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arcielee · 1 year

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dōna riña

Summary: You are enraptured by the prince and princess. Paring: Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 2053 Warnings: Kissing, fingering, oral (female receiving). 18+, MINORS DNI. Author’s Note: Thank you to @aspen-carter for being my beta reader. Her stories are amazing, so go and enjoy her work! This is one of the poll options and it didn’t win, but I couldn’t help but write this anyway. I was inspired by @sapphire-writes (The Au Pair) pieces they have been working on and it literally would not leave my brain alone. Anyway, this is dedicated to @howyouloveyourdragon and @evattude for voting on this in that poll ♥ Italics are High Valyrian. Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel

The prince and the princess as newlyweds were insatiable, by all accounts.

The chamberlain of Dragonstone had advised to allow the space their unbound passion ceaselessly demanded, as their fervent dam broke and the outpour spilled into every corner, every crevice of the castle.

Rhaenyra had a shyness at first, with her cheeks pink from the salacious affection from her new husband and her whispered plea to take her to the marital bed, but Daemon would not be abated. The staff learned to recognize the lingering, lustful gaze of the Rogue Prince and would be quick to clear the room.

While the others scurried away from the fire that bloomed between these two dragons, you could not help but be drawn to their flame, with an awe that radiated from your face whenever you caught sight of their fervor. You dared allow your eyes to dawdle past what was deemed appropriate for your station, just captivated by their beauty and mesmerized by their actions towards one another, the intimacy of their touch and the beauty of their old language that spilled from their lips in soft, honeyed tones.

On this day, your steps were nimble towards their bedchamber with the clean bedclothes held against your chest. You had been informed that they were bathing, together of course, and it permitted a window of opportunity to tidy their quarters and change the linens.

Inside the bedchamber, you saw the royal garments strewn across and the sheets bundled, with the musky scent of sweat and sex that was heavy in the air. You walked to draw the curtains aside, allowing the light and sea air to pass through; you then began to sort the clothes and separate the ones that had been damaged with their removal and required mending and the ones that needed to be washed only. As you stripped the bed and gathered the soft silk, your eyes fluttered with the intoxicating smell of their lovemaking, and its potent smell made a warmth curl within your core.

Gods, you sighed, setting the soiled linen on the velvet settee and began to place the fresh sheets. Your mind fluttered to another night when you had this same task and you had been late to come; your hands had trembled as you tried to tuck the corners, quickly, when the door had banged open.

You had muffled a squeak, ducking behind the woven partition wall and peering carefully at the noise.

It had been, of course, the prince and the princess, once again in an impassioned embrace and their lewd sounds filled the room; the suckling noises on the bare flesh from their ardent undressing.

Your eyes widened as you watched them, your tongue wet your parted lips and you felt that same warmth, almost as ache to your core. You heard their hushed whispers exchanged between and your fingers began to trail your dress, dared to press over your clothed cunt and it caused the softest moan to spill.

Everything stopped.

The prince pulled away from Princess Rhaenyra, shirtless and flushed, with long strides to throw aside the partition and find you. You fell back, stumbling over the velvet stool and pressing yourself against the vanity.

The fury etched on his brow lifted, aware that you were as white as his long tresses that spilled onto his shoulders. Behind him, you saw the princess move, who was still wearing her corset and shift, peering curiously. “What was she doing, husband?” She asked him in their foreign tongue.

“I believe we have a pervert amongst us,” he replied, a smirk on his lips. “I can smell her cunt from where I stand.”

You did not know what was being exchanged, you were only aware of the dark gaze of the prince in that moment; you fell forward, your knees bruising against the cobblestone. “My prince, my princess, forgive me,” you cried. “I was only changing the sheets and you…you startled me…and I…”

“Stop scaring her,” and the princess pressed from the bed, coming to your side with purposeful steps. “You may leave us,” she said to you, her voice sweet.

Your eyes strained to focus on her, aware of how her nipples pebbled beneath her chemise; you focused on her blonde lashes, so light they seemed a golden halo around her lavender eyes that keenly watched your reaction. “Thank you, your grace,” you whispered and you were quick to leave.

The days passed and reprimand never came from the chamberlain. You did not speak a word about the encounter, remaining dutiful to finish your chores assigned and trying to ease the small hitch of panic in your chest as you finished their bed. Your hands fluffed the feather pillows and your fingers traced the sheets, stopping at the edge to gather the old sheets and, before you could stop yourself, took a deep inhale of them.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

You jumped, the flutter of silk around you as you brought your arms sharp to your sides. You turned towards the voice and saw Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned against the doorframe, a smirk to his lips.

You curtsy, your head bowed and your eyes bore into the silk spill on the cobblestone, unwilling to make eye contact. “My prince, forgive me,” you stammered for words, “I was only changing the sheets and I will be on my way-”

“Must you frighten every handmaiden in Dragonstone?”

You had to look up, dared to turn towards the musical tone of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her silver curls were still damp at their ends, the wetness made them seem almost golden, and her skin was flushed pink, she was wearing only a chemise and no corset. Freshly washed, perhaps waiting for another one of the girls to help her dress but you knew they would not come unless summoned, unwillingly to disrupt them.

“My princess,” you rasped.

“I believe this is the same handmaiden as before,” the prince responded and you saw how she tilted her head towards her husband, the curl of her pink lips to whatever he was saying to her. “I can smell her cunt from where I stand.”

The focus returned to you and you felt the burn in your cheeks from her gaze. “Indeed,” she murmured and began to walk towards you.

You held your ground, eyes wide and forced yourself to swallow, but your throat was desperately dry. As she came closer, you cast your eyes downward and enjoyed the floral scent that wafted with her queenly presence. She leaned forward, her arms crossed behind her back and catching your eyes with her own lavender ones, with the same sweet or mischievous smile splayed on her face. “My dear girl,” her voice was low and sultry, her lilt clenched at your core. “You seem so very devoted to your queen to-be, is this correct?”

You nodded your head quickly.

“And you would serve your queen however she requested?”

“Of course,” you breathed, straightening to look at her.

She hummed and pressed closer still, the warmth radiated from her and seemed to meld with the passion that churned in your lower abdomen. “Then allow me to kiss you.”

Your eyes widened still, your lips parted with shock and she gently cupped the back of your head, tilting her head and bringing her lips to touch yours. Her lips were soft and your hands trembled before they rested on her hips, your soft moan allowed her tongue to curl against your own with a languid pace to savor your taste.

She pulled back and peered past you, only then did you remember that Prince Daemon was still present. You looked back at him, your pupils blown and your lips red, and he returned your gaze with a steely one, a fire burning behind his eyes as he moved towards you.

The princess slipped her hand into your own, pulling you towards the bed you had just made and stopped to cup your cheeks, bringing your lips to hers again.

You were bolder with your touch, one arm curling around her waist and pulling her closer against you, your other hand grabbed the back of her neck and your fingernails were gentle to scratch her skin. She almost purred in your mouth, her tongue running along your bottom lip before she nipped into it and broke away again.

You saw that the prince was laid across the bed and the princess pressed another quick kiss to your lips. “You may leave now and without any ill will,” she offered you an escape. “Or you may stay and serve your liege.”

Your hands moved to untie your apron and the cotton fell to the floor; the princess smiled and helped with your laces until you both wore only your chemise, hers was silk and yours was cotton.

She guided you to lay on the bed, until your back was pressed against Daemon, his bare chest warm on your backside, and you watched as Rhaenyra crawled onto the bed and towards you.

Your heart was aflutter from the soft touch of her hands on your thighs, her gentle nudge to spread your legs and you obliged her. There was a shiver of pleasure as her fingers traced the insides of your legs and you felt a shift behind you, the prince’s large hand grabbing the fabric and rucking it around your hips.

The princess looked up through her lashes at you, her fingers slipping into your smallclothes and pulling them down; you lifted your hips so she could remove them, her exhale a tickle on your wet cunt. She watched you carefully for a moment and your own breath caught in your throat when she dipped forward, the touch of her tongue bloomed the blood to your cunt.

You mewled pitiful from the sensation of her hot mouth, how it caused a blossom of pleasure that pulsated from your center and flittered to the ends of your begin, rushing back with each lap of her tongue.

“She likes it,” the prince spoke, his low baritone reverberating against your back.

She stopped a moment, perhaps to respond but instead you leaned forward, capturing her mouth with your own with the desire to taste yourself on her lips. Her kiss was soft and warm, and her tongue gently flit across your upper life. “Lay back,” she breathed against your mouth and you felt the thick arm of the prince snake around your waist and pulled you back against him.

You gasped as she dipped forward again, her mouth pressing on the top of your slick folds; her quickened motion of her tongue against your pearl made you moan louder, your back arching against the prince.

He hummed and his hold on your waist relaxed; the princess peered up towards him once more. “Will you help me, husband?”

You felt the warmth of his palm press against your stomach and move to rest above the patch of your pubic curls, his fingers traced your slit and then pressed against your nub. You jumped from his touch and his chin rested on your shoulder, his warm breath tickled your ear.

Her hands gripped into the softness of your thigh to hold you still and you felt the sinful curl of her finger within you.

Your cries grow wanton and she added a second finger to the sensual tactician against the sweet spot within you. “Do you like this, sweet girl?” She breathed into your cunt.

“Y-yes, my princess,” you stammered.

The prince stopped his ministrations and brought his fingers as a sharp slap against your clit. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and pain. “That is your queen.”

“Yes, my queen,” you corrected yourself, tears brimming the corners of your eyes. “Forgive me, my queen…”

Your words trailed off as the first wave of pleasure began to crest, the simultaneous actions of both the prince and the princess brought your climax with a fury that drew the breath from your lungs, an anguished cry with your release. Your gaze fell towards the princess, who withdrew her fingers and brought them to her lips; you were enchanted by her perfect pink tongue that curled around her digits.

She smiled at you, still sweet, still mischievous, and all she said is, “Good girl.”

#daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon x rhaenyra x you #daemon x rhaenyra x reader #fem reader #daemyra #daemyra x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #hotd fanfiction #hotd smut

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wkemeup · 1 year

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I Am Not My Own

summary: Following the Battle of New York, Steve begins to lose himself to the mantle of Captain America. Torn with guilt over the loss of his friend and struggling in a time that does not belong to him, Steve takes comfort in his only solace.

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: descriptions of a panic attack, sad boy angsty steve

a/n: This takes place between Avengers 1 and TWS. Based on an anon request from ages ago along the lines of exploring “the impact of traumas like seeing Bucky falling from the train and the guilt over Bucky's capture, the feeling of displacement which he kept quiet while carrying the mantle of Captain America.” Title inspired by a lyric in Party of One by Brandi Carlile.

