#after all the terror i've been witness to that's good!

[fieldofdaisiies]

I've Got You

ship: Sihtric Kjartansson x female!Reader type: angst/fluff word count: 2k warnings: talks of violence and wounds summary: I've become obsessed with TLK again and maybe also with Sihtric; so here a little fic about you and Sihtric riding together on a horse back after he saved you

~all rights reserved~

"Come on," Sihtric says to you, pointing at the large, dark horse beside him. It looks majestic and at the same time absolutely terrifying — you have never been on a horse in your whole life and– 

"Come on, we need to leave. Now." There is urgency in his uttering, yet his gaze remains empathetic.

The convent where you have spent your entire life in was suddenly attacked. They mercilessly took down the guards, hurt you and your sisters, and as you tried to flee, one of the brutes followed after you. Despite your attempts to escape, his blade managed to slice into your calf, leaving a deep gash there. Unbeknownst to you, help has arrived outside, slaying the attackers. 

And out of nowhere, a man appeared in the corridor you tried to escape him, almost like a heroic figure emerging from the turmoil of the battle. With skill that was beyond you, he killed the attacker with his sword, ending his life right before your eyes. 

With remarkable ease, the man who revealed himself as Sihtric then swept you up in his strong arms, carrying you over his shoulder outside into safety.

Once joined by other men, and also some of your covent sisters he placed you on the ground next to a large horse and this is where you find yourself now, staring at him with eyes and your mouth wide open.

Your heart is beating so incredibly fast, hammering against your ribcage. There is so much pain in your system, so much panic, and fear, your whole body is shaking with the terror of what just happened. 

You suck in a sharp breath, then another, your head feeling dizzy as tears start to cloud your vision. 

"I…I can't…ride," you stammer, a whirlwind of emotions brewing in your mind. Your feel how your fingers tremble, how wobbly your knees are. The ground beneath you is covered in frost, crunching when you reposition your feet.  

Something like sympathy passes over Sihtric's face and he reaches out and gently grabs your arm, his touch surprisingly tender. "Then we are riding together."

The words struck you immediately — riding with him, with him on the back of the horse! 

You are a good Christian woman, you have never been so close to a man. It scares you, but the emotions are not stronger than the panic inside of you, and the urge to leave this place. You need to get away, fast. You know what you witnessed will haunt you forever, but staying here for longer won't make it any better. You need to get away from here. 

One after the other your sisters are lifted onto horses as well, always riding with one of Sihtric's companions. A few of them are guided towards a very small carriage, your gaze following them until they disappear. 

A gentle breeze starts to blow, gradually cooling the air around you and you find yourself shivering, both out of fear and the cold. 

"Ride with me?" you hear the man next to you ask, almost like he is waiting for your consent. And God in heaven above, he truly is. 

"Yes…" you say in a voice barely above a whisper, seeing tendrils of breath in front of your face. 

Without hesitation and with strength that is beyond you, he lifts you off the ground, gently, and onto the back of the majestic, dark horse, onto the fur placed their. Your legs swiftly wrap around its strong body as you clutch the pommel tightly, a feeling of fear gnawing at your gut. 

You're so high up, perched on this powerful creature. Your rob shifts upwards, revealing the pale skin of your legs and another shudder courses through you. If he notices, he does not let show, his gaze trained only on the horse, his jaw tense. 

Sihtric wastes no time in mounting the horse behind you, causing your breath to catch in your throat. Uncertain of how to react, you remain frozen as he edges closer, gently pushing his chest, nothing but solid muscles beneath his leather armour, against your back. You feel how your hips are enclosed by his strong thighs, capturing you. 

A shiver runs through you as you make contact with him – it's a sensation unlike anything you've ever experienced before.

A breath whooshes out of you when you urge yourself to relax your body. You can't escape the closeness to him up here, so you might as well give into it before you make your both fall off the horse. 

"Let's go!" one man commands. He looks like the leader of the group, but you don't know for sure. Sihtric behind you shouts his answer. His warm breath tickles your neck, causing the hairs on your body to stand on end. 

Your hands tremble as he wraps one arm around your waist for support and takes the reins with the other hand. Why did you let him touch you so intimately? What's come over you? This is not like you. 

The wind grows stronger, now flakes of snow starting to fall, getting caught in your hair. It is growing colder, and the horse finally starts to move. It is bumpy, and despite the strong arm around you, you fear you might fall. 

You shift slightly, trying to find a more secure position, but this elicits an unexpected groan from the man behind you. 

"Don't do that," he grumbles behind you before urging the horse to move a little faster, albeit at a slower pace than the others. 

You are left confused, your body all of a sudden tense again and you don't move at all. Soon, you fall in line with others, their horses moving gracefully in sync with yours, all trotting at the same pace. The rhythmic beat of hooves hitting the ground creates a melody around you that slowly soothes the panic inside of you. Yet, your breathing is shaky and ragged, suddenly the memories of what you saw flooding your mind again — you see it all, the blood, the pain, the violence. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, your eyes close and you try to level your breathing. Small snow flakes land on your face and get caught in your hair. You blow out a long breath, heart beating so unsteadily in your chest. Biting down on your lower lip, you try to direct your thoughts to more positive things, thinking about happy times in the covent. 

Sihtric watches you from behind, your figure so fragile in his strong arms. It almost feels like you could break any second, and he knows that you were close to doing so back at the convent. 

His mission is to protect you now, forever, it seems like it is his destiny. There is something about you, something that brings out an enormous sense of protectiveness. He has seen the flame of determination vanish when you first made eye-contact in that corridor. 

Sihtric looks at you for a moment longer, revelling in the warmth and the feel of your body against his. 

You, other than he himself, even smell nice, like chamomile and parchment. From time to time he can feel you shudder, the little clothing, the robe you are wearing, not shielding you from the cold of the winter. He wishes he would have given you his coat earlier, but right now it is too late and he can only provide you warmth with his body. 

Once you arrive and once the wound on your calf is looked over and taken care of, he will see that you are provided with a coat and fur to keep you warm. 

Another shudder courses through you, your body trembling in his hold. 

"I've got you," he assures you, his voice suddenly so very soft and calm, and you offer a hesitant nod. 

The horse carries you through the landscape at a not too fast pace, allowing you to take in the surroundings — snow covered landscape, looming mountains, and weathered trees. You have never been out here. 

"You are safe now." You feel his hand move from your waist to your hip, no longer gripping you so tightly.

"And you don't ever need to fear again." It is another young man whose voice you suddenly hear and your head whips to the side. He is wearing a soft smile, one of your sister's is seated behind him on the horse, both her arms wrapped around his torso. "None of you needs to fear, you are safe now." 

You find yourself nodding at him, his kindness warming your chest a little bit. 

"Osferth," he whispers and you tell him your own name in a silent voice. "Y/N."

With the tilt of his head, and an empathetic smile on his lips, he urges his horse to move faster, past you. Your eyes stay on your covent sister and the man for a moment longer, until you look back at the head of the horse you sit atop. 

The landscape starts to darken in the distance and you find yourself wondering if you will stop soon, and build up so tents where you can sleep in. But then you actually don't know if they even have tents with them. You don't know where they normally sleep. But the one thing you know is that you will never sleep in your bed ever again. And that unsettles you — you will never have the comfort of your once safe space again. It will never be the same again, you will never have your old life again. 

It is almost like he can feel his distress, leaning in the slightest bit closer. 

"Would you like to go faster as well?" Sihtric inquires, his grip on your hip tightening slightly. 

You nod and he signals the horse to pick up the pace, and it obeys, galloping across the snow-covered land with newfound speed. 

In order to keep you safe, he pulls you even closer, and the sensation is exhilarating. There is no space between your bodies, and for a moment you think you can feel his heart beat through his skin and leathery armour. 

You've always been afraid of riding, but right now, you're completely lost in the moment—galloping across the land, drawing closer to the edge of the forest. You feel free, alive, all of a sudden as the cool wind whips across your face, through your hair and feels your lungs. 

And then— 

Frustration surges through you as you abruptly come to a halt.

Everyone has stopped, slowly climbing of their horses. It almost seems like this all works without any conversation passing between them. 

Without hesitation, Sihtric shifts behind you, letting go off your waist and also dismounts his horse. 

You watch, eyes wide open and wary, how people start to hurdle around, gathering and collecting things. Everyone is tasked with something, many collecting firewood, some already starting to build up tents. You don't even know where to look, there is so much happening. 

"Y/N?"

Slowly you turn your head to the sound. Your name from his lips is like the most beautiful song you've ever heard, it brushes your skin, your terribly cold and pebbled skin, like a feather. 

Sihtric extends his hand for you to follow suit. "Let me help you dismount the horse."

He watches you closely as you reach for his hand, trembling, cold fingers curling around his. 

You don't know how to dismount the horse, still wearing the long robes. You hesitantly, and with great difficulty pull your leg over the back of the horse, and suddenly—

You lose your balance and start to slide and eventually fall, but before you can hit the ground, he swiftly wraps his arm around your waist, catching you, clasping you tightly to his body. "I got you," he once again says, carefully placing you on the ground, allowing you to regain your footing. You take a deep breath and look up at him, offering a mumbled thank you. Your eyes lock. 

"Always," he replies with a sincere look in his eyes, and a smile tugs at your lips. You want him to see how grateful you are what he is doing for you, but you can't find the right words. 

"I will see that someone looks over your wound, then we will find you warm clothing and a place you can sleep tonight." He steps away, extends his arm to show you the way to…

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 34: Fitz's Curtain Call

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June 1905

TW: mind control, captivity

"So here's how I see it, sir," said Fitz, walking down the hallway of the auction house alongside Miss Lily. "You want money, a motivation I'm well equipped to understand. I want an easy life with a rich, soft-hearted vampire. Putting aside the part where you kidnapped and brainwashed me, our interests align."

"They do indeed," said Miss Lily with a wicked grin. "I'm so glad you turned out to be so very reasonable."

Fitz, of course, was trying to cover up his terror with bluster, a technique he had honed very well over years of confidence schemes. He could feel the tug of the vampire thrall, feel it dampening his urges to escape or resist, feel it lulling his mind into submission. And it felt good, that was the worst part about it -- so easy to let his mind drift away from him, to dream about his newfound desire for fangs to sink deep in his neck. That particular fantasy was hard to deny, something akin to hunger or lust, filling his all too eager thoughts with the image of offering himself, and --

Shit. He had to stay focused. God damn these annoying, powerful, sexy, desirable vampires.

The enthrallment he'd been placed under hadn't done enough for his nerves. He still felt like he did the night before a big opening. Normally, the danger of an audience not liking him was that he'd be going hungry. Now, the danger was much, much more acute.

"Penny for your thoughts?" said Miss Lily, ruffling his hair. "You think too much for a thrall."

"Yes, the blessing and the curse you've afforded me," he said. "...Not that I'm complaining about the spell I'm under. Sir." He was fairly certain he still had something like wit to his name, and didn't want to encourage Miss Lily to change her mind on that point.

"So then, what are you thinking about?"

"The preparations for your little vampire soiree, sir," he said. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to take a shower and comb my hair. After all, it might be my final curtain call."

"So dramatic." Miss Lily laughed. Well, easy for her to do when she wasn't the one being sold. "Don't worry, you have an appointment with our chief stylist."

Fitz's eyes narrowed. He watched as a vampire led a group of empty-eyed thralls down the hall, all of them dressed in simple linens and looking like they hadn't been washed in days. "Are you serious about having a chief stylist, or are you pulling my leg, sir?"

"Oh, I'm very serious. I told you several times that you're prize merchandise."

"Lovely. So how does one style prize merchandise for vampires, sir? Am I going to be trussed up and placed on a silver platter, with an apple in my mouth for garnish?"

"No."

"Of course not, the platter wouldn't be silver. Gold, then, sir."

"It's actually traditional for high quality thralls to be put in fancy ball dress to be sold off."

"Well, you're in great luck, sir. Despite my intimidating masculinity, I actually pull off a dress very well." He was speaking from experience on this, as he'd had to wear all sorts of women's costumes for various theatrical and hiding-from-cops reasons. "They're all very low cut, I assume, to better show off the neck?"

"Oh, you do catch on quickly."

