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dracones24 · 2 years

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Ranpo Calling

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs

Available on ao3

Rating: Mature (18+)

Pairs: Edogawa Ranpo/Edgar Allan Poe, Edogawa Ranpo/Fukuzawa Yukichi (implied)

Warnings: Under negotiated kink, mildly dubious consent

Content: praise kink, phone sex, (accidental) voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, ambiguous relationships

POV: Poe-centric 3rd person

Don’t like, don’t read, but if you do enjoy please send an ask or leave a comment and let me know <3

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

A Call...?

The video opened to his rival Edogawa Ranpo, adjusting a desktop camera with a sucker stick hanging out of his mouth and a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. The call’s default had both of their cameras on and Ranpo’s mic on, but his own muted. Poe moved to turn his camera off, dreading to be seen more than needed, but Ranpo gave a barely perceivable shake of his head. Ah, this must be some matter of great importance, a riddle potentially? Poe thought, carefully watching the feed.

“Yukichi~ You promised.” Ranpo whined his protests to the phone.

Ranpo’s eyes were shut as he plopped himself on the middle of his bed, the whole bed viewable. His legs were crossed at the ankle and the phone bounced onto the bed beside him, being flipped to speaker phone. He pulled off his glasses and lazily toyed with them before discarding them on the nightstand. Furthermore, he sat the sucker on a wrapper as well.

Is he in danger? Why am I supposed to be watching...

“Ah. So I did.” came the answer through the phone, between the name and that firm voice, it was undoubtedly President Fukuzawa of the Agency.

“Get on with it then, I did that boring work you asked me to,” Ranpo huffed, clearly impatient. His hat was missing in action and so was his usual cloak, but he otherwise appeared to have just returned from the Agency.

A deep sigh emanated from the phone, “Very well. Thank you, Ranpo, you did excellent work today, we couldn’t have done it without you,”

Ranpo let out a self-satisfied hum, a shudder passing through his body, Poe could almost make out the flutter of his eyelashes. His fingers twitched, grabbing at the sheets lightly. He seemed enthralled by the words entirely.

Did he call just to gloat? He couldn’t have done this without my contribution, yet here he is receiving the praise for that work singularly. Poe couldn’t help but feel a bit slighted at that, one day my contributions will be undeniable, even to Ranpo himself.

“You didn’t want to participate but you did so for the good of the Agency, which is commendable, and of course I am always pleased to know that I have the World’s Greatest Detective by my side,” Fukuzawa continued. sounding a bit tired but nonetheless genuine.

“Yukichi...” Ranpo’s voice came out a soft mutter, one of his hands shot to his thigh, and the motion brought into view a noticeable tent in the crotch of his pants, his hand drifted over it, massaging his crotch with the palm of his hand, hips canting up slightly to match the movements. His face had a gentle flush to it and he looked so... needy.

Poe’s face flushed a deep scarlet, he tried to look away but couldn’t bring himself to, he shifted in hopes of his face being less visible. Suddenly, he was hit by the intense feeling of being an intruder. Does Ranpo really have... that sort of--No. That doesn’t matter. I just have to get to the bottom of why he called me... that’s all that matters!

“Yes, Ranpo? Did you have something to say?” Fukuzawa asks, yet it hardly sounds like a question.

“Mm-mm.” Ranpo denies, still rocking into his palm.

“Very well then. I’ve always believed in your extraordinary skills, Ranpo, it is no surprise to me the ease with which you did what no others in this world would dream possible. Your performance was excellent, you saved many lives today,” Fukuzawa continued, he sounded so composed, there was no doubt about this moment being a common occurrence left in Poe’s mind.

At this point, Ranpo slipped his thumbs under his waistband and lifted his hips to shove his pants down, letting them gather at his knees. The motion left his crumpled shirt riding up as well, from his hips to his mid-thigh now clearly exposed to the camera.

Poe gasped, choking on a too-thick swallow as he scrambled back from the screen. Paranoid, he glanced around the room, as if to be certain he was the only one there. Karl was asleep in his perch, unbothered, and the room otherwise was empty. Except for the soft wet noises drifting from his rival, his nemesis, who was... stroking his cock to the praise of his superior. Biting down on his lip so hard it would probably bleed, Poe nervously settled back into his seat properly.

Ranpo’s eyes, which had been closed, were now open and gazing right at Poe, confirming that Poe was not here by an accident. Poe hovered over the button to end the call for a moment, but couldn’t bear to. As soon as he admitted defeat to himself, Ranpo’s eyes fluttered closed again. He was breathing heavily now but the President didn’t seem to react to that at all.

“You were very good Ranpo, always so Perfect for me,” Fukuzawa said with a note of finality.

At that, Ranpo gasped, loud, and a moan fell from his lips. Poe hadn’t noticed the way his own pants had grown more constricting through the call, too hypnotized by the performance. Now, it was undeniable, he was so hard that it hurt, twitching in his pants. He briefly considered relieving himself, but he couldn’t bear the thought of letting Ranpo affect him so strongly. To make him so vulnerable.

Soon, Ranpo thrust wildly into his own hand and came, white cum shooting out and sliding back down his own hand and shaft, some going so far as to drip onto his stomach.

The sight caused a conflicting wave of pleasure to wash through Poe’s body, shuddering so violently for a moment he feared he had soiled his own pants. His mouth watered with the foreign desire to clean up the messy detective. Was this whole thing just a move to seduce me then? What would Ranpo stand to gain from that?

Poe had been so lost in his own conflicting thoughts and desires he hadn’t noticed when Ranpo had hung up his phone call. The Detective was now standing, his legs a bit wobbly and his pants kicked off entirely. He was cleaning his hands off with some tissue and then approached the screen, his dress shirt hanging cutely down to his thighs. Finally, I may get some answers, Poe thought, but almost immediately he regretted it. He didn’t really want his rival to pay him any mind with him aching for release after watching the spectacle.

Red-faced and nervous Poe moved to unmute his mic and address Ranpo, who merely winked at him again, and ended their call.

“What!” Poe yelled out loud, standing at his desk and staring at the blank monitor in disbelief.

Awkwardly, he sat back down for what felt like the millionth time, replaying the call in his head, a mystery? An attempt to distract me? Was he flaunting? Was it a message to declare his devotion to the President? Was he trying to seduce me? What could it be... Poe agonized over the meaning. However, he was quickly sidetracked by the memory of the sound of Ranpo’s moans. Ranpo had often kept him up at night, on rare shameful occasions even haunted Poe’s dreams... but this? This whole experience Poe never could have imagined.

With a hesitant sigh, he reached for the button of his pants, he would never be able to sort out this mess in this state, after all.

Damn Detective, will I ever truly surpass you?

#ranpoe #fukuran #ranpoe fic #dracones writes #this was so fun to write because poe is so perplexed and baffled #my fics #bsd

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animehouse-moe · 1 year

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Chainsaw Man 7: Denji Done Right

I'm definitely very critical of the Chainsaw Man adaptation for numerous reasons, but believe it or not I am still very passionate about it and will sing its praises where deserved, like this opening fight scene. Denji just going to absolute town on the Eternity Devil. It's barely viewable, you can hardly understand what's happening past the carnage, and that's what makes it amazing. Up close and violent, incredibly fast and rough, it's what Denji's fights are supposed to be. Hell, it's what they should be because until they slow down Denji's 3d model looks perfect in motion, even against background of the Eternity Devil.

Of course, the episode settles down pretty quick for the celebration outing with the team, of which there's not really anything crazy to write home about. It's the anime version of the manga, well done and polished but can sort of lose out on the original feel in the process.

To that end I was kinda disappointed in the kissing scene, still hilarious and messed up, but you're showing an ungodly amount of blood but you'll draw the line at censoring vomit? No fun.

Anyways, this was probably the best episode by a mile for 3d Denji. There's still scenes where the 3d model is standing still or not moving much that look really jarring, but I also think that thanks to having such a contrasting background that the 3d model actually blends in better than if it were a more typical one. Something about the extremes of the two help give it a certain feel if you know what I mean. Overall though, this is what I've been wanting from Chainsaw Man in terms of fights. Not some special choreography or crazy movement (though it's cool), but a visual mess that you'll struggle to keep up with at each moment. Definitely the best action of the season so far, and stands a very good chance at being the best moving forward, though only time will tell.

