to shoot down like clay pigeons.

It was chilly the other afternoon? Here, take his jacket. You forgot your sunglasses? Did you want his? What ring size were you? Here, compare to his- go on, just see if it fits. And by jove, you will never carry a single remotely heavy object again if Choi San can help it.

“Why do you always insist on doing nice things for me?” You groaned, head rolling to fix your best friend with a look.

“Because I enjoy it,” he replied simply, contentedly, the most plaintive of smiles on his face as he tilted his own head down for a brief respite on your shoulder.

Curse him and his adorable love of affection. “Well, ah, what can I do for you?” You spluttered, indignant at no one but yourself.

“It doesn’t have to be a transaction. I know you’ve had people around you make it seem like it is, but you don’t have to repay me. I know you’d help me if I needed it, too.”

Biting back a response about you surprisingly not actually needing him to carry your shopping bags, you just sighed and thanked him, shuffling along the mall tile with slightly less relish. He’d always been like this- selfless, kind, loving, and you’d always loved those things about him.

So when he sat you down at the food court, gingerly resting your bags on the shiny public-eatery metal seat adjacent to yours as he scooted yours back, what else could you do but smile and thank him? San asked you what you wanted for lunch, and you told him you didn't mind, to which he shot back that he didn't either. Then you told him to pick, and he told you to pick, and you both bickered playfully back and forth until you got tacos.

Ugh, just like an old married couple.

~

"Can't you just accept when people do nice things for you?"

"No," you crossed your arms in mostly-mock-obstinance, "no, I cannot."

"I swear, you'd make me pay you back if I bought you a candy bar," San rolled his eyes playfully, fixing you with a fond smile.

Because if you're always paying for me when we go out, you wanted to say, I can pretend it's a date. I can get it in my fat fucking head what it would be like to have you as my boyfriend and never get it back out.

"Money is designed to be exchanged for goods and services," you actually said.

"This isn't a service," he replied, putting an arm you didn't care was sticky with sweat around your shoulders, extending the water bottle toward your hand, "it's me caring about you."

Hot from exertion as you were, you instantly melted under the warmth of his half-embrace, accepting the water bottle. "And you know I appreciate it. I'm just not used to getting cared for."

"Then I'm not doing my job!" Your best friend exclaimed, eyes glinting. "I'm always going to be here to take care of you, so get used to it!"

"I think I started figuring that out when you brought three different blankets and a plushie the first time I watched a movie with you," you told him with a teasing smile.

San's smile fell almost into introspection, getting a bit more serious, which you didn't expect. "You joke, but I mean it, (y/n)."

Almost against your will, your head nodded solemnly, though your own smile couldn't fade, in fact it widened dumbly as a side effect of your hammering heart. "I hope so."

And then, as if he hadn't said something so infuriatingly sweet, San patted your shoulder, stood up from his squatted position, and took your water-bottle-free hand in his, pulling you up, too. You could have sworn he gave your hand a squeeze, but it was so brief, maybe you imagined it.

"Alright, so are we dancing or what?"

~

Sometimes you wished you guys drank more. That you could hit the edge of blackout and do something you'd barely remember, nor regret, and butt so hard against the line it finally broke and reformed in less questionable territory. That some alien substance in your veins could be blamed for anything dubbed unthinkable, and you'd have already rehearsed any laughter necessary if San wanted to make middle-school ew, gross jokes as if your lips transmitted cooties.

But San was a lightweight, and neither of you enjoyed that scene. The two of you were more the types to get coffee twice in a ay and laugh too hard at stupid things like the word guava on a caffeine buzz.

"We're fun enough even without alcohol," San often joked to you.

So the drama-flick drunk confession, intoxicated makeout, was out. Best not to duplicitously offer a drink in exchange for-

"(y/n)? I think it's all done," San's voice cut through your mental spiral.

You almost had to shake your head out of it, vision having faded to a zoned-out blur, obscuring even the shape of his wide, tank-topped shoulders as he had bent over your car.

Now he was at your side, wiping his hands on a cloth like some sort of professional mechanic, not just your best friend who insisted you didn't need to pay someone like that just for an oil filter and a change. A change which had cost him the dove grey of his garment, something you could hardly help asking why he'd wear such a light color of for that.

"San, your top, it's all stained!"

As he tossed the rag aside, he tilted his head down, bobbing it in recognition of the black smudge marks. "Well, at least it wasn't expensive."

"I think I know how to get it out if you want. You could always go get a new-"

Before you could even finish your sentence, he was stripping, yanking the top off from the bottom hem and leaning against the knob of your garage door. Despite the clear invitation to go inside and, you know, do exactly what you just said you were going to do, surprised crossed your (very warm) face, effectively sealing you to the concrete floor. The only process your brain could perform in that moment was trying to figure out if you had the world's best or worst luck.

"Oh, uh-" Trying not to stare, your eyes very pointedly searched San's face.

Your best friend frowned slightly, expression halfway to the innocence you were used to, and somehow that almost made it worse. "What?"

"Just," you hesitated as you accepted his now inside-out tank top, skin-warmed fabric heating your hands, too, which you glanced down at beneath San's intent gaze, "didn't expect you to be this comfortable is all."

San crossed his arms, face falling first in shock, then shaping up into almost dark amusement as a different, more incredulous smile rose to his sharp features. "Are you kidding me?"

Oh, no. You made it weird. This was it. Or maybe he just thought you were doubting his friendship, which he shouldn't. Everyone knew unironically doing the YMCA bonded people for life. Or sharing blankets. Or...ah, crap. Not now. "No, it's great, I'm really glad you trust me. I trust you, too, you know. Maybe I don't show that enough, but that's why you know so much about me, and I really appreciate you-" Your rant suddenly fell short as your eyes betrayed you, drifting down slightly and absolutely ramming your train of thought into a wreck. "You know, always being there for me and being so thoughtful and pretty much being my favorite person ever-"

“The only reason why I’m letting you get away with shit like this, with seeing me like this," he motioned over his, well, quite fit torso, "is because I like you, you dense fucking cabbage.” The moment the words left San, his face fell into his hand, out of frustration or embarrassment it was hard to say. Probably more the latter, knowing how sweet your best friend was. He didn't use strong language...well, almost ever.

Train wreck take two. Not a single word rose to your mind, only sensations, for a solid three seconds, during which all you could do was stand there wide-eyed, venture a step towards San, two steps. Finally you spoke, feeling like an idiotic teen sitcom character as your dumb response left your lips. "You like me?"

"Yes," San sighed, posture deflating a bit against the doorframe, "I'm sorry. Sorry for the language, and just...I hadn't really planned on how I was going to say it, but it definitely wasn't like that. You deserve way better than that. I just... sometimes I feel like you like me back, but then I wonder if you're pushing me away. And you have every right to do that, especially if I've messed up our friendship, I can just-"

You cut him off, harnessing the motion of his lips for greater purpose against yours. San responded instantly to the kiss, hands cupping your face and pulling it deeper into his like you were air and he'd spent his whole life underwater. Your arms wrapped around those broad, bare shoulders, hands resting at the back of his neck.

"Wait, you like me?" Ok, you felt better about how dumb you seemed, as those were San's first words out of the kiss.

"Yes, you, what was it? Ah, yes. 'Dense fucking cabbage'," you quoted back at him with a merciless grin, arms tightening their grip ever so slightly.

"Oh, no," he winced, "that's going to stick forever, isn't it?"

"Yep," you breathed, leaning in for another kiss, the feeling of San's lips a hundred percent better than you could ever have imagined, so much warmer and realer and this time sweeter, sliding against yours like he was coaxing it out of you.

This time, upon pulling away you gave the side of his face a light, playful slap, enjoying the touch of his sculpted features against your palm.

"You're stuck with me now, mon petit chou."

San shook his head at the return of your devious grin, and you reveled in the blend of utter bliss and what did I get myself into painting his face as his hands snaked around your waist, twirling you in a little impromptu dance and dipping you down.

He smiled lovingly this time, sending your beating heart melting and surprise turning to joy across your own face. "As long as you keep being you and you'll let me do nice things for you now- no, scratch that, spoil you."

Keep being you. Holy shit, what a balm for the soul.

Cocking a brow, you shot back, "You spoil me and I embarrass you? Hardly sounds fair."

"All's fair in love and war," San responded, eyelashes fluttering.

You most definitely forgot to wash his top after that.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez reactions #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #san #san x reader #san x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #best friends to lovers #fluff #humor #sort of #requested #everywhereandnowhere02

[oodlyenough]

so i’ve been rewatching doctor who from the (2005) start as a little project for the 60th anniversary - it’s the first time i’ve rewatched most of eleven’s run, and i haven’t watched any of his eps since like….2013? anyway i just finished the angels take manhattan and forgot just how dumb it is as a concept, but did remember you had a lot of hilariously incredulous posts about it when it first came out. why can’t the ponds get on a bus to new jersey and have the doctor pick them up there??? it does feel like such a wasted opportunity to have all these eps about how they’re “growing up” and living their own lives and how that’s sort of nice, only for that all to get torpedoed in their final episode

in general the whole eleven rewatch has been a fun revisit to things that absolutely infuriated me back in the day, to the point i have almost a fondness for them now lol

It's so stupid lmaooo. I haven't seen any of those episodes in years, maybe since they aired?, and while I find looking back I retain a fondness for Amy Pond (more than any other Moffat character at least), thanks largely to Karen Gillan being just so dang lovable, I can't think about her story for too long or my brain implodes.

Angels Take Manhattan is such a goofy stupid end for a character who helped define the era. They really have to just pull together so many contrivances to try and justify Amy and Rory being stuck in the past forever even though their bestie and also their stupid stolen baby are literal time travellers. And, as you said, most of s7a sets up Amy and Rory with a life on earth that they're increasingly attached to only to rip it away from them, too, for uh, reasons. I also remember loving the part where Amy wears glasses for a single episode so that Eleven can have something to wear sadly after she's gone. Those iconic glasses we all remember Amy wearing for (checks notes) 30 minutes of runtime. Why not at least introduce them at the start of s7a. Can't plan too far ahead, I guess.

For a long time I think a lot of the New Who companions suffered from the issue of needing a big dramatic exit, when some, like Amy or Clara, would've done better with a Martha-style exit of their own free will. Of course, more recently, this has been replaced by stuff like Yaz getting evicted from the TARDIS against her will because ? no reason really Thirteen just is tired of her ?, so I guess be careful what you wish for.

...Why did you get me started on this. How dare you. Lmao

#katyliz415 #you've got questions we've got answers

[giffingthingsss]

CHAKOTAY: I thought we were trying to disable it. SEVEN: The torpedo detonated near the power matrix. It caused a chain reaction. JANEWAY: Survivors?. TUVOK: None.

...

PARIS: I would have loved to have seen the look on their faces. Boom! KIM: To be honest, I wish the boom had been a bit smaller. We were only trying to disable them. PARIS: They were drones, Harry. Mindless automatons. We did them a favour. KIM: Seven. PARIS: Look, I didn't mean anything by that. SEVEN: Your apology is irrelevant. It is impossible to offend a mindless drone. PARIS: Cheers.

...

QUEEN: They will fail. JANEWAY: Maybe. Probably. But a lot of damage will be done before they do. QUEEN: Yes, a lot of damage. Spatial grid nine four, cube six three zero. Complement sixty-four thousand drones. But I can no longer hear three of them. No doubt they've joined your resistance. Are they trying to sabotage the vessel and liberate others? I don't know, because I can no longer hear them. Initiate self-destruct. QUEEN: An effective solution, don't you agree? Spatial grid zero nine one, sphere eight seven eight. Complement eleven thousand drones. Only one is silent. But I have no choice. I must silence all of them. I know how this must upset you, Captain. As a Starfleet officer, you value all life. Even drones. How many more are you willing to sacrifice? Thousands? Millions?

#unimatrix zero #dark frontier #voyager things

[mariacallous]

Eleven years ago, Ed Miliband made a party conference speech that must have seemed a great idea at the time. It was a denunciation of predatory capitalism that in retrospect seems very prescient, and went down well enough in the hall. It was only afterwards, when journalists started challenging him to name names, that things hit the buffers. Come on, then; if they’re so awful, who are they, these bastards ruining life for everyone? The minute his team hesitated, presumably afraid of being sued, the pack pounced. Is Rupert Murdoch a predatory capitalist? What about the guy who runs BHS? Or Sainsbury’s, or Next? A somewhat bruised Miliband ended up insisting the point was not to make “moral judgments about individuals”. It’s easy to generalise about your enemies but hard, it turns out, to be specific.

Liz Truss has just fallen into a similar trap. The Conservative party audience clapped her attack on the “anti-growth coalition” she blamed for Tory failures to deliver over the last 12 years, because it was essentially a list of people they dislike: Scottish nationalists, Brexit deniers, north London liberals who say snide things about them on the BBC. It was only on contact with the real world that things began to fall apart.

In her speech, Truss championed Britain’s right to stuff itself on junk food. So is Jamie Oliver, patron saint of healthy eating, now an Enemy of Growth? Downing Street couldn’t rule out the possibility. Well, there’s a game any interviewer can play. Is national treasure David Attenborough, who has argued against prizing growth at all costs, on the axis of evil? What about Tory donors shorting the pound, or the Tory MP who famously vowed to lie down under a bulldozer to stop the expansion of Heathrow? (Blond guy, rumpled hair, don’t hear so much from him lately.) And then there’s the man who once argued that, instead of bankrupting the environment in an endless rush for growth, we must “see Nature’s capital and her processes as the very basis of a new form of economics”. That would be King Charles, currently banned from representing Britain at Cop27.