Miss Lily showed him in to a large, sumptuous dressing room, the kind that would be the envy of any of the small-time theaters he'd performed in. There was an impressively formidable vanity covered in all sorts of makeup, some of it very expensive-looking, but what really caught Fitz's eye were the racks of elaborate ball gowns. Miss Lily certainly wasn't pulling his leg about that particular detail.

"Hello, Florence!" said Miss Lily with the cheer of a woman who was about to have a very lucrative evening. "I've brought my special project for you!"

"Special project indeed," said the older woman, scrutinizing Fitz with a practiced eye like a jeweler appraising a stone. "Well, he's handsome, at least."

"Oh, you've got a good eye," said Fitz with a grin. "It's vitally important that I'm dressed to impress, sir, and I want to accentuate my finer points, of which I have many. Whatever will make me irresistible to Miss Lily's friend with the deep pockets."

Miss Florence's eyebrow lifted. "This is the thrall you're preparing for Alexander?"

"Alexander keeps telling me he wants a companion thrall, one who reads and plays instruments. He hates the recent trend of meek and muted thralls," said Lily. "Fitz here is very much the opposite."

"Exactly, sir," said Fitz, strangely eager to please these vampires, launching into his little spiel. "I can read, I can play guitar, I can do magic tricks, I can do real magic if you give me enough preparation time, I can tell your future, I can juggle oranges, I can wash windows, bake bread, mend fences, sew, and I play a mean game of poker. Plus, the handsome face, of course."

"Oh, my dear sweet devil. Be quiet, young man," said Miss Florence, placing her hand on his head, and suddenly he felt a deep compulsion to follow her command and stay perfectly still. She was looking him over more closely now. "He's far more charming when he shuts his mouth."

"They say that about me, too," said Miss Lily. "Perhaps that's why we get on so well."

Fitz couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. He did respect Miss Lily, in a way, apart from the thrall that was placed on him. She played a good con game, and judging by the sheer expense of the outfit she had on tonight, she was raking in the cold, hard cash. Selling people for money was several bridges too far for him, but in another life where she weren't a vampire and had at least a faint impression of a moral compass, they could've gotten along.

"Anyway, I'll leave him in your capable hands," said Miss Lily. "Despite his talkative streak, you have absolutely nothing to fear from him in terms of obedience. He's a pushover to any kind of thrall, or even simply praise and flattery."

And any good thoughts about Miss Lily evaporated, as Fitz scowled at being described as an easy mark. It was far more true than he'd like it to be.

"Is that so?" said Miss Florence, petting his hair. "Can you be docile and still for me, child?"

"Yes, sir," he heard his voice say, meek and mild. He already hated Miss Florence's powers, his words catching in his throat and his muscles disinclined to obey his commands. The forced meekness and artificial calm made him feel so vulnerable. But he had no choice but to allow himself to be led to the dresses. Miss Florence was rummaging about, pulling this and that dress and putting them together on a rack.

"Here, I've put out appropriate dresses that could potentially fit and which might appeal to Miss Lily's friend with the deep pockets, as you so crassly put it," she said. "Go ahead and pick which one appeals to you."

Several days of thrall and prison related brain fog had made Fitz's decision-making skills -- dubious at the best of times -- particularly rusty. He didn't really know anything about his prospective buyers. He didn't really know anything about vampires and what would appeal to or discourage them, apart from necks pumping with blood. He could choose based on his complexion and hair, but --

"Focus, child. What calls to you?"

Fitz could feel Miss Florence's power over him lifting a bit. "I need to know what is most likely to appeal to the best target buyers, sir," he said. "For example, if older vampires are more well-mannered, I might go with older styles, but if --"

"You should choose what you want to wear. It's the only choice I allow thralls to make in this room," she said, her irritation apparent.

"Sir, what I want to wear is whatever will help me avoid being chained in a dank basement by a sadist, or a surgical removal of my personality, or -- " Fitz felt the spell being cast on him again, stopping his voice. 

"I'll allow you to try this one more time. You are to choose what you want. Not what you think an unknown patron would want, or what Miss Lily thinks you need to wear. What you want."

What he wanted? Fitz could start with freedom, even a few more days of it. That night of the magic show could easily be his last night as anything resembling a free man, and for all he knew, tonight was the last night he'd get to laugh and joke and pretend as though everything was fine.

When it came to what he wanted, a fancy ball dress didn't rate very high on his list of priorities.

Pointing this out would simply get him another swift dose of thrall dampening his voice, so instead he did what she wanted and perused the rack for something that might look flattering on him. If this was truly going to be his last night as anything resembling Phantom Fitz, he might as well go for the flashiest dress available.

Or perhaps he'd be purchased by a vampire who would appreciate his dramatic flair and show him mercy.

Perhaps he'd be purchased by a vampire who would appreciate breaking a confident human.

Regardless of the risk, he pulled out a very low cut dress made of crushed velvet in a deep red shade, the color of fresh blood, with golden trim. It was a stunning gown, exactly the sort of thing he might find alluring if he were a bloodsucking fiend. It was also suitably dramatic for a night that felt like both a beginning and an ending.

He checked the bust area as he looked it over, wondering how much padding he might need to wear with it, if it would accommodate him at all -- and he realized that it actually seemed cut for a man's figure. It did make sense that they stocked gowns cut this way, if they expected all of the fancy grade-A thralls to wear them.

"There you go," said Miss Florence, laying her hands on his shoulders, the hypnotic silence settling over his mind once more. "Now drop, and be calm and utterly still for me."

It was like cotton fluff filling his mind, dampening his thoughts. He could feel himself straining against it, so anxious from not being able to process and plot and scheme, but with no way of expressing that. He expected the peaceful nature of Miss Florence's power might be nice if he actually relaxed, but he had no intention of doing so. Not here. Not when so much was at stake.

He was pulled along into a bathroom, where he was unceremoniously stripped and dunked in a bathtub, scrubbed thoroughly with a thick pink bar of floral-scented soap. It felt nice to be washed, and he felt himself zoning out despite his resolve, mind wandering to the dreams Miss Lily had filled his head with. Dreams of the life he could live with a handsome and permissive vampire, of nights in an elegant mansion with a mysterious, dark master. The best case scenario.

Miss Florence sitting him down in front of a mirror and producing a pair of long scissors was what snapped him out of it. His golden hair, the feature he was so vain about -- and she was going to -- He heard himself involuntarily make a sound of distress, mind clawing against the vampire's spell.

"Oh, hush now, child," she said, as if she were talking to a fussy little boy getting his first haircut. "I have more experience cutting hair than any human barber."

While that was likely true, that didn't stop Fitz's chest from tightening as she chopped his hair far shorter than he liked to keep it. Vampires didn't want to have to deal with hair maintenance, he supposed, another unwelcome reminder of how little freedom he would have.

It was only hair. There were more important things to be concerned about. But his heart ached.

After rubbing his skin with sweet-smelling lotions, she brought him back into the main room and took out a small measuring tape. She began obsessively measuring every possible part of his body, from around his head to the size of his feet, in a way that seemed almost more like a ritual than an efficient way to measure him for a dress. Every time she brushed him, he felt the cottony prison for his mind growing thicker and more inescapable.

He was at least lucid enough to remember how to put on the undergarments required to wear fancy women's dress, with some assists from Miss Florence, particularly where it concerned the corset. Soon, the gown was being slipped over his head, and he found himself staring into his reflection in a large floor mirror as Miss Florence made adjustments to the dress here and there.

He looked stunning. And not just in the way he tried to convince himself every morning in the mirror, papering over his many flaws with cheap vanity. No, he actually looked fantastic in the deep red gown.

He only wished it were for a show and not for being sold to vampires.

And then the tailoring was done and he was whisked off to the vanity, Miss Florence applying makeup with a practiced hand. She was doing a much lighter look than the stage makeup he often applied himself, just enough to accentuate his skin.

"Now then, child, focus on me," said Miss Florence, dangling a ruby pendant in front of his face. It reminded him of the fatal pendant Miss Lily had used on him in his ill-fated five dollar bet. "You will remain calm during the auction."

Fitz felt something in him tug hard against that idea. How could he possibly remain calm when...

Miss Florence put a firm hand on top of his head, slowly swinging the pendant in front of his eyes. "You will remain calm during the auction. Repeat."

"I will remain calm during the auction, sir," his own voice droned.

"You exist to be a vampire's thrall. Repeat."

No, no, he was so much more than... "I exist to be a vampire's thrall, sir."

"You will know true obedience."

"I will know true obedience, sir." He could practically hear the echo of Miss Lily's voice convincing him how rewarding and pleasurable obedience would be. It had never been his strong suit. But the trance locking his mind said otherwise.

"Now, here is your final gift," said Miss Florence, taking his wrists with gentle hands, and snapping golden handcuffs around them. "You'll feel so much better once you've been sold off to a proper master, child. I can tell."

The amount of mesmeric power he was under made his twinge of despair seem distant, a storm cloud far away on the horizon. "Yes, sir."

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Next week is Christmas, so I plan to post a few Christmas specials (including at least one for Rare Bookseller) instead of a new part of the main story! The main story will resume in the new year, but until then, I have various AUs, asks, and a brand new series I hope to post.

Thanks for all your support for this silly little vampire story! I'm truly grateful for the reception I've had.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king

[octopiys]

Please please elaborate on the 141 x OldGuardau!reader

Oh my God hello OK I got u

The Old Guard is a Netflix movie about a group of people who are essentially born in different parts of time, and can die but get resurrected and stuff like that like the original post said, except the movie has more than one person. All of these people are born around historical events (dawn of time, witch trials, reign of terror) and are drawn to find each other and work as a team to not get caught by scientists or governments or anything like that, all while doing what they believe is best to protect the world.

Now for Reader, it's no small feat. If it's only themselves as an Immortal on this team (there's so much red tape around these operations including them) then it's okay. Reader is an asset to the military, and a powerful one at that.

Or maybe the reader is a newer immortal. Maybe they don't know they're immortal until an op goes bad, and they've been shot, bleeding out into an alleyway, their blood mingling with the water. Maybe their Lieutenant is aside them, doing everything within his power to keep them from bleeding out, but the wound is too bad. And in the rain, maybe they even die.

But with a gasp, they're awake again, and the young Lieutenant John Price is shocked. Baffled. No, there's not even a word for how he feels. His sergeant's wounds are knitting together after they died, and he knew they died because he witnessed it himself. He felt their pulse give out.

Now both Reader and Price are terrified. If Reader can't die, what'll happen then? He wants to radio it in to their captain, or the general, but Reader begs him not to.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, a war is brewing. Most top governments have heard whispers about a man called Kingfish, one who was so battle worn, so ruthless, so victorious, that he could topple governments by just stepping foot into their building. Rumors spread of no bullet able to pierce his flesh, like he was the Roman God of War himself.

Now, the United States doesn't believe in rumors until they've witnessed it firsthand. Little do they know, they already have.

Kate Laswell may only be a Station Chief, but she's damn good at her job. She knows her kind when she hears it, and recently there's been a shift. Like a sixth sense, she calls John.

And just like that, she knows. The next immortal is here, and with them, comes war.

Years pass, and tensions are rising between the East and the West. Price has even become captain, and scored himself a team and an odd one at that.

Of course, there's Reader. They've always been there first. A little more frazzled as time goes on, but still good. Yeah, still good.

Then joins Simon Riley. They call him the Ghost. This is reader's best bet for another immortal. Laswell has a few arguments against it, but has never outright denied the claim. But how metal is it that he clawed his way out of his own grave? That's immortal material if I've ever heard of it.

Then Kyle Garrick. They call him Gaz. Don't ask why. He's a bright thing, and a wicked sense of humor. He used to be on another force, but after an event, Price handpicked him to be on the task force. He's one of Reader's best friends. They wish he was immortal too.

Finally, came John MacTavish. He was younger than Gaz by at least a few months, making him the youngest on the 141, and Reader always held it over him. He had a fancy for pyrotechnics too, and a hell of a swear to him.

Maybe a few missions go by. Maybe more than that. They still can't get used to seeing Reader lifeless with a bullet in between their eyes, or a knife to the gut, or a grenade blown too close. Wounds heal quicker, but not if they're lethal. Yet the scars never show on their skin by the time the boys are able to pull them out of there. Reckless, maybe, but Reader's saved their asses more times than they could count.

The war rages on.

Kingfish's power grows in the East, and the task force grows wary. Even with Laswell's advice, there was still a guarantee that they'd be sent out to the front when it got bad enough, take out the threat. But the rumors have grown.