#chainsaw man #csm anime #csmdaily #denji #anime #anime and manga

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artmakerproductions · 2 years

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“Billy & Sarah”: Jeph Varney

Jeph Willhelma Varney is a redneck, through and through. He lives out on his own in the swampy area of Oak River away from the crowd raising pigs and chickens. Inherited the land from his mother's side. It being in his family bloodline from all the way back in the final days of the ol' west. As a boy, Jeph was told of the many strange things that lived out in the swampy lands their home was in, that he should always watch out and be prepared. He took these words to heart. One night, during his childhood, he was awakened in the middle of the night by the distress of their pigs. He quickly got out of bed, grabbed his shotgun, and rushed outside to see what was causing the trouble - it was none other than the (then smaller and younger) Snake Monster of Foggy Bog. Without hesitation he took aim and fired. Skidding the side of the serpentine beast and causing her to wail in pain and quickly flee, abandoning the hunt. Years passed, and the two would regularly butt heads, as from time to time the serpent would attempt to gat at Jeph's chickens and pigs. Despite her incredible intelligence and knowing that basic firearms and humans in general are of no threat to her, she still has that internal fear of this specific person and his firearm. Her having a case of PTSD. She'll immediately bail on a hunt if she sees or even hears him nearby. Though this fear has lessened in the passing years, it still remains in the back of her mind. Every now and again she'd be able get a burst of courage and stand her ground, but not for long. Jeph will often cuss her out to "git!" and "scram!". Has knocked over the fencing of Jeph's pig sty out of pettiness just to get him mad.

One of Jeph's other duties is dealing w/ the walking dead that rise up every now and again from deep w/in the swamp. He thinks that some leftover toxic barrels from government testing in a nearby hidden facility were dumped in the swamp ages ago, which is what causes the dead to rise. Billy and Sarah are somewhat skeptics of this at first, but find out later that such a facility does exist. Hardly ever eats city foods, as he either goes out to hunt (rabbit or deer) or just kills one of his pigs or chickens to provide that evening's meal. An excellent marksman and proud owner of a fine knife collection. Is in ownership of an old red truck. Jeph regularly makes stops into town to restock his supplies and sell his pigs/chickens. Uses this to pick up and drop off supplies for Okkou, who is essentially his one and only neighbour in the swamp. As a returning of the favour for the older man's services, Okkou does health check-ups on his animals and gives serums/potions to help keep his livestock nice and healthy (and give their meat an extra bit of flavouring when cooked, thus allowing Jeph to sell at a higher price for the quality meat). Seems to have a thing for his grandmother (reincarnated as a hornbill) who also seems to share these feelings. An elderly version of puppy love in a way. Much to the annoyance of Okkou.

As to how Billy and Sarah met him? Simple. It was good timing, as they were being chased down by a few of the undead when Jeph opened fire on the reanimated corpses.Thankful, they greeted each other and exchanged names. This being how they met Jeph. He's always telling stories of his life and time growing up in the bog to Billy and Sarah whenever they visit. Even singing some oldies and originals too. Will even invite them over for dinner if they do. Is a gruff voiced (but sweet) sort of grandparent once you get to know him. Incredibly friendly.

Viewable on DeviantArt too: https://www.deviantart.com/artmakerproductions/art/BaS-271-880261088

"Billy & Sarah" belongs to me, (ArtMakerProductions).

#billy & sarah #billy and sarah #digital art #oc #redneck #old fella #shotgun #get out of my swamp

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the-firebird69 · 2 years

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We're designing the memorial building instant signs of creep out there into the harbor and there's a bunch of room and designed to go upwards and it's symbolic too if it grows people know we're in trouble right now it's going to be huge already there's hardly any room and he says a certain year we'll have to put it in our archives but still somehow viewable on the computer and that will give an indication of just how many people have died because of Tommy favino AKA Capone AKA Hitler AKA Stalin and all sorts of evil leaders probably Dracula and it says you're going from something visible there's something that's hard to see there's something on the walls would be much harder and then into digital format and you won't have the ones that are outside or inside on digital format it's by rank. And those are the people that passed away and there will be a room a separate room for those who are critically injured and we do mean TBI and they will be almost lost but not forgotten.

Qe and Mac daddy

Want to do stupid things but we have to go in there I guess he's making us attack each other I was trying to figure out how and he says that's not really difficult in your in your crew are clones maybe even off and on but you have to check that's all. And I get that and it's true looking at the video and the guy is real bad attitude it's acting different than us and there are several of them they look Hispanic so we're going to figure it out.

Trump

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hasanxraza · 2 years

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Advantages of Professional Website Development in Business

Do you believe that there is a difference between ideality and practicality? Most of us believe in the motto 'never judge a book by its cover' but we still do judge a book by its cover. We aggressively say that we should not judge someone by his/her looks but do we really follow this in our real lives? We don't walk into an interview in our casual nightdress because no matter how talented you are, you will have a negative first impression due to your dress-up. All that we are trying to say is- The first impression does matter and it matters a lot. And this is true in an online business and its website too.

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#Website design in Delhi #web development company in Delhi

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dillonchristiansen40 · 2 years

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People Sell To People They Like

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lomholtlomholt91 · 2 years

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astarryon · 3 years

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Another Lifetime: Shouldn’t Have Gotten Shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Description of war and battle injuries, mentions of blood, gunshots, language, etc.

Summary: Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.

A/N: Listen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into me but ever since tfatws started I have been INSPIRED! Hoping to update this fic sem regularly, but we’ll see where the new school term takes us. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has never been overly fond of the summer.

One aspect was the fact that he could remember what it was like to be a miserable kid living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning and three baby sisters who never stopped whining about the heat. Of all the jumbled, foggy memories bouncing around the confines of his skull, that one is clearer than most. And though he still finds it difficult to picture the faces of his little sisters –– can’t hardly remember arcs of their noses, much less the colors of each of their eyes –– a nostalgic, brotherly feeling washes over him all the same.

There’s also the little detail that he’d received his draft notice in the summer months. That Bucky remembers perfectly, one of the few memories strong enough to remain unmuddied by all those years of shitbag scientists rooting around his head and picking his brain apart. The heat that year had been sweltering, and once his mother found him in her kitchen with that damned letter clutched between his fingers, he felt it burn right through the strings of his heart.

The first week of July delivered the news. The last saw him shipping out to bootcamp.

He guessed he didn’t mind the sunshine. That part had always been nice, and it helped to calm him on occasion these days, to remember that the golden rays licking comforting heat up his skin were the same ones which had shone down on him back in the 40s, before and during the war.

Before Hydra had condemned him to seventy long years of dark and cold.

To that end, logic said the season he really should hate was winter, but he’d never felt any ill will toward the colder months, and found now, in the present, that he’d only grown fonder of them. When the rain came down from the sky in sheets, or when snow fell so thick it resembled white, puffy clouds blanketing the ground, he took walks. Partly because no other soul would be idiotic enough to trudge through a borderline natural disaster at three in the morning, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with prying eyes and conspicuously pointing fingers, and partly because experiencing said natural disasters in solitude did wonders for the soul.

Steve thought it was strange. Hated that Bucky did it, kept insisting that he at least take a goddamn jacket, there isn’t any actual proof he can’t get pneumonia. But Bucky always shook his head and declined, rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath about how apparently the tables have fucking turned.

But, no. The winter, the rain, the cold –– none of that could ever draw half as much ire from him as did the gentle beginnings of June, the scorching heat of July, the fading light of August. Because those weren’t the things which served as reminders from before.

Reminders of her.

“James. Did you hear me?”

Bucky blinks hard, freeing his gaze from the wall calendar tacked up and viewable just over his doctor’s shoulder. Glancing down, he sees the familiar green of the velvet armchair –– one of three options for patients to choose from in her office, and Bucky’s personal favorite on account of the way its textures did something to sooth him as he gripped its arm anxiously with his flesh hand –– and the worn, fraying knees of his black jeans against it. He doesn’t bother meeting his therapist’s gaze. He already knows which of her expressions he’ll find her leveling at him, if he does.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sucking his teeth. He hopes his voice isn’t quite as strained as it sounds –– though, judging by the way Dr. Raynor clucks her tongue as her fingers twitch toward her pen, it definitely is. “Guess I’m a little scattered today.”