What I do give Truss credit for is drawing her dividing lines in crayon, not blood. This stuff is so patently silly that it lacks the malevolent power of previous Conservative attempts to create bogeymen – “citizens of nowhere”, say, or “enemies of the people” – which seemed to summon something truly horrible from the depths. Truss doesn’t instantly fall back on culture wars when in trouble, or at least not yet. She’ll hit you in the pocket, but not so much below the belt, at least not yet. Her oddly dispassionate tone – during her speech she never once explained in human terms how growth would actually change your life or mine – makes for poor demagoguery, a small but real mercy after the last few years. This all feels less like a sinister new government front opening up and more like something an opposition would say in its early, hit and miss stages; rather like the time William Hague’s team tried and failed to coin “pebbledash people” as a clunky catchphrase for the voters they wanted to attract.

There are sensible ideas buried somewhere beneath the chaos of the last fortnight, too, including an early but unsuccessful attempt to change the record on immigration. Truss’s growth plan would, we were told, create more avenues for legal immigration, a belated recognition that flourishing economies are open ones, which was promptly torpedoed this week by the home secretary, Suella Braverman, declaring that, personally, she’d like to cut immigration to the “tens of thousands”. But at least somewhere round the cabinet table is a rational head acknowledging that the post-Brexit pulling up of drawbridges has left crops rotting in the fields and exacerbated dire staff shortages in health and social care. There have been attempts to reset the relationship with the EU, too, amid tantalising rumours that a deal on the Northern Ireland protocol might be close enough to avoid a self-harming trade war with Europe. Even the growth argument masks a welcome recognition that Britain hasn’t built enough houses, and that they’ll have to go in someone’s back yard.

But successive Tory prime ministers have been pleading with Tory conferences to overcome their inner nimby for years now, and it’s not the fault of anyone on Truss’s ludicrous list that they haven’t. It’s not “Brexit deniers” who will knock an estimated 4% off Britain’s productivity either, but Brexit enthusiasts. She can’t honestly confront what holds a Conservative government back, because all too often it’s Conservatism.

Just as Miliband put his finger on something crucial in predatory capitalism, even if he couldn’t quite find the language to land it, Truss has identified a genuine issue with Britain’s ability to get stuff done. From big infrastructure projects to action on climate, governments of all stripes do constantly put off difficult decisions for the next lot. There might well be something refreshing about a Conservative party using its last months in power – and these do feel like its last months – to grasp some nettles, sparing its successor the job.

But that would require a commanding authority Truss doesn’t possess. Barely a month in, her cabinet already says and does more or less as it pleases. The old joke that no matter who leads the Conservatives, somehow Michael Gove always ends up in charge, rang true as he roamed the conference fringe dictating what look suspiciously like terms for backbench rebels – although interestingly, he’d agree with Truss on housebuilding. Mockery aside, she has clearly identified a problem. It’s just that, like disappointed oppositions down the ages, she isn’t going to be its solution.

[nelsonarmstrong52]

Services Saps South African Police Service

This led to very attention-grabbing conditions. Stan handed away on 30 July 2019, aged 93 yrs. He was one of the survivors from the Tanker MV Doryssa which was torpedoed south south west of PE on 25 April 1943 by the Leonardo da Vinci. Only eleven survivors had been discovered after 6 days at sea by the HMSAS Roodepoort and HMSAS Southern Barrier. I then joined Holland Africa Line claims and worked with Syd Benjamin, one other Old Boy. Cotts and joined Herby Horsley, still another OB. Meantime I had started the Martial Arts and eventually grew to become one of the first instructors to go full time instructing. Richard is a GRAND MASTER ninth Dan Black Belt in Japanese Budo-Ryu Karate and the first inducted member of the South African Karate & Martial Sciences Hall of Fame, he additionally holds Black Belt ranks in Judo and Aikido. He was the primary Westerner ever accepted as a member of the World Karate Union Teaching Department of Hyogo/Himeji, Japan. He can be the Founder and Doshu Head of the World Wide Martial Arts organization, BUDO-RYU INTERNATIONAL, with administrative workplaces within the Netherlands. He came ashore and labored in the SAR Ships workplace in Johannesburg for a while after which went back to sea, and on obtaining his Master Certificate joined the Harbour Service in Port Elizabeth. He was promoted to Durban as a tug grasp and did some sterling work in shifting lifeless warships through the Second World War. He was later promoted to Pilot at Durban, to Assistant Port Captain, Cape Town in 1960 and Port Captain in 1965 to 1966. Semi retired 2018, providing training and training providers to software program growth teams shifting from conventional to Agile rules and practices. Son of Andrew Francis Bernard Curran and Minnie Agnes, nee Beal. There he worked within the building trade as a ending carpenter. Soaring rates of interest and inflation brought major problems to the construction sector in 1982 so he left Vancouver, securing a berth on a small supply ship in the Western Arctic. In 1985 all the crews had been laid off following a change in government coverage however Mike had acquired the steel hull of a one hundred ninety metre Dutch yacht which he refitted and junk-rigged, moving aboard and making her his home. Then joined Durban Lines, coasting to Mozambique. Obtained Masters Certificate in 1958 and did a short spell as a Stevedore Superintendent for Storm & Co in Durban. Joined Durban Harbour Service December 1958 and retired as assistant Port Captain September 1991. dr gregory facebook The ship spent seven month in the course of the Antarctic summer in the Antarctic doing research and discovery work. The first 4 months was spent supplying the eight Research bases , adopted by three months of Hydrographic surveying of the uncharted seas. The RRS John Biscoe was owned by her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2, she was an ice strengthened ship operated by the British Antarctic Survey to hold out Research and Discovery within the British Antarctic Territories. She was registered in Port Stanley within the Falkland islands. 1964 harbour pilot in Port Elizabeth but needed to discontinue as a result of arthritis. 1992 – Left survey practice in Johannesburg to begin in Simons Town as a Land Surveyor, semi retired. Passed away abruptly on the first February 2009.WAYRICHARD PHILLIPS1386WEBBARTHUR DUDLEY1207WEBBGORDON OWEN1273Previously proprietor of Summit Steel in Cape Town. After Bothie did an engineering apprenticeship with Globe Engineering in Cape Town. Served as an engineer with Union Castle for seven years and obtained his Chief Engineer’s Certificate of Competency. 1958 joined Safmarine and in 1961 swallowed the anchor and studied for his Government Certificate of Competency. Spent twelve years as a ship surveyor with SAMSA and latterly a lecturer at the Northlink Maritime Training College. Alan was ex-General Botha boy who, like Sailor Malan, went to sea in the Merchant Navy as a cadet prior to the 2nd World War after which, like Sailor Malan, opted for a short service fee within the Royal Air Force. The providers are nice and the individuals who helping me had been so type and friendly. Great costumer service, nice worth for money ,trustworthy, willing and competent pleasant staff. My company will definitely make use of this service again. Kyle Davidson facilitated and consulted our company. She has all the time been enthusiastic about drama and theatre and tries to help the place she can. When she’s not working, she enjoys the outdoors, particularly scuba diving, mountain climbing and flying. Kevin has loved and been involved with theatre from a very early age He is a gospel artist, concerned in ministering the gospel by way of music and track. As well as CTTC, he is also involved with many different theatre firms similar to Gilbert and Sullivan, Legends, CTM Theaters and PPMI. He has a love for theatre and will always give his greatest to assist in any means in any respect.

#dr gregory hough south africa #dr greg hough south africa #dr gregory #dr greg hough #greg hough #dr gregory hough #dr gregory images #dr greg hough images #dr gregory facebook #dr greg hough facebook

[airmanisr]

Douglas TBD-1 by Willard Womack Via Flickr: USS Enterprise 7:30 AM June 4,1942. Torpedo Squadron, "6" prepares to take off to attack the Japanese at Midway. Fourteen (eleven in this photo) took-off, with only four returned.

#TBD #aircraft #carrier

[unsinkablememorys]

Unsinkable Survivors: Edwin Hall, Assistant First Class Mess Steward, Lusitania

Edwin Hall was born in December 1887 in Southampton, England and not much is known about his early childhood. He began his career at sea at the age of 14 and worked on many ships with the Cunard Line. Hall had a lifelong dream of experiencing everything the world had to offer and thought his best chance of fulfilling it was to become a sailor, despite warnings of a centuries-old family curse against going to sea. After signing on to RMS Lusitania in April 1915, he told a colleague that the only way he would be "claimed by the sea", as the Hall Family curse goes, would be "if this ship suddenly blows up", and laughed. On the return trip, his prediction came true. On 7 May 1915, RMS Lusitania was torpedoed eleven miles off the southeast coast of Ireland, sinking in fifteen minutes, claiming 1,198 lives, and prompting the US to enter WWI. Hall was seriously injured, but survived, while his colleague did not. He often joked about "breaking the family curse", but it may not have been broken, after all. Edwin Hall died on 24 May 1941, when HMS Hood exploded and sank in three minutes, during the Battle of Denmark Strait.

(My fifth cousin, one of three relatives on Lusitania - only survivor, only known family member to survive a shipwreck, fell to the family curse less than five minutes after laughing it off...)

[1kook]

subdued

— good boy joon on his bday x fem reader

summary; He could so easily take you over in the bedroom, push you down and ram himself inside until you cried. But it’s the other way around, and he likes it that way. tags; birthday boy joon, solo rapper joon, college student reader (unspecified year/age lol), this entire fic is based off THIS joon everyone look and never forget him warnings; kissing, blowjobs, grinding, unprotected, birthday sex, sub!joon word count; 5k

notes; hoooo boy, if you think my other fics were self-indulgent, this one is straight from my 3 am thoughts... anyway. i actually have the same birthday as joon so this fantasy plays off very different in daydream universe no. 794 lol but i understand not everyone is as lucky as us sept 12 babies so i adjusted it 😌

The stoplight down the street from his building takes the longest. He had warned you of its faulty mechanics the very first time you visited. It lingered on red a beat too long, wasted precious seconds you could be spending with him. It’s been the sole challenger to your patience this past year. Every time you wanted to visit him, it was this same stoplight that held you up— made the sugar in his coffee cup settle, the food in its container go cold. It absolutely dampened your mood.

Today, it’s from the back of an Uber that you watch the red glow of the light, gaze fading in and out of focus. It’s raining, the rhythmic pattering of raindrops against the wind shield hypnotizing you. There’s a styrofoam box of takeout beside you falling into the same fate as all its predecessors, tucked inside a plastic bag. It’s his favorite today, the black bean noodles down the street from your university paired with a sickeningly sweet fizzy drink. (There’s a cheap bottle of wine too, but he was never one for getting shitfaced so it had a slim chance of consumption.)

The longer the light stalls, the more nervous you become. One glance at your phone tells you it’s nearing eleven forty-nine, your last message to him just a few minutes before. It was a slew of sad faces as you apologized for the fifth time that night. Another minute ticks by and you’re suddenly hit with the overwhelming fear that you won’t make it on time.

It was Namjoon’s birthday.

At least it would be for the next ten minutes.

You hadn’t seen him all day, your usual Saturday morning brunch postponed by your conflicting schedules. You had a huge group project coming up, and the other students in your group all had lives of their own, jobs, sports, dates, that made their schedules hard to work around. Namjoon, too, was busy gearing up for the release of his mixtape, a collection of songs he had worked hard on for the better half of the year.

He had been planning for this since you first met, around this time the previous year. It was all he ever spoke about these days, which was both endearing and worrisome. Regardless of how you felt about his avid dedication towards his mixtape, you would continue to support him through it all.

You were supposed to drop by after your last class, but one thing led to another and suddenly you were babysitting your neighbor’s kids as she ran off to the hospital. You had felt bad for her, something about a relative in an accident, and had said yes without thinking through what exactly that meant. Two overexcited children and a kitchen lined in cake batter, is what it meant. Your neighbor had returned a little before eleven, and by then you were really cutting it close.

The order you placed had been ready when you got to the little restaurant, and, deciding to forgo bus stop waiting times, the Uber came quickly enough. Because things can never go your way, there was a small accident on one of the major streets that set you back, leading to your driver taking an abrupt detour that you doubt was helpful, and now you were here.

You bite down on your lower lip for probably the umpteenth time, flipping your phone around to check the time. 11:52.

The light changes a second later, your chauffeur for the evening slowly easing his foot off the break and sending the two of you one step closer to your boyfriend. The movement doesn’t ease your nerves in the slightest, foot tapping wildly against the carpeted flooring of the backseat as you think of that creaky elevator. Will it be on your side today? Or will it force you to run four flights of stairs up to his floor?

You won’t know until you get there, absentmindedly tipping the poor soul who bore witness to the rolling waves of tension that had swamped your body tonight. You can only hope it’s an appropriate bill, taking off toward the front doors of his building. The water on the sidewalk splashes beneath your frantic footsteps, tickling your bare ankles. The black boots you wore that day did nothing to save you, a small gust of cold air trying to sweep up beneath the thin material of your dress, luckily to no avail.

The front area is as empty as it usually is, though you doubt the late hour would change that. Knuckle jammed harshly against the flickering elevator button, you wait impatiently for it to descend. His small label takes up the entirety of the fourth floor, studios squeezed beside meeting rooms and offices. It was by no means a monster record label, but it had gained enough fame from the quality soloists it produced over the years; Namjoon was quickly becoming one of those. The carriage is on the fifth floor, right above his, the digital panel beside you says. It passes his floor, passes the fourth, and then… nothing.

You curse every deity in the universe as you watch it freeze on the second floor. You had been so close, you groan, kicking the tip of your shoe against the metal doors. It does nothing to fix the broken elevator, and with one heavy sigh, you turn to the flight of stairs. It was 11:54 now.

The stairway is silent, off-grey concrete walls mocking you as the time continues to tick down. Holding the plastic bag to your chest, you start up the stairs in a hurry. The rustling of the bag grows annoying quickly, your thighs aching half way up. The platforms between floors provide nearly no reprieve before you ascend the next level of stairs, heaving for air as you turn onto the final platform before his floor. Your hair sticks uncomfortably to the back of your neck.

You can’t fling the door open fast enough, heart hammering between your rib cage. The hallway is filled with blissful air conditioning, nothing like the stuffy air of the staircase. You relish in it for a second before taking down the winding halls, torpedoing straight into the room your boyfriend’s in.