Kingfish cannot die.

And Laswell knows.

Kingfish has gone by many names throughout the centuries. His first, Emperor Nero, causing the fall of the entire Roman empire. After he faked his death, he worked from the sidelines. He slayed the last Byzantinian Emperor, he broke through the walls of Constaninople. The Reign of Terror: an advisor, and a trusted one at that. Now, the urge had resurfaced, and he took on a new name once more.

Vladimir Makarov. Kingfish.

Or, the entire team is immortal. Laswell knows about all of them. Ghost knows enough. Reader knows... Somewhat. But nobody else does. Frankly, nobody's given a thought to dying to find out. And until that tunnel, no one had even tried.

The scream is tearing out of reader's throat before Soap even hits the ground, Price still incapacitated, concussed. Reader does not care about the bomb. Ghost doesn't either. They're both there, checking for vitals as they panic, blood spilling out of his wound, as Gaz hoists Price to his feet and they go to disarm the bomb.

They find nothing within Soap. Absolutely nothing. Reader feels cold washing over the room, like they can't breathe. Like a numbness that consumed everything. Soap- If Soap went now... then it could be Gaz, or Price next. Ghost, Reader couldn't even think about. It seemed impossible. And it occurred to Reader that they didn't sign up for this. No dying, compared to anyone and everyone around you perishing in the blink of an eye. They used to be okay with it. And Soap was gone in an instant.

They're dragging him out in a hurry, and the faintest sound is pulled from his lips. It seems Laswell knew more about them all than she let on.

They get caught up in other enemies as Soap peels himself off the floor. They weren't gonna just let Makarov escape, they couldn't. They knew what he could do.

Price told Reader not to go after him. Not alone.

But Reader can't risk losing any more friends. Even if Soap did end up being okay. If something happened to Price or Gaz, they wouldn't be able to live with it.

But they would have to.

So Reader runs. They tear after him like a bat out of hell, taking bullet after bullet, felling each person who fired one. They reach the top of the stairs and launch themself at him, before a gun goes off.

Reader felt it go straight through their side in a searing hot blaze, knowing that this time, something was different. Something was wrong.

The comm was yanked out of their ear and smashed beneath a boot.

The wound they sustained wasn't that bad, in the grand scheme of things. Their vision darkens at the edges, like it does when these things happen, and before reader can close their eyes, a face fills their vision.

"Not as strong now, are you, little one?" The thick curl of Makarov's Russian lilt finds its way into their ears, as the sharp pounding fire in their side grows worse. Despite the woozy fight they put up, Reader is restrained, unable to call for help. The van comes into view as Price bursts out of a window behind them, barreling towards the group, Ghost in high pursuit.

They disappear behind the van's doors as they close, and as Reader's vision dampens more, they wonder why their bullet wound hasn't healed yet.

im so down to completely info dump on this, whether it be more details towards the story, or individual characters like reader or ghost or laswell or anything like that I fucking love the old guard

[sotwk]

I just read "A stab to the heart", and first of all, I loved it, just... perfect! The way the Thranduil is so worried for her and he can sense when she wakes up is just way too good for me!

Honestly, the last line of the fic: "We saw ada frightened" just hit me so deep that I had to come here. So, I didn't check to see if you have already written about this in the headcannons masterlist (and I'm sorry if you did and I haven't noticed!) but how do you think that Thranduil and their kids reacted when she died? Like, how their feelings and thoughts after this? I've always assumed Thranduil being an extremely good father, so I can't truly imagine him being mean to any of their kids, but how do you think that they (specially Thranduil) took the news that their queen had died?

Eeek! What lovely feedback and an even lovelier fic-related question! (I am so lucky and grateful to get such nice Anons in my inbox; I am spoiled.)

A Stab to the Heart (Fic Link)

Part 2 of this 2-part fic is over 50% written, but has been stalled in the basement of my brain for over six months now (yikes)! Hopefully I can shove it back into motion soon!

In regards to Thranduil being so in-tune with his wife that their minds are practically in a constant state of ósanwë (Elvish mind-link), I would like to point out a few key details about their relationship:

"A Stab to the Heart" takes place in Third Age 1012. By this time, Thranduil and Maereth have already been married for 1,188 years and have been mutually in love for an additional 1,700. And ever since they married, they were hardly ever parted for any significant amount of time (as opposed to most other Elven couples, like Celeborn and Galadriel, who would live apart for years). Needless to say, you would be hard-pressed to find a couple more tightly, lovingly bonded then the Elvenking and Elvenqueen were to each other.

THEIR ROMANTIC HISTORY: (Link to related HCs HERE) It took Thranduil about 50 years of sporadic meetings to realize he was falling in love with Maereth. However, he knew his father would loathe the idea of his son pairing off with a Noldor (much less one descended from Fëanor) and it would have great repercussions on their kingdom, so Thranduil tried to ignore his growing feelings and sought to maintain just a friendship with her.

Maereth nearly died in the Sacking of Eregion, and Thranduil had been there to witness it; he had held her while she was gravely injured and felt the terror of her slipping away from him. Ultimately, she was saved by the healing of Elrond, but this experience left a permanent mark on Thranduil. From that day on, he found the only thing that ever scared him in his life: losing Maereth to the Halls of Mandos.

What do you do when you realize you love someone so much you cannot live without them? You ask them to marry you, of course! And so Thranduil did, but it took another thousand years of determined courtship to get Maereth to say "yes".

The Aftermath of the Elvenqueen's Death

I have yet to fully write the story of this terrible tragedy (I'm intimidated by it, to be honest), but a version of it was written, including the immediate aftermath, in my Thorin-centric fic, "The Broken Shield", where Maereth died during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs. I wrote out more details of her death in this headcanon post.

As for the reactions of the family (those who were left, anyway)?

OH BOY.

(SPOILERS to the SotWK AU, if anyone cares about that sort of thing, under the cut. Also, it gets pretty sad, so I apologize for the emotions this story may cause.)

Thranduil very nearly died from heartbreak. This was the darkest point in Mirkwood's history, the kingdom that had already been fighting off spiders, orcs, dark creatures, and poisons for centuries. All that was nothing compared to the realm's grief over their Elvenqueen's death, and fearing the likelihood their beloved Elvenking would either die from heartbreak, or finally leave them for the Undying Lands.

Note that by the time the Elvenqueen died, Thranduil had already lost three out of five of his sons. Only Gelir and Legolas remained, though he also had his daughter-in-law, Itarildë (Mirion's widow) and two grandchildren, Crown Prince Aranion (heir to the throne) and Princess Anariel.

Upon his return home to Mirkwood to bury the Elvenqueen's body, Thranduil was uncharacteristically cold and seemingly emotionless. He turned into stone (metaphorically) as a way of holding himself together, for the sake of the people who depended on him. He did not have strength left to properly comfort his family, and could only parrot the kingdom's motto, telling them they "will endure".

Gelir, the most impulsive of the Thranduilions (and second to Turhir as the most hot-tempered), lashed out in vengeful rage. Legolas just barely convinced him not to immediately ride out to seek revenge against the Orcs.

However, about three years after the Elvenqueen was laid to rest, Gelir once again tried to convince his father to allow him and Legolas to lead their armies to rejoin the Dwarves (Thrain's people) in their war against the orcs. Thranduil refused, and instead decreed that all travel to other realms was forbidden while the Dwarves fought their war.

Frustrated by this (and still grieving his mother), Gelir finally broke down and rebelled openly against the Elvenking. He attempted to leave Mirkwood on his own, only to be chased down by his father and dragged back to the Halls in chains, where he was thrown in prison.

Does this sound harsh? I take a pause in this dramatic tale to point out that Thranduil was a very, VERY good father to his sons all their lives. The Princes were over 2,000 years old by the time their mother died; not only were they adults, but they were wise enough to know that they were not exempt from their kingdom's laws, and should understand the grief their father carried from all these terrible losses. Not only did Thranduil need to demonstrate the strength of his authority, but he also refused to risk the death of another family member, even if it meant imprisoning his own child.

After the war ended in TA 2799, Gelir was finally released from prison, after being held there for 3 years. But instead of making peace with his father and submitting to the King's decrees, he openly criticized Mirkwood's isolationist policies, which had become even stricter after the Elvenqueen's death.

Legolas, caught between the two dearest people in the world to him, could not get them to reconcile their differences.

After another year of strife between father and son, Thranduil gave Gelir an ultimatum: reaffirm his fealty to the Elvenking and his laws, or be banished from the kingdom. Gelir, believing his home had become a "cage" that he refused to be locked in, chose banishment.

Gelir asked his brother to come with him, forcing Legolas to choose sides by staying with Thranduil. He remembered a prophetic plea his mother once made to him many years before her death: "above all, choose your father". His decision was also influenced by the special closeness he had with Thranduil.

Thus, Gelir left the kingdom in the winter of TA 2800, and cut off all contact with his family. Legolas was the only Thranduilion left.

For a century (TA 2800-2900), Thranduil struggled against his personal demons of anger and grief and longing to be with his beloved wife again. In spite of his depression however, he continued to govern his people effectively, but only with the help and loyalty of Legolas and his devoted daughter-in-law and grandchildren. (Note: SotWK AU does NOT accept the coldness and rift between Legolas and Thranduil as shown in the film adaptation. Legolas ultimately proves to be Thranduil's most steadfast son. The conflict between Tauriel and Thranduil, and her romance with Legolas, do not occur in SotWK either.)

In TA 2850, when Gandalf uncovered Sauron's identity as the Necromancer--something Thranduil had suspected for centuries, but his reports went unheeded--the Elvenking slowly began to return to himself, remembering the hard battle that still needed to be fought to protect his kingdom.

In TA 2911, Thranduil even began to loosen the restrictions against traveling outside of Mirkwood, when he allowed Itarildë and Anariel to join Gandalf in giving aid to the Hobbits of the Shire during the Fell Winter, just as their family had done previously during the Long Winter (TA 2758).

By the time Thorin and his Company arrived at Mirkwood in TA 2941, the remnants of the royal house of Thranduil were back in fighting form, although the Elvenking would always carry a longing for his wife that would not be healed until their reunion in Aman over a century into the Fourth Age.

For more Thranduil/Mirkwood headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Elves HC Tag List: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @achromaticerebus @aduialel @asianbutnotjapanese @auttumnsayshi @blueberryrock @conversacomsmaug @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @entishramblings @freshalmondpandadonut @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @glassgulls @heranintomyknife23times @ladyweaslette @laneynoir @lathalea @lemonivall @LiliDurin @quickslvxrr @ratsys @scyllas-revenge @stormchaser819 @talkdifferently6 @tamryniel @tamurilofrivendell

Other useful links:

Introduction to SotWK

Fanfiction Masterlist

Fanfiction Request Guidelines

[vampireseftover]

Eternity to behold

Pair: Ascended Astarion x F!vampire!narrator

CW: violence, some gore, murder, AA isn't an abusive jerk, no angst, written in first person, a little smutty, but nothing explicite, vampires acting like vampires, almost fully translated with DeepL, but it's actually good.

Summary: Nightmare. Fear. Uncertainty. Provoked bloodlust. A moment of intimacy and love confession for an eternal lover.

Word count: 4,724.

A/n: Hi there, it's my first fic in 13 years. I've read this masterpiece written by my beloved @vampiric-hunger, and it inspired me to start writing again. Preview is a gift screenshot from my precious @velvolktra. English is my second language, go easy on me, please. Almost entirely translated with DeepL and it's not bad at all!

How did I envision the life of a Lord Vampire’s Consort? Endless masquerades, balls, parties, fun and bloody carnage. I'd hoped I'd be mindlessly basking in luxury, filling entire closets with lavish clothes and chests - with jewelry. I dreamed of an eternity of delight and all the pleasures available to immortal and mortal creatures (thanks to the Rite of Profane Ascension)... One detail slipped my mind. A very important detail. A detail that was ruining all my sweet dreams. Money.

It costs money to throw a lavish reception. Buying clothes and jewelry costs money. Silence of random witnesses to a bloody massacre, who are not worth killing, also costs money. Eternal life is free, of course, but eternal life in luxury is another matter.