The sardonic hum Raynor gives in response as she knowingly tilts her head nearly makes him open his mouth to finish the silent argument she’d started, but Bucky knows better than that. The moment he starts up, she’ll feign innocence and inquire as to why he feels the need to defend himself when no verbal accusation has been made. God damn, it would be just his luck to end up with the one government assigned therapist actually capable at her job.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Dr. Raynor offers. “And the two days before, if memory serves me right.”

Bucky shakes his head and tsks, tapping a metal finger against his temple. “Not a funny joke, doc. Remember the audience you’re dealing with here.”

“‘Deflecting.’”

The word drops from Raynor’s mouth with a simpleness that puzzles him.

“‘Scuse me?” he prompts when she only goes on to stare at him owlishly.

“Oh, that’s what I’d be writing in my notebook,” she explains simply, folding her hands together in her lap and leaning back in her chair. “If we were using it right now, that is.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes, and has to make an active attempt not to cross his arms like a forlorn child. The threat in her words is easily recognizable, not that she’d really bothered trying to conceal it. She knows that damn notebook irritates him more than any other aspect of their current arrangement, and he knows she’s not bluffing. If he doesn’t start talking, Raynor starts writing –– and if Raynor starts writing, he gets tailed by government watchdogs to ensure there are no imminent incidents lurking in the near future.

He sighs dejectedly and meets her gaze. “What was it you asked me?”

“What it is about the month of June that makes you so uncomfortable.”

Bucky blinks, red alarm bells shrieking in his head. Fuck, he can’t help but think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caught red handed.

“June’s fine,” he tries, but even to his own ears the assurance sounds weak. To think, he’d once been the most prolific tool of espionage around –– now he can hardly deliver a lie with a straight face. “Don’t have any feelings toward it one way or the other.”

“Strike two,” Raynor quips, glancing one again toward her pen.

Fuck!

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Bucky sits a little straighter in his seat, searching for any semblance of comfort to be found while already knowing he was bound to come up short. Damn it all. She wasn’t going to let him out of this one.

“Alright, hold your horses,” he sighs, waving a halting hand. Raynor’s expression doesn’t shift. She simply continues peering at him with her dark eyes, waiting patiently for his next few words to come. “Why do you assume I’ve got a problem with June?”

“Because you didn’t start staring at that calendar until it switched over from May,” Raynor supplies. “Like I mentioned, today isn’t the only day you’ve been scattered. Seems like something we should consider talking about.”

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. Too quickly. Shit. If she thought he’d been deflecting before, he didn’t even want to know the words running through her mind in regards to his behavior now. “I mean–– well, no. I don’t think it’s that important.”

Raynor arches a brow. “Funny,” she tells him, “the way your eyes keep drifting back to the word ‘June’ tells me otherwise.”

He sighs, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Caught between a rock and an even bigger, weightier rock. The universe really wasn’t one to take his side often.

Bucky knows there really isn’t any choice here. Either he does what Raynor asks and elaborates on his suspicious behavior, or he risks facing the repercussions of those notes she’ll be jotting down in her notebook. Which of the two evils is more definitively the lesser, he can’t rightly say, but he knows which of the consequences he’d prefer to suffer through. And they’re certainly not the ones which see him robbed of the ability to walk freely down the street without a detail of armed babysitters.

So he figures that, maybe for once, being honest can’t be the worst decision to make.

“A few years ago, back before the blip,” Bucky tries, “I spent a summer in Wakanda.”

“Housed by the royal family,” Raynor nods, tone soft. “We’ve spoken about that before. You said you found it peaceful there. That you liked it.”

He did, and still does. On the nights when his mind isn’t quiet enough to let him find sleep but his heart feels light enough to forego the slideshow of horrors he’d been made to suffer throughout the years, Bucky’s thoughts often return to the bliss which life in Wakanda had offered him. He’d remember the farm he kept there, the little children who would come to sing and play and dance in trees to keep him company in the afternoons. He’d remember Princess Shuri –– Just Shuri, James, come now –– and the kindness she’d displayed in deactivating the deeper, most concerning parts of his programming. The day she’d told him it was done, turned off, that he’d never be forced to revert back to the Soldier against his will again, he’d rushed her and caught her up in a bearhug so relieved and forceful that her Dora Milaje detail had actually pointed their spears at him. He’d remember the tranquility of it all, the simpleness.

The peace.

There’s no hope of him being able to return to that place any time soon, much as he’d like to, but the memories sit resolutely concrete in his mind. The first of a new set which he’d never have to worry about being stolen away from him by the currents of an electric shock.

“It’s a nice place,” Bucky affirms, sighing wistfully at the thoughts swirling up in his head. “I bring it up because back then, that summer… I started remembering a few things. From before.”

Raynor keeps her face smooth and composed, but Bucky notices the twitch in her cheek that says she’s got a question. “When you say before,” she asks, voice gentle, “do you mean your time as the Winter Soldier?”

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. Ironically, things would be easier, were that the case. He might not be so miserable in the present, seeing the month of June start all over again. The melancholy might not be so strong. “No, not then. I mean from before. From the 40s, during the war. I don’t know if it was Wakanda’s heat that did it, or that my programming was officially deactivated. But one night I went to sleep in my hut like normal, and then the next morning I woke up, and… and I remembered.”

Raynor clasps her hand together in her lap, the pen, the notebook, the hesitation all forgotten. Bucky sees it in her expression, the shock at the fact that he’s speaking, that she’s actually making progress in getting him to talk about things so painful he often wonders if they aren’t better left in the past. He’s still trying to figure that one out. Miserable as he’s been for the first four days of June, he figures nothing good or relieving or positive can come from retelling this particular tale. It’s all behind him now, and there isn’t anything to be done to change the ending in any significant way.

But… but he figures he owes it to her. As painful as the memories are, they can’t be anything in comparison to what she must have gone through in the aftermath of it all.

Slowly, Raynor crosses one ankle over the other. “What was it that you remembered, James?”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and inhaling as deep a breath as he can pull. He lets it loose after counting to six, then opens his eyes again and crosses his arms over his chest. “It started back in June of 1944. I got shot.”

––

June 1st, 1944

It was damn lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

A funny thought, really. One which brings a sarcastic, bitter smile to your lips as you bend your neck to get a closer look at your handiwork. Wasn’t it just two nights ago that you’d been laying in your cot, staring up at the moon through the flap of your tent and counting all the reasons it wasn't fair that the bliss of unconsciousness evaded you? Wasn’t it three that you’d considered sneaking into the med tent and downing a few of the sleeping pills meant for the soldiers? You hadn’t, of course –– god only knew the sort of trouble you’d get in if it came to pass that you were caught –– but the consideration had been there all the same.

“Fuckin’ shit!”

The foul language, mixed with the rough jerk of the body beneath your dexterous hands, was enough to steal your attention back from your jaded inner monologue. Nearly two years back, when you’d first signed on to work as a field nurse, the pained outburst would have sent you flinching. Now, the swearing isn’t anything new, and thankfully for the soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up, it was no longer anywhere near enough to give you pause.

“You better hold still unless you want this to scar even worse than it's already going to,” you tell him matter of factly, gently tugging the thread the rest of the way through your current stitch.

The soldier –– Matthews? Moore? You can hardly remember the name he’d gasped at you in pain, but you’re sure it started with an ‘M’ –– rakes his dirty hands over his even dirtier face, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut as his fingers quake with agony. “Sorry,” he rasps, skin paling. “Just… Jesus, shit hurts so bad!”

You cluck your tongue, guilt racking your heart as you push the needle through his skin once more. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot then, genius,” you murmur, shaking your head disapprovingly.

It works. For a moment the soldier’s face twists in disbelief, and in the next, a shuddering, wheezing gasp of laughter expels itself from his throat. The sight is bleak, but it’s enough to twist your heart with warmth as you once again pull the thread through the stitch. You’d learned in the first few months of working as a nurse on the frontlines that the last thing these men wanted or needed was to be coddled along over their injuries, especially by a woman. Vulnerability was more averse to them now than ever before.

Personally, you don’t much understand it –– but your work isn’t, and has never been, about yourself.