Steve Rogers looks upon the crowd gathered below the podium – a sea of star-spangled commercialized t-shirts and homemade costumes. Adoring fans scream as they hold posters raised above their heads professing their love and allegiance. Even as he stands in the back corner of the stage attempting to fade into the shadow cast by the American flag beside him, it does not sway the attention of the crowd.

He can still feel them watching him. Waiting for him. Bouncing on the balls of their feet in anticipation of his slightest movement.

The mayor nears the end of her well-rehearsed speech, and the crowd begins to grow antsier with every second. They’re not here for the mayor’s latest initiative to rebuild the subway following yet another otherworldly attack defended by the Avengers. No – they're here for him.

He almost misses his cue when the mayor steps back from the podium and gestures for him to come forward. The crowd alights with excitement; applause echoing through the treetops of Central Park and casting birds from their homes on the branches.

Steve settles the racing tempo in his chest and presses a tight smile onto his face before he steps from the shadow. It’s what he was trained to do, after all. He shakes the mayor’s hand as he’s done for the last four mayoral projects – none of which have held up to their promises to help the people of this city, but they’ve increased the mayor’s polling averages and the eased public tension toward SHEILD, and he supposes that was all it was ever meant for anyway.

So, Steve waves a hand to the crowd and throws on the charming grin he practiced in the mirror earlier that morning. He poses for pictures in the stance shown to him by the rather uptight woman in PR and he pretends for a moment that this is all there is.

No nightmares that chase him through the cold dark of his dreams until he wakes in blinding terror. No aliens slipping through a hole in space above New York. No memories of a hand he was inches from reaching; of the cold, blistering wind through the snowcapped mountains. No echoing of a scream he’ll never be able to erase as his best friend falls to the ravine.

It’s only the flashing lights. The tight grip of the mayor’s hand in his. The endless chanting of his name through the crowd.

A strange feeling comes over him as the sea of voices begins to fade, as he listens to a chorus of strangers call his name – praising a hero he does not recognize in the mirror. He hears his name and realizes it does not belong to him anymore.

Steve Rogers. Captain America. His name, his title, stripped from his grasp and given to a podium he never asked for. The mantle of the hero Steve can hardly live up to – painted only in light acceptable to the public relations department on level seven.

They erased the dark lingering under his bones and pretended like there is little more to their prized trophy than the glory of red, white, and blue. Because what use is he to them if they discover he is just as broken and battered as the rest of the soldiers left to rot on their own after they’re returned to US soil? What good is Captain America if he can hardly sleep through the night? If he’s constantly looking over his shoulder for the next threat? If he’s got a boulder on his back crippling his spine, burdened with such guilt and shame, he’s certain he’ll drown under the weight of it?

Pieces of him were torn away in the wreckage of the Atlantic, shredded remains left behind in the forties, lost to the battlefields in the city he grew up in. Fragments ripped from his clutches under bleeding nails and given to the people chanting his name, to the lawmakers in their ivory towers, to the only sense of purpose he could find within the walls of the Avengers Tower.

He realizes it then. Steve Rogers is not his own.

***

“Captain Rogers!” a shrill voice calls behind him as he trudges through the main lobby of the tower. Heels click behind his PR agent, Linda, as she struggles to keep up with his long strides. She means well. He knows she does. But he also knows she’s more of a babysitter than anything else – hired to make sure Steve doesn’t stray too far from the picture-perfect image they have set up for him.

His escape plan is thwarted by the elevator when it refuses to open its door before she catches up.

“You’re a fast one, aren’t you?” Linda huffs, trying to catch her breath. She's laughing as if she’s in on the joke, but Steve can barely muster a smile.

All he wants is to get this damn uniform off – to rid himself of the mockery it’s become and the outright lie of heroism attached to it. He feels like he might suffocate under it, like the fabric might burst into flame and devour him whole if he doesn’t peal it from his skin in time. He can already feel the singing burn against his forearms, against his chest, against his back. It’s boiling hot. It’s agonizing. It’s–

“Don’t forget about the auction this Saturday! You’re our top earner!” Linda chimes, scribbling something down in her notebook just as the elevator doors open. Steve exhales a sigh of relief when she does not follow him inside. She doesn’t even look up at him as she rattles off the rest of his upcoming schedule. He lets the doors close before she finishes. He wonders if she will even notice.

The sudden silence in the elevator might have been a relief if not for the constant ringing in his ears. Steve lifts a shaking hand to the strap of his helmet and unlatches it. Slowly, as the elevator begins to climb, he pulls it off. Weight slips from his body but it’s not enough. It’s like removing a stone from the back of a boulder – insufficient and pathetic.

He doesn’t have to look at his reflection in the silver doors to know there are red marks lining his face around where the mask meets his skin. They’ll fade in a few minutes, but they’re deep now. They look like mutilations upon the bone itself. He had asked once to adjust the framing of the helmet to avoid the painful marks, but he was told the alterative designs didn’t poll well in focus groups.

Though he tries to avoid it, Steve catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dull shimmer of the sliver doors. His hair is unkept, messy from the helmet and a rough night of sleep. The bright reflection of red, white, and blue stares back as if to mock him. But what startles him the most is the weight in his own eyes. He looks tired, he realizes. Dark circles under his eyes that never learned to fade after he took his first sip of bourbon alone in an empty bar the night he lost his best friend.

And that crowd dared to call him a hero.

Steve can’t help the shiver that sweeps up his spine. It isn’t a pleasant one. No – it's dark and cold and leaves his fingertips shaking enough that only the sharp curl of his fist is all that eases him. And even then, it’s not enough. The tremors retreat up his arms, past his shoulders, and burrow into his chest around his heart where he’s certain the muscle will twist in on itself until it gives out entirely.

He doesn’t notice the elevator doors have parted until they begin to close again. Steve quickly slips through the small opening before they can trap him inside.

He’s sweating by the time he reaches his room, though he knows the air conditioning is blowing full blast. It’s not the heat of the tower, but his own heart pulsing into overdrive. It’s the kind of panic he endured as a scrawny kid in Brooklyn, so he recognizes the feeling as it settles in.

He might have thought the serum would have taken care of the panic attacks for him, but as it turns out, even superheroes aren’t immune to the consequences of guilt and shame.

Steve digs a hand under the collar of his suit, trying to peel away the fabric from his chest but there are too many zippers. Too many straps and hooks. His hands fumble desperately with the latches but it’s taking too long to rid himself of the material. It's as if the walls are closing in on him – suffocating him, burying him.

He can’t stand the uniform. It doesn't matter how many focus groups the design has undergone or how much cutting-edge technology they sew into the fabric. It’s still the same lie. The same goddamn lie.

He’s not a hero.

He's a propaganda poster.

He watched his best friend fall to death. He laid waste to his own city in an attempt to save it. He aligned himself with politicians and intelligence agencies that puppet him around like he’s little more than a poster boy. He’s not saving anyone. He can’t save anyone.

He’s nothing.

He’s weak. He’s pathetic. He’s —

“Steve?”

He freezes at the sound of your voice. The top of his suit is half hanging off his chest, still stuck to his left arm from all the damn sweat. He keeps his back to the door where he knows you’re standing, where he knows you’re looking at him with devastating pity in your eyes. He can hear the confusion in your voice, the concern. He knows what you must think of him.

Your footsteps carry you into the room though he refuses to turn around. He can feel your gaze trailing over him, observing every ounce of the high, rapid rising of his chest, of the flush on his skin, and the sweat beading into his hair. You set your hand against his forearm as you step in front of him and slowly, Steve dares to meet your eyes.

Whatever pity he was preparing for is absent. Instead, he finds only a kind understanding that nearly knocks him off his feet. It’s too much. It’s more than he deserves. And yet, there you are.

Without saying a word, your hand slides up along his arms to begin working the suit from his tired body. He barely moves a muscle as he allows you to peel away the fabric, gentle hands coaxing over his tense muscle. Your lip tugs between your teeth in the effort and Steve can’t help but watch the sharp indent you make, how red it is when you finally release it from your bite.

A chill sweeps over him as you remove the jacket and set it carefully on the bed. He takes in as much of a breath as his lungs will allow – finally able to breathe now that the suit is no longer suffocating him.

You glance at him cautiously before your eyes dip to his belt.

“I’ve got it,” he tells you then, his voice a little rough at its edges, but at least he’s not gasping for air anymore.

You nod and step back, though you do not leave his room. Steve picks up a pair of sweatpants he discarded the evening before and takes them to the bathroom with him. He doesn’t dare a glance at the mirror, doesn’t want to know how flushed his skin has become under the rapid mixture of shame and panic. He doesn’t want to know what you must see when you look at him – this pathetic, hollow shell of the patriotic symbol plastered upon t-shirts and billboards and recruitment posters.

He steps out of his boots, discards the navy-blue pants to the corner tiles, and pulls on the soft fabric of old, familiar sweats. It’s soft against his skin. Loose. Discolored with age with fraying drawstrings and a rip at the hem under his heel. It’s everything the suit isn’t and Steve can finally breathe again.

By the time he gathers himself, he expects you to have left his room. You were dressed in your gym clothes as if you were on your way to the weekly sparring match with Natasha the rookies couldn’t stop gossiping about. You have places to be, clearly. You don’t need to be wasting your time tending to... whatever just happened with him. You’re not his babysitter.

Hell – Steve isn’t sure what you are to him, but he knows he doesn’t want you to see him like this and he’s grateful all the same. Conflict wars within him; this urge to push you away so you never witness his failings again and his desperation to sink into your arms until he finally believes the gentle encouragements you whisper.

But, of course, Steve finds you sitting patiently on his bed when he emerges from the bathroom. You stand as soon as you hear the door open, hands fidgeting in your lap. Your gaze drags over him, noticing every bare inch of his chest and the discarded remains of his suit on the floor behind him.

Your lips part, but Steve is the first to speak.

“You don’t have to be here.”

You furrow your brow, confused. “If you're about to tell me you're fine, don’t.”

Steve doesn’t look at you because he knows you’ll be able to read right through him. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. I can manage.”

Something akin to anger flashes over your features, which surprises him. “You’ve been managing for years, Steve. You can’t keep going on like this.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve hisses back, surprising himself.

You don’t flinch at his bite, but he notices the sharp intake of your breath, the surprise that alters your balance just a fraction. Subtle expressions and movements he should not be able to recognize. Another gift of the serum he has come to resent.

You swallow, but you do not cower from him. “I know you’re hurting. I know the weight of the world is sitting on your shoulders. Let me help you. Let me carry some of that weight, Steve. Please.”