Cazador Szarr's "inheritance" was not endless. An impressive palace, some funds and securities in the bank, a few mortal familiars and... Actually, that was it. Influence and power belonged to the ancient family. The treaties and agreements that ensured continuous income were the merits of Cazador himself. And Astarion, the new, unknown vampire lord, had yet to build his own empire. The need to do so had become especially acute after months of mindlessly squandering the fortune of the now-defunct Szarr family. The money was running out. Rapidly.

It was... hard at first. Intoxicated by his freedom and new power, Astarion was reluctant to accept the fact that the wretched mortals who had recently trembled in terror before his former master dared to question his power. Their nasty sneers in response to his pretensions... Their insults and demonstrations of contempt for the "big-eared upstart".... Many pompous funerals later, the tone of the still living patricians of the city changed dramatically. Not the most graceful way to gain respect, of course, but the quickest: Astarion had not been known for patience before.

Now that they were willing to listen, if only out of fear, he could begin to weave his web. Meeting after meeting, bargain after bargain, threat after threat, and a few show trials - it took him few years to consolidate his position. Not everything went smoothly, several political battles my pale elf lost. And he was very unhappy. His temper tantrum cost us all of our mortal servants, a dozen of our own spawns, and the entire west wing of the Crimson Palace. When we calculated the cost of the damage, Astarion promised to find another way to deal with the outbursts. We couldn't afford such a scale back then.

As time went on, the city changed right before our eyes. Gradually, the Ascended Vampire became a force to be reckoned with, not just out of fear. Astarion may have been unrestrained at first, but he learned quickly. Over time, he became adept at making really good deals, at singling out truly valuable allies, and at gaining their favor at minimal cost. He had to pretend again, play roles, put on masks. But we both knew it was only temporary. I even managed to convince him to treat it as a game, to add an element of excitement. Oh, how many naive idiots will fall for this exaggerated niceness, darling? Ah, let's see if you can get a dozen noble ladies to faint in one evening? Ah, will you be able to persuade this intractable merchant to agree to terms unfavorable to him? The answers are: a lot; yes; he will!

A few years later, Astarion was firmly on his feet. The most influential and prominent families in the city were already smiling ingratiatingly at him, seeking his attention, seeking meetings with him, trying to bribe him, trying to plant beautiful daughters under him. However, after the extremely irritated Lord Vampire gathered every nobleman of the city in the throne room of his palace and announced that he would not tolerate such disrespect towards his wife (here I waved my hand from my throne to the right of Astarion's), the flow of young maidens - and young men - with noble names, directed to his private bedroom, abruptly dried up. Later that evening, however, I asked him how long we'd been officially married, why didn't I remember our wedding, and where is my wedding ring.

“My sweet, you do realize that our bond is deeper and stronger than any ridiculous legal obligation, right? It's not ink on parchment or ridiculous rituals that unite us. Our souls are woven together. That means more than any marriage.”

In the morning, a velvet box with an exquisite white gold ring with a ruby was on the bedside table. A matching ring was already on his ring finger.

***

I woke up in the middle of the night with a terrible pain in my ribs. Astarion’s silver curls tickled my chin, and a pair of inhumanly strong arms squeezed my torso. Resting his face against my chest, Astarion was breathing heavily. He'd clearly had a nightmare. I brushed the sweat-damp curls from his forehead, his brow furrowed, muffled moans coming from his clenched teeth.

I shook him lightly by the shoulder, but that only made his grip tighten. It was a good thing I didn't need to breathe; I wouldn't have been able to take a single breath, the way he was gripping me so tightly.

“Star, wake up." I called to him, my voice tight with pain. “You're hurting me.”

His ruby eyes snapped open at the sound of my voice. He toppled me over onto my back in a lightning-fast motion, one hand on my throat, the other swinging as if to strike. The frantic stare of his eyes glowing in the impenetrable darkness of the night. Confusion with a dash of horror. Only my quiet "Astarion" snapped him out of his nightmare. Our gazes met, his fingers on my throat slowly loosened, his whole body relaxed, and he collapsed on top of me, pressing me into the mattress.

“Star, I'm here. It's okay. We're safe.” My caressing whisper finally brought him to his senses. His cheek pressed against my chest, and the vampire squeezed me in a hug: tight, but this time gentle.

When his breathing finally evened out, I pulled him gently against me, running my fingers through the unruly silver curls. His breathing was deep and measured. I decided to ask him a question:

“Did you have a nightmare?” A slurred "Uh-huh" was my answer. “Would you tell me?” A turn of his head and a heavy sigh. Apparently not. “Could I look for myself?” I asked, referring to our telepathic connection.

He pulled away, his "No!" too sharp to break the silence of the night, his voice a note of panic, his body tense, as if preparing to fend off an attack, but I wasn't going to insist.

“Shh, it's okay. I won't look. Come here." I whispered, pulling him to me again.

We stayed awake in each other's arms until dawn, until the first gentle rays of sunlight began to break through the loose curtains.

***

Another day, another important meeting. Last night keeps me awake. He hasn't had a nightmare in so long. And for him to hide something from me? That hasn't happened in a long time. Anxiety is eating me from the inside out, tearing apart my frozen heart. It's unbearable. I need to be near him, need to feel his warmth on my own cold skin.

I flung open the massive doors of the small office, disregarding all decorum. Sunlight streams in through the huge, open windows. In the center of the room is a long lacquered table, ornate high-backed armchairs around the table, important nobles pressing their important asses on it. A dozen heads with blurry faces turn in my direction, but I don't notice them. All I see are ruby eyes and the barely perceptible shadow of a smile on his dearly beloved face. He's relaxed, but clearly bored. A smile blossoms on my face as I traverse the space separating us in a few steps. If I hadn't promised to behave, I would have run straight on top of the table. It's like there's no one else in the whole world but the two of us. The creak of wood on marble - Astarion moves farther away from the table and opens his arms to me. There's little grace in me as I plop into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. I don't care, I snuggle against him with my whole body. Alive. Warm. Mine.

“The Great Lord Ascended Vampire trained a legion of werewolves, but apparently he couldn't teach his tame dog some manners.”

The smile slides off my face. Not the first patrician of Baldur's Gate to express his displeasure at my presence or the mere fact of my existence. I don't know what irritated them more: the fact that I dared to open my mouth at all in the presence of noble lords, or the fact that Astarion always listened to my words.

I'm not in the mood to behave like a proper lady of high standing. I'm not in the mood for this role-playing with the town's nobility. And I'm not in the mood to hide my own irritation. Rolling my eyes as I turn around at the sound of the voice of the dead-in-the-next-five-minutes man. Out of respect for Astarion, however, I give the blighted man a chance to stay alive:

“One more sound," I hiss, flashing my red eyes and showing my fangs in a grin, "and I'll rip out your fucking tongue.”

The silence is so thick it feels like it could be cut with a knife. I turn to Astarion, and I have time to think how funny it must be for my face to change from a wild, menacing grin to a soft, gentle smile. He makes no attempt to stop me, to reprimand me, or even hint that I should behave more calmly. No, I see curiosity in his gaze, and even approval: I've succeeded in dispelling his boredom.

There's an indignant puffing somewhere behind me, a thump of a fist on the table, and the clink of glasses bouncing from the impact. A muffled clatter from a fallen decanter of wine and, after a couple of moments, the clatter of drops of expensive golden drink against the marble. The enraged nobleman shouted something, pointing a trembling finger in my direction. His face twisted with anger, red and damp with sweat, spittle spraying out of his mouth along with insults at me.

A moment. I stand on the table in front of him, crouched on one knee. With a clawed hand, I clutch his flabby neck. His eyes are huge with terror, his mouth open, a thin thread of saliva running down his sloppily shaved chin. Feeling little resistance, I squeeze my hand, feeling the wet crunch beneath my fingers. I tear his throat out in a sharp motion, holding his body with my other hand and watching the light of life fade in his eyes. I toss the scrap of torn flesh farther down on the table. I move my covered in blood hand aside, not wanting to stain my dress.

I wait, but nothing happens. I glare angrily at the servant slammed into the wall. I snap my fingers and blood sprays in all directions. I lure the servant closer with an unexpectedly graceful gesture. He doesn't dare look up in horror, but he approaches me quickly, afraid to make me even more angry. I grab his chin with bloody fingers and hiss into his face:

“Do I really need to explain to my servants how to do their jobs? I don't remember taking it upon myself to educate the staff! Can't you see? Your mistress got dirty, there's a corpse under the table, its blood has ruined the upholstery of a chair worth more than your miserable life, and there's wine dripping down the table and onto the floor, a glass of which you wouldn't even allow yourself for a year's wages, and not because you're poorly paid. So why don't you stop shaking and get to work?!” Toward the end of my angry tirade, I turn to shouting, glaring furiously with scarlet eyes.

Nodding his head sharply, the servant comes to his senses, removes a snow-white towel from his arm, and wipes the blood from my hand. Two other servants, also impressed by my speech, begin to move and drag the body of the murdered "dear guest" away from the office. Another maid appears out of nowhere and wipes the spilled wine off the table and then the floor. I pay no attention to their quiet fussing, but stare at each of the patricians who remain in their chairs.

When silence returns to the room, I give my guests a broad gesture and straighten up, still standing on the table.

“I hope my little demonstration has made you realize that I'm not to be trifled with.” Slowly, I walk from one edge of the long table to the other, putting my hands on my back and staring straight ahead. My voice rings with power and menace, reverberated off the walls, echoed up from the ceiling. “I am not some lap dog. And I have power over you not because I spread my legs for the right man. And it's not just my husband, lord and master, you should fear, but also me.” I stop in front of Astarion, who is still watching with interest, and turn my back to him, slowly shifting my gaze from one noble face to the other. “If you disrespect me like that again, you'll be sorry you were ever born.”

“Crazy bitch!” An angry hiss from the older man sitting at the farthest edge of the table. He's probably hoping I didn't hear him, but my keen vampire hearing leaves him no chance of escape.

Taking my time, I walk across the table in his direction, then lower myself and lie down on the table, resting my chin on my arms bent at the elbows. Dreamily, pouting my lips like a young innocent girl, I raise my eyes to the man and say quietly, but so that everyone can hear:

“You know, I am not just some toy for pleasure, not a concubine and not a submissive shadow that silently follows its master. I can turn anyone into my own vampire spawn, too. One touch of my fangs is enough to trigger the process of imminent conversion. You know, lordy…" I rest my claw almost playfully on the shiny medal on the old man's chest, "While I was mortal myself, I didn't fully understand, didn't realize what eternal life was. I was granted eternal youth, strength, power, and every pleasure imaginable.” I cast a brief glance at Astarion, noting how the corner of his mouth twitched upward at my words. He's pleased with me. I turn back around, my whole body pressing forward. “You, my dear guest…”

I fall silent, scrutinizing the man's flabby face with a bloodthirsty grin. Abruptly clenching my fingers on his clothes, I pull myself closer and lunge forward for a bite, not even aiming. My fangs touch his cheek, one light clench of my jaws is enough to allow the venom of vampirism to enter his bloodstream. Pushing away from him, enjoying the dazed look on the old man's face as he clutches his cheek, I burst into a laughter. I laugh back and stare into his small, frightened eyes again.

“An eternity of torment awaits you, my dear guest." I repeated, enunciating each word. “Imagine," I faltered into a hot whisper, pressing myself close to his face again. “I could skin you, tear you to pieces, rummage through your insides like in a sack of presents, and you wouldn't die. You will feel every moment of this sweet agony, you will beg, whimper, plead with me to kill you, but I will not be so merciful and end your suffering. No, I will revel in it. Oh!” I exclaim. “I've had a marvelous idea. I can order you to do whatever I want. And you can't physically resist my will. For example, I could order you to rip out the heart of your dearest wife and present it to me on a golden platter. You know, I think that's what I'll do.” A mad smile spreads across my face, and I'm in anticipation of his agony. The fire in my eyes testifies to the magic binding the two of us together, and I give my first order. “In twelve hours, when the sun is below the horizon, you will slaughter with your own hands your entire family, all of your servants, and anyone else who happens to be in your luxurious mansion at that moment. Then you will crawl across town on all fours and bring me the head of your beautiful daughter in your teeth.”

I rise to my feet and shake off my dress, straighten to my full height, and with an almost tender concern in my voice, I say one last thing:

“And try to enjoy tonight's sunset. It is, after all, the last sunset in your life.”

A moment of silence, my deep breath. My face seems to be frozen in stillness. With my eyes closed, barely audible, I speak somewhere in space: to no one and everyone at the same time:

“Out. Now.”