“Happy birthday,” you gasp, only hoping you made it in on time. Your sudden appearance has him whirling around in surprise, dark eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets at his surprise intruder. The digital clock above one of his speakers blinks back at you. 11:59.

The surprise wears off soon enough. Namjoon melts back into his puffy chair, easy going smile taking over his features as he regards your ruffled appearance. “Jesus, what’ve you been up to?” he teases playfully, standing up to relieve you of the bag in your hand, still warm against your chest.

He brushes a kiss against your forehead, placing the plastic bag somewhere off behind him before enveloping you in your arms. “Thank you, baby,” he hums, strong arms wrapped around your shoulders. Almost immediately the tension in your body melts away, oozes out of your skin as you bury yourself against his chest. It feels good to be there, the faint cologne from that morning clinging to his white zip-up.

“Sorry I’m so late,” you murmur. Feeling comforted enough, you pull away from your hiding spot against his chest. The arms hanging loosely around your waist don’t let you get too far, low-lidded eyes staring down at you over the straight angle of his nose. “So much happened today— I’m sorry.”

Namjoon waves your apologies off as he guides you towards his computer chair. He plops down first, pulling you over to sit on his thigh. The clock ticks by, and suddenly his birthday is over. The scent of the noodles fills his dark studio, and you become acutely aware of the soft melody drifting from his speakers. Nothing too developed yet, just a simple piano with a bass drum kicking in.

“Another year, another grey hair,” he sighs, leaning back against his seat. You laugh at his dramatics, running a finger through the head full of silver hairs he’s rocking this time around.

“I fail to see the issue,” you muse, shifting about until you can loop your arms around his neck, pulling his face close enough to yours to kiss. He lets you, opening his mouth when your tongue prods against his plush, doll lips. He tastes of that energy drink you know is bad for him, the one that keeps him up way past his nonexistent bedtime. You should scold him for it, but there’s something about the way he molds his mouth against yours that makes it difficult to pull away and do so. You kiss him for a few minutes, lips casually molding against each other.

The enticing scent of the food you brought over has you pulling away with a soft smack of your lips, lazily grinning down at him. “You should eat,” you encourage, attempting to move out of his grip. If anything, the hands on the small of your back stiffen, keeping you comfortably pressed against him.

“Don’t want to,” he whines, half-lidded eyes gazing at you with that tender look. He leans back in, nudges his nose against yours until you’re moving to accommodate him again. His lips catch yours a second time, a soft sigh released on his end. His body feels like a furnace, swaddled up in that nice white tracksuit, some fancy brand he’s an ambassador for. There’s something about him that’s different today, cherry lips catching you in a daze. He seems totally aware of the pull he has over you, moving his mouth against yours like he knows he’s won you over and was now ready to dedicate the rest of the night to you.

You weren’t having any of that, at least not tonight.

Knitting your hands in his hair, you tug. You tug and tug until he’s releasing you with a whine, swollen red lips shiny from your lip gloss. It’s certainly a look on him, and as he pants beneath you, you’re left wondering why he’s chosen to be an elusive rapper when his doll-like face could easily blend into the idol world.

Another mystery you’ll never solve.

“Missed you today,” he admits bashfully, lips pulling into a shy smile he tries to hide from you. You reward his confession with a soft peck against his cheek, hands cupping his soft cheeks between your palms. Despite how easily you’d been forgiven before, there’s a tinge of a whine curling around his next words. “Who blows someone off on their birthday?” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

You chuckle, tracing your thumbs over his skin. They just barely brush against the corners of his mouth, the soft flesh begging to be touched. “Who spends their birthday cooped up in a tiny room?” you reply teasingly, leaning in to kiss the mole beneath his plump lips.

Namjoon inhales softly, head lolling backwards as you kiss down his chin, over his pulse point. “Was inspired,” he weakly defends, the grip around your waist growing tight. “There was a pretty girl in my dreams last night.”

“Oh?” You hum, slithering off his lap. The floor mat he has beneath his rolling chair to protect his hardwood floors is cold. There’s ridges on it that press uncomfortably into your knees. But all that is forgotten when you roll your hands over his shoulders, kiss his neck tenderly, and he groans. “How pretty?”

Your back is straining from being awkwardly stretched over him in a desperate attempt to kiss the entire column of his neck. He doesn’t make it easier, hips wiggling before you as you nip against the side of his neck. “Joon?” you coo, sliding your hands down his chest. The muscles jump beneath his zip-up, one shuddering exhale escaping him.

“R-Real fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mumbles, hands circling your shoulders. He wants to pull you close like he always does, but you can tell he’s equally as conflicted by the need to push you down onto his cock.

The front zip of his sweater gives with one tug, the clicks of the teeth coming apart following your hand down. He’s wearing a plain white shirt underneath, the beginnings of sweat clinging to the flimsy material. You place your hands around his waist, let the fabric catch over your knuckles as you glide them upwards. The sinewy muscle quivers under your touch, Namjoon’s breath catching in your throat.

When you reach his pecs, he barely contains the whimper in his throat, hands releasing you in favor of clutching at the armrest. “Please,” he huffs, the white zip-up halting you from pushing any further. “Off.”

“Of course,” you purr, pushing it over his deltoids. He doesn’t shake the sweater off completely, the sleeves catching over each other in his haste to feel you closer against his body. The t-shirt remains tugged up to his chest, held up by your wandering hands. “Relax for me, okay?” you croon, leaning forward to nip at his lower lip. The plush skin bounces back, redder than ever. He nods shakily, chest rising and falling.

You place a kiss directly on his sternum, his heart fluttering wildly just a few inches away. You feel it beneath your palm, the way it beats wildly out of rhythm for you. The music loops back around, the same melodious tune mixing with his airy sounds. You trail your mouth lower, letting it mold against the faint ridges over his abdomen.

He’s been putting on muscle these last few months. It’s a sight you only get to appreciate in moments like these. Namjoon wasn’t a flashy performer; he was too shy to wear revealing outfits, not that they particularly fit his onstage aesthetic anyway. He liked it simple and dark, wanting his words to capture people more than his looks.

It was a humble approach, really, because you don’t doubt for a second someone with looks of his caliber couldn’t pull fans with that alone. But as you said before, Namjoon didn’t like that sort of thing, and you suppose that’s why he’s declined invitations to join rookie boy groups time and again. He had worked hard to make himself known on his own, frequenting various hip hop scenes until he picked up steam. By the time you’d met him, he had his own contract, with this same company you’re currently in.

Now he was freshly twenty-six, on the cusp of releasing his first full mixtape, completely of his own creativity. His first mini-album had done extraordinarily well, but there had been a lot of outside partners and producers that pushed it along. This mixtape was one hundred percent him, a fact you couldn’t be more proud of.

What better way to treat him than to shower him in attention like this?

You press a soft kiss to his belly button, glancing up just in time to see those plush lips pull into a smile, pearly white teeth appearing in between, eyes fluttered shut. The waistband of his matching bottoms stretches easily enough, giving you a brief view of the dark underwear he’s got underneath. You let it snap back into place, relishing in the tiny gasp he gives. “You’re acting extra sweet for me today, aren’t you?” you smirk, running a palm over the bulge beneath his pants. His knuckles tighten dangerously against his armrests.

“I’m the same,” he chokes out, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you give his outline a teasing squeeze. “Just… lower please.”

His statement is followed with one hand on the back of your head, tentatively urging you closer to his stiff member just an inch. He’s so polite and shy tonight, cheeks tinted a nice rosy color as he looks away from your lewd expression practically salivating over the prize hidden beneath his clothes. His bottoms come down around his thighs, throbbing cock bouncing up to tap his stomach.

“Oooh,” you say appreciatively, taking him in your hand. Namjoon flinches, a groan catching in his throat as you trail your fingers over his cock. They end at the tip, swollen and red; you can’t help yourself as you duck down, kissing the tip softly. Namjoon full on shivers, hips bucking against your touch.

“Please, just... touch,” he begs, wiggling around underneath you.

You nod, pulling away to plant your hands against his hips. “Have to sit still for me, big boy,” you remind him, pushing down until his bottom glues itself firmly to the leather padding of his chair again. He does so with a huff. Clouded eyes meet yours, so beautifully framed by the blood that rushes to his face.

Despite calming him just moments before, the first kiss against his tip makes him squirm and buck like a wild stallion, your name falling from his lips like a mantra. Eventually he calms down, labored breath fanning across his chest as he watches you lower your mouth down around his cock. It twitches in your hand, one perfect pearl of cum oozing from the tip. It’s barely rolled down past his head when you strike, the tip of your tongue scooping it up quickly.

A little on the salty side, but it still makes you shudder. Above you, Namjoon isn't faring that well either. He groans, hands clenched over the armrest as he tries his best to be good for you. “More,” he says hoarsely, silver hair dangling over his eyes. It creates a curtain between you two, his beautiful expression hidden from your view.

You ease his cock down your mouth. It feels just as good as you remembered. Your knees ache from being on the ground, but you wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world right now. An inaudible moan resonates from above you, his back going stiff the further down you swallow him. You could practically feel yourself drooling, excess saliva making his entrance into your mouth so much easier. You get about two thirds down before it becomes difficult, lips pulled taut around his swollen member. The tip is reaching dangerous territory now, nudging against the soft spot in the back of your throat.

You could gag, but that would only startle him away, make him worry about you. You don’t want that, not when he’s melting into his seat with every inch you swallow. So you push the discomfort away, focus on feeling the entirety of his cock in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he whines, shaking his silvery locks away from his eyes when he leans forward to look at you. You take extra care to bat your lashes up at him; he obviously likes the sight, his lower lip catching between his teeth for the umpteenth time that night.

When you finally surpass that initial discomfort, his cock wonderfully resting in your mouth and throat, everything becomes so much better. The drag against your lips feels almost heavenly, never mind the fact it would certainly leave the skin around there soft and tender tomorrow. It’s something you’re willing to overlook, running the flat length of your tongue against the underside of his cock to distract him.

You make one hand busy, reaching down to cup his balls. The skin is soft, but tight, like it’s taking everything in him not to bust right now. The other situates itself loosely against his hip, thumb drawing slow circles against the skin. He’s grown hotter since you’ve gotten here, like your own personal furnace.

He’s a good boy, through and through.

It had admittedly taken a while to tame his wildness; there had been a time where he would push your head down his cock the second your lips touched his mouth. Now, he fared pretty well against his own carnal instincts, blunt nails digging into the armrests in order to stop himself. Thanks to this, you’re able to pick up a comfortable pace against his cock, bobbing up and down between his thighs.

“M-More,” he pants, muscles trembling from the exertion it takes for him to hold himself back. “Please,” he throws in.

You appease him, letting go of his balls to grip the base of his cock. He hisses at the touch, hips unconsciously jumping. You hold him tight, squeezing his cock between your palm until his thighs are quivering too. The descent down his cock is easier too, no longer trying to swallow him up whole every time.

It only calms him for so long before that same plea is falling from his lips again. This time, you pull off completely, lazily jerking him off as you rest an elbow on his thigh, chin falling into your open palm as you analyze his figure. “Always need more,” you sigh, the slippery sound of your hand mingling with his little moans.

Namjoon’s jaw tightens, head falling forward until his chin touches his chest. “Would like to fuck now,” he seethes, his t-shirt growing damp at the collar from all the sweating he’s been doing.

“Is that so?” You smile. As you say this, you loosen your grip, letting your hand fall away much to his dismay. “Your clothes, Joon,” you explain, using his thighs as leverage to push yourself to your feet again. There’s creases on the skin over your knees, skin and joints tender from the position. That gets pushed to the back burner as you watch Namjoon finally fight his way out of his clothing, hands stuck in the sleeves of his zip-up.

“Off, off,” he huffs, eventually tugging it off all inside out. The shirt is next, neck hole stretched huge as he peels it away from his body.

You muffle a giggle behind your palm, placing a hand on his bare shoulder when he’s done. He’s looking at you with those same, desperate eyes, stealing your heart without even realizing. “Adorable,” you tease only to watch the blood crawl over his ears and down his neck. You throw a leg over him, his thigh pressing against yours. Before you can mount him you’re tugging off the thin jacket you’d worn that day, pawing it off until only the thin barrier of your dress is between the two of you.

With both knees pressed to either side of him, you finally show him what he wants to see. The sundress you’d worn that day makes everything so accessible. The flimsy material stretches over your ass, sits pretty around your waist to reveal your sheer panties. The sight makes Namjoon groan, eyes downcast as he fights to see your pussy. You return his gaze with a hand against his jaw. “Look at me, sweetheart,” you murmur, looping your hands around his head, finding their place on the nape of his neck first. Your fingers instinctively run through his locks, drawing an airy gasp from him.

“Yes,” he breathes, lower lip brushing against yours from such close proximity. You smile down at him, easing your core down on him. His cock pressed against your clothed panties, leaving a wet trail against the exterior side of them.

He fits snugly between your folds, hesitant hands resting at your hips like he wants to grind you down but knows better than to attempt such a bold move. You reward his behavior with a faint kiss against his cheek. “Good boy, Joonie,” you praise, barely containing your own gasp as you wiggle over his cock. “Being so nice for me today,” you sigh, grinding down against him.

Namjoon shivers, cock throbbing against your soiled panties. “Always good for you,” he groans, a trail of sweat running down from his hairline.

Another kiss is pressed against his face, this time against his cheekbone as you begin grinding back and forth. “That’s right,” you confirm, hugging him tight to your chest, until his face is practically buried between your breasts. “Even on your birthday,” you sigh, stretching a hand behind you to tug your panties to the side. The first glide of his cock against your folds has him bucking against you, a choked gasp escaping both your lips.

“I-Yes,” he cries, hands wrapped tight around you.