“Look, why don’t you tell me something,” you start, glancing up to… Morrison’s…? face in apology before sticking him with the needle yet again. He jerks, but not quite so violently this time. Another one down. Only about a thousand more to go tonight. “How’d all this happen? I thought you boys weren’t meant to scope the new territory until tomorrow afternoon. Y’know, in the daylight? When you can actually see whether or not someone in the distance is pointing a gun at you?”

“Unit leader was gettin’ jumpy,” the soldier coughs out, groaning against the pain. Guilt stabs your heart like a knife. You’d have given him something for the pain if you had it, something to numb the wound. But shipments of med supplies were behind, and it would be at least a week before you got your hands on anything like that again. “Said going at night would be better, that we could get the drop on them before they even knew we were coming.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Never mind the fact that their soldiers know the land better than ours do.”

So, the unit leader had jumped the gun. You’d figured as much, when two of your nurses had run into your tent with messy hair and sleep addled expressions, panicking about the oncoming slew of injured soldiers who needed immediate medical attention. That had been two hours, six patients, and about one hundred and ninety seven stitches ago.

Again. It was lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

The soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up opened his mouth to speak –– whether to snark along with you at the poor choice made by the unit’s leadership or to blindly defend his superior’s decision, you couldn’t be altogether sure –– but before he could even fix his mouth to properly shape the words, a sudden roar of someone else’s agony effectively cut him off.

Steadying your hands, you carefully turn to peer over your shoulder, searching for the source of the commotion. All night, you’d been surrounded by a cacophony of screaming soldiers, but that yell of pain is one you’re certain hasn’t yet met your ears. And, as you watch the flap of the med tent swing back before admitting entry to three people –– one of your nurses and two soldiers, one leaning bodily against the other –– you discover that your assumption is correct.

“We got a bad one,” the nurse –– Sally, curly haired, nearing twenty four and a bit more capable than the other girls when met with the sight of blood –– shouts. Her eyes scan the tent, searching and searching until her gaze finally lands on you. She pauses only a moment to turn and direct the uninjured soldier to drag the one he’s supporting over to an empty cot before barrelling in your direction. “Gunshot wound to the abdomen. I haven’t really had the chance to get a good look at it, but he’s–– well, to be frank, that man has lost a shit ton of blood.”

A gutshot. Poor guy would either go through a sickening amount of pain just to die, or he’d survive, and end up having to endure even more pain. Either way, in light of your depleted supply of painkillers, ‘excruciating’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Oh, damn it all.

“Take over here for me,” you command, gesturing with your chin to the needle perched between your fingers. Sally’s already moving to pluck it from your hand before you’ve even finished speaking. “He’s got about fifteen to go before we even think about sending him back to his tent. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“You don’t think I know better?” Sally remarks drily, but you don’t have the time to come up with a witty comeback. You’re already on your feet and rushing toward the soldier writhing in pain across the tent, reflexively grabbing a collection of gauze, thread, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol along the way.

This isn’t going to be much fun for either of you.

The first thing you do is excuse the uninjured soldier, the one who’d carried him in. For one, there isn’t any need to keep him witness, and for another, you work better when an addition of unnecessary eyes aren’t tracking your every move. Besides. You doubt the poor soul laying on your med cot is at all interested in one of his peers –– one not sick or out of his mind due to his own pain, that is –– see him in this state. So, you simply thank the young man for his assistance and shoo him back in the direction from which he’d come, waiting until he’s passed the tent’s entrance before turning your full, undivided attention to your newest patient.

He’s got his eyes screwed shut tight in pain. You can hardly blame him. Of all the wounds to suffer through, a gutshot has the potential to win least desirable. It’s easy enough to see why, as the young man’s handsome features carve themselves into an expression of despair. A slick sheen of sweat coats his pale forehead, dampening his dark hair and sticking it to his skin. He’s biting down so hard on his bottom lip in effort to swallow his screams that you’re genuinely shocked he hasn’t drawn blood.

Though, part of you wonders if there’s even enough blood left in his body for his lip to bleed. Deep scarlet blooms stain his green shirt, so thoroughly soaked through that the fabric has turned almost black. Swathes of red cover his torso, his pants, the pale skin of his arms. It’s everywhere, already leaking onto the white sheets of the cot.

Sally wasn’t kidding. He really has lost a shit ton of blood.

“Hey there, soldier,” you start up, setting your collection of medical supplies down before taking a closer look at his torso. Shirt sticking to his skin the way it is, you aren’t going to be able to get much done until it’s out of the way. And, given that this man is certainly in no state to shrug it off himself, you’ve got no choice but to cut it. Lucky that you’d thought to grab a pair of scissors too, you suppose. “Don’t suppose you might be able to help a girl out by telling her what year it is?”

His jaw works for a few moments, teeth grinding together so forcefully the sound is audible. You think he might be gearing up to let loose another scream before he shakes his head a single time. “I got–– got shot,” he wheezes, whole body shaking, “not concussed. Don’t–– ah, don’t really… get how the year’s relevant.”

You exhale a bemused scoff through your nose, considering your response as your scissors work their way through the bloody fabric concealing his wound. You’re working as gently as you can, and so far it seems to be doing the trick. The soldier hasn’t flinched once since you started, though it’s hard to tell if that’s more due to the fact that he hadn’t noticed any difference one way or the other, or if it’s because he’s dedicating what strength he has left to keeping his head screwed onto his shoulders.

“Fair point,” you reply, still carefully cutting through his shirt. “How about a name, then? Little more relevant to the conversation, I’d say.”

It takes a few moments of silence for him to respond –– almost as if he’s trying to remember that he’s got a name –– but eventually, it comes.

“James,” he tells you, the single syllable leaving his mouth in a pained grunt.

You nod, cutting away the last of the fabric. “Nice to meet you, James,” you tell him, carefully peeling the tatters of his ruined shirt from his abdomen. “You just hold tight a little longer for me, alright? We’ll fix you up good as new.”

It isn’t a pretty sight, what you find beneath. Under all that red is a nasty wound, jagged and swollen at the edges, punched into the flesh just beneath the southmost edge of his ribcage. Thankfully, no bones have been hit –– a shattered rib would be immediately evident, both in the pitch of his screams and the deformed shape of his chest –– but the wound is more than a little inflated. There’s a puffiness to it that you can’t comprehend, a stiffness to its perimeter that doesn’t click in your mind, until––

Until you see the small, dark center, and suddenly it does.

You swear beneath your breath, a filthy, ugly word that you’d picked up a few weeks back from one of your patients. You don’t even know what it means, not really, but speaking it feels cathartic enough that you don’t altogether care.

Oh, sweet, holy hell.

James cracks an eye open, muttering, “Darlin’, you rea–– you really gotta work on your bedside manner.”

“Alright, listen to me, James,” you tell him, forgoing a witty response. You don’t have the time, not considering what you’re now dealing with, and you figure James will appreciate your working hands more than he’ll appreciate your shitty attempts at banter. “There’s… there’s something I need to do for you, before I can start patching you up. Now, normally I could give you something for the pain, but we’re out of the anesthetic I need. So this isn’t gonna… it’s not gonna feel very good.”

James looses a labored sigh, oddly calm for the clear anguish marring his face. “Shit, well good news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, “it already doesn’t.”

His lashes flutter in a telltale manner, one which lets you know he’s getting closer to the brink and you’re running short on time. It’s easy enough, not to give in to the panic this incites in your chest. You’ve been doing this job a long time now, know that what James needs is your calm, your level-headedness. Those things have a higher chance of keeping him alive, of seeing to it that he comes out of this on the other side. Scarred up, maybe, and without the ability to breathe as deep as he once could, but still alive.

You shake your head, grabbing the tweezers from where you’d set them down before planting your forearm against an uninjured section of James’ bare chest for leverage. “Alright, big breaths, James. You scream as loud as you want or need to, but just… try and stay as still as you can, okay? I won’t be able to stop until it’s done.”

The only answer he gives in response is a shaky nod, the thick black fringe of his lashes brushing his cheekbones as his lips begin to move at a speed with which your eyes can hardly track. A prayer, you figure, or a plea for a quick end. Whichever it is, it helps him to relax just the tiniest bit more, slightly smooths out the lines of pain and suffering etched into his face.