This time no one appears to express their displeasure. The great and terrible patricians of Baldur's Gate hurriedly leave the palace, creaking their chairs on the marble floor, stomping on the heels of their polished boots, pushing and shoving each other.

Silence envelops me. I feel like I'm sinking into a warm bath after a long, tiring day. I take another deep breath, savoring the smells of blood, rage, and fear that permeate the office. I let myself not hold back. I let myself unleash my inner beast, my inner monster, my wild inner monster. Goosebumps ran down my arms as I remembered the softness of the flesh under my claws, the wet crunch of bone and cartilage, the gurgle of gurgling blood. Moments worth sacrificing my own heartbeat for.

I turn on my heels, scraping the surface of the expensive, almost priceless table. But I don't care. The only thing in my field of vision is his face, the smile blossoming on that beautiful face and the passionate fire in his gaze. He's pleased with me. Is he...proud of me?

In a few steps, I cross the distance between us and practically jump on top of him, sitting on his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck. My fingers burrow into his silver curls, and I fall into his lips in a heated kiss, savoring the warmth of his hands sliding over my body. I lose my sense of time, dissolving into the moment of intimacy. It could have been a minute, or it could have been a week, I wouldn't have known the difference. All that matters is his warmth, his scent, his taste on the tip of my tongue.

A moment and I'm lying on the table, his fingers tangling in my hair, squeezing my throat, tearing my dress layer by layer, exposing cold, pale skin. I wrap my arms and legs around him, pulling him against me, closer, closer, closer, closer, closer, until we are one. Hot hands slide down my thighs, skirts pulled up, torn shreds of underwear falling on the floor. His kisses are possessive, greedy, hungry, he’s using his entire arsenal: lips, tongue and fangs. A drop of blood protrudes from my bitten lower lip, and he suck at the tiny wound as if he's trying to drink me dry through it.

We become one, reveling in each other. Two opposing, desperate desires are fighting in me: that this moment never end, and that we come to a climax as soon as possible. The world around me disappears, dissolves, filled only with wet obscene sounds, convulsive sighs and sweet moans. No matter how many times we've been intimate, each time is like a divine revelation. I am overwhelmed by waves of pleasure, one stronger and sweeter than the other. My whole body trembles in his hands, and he enjoys the sight of my crushing defeat of pleasure, but not for long - soon he joins me, filling me up, leaving his mark on me, in me, in the very core of my being, his scent, the mark of my belonging. His fangs sink into my shoulder, wrenching a suppressed sob from my chest. Everything around us stops, only the ringing silence keeping us company.

“You're especially wild tonight, my love," he rumbles in my ear. He presses me against the table with his body, and I don't want to let him go, clinging to him with my arms, wrapping my legs around him, squeezing him inside my own body. Squeezing my eyes shut, I push away the unsolicited tears, returning to the real reason for my restlessness today, my anxiety, my instability.

“What did you expect? You're obviously bothered by something, but you won't share it with me, and you won't let me look inside your mind.” I don't hide the hurt in my voice. He tenses his body and tries to pull away, but my grip only gets tighter. He only succeeds in raising himself up on his elbows. His scrutinizing gaze slides over my face, and I feel a crease form between my eyebrows, the corners of my mouth dropping down, my lower lip trembling as I whisper frantically:

"The moment you turned me, “me” and “you” ceased to exist, the boundary between us erased. Only "we" remained. But since last night, you've been shutting me out. And I'm afraid. What if you're tired of me? What if you're sick of me? Maybe you don't need me anymore. I have nothing but you. Even my own body is at your mercy. And to see you closing yourself off… Have mercy and just kill me.”

I hold back tears with all my might, but one slips down my temple and gets lost in my tangled hair. I can see in his face that he feels my pain. But I can also see that his own is mixed in with mine. He doesn't say anything, just wipes the wet, salty residue from my temple with his thumb, gently releases himself from my grasp, tidies himself up, and pulls my skirt down. I sit up, trying to cover my breasts with the scraps of my hopelessly ruined bodice. His hands are in sight, and I reach out to meet them. He takes me in his arms and walks out of the office.

Without a word, he brings me into our shared bedroom and lays me on the bed. He frowns at my rags and then proceeds to undress me. There's no passion or desire in the act, only a pinched tenderness and care. Wrapping me in the velvet blanket, he lays down beside me, resting his face against my chest. He grips me tightly but reverently, as if I were something incredibly fragile. As if he wasn't the one squeezing my thighs to the point of bruising a few moments ago. I run my fingers through the strands of his hair, breathing in his scent, absorbing his warmth with my whole body. We're silent for a while, cuddled together.

“I had a dream," Astarion said in a low voice, his grip growing tighter. “And in that dream, you said you were tired of me. Of my possessiveness. You said you were afraid of me.”

He falls silent, and I can barely keep from wrapping my palms around his face and screaming that I would never say such a thing, that I revel in it, savor every moment of our intimacy. That every time he keeps his arm around my waist all evening at another gala, never letting go of me, my soul sings. That every time I do attend a business meeting in our palace while he rules the city and, depending on the importance of the meeting and the issues at hand, sit on his lap or beside him while his fingers squeeze my palm, euphoria clouds my mind. That every time he leaves traces of his passion on my skin in prominent places, I proudly display them to anyone who could see and bitterly regret when they're gone due to rapid vampire regeneration. That there is nothing and no one in the entire world that I so passionately desire in every possible way. That, if it were possible, I would dissolve into him wholeheartedly, becoming part of him forever.

But I hold back. I keep silent. If my heart were alive, he'd hear how fast it beat.

“Out of rage and fear of losing you in that dream, I" He hesitated for a moment, as if overcoming a final barrier, and then exhaled "ripped your heart out and consumed it, so that you would definitely be with me forever. Inside me. My hands covered with your blood, your breathless body in front of me, and my teeth sinking into the flesh of your heart... Sometimes these thoughts, these desires, these fears.... overwhelm me. As happened last night.”

He lifts his face and looks at me. He frowns, his gaze serious, his whole body tense, his hands gripping me with a steely grip, as if he's afraid I'll actually get scared and try to run away from him. My fingertips slide down his cheek to his chin, tracing the line of his jaw, down to his shoulder. I stare into his eyes silently, but something blossoms inside me, something warm. I pull him to me, smile as gently and warmly as I can, press my forehead against his, close my eyes, and using our telepathic connection, I tell him:

“Look into my mind. It’s open to you. Do you see even a hint of desire to leave you? You won't get rid of me that easily. You're as much mine as I am yours. Forever.”

I can't see, but I can feel his lips stretch into a smile, his exhale of relief, the tension leave his body. My sweet elf, my soul mate. We found each other under the most ridiculous circumstances imaginable. But from the moment you put the knife to my throat the first time we met, I was already completely at your mercy. We were meant for each other, we couldn't help but be together. Only thanks to you was I able to realize and accept my true nature, to accept the darkness inside me and to stop being ashamed of my desires. Every moment with you was filled with happiness, fun, delight, excitement. I saw you and loved you as you are. Powerful, wild, dangerous, mischievous, witty, charismatic, vulnerable - the list is endless. Everything you are, every aspect of you, every trait is precious to me.

I have made many mistakes in my lifetime. But helping you with your Ascension isn’t on the list. The moment of your triumph, of liberation, of gaining power and control over your body and your life. I was so excited at that moment, you can't even imagine, and I was just a spectator. Thousands of times I replayed this moment in my imagination and each time I did not find even a shadow of doubt in the rightness of my choice. The first thing you did for yourself after Ascension was to make me yours. Forever. Until the end of time. You gave me eternity, strength, power, luxury, your own heart that now beats only for me.

I belong to you completely, without abandon. Just as you belong to me. No force can separate us, no one can stand in our way. As long as we're together, there's no stopping us. As long as we're together, we can have anything we want, but we only need each other. And that won't change no matter how many centuries pass by our immortal souls. I want to believe that in thousands of years we will merge into one, become one whole, spilled into two vessels. That we will cease to realize where you end and I begin. Maybe there is something unhealthy, abnormal, obsessive about it, but what does it matter to us?

[randomfoggytiger]

This is random but do you have a list of Mulder/Scully fics that make you cry. Ideally I would like to be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Your pinned post has been feeding my reading for days 🙏

Ohhhhhhhhhh-- what a challenge! I'm not a blubbery gal; but there are some undeniables, of course.

This is going to be a mess-ish without any real order, but here we go!

@melforbes's seaglass blue (AU marriage after Scully's terminal diagnosis ~ Redux II. Mulder takes her to the sea for their honeymoon.) It was at the best/worst time of my life thus far-- which isn't saying much because I've been extremely fortunate-- and I completely resonated with each and every one of Mulder's struggles.

Anything @enigmaticdrblockhead touches. Made a compilation here that @waiting-for-the-day kindly posted. Ascension guts me every time.

Just teared up the other day to @lokisgame's "Au where Scully never joined the fbi and works in the basement of the hospital (where the morgue is) and all the hospital refers to her as “Spooky Scully”. Mulder comes in as a terminal cancer patient and they somehow meet and fall in love."

Joyce's Revenant tore my heart out with the power of love: death and rot won't prevent Mulder's protective streak from saving Scully.

BONUS! I follow up Revenant with these light-hearted continuation fics (the last one is my favorite)--

AU/Ghost1/Mulder dies, good-naturedly haunts Scully as she solves X-Files-- 

1-- Gossamer | Story: "Ghost in Her Life (1/2)" by Joyce 

2-- Gossamer | Story: "Ghost in Her Life (2/2)" by Joyce 

AU/Ghost2/Scully assigned new partner/Mulder still solves X-Files w/ her-- 

1-- Gossamer | Story: "Ghost at Her Side, The (1/3)" by Joyce 

2-- Gossamer | Story: "Ghost at Her Side, The (2/3)" by Joyce 

3-- Gossamer | Story: "Ghost at Her Side, The (3/3)" by Joyce 

AU/Ghost3/Halloween/Partner leaves her alone for holiday/Scully better at reading restless moods/banter/Mulder nervous, feels ghosts about/he wants to spook people/witnesses Teena’s living grave/mad being summoned by noob/resigned to help her w/ probs/he projects terror on bullies/kids get to touch his ghost form-- Gossamer | Story: "Ghost in the Dark, The" by Joyce.)

Mulder's desperation to get to his son's C-section birth in the beginning of Alcott's Exit tore at my heartstrings (all ends happily-- twice, in fact.)

And lots (and lots) of clone fics... because they either A. never end well or B. are about common humanity despite circumstances. However, as misty-eyed as some get me, The Other Man GOT me:

Jess Mabe's The Other Man (Gossamer, WBM)-- Mulder's blood work comes back a clone. The real Mulder had been imprisoned on a military base. He and Scully are only in time enough to save a barely stable man and give him a human death.

XSketch's Soledad Para Dos gave me many emotions (Will is readopted; but Scully dies soon after of cancer. Mulder clings to his son; but this birthday is the first by himself. It's touching.) Not to mention Wish, William-- Will tracks down his bio parents after Colonization, finding Scully caring for a brain-damaged Mulder by the beach. Father and son have meaningful conversations.

There are two fics I can't find right now (if anyone can remind me so I don't have to dumpster dive all night, that'd be great~):

Scully died while giving birth to her S8 son; and Skinner finds and brings Mulder back home, watching him as he grieves the loss, picks up the pieces, and becomes a well-adjusted father to his boy.

Mulder wasn't returned in TINH; and Scully remained immortal while her son aged and died. Her partner is returned after Will's death; and the two of them relive their son's life, marked everywhere by his search for his missing father. (Found it! Part 1: Gossamer | Story: "Age Cannot Wither" by ML 2: Gossamer | Story: "Nor Custom Stale" by ML)

...Ehhhhhhhhhhh, why not-- I'll throw in one that made me blubber in a good way: Jenna Tooms's Shooting Star is about Mulder being found 17 years later by TLG: holed up in a mental institution and guardianed by a surprisingly caring Krycek. Scully "his angel" swoops in and saves him, battling for her partner to bring him home to their son Ben/"Benji" despite his cognitive impairments. It's so, so, SO beautiful that I just reread all of it (again) rather recently and I'M NOT ASHAMED IT MADE MY LIPS QUIVER, OKAY. Clones are also in this story, as are second babies (one) and risky nanobyte procedures that Mulder "ditches" to try to get "himself" back. (Gossamer links: Shooting Star (1/4), Shooting Star (2/4), Shooting Star (3/4), Shooting Star (4/4).) She writes "cognitively impaired" Mulder SOOOOOOOOO well-- his "speech" is real and beautiful and flawlessly written. I'm not a thorough reader and I don't care to be-- but this fic? I eat up EVERY. WORD. WITH A DOZEN SPOONS.