He hears the ache in your voice, the desperation, and it nearly brings him to his knees. But he locks the joints and refuses to give in. He can’t show weakness now. He can’t. Because he knows he’ll crumble under it. And you’ve been too good to him – too kind, too generous with your time, too willing to offer him warm smiles he didn’t deserve.

The air conditioner hums over his head as a tunnel of cold air pushes into the room. It’s not enough to quell the sweat on his hair line, and still, he starts to shiver. For a moment, he feels ice under his palms. He feels the wind whipping against his face as he clings to the cold metal of a moving train. He feels Bucky’s fingertips slipping out of reach. He hears— He hears the rusted screws give out under his friend’s weight. The short, sharp snap.

He braces himself for what he knows comes next. The frightened look in Bucky’s eyes as a weightlessness takes him for a fraction of a second. The air suddenly ripped from his own lungs as the realization sets in. And then – the scream.

It follows him to his dreams. It haunts every waking silence. Bucky’s scream as he fell into the ravine.

It happened so quickly and still, Steve remembers every second if he’d drawn each frame himself. Every line upon Bucky’s face. The feel of the ice under his palms. The sting of the wind against his cheeks. The shame burning holes into his chest as he watched Bucky fall until he couldn’t stomach it anymore and he turned away.

“They keep telling me I’m a hero,” Steve says, though his voice is little more than a whimper. “But I’m not. I’m... I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’m an experiment designed to be the perfect soldier and I... I still couldn’t save him.”

He risks a glance at you to find your eyes are wet with tears. He knows then that he doesn’t need to specify. You were with him at the Smithsonian when he first saw the exhibit dedicated to Captain America and the Howling Commandos. You saw Bucky’s face carved into glass and the footage of his youth. You held his hand when he felt like he might collapse under the weight of those memories.

So perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by how easily you move towards him, how effortlessly you take his hand in yours and gently guide him towards the bed. His legs feel weak, his body aching and tired, so he does as you silently ask and sits on the edge of the bed. You crawl up beside him, kicking off your sneakers, and you tug him until he lays his full body across the mattress with you beside him.

You don’t say a word as you maneuver his arm to lay across your waist and guide his head to lay over your chest. It’s no small task given his size, but he uses what is left of his strength to follow your lead. When you're finished and his right leg is hooked between yours, his right arm curled around you, his ear resting over your heartbeat, Steve feels the weight ease a little from his back. The dizziness begins to fade, the fog over his mind dissipating. He concentrates on the steady thump of your heart until it drowns out the memories threatening to pull him under.

“You’re a good man, Steve,” you tell him softly. He feels the vibration of it in your chest and clings to it. Your hand slips into his hair, fingertips running gently against his scalp, and he sighs at the sensation. “The world sees you as Captain America. To them, you will always be a hero.”

He tenses at the word, but you don’t back down.

“Don’t mistake me,” you continue, “you are, but you are so much more than what they expect you to be.”

Steve shifts against you, but your hold on him doesn’t relent. You don’t shy away from his discomfort or his shame. You don’t wipe your hands of his fears. Instead – you hold him through it.

“You are the man who makes a fresh pot of coffee every morning after the team downs the first batch because you know it takes me longer to drag myself out of bed.” You only smile as surprise jolts in Steve’s chest. He doesn’t lift his head to look at you, but he can feel the soft brush of your fingers trail from his scalp down along his neck, brushing against his jawline in ginger strokes as if to soothe away his worries.

“I know you think I haven’t noticed, but it’s kind of hard to miss how wonderful you are.” There’s a breath of laughter in your voice – as if relief hangs on the end of every syllable. “You are the man who volunteered to teach basic combat after hours to the rookies who are falling below their benchmarks. You entertain all of Sam’s ridiculous attempts to outrace you and you have this uncanny ability to make Natasha laugh even when she’s veering on the edge of darkness. You are kind and sweet and thoughtful and a good, decent man.”

Steve wonders then if you can feel how frantic his heart is beating. Not from adrenaline, not from panic or fear, but born of something else entirely. Something that had to do with the way your hands soothed over his tense muscles, how you touched him so easily and so gently it was if you drew new strength back to his bones.

“And I know,” you begin, taking in a long breath, “I know you would have given your life in a second if it meant saving Bucky’s.”

Steve anticipates his stomach to bottom out, to feel the floor collapse under him. He’s certain the walls will cave around him and suffocate the last ounce of air from his lungs, but he only feels you. He feels every stroke of your touch, every steady pulse of your heart under his ear. He feels you against him and around him and holding him and somehow – that paralyzing dread he expects never comes. Instead, all that remains is a hollow, painful ache – a memory, a grief.

“I see you,” your voice comes as a gentle murmur against the tension surrounding his heart. “I see the man behind the uniform. I see you, Steve Rogers.”

Something breaks in him at the sound of his name on your lips. He has spent too many years giving himself over to the mantle of Captain America; erasing any trace of the vulnerable, grieving man under the surface. He allowed himself to be made into a symbol, a puppet, a caricature for SHIED, that he’d begun to drown under the weight of it.

But you –

You saw him gasping for air. You saw him struggling to stay afloat as salt water spilled into his lungs. You saw him and dragged his broken, aching body to shore.

Steve curls his arm a little tighter around you and he feels you sigh relief against his crown. Pieces of himself mend together by glue and tape the longer he spends in your embrace, with every reminder you offer of the man behind the mask.

“It’s easy to lose myself sometimes,” he murmurs against your chest.

You sigh, your chest lifting his resting head with a long inhale. “I know, darling. And I will always be here to guide you back.”

It doesn’t matter then what you are to him, he realizes, because he knows he loves you regardless. He must, because nothing has ever calmed him as easily as you do. He’s never found a safer solace than when he caves into the security of your arms. You are his anchor, his grounding upon uneven waters.

And you gave him back his name.

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x female reader

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anachronic-cobra · 5 months

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Inspired by the soil poll, let's make one of my FAVORITE ROCK COMPOSITIONS

#from the desk of anachron #geology

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zedecksiew · 4 months

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BLOGGIES 2023 BEST BLOG POST OF THE YEAR

On 31 January 2024, the tabletop-roleplaying-game community voted for the Best Blog Post Of 2023.

Contenders were drawn from the winners of four categories. Links, as well as their very excellent acceptance speeches---more exhortations and manifestos, really!---found here:

Theory

Gameable

Advice

Review

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Anyway---you voted. Results were very close; I was constantly worried about a tie. Nevertheless, a winner emerged:

Congratulations are in order, and an acceptance speech follows.

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(Like an idiot, I didn't plan for, and therefore didn't have the time to make a bespoke prize for the overall Bloggie winner. So they'll just get a full quadtych of lino prints. Fortunately these don't look too bad together!)

PLATINUM BLOGGIE FOR BEST BLOG POST OF THE YEAR:

🔮Re-inventing the Wilderness: Part 1 - Introduction🔮 from SachaGoat

Sacha:

As an (award-winning) blogger who only started 6 months ago - I want to use this "acceptance speech" to share the 5 steps that will start your blog: 1. You don't need a cool blog name. screenname(dot)blogspot(dot)com is probably available - you can move it later if you think of a cool name. The trick here is to set it up so your ideas can go live as soon as you're happy (or tired of editing). 2. Post something. Dust off your notebook (or note-taking app) and turn those musings into a structured post with paragraphs and context. Don't have anything ready to go? Take your latest game session and write a play report or spotlight a specific moment. This will take less time than your ttrpg prep. 3. Share it! With your gaming group, ttrpg friends, community discords, xwitter/bluesky, reddit, forums etc. 4. Don't worry about the rest. I don't have a fancy blog template. I've yet to compile a sidebar or blogroll. I don't have a newsletter or patreon. 5. Continue. Your readers will contribute with comments. You will be shared in community newsletters. Peers will write posts inspired by your posts. Your ideas will be used at another gaming table. (And if you're lucky, you can win the next BLOGGIES.) If you've shared your prep with a fellow DM… if you've contributed opinions on a ttrpg discord or forum… if you've read a blog post and have a thought that builds on it… if you have any tabletop advice or ideas … 👏 Start 👏 a 👏 blog This finally brings me to the "thanks". Winning the 2023 BLOGGIES is such a wonderful welcome to this creative niche. Many thanks to the creators who encourage the community to blog (especially around June 2023, I can actually see the thread that motivated me to start). I also want to thank a community whose collective enthusiasm and support nudge me to release the next post. And finally, everyone who voted for my post over the amazing nominations this year - a huge thank you.

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On a personal note: I am really thrilled at this final result.

The BLOGGIES can come off as clique-ish. Voting is public, but "public" on the Internet generally means a circle-jerk between subculture friends, a popularity contest.

This thing began as a jokey riff on those best-tweet-of-the-year polls over on Twitter. While Prismatic Wastelands grew it into a celebration of OSR blogging culture, it still has NSR / POSR inclinations---the specific community soil it sprung from.

As host this year I tried to extend the BLOGGIES' reach. Canvassing for nominations outside the OSR space got a couple of indie-RPG designers on the finalists list. Am proud of that; we have much to learn from each other.

I made prizes---hoping that, one day, with enough dangling carrots, these awards will eventually be tasty enough for non-POSR cliques / communities to attempt a takeover? We'll see.

Ultimately: I am glad to water this sapling and watch it grow slowly. Community is made by growing trees, not building greenhouses.

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SachaGoat snagging the final win is a vindication.

Sacha's blog is new. We don't share any Discord servers. We've never spoken, hitherto; the first time I messaged him ever was to tell him he'd won the Advice category.

The BLOGGIES fulfils its purpose: to introduce folks to quality blogs; to preach the gospel and importance of blogging. Its shade is spreading.

I'm glad to get to know Sacha and his blog. (Obviously it's been added to my must-read list!) I am honoured to be passing the torch: Sacha has agreed to host BLOGGIES 2024.

Thank you, everybody. Here's to growing trees.

#bloggies2023 #blogs #ttrpgs #community

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rjzimmerman · 27 days

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Excerpt from this story from Grist:

In the depths of the Great Depression in 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt warned Congress that millions of Americans were idly “walking the streets,” presenting a threat to the country’s stability, even though they “would infinitely prefer to work.” It’s part of the reason he proposed the Civilian Conservation Corps, a program that would hire men to preserve forests, prevent soil erosion, and control floods. “More important, however, than the material gains will be the moral and spiritual value of such work,” Roosevelt said.

President Joe Biden referenced that line last month when he announced the launch of the American Climate Corps, a government jobs program inspired by Roosevelt’s that tackles the environmental problems of the 21st century. Besides the obvious benefits of restoring wetlands and installing solar panels, the climate corps is intended to pave a path to green careers for those who sign up. Another advantage of joining, though less-discussed, is that it could help alleviate widespread climate anxiety, channeling young people’s concern into concrete, hands-on work. More than half of Americans are anxious, to some degree, about how climate change is affecting their mental health. There are only about 250 job openings in the climate corps right now, but the White House expects to employ 20,000 people over the program’s first year.