You bite down a whimper, his length running over every inch of your folds. It makes your toes curl when he stimulates your clit. Your attention had been solely on making him feel good tonight, that the barest amounts of pleasure to your own body was enough to make you shake. “Tell me,” you pant, moving back to grab him by the shoulders as you run against his length. “What you would do if you weren’t my good boy.”

Namjoon cries at your sudden pace, head lolling back as he fights every instinct in his body telling him to just fuck right into your inviting heat. “Can’t,” he sobs, eyes squeezed shut.

“Joon,” you growl, snapping your hips forward roughly. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head with another whimper, thigh muscles jolting beneath you. It makes you shift forward, clit running hard along his cock. “No, you’ll—“ he wheezes, fingers digging deep into your sides now. “You’ll… think I’m bad. Dirty.”

You lean forward, shove your tongue into his mouth with no warning. He moans, letting you push his tongue around until yours is halfway down his throat, licking and slurping every inch of him you can reach. You yank his head back by the hair, catching those watery eyes. “Tell me all your dirty thoughts,” you croon, lips trailing down his jaw. “Tell me them and maybe we’ll make them come true.”

Namjoon moans. “You,” he hesitates. While he does that, you reach down to align his cock with your hole, throbbing to be filled. His tip brushes along the tightened lips surrounding your entrance, reducing him to a stuttering mess. “You tell me I’m dirty,” he cries, “dirty and messy, and-and you make me beg for forgiveness just to cum, s-sometimes you don’t like it and make me d-do it again,” he babbles. “I-if you’re feeling mean y-you just edge me. Until I cry.”

You sink down on his cock, your shared arousal making the glide slippery and so wet. It’s almost too easy how he fits inside of you, your back arching as the head of his cock runs deliciously against your walls. The sensation of your cunt wrapped tightly around his cock has him gasping for air.

“Until you cry?” You repeat through clenched teeth. “Like you are now?”

Namjoon trembles, hips and thighs twitching every few minutes. He nods his head, but he’s become overwhelmed by his thoughts and your touches, so the movement ends up looking more dazed. There’s a couple tears that escaped and painted pretty trails down his cheeks, one catching on the corner of that pout of his. The rest pool in the corner of his eyes, glassy just like his sweat-soaked skin.

“Happy birthday,” you mumble, brushing his hair away from his face to press a kiss against his forehead. Namjoon groans. “Fuck me, baby,” you purr, wrapping your hands around his neck again. “You deserve it.”

Namjoon lets out a loud cry at your permission, hands tightening around your hips. He wastes no time, bucking into you like a wild animal that’s desperate to cum. You don’t blame him; he’d been close to cumming down your throat, and recounting his demeaning fantasies while stuffed deep inside you certainly didn’t help.

You let him jostle you to and fro, dick slipping in and out of your pussy with an unreal amount of force. He was grunting all kinds of sounds against your shoulder, biting down on the skin like it would calm him. It doesn’t, and you already know there will be a big bruise to attend to tomorrow.

With every thrust, the head of his cock rubs against that sensitive spot in your pussy, back arching at the angle he pushes in at. It makes every hair on your body stand, the animalistic sounds he’s releasing reaching deep into your core.

It’s a brief reminder of what this man was truly capable of, buff arms and thick thighs lifting you around like you’re nothing. He could so easily take you over in the bedroom, push you down and ram himself inside until you cried. But it’s the other way around, and he likes it that way.

Well, you liked it that way too, especially if it meant having this big strong man so pliant under your touch.

“Fuck,” you moan, holding the back of his head closer to where he’s seemingly set on bruising your entire shoulder. “Just like that.”

Your walls clench around his length, squeezing him so tight that it becomes difficult for him to move. A wail catches in his throat, his body beginning to burn out from the initial burst of energy he’d received when you gave him the go ahead. “I-I,” he pants, weakly and unevenly bucking into you. You know he’s close from the cute wavering of his speech, his usual eloquent speaking style reduced to a stuttering mess. You take pity on him, gearing your muscles up again to see him to completion.

It doesn’t take long. A few slow rolls of your hips later and he’s spasming beneath you, your name rolling off his tongue in a series of soft whimpers. He continues groaning even afterwards, hands falling limply to his sides as you finish yourself off.

The thing about this big strong body was that it burned out extremely fast, his head rolling back to give you a clear view of his fucked out features. He was tired, absolutely drained from your little moment, and such was exhibited on his lax frame. Your orgasm rolls around right after, stomach clenching. Despite the shock of pleasure that swallows you up, you can’t help the endeared smile that takes over your features at the sight beneath you as you cum.

“So proud of you,” you murmur afterwards, cupping his face in your hands to deliver a brigade of kisses against his skin. He groans in faux annoyance, letting you turn him this way and that as you shower him in affection. “My baby did so well today.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs, though the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “What’s there to eat?”

You snort, pushing yourself off of him. You wiggle your panties and dress back into place, tossing him his discarded shirt as you make toward the noodles. They’ve probably gone cold by now, neglected in favor of fucking like two bunnies in heat. Still, you give them a poke. Just as you’d predicted, they’re way too cold to be edible, a fact which greatly saddens Namjoon.

You weren’t having any of that, especially not on his birthday (it was 12:49 now, but technically, it’s still his birthday until he goes to sleep), which is why you make him pack everything up right away. “I’ll heat them up at my place,” you assure him, patting his bum as he whines at the sudden relocation. He’s tugging his zip-up on, the collar tugged all the way up for him to hide the lower half of his face behind.

It doesn’t stop you from pressing a kiss over where you know his mouth is.

“Come on,” you grin, waiting for him to lock up his studio. He falls into step beside you, grudgingly throwing a hand around your shoulders. You beam up at him, leaning onto your toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll make you cry at my place,” you promise, relishing in the dark flush that floods the apples of his cheeks.

Copyright © July 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

#ksmutclub #networkbangtan #kim namjoon smut #namjoon smut #namjoon fic #rm smut #bts smut #kim namjoon fic #mine

[tcm]

Noel Coward: Renaissance Man of Stage and Screen By Susan King

Noel Coward was known simply in England as “The Master.” And for good reason. Coward (1899-1973) was a true Renaissance man. He was an actor, playwright, composer, songwriter, producer and director. (Lin-Manuel Miranda is our contemporary version of Coward.) He even headlined the Desert Inn in Las Vegas in 1955. He knew he was a genius. Coward once described himself as an “enormously talented man, and there’s no use pretending that I’m not.”

He wrote such classic plays as Private Lives, Design for Living, Blithe Spirit, Cavalcade, The Vortex and Present Laughter. And, he took the stiff-upper lip of his characters. His comedies were filled with extravagant characters firing off delicious bon mots. His dialogue was spare and contemporary. Kenneth Tynan once said, “Coward was the Turkish bath in which English comedy slimmed.”

Needless to say, acting styles changed with Coward and he ushered in a new style of theater. Performers were no longer trapped in the 19th-century style of more declamatory acting. As a composer, the flamboyant Coward wrote such beloved songs as “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” and “I’ll See You Again.” Hollywood soon took notice of Coward the playwright. One of Coward’s biggest West End hits was 1931’s Cavalcade, a sweeping dramatic epic spanning 30 years in an upper-class family. The cast featured a staggering 200 actors, 22 sets including revolving stages and hydraulic platforms. Brad Rosenstein of the Museum of Performance & Design in San Francisco told the L.A Times in 2010 about the stage production: “In the earlier sections, it’s very realistic, almost like a movie, but as the story moves further and further into the 20th century, it becomes more and more surreal.”

Fox bought the film rights, shooting the stage production to use as a blueprint for its lavish 1933 film production starring Diana Wyngard and Clive Brook. “Designer William Cameron Menzies translated his stage montages into movie terms and that became the language of movie montages for the next 30 years,” said Rosenstein. CAVALCADE earned three Oscars including best film and director for Frank Lloyd. But truth be told, the film just hasn’t held up as well as other best film Oscar winners from that era. It’s handsome and well-acted but is a bit of a slog that screams prestige.

MGM’s “Boy Wonder” producer Irving Thalberg, who happened to be married to the studio’s top star Norma Shearer, bought the film rights to Private Lives for his wife. Rounding out the film adaptation’s cast was Robert Montgomery, Reginald Denny and Una Merkel. The farce, released in 1931, whirls around Amanda (Shearer) and Elyot (Montgomery), divorcees who reunite on their honeymoon with their new spouses and run off together.

Coward initially wasn’t thrilled that Shearer, who was best known for her heavily dramatic roles, was cast as Amanda. He didn’t think she was up to the comedic task. Shearer was unruffled: “I don’t care what he thinks.” Reviews were strong and so was the audience response. But truth be told, in the #MeToo climate, it’s hard to watch a film in which the leads scream, yell and throw things at each other and state that certain women should be struck regularly like gongs. Eleven years later, Shearer returned to Coward’s world in WE WERE DANCING (‘42) based on two short plays from the Master’s 1936 play Tonight at 8:30 She hadn’t made a film since 1940, so there was hope this comedy would revive her career. It didn’t.

Movie audiences finally got to see Coward the actor on screen in 1935. Not in a film based on one of his plays but an extraordinary morality piece, THE SCOUNDREL penned and directed by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur. Coward is remarkable as the title character, a New York publisher surrounded by sycophants and ruthless and callous in his treatment of people especially a lovely young poet (Julie Haydon). Coward’s Anthony Mallare destroys everything he touches including the poet and her lover (Stanley Ridges). When she learns that Mallare is taking a flight, she tells him that not only does she hope the plane crashes, she desires that as he dies, he knows no one will shed a tear for him. And when the plane crashes, he returns to the earthly world for a month to find someone who will mourn for him.

Mordaunt Hall wrote in his New York Times review: “As a suavely mannered portrait of decadence, The Scoundrel is a remarkably interesting motion picture. Mr. Coward is so perfectly attuned to the part we cannot help suspecting that he contributed to the dialogue. He is a master at delivering the barbed epithet. You have to hear him reciting a line like ‘It reeks with morality-stressing the r’s so as to make it exquisitely funny-to know how good he can be.”

Hecht and MacArthur won an Oscar for their story. Coward won his own special Oscar in 1943 for his stirring World War II drama IN WHICH WE SERVE (‘42) for “outstanding production achievement.” IN WHICH WE SERVE is far more than a propaganda piece to keep British morale up and the home fires burning. The film was inspired by Coward’s friend Lord Louis Mountbatten, who in 1941, lost his ship when it was sunk in the Battle of Crete. Coward stars, produced, penned the music and co-directed with a former editor by the name of David Lean. The story is generally told in flashback about the survivors of a Royal Navy ship that had been destroyed by German torpedoes. While recalling moments in their lives, they hang on to a small lifeboat waiting to be rescued.

Besides Coward, the film also stars Celia Johnson, John Mills and Richard Attenborough, who though uncredited in his film debut, is a stand-out as a sailor. A young Daniel Massey, who was the child of Raymond Massey, plays Coward’s son. Daniel was also Coward’s godson, and 26 years after the release of IN WHICH WE SERVE, he earned a supporting actor Oscar nomination as Coward in the Gertrude Lawrence bio-pic STAR! (‘68). IN WHICH WE SERVE was also nominated for the best film and screenplay Oscars. 

Coward and Lean next collaborated in 1944 with the moving THIS HAPPY BREED, another sweeping epic. Based on Coward’s hit play of the same name, THIS HAPPY BREED revolves around a middle-class family who move into a rented house in 1919 and it follows their lives until the declaration of World War II in 1939. Lean directed this classic solo and he gets fabulous performances from the cast which includes Celia Johnson, Robert Newton, Stanley Holloway and John Mills. Ronald Neame provided the stunning Technicolor cinematography. It’s funny, moving and poignant and you’ll find yourself shedding a few tears along the way. 

The year 1945 was a prolific one for producer Coward and director Lean. The duo went the Technicolor route with gorgeous results for the hit film version of Coward’s popular comedy-fantasy BLITHE SPIRIT. Rex Harrison portrays a writer who finds his world is turned upside-down when an eccentric medium (a perfect Margaret Rutherford) accidentally conjures up his dead first wife (Kay Hammond) who is jealous of his current spouse (Constance Cummings). The film lacks the spark of the stage play, but it’s still fun and the then cutting-edge special effects won the Oscar. 

And what can one say about BRIEF ENCOUNTER (‘45)? One of the most romantic films of all time and stars the delicate Johnson and the handsome Trevor Howard as married people who meet at a small railway station café and fall in love. Everything comes together perfectly in this masterpiece that was released in the U.S. in 1946. Based on Coward’s play Still Life, BRIEF ENCOUNTER is beautifully directed by Lean who really came into his own with this film. The performances of Johnson and Howard are pitch perfect and poignant; Robert Krasker supplied the atmospheric black-and-white cinematography and the use of Rachminoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 just adds to the romance. 

Lean won the grand prize for his direction at the Cannes Film Festival in 1946 and earned his first Oscar nomination for Best Director in addition to sharing a screenplay nomination with Anthony Havelock-Allan and Neame. Johnson was nominated for best actress which she lost to Olivia de Havilland for TO EACH HIS OWN (’46), but Johnson did win the New York Film Critics honor.

#Noel Coward #Blithe Spirit #Brief Encounter #Private Lives #Norma Shearer #playwright #David Lean #Susan King

[occasionalrpmemes]

Will Wood: the Normal Album Sentence Starters

lines taken from the 2020 album.  edit as desired.  tw: violence, disordered eating, gender dysphoria, mental illness, substance abuse, suicidal ideation, death

01.  Suburbia Overture: Greetings from Mary Bell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally

“Trick or treat.  Merry Christmas.”

“Howdy neighbor!”

“Thank you Jesus!”

“It don’t look like survival, but buy now or die.”

“You’re not alone.”

“The lights are on, but no one’s home.”

“Takes a village to fake a whole culture.”

“Home is where the heart is- You ain’t homeless, but you’re heartless.”

“It’s the safest on the market.”

“You still gotta watch where you park it.”

“Give me your half-life crisis.”