These are all that stand out for now.... if I remember more, I'll reblog this post and type them in later~. :DDDD

Thank you so much for the ask~. If anyone else has curiosities, I'll be more than happy to answer them!

[notthestarwar]

Fic rec

Why do I hardly ever see lists of fic recs anymore?

I've decided I'm gonna be the change I want to see and make an effort to start listing fics I like on here cause I miss the days when we had to do that because Fic was like all over the Internet on custom sites and live journal and literally anywhere and you'd never find anything good just by searching

And so in no particular order here are some star wars recs:

End game Jango/ Obi Wan but focused more on Obi Wan and the journey.

Teen

Obi Wan chooses to stay in the agricorps at 12, he meets Jaster on bandomeer, Jaster offers to adopt him after antics but Obi Wan wants to stay a corpsman. However they stay friends and Obi Wan chooses to visit often. Obi Wan still ends up on Kamino. Overall its just great, Obi Wan has a unique perspective on the force thanks to his work and he uses that to try and save the clones and Mandalore. I love it!!

Obi-Wan meets Jaster Mereel and Jango Fett when he visits Bandomeer at age 12. He also joins the Agricorps. Jango still goes on to Kamino, but when Dooku is killed a few years early he finds an opportunity to save the clones from a life of senseless war.

And honestly, that's just where the story begins. Because anyone can raise an army, but you start to run into trouble around dinner time, and Mandalore's really not equipped to feed that many people.

Featuring Farmer!Obi-Wan, Working-on-himself!Jango, unimpressed clones, and a quest to save a planet.

Next up

Codywan cowboys!!!

Mature

This one is just beautiful. Cody loves his brothers so much. He is taking them on his search for work when they get caught by bandits. He's hoping to save enough money to buy them a home. It's lovely.

Or: While travelling with his brothers, Cody and his brothers run into trouble, and meet a sharp-eyed lawman. Plans go awry, a river diverges.

"He moved to push himself up, panting with the effort, pushing past the scream of his shoulder and the exhausted shaking of his good arm. But a hand pressed flat against his chest, another on the back of his head, and pushed him gently to lay back down. “You need to move slow,” the voice said, “or your stitches will open.”

Mature

Omg this is great. Boba is our main character and there is din/boba but my favourite part of this is Cody!!! This is post empire and includes academic!Cody accompanied by ghost Obi Wan so Cody/ Obi Wan for that. I love this Cody so much. He is an academic. He loves sarlaccs. It's just 💚💛💙🧡

Boba leaves Djarin to his tracking while he takes deep breaths and tries to convince himself that running screaming into the wastes is not how he is going to deal with all this. He needs to think smarter, not harder. The sarlacc is an enormous motherfucking terror dome. It cannot move far, and it cannot possibly move fast. If it moved, it has to be around here somewhere. Someone has to have felt it or seen it.

Someone has to know something about sarlaccs. Someone living. Someone dead.

(Boba sets out to hunt his white whale.)

Teen

This one has a pairing I'd never really considered before Luke/din/poe set in a modern au and I love it

Poe is a us marshall. Din and luke are living in witness protection with grogu but are overly capable of looking out for themselves. As with all spqr fics it is both beautiful and hilarious

As much as Poe is a method actor doing his best to inhabit the role of Pool Boy in the low-budget porno that is this assignment, he is also not and has never been a manwhore.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Chapter Forty-Two: Peglar

After a meal of fresh meat from the Esquimaux sledges (Btw, can we have a quick shout-out to Messrs Diggle and Wall please? For working so hard for so long with so so little, managing to eke it out enough to sustain the men even this far?) Peglar and Bridgens take another walk.

Peglar overhears as they go some men in the distance arguing over a card game which just gets me for some reason. Like, it's a sign that even in the face of all the horrors, humanity and some simple normality very much still exists among them.

They begin by discussing the different types of boats they've hauled with them, and which ones they'll take when they move south. Peglar is glad at the thought of moving on, especially after the scenes he's witnessed surrounding Irving's death.

He has, of course, told Bridgens everything despite being sworn to secrecy <3 but interestingly, he hasn't himself drawn the right conclusion yet from what he's seen and heard: "I think," John Bridgens said softly, "that Captain Crozier is not convinced that the Esquimaux killed Lieutenant Irving." "What? Who else could..." Peglar stopped...[]...He had never considered for an instant that anyone other than the savages could have done what he'd seen done to John Irving."

Naturally, discussion turns again to wrong'uns among the crew - Aylmore and Hickey are both mentioned. Once again, it appears that Bridgens is far more perceptive than Peglar on this subject: "Why don't I hear these things, John? I've heard none of this seditious whispering." Bridgens smiled. "They don't trust you not to tell, my dear Harry." "But they trust you?" "Of course not. But I hear everything sooner or later. Stewards are invisible, y'know, being neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat..." (A very interesting food-based metaphor to end on if ever there was one!)

They turn their attention once again to the boats and their future viability. It's interesting to see the ways they trade off against one another - there are many things that Bridgens knows more about but there are also certainly subjects on which Peglar is more knowledgeable and this is one of them. I suspect Bridgens switches back to the topic on purpose, perhaps to make Peglar feel a little better after feeling so out of the loop on the seditious whisperings of before. On the one hand, it's nice, but on the other, I think both of them wish they were still back in the old days, where Peglar could look to Bridgens for the answer and Bridgens could take comfort in being able to give it. There are no clear answers to anything now. "The older man's voice did not sound aggrieved or anxious or desperate, merely curious. Peglar had heard John pose a thousand questions, about astronomy, natural history, geology, botany, philosophy and a score of other subjects in precisely that same soft, mildly curious tone. With most of the other questions, it had been the teacher who knew the answer quizzing his student in a polite way. Here, Peglar was sure that John Bridgens did not know the answer to this question."

Finally, we come to The Scene. Bridgens suggests the possibility of returning to Terror and Peglar is appalled. He's spent the last few minutes outlining how inherently impossible their southward journey plans are, and yet now he's their greatest defender, insisting that some of them could make it and if some of them could make it, at least they could tell everyone back home what became of their loved ones. And then Bridgens says it: "You are my loved one, Harry." said Bridgens. "The only man or woman or child left in the world who cares whether I am alive or dead, much less what I may have thought before I fell or where my bones will lie." And before we can even recover from that, Peglar's reply comes: "You're going to outlive me, John." "Oh, at my age, and with my infirmities and proclivities toward illness, I hardly think..." "You're going to outlive me, John." grated Peglar. :(((((

I think I'm going to have to write a separate post just about this exchange alone. The way they're in different stages of grief - anger vs. acceptance - yet somehow both being in the denial stage in entirely different ways! The way this is another subject on which Peglar the student is more knowledgeable than Bridgens the teacher and again, just what an affront that is to the natural order of their relationship! The way I simply cannot cope with any of it!

[estel-of-the-eyrie]

So I've not written anything LOTR in literal years at this point, but @emilybeemartin's Boromir Lives AU has given me THOUGHTS. (90% of those are He would make the BEST uncle and defacto parent figure T_T)

And especially after their excellent fic recommendation the other day ... I've begun work on a 10th Walker fic of my own hehe 👀

While I finish up the first chapter or so... here's a little sneak peek of the opening piece of Myths of Its Own:

Wren woke to screaming.

And not even the kind which followed – or even predated sometimes – a bar fight. This, blood-curdling terror. Nightmares vocalised.

The whistle of shrapnel and rapid machine gun fire on muddy Belgian battlefields and tommies falling between blood-red poppies-

Glass had been missing from the gaol’s windows for quite some time if the moss around the bars and overall damp were any indication. The cell itself was small, and she was the only one imprisoned there for now; a small mercy, she supposed. Nobody would witness her digging her nails into the warped wooden bedpost or scrambling to get a good look at the insurgents in the dark outside. 

She could make more of a fool of herself with peace of mind. 

Hoisting herself into position, slipping only slightly on that one troublesome bend on the wall, with aching arms she reached up to the window. Her breath caught in her throat and lodged there; choking on fear alone as she spotted them. Then came the siege of thoughts she’d been hiding for days stuck in the gaol, mind fuzzy and battling pain and reason to ground herself enough to even consider escaping. 

They’re dead and they won. We’re all screwed-

A piercing screech.

Where the bloody hell did that come from? It wasn’t human-sounding… 

Her eyes drew skyward. Aircraft? 

There’s a whoosh, a rush of … something. Nothing she can see but it’s enough to send her sprawling back across the floor. 

No… that can’t be possible. That sounded like wings. 

[birthofvcnus]

[Description: An Instagram post from Palestinian-Dutch model Bella Hadid.

[Forgive me for my silence.

I have yet to find the ideal words for this deeply intricate and horrific past 2 weeks, weeks that have turned the world's attention back towards a situation that has been taking innocent lives and affecting families for decades. I have much to say, but for today, I will keep it short.

I've been sent hundreds of death threats daily, my phone number has been leaked, and my family has felt to be in danger. But I can not be silenced any longer. Fear is not an option. The people and children of Palestine, especially in Gaza, cannot afford our silence. We are not brave - they are.

My heart is bleeding with pain from the trauma I am seeing unfold, as well as the generational trauma of my Palestinian blood. Seeing the aftermath from the airstrikes in Gaza, I mourn with all the mothers who have lost children and the children who cry alone, all the lost fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunties, friends that will never again walk this earth.

I mourn for the Israeli families that have been dealing with the pain and aftermath of October 7th.

Regardless of the history of the land, I condemn the terrorist attacks on any civilians, anywhere.

Harming women and children and inflicting terror does not and should not do any good for the Free Palestine movement. I believe deep in my heart, that no child, no people anywhere, should be taken away from their family either temporarily or indefinitely. That goes for Israeli and Palestinian people alike.

It's important to understand the hardship of what it is to be Palestinian, in a world that sees us as nothing more than terrorists resisting peace. It is harmful, it is shameful, and its categorically untrue.

My father was born in Nazareth in the year of the Nakba (the displacement of 750,000 Palestinans in 1948). Nine days after he was born, he, in his mothers arms, along with his family were expelled from their home of Palestine, becoming refugees, away from a place they once called home. My grandparents, Never being allowed to return. My family witnessed 75 years of violence against Palestinian people most notably, brutal settler invasions which led to the destruction of entire communities, murder in cold blood and the forcible removal of families from their homes. The practice of settlements on Palestinian land still continues to this day. The pain of that is unimaginable.

We must all stand together in defending humanity and compassion - and demanding that our leaders do the same. All religions are peace - it is governments that are corrupt, and intertwining the two makes for the greatest sin of all. We are one, and God has created all equal. All bloodshed, tears, and bodies should be mourned with the same respect.

There is an urgent humanitarian crisis in Gaza that must be attended to. Families need access to water and food. Hospitals need fuel to power generators, tend to the wounded and keep people alive.

Wars have laws - and they must be upheld, no matter what.

We need to keep pressure on our leaders, wherever we are, not to forget the urgent needs of the people of Gaza, and to ensure that innocent Palestinian civilians are not the forgotten casualties of this war.

I stand with humanity, knowing that peace and safety belong to us all.

End of description]

[demontruth]

Sorry to all my followers. Yes unfortunately I'm going to get harsh, mean, maybe even cruel. I didn't call this Demon truth for no reason. This also why I separated this from my main blog. Politics, particularly politics in the US have become a naughty business. Before for me at least, before Trump become President I was fine to let that naughty business stay in DC and just heard about on the news. But the night of 2016 Presidential election, I with so many others watched in horror as the map of the US turned blood red as state after state went for Trump. A fear I've never felt exploded inside me because I had no idea what was about to happen in our country. I just knew it wouldn't be good. I'm a member of the LGBTQIA+ community and I'm a woman. I remember that night there was a newscaster on national channel that was covering the election results, he was an African-American gentleman when he spoke of the fear he had of the results of a Trump president there was true terror in that man's voice. It's something I never witnessed from a newscaster in my life. It's stuck with to this day.