While the vast majority of 18- to 28-year-olds in the United States say they’re worried about climate change, two-thirds of them are unsure what they can do to make a difference, according to polling from the think tank Data for Progress in 2022. The combination is ripe for “climate anxiety,” a catch-all term for the feelings of grief, fear, and distress that’s not so much a clinical diagnosis as a logical response to living through the hottest period on Earth in 125,000 years.

According to common wisdom, the best way to treat existential dread about global warming is to “take action.” But not all types of climate action are equal. Proponents of the American Climate Corps suggest that the program offers something more substantial than ditching meat or taking a bike ride — it’s a chance to work on climate change or environmental justice issues all day as part of a larger cause. “There’s something about, ‘Here is a clear job with a clear timeline and a clear local goal. I can, like, put my hands in the dirt,’” said Kidus Girma, campaign director of the Sunrise Movement, a youth-led climate organization that fought to make the climate corps happen.

In small doses, anxiety can prompt people to do something, but in large doses, it can be incapacitating. The structure of the American Climate Corps could be useful for young people who are overwhelmed by the enormity of a global problem and aren’t sure where to start, said McKenna Parnes, a clinical psychology researcher at the University of Washington.

Taking action as part of a group, as opposed to going it alone, can significantly alleviate the distress associated with climate change, according to a study Parnes co-authored in 2022. Climate corps members wouldn’t necessarily need to be working with people all day to get those benefits. “Even if it’s folks that are doing individual jobs but part of the greater collective, just by nature of being part of the climate corps, there’s already that collective piece,” she said.

#American Climate Corps

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homebrewbydek · 11 months

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Blood, blood, gallons of the stuff!

It's weird to me that there aren't more body-horroresque barbarian subclasses, given the ridiculous things you can do with them. I also have a pure flesh one inspired by Magnus Archives Jared Hopworth in the works, and that's gonna be fun

But for now, blood! This one can be imagined as a sort of companion to the Blood Cleric/Blood Wizard/Blood Hunter stuff from Tal'Dorei, or stand on it's own blood-drenched soil.

I wanted something with the risk/reward of Blunter but without having to go for a new class, if you perhaps didn't want to learn all that. Or even if you just wanted to kick it back Barbarian style.

As is often the case, the alt text has been added and the link to the homebrewery can be found here. Pinned thread with all my posts can be found here, and don't forget to vote in my poll to see which of my reimagined subclasses you'd like to see: the War Domain Cleric or Hexblade Warlock - two subclasses that I deeply enjoy but I felt were mishandled in the design process.

#homebrew #dungeons and dragons #5e #d&d #d&d 5e #d&d homebrew #dnd #fifth edition #5e homebrew #barbarian #blood hunter #tw: blood #tw: violence #claret order #sanguine

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scribbleseas · 9 months

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Beyond the Walls, Chapter 2: Mother Nature

Description: It's the year 850.

You are a renowned scientist who narrowly saved the world from impending famine and malnourishment with a myriad of agricultural advancements after Wall Maria fell, surrendering acres of farmland to titans. However, your innovations are not quite enough to be a permanent solution, given that their yield rate is nowhere near ideal. Many are still starving, costs for bread and vegetables are still high, and refugee rations remain low

Convinced that the only sustainable answers can come from the natural world outside the walls, you implore Survey Corps Commander Erwin Smith to allow you to join his company’s ranks for their next expedition. His only condition? You must be trained in omni-directional mobility gear under Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, Captain Levi Ackerman, to qualify for the expedition as a soldier. Despite having no demonstrated prowess outside your trusty greenhouse, you willingly accept Erwin’s terms, desperate to prove your hypothesis. However, during your time with the Captain, you soon learn that there is more to the stoic and strong soldier that meets the eye, and instead, you have much more in common that you would have guessed. Not even you, a certified genius in the horticulture field, could predict the blossoming romance between you.

Is your commitment to saving humanity enough for you to endure extensive training under the scrutinizing Captain? Or will it be your unexpected feelings for him that ultimately distract you from your original experiment?

Content Warnings: Violence, gore, death, swearing, eventual kissing, eventual smut, human-eating titans, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder

Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! This was sooooo overdue. That being said, though, please let me know how you feel about this one! Believe it or not, this is only my third time writing Captain Levi. I really hope he’s in character for you all. I’m probably going to try to post the next chapter of Straight Laced next, but since I started the Fall Semester at my university, I can’t give you a date estimate. Shit happens, unfortunately.

Another announcement, I know I said I was going to post a poll about my next Ciel story, but I actually the next one myself lol. But on the bright side, I know you’ll all like it.

Thank you so so much for reading and staying patient with my terrible date estimates. (I know I originally said September 3rd for this one…)

Well, as always, Happy Reading!

- Dan

“I can’t even begin to tell you how jazzed I was when Erwin said you’d be joining us,” Section Commander Hange Zoë’s grin was nothing but radiant, alight with hope. Their hand rested on your forearm amicably as you walked through the Survey Corps’ Headquarters.

You and Hange were correspondents long before you started your first aeroponics prototype, about a decade ago. Hange was your colleague, watching your hypothesis about landless planting develop with rapt fascination. You studied together up until the moment they decided to join the Survey Corps and focus their scientific genius on understanding titans. Meanwhile, you decided to continue your studies, pursuing a certification as a medic and a focus on agronomy, the study and practice of soil and crop management.

Even with the distance between your respective research, you kept well in touch. It was Hange’s frantic encouragement that inspired you to make your direct appeal to Erwin Smith. They referred to the Commander as a visionary before you ever had.

Hange had met you at the main entrance and insisted that they were your tour guide for the day. At the same time, a team of cadets started to move your belongings, deaf to your protests. While most of your belongings were equipment for the greenhouse and your experiments, rather than personal items, there were still a great deal of heavy boxes that needed moving. You felt sorry for the cadets tasked with the activity— especially in this heat— but Hange seemed to think little of it, telling you to let the young kids get their energy out.

They said it as if the two of you were approaching your fifties, rather than your thirties.

The corner of your lips pulled upwards in an answering half-smile. “I know. I’ve missed you,” you admitted, taking in the expansive halls. The headquarters was an old regal castle in the countryside, the hallways lined with large windows that allowed the summer sun to stream in. Despite the antiquated architecture, the premises seemed to be extremely well taken care of, there was no hint of dust, nor one blade of unruly grass. In fact, it was so picturesque, that you suspected that no onlooker would think to assume it was a military headquarters and instead, assume it was a wealthy residence.

“Well, Y/n, as did I. That’s why I made sure Erwin made me your tour guide,” Hange exclaimed. “There are a few places I want to show you, some people I want you to meet…come this way!”

You walked with Hange obediently, content with following them around the base. The tour started with your private quarters (the cadets left all of your boxes on the floor next to your bed), continued to the base’s training areas, Hange’s office, your new greenhouse, and ended with the mess hall. As you walked, you shared greeting nods with soldiers who passed you around the base. Few people stopped to exchange words with you, sensing that you and Hange were in the middle of touring. Erwin likely debriefed his forces prior to your arrival, anyway.

The mess hall was abuzz with soldiers in decently high spirits, much to your surprise. There was a monotone chatter around the room as soldiers ate their breakfast.

The Survey Corps served their meals cafeteria-style, the lines at the far side of the room long as everyone waited for their lightly salted oatmeal and a singular slice of bread. As you suspected, there wasn’t a piece of fruit or a vegetable in sight because the military insisted its men sacrificed their diets alongside their lives. While you doubted you could produce enough vegetation to give everyone a nutritional boost in such little time, some change was better than no change. The tables of soldiers you passed continued to track your movements with evident curiosity, sizing you up— wondering whether or not you were as great as your reputation imagined you were.

“Levi Squad, Miche, Moblit, this is my dear friend Y/n Y/l/n,” Hange announced proudly, stopping at a long table towards the far side of the mess hall— the furthest away from the line of hungry scouts. Populating the table were a number of men and one woman, each regarding you with varying levels of interest.

“Y/n, this is the Levi Squad,” Hange gestured to the group of six soldiers— the Levi Squad consisted of soldiers Petra Ral, Oluo Bozado, Eld Gin, and Gunther Shultz. Miche Zacharius and Moblit Berner were also distinguished Survey Corps members; Miche was one of Hange’s fellow section commanders and Moblit was their research assistant. You were never one to enter a situation unprepared, so you took the liberty of reading through the Survey Corps’ major players. “Levi Squad: meet Y/n!”

“I’m Petra. It’s great to meet you,” Petra spoke first, quickly rising from her seat to give your hand a professional shake. “We’ve been reading about some of your work…not that we understand the technicalities of it, but…” she laughed, “for curiosity's sake, we try. We could never do what you do.”

I’m not sure I know how I do what I do, either, you wanted to admit. Your pride forced you to swallow the words down like a dry cracker.

“The pleasure’s mine,” you responded, reciprocating the shake and the same greeting with Gunther and Eld.

“You both can sit next to me,” Petra offered, shifting to the end of the bench. Hange took the seat directly next to Petra. You took a seat between the section commander and the tall soldier you knew to be Miche.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll do what you all--” you started, cutting yourself off with a start as Miche took a long inhale, sniffing near the side of your neck. You hummed curiously, but he made no attempt to explain himself. Instead, Miche nodded to himself and turned his attention back to his breakfast. The questioning look you sent to Hange went mostly ignored. They seemed more interested in the thin bread portion on Petra’s plate, suggesting Miche’s sniffing habit was an idiosyncrasy of his that was to be expected.

Oluo shook his head, unimpressed with your comment. He took a long drink out of a teacup, making no effort to shake your hand and introduce himself properly. “I, for one, have no idea why the Commander thinks you can become a soldier in only two months or less. You’ll be titan chow mere minutes after we—“

“That won’t happen because she’ll be riding with us,” Petra interjected pointedly before turning her attention back to you, her smile apologetic. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s the Captain,” she rolled her amber eyes, cuing you into her joke.

“Speaking of Levi… where is he?” Hange asked, taking the opportunity to change the subject from your potential demise to the whereabouts of the absent Captain. Their ponderous expression suggested that Levi was rarely late to anything. From what little information you were about to glean about him— his superhuman battle prowess, neatly groomed appearance, and stern expression to match — you imagined that the man was also quite punctual.

“Running late from his tea pick up,” Gunther answered, causing the group to share identical looks of worry and frustration. (Save for Oluo, he merely tutted and shook his head dismissively.)