Until you start digging with the tweezers, that is.

Then it’s all white hot screams of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper beneath his cries, words drowned out by the sheer volume of the howls ripping out of his throat. But you don’t stop working, don’t withdraw the tweezers from his bloody wound. You hadn’t been joking when you told him starting meant you couldn’t stop until you finished. Abandoning the task now meant leaving James to bleed out in a matter of seconds. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. You’re doing good, though, alright? You’re doing amazing. I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for the tweezers’ edges to find the metal bullet lodged in his skin. At first, all you can feel is a mess of flesh and muscle, shredded and frayed from the impact of the gunshot. For a few short seconds, you wonder if your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you, if it would have been more wise to search for an exit wound on his back than to simply jump straight in without taking the time to stop and think.

But your worries are unfounded –– proven two seconds later when your tweezers make contact with the tiny, foreign object threatening James’ life. Carefully, you maneuver the tweezers into the correct position to properly take hold of the bullet. Then, with one last whispered apology, you slowly and carefully begin to pull.

James’ legs buck hard against the cot, arms straining at his sides where he’s got both his hands fisted into the sheets in an attempt to hold on for dear life. His teeth chatter against each other, knocking and clacking as he tries to get ahold of the screams pouring freely from him, and that thin sheen of sweat coating his skin has turned into a full on tidal wave.

But his torso doesn’t move –– not a single inch.

“We’re almost done,” you assure him, keeping your hand steady as you continue gently easing the bullet up, and up, and up. You can just make out the silver edges of it now, slick with blood and dented. It won’t be long now, before it’s out and you can start working on staunching the blood leaking from his body. Maybe you can lift his spirits with a joke or two then, a witty comment to ease some of the pain. Maybe––

The bullet slips from the tweezers, catching you off guard and jerking your hand to the left. It’s only by a centimeter, not a huge distance, but given that you’ve got edges of metal inserted into this man’s wound, to him, it makes all the difference in the world.

James throws his head back and screams, loud enough that you can instantly hear his vocal cords go raw beneath the strain of the volume. A single word leaves his lips; it sounds like Ma, only it’s warped, strangled. Much as you detest the fact, you know the sound well. A soldier crying out for his mother while under the thrall of delirium and pain isn’t exactly a rarity around these parts.

Guilt twists your heart with the razor sharpness of a cruel knife.

“Stop,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “P-please–– please stop!”

“I can’t,” you tell him, already repositioning your tweezers and going back in. Luckily, the bullet is much closer to the surface of his wound now. It only takes a second before you find another grip on it, instantly deciding to forego gentleness in favor of speed. “But the good news is––” With a slight bend of your wrist and a soft, wet pop, the bullet comes loose from his wound. “––we’re done with the shitty part.”

James’ eyes, glassy with pain and pupils blown wide, fall first to the bullet you hold up for his perusal, set against a backdrop of lowlight and your blood covered hand, before wandering their way up to your face. It’s then that you notice his irises are water blue and clear as crystal. You’re not sure why, but their color fascinates you.

“I wanna keep that,” he mutters weakly.

Then, his lashes flutter rapidly and his head lolls to the side, his lungs expelling a great, big breath before shuddering to a halt.

Your heart lurches at the sight. For one, awful moment, you think you’ve just put the poor man through all of that pain and agony only to end up somehow killing him in the process –– never mind the fact that this isn’t the first time you’ve extracted a bullet from a soldier’s abdomen, and certainly isn’t likely to be the last. But then his chest starts up moving again, at a much less worrisome pace. It’s slow, and his breaths are shallow, but they’re still breaths.

Unconscious –– not dead.

The realization is enough to make you send a mental note of thanks to whichever being was kind enough to have shown James mercy.

You allow yourself the shortest of moments to bask in the relief –– that you’d successfully extracted the bullet, that James hadn’t died during or after your attempts to do so, that you aren’t now left to set in motion the process of another condolence letter being shipped across seas to his family.

And once it passes, once you’ve inhaled and exhaled and wiped your hands on a cloth, you grab a cloth and press it to James’ wound, setting to work on stopping his bleeding –– but not before wrapping the bullet you’d just dislodged from his body in a pad of gauze and tucking it into the breast pocket of your uniform.

––

Chapter Two: Someone Good

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #tfatws #catws #marvel #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #au #series #angst #hurt #comfort #1940s bucky

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ashknife · 2 years

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Gunthir's Memory

This is a short story set in the world of one of my WIPs. I wrote this for @inklings-challenge for the Inklings Christmas Challenge. It clocks in at just under 4800 words. I do apologize for going over, but since only the people in my writing group are familiar with Giants Among Us, I needed to put in a lot of explanatory text. Hopefully, it does well to explain strange aspects of the story without being burdensome.

This was fun to do because it finally gave me an opportunity to do some worldbuilding with my giant race and work on the nature of magic, and bring some history to a story taking place in the far future.

This takes place in another world and contains themes of hope and future reconciliation. I guess that keeps me within Team Tolkein. Being partly a war story, it contains some violence and death, but it is by no means Mortal Kombat graphic.

Story after the break.

Sophie hummed a cheerful tune as she strung a line of tiny mushroom charms on the Christmas tree to complement the many jewels and baubles already hanging from its branches. Tonight, she was the honored guest of the giantess Sigrid, a well-respected figure among the denizens of downtown Chrysanthemum. Her residence took on a mythical quality after being one of the few buildings to survive unscathed after Vignt’s attack the summer before. Viewable through the living room window and across the street, Le Petit Fleur, where Sophie once worked, still lay in ruin since its owner perished in that attack. This was as close as Sophie dared come to that cafe.

“Are those mushrooms?” Sigrid asked with a confused look on her face. “They hardly look like it.”

Sophie anticipated this. She rummaged through her sack of decorations and pulled out a preserved baby portobello mushroom. It was roughly the same size and shape as the ceramic charms. She pulled a charm off of its string and brought it and the mushroom to the giantess.

“Here,” she said as she placed the charm in one huge hand and the mushroom in the other. Sigrid closed her hands and felt the objects in each, her kind, wrinkly face producing more wrinkles in her concentration. The crystal focus between her eyes sparked briefly: a sign of delight. Her eyes lit up as if to confirm this, and she laughed.

“You humans are so crafty! They look nothing alike to me, but they feel like the same shape. How wonderful!”

Sophie understood. Ever since the day she ate a sliver of the rare legendary mushroom, tuber magicae, she saw the leylines on top of her normal sight. Giants like Sigrid saw the leylines with the aid of their focus, a crystalline organ that grows out of their forehead just above and between their eyes. They couldn’t see the material shape of things like humans do, only their leylines, a form of energy difficult to detect. The charm was a simple, spiky bright blue shape, very much like the natural earth. The little preserved mushroom was an alien knot of lines full of colors. Most giants found the products, especially the artificial reproductions, of humanity to be a delightful puzzle, just as humans are mystified at the magic giants can produce through their understanding and manipulation of the leylines.

Sigrid returned the items to Sophie, who returned the charm to its string and the mushroom to its bag. She pulled out another string of mushroom charms, these shiitake, and placed it around the tree.

Nearby, a grandfather clock solemnly struck seven o’clock. What street lamps were repaired lit up outside, as did colorful lights. Some decorated old homes, stalwarts who survived and stayed the course. Some were new lights decorating rebuilt homes, flashing brightly in defiance. Some decorated unfinished repairs and ruins, a gaudy tribute to the fallen.

“Just an hour to go,” Sigrid said.

“Until what?”

“We sing.”

“You mean that really happens?”

“Of course, dear. Not all rumors are false. Do your people not sing carols at Christmas? You have so many!” Sigrid lit up in delight again. “Oh, I so enjoy your carols! I do miss Jotunheim, but you humans keep things so lively for little old me. Ah, and this year, our song should be special for you.”

“How so? Isn’t it just ‘O Come, O Come, Emmanuel’?”

“Yes, dear, but it has significance for the Jotunn. How shall I explain this? Oh! I know!”

Sigrid stood up from her chair. Seated, she seemed like a somewhat larger version of someone’s old grandmother. Now, she stood erect at nine feet tall. The high ceiling of this building was for circulating air, but it also served as a comfortable living space for one aptly called giant. Sophie, at a mere four and a half feet tall in her mid-twenties, seemed like Sigrid’s young grandchild in comparison.