“I can tell that you know where paradise is.”

“Parasites don’t care what your blood type is.”

“A snowflake only matters in a blizzard.”

“Everyone knows that nobody knows that.”

“Well, word gets around on hit number stations.”

“Smile and wave, boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.”

“It’s only culture.  It’s only culture.  It’s only culture.”

“Didn’t they want your blood?”

“Why apologize when you turn blue and cold?

“Hey, fuck your culture.”

“Do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash-and-burn?”

“Hey, you’re only mortal.”

02.  2econd 2ight 2eer (well, that was fun, goodbye)

“The devil made me do it, but I also kinda wanted to.”

“Forget bored stiff, I got rigor mortis.”

“My third eye’s open and I like what I see.”

“If you knew what I knew, if you saw what I see- ”

“But I got facts and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.”

“I’m getting better one forever at a time.”

“If sick is defined by what’s different, well then pull the plug out and let me die.”

”Who I am, I choose through all the things I do.”

“If it rhymes, it’s true, but I hate poetry.”

“Well that was fun, goodbye.”

03.  Laplace’s Angel (Hurt People?  Hurt People!)

“Have you ever died in a nightmare?  Woke up surprised you hadn’t earned your fate?”

“Have you ever felt like Atlas, threw your back out on the axis, and collapsed and threw the planet away?”

“Nobody dies agnostic.”

“Nobody dies agnostic, but we still dial 9-1-1.”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Whatever you think of me, if you were in my shoes, you’d walk the same damn miles I do.”

“With my head up in the clouds, I can see so much ground.”

“From up here, you look like ants in a row.”

“It doesn’t take a killer to murder.  It only takes the reason to kill.”

“The difference twixt fate and free will is whether you’re singing.”

“You wash your hands of where you’ve been until you flood the second floor.  Neatly fold your skeletons, but still can’t shut the closet door.”

“The only ones in need of love are those who don’t receive enough.”

“You could break an angel’s fall, and ignore the Devil’s call.”

“It’s a small hell after all.”

“Man, no more than animal, is made of moral chemicals.”

“If you were in my shoes, you’d see I wear the same size as you.”

04.  I / Me / Myself

“I’ve been feeling lightheaded since I lost enough weight to fit back in my skin.”

“Am I pretty now?”

“For some reason, I find myself lost in what you think of me.”

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend.”

“Am I pretty enough to lie to?”

“Just little old me in a big, big world.”

“I’ve been feeling lighthearted since I gained enough weight back to cover my bones.”

“You’ll be walking out early, but the show must go on.”

“No, I know that I’m wrong.  But I love how you’re on my side when I cross that line.”

“It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in.”

“The privilege of being born to be a man.”

”I am quantum physics; my witness brings me into existence.”

”Am I pretty enough to love back?”

“Am I pretty enough to fucking die?”

“I wish-”

“Don’t you think that there’s a chance that you could live without it?”

05.  ...well, better than the alternative

“My daughter’s growing up.  She’s gonna be a lot like me, but I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“You’re telling me I’m holding up eleven fingers.”

“Stranger things than death can happen.”

“Everybody knows that nobody knows that.”

“Everybody’s in on everybody’s business.”

“This isn’t my first Christmas, I know mistletoe when I see it.”

“Baby, could you play along with me?”

“Baby, would that be alright with you?”

“When we find out what’s wrong with me, could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me if I’m still pretty?”

“If they could see the future back when times were simple...”

“If everyone’s sick, well then, nobody can catch it.”

“Everybody’s all up in my god damn business.”

“This isn’t my first kiss.”

“It’s better to be lost than loved, now, isn’t it?”

“Everybody’s all up in my motherfucking business!”

“This isn’t my first anything.”

“After all of that’s been done to me, could you tell me how, could you tell me how, could you tell me—”

“What’s so wrong about what’s wrong with me?”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right by you!”

06.  Outliars and Hyppocrates: a fun fact about apples

“Did you know that the hole in the apple didn’t come from the outside in?  It was eaten from the core and out to the skin, and that’s why you’ll never find the worm in it.”

“The disease is defined by its treatment.”

“You people make me sick.”

“Who’d want to be human anyway?”

“Why’d you come into this world or come out that way?”

“Isn’t it funny?  Well, not "ha-ha" funny, but y’know, funny.”

“I doubt that you would even if you could change.”

“You think it makes you special, but it makes you strange.”

“The things that make you special are the things that make you strange.”

“I am the shadows cast aside by gallows, and you the red-hot sky.”

“And if you’re believers, then why would you grieve for the dead, instead of a devil that you never prayed for?”

“Too weird to love, too scared to die.  Too alien to take you home.”

“Who’d want to belong to anyone?”

“I mean, what do people even do?”

“If you love me, let me let you go.”

“Five more minutes, please?  You wouldn’t believe the dream I just had.”

07.  Black Box Warrior - OKULTRA

“Bless the torpedoes!”

“For what?  For what??”

“For what it’s worth, if it was going to kill you, boy, it would have by now.”

“There’s no more looking back, it’s looking up or looking down.”

“Wonder if Christ-Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee.”

“Auf wiedersehn!  Au revoir!”

“Hello, welcome.  Why don’t you take a seat?  Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to.”

“Now, what’s bothering you?”

“Well, why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?”

“Did you die before your day?”

“You got a better idea?  It’s about the best we could come up with.”

“What, you think ideas spread because they’re good?  No, they spread because people like them.”

“So here we are once again.  Holding, as it were, a mirror up to your mirror.”

“I guess it’s just something people do!”

“You learn to be an animal instead.”

“I never did think you better than this.”

“It’s you who are the problem.  Not the things you do, but something sick inside.”

“Boy, you really is defective.”

“Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects.”

“You’ve lost your mind and almost lost your life before, so you’ll be fine!”

“Why would you want to look back?  I mean, it’s no good looking back. So try to look forward now.”

“For what it’s worth, if they were gonna get you boy, they would have by now.”

08.  Marsha, Thankk You for the Dialectics, but I Need You to Leave.

“They could prescribe you any illness you’d like if you define the terms of your ailments.”

“A crow don’t know the smell of carbon monoxide.”

“How many years have you been on that couch?”

“Your draw a line in the sand where it ends and you begin, but the tide rolls in, so who knows?”

“A little identity never hurt nobody, but lately you’ve been focusing too much on yourself.”

“How many milligrams of you are still left in there?”

“Back in my day, we didn’t need no feel-good pills and no psychiatrists.  We just drank ourselves to death.  And god damn it, we liked it!”

“What’s a symptom, what’s a flaw, can it be both?”

“Well, I suppose that’s an answer.”

“Would you give up your humanity for just a touch of sanity?”

“They’ve discovered a cure for the symptoms of being alive.  It’s a painless procedure with a low rate of failure, but very few patients survive.”

“And a little conformity never hurt nobody, but lately I’ve been worried that you’re losing yourself.”

“What’s my prognosis?”

“Disease is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Tell me ‘so it goes.’”

“Better safe than sorry, and we both know the danger.”

“So doctor, could you run another test?”

“If our harmonies don’t sync, we can change our voices.”

“Don’t heed no evil wills of moral nihilists.”

“Don’t you make me waste my breath.”

“GOD DAMN IT!”

“Does aspirin kill you with the pain?“

“You’re not your thoughts, you’re not your brain, you’re just the character you’ve made.”

“What seem like separate body parts come together to believe they’re you, and not just chemistry.”

“It’s not the way that you were raised, or what the advertisements say.”

“It’s not what you pay for, what you pray for, what you want, or what you say.”

“Something tells me that you need, forgive me now if I misspeak--”

“Something tells me you prefer to be sitting there flipping through those old issues of People.”

“Well, that’s our time.  See you next week.”

09.  Love, Me Normally

“In lipstick on the mirror are the lyrics to my obituary.”

“Crossing my eyes, dot my T’s.”

“I was delivered holding scissors.”

“I live deliberately, I’m a quitter.”

“I never agreed to participate in this game.”

“Won’t follow my dreams, cause they all got me waking up screaming.”

“I’d rather be normal.  Yes, so normal.”

“I suggest that we keep this informal.”

“A normal human being wouldn’t need to pretend to be normal.”

“Well, I guess that’s the least that I owe ya.”

“C’mon, c’mon, and love me normally.”

“If I could live in third person, well, I don’t think life would be much worse than it is.”

“Is it courageous or escapist to leave the quarantine when you’re contagious?”

“It may just be a cold.  And besides, I don’t wanna get old.”

“I drank myself to death to be the afterlife of the party.”

“When the afterparty came, I was rolling in my grave.”

“Now, this is the part of the song where I talk to my audience.”

“There’s something I want from you hepcats tonight.”

“I want you to look to your left.  Look to your right.  Your twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock, rock around the clock tonight–”

“I want you to find those points of no return, those singularities, those burning rings of fire in the beautiful pupils and the beautiful eyes of the beautiful boy, girl, neither, both, or in-between that you brought with you tonight.  And I want you to tell ’em how you really feel!”

“Jam that square peg in the round hole in their hearts!”

“You love them exactly the way that everybody else is.”

“I was nothing before, so I couldn’t have asked to be born.  I’ll be nothing again, so what am I between now and then?”

“Is there nothing to fear?  Cause shit’s getting weird.”

“So to God who made this man: you better have one hell of a plan.”

10.  Memento Mori: the most important thing

“If you’re lucky you’ll be surrounded by the ones that you love, when the lights in your eyes fade and life flashes by.

“One day you’re going to die.”

“Heaven, hell, nirvana, nothing, no one knows how it ends.”

“Rest in peace— or pieces.”

“Read your horoscopes, your palms and tarot cards.  But either way your destination ain’t very far.”

“You could drown, or choke, or burn, or be hit by a car.”

“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but something will eventually.”

“One day you’ll look back at the life that you lead.  No more future left to fear that you’ll have the past to regret.”

“But your worries will be over if you truly realize— one day you’re going to die!”

“Take it away, hands!”

“In the fabric of time and in the vastness of space, a billion amounts to nothing in infinity’s face.”

“Your life never mattered, so who cares if it's a waste?”

“Well, one day you’ll be not even a faint memory.”

“You’ll never know what it all means.”

“Just keep this in mind: that everything and everyone goes with the passage of time.”

“No need to fear, ’cause when it’s here, you won’t be alive.”

“Try not to think about it!”

“So if you only have one chance, you oughta try your best to live as you like.”

#rp memes #sentence starters #dialogue prompt #writing prompt #wwattw

[chilling-seavey]

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - Malta & the Mediterranean 

Mum,

Malta is much warmer than England, especially this time of year, but the air combat is even worse than that of the Battle of Britain. The Luftwaffe aren’t giving us an easy fight. It had been a calm few months but we’re losing men by the hundreds out here, all trying to protect the commonwealth in North Africa, and so Richie and I (and the rest of the Spitfire squadrons) have been stationed out here on this tiny island. Who knew such a small, beautiful place could be home to so much destruction? The Germans bomb the island often, so they have kept us living on one of the aircraft carriers in the Mediterranean. The water is so blue, Mum. It’s almost serine. You would love it here.

It’s almost calm on the sea when there’s quiet but there’s not quiet for long. Being positioned so close to the front lines and right on the border of Italy is frightening and Richie and I say our prayers every morning and every night. Can’t be too safe. One torpedo to this massive ship and we’d be gone in less than an hour. I think about you and Evy and Dad every waking minute. My heart aches for you but at the same time, you’re almost the only thing keeping me alive.

I love you.

Your son,

Charlie

June 1, 1942

“Dawn? Flying off at dawn!? Bloody hell. Can’t even let us have a good lunch? Were barely out of bed for God’s sakes!”

Charlie only laughed at his best friend’s slight panic in his voice as they navigated their way through the thin corridors of the aircraft carrier and up towards the main deck. Richard struggled to button up his uniform, grumbling more under his breath and nearly tripping over his own feet in his distraction. Charlie stopped and turned, making his best friend crash right into him but he smacked his hands away and buttoned up his uniform for him.

“Thanks.” Richard sighed lightly.

“We’re just going to check out the island today.” Charlie said as they continued towards the deck, more to assure the both of them rather than just his obviously frazzled friend.

“Gosh, Charlie, I’m so hungry.” Richard grumbled as they emerged out onto the large flatbed deck that was lined with Spitfires and bustling with crew and pilots and officers alike.

“It’s just your nervous stomach, Rich.” Charlie answered, pausing to thank one of the crew as they were handed their parachutes and helmets and made their way towards their usual plane. “You’re usually not this nervous to take off, what’s wrong with you?”

“I dunno. I feel weird. Maybe it’s because we’re on a ship and not land.”

“Sea legs or air legs, what’s the difference?” Charlie teased.  

“About eleven-thousand-metres off a ninety-five-meter piece of deck.” Richard grumbled as they approached the plane.

The boys pulled their packs on and then their helmets before climbing up onto the wing and getting settled in the cockpit with the assistance of a few crew to make sure everything was settled and working well. The officers were walking the length of the deck and shouting orders and reminders to the pilots as they got ready to take off.

“We are surrounded by the enemy, gentlemen! That means absolutely no speaking while in the air in case they intercept our radio…you do not want to give away the location of yourself or your fellow fighters.”

Richard strapped his helmet on under his chin and pulled his goggles over his eyes with Charlie doing the same in the seat in front of him. The crew helped Charlie set the propellor going and the engine sputtered loudly to life, smoke billowing from the front as it got warmed up.

“Straight flight to Malta and should be an easy landing at Luqa. You’ll be stationed there for a few weeks now, fighting out of the land base.”

“How are we supposed to take off from this ship?” Richard whispered sharply to Charlie.

“With a hell ton of praying.” Charlie answered as the crew shut the cockpit, trapping them inside the glass.