“You know what that means,” Eld said, his thin lips pulling into a grim expression.

Sensing your confusion, Hange started to answer. “It means they don’t have his— oh no,” Hange fell silent at the sight of the Captain quickly making his way towards the table. Despite being a handful of inches shorter than most of the soldiers around him, all standing scouts parted out of his way, eyes diverting from his stoic gaze. The way they scurried out of the way reminded you of anxious prey.

“We should tread carefully, you guys,” Petra suggested, “he’s empty handed.” She sent a warning look towards Oluo, who merely shook his head in response, his hazel eyes rolling. They acted like a married couple— an intimacy that only came from fighting at one another’s sides for years. It was strangely heartwarming that they were able to stay with one another for so long.

“Morning, Levi!” Hange cheered, standing to greet him properly. They clapped him on the back, only to remove their hand in response to his continued silence and pointed glare. “Guess who’s sitting with us today?” they asked rhetorically, “Doctor Y/l/n! She just came this morning.”

You rose from your seat, unsure of how to proceed. Levi didn’t seem particularly interested in introducing himself to you. Instead, he regarded you, likely hypothesizing whether or not you could handle two months of intensive training under him and come out of it with maneuvering reliable enough to save your life. He was calculating any semblance of a chance you had at staying alive and carrying out your research.

“You can call me Y/n,” you decided, extending your hand to him with a tentative smile. Levi made no attempt to return the expression, much less take you. Instead, he regarded the remnants of dirt on your palm, left behind after you took a soil sample from the front of the base upon your arrival— and hesitated. None of the soldiers seemed to mind, given that it was such a minimal shadow left from the soil.

In fact, you doubted they noticed at all.

You made a quick attempt to run your palm over your light green skirts, the linen material light enough for you to remain cool in the hot summer. You chuckled apologetically, “I took a sample from your soil here. To see if it needs any additional nutrients before I use it for my vertical trestles,” you explained, doubting he would understand what you were referring to. Your vertical trestles were long stands with dozens of small engravings to house plants. The beauty of your aeroponics system was that it could grow plants without needing a constant supply of water. All they needed was nutrient-dense soil, sprays of (nutrient-dense, of course) water every few days, and consistent sunlight.

“It’s fine,” the Captain replied, his grave tone insinuating that it was anything but. Still, his calloused hand wrapped around yours, his palm surprisingly cold. His grip was firm and sure. “Given your line of work, you’re bound to drag filth around with you, Mother Nature.”

The derisive nickname caused your back to stiffen as your hand fell back to your side. You frowned, unsure of whether or not he was teasing you with it. But there was no sign of mockery in his face— only mild frustration and inconvenience.

“Training is at noon. Don’t keep me waiting,” Levi ordered, turning swiftly on the heel of his boot to make his leave. He ignored Petra’s dismayed calls, asking where he was going and why he was skipping the meal.

Hange noticed your expression as you reclaimed your seat. “It’s nothing personal. He’s always that grumpy.”

“Especially after that tea store under-watered the flowers again. The ones they need to make his black tea,” Petra sighed. You cringed, thinking about the type of lunacy that would drive someone to over-water camellia sinensis twice.

“And I need to train with him later?” You asked, now mildly concerned for your well-being along with that plant. Commander Erwin said Levi was their best soldier, Humanity’s Strongest. But he didn’t specify whether or not Levi was their best teacher. Was there truly no one else to take on that burden? Someone nicer?

“You might think we’d have someone a bit more…patient, but no,” Petra said as if she read your mind. “All of us,” she nodded to the rest of the group with her chin, her red hair bobbing at the gesture, “need to be focused on Eren while Hange works with him. The other section commanders have to prepare our new cadets. That leaves, well, the Captain, as the most qualified to show you the ropes,” the more Petra explained Erwin’s decision, the tighter the knot in your stomach felt. All of Levi’s elite squad had to make sure Eren’s titan didn’t go berserk and ravage the military branch while their leader helped you, a full-time scientist, master notoriously complex equipment.

“But you can do it!” Hange cheered. “If anyone I know can become a member of the scouts in exactly six weeks, it’s you!”

It was true. If Levi was Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, and the Eren Yeager kid was Humanity’s Last Hope, you were one of Humanity’s only obstacles standing between it and famine, which was just as dire. There was no reason to defeat the titans if most of the population was going to be malnourished and on the brink of starvation-caused extinction. Not to mention, it was too ironic: the titans are defeated only for their former prey to go extinct due to lack of food.

You couldn’t watch that happen when you were so sure it was preventable.

. . .

You had a doctorate in agronomy, a degree in horticulture, and a certification in medical care. And even after those years of hard schooling, long essays, and seemingly endless research projects, you still managed to suffer the worst of equipment malfunctions at the worst possible timing.

But to be fair, who invented this gear?

The idea of omni-directional mobility gear was to make humans as swiftly airborne as possible, giving them the ability to evade a titan’s jaws and provide lethal proximity to their vulnerable napes in milliseconds. However, human facilities were much more delicate than a titan’s— it didn’t take a doctor like you to understand that. To endure high-speed movement and mid-air contortion, the stress would need to be evenly distributed across the body at all times. That was why limp leather straps were dangling from various parts of your legs and torso while you desperately tried to buckle them in their rightful places.

Hange demonstrated the process for you about three times before they left to work with the titan shifter, swearing that you would at least survive the first session with Levi. Now you were standing alone, using one of the many benches to the slide of the big green field where new scouts stretched with their section commanders, as leverage while you tried to buckle the gas exhaust around your lower back.

Several starstruck scouts attempted to ask you if you needed a hand, but your pride refused. You were an academic. You were having issues with…leather straps. Not only that, you couldn’t, in good conscience, let teenagers help you buckle your uniform.

“Do you honestly think your equipment is going to hold you up like that, Mother Nature?” The Captain’s harsh voice asked, causing you to sheepishly turn to look at him, your cheeks reddening. Thankfully, they were already rather flushed from the heat.

“I don’t understand how you all put this on so quickly,” you explained, gesturing to the pieces of uniform that you managed to construct. “It’s like a puzzle…” you mumbled before your face lit up with relief.

“Oh--- there it is.” The buckle slipped through one of the adjustment holes, letting you pull the equipment around your abdomen snuggly. While you weren’t quite sure if this was the proper adjustment, you couldn’t help but nurse your satisfaction while you could. The compressed gas from the exhaust powered the wiring mechanism that worked like a grappling hook: the anchors on the edges of the wires were supposed to dig into any possible service and maintain your weight.

“The section commander was supposed to show you,” Captain Levi said.

“They had to run. Time-sensitive experiment with Eren. Something about sleep deprivation’s impact on titan shifting… It’s really fine, I know how important it is to be meticulous with your experiments’ timing. Maintaining consistent variables and all…” you were rambling. You cringed at yourself— your lack of social competence. But in all fairness, you spent most of your formative years in a laboratory, or your nose buried so deep within the pages of a book, that you could distinguish your textbooks from scent alone. Nothing— out of your vast libraries of literary knowledge— covered how to speak to a soldier of unimaginable strength (and with impossibly azure eyes to match.) It was no wonder the hottest part of a flame was its innermost blue.

“Sounds like Hange,” Levi said noncommittally, but he didn’t seem angry. That told you he was more than accustomed to the scientist’s effervescent (and extremely capricious) nature. It suggested he expected it, at this point. Anyone close to Hange knew to expect some turbulence, at some point. You were relieved Hange managed to find someone in the Survey Corps to grow close to. They deserved it, and it seemed Levi could use Hange’s enigmatic scheming in his life.

“Can you please just…” you looked at the equipment meaningfully. You managed to complete all of the straps that were a bit too personal to ask of him, but there were a few that ran behind your back and attached to said buckles that you couldn’t figure out how to stabilize without a mirror.

“I’m required to double check your equipment -- whether or not you proved incompetent with putting it on. You’re still a newbie, Plant Lady,” Levi said, already fixing the strap that fastened your gas exhaust-- the one you just fixed!

You huffed, dismayed by both your apparent failure and the new nickname. “I was growing attached to Mother Nature,” you smarted.

“Just give me your right gearbox, and we might just manage to start training on time,” Levi ignored your quip.

. . .

You were a puppet suspended in mid-air, only you weren’t lifeless, and somewhat in control of your facilities.

Every muscle in your body pleaded for help as you remained motionless, yet suspended in the air. Apparently, this was the first physical test the military put its cadets through. If you couldn’t strike a near-natural balance with the omni-directional mobility gear, then you were cut— sent to the fields to help with the harvest. Apparently, it would work the same for you. If you couldn’t exhibit the necessary physical prowess on your first day, what was the sense in the Survey Corps investing its time and resources into you?

You could feel sweat rolling down your neck, tracing an uncomfortable line down your back as you trembled with effort. You weren’t even wearing the full equipment. While Levi initially showed you how to put the whole ensemble together, you didn’t need all of it for your first day of training. All you currently were wearing was the various leather straps around your legs and feet, and the main belt around your waist that would have connected your gas exhaust and both gearboxes. According to your reading, those gearboxes held extra blades and gas canisters. Attached to those gearboxes were wooden handles that connected to the blades and anchors soldiers plunged into structures in order to move.

Your arms wanted to reach out and grab something, anything, to hold onto, but there was nothing in proximity. There were only two long bars that supported you on either side as if you were a swing.

You tried to keep your gaze ahead of you, knowing that looking at the distance between your boot soles and the grass was too far for your liking. In fact, the thought of your elevation caused you to shudder, causing your body to sway. You weren’t proud of it, but you couldn’t suppress your worried shriek as your gaze slipped unintentionally downwards.

“Easy there. The more you panic, the less control you have. Put the most power into your core so your back straightens,” Levi watched you, observing your quivering body— in part from the physical strain that came with holding your back straight and core strong, but equally, your fear.

“Like…this?” You managed through gritted teeth. You blinked rapidly to try to keep the drops of sweat that cascaded from your hairline and past your eyebrows away from your eyes. “What if I-I….can’t do this any longer?” you asked, trying to come up with an estimate of how long you were balancing. Seven minutes? Eight minutes? The Idle Suspension Exercise was a minimum of ten straight minutes of steady balancing, excluding any time you spent thrashing.

“Oh, you can just stop and---” the female scout to your side started to answer, only for the Captain to silence her with a single glance. Levi tasked her with turning the lever that hoisted you up and back down. “Nevermind,” she chuckled awkwardly, looking down at her muddy uniform boots.

“Why did you tell Erwin you’d master this gear in two months when you knew you had basic stamina issues?” He asked flatly. There was a dichotomy between the Captain's blunt way of speaking and the way he regarded you closely-- curious to see if you could hold yourself up for a short while longer, or if you’d collapse. The tersely restrained energy in his physique suggested he was ready to spring into action if he so much as suspected the latter was about to occur. “Seems irresponsible, for a doctor.”