Because of that and everything that came after. Now the true terror of what the fuck might happen because we're here again. But this time no one seems to taking this shit seriously because so many have forgotten how bad is was when Trump was President. Seen that yes Biden isn't the best-suited, strongest, President we could have or need right now. But he's 1000 times better then a Trump presidency so we, including me have been lulled back to a place of being complacent Americans. Until recently for me because what's happening in Palestine, the fear of Trump getting into the White House again, the war in Ukraine...

So I apologize that any gloves I once had are off I'm bare knuckle boxing here for our democracy, our country, our Constitution, our way of life. Yea our country needs help, but it's not a fascist authoritarian regime under Dictator Trump. I've been telling mostly the void since before 2016 Trump was, is a wannabe Dictator. (He idolizes Dictator all over the world. He fucking love Putin remember!)

The people that support Trump... I've talked to some in real life to try to understand why their on his side. Not the full gone nut jobs, but just normal people. I spoke to this old woman on the bus once. I ask why she supported him, what she told me was insightful for me but also hard to completely understand. Now this woman was in I'd say her late 60s, early 70s so she not pigeonhole under what some think is Trump supporter, she's hispanic, was a teacher (that's how we got to talking actually because she taught at my old elementary school after I went there), had been married, her husband away passed, had 2 sons. I think the only reason she was so forthcoming telling me about her life was that I went to the school she taught at. What she told me was Trump as President for her made her feel safe. And felt he'd make sure older people like herself was taken care of. Just listening to her as we ride the bus, truthfully trying to understand how she could possibly get that from him. In that light I could understand why she'd vote for Trump. But I knew as we all do that it not true not in anyway. There's this complete disconnect from the truth that standing right in front of them. It's so literally like the Wizard of Oz. That MAGA, some Republicans and anyone else that like him and vote for him see him as the Great Wizard, but the rest of have always been able to see the real Trump that's behind the curtain. The con artist, the lair, the criminal, also now the traitor, the wannabe Dictator.

That would ok fine, if Trump hadn't controlled our government and doesn't want to control it again. For me that's where the train goes off the rails. I get angry, I feel the rage coming, I no longer have any, zero patience for anyone that supports him or anyone that has anything to do with him. Because when I say hate Trump I'm not exaggerating in any fashion. I hate him with every fiber of my being!! He could literally destroy democracy as we know it if he get back into the White House!

So yea I'm going to fight and claw and bite and snarl and punch and hit and kick and beat and scream and tear and rip and break noses and be mean and evil and anything if it means Trump loses the election!! I will be as bloody as I need to be (metaphorically).

I will use this to wake people up, to make the undecided, decide because truthfully at this point how can anyone not have decided by now! Make those who shouldn't vote (MAGA) stay the fuck home. Because the Republicans cheat to get votes what does everyone think gerrymandering is about. So about time we do to, by we I mean fucking everyone against Trump. Fuck he bitch enough about the election being rigged anyway.

My point is the time to be nice unfortunately is over. We have to remember how bad the 4 years Trump was President. Yes I thought I could just wipe that from my memories too but nope. The fucking villain in horror movie wasn't dead after all... motherfucker!!!

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Sansa V (Chapter 61)

My little ladybug! 😍

Sansa felt as though she were in a dream. "Joffrey is dead," she told the trees, to see if that would wake her.

He was probably already watching, Sansa.

+.+.+

The sight of it had been too terrible to watch, and she had turned and fled, sobbing. Lady Tanda had been fleeing as well. "You have a good heart, my lady," she said to Sansa. "Not every maid would weep so for a man who set her aside and wed her to a dwarf."

A good heart. I have a good heart. Hysterical laughter rose up her gullet, but Sansa choked it back down.

[...]

Joffrey was dead, he was dead, he was dead, dead, dead. Why was she crying, when she wanted to dance? Were they tears of joy?

I would be laughing so hard, I can't even fathom her compassion.

+.+.+

Dress warmly, Ser Dontos had told her, and dress dark. She had no blacks, so she chose a dress of thick brown wool.

yin and yang 🥺

+.+.+

The bodice was decorated with freshwater pearls, though.

Halfway through the series I've witnessed two characters rejecting pearls, and another character constantly wearing them.

"The pearls symbolize fertility. The more pearls Your Worship wears, the more healthy children she will bear." - Daenerys VI, ADWD

Look at me, a jonsa, stealing metas again! Haaaa.

+.+.+

The cloak will cover them. The cloak was a deep green, with a large hood.

Speaking of metas, there's a whole group of people out there who believe this is Sandor Clegane's white Kingsguard cloak dyed green.

Are you confused? Are you questioning how that could be? Are you wondering where there's any evidence supporting that? Congratulations, you're not concussed.

+.+.+

The gods heard my prayer, she thought. She felt so numb and dreamy. My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

I'd feel silly not including it.

Gods don't answer prayers, Sansa.

+.+.+

When she pulled it free, her long auburn hair cascaded down her back and across her shoulders. The web of spun silver hung from her fingers, the fine metal glimmering softly, the stones black in the moonlight. Black amethysts from Asshai. One of them was missing. Sansa lifted the net for a closer look. There was a dark smudge in the silver socket where the stone had fallen out.

A sudden terror filled her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and for an instant she held her breath. Why am I so scared, it's only an amethyst, a black amethyst from Asshai, no more than that. It must have been loose in the setting, that's all. It was loose and it fell out, and now it's lying somewhere in the throne room, or in the yard, unless . . .

Clever girl!

+.+.+

She heard a faint rustle of leaves, and stuffed the silver hair net down deep in the pocket of her cloak.

There's something I've never noticed before. She keeps the hair net.

Me thinks that might serve as good evidence down the road.

+.+.+

The bells were tolling, and the wind was making a noise like he had made as he tried to suck a breath of air.

Don't be rude, say hello to your sister.

+.+.+

"Hush, you'll be the death of us. I did nothing. Come, we must away, they'll search for you. Your husband's been arrested."

"Tyrion?" she said, shocked.

"Do you have another husband?

I don't know, Dontos. Can a girl be married to two different men?

Edit: In 8 chapters Jon will be arrested.

+.+.+

In Old Nan's stories the grumkins crafted magic things that could make a wish come true. Did I wish him dead? she wondered, before she remembered that she was too old to believe in grumkins.

Yo, if you could see my reaction after reading this.

I went full ->

Jaqen still owed her one death. In Old Nan's stories about men who were given magic wishes by a grumkin, you had to be especially careful with the third wish, because it was the last. - Arya IX, ACOK

Grumkins grant three wishes! Like Jaqen grants three deaths! Like Maggy the Frog grants three questions! Like hell grants three dragons!

In a matter of seconds I convinced myself Sansa has somehow been granted three wishes from a grumkin, and it started with Janos Slynt (The grumkin being Tyrion in that situation).

Unfortunately, upon further examination, it doesn't really hold.

Sometimes Sansa wishes for things, and they come true. Sometimes not. Sometimes Sansa hopes, dreams, or prays for things, and they come true. Sometimes not. I can't see a pattern.

We'll keep an eye on grumkins though.

+.+.+

If Tyrion did it, they will think I was part of it as well, she realized with a start of fear. How not? They were man and wife, and Joff had killed her father and mocked her with her brother's death. One flesh, one heart, one soul.

Good leverage for Littlefinger.

+.+.+

They were inside a long gallery. Along the walls stood empty suits of armor, dark and dusty, their helms crested with rows of scales that continued down their backs. As they hurried past, the taper's light made the shadows of each scale stretch and twist. The hollow knights are turning into dragons, she thought.

The hollow knights are turning into dragons? Do you have any idea how hard you have to work to not interpret that correctly?

+.+.+

"We must climb down," Ser Dontos said. "At the bottom, a man is waiting to row us out to the ship."

"I'll fall." Bran had fallen, and he had loved to climb.

"No you won't. There's a sort of ladder, a secret ladder, carved into the stone. Here, you can feel it, my lady." He got down on his knees with her and made her lean over the edge of the cliff, groping with her fingers until she found the handhold cut into the face of the bluff. "Almost as good as rungs."

The two most important men in Sansa's life are about to get loud.

Hesitantly, Ned followed. Littlefinger led him into a tower, down a stair, across a small sunken courtyard, and along a deserted corridor where empty suits of armor stood sentinel along the walls. They were relics of the Targaryens, black steel with dragon scales cresting their helms, now dusty and forgotten.

[...]

Ned studied the rocky face of the bluff for a moment, then followed more slowly. The niches were there, as Littlefinger had promised, shallow cuts that would be invisible from below, unless you knew just where to look for them. The river was a long, dizzying distance below. Ned kept his face pressed to the rock and tried not to look down any more often than he had to. - Eddard IV, AGOT

+.+.+

She could hear him huffing and puffing as he began the descent. Sansa listened to the tolling of the bell, counting each ring. At ten, gingerly, she eased herself over the edge of the cliff, poking with her toes until they found a place to rest. The castle walls loomed large above her, and for a moment she wanted nothing so much as to pull herself up and run back to her warm rooms in the Kitchen Keep. Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like a lady in a song.

Sansa dared not look down. She kept her eyes on the face of the cliff, making certain of each step before reaching for the next. The stone was rough and cold. Sometimes she could feel her fingers slipping, and the handholds were not as evenly spaced as she would have liked. The bells would not stop ringing. Before she was halfway down her arms were trembling and she knew that she was going to fall. One more step, she told herself, one more step. She had to keep moving. If she stopped, she would never start again, and dawn would find her still clinging to the cliff, frozen in fear. One more step, and one more step.

The ground took her by surprise. She stumbled and fell, her heart pounding. When she rolled onto her back and stared up at from where she had come, her head swam dizzily and her fingers clawed at the dirt. I did it. I did it, I didn't fall, I made the climb and now I'm going home.

Despite everyone's best efforts, Sansa still draws courage from songs.

One step and then another, Jon told himself. One step and then another, and I will not fall.

[...]

One step and then another, he resumed when the gale subsided. One step and then another, and I will not fall.

[...]

One step and then another, he thought, clinging tight.

[...]

Don’t look down. Keep your weight above your feet. Don’t look down. Look at the rock in front of you. There’s a good handhold, yes. Don’t look down. I can catch a breath on that ledge there, all I need to do is reach it. Never look down. - Jon VI, ACOK

+.+.+

With slow, steady, rhythmic strokes, they threaded their way downstream, sliding above the sunken galleys, past broken masts, burned hulls, and torn sails. The oarlocks had been muffled, so they moved almost soundlessly. A mist was rising over the water. Sansa saw the embattled ramparts of one of the Imp's winch towers looming above, but the great chain had been lowered, and they rowed unimpeded past the spot where a thousand men had burned. The shore fell away, the fog grew thicker, the sound of the bells began to fade.

I wonder if this will be mirrored in the future. Someone escaping King's Landing while bells fade in the background.

+.+.+

The eastern sky was vague with the first hint of dawn when Sansa finally saw a ghostly shape in the darkness ahead

:)

+.+.+

Petyr Baelish put a hand on the rail. "But first you'll want your payment. Ten thousand dragons, was it?"

"Ten thousand." Dontos rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "As you promised, my lord."

"Ser Lothor, the reward."

Lothor Brune dipped his torch. Three men stepped to the gunwale, raised crossbows, fired. One bolt took Dontos in the chest as he looked up, punching through the left crown on his surcoat. The others ripped into throat and belly. It happened so quickly neither Dontos nor Sansa had time to cry out. When it was done, Lothor Brune tossed the torch down on top of the corpse. The little boat was blazing fiercely as the galley moved away.

"You killed him." Clutching the rail, Sansa turned away and retched. Had she escaped the Lannisters to tumble into worse?

It's close!

Dontos was no true Florian, but you gotta feel for the guy.

For the future, keep in mind Littlefinger doesn't pay debts.

+.+.+

Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian."

"Do you perchance recall what I said to you that day your father sat the Iron Throne?"

The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." She felt tears in her eyes, but whether she wept for Ser Dontos Hollard, for Joff, for Tyrion, or for herself, Sansa could not say. "Is it all lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?"

Will the author validate Cersei and Littlefinger?

Is that how you subvert expectations?