“I need to get a blanket and stoke the fire. See the star on the tree? Please get it.”

On other trees, stars were the centerpiece crown. On this tree, it was a simple affair of thin silver wire. In fact, the wire seemed too thin to hold any shape, and there was barely any wire present, yet Sophie could see it was teeming with energy. Sophie reached gently for the star, and it was her turn to gasp in delight. The wire held its shape because the air around it wasn’t air but a completely transparent crystal. It glowed at her touch, but it was heavy, and it soon filled her with a sense of unease. Behind her, Sigrid returned with a large blanket arranged in a small comfy chair. The stoked fire produced a warm, comfortable flame.

“Sit here,” Sigrid said. Sophie sat down carefully as she attempted to process her awe and dread. She noticed a little movement on the right side of the star. A single leyline dangled free, seemingly disconnected from the rest of the star.

“You already noticed it. Good. If you can see them, you can move them. It’s just a matter of concentration. Focus your sight on the dangling line, feel it like you feel your spirit.”

Sophie stared hard at the star, then closed her eyes and shook her head. That wasn’t the right way. She breathed deeply and slowly until she felt a sense of calm, and then she opened her right eye, the one blinded by acid. Now, she only saw the leylines. She reached her fingers for the lone, dangling line, concentrating on its feel, and touched it. She gasped again, excitement welling up within her. Soon, her fingers passed through the line.

“No!” she said. She slowed her breathing and tried to return to a calm state, now more difficult because she did something new and amazing. Sigrid, behind her, sang a quiet tune. Sophie latched on to that and calmed herself. She opened her right eye again, reached for the dangling line, and got a hold of it again. She carefully placed the dangling end back to where it should go. A sudden shock jolted her. The star flashed brightly, blinding her vision.

************

Sophie looked around her, but it wasn’t her body. She was a giant, and she was surrounded by other giants. She looked all around her, unable to control her actions. She tried to speak, but nothing happened. Whatever this giant was doing, she could do nothing but watch. Was this a dream, perhaps?

All around, buildings burned and fell to ruin. Bodies lined the streets. They appeared to be on the outskirts of some city. Just over a hill was something glowing a dark purple. Sophie’s giant host and the others around her hid behind trees and rocks. The air was thick with fear. A distant shriek gathered everyone’s attention. Sophie’s host quickly spotted the source: a disgusting worm-like creature stood on its spindly legs on what was left of a roof. It brandished its claws in a clear pattern as it screeched. It then spoke words as alien as it out of its toothy mouth. Several more appeared around the building, all of them facing right where the giants tried to hide.

“Gunthir!” one of the giants shouted.

“I see them!” Sophie’s host replied. “We need to make a run for it!”

“But they’ll catch some of us…” said another.

“Aye, some of us will die if we run for it. But all of us will die if we stay,” Gunthir said. Tired grunts acknowledged his wisdom.

Summoning the last of their strength and will, the group leapt to their feet and sprinted toward the dark purple beyond the hill. Even faster were the strange creatures pursuing them. It was clear they would be overtaken by the time they crested the hill. They would not make it to safety in time. Still, the giants ran with everything they had.

Two of the elderly giants, having reached their limits, stopped and turned to face their foe. They grabbed a fistful of leylines and yanked, erecting walls from the earth.

“Father! No–” cried a young giantess. Gunthir grabbed her arm and pulled her forward.

“I am sorry, but do not let their sacrifice be in vain,” he said. She fought her tears and kept running. She dared not look back even as the worm beings tore the wall down and devoured the pair. It bought them precious seconds, and it may have been enough.

The group crested the hill and descended to what appeared to be some sort of purple hole in the fabric of reality. Two elderly giants flanked the hole and strained to keep it active. A small company of soldiers guarded them. Many of them sported hastily bandaged wounds. Some were missing limbs. None of them were in any shape to fight. Despite this, they readied their weapons as the group charged for the portal. The few who could not hold a weapon any longer did what they could to encourage the group forward and help them through it.

The soldiers surrounded the group just in time to engage their enemy. The civilians panicked and stepped over each other to get through the portal. Gunthir stopped short and helped the wounded soldiers get people up and through. The defenders, brave and valiant, fought hard but were too exhausted to put up much resistance. They were quickly torn down.

“GO!” demanded a soldier missing an arm and half another as he threw himself as a shield to the worms. Gunthir picked up the last of his group and jumped into the portal. Time and space seemed to both compress and expand as a chaos of sight and sound surrounded him. It was overwhelming and disconnecting. Was this real? Did he die?

Suddenly a new forest came into view. It was dark except for the light of the portal situated in the middle of a clearing. Giants crying out of pain, whether physical or emotional, surrounded him, but it was calmer, unhurried. Their enemies did not exist here, wherever here was.

“Gunthir,” said an elder giant flanking the portal. “Are there any more coming?”

“No,” Gunthir said. “Nobody else is coming. The Shrill, they’re…” He choked up. This was his first opportunity in days to rest. His body refused to work on adrenaline now that it wasn’t needed.

“We’ll close the portal. Please rest. We will need your leader–”

A shrill scream and a wicked claw emerged from the portal.

The trees came alive as giants regained their vitality and ran as far from the portal as fast as their bodies would allow. Gunthir looked around for a sword, stick, rock, or anything weaponlike.

“Get back, Gunthir!” the giant said. “We have to close the portal NOW!”

“I’ll hold them off so you can do it safely,” Gunthir replied.

“There is no time!” The old giant removed an arm from the portal, which visibly wavered and tried to collapse. He weaved force into the leylines and threw the young giant out of the clearing. For one moment, they locked eyes.

“Live,” the old giant said.

As Gunthir flew into the trees, the elder giants let go of the portal, causing it to collapse on itself. The resulting explosion killed everything within the clearing and ten feet into the trees. Gunthir landed just outside that radius.

Gunthir’s adrenaline kicked in once more. He stood up and raced back to the clearing. A few seconds was all his body could give him, though. He collapsed onto the ground in a heap of sobs. A chorus of lament joined him throughout the forest. For what seemed like hours, he lay on the ground and grieved. He could not move any longer. His body was completely worn from running. There weren’t many here in the forest with him. Was this all that escaped Asgard?

A light touch on his back restored a modicum of strength to his body. Gunthir looked up. A young giantess in tattered robes, her face as tear-stricken as his, looked down upon him.

“Mayor,” she said. Gunthir instinctively looked down at this beard and grabbed the large beads that held its braids into place. There were three beads of semi precious stones: opal, jade, and alexandrite. These beads, in that order (top to bottom on a male’s beard, left to right on a female’s necklace), marked the office of Mayor, the leader of a community of any size. It was a high office that garnered tremendous respect. Gunthir’s community was over ten thousand strong. They spent a week fleeing to the nearest portals, always getting just cut off at just the last moment until this final portal. In their flight, their numbers dwindled considerably. Only twenty made it to safety if it could be called that.

“I am that, aren’t I,” he said.

“The leylines are different here, but I’ve given you what strength I can,” she said.

“I…thank you,” he said. In the following silence, he covered his face and shook it, hoping she was an illusion. When he let his hands down, she was still there.

“I can’t,” he said. “I don’t think…”

“Please, we need you,” she said.

“Most of my people are dead.”

“Most of everybody is dead.”

“Aye.” He wiped the tears from his face. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Brunhild.”

“Brunhild. Will you advise me?”

She stepped back with a flash of green from her focus. A sign of surprise.

“Mayor, I couldn’t possibly–I’m just a nurse.”

“But you’re convincing to do my job in the middle of our despair, and most of our people are dead. So will you advise me?”

“I’ll do my best,” she stammered.

“Thank you, Advisor. I wouldn’t ask for anything more. What is being done now?”

“The wounded,” she said. “We set up a triage center nearby. We need help gathering them.”

“That’s a good start.” Gunthir stood up, dusted himself off, and cleared his throat.

“Jotunn! Hear me now! I am Gunthir, Mayor of Burnside! I invoke the right of my office over this gathering! Is there anyone who dares challenge my right or my office?”