“I don’t have-- basic-- stamina--- issues!” You managed through labored breaths. He was essentially superhuman. He had no right to insinuate you had basic stamina issues when he’s had somewhere near a decade and a half to develop his skills in the Survey Corps. Compared to your single day, or half hour, of training rather. “And I’m not irresponsible!”

“I’ve seen first-day cadets perform better,” Levi’s arms crossed in front of his chest, his body relaxing. “Are you sure you gave this decision all of the thought it required, Mother Nature?”

“What?” Your head tilted indignantly, your eyes widening to immediately question the Captain’s words. Was he making fun of you? Questioning your sense of rational thinking?

If you weren’t previously motivated to finish the exercise before, now you were deadset.

“Not everyone has what it takes to be a soldier,” Levi explained, unwithering against your enraged scowl.

“Some people are just more suited tending to flowers in a greenhouse than a battlefield. But I would say your attempt is…commendable,” he said. “Start letting her down, Sam,” Levi instructed the redheaded scout.

Your blood boiled, and it was from more than just the sun beating down on you.

“Don’t you dare, Sam!” You demanded with an intensity you normally reserved for those goading you like the Captain, but you couldn’t control your tone during such immense physical and emotional stress. “I will finish this!” Now you had to.

Sam’s eyebrows drew together as she hummed uncertainty, trying to decide whether she should obey the Captain when you were so clearly invested in beating the challenge. Her hand sat on the lever’s handle, unmoving. So she was going to listen to you.

She sent a resolute nod to you.

You’d dealt with numerous characters like Levi Ackerman. Stingy and sexist government officials and nobles who doubted your projects could produce anything of real scientific value…soldiers who didn’t want their wounds stitched up by someone they assumed was incompetent, based on the way you looked. Infuriated nobles who would threaten your life for making produce and food items more accessible when they’d been making fortunes by price gouging them.

“Let me finish this, Captain,” you snapped, “I can do it!”

“You already did,” Levi responded, taking a quick look at his watch. “You just passed twelve minutes. Let her down, now.”

Before you could process what was happening, Sam obeyed, turning the lever around to set you back down on the ground. The second the bottoms of your boots reached the ground, your legs buckled, threatening to fully give into your weight. If you didn’t reach for the stand to your side, you probably would’ve fallen to the ground.

“You…did that…on purpose…didn’t you…” you panted to catch your breath once again, surprised you could string a coherent sentence together. You used the back of your hand to wipe sweat from your hairline and the rest of your face. You cringed at the pool of sweat that transferred from your skin, still hesitant to believe that you truly managed to go over the minimum requirement.

Because of Levi’s strategically-placed hostility.

“Maybe,” Levi replied, something akin to reluctant respect on his face. “You’re dismissed for the day. “Meet me back here, same time tomorrow.”

“You’ll tell Commander Erwin I passed?” you asked hopefully, looking for your due praise--- even though it was obvious Levi wasn’t the type to commend his soldiers for a job well done.

“It’s my responsibility to update the Commander as I see fit, Mother Nature.”

. . .

“Do you have black tea in stock?” You asked the young girl working the counter at the bakery closest to the Survey Corps’ Headquarters. Even if it was the closest, it was still quite a ways on horseback-- about a half hour back into town.

The girl blushed. “Um, no. We don’t. Our…newest hire…under-watered the plant,” she explained tentatively, her smile sheepish enough to suggest that she was the mentioned culprit.

“It happens. Do you still have the plant?” you asked.

“Yes, we do…?” she replied, unsure as to why you were asking for it. Her smile seemed a bit terse, irritated that you were looking for a plant that they were likely about to compost.

“Can I buy it?” While over-watering typically caused a plant to wilt and rot, effectively killing it. However, under-watering was fixable in most cases. Especially if it was the summer sun--- while camelia flowers tended to prefer sunnier spots, they also required ample water to keep them nourished. It wasn’t unheard of for an amateur to be scared of overwatering the flowers.

“I think it’s about to die, so you can’t really use it for tea or anything,” she warned, expecting you to change your mind.

“Just name your price,” you smiled patiently, but you were sure it didn’t reach your eyes because of your impatience. But in a matter of mere minutes, you were walking to the public stable where you left your horse, Juniper, and you were on your way back to Headquarters to start your first official project as an Honorary Scout.

. . .

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narrachara-evidence-bracket · 9 months

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Round 1, Poll 8

Vote for whichever you think is best!

Evidence/Propaganda under the cut

Serious mode

-When serious mode engages, all the jokey item names are removed and the narration lapses into complete silence. On pacifist and neutral runs, this happens exactly (and only) three times. The Toriel fight, the Asgore fight and the Asriel fight.

Woshua's (joke) act

-the jokes you tell woshua are about "a kid who slept in the soil", "two kids eating pie with their bare hands" and two kids who "played in a flower garden." these jokes seem to be inspired by chara's life (and death), because frisk hasn't done any of that. maybe chara suggested those jokes?

#undertale #narrachara #round 1 #serious mode #woshua's (joke) act

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tryingtimi · 1 year

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Old Times

Inspired by Disappearance of the Girl by PHILDEL while failing my poll dears. It’s at least still a Darmon piece, even if not the promised one. I’m on it tho. Also, first try of figuring out their dynamic, so no context.

BOOK I EXPLORATION | CHARACTER EXPLORATION | DYNAMIC EXPLORATION | WC: 1,640

The Crystal Palace always showed its true magnificence at dawn.

Thick, sparkling blanket of snow covered the infertile soil outside as if its freezing white wouldn’t have hidden rough blackness underneath. Flakes rarely fell so deep in the belly of the circling mountain range, and yet the snow never seemed to dwindle.

Darmon turned from the groove they used as a window. The dining room showered in the red-orange light that seeped into the space, the palace’s crystal walls reflecting and multiplying its brilliance. They couldn’t see the auroras this far from Atarq, still, their colors reached them at every dawn.

“Its power to chain you to the window could not die away with the years. I dare say it never will,” Zheva called from the end of the refectory table.

The Nordic shines of the sun bathed her sitting figure in its slowly disappearing light. Since the day she put her armor down, she preferred to wear shadow-colored long tunics made of warm and strong textile, embroidery decorating its full length in rich shades of red and gold. Such as it did today as well. Her midnight tunic had sewed-in golden leaves scattering around in a somehow organized way, broad red hems on the sleeves and neckline adding to the harmony of colors, while a same shaded wide belt tightly wrapped around her waist.

Darmon nodded, then hesitated for a second.

His mind has been plagued with that old prisoner’s words. Words of suspicion and secrets. He found himself growing somehow careful around her. A disturbingly foolish act on his part.

Darmon joined the servants bringing in their many servings feast as they walked to the table. One of them leaned over to pull out his seat, but he stopped them with a soft gesture of a hand. The servant bowed their head, then placed four plates before Darmon as he seated himself.

“Is there a special occasion I‘m not aware of?”

Various roasted meats and vegetables ruffled up his hunger, the scent of melted butter, rosemary, and thyme twirling into his nostrils. Beside them, beautifully shaped glass bottles contained the translucent alcohol beverage made of anise, its curving form ornamenting the deeply shaded grape and pistachio bowls secured with lemon-mint tarts.

All Darmon’s favorites.

Zheva smiled a little.

“Can’t an old woman be lonely at times?” She earned a glance from Darmon.

Zheva’s face had been painted with curious tenderness today. Her features bore age, and maturity, something Darmon had grown accustomed to through the years. Her sharp, narrow eyes carried authority and wiseness while they let some visible wrinkles build a nest beside them.

Yet, Darmon wouldn’t ever call her as simple as old.

“I just find it unusual, that is all,” he added eventually. There were times when he – shamefully – craved to dine with her, but they never did. Only during lunch, they shared their meals and company truly.

Zheva took a bite from vibrant pink meat, the crystals orienting the last rays of dawn at her as a reflector. Her focus never left her meal.

“You are right, there is an occasion you might not be aware of. Two, perhaps.” She cut another slice, something almost like blood glistening on her chopsticks. “Have I ever told you about my son?”

A piece of carrot stuck in Darmon’s mouth as he stopped chewing. Only for a second, but he did.

“No, I didn’t know you had children.”

“Child,” again, she smiled a little, “only him. Especially after I left his father… or he left us, I am not certain anymore. It doesn’t really matter, I barely remember him and my son didn’t need him to outgrow him. He was a rascal since his birth, but he’d also been loyal and valiant. One could always rely on him in times of need. Qiang, that was his name.”

The biting sensation of the anise liquor did not ease the dryness of Darmon’s throat. All the food tasted delicious, yet somehow still felt as if he was eating sand.

He never heard such affection in Zheva’s voice before, not once. He couldn’t even recall if he ever heard her talk about her past. A legendary warrior of the ages and a believer left with a crumbled faith. There was not a seed of questioning in Darmon for why she never mentioned any of it before. Still, he couldn’t deny his surprise. And something else; a stirring, unsettling shred of thought.

The seed of how little he knew about her truly.

“Sounds as if you two were close.” Why continuing the topic felt like dragging a limp leg, Darmon couldn’t say. His plate almost emptied, his stomach nearly full, but he picked up another, large meat slice nevertheless.

“Hardly. We shared a lot, but his innermost thoughts remained his in the end. I knew only a version of him, one he felt comfortable sharing with me.” Zheva gestured with her hand, and the chandeliers brightened above them. A moderately dim, purplish light conquered the hall. “Raising a child does not equal that you’ll know them best.”

A strange sensation scraped Darmon’s throat; a scoff. He didn’t felt this reaction since… well, a long time ago.

He packed another bite in his already full stomach.

“You two are very akin to never asking questions. Unlike him, however, your nature is curious, Darmon. That much, I know. So, why don’t you ask?”

Traveling rays of light fell under the horizon, and the end of dawn brought darkness to the mountain range and everything slumbering within. As the hall turned completely amethyst from the only remaining source of light, Darmon found himself frozen. He cut the meat in half on his plate, his chopsticks abandoned beside it. He stared at the food, then with slow realization in his chest, he turned to Zheva.

“I never expect to receive an answer, hence why bother.”

Deepening crow’s feet, gentle, dark eyes, and a pause of silence. Then, Zheva put a comforting hand on Darmon’s, and all the cold of the world evaporated into nothing.

“You are free to ask, and with that, you shall earn answers.”

It’s been such a long time. More than a thousand decades, perhaps, since he saw the difference between Zheva and his family. Darmon couldn’t even recall when was the last time he just thought of them, yet their impact still reached him. However, with them, the reason why he joined her in the first palace was reborn as well.