“Oh God, oh dear God, we’re gonna drown.” Richard whimpered. “Charlie! Where’s the eject button again? Oh, forget it, the water pressure will trap us in here anyway and we’ll suffocate and – oh my God, how do they expect us to take off?! Huh?! There is barely twenty metres of runway and then nothing but water-”

“Holy shit, Richard Zachary Besson, get a grip.” Charlie snapped, carefully taxing the plane after the row of others to prepare for takeoff. “We just accelerate faster. Quite faster.”

Richard bit his bottom lip nervously, two hands on the joystick in front of him until his knuckles were turning white in his gloves, and his eyes flicked to the small photograph taped to the side of his dashboard. A photograph of the painting hanging in his bedroom, the perfectly painted planet of Saturn being an immediate reminder of his father and he tried to let the familiarity calm him.

Charlie flicked a few switches above him as they were next in line, “Ready, Richie?”

“I suppose so, Charlie.”

The boys each pushed the plane forward, the deck below them streaking past faster and faster and faster and Richard had to force himself not to close his eyes as they approached the edge of the carrier and they pulled up together. The plane dipped down slightly as a natural reaction to the ship suddenly disappearing out from below them but right away, they were propelling right into the morning sky.

They both let out a relieved exhale as they were back in the comfortable space of the open air. The men followed one of the officers flying at the head of the pack towards the island, the Spitfires flying in a steady row in perfect silence. It was calm and nearly peaceful, with the blue Mediterranean waving gently only a few dozen metres below them and the perfectly white clouds blocking the glare from the rising sun above them. The couldn’t talk but the boys sat together in their plane on their straight course to Malta, on high alert for any incoming enemy. But they made a safe flight and started their decent as the island emerged through the clouds in the distance.

The rocky coast of Malta claimed their attention as they searched for the RAF Air Base over the side of the cliffs, carefully navigating their plane over the edge. The runway came into sight and a few of the planes in front of them started landing. Charlie prepped for landing themselves.

“Uh, Charlie-”

Richard’s sudden volume took him by a momentary surprise, but Charlie didn’t even have a chance to ask what he was calling him about before the runway exploded with the impact of a bomb. A huge cloud of dust and soil spewed up into the sky in a haze, quickly followed by a second, then a third, and both boys looked up to see the sky swarming with at least seventy-five German Luftwaffe above them like insects.

“Oh shit!” Charles gaped, pulling them out of their predictable straight-line course and back up over the cliffs to avoid being an easy target. A few of their fellow RAF planes were bombed down, crashing into the ocean or to the island in flames and the island was mercilessly bombed for yet another uncountable time.

“How are we supposed to land?” Richard asked loudly over the noise. “We don’t have enough fuel to fly back to the fleet!”

“We took off from a ship, now we’re having to land between bomb craters.” Charlie answered. “Keep an eye out.”

“Bleeding Christ.” Richard swore, glancing back up to the sky and all around them to make sure they weren’t being targeted.

Charlie scanned the surrounding area for a reasonably safe place to land and when he spotted one, he dived them right down towards the rough terrain. Richard literally clutched onto the plane as bombs spewed rubble into the air so terribly close to them, he was sure they were going to be hit, but with a bit of a bumpy landing, Charlie got them on the ground just as the enemy took off into the sky again.

“Good timing, bastards.” Richard grumbled as they carefully taxied the best they could towards the main base.

“Holy shit, I’m sweating.” Charlie panted, turning off the plane as the RAF Maltese ground crew rushed over to check them out, make sure they were alright, and to tend to the plane. A few more Spitfires landed around them as well, each pilot a bit shaken as they all climbed out onto the flat ground and headed into the building for food.

Richard pulled off his helmet and pushed a hand through his hair as he grumbled, “All this before breakfast.”

Taglist: @randomlimelightxxx​ @hopinglimelight​ @jonahlovescoffee​ @hiya-its-amber​ @chanelwonders​

#✉ #daniel seavey #corbyn besson #why dont we #historical fiction

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 7 (Mafia AU)

Summary: Rus is getting to wake up and face a new day. A shame that staying in bed and hiding sounds like a better option.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

~~*~~

Read on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

It felt like he’d hardly slept at all when Blue shook him awake. Rus floundered in the tangled sheets, struggling to sit up as he blinked in confusion at the unfamiliar room. Then everything came back in a rush and Rus very nearly dove back beneath the blankets, the better to hide from his own stupidity. Might have even made it if Blue hadn’t exclaimed in surprise, catching him up in his short, sturdy arms.

“Easy, little brother,” Blue crooned. He petted Rus’s skull, fingers moving in soothing, gentle pats. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“it’s okay,” Rus croaked out and he gave in to the childish urge to lean into his brother’s embrace, taking the comfort he freely offered. “just a little jumpy, i guess.”

Blue held on a few moments longer before easing away, “I should have let you sleep,” he fretted. “after everything that happened, you need your rest, you didn’t even stir when the butler knocked on the door, I should have—”

“bro, i’m fine,” Rus interrupted, “you just startled me.” He proved it by squirming free of the blankets and climbing out of the bed to his feet, and if he was a little wobbly, eh, he caught his balance quickly enough. He was about to escape to the bathroom to shower, a combo guaranteed to put off conversation and let him wake up a little more, when he saw the new addition to their room of a neatly folded stack of clothes on the little coffee table by the sofa. A look at his brother confirmed he was already dressed in a pair of trousers and a fine shirt, the lovely floral pattern shades of blue and yellow to match his starry eye lights.

He looked charmingly handsome and that was not an outfit that had ever been in his brother’s closet.

“that’s a different look for you, bro,” Rus said warily.

“Yes, well.” Blue smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, fingering the pearl buttons. “We’ve been invited to breakfast with our hosts,” Blue said brightly. “That’s the only reason I wanted to wake you up. They’re expecting us in a half an hour, and I wanted to give you time to get ready.”

Time to get ready? An entire half an hour to prepare himself to see Edge after last night’s catastrophe. Something of his dismay must’ve shown on his face and Blue’s overbright cheer faltered, his expression torn. Probably caught between the worry of insulting their ‘hosts’ and Rus’s state of mind.

Yeah, right now his state of mind was up for reelection. A hysterical laugh tried to bubble out of his throat as Rus backed away, feebly disguised as a cough. “no prob, bro, i’ll be fast in the shower.”

He didn’t give Blue a chance to say anything else, like maybe try to send him back to bed with an offer to make excuses for Rus’s absence. Didn’t he have enough to worry about right now without fretting that his little bro was going to embarrass him in front of their new…what? Business partner? Seemed like a good a title as any and Rus snatched up the pile of clothes without even looking at it and darted into the shower, closing and locking the door behind him.

The bathroom gave him a pause, jarring him from his creeping panic. All gleaming fixtures and shining porcelain tiles, with a row of soaps and gels sitting invitingly on the back of the counter. A peek in one of the drawers revealed plenty of other toiletries, including several unopened toothbrushes. The shower cubical was even better, instead of one shower head, the massive stall was lined with several coming from all angles, ready to hose down whoever dared step inside. The walls were beaded with water, probably from Blue using it and Rus stifled a giggle to think of his rather petite brother using it, trying not to get washed away like a paper boat in a hurricane.

Was there anything in this place that wasn’t turned up to eleven?

Rus set down the stack of clothes on the counter and snagged a toothbrush along with the shower gel that smelled the least offensive. The nightshirt he stripped off and tossed into a handy hamper, he’d sleep bare ass tonight if he had to, rather than wear that piece of failure again. He fiddled with the knobs until he figured out how to get to the hot water, then stepped in, letting the liquid bliss pour down on him and guiltily basking in the seemingly endless fall of hot water that their rickety old water heater couldn’t have come close to.

He probably could’ve stayed an hour without the chill chasing him out, but he’d promised his brother to be quick. So he stripped the plastic off the toothbrush, scrubbing at his pearly whites and using the shower as an impromptu water pick, then switching over to the bath poof and shower gel, determinedly scrubbing every nook and cranny, all the way down to his toe joints. It was just a shame that getting clean didn’t take up nearly as much of his thought process as he needed to keep his mind blank and memories of last night crept in, jabbing gleefully at him.

What had he even been thinking? The stress of everything that happened yesterday must’ve torpedoed his common sense, because seriously, trying to seduce Edge in the hopes it would get them, what, a little security and an extra promise to help, on top of what he’d already done? Trust was a hard-earned commodity, Above or Belowground, but if he stirred a little critical thinking into his thought process, there was proof that Edge wasn’t exactly untrustworthy. Not yet, anyway.

The whole shooting up their shop and Rus getting kidnapped off the street was Edge’s fault, sure, he’d admitted that much, but, honestly, Edge could’ve walked away at anytime already. He’d saved Rus at the shop, sure, but he could’ve let his brother get away with his little threat session without trying to intercede, could’ve let his old buddy Blaze keep Rus and not endangered himself at all getting him out of there.

Edge said he wasn’t a good guy and maybe, okay, probably that was true, but that wasn’t exactly the side he’d been showing Rus, not quite. He’d been trying to clean up the mess he’d accidentally made and here was Rus, trying to barter for a little extra on the side. The more he thought about it, the more humiliating it was; he’d actually tried to…to sell himself to Edge, a guy who could obviously get sex anytime he wanted, just because he’d confessed to having a bit of a fantasy going about him, like Rus wasn’t guilty of the same sort of idle daydream.

A very bad person, he’d said, but he’d still sent Rus away rather than taking what he was offering, and maybe the whys of that weren’t completely clear, but that didn’t seem like something a bad guy would do. It just didn’t.

Which meant that Rus was the asshole for this round and what he wouldn’t give for a damn cigarette right about now. Nicotine cravings were already making him jittery, but his smokes were in his lost bag. That reminder gave him a pang; he was going to miss all those anime pins, he’d been collecting them since before they got to the surface. Kidnapping was one thing, stealing his hard-found collectibles was another level of jerk.

Well, no matter what Edge’s reasons were for turning him down, all Rus could hope was that he had the decency not to bring it up in front of Blue.

Rus shut the water off, snagging a large, fluffy towel to wipe off. His bones were barely dry as he stepped out onto the bathmat, careful not to slip. A concussion on top of everything was all he needed.

He hung the damp towel up next to his brother’s and inspected the clothes in the stack. As suspected, they were new, every item of it down to the undershorts and socks. Not his normal choice of wardrobe; when he wasn’t at the shop Rus normally preferred T-shirts and shorts, and there was a plentiful cheap supply at the local thrift shop. He wasn’t really used to anyone else picking out his underwear and he debated on whether to leave them off before sighing and skimming on the soft cotton shorts. At least it wasn’t a red satin thong or something, he wasn’t sure he could stand sitting in the same room with that Red guy with something like that trying to saw his pelvis in half.

The dark trousers fitted perfectly and so did the soft linen pullover, not the wine color of last night’s borrowed pajamas, but a deep sage green that contrasted nicely with his magic. Everything was exactly the right size and as odd as that was, Rus supposed it was still better than them raiding their house and going through their drawers. But he did wonder glumly how much this might add to their growing tab.

There was a full-length mirror on one wall and Rus looked into it, studying his reflection. He didn’t look like himself, which was fine, because he damn well didn’t feel like himself, either. Probably hadn’t since Edge jumped the counter at the shop and pulled him down to the floor.

His half-hour was about up, there was no putting it off any longer. Blue looked up anxiously when he came out and Rus summoned up his best cheesy grin and struck a pose, “ta-da, how do i look?”

“Very nice,” Blue told him, even as he gestured at Rus to lean down so he could fuss over his collar, smoothing it. “try not to spill anything down the front of it in the first five minutes?”

“do my best, food and gravity don’t always mix well around me.”

He followed his brother to the door where a comfortable pair of house shoes in his size were lined up neatly to the side waiting for him. Not, Rus noted, the kind meant to be worn outside. His own sneakers were nowhere to be seen and yeah, he could take a hint. ‘Stay put’ was the word, for now.

A Dog was standing guard outside the door and Rus was shamefully relieved that it wasn’t the same guy as last night. He led them on another winding path and seriously, did the guy who designed this place go on to find fame and fortune making labyrinths for other Goblin Kings?

The door he led them to opened into a surprisingly airy room, with windowed French doors letting in the morning sunshine. Red was already seated at the head of a table and the cigar in his hand was thankfully unlit. His gold tooth glinted as he grinned, “mornin’, hope ya slept well.”

“We did, thank you,” Blue said. Rus only nodded along with him. He still wasn’t very interested in getting chatty with Mister ‘make it a double’ over there. If Edge really was as bad as he claimed to be, Rus could sure see where he picked it up from.

The table was long, topped in covered trays and platters, and the second Blue and Rus were seated, the lids were whisked away by the Dogs. Rus kinda thought he was getting to his limits of surprise, but it seemed like he still had some stashed away for a special occasion.

The amount of food laid out was staggering; surrounding the crystal goblets of water and orange juice were bowls of prettily cut fruit, a platter of sticky pastries alongside crusty croissants. More plates that held richly browned sausages and crispy bacon, and there was an entire tray pancakes and waffles snuggled next to each other with a steaming pitcher of syrup beside them. Pan-grilled tomatoes, poached eggs nestled into their cups, this was more food than they saw in a week. Every dish held something delectable and Rus wasn’t sure his roiling magic would let him eat a single bite.

Looked like the dial on this place actually went all the way up to twelve.

“Goodness,” Blue said, a little helplessly, “it certainly looks delicious.”

There was an air of something like smugness around Red, as if their obvious surprise pleased him, “eh, wasn’t sure what you liked, so i had ‘em bring in a lil’ of everythin’.”

A little of everything was one way to put it. Normally, a good breakfast in Rus’s opinion was when Blue splurged on the oatmeal with the dinosaur eggs.

Red picked up his fork and gestured at the table. “go ahead, dig in while it’s hot.”

Blue tucked his napkin into his lap first in that exaggerated way he did things that he expected Rus to mimic. “Shouldn’t we wait for your brother?”

“nah,” And Rus wasn’t sure why he was bothering with a napkin when it was clear their host didn’t mind talking around a mouthful of sausage. He at least swallowed before he added, “i shook him outta bed a bit ago, he’ll be down.”