All around, the laments lapsed into silence. Several giants approached the charred clearing, some limping, some sporting cuts and other minor injuries, and several in surprisingly good health. From them, a giantess stepped forward. If Sophie were physically present, she would have gasped. It was a much younger Sigrid.

“I am Sigrid, temporary Mayor of the camp below. I yield my authority to you, Gunthir.”

Gunthir regarded her for a moment.

“Will you advise me?”

“Of course, Mayor.”

“Join Brunhild at my side, Advisor.”

Sigrid nodded and joined them. After a few moments, another stood forward.

“Gunthir of Burnside, there are none who challenge you. Lead us well!”

The gathered giants raised their fists, as did some of those laying on the ground.

“Gunthir! Gunthir! Gunthir!” they chanted. Gunthir held up his hands to quiet the assembled.

“The wounded! Get the wounded to triage! If you are of able body, help the one who is not. Do not let any more of our people die!”

The assembled issued a loud grunt of assent and carried out their assigned task. Gunthir and Sigrid joined in the manual labor as Brunhild used her healing gifts, shaky as they were, for first aid. Gunthir had never seen so much blood and gore even during his flight to the portal. Many had slashed abdomens from Shrill attacks. Some were missing limbs. Some were missing entire portions of their body from the explosion. He could not get the image of a child screaming while snuggling a severed hand, the only part that was left of her mother, out of his head.

Sigrid instructed Gunthir in all the intelligence she was able to gather before his arrival. The portals to escape the Shrill were all erected hastily and all possibly lead to new worlds. There was no way to tell how many worlds now contained Jotunn, much less if they were all safe to inhabit. This assumed that none allowed any Shrill through. This world was at least inhabitable and even a little similar to Asgard, but it didn’t appear to have any other people around. There were no signs of civilization anywhere.

“This world seems familiar. It almost feels like Midgard,” she reported.

“Midgard? The little people? Humans?” How long had it been since he’d been there? Almost everyone who went to university spent time there causing trouble for its inhabitants. Sophie would gasp again if she could. What did the giants have to do with Old Earth?

“There’s no sign of them, and this place does feel a little different from that. The leylines are far more natural.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s a shame. We could use their help, I think, and perhaps a little familiarity.”

“We couldn’t possibly go out playing gods again,” she objected.

“I wouldn’t think of it. We need friends, not supplicants,” he said.

After several hours of work, the wounded were gathered into the makeshift triage camp receiving care. Several giants wearily stood guard, while the rest slumped up against trees or lay on the ground for much-needed sleep. Gunthir wanted to do the same, but a new issue came to his attention.

“I found something you should see,” Brunhild said. She led him through the forest. For the first time, he took notice of his surroundings. It was a pine forest, and many of the trees were healthy and tall. They probably went undisturbed for centuries aside from whatever wildlife lived here. If there were animals around, the giants likely scared them off with all the ruckus they brought. He said a silent prayer of forgiveness. Soon, they arrived at Brunhild’s discovery.

“Look,” she said, pointing to a small pine tree, about six feet tall. It was a healthy tree, but it would not be for long. A charred rock, unmistakably from the portal clearing, was lodged deep into the trunk, and it was nearly cut off.

“It’s…a Christmas tree,” he muttered.

“Aye, Mayor, just like what they use in Midgard,” she said.

“What day is it over there?”

“I think it’s somewhere at the end of their year. December 24, I think.”

He did some mental calculations as the Midgardian and Asgardian calendars were nearly the same.

“I think you’re right, Advisor. Get someone to finish the job here and have it taken to the camp. As soon as we have rested a few hours, we should transport everyone we can there.”

“Aye, Mayor,” she replied.

A few hours had passed when the sun rose from the east. A solemn caravan, bolstered by the short rest, processed through the forest back to the camp with the healthy and slightly wounded carrying those worse off. Through Gunthir’s leadership, only five more perished through the night. Already, the camp underwent clearer organization about where people could sleep, heal, and work.

The pine tree discovered earlier rested in the center of the camp. What tiny bit held on to the stump and roots were cleanly cut off. A mound of dirt and rocks held it in place. Several whispered about the tree, especially those who at one time or another journeyed to Midgard. Were there humans around? Would they ever be able to see them again? The only ones among this group who could approach the ability to create portals were the ones who let the one collapse and explode to prevent the Shrill from invading. They were cut off from home as much as anywhere else.

Gunthir said nothing. Rather, he pulled the beads from his beard and ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt. He strung the beads, tied the cloth into a loop, and placed the makeshift ornament upon a branch of the tree. Several giants gasped. Of course. This is what the little people did. One by one, they gathered around the tree and placed ornaments upon it: valued trinkets, jewelry, some pretty rocks around the camp, anything to spruce up the dying tree. By nightfall, the tree was near overflowing with decoration, a memorial to their lost Asgard, to their lost civilization, and to their fallen.

Gunthir studied the tree. The top remained unadorned. Everyone knew the humans placed an angel or a star on top, but there was nothing around that would suffice, or even the materials to craft one. A tug at his shirt brought his attention below to a child. It was that girl, and she still clung to the severed hand of their mother. She pulled off a magnificent ruby ring from the hand and held it up as she dropped the hand. Gunthir shed a tear as he took the ring and nodded. With a motion, he weaved a hole into the earth and buried the hand. Then he approached the tree.

He took the ring and tried to fit it on the tree. The ring fit around the top branch, but the wood would not bend enough to let him tie it around the ring and secure it, nor was there enough room to use any cloth or string.

“Do we have a botanist?” he called out.

“Aye, mayor,” a young giant answered. She left her group to join Gunthir at the tree and studied it for a few moments. Then she lifted her hands and gingerly picked at leylines all around the tree, carefully rearranging them so that they connected to the tree’s main trunk. Little by little, the branches drooped a little lower and a few needles fell off. A small swell of tree formed in the trunk, which she guided to the top branch. She then pulled a few more lines at that branch so that it grew a couple of inches. She carefully bent the lines further and caused the growth to form a hook perfect for the ring to become the tree’s star.

“Well done, botanist,” Gunthir said. “You are quite skilled.”

“Thank you, mayor,” she replied, bowing before returning to her group.

Gunthir again weaved the leylines and produced a small light. He inserted it into the ruby of the ring, bathing the tree and everyone around in a soft red glow. He knew it should be a white light, but somehow this seemed to be fitting. At least, nobody bothered to question it. He weaved again, and again, and again still. Smaller lights adorned different jewels and jewel-like baubles on the tree until it was a radiant sight to behold. After he lit the last ornament, he stepped back to allow everyone to view it. By this time, the sun had fully set, and the camp was lit solely by this tree.

For several moments, the camp was silent aside from the muffled cry and sniffle. Gunthir did not know what to say or to whom he should pray, but a song the humans sang seemed appropriate, so he cleared his throat and sang.

O come, O come, Emmanuel And ransom captive Israel That mourns in lonely exile here Until the Son of God appear Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall ransom captive Israel

As he progressed through the verse, the camp slowly joined in until everyone sang. They marched through each verse as new rounds of lament and sobs erupted. Together, they mourned. Together, they celebrated Christmas.

As the song wore on, Gunthir felt strength leaving his body. Those nearby caught him. They brought out a cot, lowered him gently onto it, and started carrying him to the infirmary. As the song completed, he fell asleep.

************

Sophie drew a sharp breath. She felt as if she hadn’t breathed in ages. Gunthir’s memories flooded through her in some twisted form of recap that merged with her own. The portal exploded near Le Petit Fleur. Giants of old and customers of last summer were shredded by the impact of the exploding portal, Vignt’s bombs, and the storefront glass. She lay on the floor, guarded by the front counter, as the severed hand of the giant mother fell next to her followed by the head of her boss, which had just been cleanly removed from his body by a large shard of glass, the life quickly fading from his eyes.

In a quick, fluid motion, Sigrid grabbed the small trash can next to her easy chair and placed it under Sophie, who grimaced with indecision. Should she scream? Cry? Vomit? Faint? As she was already halfway bent over the trash can, her body chose the third option. Sigrid stroked Sophie’s short, maroon as she spoke comforting words to the young woman. Vomiting turned to dry heaving, and when her body could not do that any longer, Sophie fell back into her blanket pile and cried.