“Why telling me about him now?”

She did not pull her hand back.

“Because today is the day he left me. You see, he did not share my view on how things should be. He loathed the cause I represented, and therefore, he loathed me. Some thousand years before, on this very day, he abandoned his mother. On this very day, I lost my son.” She sounded utterly mournful as she looked into Darmon’s eyes. For the longest time, he even caught a glimpse of some kind of exhaustion and age in that dark gaze. Then, ever so lightly, Zheva squeezed his hand. “Then, on this same day, you joined me.”

Crystals sang under the wind that sneaked inside the place. It reached Darmon, crawling under his padded tunic, yet it could not make him cold. He glanced at the table again, drinking in the view of the delicately prepared food. Meats, spices, alcohol, and tarts. Favorites, with just enough sweetness. Thoughtfulness to please one.

Darmon realized there was a tradition he completely forgot through the years.

And with that, the words unspoken made his eyes sting. Those words Zheva didn’t need to speak aloud. She lost someone today, and still, he was the one she celebrated. When he joined her, when he was reborn. Today, they weren’t celebrating something mundane, but the birthday of her son.

Darmon reluctantly put his hand on hers.

“I could say so many things, I don’t know which to actually say,” he said quietly.

“There’s no need for such formalities. I am grateful you’re beside me. I know what we do is hard, and it is delightful to have someone around, especially when one has a tender heart. Speaking of, I’ve heard you frequently visited the chambers recently.”

Darmon froze upon hearing this. Of course, she would know about it, he wasn’t trying to sneak around. Yet, it still made him tense under her motherly touch.

“It’s admirable how you manage those creatures, I was certain you’ll be the best to take upon this task.”

However appealing the words sounded, he knew it wasn’t exclusively a compliment. Oh no, it wasn’t. Darmon did not break the eye contact, letting those dark irises devour his soul as they stared into them. He would almost say that they spread the darkness around them as the night deepened.

“You can trust me,” he uttered. Why that was the first thing that tiptoed onto his tongue, was a mystery to him as well. He could have thanked her, he could have said he had a plan. But he didn’t. He knew she would be aware of his lies if they were actually those.

Was he worrying about lying without knowing it?

He wasn’t sure anymore. Not when he stood trial under those unwavering eyes and that oh-so-longed motherly touch. Darmon felt shame washing over him as in his shuddering heart he found the tiniest speck of desperate alarm.

Zheva did not smile anymore, yet she leaned closer and breathed a kiss upon Darmon’s forehead.

“I know,” she whispered. “I do.”

#Peoject Metalsea #Metalsea series #Darmon Strotagor #Zheva Wong #Metalsea: Turning Fates #its adding to the time before Darmon decides to leave #idk what is this or where it goes #didnt mean this to be this touchy #i would say its a special occasion and maybe their firsts

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tvbuzzerstory · 29 days

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Sports Spectacle : Catch the Latest India Updates with Buzzerstory

Introduction

In a nation where cricket is akin to religion, and athletes from diverse disciplines are rising to international acclaim, staying updated with India's sports scene is nothing short of essential. With the adrenaline rush of victories, the heartbreak of defeats, and the inspiring journeys of athletes, the Indian sports landscape offers a captivating spectacle for enthusiasts. Amidst this excitement, Buzzerstory emerges as the quintessential platform, offering a comprehensive glimpse into the latest developments, triumphs, and challenges in India's sporting arena.

Celebrating Victories

India's sporting triumphs resonate deeply with its citizens, serving as a source of national pride and inspiration. Whether it's a historic cricket win on foreign soil, a gold medal at the Olympics, or a breakthrough performance in lesser-known sports, Latest news today india sports Buzzerstory celebrates these victories with fervor. Through engaging articles, interviews, and analysis, readers are transported into the heart of the action, reliving the euphoria of each triumph.

Unveiling Athlete Journeys

Behind every success story lies a journey of perseverance, resilience, and unwavering determination. Buzzerstory delves into the lives of India's athletes, unraveling their tales of struggle and triumph. From humble beginnings to global stardom, these narratives serve as a beacon of hope, inspiring aspiring athletes and enthusiasts alike. Through insightful features and exclusive interviews, Buzzerstory sheds light on the human side of sports, fostering a deeper connection between athletes and fans.

Spotlight on Emerging Sports

While cricket enjoys unparalleled popularity in India, the nation's sporting landscape is brimming with potential across various disciplines. Buzzerstory shines a spotlight on emerging sports, showcasing the talent, passion, and dedication driving their growth. From kabaddi to wrestling, from badminton to hockey, Buzzerstory's coverage transcends boundaries, amplifying the voices of athletes and organizations striving to put India on the global sporting map.

Tackling Challenges Head-On

Beyond the glory and accolades, Indian sports grapple with numerous challenges, ranging from infrastructure deficiencies to administrative hurdles. Buzzerstory Latest news today india sports doesn't shy away from addressing these issues, fostering meaningful discussions and advocating for positive change. By bringing attention to grassroots initiatives, policy reforms, and success stories amidst adversity, Buzzerstory galvanizes its audience to contribute towards a brighter future for Indian sports.

Interactive Engagement

In the digital age, sports fans crave real-time updates, interactive content, and engaging discussions. Buzzerstory caters to these needs with its dynamic online platform, offering live scores, interactive polls, and social media integrations. Whether it's participating in debates, predicting match outcomes, or sharing reactions, readers are actively involved in shaping the narrative, fostering a vibrant community of sports enthusiasts.

Bridging the Generational Gap

Sports have a unique ability to transcend generational boundaries, uniting individuals from diverse backgrounds through a shared passion. Buzzerstory recognizes the importance of catering to audiences across age groups, offering content that appeals to both seasoned sports aficionados and younger enthusiasts. By blending traditional journalism with innovative multimedia formats, Buzzerstory ensures that its coverage resonates with audiences of all ages, preserving the timeless allure of sports storytelling.

Comprehensive Coverage Across Sports

Buzzerstory prides itself on offering a wide-ranging coverage that extends beyond the realms of cricket. While cricket undoubtedly commands a significant share of attention, Buzzerstory ensures that fans of all sports find their interests catered to. Whether it's football, tennis, athletics, or niche sports like shooting or gymnastics, Latest news today india sports Buzzerstory's dedicated team of journalists provides comprehensive updates, analysis, and insights, ensuring that no sporting achievement goes unnoticed.

Spotlight on Grassroots Initiatives

Recognizing the importance of nurturing talent at the grassroots level, Buzzerstory dedicates space to highlight initiatives aimed at fostering sports development across India. From local academies producing future champions to community-driven programs promoting inclusivity and access, Buzzerstory showcases the initiatives that form the bedrock of India's sporting prowess. By amplifying these stories, Buzzerstory not only celebrates the unsung heroes behind the scenes but also inspires others to contribute to the growth of sports at the grassroots level.

Advocacy for Sports Culture

Beyond reporting on matches and tournaments, Buzzerstory actively advocates for the promotion of a sports culture in India. Through editorial campaigns, opinion pieces, and collaborative partnerships, Buzzerstory raises awareness about the importance of sports in education, health, and community development. By championing initiatives that promote sports participation, gender equality, and inclusivity, Buzzerstory aims to catalyze positive societal change and foster a healthier, more vibrant sporting ecosystem in India.

Conclusion

In conclusion, "Sports Spectacle: Catch the Latest India Updates with Buzzerstory" encapsulates more than just a headline; it embodies a commitment to excellence, integrity, and passion for sports journalism. As India's sporting journey continues to unfold, Latest news today india sports Buzzerstory stands as a steadfast companion, offering a ringside view of the action and ensuring that every victory, every setback, and every milestone is celebrated and cherished by fans across the nation.

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xtruss · 11 months

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US Urged To Have More Self-Reflection As Shadows Lingers Over Independence Day

— Wang Qi | July 05, 2023

Trapped. Illustration: Liu Rui/Global Times

With parades, fireworks and a White House Barbecue, the US celebrated its Independence Day holiday on Tuesday. However, beneath the glamorous events which are supposed to be filled with patriotism and joy, shadows like a spate of mass shootings, and economic recession and partisan rivalry still linger.

Since its independence in 1776, now 247-year-old, the US today has lost vitality from its early days, and in the case of the deteriorating domestic problems, Independence Day should become a "day of reflection" for Washington, Chinese experts said on Wednesday.

According to the VOA, the scheduled celebrative events included US President Joe Biden's speech, fireworks, an annual Independence Day concert as well as the traditional Independence Day parade down Constitution Avenue. But ahead of the holiday, 10 people were killed and 38 wounded in mass shootings so far this week in Philadelphia, Baltimore and Fort Worth, according to media reports.

Citing the Gun Violence Archive, the BBC reported that in each of the last three years, there have been more than 600 mass shootings in the US, almost twice a day on average. As of May 2023, there have been more than 200 mass shootings across the US.

On Independence Day 2022, seven people were killed during the Highland Park mass shooting in Illinois, during a July 4 parade. "This day of patriotic pride became a scene of pain and tragedy," Biden said in a statement to remember the event on Tuesday.

Besides the shadow of gun violence, The Washington Post described the US as being "in a funk," with "a tide of worry about a lack of civic cohesion, intense partisanship and, to some, a sense of hopelessness," one day ahead of the US Independence Day holiday.

According to a new USA TODAY/Suffolk University poll ahead of Independence Day, 7 out of 10 Americans agree with the statement that American democracy is "imperiled." Polls also show there is less excitement about the 2024 presidential election which would tear the nation further apart.

Against a backdrop of inflation, recession and rising unemployment, an AP-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research poll last week shows that only 34 percent of Americans approve of Biden administration's economic leadership, or "Bidenomics" as it is touted.

"The US has lost the vitality of its early days as a nation and lost its role as an example and inspiration to the peoples of the world who are suffering from colonial oppression. On the contrary, the US is languid, stagnant and corrupt, and has become a force that hinders the trend of global progress and undermines globalization and cooperation among countries," Li Haidong, a professor at the China Foreign Affairs University, told the Global Times on Wednesday.

There is widespread dissatisfaction with the status quo in the US… Independence Day should be a "day of reflection," which may be more helpful to the US, Li said.

According to a new Gallup poll released on Monday, confidence in the US government has reached an all-time low of 31 percent. In 2020, 46 percent of US adults expressed faith in their government. Another Gallup poll found that just 39 percent of US adults say they are "extremely proud" to be an American, a sharp decline comparing with the 55 percent in 2001.

Sun Chenghao, a research fellow from the Center for International Security and Strategy at Tsinghua University, told the Global Times on Wednesday that the US' disease exposes traumatic problems that involve the deep-seated political system, constitution and power structure of the US.