That seemed to be enough to satisfy Blue’s sense of propriety. He began to fill his plate, taking a small portion from each tray. Rus only chose one of the pastries that had a quivering dollop of jam on top so that he had something to pick at, hyperaware of the way Red was watching them.

It made Rus think of a horror movie he’d seen, where a pale man hung around waiting for anyone who dared eat from his banquet and those that did paid the price for it with their lives.

Yeah, whatever, Red was no pale man, no eldritch horror. He was a thug playing dress up to impress them for some damn reason, trying to show off how much better he was. Wasn’t gonna work on Rus, thanks, Blue had twice the manners of this asshole, and when Red’s supposedly well-paid servants were scraping all this into the trash, Blue would still be the one who spent hours making cookies for the neighborhood kids in his rare time off.

Defiantly, Rus took a huge bite of pastry, cheekbones puffing out and Blue didn’t even have a chance to kick him in the knee for his manners when the door was flung open and Edge stalked inside.

“morning, bro,” Red said easily. Edge only gave a surly grunt in return, heading right to the sidebar where a gleaming machine with too many dials and knobs sat. A few twists and clicks, and it started gurgling, filling the air with the gorgeous aroma of coffee and if it weren’t for the awkward ending to how Rus tried to get into Edge’s pants last night, he would have crawled over the table with a cup held out in a modern take on ‘please sir can I have some more’.

Look, he couldn’t be bought with fancy clothes or food, but coffee was on a different playing field.

Since that wasn’t on the table, (heh), instead Rus chewed frantically, still trying to gulp down his overflowing mouthful of dry pastry when Edge turned around with a freshly filled cup in hand. He nearly choked on his first sip as he caught sight of the table, swinging around to give his brother a positively scathing glare.

Ah. Looked like maybe Red neglected to mention they’d be here. Great.

“Good morning,” Edge said, scowling into his cup. He was already impeccably dressed in one of those suits of his, but the normal rasp in his voice was downright hoarse and beneath his sockets were rusty stains of exhaustion. He didn’t look like he’d slept two winks after Rus left him last night.

“are you—” okay, Rus didn’t say, looked back down at his plate. Like he had any right to ask Edge anything after what he did.

Turned out, he wasn’t the only one concerned. Blue never ignored a chance to play caretaker and he was all but standing in his chair, leaning across the table anxiously. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Edge, but you look a touch under the weather, are you feeling all right?”

“I’m afraid it’s self-inflicted,” Edge said. He took another long sip from his mug, clearing his throat before adding smoothly, “My apologies, I had a little too much to drink last night.”

That only seemed to up Blue’s concern, probably worrying it was their fault Edge was spending his night drinking, which, well, it sort of was. At least half their fault, anyway, and Rus stared hard at his plate where the bitten pastry was oozing jam like a wound.

“But self-inflicted doesn’t mean you need to suffer,” Blue objected. “I know how to heal, I could—”

“Thank you,” Edge interrupted firmly, “but no.”

“It’s no trouble at all!”

“I’m sure it’s not. I appreciate the offer, but it won’t be necessary.”

“But—"

Rus kept his head down, picking flecks of sugar glaze off his wounded pastry as he waited for Edge’s immovable object to stop butting against Blue’s unstoppable force. A wary glance at Red showed him leaning back in his seat with his hands woven together over his belly, watching the show.

Yeah, he seemed like the kind of guy to think this was hilarious and considering that their height difference made Blue the metaphorical dachshund barking at the great dane’s ankles, Rus had to admit, Red sort of had a point. This time.

Blue looked as if he were chewing on his own tongue instead of a pancake, complaining, “If I could get to my garden, I’d at least make you some tea. It’s my own blend!”

Tea wasn’t a bad idea, really, not nearly as invasive as letting someone use their own magic directly on you. Golden flower tea, infused with the magic Blue used to tend to their gardens and like all Monster food, it had healing qualities. Rus knew from personal experience it tended to be quite potent.

“Coffee will suffice,” Edge said decisively and that seemed to be the end of it.

“Well, at least sit down and get some food in you. It’s been a while since my brother and I had a chance to share breakfast,” Blue said brightly. “He’s usually off to open the shop while I tend to the garden, it’s been mostly cold cereal for us, I’m afraid.”

“All I want is coffee, I need to get downtown.”

Red spoke up at then, “that ain’t no way to treat your guests.”

“We don’t have guests,” Edge snapped.

“no?” Red let out a short, abrupt laugh, though his glittering eye lights held no humor. “you got a better name, bro?”

Rus had a few. Prisoners, kidnappees, captives? Hostages? None of those seemed to quite fit the bill and maybe Edge was thinking the same thing. “I brought one guest. The other is here entirely because of you, so I believe entertainment is your purview.”

“only fair for me to have a pal if you do.”

“Yes, fair,” Edge said dryly. “Fairness is always a concern of yours.”

“hey.” That tone made Rus want to sit up straight and cringe at the same time, iron-hard. “have a seat, boss.”

Boss? Rus gave up on his attempt to blend into the furniture and looked up, reluctantly curious. Red caught him out almost instantly and his cool glare shifted to an easy, lazy grin.

“don’t need to be so surprised, sweetheart, edge is the one who runs things ‘round here,” Red said lazily. “i do this and that, let him handle th’ important shit. always was fuckin’ terrible at paperwork.”

Next to him, Blue was chewing determinedly, stabbing at his sausages with his fork. It was probably killing him not to chide Red about his language, but he was also their host. Torn between one set of manners and another left him at a silent impasse.

Edge gave his brother another scathing glare but didn’t argue. “I need to get to work.”

He set his coffee cup down on the side of the table with a solid thunk, turning towards the door, and he was going to leave, heading out when he wasn’t at his best where there were people trying to kill him and Rus wouldn’t even have a chance to say anything, to explain, he couldn’t—

“i’m sorry!” Rus blurted out as he shot to his feet, knocking against the table hard enough to rattle the glasses and flatware. “i’m so sorry, for last night. i didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Edge froze. Slowly, he turned back to face Rus, looking down at him and Rus met that unwavering crimson gaze without flinching, despite the frantic pounding in his soul. He wasn’t good at this, not with apologies or confrontation; he’d rather go hide and smoke through a pack of cheap Marlboros until he was sick while wishing for this to all go away. But he couldn’t let Edge go out there thinking…well, thinking whatever he did about Rus. By now he had to be catching on to the fact that his fantasies weren’t anything close to Rus’s reality and that was what it was, but at least Rus wanted that reality to be the truth and not tainted by one thoughtless act.

Edge looked away first, flicking a glance at Blue and Red, both who were watching with varying levels of narrow confusion.

“Forthright,” Edge murmured. His tight, cold expression eased, softening, “I’m sorry, too, flower shop. I was a little drunk, and I shouldn’t have,” his gaze flicked again to Red, who was watching with brow bones climbing ever higher on his forehead, and Blue, who was full out gaping, mouth open. Whatever he’d been about to say was amended smoothly to, “Shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“okay, so we’re both sorry. that’s…that’s good.” Rus smiled a little, stupidly. It wasn’t like this solved anything or changed it. It still made that hard ache behind his breastbone loosen, gave him some measure of ease.

That faint, lopsided smile curving Edge’s mouth was even better. Rus braced himself when Edge reached out, then he watched in confusion as Edge plucked up a napkin, dabbing lightly at the side of Rus’s mouth. “Jam,” he said, as if in explanation. As though anything could explain the way he paused with his knuckles lightly resting against Rus’s chin, his gloved thumb following along the same path as the napkin, “Behave while I’m gone. I’m running low on rescues.”

It took a second for that to get through the warm, fuzzy haze settling over Rus, brought on by the gentle touch against his mouth. When it did, he stood up straighter in pure indignation, protesting, “i wasn’t misbehaving before!”

“No, you weren’t,” Edge agreed. “But somehow, you’ve already figured out how to cause me plenty of trouble, I’d hate to see what you manage if you actually tried.”

Rus swore he could feel the husky rumble of that voice through Edge’s touch, but it was another voice that broke the spell, this one as jagged as broken glass.

“thought you were leavin', boss,” Red sounded perturbed and he seemed to have forgotten his quest to get Edge to sit down to breakfast with them.

Edge said nothing. There was only a last brush of his gloved fingers across Rus’s cheekbone, satin-soft over the lingering bruise. Then he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Rus alone with an outraged Red and his own suspicious brother.

Rude. Guess rescues didn’t include from family.

Welp, Edge might like to play the knight in tarnished armor, but for Rus, he was going with abject cowardice. He started filling his plate with food, ignoring the way Edge’s cologne seemed to cling to where he’d touched and replaced that aroma with tasty bacon.

“this’s really good,” Rus said around a mouthful, risking his brother’s wrath as he shoveled in another bite. If he kept eating, he couldn’t say anything stupid.

It was worth a shot.

Edge’s half-filled coffee cup was still sitting on the table and with a mental shrug Rus stole it, downing the bitter blackness in a shuddering gulp. Waste not the caffeine. He had a feeling from the way Red and Blue were still staring at him that he was probably gonna need all the help he could get.

tbc

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#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #mafia AU

[multiverseforger]

The character has appeared in several Spider-Man media adaptations over the years, including animated television series and video games. Dimitri Smerdyakov appeared in the Marvel Cinematic Universe film Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019), portrayed by Numan Acar. IGN ranked the Chameleon as Spider-Man's 14th greatest enemy.[2]

Publication history

Fictional character biographyEdit

Dmitri Smerdyakov was born in Soviet Russia. In his youth, he became a servant and half-brother to Sergei Kravinoff, and later a minor associate of Gustav Fiers. Although Dmitri and Sergei were friends, Sergei was often abusive to Smerdyakov, leading to a combination of admiration and resentment towards Kravinoff. Eventually, Smerdyakov emigrated to the United States of America. As he had made a talent for himself during his youth by impressing his brother by impersonating friends and neighbors, he assumed an even more impressive disguise: the identity of Chameleon. During his first known criminal outing, he impersonated Spider-Man, though he was soon exposed and arrested. Shortly afterward, Sergei (now known as "Kraven the Hunter") came to America, and the Chameleon set his old associate's sights on Spider-Man.[10] Both men became long-time enemies of Spider-Man, part of his primary rogues' gallery.

The Chameleon inspired Kraven to begin hunting Spider-Man, inviting Kraven to dispose of the hero.[11] With Kraven, the Chameleon battled Iron Man,[12] and then confronted the Hulk.[13] At one point, the Chameleon disguised himself as Hank Pym, and robbed Pym's laboratory for documents to combat Virus Nine. While delivering the documents and a shrunken Hulk to HYDRA, he was encountered and defeated by Ant-Man.[14] The Chameleon disguised himself as the Torpedo and battled Daredevil.[15]

When his half-brother committed suicide,[16] the Chameleon became obsessed with making Spider-Man suffer for his failure to prevent this. He ingested a serum which made his face permanently featureless and malleable. He attempted to kidnap America's leading expert on superconductors, but was thwarted by Spider-Man.[17] He then kidnapped J. Jonah Jameson. He approached the Maggia for support to be New York's new crime lord, and formed an alliance with Hammerhead.[18] Disguised as a scientist, the Chameleon temporarily removed Spider-Man's powers. He allied himself with the Femme Fatales, the Scorpion, and the Tarantula to eliminate Spider-Man and the Black Cat, but escaped when his plan failed.[19]

The Chameleon's most ambitious play against Spider-Man happened when he formed an alliance with Harry Osborn as the Green Goblin. Before Harry's death, the Chameleon was told Spider-Man's secret identity could be found through Peter Parker, to construct androids of Peter's parents; the Chameleon later admitted that he went through with the plot to confirm once and for all that Peter was Spider-Man. The plan led to a psychotic breakdown for both Spider-Man and the Chameleon, Spider-Man briefly renouncing the civilian identity while the Chameleon is sent to Ravencroft Asylum.[volume & issue needed] But when Doctor Ashley Kafka sneaks him into a basement to try to continue treating him in the belief that he was close to a breakthrough when the court were preparing to put him on trial, the Chameleon escaped and attempted to convince Spider-Man of actually a hallucinating writer who had suffered a mental breakdown after his daughter's death in a car accident but Peter managed to break through this deception due to his own strength of will.[20] The Chameleon's confirmation of Spider-Man's secret identity led him to try to attack Spider-Man through family and friends but this effort met with rather dismal results when Mary Jane Watson subdued him with a baseball bat.[21] Somewhere in between this and subsequent appearances, he appeared to have been destroyed by his nephew Alyosha Kravinoff; Alyosha later threw a Chameleon mask at Spider-Man's feet, referring to it as 'That weakling Dmitri' but apparently recovered, waking in a hospital.[volume & issue needed]

After tricking Spider-Man to the bridge where Gwen Stacy's death occurred, on the pretext of having kidnapped Mary Jane, he declared his own loneliness and love for Peter. When Peter laughed, he threw himself off the bridge.[22] He reappeared some time later in a mental institution, completely incapacitated, believing himself to be Sergei Kravinoff rather than his true self.[volume & issue needed] He later reappeared in his Chameleon identity as part of the Sinister Twelve villain team organized by Norman Osborn as the Green Goblin.[23]

After Spider-Man was unmasked, the Chameleon gathered a gang of villains called the Exterminators,[1] including Will O' The Wisp, Scarecrow, Swarm and Electro, and also blackmailed the Molten Man into his employ all in an effort to defeat Spider-Man and attack the web-slinger's family.[volume & issue needed]

However, the Chameleon was dealt a most humiliating defeat by May Parker's hands, when he attempted to trick May into believing he was Peter, then murder May. But May was not fooled by any means, and defeated the villain with a plate of oatmeal-raisin cookies laced with Ambien. The Rhino was also employed as part of the team up and later defeated Spider-Man only to be unable to collect payment from the Chameleon as he was already captured.[24]