Sigrid held her guest closely and slowly rocked her until she calmed down. She pulled a nearby couch sheet off its seat and weaved some moisture out of the air and into the cloth. She gently washed Sophie’s face with it.

“I am so sorry, my dear,” she said. “I had no idea Gunthir’s memory would affect you so.”

“It was fine, but then it got mixed with the shop and the bombs, and…and…”

“You are in the present now. Gunthir has long passed. Vingt is not here.”

“How…how are you…?” Sophie gestured incomprehensibly, but Sigrid nodded.

“Some of us are blessed or perhaps cursed with long lifespans. That is a story we don’t have time for tonight.”

“What about those worm beings?”

“Worm beings?”

“They killed everything…”

“Oh. Did you see the Shrill? As a human does?”

Sophie nodded slowly.

“Oh, my. That’s very interesting. We have so much to talk about! But, first, we need to get to the rooftop. It will be time to sing soon. Oh, and don’t you worry about the Shrill. They haven’t been seen since the portal exploded.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost 7:45.”

“But, the memory lasted…” Sophie tried to count the hours on her fingers.

“Funny things, memories and dreams. They don’t seem to care about the passage of time. Now, up with you. Let’s get to the roof.”

Sigrid helped Sophie up. The young woman took a few unsteady steps before gaining confidence that she would not become sick again. Sigrid wrapped a cardigan around her for the chill night and handed Sophie her coat. The two left the building and climbed up the exterior ladder to the roof. They were three stories high, which commanded a good view of Chrysanthemum’s downtown and nearby neighborhoods. They had a clear view of the large, sparkling Christmas tree standing majestically in the middle of the city square. Sigrid weaved a small, ruby light in her hands. Other ruby lights appeared, sporadically dotting the city rooftops. There were not many giants in Chrysanthemum, being a human city, but there were more than Sophie thought.

“The humans call this planet Paradigm because the paradigms and promises that led them to migrate from Earth meant nothing when the Federation crash landed. The few that survived were forever cut off from their people, and they may not have if we Jotunn had not already been here. We, too, have an unkind name for this planet: Purgatorio. We are paying for our sins here. Funny enough, though we secretly meddled with your people and treated you as little more than curiosities and experiments, humans have been our greatest source of hope. Even now, amid this damned war, we believe in you.”

Sigrid watched as Sophie absorbed this, and then she faced the city Christmas tree and sang.

O come, o come, Emmanuel…

The faint voices of the other giants joined hers as they sang in lament and hope. The familiar song never felt so alien, and yet it wasn’t all that different than before.

Rejoice! Rejoice! …

As they reached that, the sporadic voices seemed to grow louder. No, they weren’t getting louder. There were more voices. In the streets below, out of open windows, and climbing on rooftops with candles and lanterns were humans joining in song with the giants, carrying their laments, mourning their losses, and carrying hope for salvation both now and for the future. Sophie wept and joined her voice with the city’s.

Some movement below caught her eye. Patrolling the street was the Rose Company. It was rare to see her friends fully uniformed and armed. Captain Miller held up his hand to order a halt. While they, too, sang, Alex produced a small wreath from his pack and placed it on the ruins of Le Petit Fleur. When the wreath was in place, Alex rejoined the formation, and Captain Miller ordered them to march forward.

Sophie nodded. She needed to restore and reopen the cafe. Her cafe.

#giants among us #sophie rose beauchene #sigrid #maxwell alexander chamberlain #inklingschallenge #inklingschristmaschallenge #theme: hope #theme: reconciliation

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supercantaloupe · 3 years

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The issue with Rent is that people treat it like a completed musical when it wasn't. Larson died the day before previews started and it's well known how much shows change in previews. Stupid things like the amount of telephone calls used to move the narrative along would've been cut and it would've been a more rounded show. 1/2

This is also why Rent the movie is better than Rent the musical, because the movie understood the plot holes and inconsistencies and fixed most of them to make it a more viewable musical 2/2

Of course this doesn't change the fact that intrinsically Rent is meant for a certain audience, and if you're not part of that audience you won't get it as much. But it did have potential to be better than the shitshow we got

i think i have to disagree with you, anon. while you bring up a great point -- that larson died before previews and thus the musical can hardly be considered ‘completed’ like other off/broadway shows are -- i don’t think that the movie is much better than the stage show, and i don’t think that, had larson lived to change the show past previews, it would’ve been that much better. certainly some things may have been, but there’s no guarantee that the changes made will actually improve things (there are definitely other cases of this), and i also think that Rent’s entire premise is perhaps flawed a bit too far past redemption.

from the standpoint of the film, i don’t think it’s really better than the stage show. cutting music in adaptation is fine as a concept but it should be motivated, and i think they cut too much out for the film that made the show a lot drabber of a watch. i also think they cut a lot of the music because the filmmakers just...didn’t know how to film musical numbers, which...why make a movie musical in the first place? sure, it comes down to personal preference whether you like things like the frequent telephone call numbers or not; personally, i like ‘em, but turning them into just talking scenes doesn’t make them stand out as either interesting or important in the film.

i do think, for the most part, the music numbers are where Rent shines. i like what Larson wrote, and i think they’re effective (for the most part. Your Eyes still sucks and it’s hilarious). like i said, i personally like the voicemails; i’m not saying you have to, but they serve a narrative purpose. furthering your plot through song is a great way to make even small moments feel bigger, more important, and more memorable; not to mention this is the hallmark of the book musical as a format. if you’re not going to further your plot through song, just write a play.

what makes Rent suck, in my opinion, has a lot more to do with the plot and characters itself. it’s an adaptation of La Boheme, so i guess you could try to argue that my grievances stem from the opera, but...adaptation sickness. some things get lost in translation. first of all, the characters in Rent are unlikeable assholes; characters in shows are certainly allowed to be assholes, but at least one or a few of them should be likeable. what do they actually stand for, besides a vague and shapeless ‘revolution?’ the text doesn’t give an answer. they’re just whining about...bohemian ideals, i guess? (this is probably why the show is so popular with so many people. it romanticizes the notion of protest but doesn’t give a cause to fight for, which makes it really easy to allign oneself with. early performative activism!) and the substanceless activism of the main characters is especially heinous when it’s directly in juxtaposition with other really important causes that they could be campaigning for -- namely, the AIDS crisis and homelessness. both of which are presented as being pretty central to the main characters’ conflicts and to the ensemble of new yorkers (which was largely cut from the film, for better or for worse.). should the homelessness crisis have been cut in previews? maybe. maybe Rent was spread too thin trying to address both huge issues at once, and struggled to address either adequately as a result. but we’ll never know, because the show is unfinished, and never saw authorial edits in previews. i don’t really think that this would have saved the show, though.

at its core, Rent is an adaptation of La Boheme; that was Larson’s foundational concept. in doing so, he substituted AIDS for tuberculosis. i think this could work, in theory, but there is a major difference between TB in the 19th century and AIDS in the 20th. if you got TB in the victorian age, no one could really help you. we didn’t have the robust systems of medicine and pharmaceuticals like we do now. in the 1980s, not only did we have treatments for AIDS, we also had a government that actively refused to provide said treatment to the infected and the vulnerable. that’s why the AIDS crisis was a crisis, and that’s why millions of people died. the AIDS crisis was not just a health crisis but a political one, too, which is the biggest difference between it and TB from a narrative function standpoint. Rent translates TB to AIDS directly without compensating for the very important and very different contexts between them. Rent turned AIDS into a tragedy without a perpetrator, which is false and unfair. Rent is a show about activism and revolution yet refuses to acknowledge and protest against the power structures that are the active causes and opponents of the issues that the main characters actually face.

for more information, on both why the narrative of Rent and the filmmaking of the movie adaptation struggle, i’d recommend checking out youtuber Lindsay Ellis’ video essay on the subject.

Rent reaches a wide variety of audiences and attracts a wide variety of fans (whether they are the show’s ‘target demographic’ or not), for a number of reasons -- some i think are good (like the music), some i think aren’t (see above). if you like Rent, great! i’m not saying you can’t or shouldn’t. at one point, i certainly did, too. but i don’t now, and i hope i’ve done a decent job at explaining why here.

#sasha answers #anon #sasha reviews #rent

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