These problems cannot be fundamentally resolved in the short term, nor can they be changed by changing whoever is in power, Sun noted.

"The 'US' diseases,' such as racial problems and gun problems, are deeply rooted in its soil," Li said, "and there is still a lack of calm observation and sober reflection on its own policies and domestic social problems in the US."

It will not be surprising if the US' social problems worsen further by next year's Independence Day, Li said.

#Racism & Gun Violence #Hypocrisy & Hegemony #Economic Recession and Partisan Rivalry #Mass Shootings & Ignorance #US is 247-Year-Old

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digitalera2023 · 1 year

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Start from the end Dinesh Das's life story could easily beat the storyline of a movie. He grew up in an ordinary middle-class family with five boys. A strong interest in every aspect of society and an effort to learn set him apart from the five rising peers. But life is a journey of learning. Financial hardship descends on the family just as the completion of higher education is calling him towards a settled life. During higher education, he did not just study but took up complex subjects like coding with great interest. He has come forward to see the financial crisis very closely for the society, on everyone's side. In Hindu mythology, the goddess Dashabhuja symbolizes many forms in the same organ. Dinesh Das adopted that interpretation of Sanatan Dharma in his philosophy of life. He is a business entrepreneur, writer, politician, financial advisor and editor. Just as he has handled the calculation of the number of money perfectly for the sake of business, he has added reasonable words in his writings on the pages of the book or on the website, which has become a source of new thoughts for the society. History has witnessed that the supply and use of money has repeatedly revolutionized, changed the course of society. Dinesh Das has walked the same path. As an entrepreneur, he provides opportunities to the deserving in his established institutions and arranges their financial resources. At the core of his business values are job creation and youth empowerment, which he has demonstrated time and again in his company's recruitment. The journey was not easy though. Growing up in a rural environment, Dinesh Das has seen firsthand how difficult it is to survive without money. He got the inspiration to become a man of the soil from the water of the village. Therefore, even leaving the current financial comfort, he repeatedly ran to the help seekers. According to Dinesh Dash, recruitment, jobs and money will turn around the youth society. Under him, his company Fair Finance is now one of the most prominent companies in India. After exploring various businesses through digital, he realized that various businesses could not raise their heads due to these two pillars of money and trust. So he started his dream project Initium to help various organizations to grow their businesses for free. In return, they will later receive a portion of the company's profits as a charge. Various experts believe that this business model could be revolutionary. Politics is not for the interest of the king, politics is for the interest of the state: Less politics, more corruption. The root of such an idea has spread today in the minds of everyone from the young to the old. But the fact that this tangle of thoughts is not true at all is the proof of personality like Dinesh Das. Not just the message, he has entered the field. Fought in the 2021 assembly elections, as an independent leader. Not only did he stand in the polls, he created a record as an independent leader as the highest vote getter in this year's West Bengal assembly elections. So it can be said that his message has reached people. The 'hero of many lives' Dinesh Das is an inspiration to the public.

Education Education: Educational qualification is one of the components of the present education system. Those who have learned the lessons of life by going out of the norm, they have come out as heroes. Dinesh Das is a man who has learned the lessons of life and has been an example to people time and again. He is the first highly educated person in the village. Yet a man of the earth without ego, the signs of true learning are evident in his character. He was a resident of a part of Calcutta which still has problems with electricity. After completing his schooling very well, he joined higher education. Graduation, post-graduation and then PhD in MPhil - there is no dearth of achievements under his belt. But in spite of that, Dinesh Das is steadfast in his goal of building a better society.

Like, Share And Follow on Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/dineshdaspolitician?mibextid=ZbWKwL

#dineshdas #politics #finance #fairfinance #initium #webriver #digitalmarketingservices #marketing #consultant

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mulletcal · 4 years

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flowers, maybe daisies, might relieve the gloom. - an a.i blurb

a/n: i lowkey blame @sexgodashton for starting this whole mini series of boomer!ash things, but i also adore this because boomer!ash is soft as hell. and also a lil d*ddy but we don’t need to talk about that. title is from wait by sweeney todd bc i love it. alternative title was gonna be from L.G. FUAD by motion city soundtrack

word count:

warnings: ashton irwin being a thirst trapping, lemon stealing whore. i’m kidding it’s just a solo ash fic w no smut but some mild ash thirst trapping.

-----

‘ashtonirwin started a live video.’

Ashton didn’t often go live on Instagram, but this shelter in place order had left him ultimately bored - writing a song every day before noon, sure, but anything after that was a blur. Occasionally he would have interviews or live-streams with the band, but on days without that he was left alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts weren’t always the safest place to be; so talking to fans it was.

It was going well so far, simply asking fans how their quarantine was going - bringing some of them into the livestream so he could talk to some face to face. One girl in particular had caught his attention when they began to discuss hobbies she had picked up during the time she’d spent at home.

“Yeah, I’m learning to garden. I have a tomato plant that is just starting to sprout actual tomatoes, so that’s kind of exciting,” She had said, a nervous laugh escaping.

“Well, I would hope that your tomato plant is sprouting tomatoes, it would be a little concerning if it was growing something else,” Ashton replied with a chuckle, the girl giving a small shrug but still laughing along with him.

“You should look into it if you’ve got the room at your house, I bet it would feel rather rewarding to be able to cook something with your own fresh vegetables.”

“Would save me quite a bit of money too. Can I grow yeast? I’d like to learn how to make my own bread but here in L.A. you can’t find yeast anywhere.”

The conversation continued like that for a few minutes more, Ashton taking only a couple more fans into the livestream after that to talk to before he decided he should probably do something else productive with his day. Something like learning to garden.

It surprised Ashton the things you were able to order online during this time - soil being the main thing. He also read that saving coffee grounds would help, and he was excited at the idea of his insane coffee habit wouldn’t be completely useless. He ended up buying seeds for tomatoes, mint, sunflowers, lemongrass, and zucchini. The lemongrass and mint was specifically for Calum, realizing he would be able to dry the plants out once he had harvested them so he could make the man his very own tea.

When his package finally arrived, Ashton spread the packages out, sliding them across the table as though he was some card dealer in Las Vegas. Thinking the fans would find it amusing, he took a picture of the spread and added it to his story with the caption of ‘pick a card, any card…’. Maybe it would only be funny to him, but it did prompt a fire reaction from Michael.

It seemed as though the reaction from fans were positive though, them taking to Twitter to let him know their excitement about his new endeavour. That’s where his weekly livestreams began. He would show everyone the progress he was making with his plants, and just in general him chatting with fans. Ashton never really thought of how refreshing it could be to just talk to the fans, without the worry of time restrictions or anyone’s personal safety in the way; in fact, it left him rather inspired, loving their fans even more if it were at all possible.

A particularly warm day in L.A. left Ashton wondering if he should go out to the garden that day - but it was the day he would normally livestream, and he was excited to show what he was up to that day. Ashton wanted to plant another tomato plant, and also the lemons on his infamous tree had enough for him to make some lemonade so he was going to go through that as well.

Clad in some cut off jeans, or as Calum so affectionately called them his jorts, and a white tank top, he pulled up the live option on Instagram and waited for the people to begin to filter in before he started to speak.

“Hey guys! Just gonna wait for more of you to filter in before I actually head outside, but I thought that since you guys love my lemon tree so much, I’d make some lemonade. Fuck, I sound like a YouTuber. Is that gonna be my next career, is just YouTube tutorials on how to make shitty lemonade?” Ashton laughed to himself, slicing the lemon so he could juice it, ignoring the comments he saw about murdering his lemon children.

It didn’t take him long to make the lemonade, making mild conversation with the fans while he stirred in a little bit of sugar and some cheat mint he had ordered while waiting for his own to grow.

“Alright, now that I’m waiting for that to cool, probably best we go outside and check on those tomatoes, hm?”

It had been weird at first, talking to himself; but he quickly realized that he talked to himself anyways, even without the phone in front of him, so it couldn’t have been too weird for anyone who could overhear him.

“So I wanted to plant another tomato plant today, because everyone can use a friend right now, you know?” He looked into the camera, a smile spreading across his face when he saw the flood of cute little emojis that followed. “M’gonna be like the Bob Ross of gardening. No mistakes, only happy accidents or whatever it was he said.”

Ashton began to work away at his garden, building up a sweat in the process. It wasn’t until he leaned back, glancing at his phone did he see a text from Michael flash across the top.

‘Mate, Crystal said stop thirst trapping the fans.’

Ashton’s brow furrowed, unsure of what the text was saying, “Okay so I just got a text from Michael - what’s thirst trapping? And am I currently doing it?”

Of all the comments that followed, he noticed one that said ‘I mean… I’m not gonna say either way but take a look at yourself and get back to us’. Another one told him that it was when someone wears something in order to provoke risque texts, or gain attention from someone.

Ashton pouted, looking down at his appearance. He was kind of sweaty, but he didn’t think that the fans would mind him being covered in dirt and sweat, it’s not as though they had to smell him. Though, he would admit that he needed a shower.

“Well, since my tomato plant has been… planted next to its’ friend, and I’m apparently thirst trapping you all, I should probably go shower and clean up. Is me mentioning a shower thirst trapping as well?” Ashton rubbed his face over his hands, a small huff leaving his lips, “I don’t know… Fellow youths, tweet me and lemme know. Also, may hold a poll later on what to name these guys.” He flipped the camera around, struggling for a moment, to show the sunflowers that were starting to sprout, “M’thinking of naming one Denise. Just seems like a Denise.”

After his small speech was over, he ended the stream, grinning to himself. He hadn’t meant to show off his body in such a way, but it was funny to know that even with him hardly doing anything but be himself they still lost their shit.

Glancing around at his garden, he felt himself swell with a mild sense of pride. He was still a ways off from seeing any fruits of his labour (literally), but it made him feel good knowing he did something with his time at home, instead of slipping further into his mind which wasn’t always the kindest to him.

Ashton realized that when he was gardening, it was similar to songwriting in a way where all of his self doubts and fears went away and he could just pour himself into it - the reward being well worth the risk in the end.

Once his shower was done, he sat outside in his backyard, sipping his lemonade and enjoying the sunshine - realizing that having to stay home wasn’t all too bad, if it meant he could reset his mind, and do some small part to help how he could during that time.

tag list: @haikucal @talkfastromance4 @softbabiestan @boyfriend-cal @calum-uncrowned @wildflowerirwin @irwindoll @gosh-im-short @thesubtweeter @heavenisapeach @ridingcthood @loveroflrh @mantlereid @inlovehoodx @irwinkitten @n-ctarinenga @g-l-pierce @thecurlsofgod

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