After the "Civil War", the Chameleon showed up among the villains at Stilt-Man's funeral at the Bar with No Name where the Punisher poisoned the drinks and blew up the bar.[25]

The Chameleon next appeared in the newest incarnation of Super Villain Team-Up called MODOK's Eleven. In this limited series, it is revealed that he contacted A.I.M. the moment he was telepathically summoned by MODOK. He then allowed A.I.M. to send in their newest creation, the Ultra-Adaptoid, under the guise of the Chameleon.[volume & issue needed] Additionally, it was revealed in Super Villain Team-Up: MODOK's Eleven that his apparent insanity and demise years earlier were in fact well-crafted ruses designed so that he could fade into the background once more.[volume & issue needed]

The "One More Day" storyline ended with the removal of Peter and Mary Jane's timeline from all memories and no one knows Spider-Man's identity, including the Chameleon.[26]

The Chameleon returns to New York more sadistic and sociopathic than ever before. To complete his hired goal of bombing City Hall, he kidnaps Peter who works for Mayor J. Jonah Jameson. While posing as Parker, he tries to better his life, revealing that he always tries to rectify the problems in the lives of his "faces".[27] Using Peter's security clearance to get access to various materials, the Chameleon was poised to bomb City Hall before Peter escaped and thwarted his plans as Spider-Man. During the resulting confusion, the Chameleon escaped.[28]

Sometime later at an alley building during "The Gauntlet and Grim Hunt" storyline, the distraught Chameleon is met by Sasha Kravinoff and Ana Kravinoff who want his help in avenging Sergei's death.[29] Various follow up issues during The Gauntlet storyline show the Chameleon helping the Kravinoff family into creating an alliance of Spider-Man's enemies as well as Diablo.[30] First, he and Sasha managed to spring Electro from prison.[31] Then Chameleon approached Mysterio stating that he has friends that are "dying" to meet him.[32] When it came to the Grim Hunt part, he posed as Ezekiel in order to get close to Spider-Man to defeat and bring to the Kravinoffs in order to sacrifice as part of a ritual that will revive Sergei.[33] After Sergei is resurrected, the Chameleon states that the problem might stem from inward anger of being resurrected. He and the Kravinoffs discover Spider-Man's corpse, which turns out to be Kaine in Spider-Man's costume instead.[34] The real Spider-Man goes to take revenge on the Kravenoff family. Spider-Man soon arrives and pulled the Chameleon and Alyosha into the huge nest of spiders. Sasha realizes that the Kravinoff family wasn't hunting the spiders, but it was the spiders hunting them.[35]

During the "Origin of the Species" storyline, the Chameleon is invited by Doctor Octopus to join his supervillain team where he gets involved in securing some specific items for Doctor Octopus. He poses as Harry Osborn to trick Spider-Man by telling him that Menace's infant has died. When Spider-Man has been away, the Chameleon got the infant.[36] Doctor Octopus later talks with the Chameleon saying that the baby is the first of a new species. Using a lead gained when he took down Shocker, Spider-Man arrives at the Kravinoff Mansion where he captures the Chameleon who reveals that the baby is still alive and is in the Lizard's clutches.[37]

The Chameleon later becomes a member of Doctor Octopus's latest incarnation of the Sinister Six. He poses as Captain Steve Rogers in order to infiltrate an Air Force base.[38] The Chameleon disguises himself as a tribal chief when he and Mysterio pull off a zombie pirate attack on some natives.[39] Using robots of the other Sinister Six members, Chameleon and Mysterio pulled off this scheme as a diversion so that Doctor Octopus and the other Sinister Six members can infiltrate the Baxter Building to look for specific technology plans while the Future Foundation were investigating the more obvious threat.[40]

The Chameleon later poses as Klaw in order to infiltrate Intelligencia so that he can help the Sinister Six steal their Zero Cannon.[41]

During the "Ends of the Earth" storyline, the Chameleon was present with the Sinister Six when Doctor Octopus tells them about a master plan.[42] The Chameleon was present at Palazzo Senatorio at a summit where the world's greatest minds and the world leaders is carried out to discuss about Doctor Octopus's supposed offer to save the world with the Chameleon disguised as Al Gore. As Al Gore, the Chameleon states that Doctor Octopus would save them. Without a counter-argument, Spider-Man punches Al Gore and reveals to everyone present that Al Gore is actually the Chameleon in disguise. Spider-Man's new costume could detect which person is actually the Chameleon based on heartbeats. A transmission from Doctor Octopus states activating the Octavian Lens which are blocking the harmful UV rays from the sun in order to reinforce this offer. After letting the Chameleon go, Spider-Man secretly places a Spider-Tracer on the Chameleon so that the Avengers could follow him. They follow the Chameleon to the Mediterranean Coasts where the Sinister Six is waiting for the Chameleon. Using many of the stolen objects, the Sinister Six successfully subdue the Avengers leaving only Spider-Man standing.[43] After Spider-Man and the Black Widow escape with Silver Sable's help, the Chameleon suggest that since the Sinister Six's remaining members had each received their $2 billion and their criminal records expunged, they should just leave Doctor Octopus and his scheme. But they stay on board as that would make an enemy out of Doctor Octopus. The Chameleon later gets involved with Mysterio in tricking Spider-Man's allies into thinking they were destroying Symkaria, in order to give Doctor Octopus more time to complete the 200 satellites. However, the Chameleon is captured and the Black Widow threatens to reveal the secret behind his real face.[44]

Following the "Dying Wish" storyline, the Chameleon later fights Superior Spider-Man (Otto Octavius's mind in Spider-Man's body) and the Secret Avengers on the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier.[45] The Chameleon ends up knocked unconscious and the Superior Spider-Man transports him to his hidden underwater lab where he ends up imprisoned.[46] The Chameleon, Electro, Sandman, Mysterion, and the Vulture are later seen as part of the "Superior Six" team. The Superior Spider-Man has been temporarily controlling their minds in order to redeem them for their crimes, doing this by forcing them do heroic deeds against their will which almost get some of them killed. Every time they are done being controlled, they are put back in their containment cells.[47] They eventually break free of the Superior Spider-Man's control and attempt to exact revenge, while nearly destroying New York in order to do so.[48] With Sun Girl's help, the Superior Spider-Man is barely able to stop the Superior Six.[49]

Following the true Spider-Man's return, the Chameleon attempts to drive Spider-Man insane as revenge for the Superior Spider-Man's earlier treatment of him. However, Deadpool switches costumes with Spider-Man, with the Chameleon unaware of this. He fails at driving Deadpool insane (as Deadpool is already insane), and ends up being shot in the leg by him. Both heroes (in each other's costumes) punch the Chameleon at the same time, knocking him out and later delivered him to the authorities.[50]

At the conclusion of the "Hunted" storyline, the Chameleon is revealed to be one of the attendees at Sergei's funeral as he is pleased that Sergei spared him from the Great Hunt. As he walks away, the Chameleon quotes to his dead stepbrother to sleep well and states "You needn't worry. The world is no longer your burden. Besides, there won't be much of it left soon...Not by the time I've finished."[51

[kiradaxx]

Year of Recovery- A J/7 fic

Hello! I’m new to the J/7 fandom, but Voyager has become one of my favorite quarantine watches. I’ve only just watched it for the first time now, and I got sucked right into this ship. I’ve got so many fanfiction ideas swirling around my brain now, and I’ve started writing one of them! This story won’t be complete for a while, but I wanted to put up a couple of snippets of what I’ve written so far to start engaging with the fandom!

This story’s current working title is Year of Recovery, and it is a slightly AU take on the Year of Hell episodes. Janeway crashes Voyager into the Krenim time ship, and successfully prevents the Year of Hell from happening. But what if the timeline wasn’t restored quite as neatly as she had hoped?

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Day 226

This was the moment that would change Kathryn Janeway’s life forever. 

This was the moment that would end Kathryn Janeway's life. Forever. 

She inhaled deeply, staring out the massive tear in the hull of her ship where the forward viewscreen had been just moments ago, watching the ensuing battle that raged around her. Watching her enemy just beyond the gradually weakening emergency force field, the only barrier left to prevent the cold vacuum of space from extending into the bridge. She was already dead on the inside, the empty expression on her face reflecting the weight of the past year’s immense losses and traumas.

So much loss, so much pain, she could scarcely recall it all. Except she could, in terrible, excruciating detail. Every hit Voyager took, every crew member she lost, every friend gravely, even permanently, injured. Every moment of the past year was burned into her brain as indelibly as the scars from the deflector room fire had been seared into the skin of her face, arms, and hands. 

The flames and weapons fire that were both battering and emanating from the time ship, perhaps the worst enemy she’d ever faced, leaped in the glassy mirror of her eyes. For the first time in months, the flames of her own internal fire surged up to meet them, and she had a moment of such pure clarity, she could almost cry at the simplicity of it all.

The voice of her chief security officer crackled in over their comm link. “All our ships have been disabled, Captain. Do you have weapons?”

“Negative, torpedo launchers are down.”

“How do you wish to proceed?”

“I’m setting a collision course.” 

At first there was no response. Tuvok said nothing, but the voice of another came through, strangled by more than just the weak connection. “Kathryn, please, don’t do this.”

She allowed herself one moment, a single breath, to grieve for yet another loss. She didn’t bother arguing, there was no other course left. “I love you,” she whispered, for once not masking the pain or the depth of her emotion. She forced herself to ignore the silence that met her words; she honestly didn’t know if a response would have hurt more anyway. She broke the comm link.

Maybe she could undo this. Maybe not. But she could, and would, end this. Now. 

This would be the moment that ended Kathryn Janeway, forever. She knew this profoundly. And she gave her last words, spoken as a command, enunciated with deadly precision. “Time’s up.” 

So quickly, yet so slowly, Voyager’s bow careened into the hull of the Krenim time vessel, crashing with devastating brute force into the exact coordinates of the temporal core. She thought her death would be louder, scarier. Instead, her final moment was nothing. Nothing but such an abrupt halt to everything, to the momentum of everything her life had ever been building up to. The end was weightlessness and shockwave impact that stopped everything she was and would ever be in an instant so quick, she couldn’t process anything. Flames were swallowing the bridge, swallowing the blackness of space, swallowing her. So much fire filled her vision, the last thing Kathryn Janeway ever saw.

Day 1

“Something’s wrong,” Janeway spoke under her breath, low and muttered, with no real intention to be heard by any other. At a normal volume, she ordered, “Keep looking, M’Kar.”

Chakotay had been gracious with his patient curiosity, was still waiting calmly for Janeway to explain her sudden concern, and she finally attempted to release enough of her internal red alert to offer the explanation she knew she owed him.

“I’ve got a bad feeling, Commander,” she spoke with her eyes fixed to M’Kar and the electrical conduit. Her voice was low once more,; this conversation wouldn’t do to be shouted across the bridge, alarming all those on duty. Chakotay’s brow furrowed in further question, a motion caught from the corner of her eye, and she elaborated, “I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel something is off.” Louder, she addressed the entire bridge, sitting forward in her chair. “I saw something occurring with that conduit. Some sort of malfunction. If we can’t trace it to the conduit, I want every centimeter of this bridge scanned.” 

                                                                ...

When she stepped back onto the bridge, her face was composed perfectly. She could not say the same for her crew. The staff of the bridge apparently had remained fixed in place when she’d disappeared into her ready room, almost as if she’d paused the characters of a holonovel. They tracked her with their eyes as she crossed the small section of the bridge that separated her from the turbolift, eyes still wide and among a few, even scared. Poor Harry seemed as though he was on the verge of tears. 

One face in particular caught her attention, and she faltered minutely on the small set of steps in front of the tactical station. Seven of Nine, the newest addition to Voyager’s crew. Her stare was piercing as she followed Janeway’s path to the turbolift. Her shock was hidden in the intensity of her gaze, discernible nowhere else in her expression.

Day 3

Her head tipped back and her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat she’d never let another witness. Staring at the ceiling, she silently asked herself now what? She still had another eleven minutes until she was due in astrometrics, and she’d planned to use those minutes to finish solidifying her composure. Whoever was at her door would simply have to wait until later that evening, she decided. There was no reason she couldn’t already be on her way down to deck 8, in theory, and by ignoring the chime her visitor would hopefully assume this and go looking for her there. She could field their question or request later. 

The door chimed again, and when she still ignored the call, a third chime rang out in her quarters. Zipping up her jacket angrily, Janeway stalked into the main sitting room of her quarters and barked out, “Computer, who is outside my door?”

“Seven of Nine is outside the captain’s quarters.”

She groaned and raked her fingers through her hair. No wonder the chimes continued; Seven wasn’t one to give up easily. .

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway.”

                                                            ...

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway. Ignoring me is inefficient, Captain. I will not leave this spot until you open the door. Doing so now will save us both time.”

She took a sip of her coffee, lip curling in distaste when the tepid liquid met her tongue. One of these days she’d have to get that damn replicator fixed. “Computer, what time is it?”

“The time is 1753 hours.”

“I can hear your voice, Captain. I am aware you are inside. If necessary, I will continue to aggravate you until you relent.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Janeway rolled her eyes again, twice as viciously and stalked away from the replicator. She slapped her comm badge with more force than necessary, and in a low voice she asked, “What do you want, Seven?”

For a brief moment, there was no response, and she wondered if maybe Seven had not been so confident in her inevitable victory after all. She pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing she had just held out for a little longer, called Seven’s bluff.

“I wish to speak with you, Captain.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“It has waited. For forty-six hours and 32 minutes.”

Perhaps angrier than rational, Janeway took a deep breath in, and remained motionless. She stood with one hand on her hip, and the other clenched at her side, summoning the calm control she relied on to guide her through moments where her temper flared. Finally, she called to allow Seven inside her quarters.

#star trek voyager #kathryn janeway #captain janeway #captain kathryn janeway #seven of nine #j/7 #janeway x seven #fanfiction #j/7 fanfiction