+.+.+

"It had to be the godswood. No other place in the Red Keep is safe from the eunuch's little birds . . . or little rats, as I call them. There are trees in the godswood instead of walls. Sky above instead of ceiling. Roots and dirt and rock in place of floor. The rats have no place to scurry. Rats need to hide, lest men skewer them with swords."

+.+.+

"I had to send to Braavos for them and hide them away in a brothel until the wedding. The expense was exceeded only by the bother. It is surprisingly difficult to hide a dwarf, and Joffrey . . . you can lead a king to water, but with Joff one had to splash it about before he realized he could drink it. When I told him about my little surprise, His Grace said, 'Why would I want some ugly dwarfs at my feast? I hate dwarfs.' I had to take him by the shoulder and whisper, 'Not as much as your uncle will.'"

Who truly killed Eddard Stark, do you think? Joffrey, who gave the command? Ser Ilyn Payne, who swung the sword? Or . . . another?" - Tyrion II, ASOS

x

"He accuses my brother and sister of incest. I wonder how he came by that suspicion."

"Perhaps he read a book and looked at the color of a bastard's hair, as Ned Stark did, and Jon Arryn before him. Or perhaps someone whispered it in his ear." The eunuch's laugh was not his usual giggle, but deeper and more throaty. - Tyrion III, ACOK

Always pay attention to the ellipsis.

+.+.+

Littlefinger smiled. "Widowhood will become you, Sansa."

The thought made her tummy flutter. She might never need to share a bed with Tyrion again. That was what she'd wanted . . . wasn't it?

Boy, you have a better heart than me, I don't care how he goes down.

+.+.+

"Why should I wish him dead?" Littlefinger shrugged. "I had no motive. Besides, I am a thousand leagues away in the Vale. Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play the game." "What . . . what game?"

"The only game. The game of thrones."

I think she'll remember.

Your mistake was letting her know what you want.

+.+.+

Lord Petyr took her arm.

x

He brushed back a strand of her hair.

+.+.+

"You are old enough to know that your mother and I were more than friends. There was a time when Cat was all I wanted in this world. I dared to dream of the life we might make and the children she would give me . . . but she was a daughter of Riverrun, and Hoster Tully. Family, Duty, Honor, Sansa. Family, Duty, Honor meant I could never have her hand. But she gave me something finer, a gift a woman can give but once. How could I turn my back upon her daughter? In a better world, you might have been mine, not Eddard Stark's. My loyal loving daughter . . .

It won't take long for Sansa to learn this is a bunch of horse shit.

Be quiet, I haven't given you leave to speak. You enticed him, just as your mother did that night in Riverrun, with her smiles and her dancing. You think I could forget? That was the night I stole up to his bed to give him comfort. I bled, but it was the sweetest hurt. He told me he loved me then, but he called me Cat, just before he fell back to sleep. - Sansa VII, ASOS

+.+.+

Put Joffrey from your mind, sweetling. Dontos, Tyrion, all of them. They will never trouble you again. You are safe now, that's all that matters. You are safe with me, and sailing home.

Final thoughts:

It's Vale time baby!

No more sleeping on the job, we need all hands on deck.

-> return to menu <-

[illiana-mystery]

WIP Wednesday

Recently I started a new fic, Bloodlust, which is about Lionel "Elvis" Cormac (Willem's character from Daybreakers) saving and falling in love with a human woman while he's still a vampire.

But now, I've also began writing a request for a mutual about Bud Carter (Willem's character from Bad Country) protecting a local baker he has a crush on from a dangerous gang after she witnesses a drug deal gone wrong.

So I have decided to give you a sneak peek of Chapter 3 of Bloodlust and a little taste of what's to come with the Bud fic I'm calling: Love and Beignets.

And I will be posting the first chapter of the latter tomorrow, so stay tuned. 😉

@ghnaim24 @iobsessoverfictionalmen

---

Bloodlust

As for me, I had some trouble catching zzz's. It wasn't anything new though.

I've always been a barely functioning insomniac.

But there were plenty of nights when I had a decent sleep, long before my infection. I still fondly remember Tyler waking up some nights and cuddling me even closer to help me fall asleep.

I got so used to sleeping alone though, that the memory was only a very faded thought that crept in my mind to taunt me.

So I was only half asleep when I heard faint cries and a loud scream coming from the bedroom. I jolted up and scurried into the room, fearing what I would see when I walked in.

She was shaking, sitting in a fetal position with her arms wrapped tight around her bent legs. Her breaths were shallow and deep and her eyes looked out in a trance-like state.

I wondered if she even knew that I was in the room, until she stared at me with the same fear in her eyes as when she was in The Velvet Room.

"Get away from me!" she yelled and next thing I knew I had a pillow smack me square in the face.

She must have had a night terror and seeing me probably didn't help.

She obviously wasn't in her right mind.

"Brandi, Brandi, look it's me. Elvis. It's okay, I'm here. I won't hurt you."

"Elvis?"

"Yes, it's me. You remember?"

She looked down in confusion, before looking back at me with a small smile on her face. She didn't speak though, so I slowly walked over to her.

To my surprise, she moved over and pat the side of the bed she was on so I followed her request.

And once I was next to her, she moved over to my lap and rested her head on my shoulder. I held her closer and kissed her forehead, then noticed how red and puffy her eyes truly were.

She had to have been crying longer than I thought.

But about what? Was she still trying to process what happened earlier or was it deeper than that?

Either way, I wasn't gonna judge. Seemed like she had a hard life. I really had no idea...until she started talking.

"I'm sorry for throwing that pillow at you."

I snickered.

"It's okay. It was just a pillow. Didn't hurt me at all."

"I know, but I still feel bad. I shouldn't treat you like that."

"I promise it's fine. No need to apologize," I assured her, before asking, "Did you think I was someone else?"

She looked down after I asked and sighed before saying,

"Remember how I was telling you about my big break earlier?"

"Yeah, what about it?" I asked as I gently worked my fingers through her afro.

"Well, I wasn't completely honest about it...what I mean is I left out some details."

"Like what?"

"To answer that, I kinda have to start back at my childhood."

"Okay, I'm listening."

"You probably already assume that I had a rough life and you wouldn't be wrong. You see from the time I was born to when I was about six, I grew up in a broken home. My father was an abusive drunk and he would constantly beat my mother. And I witnessed it every time, but when I would try to stop him, he would hit me too and lock me in my room without food. But when I was six, my mom had enough and called the cops on him. He was arrested and locked away for a couple of years and my mom moved on and married my step-dad. Life became better for me and my mom and I loved my step-dad. He even adopted me and I took his last name. But good things never stay good for me."

Her lip quivered and her eyes began to water as she took a hard breath.

I could tell she was trying to keep herself together.

"You don't have to go on if..."

"No, no. It's fine. I just needed a moment," she claimed before she went back to explaining.

---

Love and Beignets

"But until we bust them, we need to keep Miss Broussard safe."

"Of course, Stan. She can stay with me," he quickly offered. "I don't mind the company and I got plenty of room at my place."

The Sheriff rolled his eyes and smirked at him. He was more than aware of what Bud agreed to this.

"Well, what do you say, Miss Broussard? You'd be putting your life in Bud's hands."

She softly smiled before agreeing.

"Sure, I trust Bud. But what's gonna happen with my business? If I have to stay hidden, can my shop even open?"

"Yes, your assistant manager will be allowed to open and we will have police presence hidden around the store. We will get in contact with her to let her know."

"Oh, okay. Thank you so much. I really don't want my patrons to have to suffer."

Bud smiled, admiring her selflessness he loved so much. She really did like giving back to the community, hell she always donated to local charities, held coat drives for the homeless, collected school supplies for poor income families, and gathered canned foods for that same demographic. She was an angel in human form and he was so glad he was gonna get to spend even more time with her.

"Of course. You're one of the backbones of the community," the Sheriff said. "And as for you Bud, looks like we're gonna have to cut your vacation short."

"Fine by me. I'm more than happy to help put those lowlifes away. And I figured you would make that executive decision."

"Right, well I think we got all we need for now. You're free to go, Miss Broussard."

"Okay," she softly said. "Should I leave my car here?"

"Oh yes, glad you asked. Yes, you can keep it here. Don't want to tip off any gang members. We'll keep it safe from harm."

"Thank you, Sheriff."

The Sheriff nodded before he noticed Bud walking out with her but he stopped him in his tracks.

"Bud, can I have a word with you?"

"Sure. Can you wait for me outside, Miss Broussard?"

She nodded and left to two men alone.

"What's up, Stan?"

"Bud, I know you're in love with her, but you have to remember that you're keeping her safe because that's your job. I don't want you to make her uncomfortable while she's in your care. You have to keep it professional, got it?"

"I know, Stan. I'm not some hormonal teenager. I know how to control myself. And I also know that no one is gonna hurt her. I'll make sure of it. No harm will ever come to her," he declared. "Now, I need to make my home comfortable for my guest. See you bright and earlier tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," his superior replied as Bud left and went back by Mona.

"Thank you for letting me stay with you. It really means a lot," the young lady said as they were walking to his car.

"Of course. I'm just glad you trust me enough to agree to stay with me."

She giggled.

"Why would I not trust you? You're a good man, Bud and a damn good detective. There's no one else in this world that I would trust more."

He blushed.

"Thank you kindly," he replied as he walked over to his car. Swiftly, he unlocked it and held the door open for Mona which she took before he went over to the driver's side.

"I've always loved your car," she chirped after he got in.

"Thanks. This is my old girl. I've had her since my first day of academy. But she still drives like the first day I got her."

She only giggled in response before asking,

"Can you take me to my house? I just need to grab some clothes before we go back to your place."

"Oh, I know. I was gonna take you there. You do still need clothes," he jokingly said before snickering.

"Right," she sighed as he pulled out of his parking spot and began to drive. "I just wasn't sure how this witness protection thing works."

"No worries," he quickly said, eyes still watching the road. "If you get confused about your current situation, don't hesitate to ask."

He grabbed her hand after and tightly squeezed it, just to insure that she knew she was in safe hands.

---

Tagging: @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky and @writingkitten

[rainofkaiju]

Zone Fighter Thoughts #01: "Destroy the Terror-Beast Missile!"

Hey all, welcome to rainofkaiju! A place where I plan to make semi regular posts of my toy photography, fan fiction and reviews/ musings of kaiju related media.

To start, I decided to make my first entry about an often forgotten about character: Zone Fighter, the Meteor Man.

Debuting in 1973 (after Godzilla Vs Megalon), it was Toho's attempt at capitalizing on the Ultraman phenomenon. Needless to say, it didn't catch on. There's plenty of other places 'round the web that offer more information, so I'll keep the intro short!

Im going to review/ react to each of the 26 episodes of this series. 2023 is his 50th anniversary afterall. And, I've never seen it. Alas, it will be in an order of my own preference, not exactly chronological.

It's an open secret that Toho included a few marquee names alongside the titular hero. Those being Gigan, King Ghidorah and of course, Godzilla! We'll cover the Zone Fighter solo episodes first, then the guest-starring ones last, leaving off on an epic note.

Join me on this journey as we get to witness a forgotten hero in his fansubbed glory, and hopefully convince Toho to bring him back. (Instead of just a Keychain. Lol.)

Let us begin!

We hear Godzilla in the first like 10 seconds! Albeit for the wrong monster... he uses Kong's later.

Awesome theme song, and a great moody score to boot.

An interesting concept of an alien refugee family saving the world in secret.

Some great Kamen Rider esque fight choreography in the human battles. Really digging Hikaru's moves.

This brings us the debut of....

"CANNON TERROR-BEAST" Red Spark!

And, well... meh. Sparkler noodle hands sadly aren't very impressive.

Cool night fight tho.

Zone Fighter himself is pretty neat. Also, a tad creepy with his lit-up eyes in the dark.

But, that's not all! We get the other monster in the episode...

"MAGNETIC TERROR-BEAST" Jikiro!

Now this is a cool kaiju. Unique mecha design, and certainly more memorable than Red Spark. Still doesn't stand a chance against Zone Fighter's Meteor Missiles however.

My fav bit in this entire episode was when Jikiro uses his magnetic pincer to grab hold of a commercial plane. Really good editing, very suspenseful the way the passengers are saved in the last second, as the plane gets yeeted into the night by Zone Fighter.

Never have I seen such a toyetic series shown in such a short amount of time. Jam-packed in 20 minutes. Space stations, spaceships, henshin devices, two kaiju, multiple transforming heroes, a flying fucking car, and the best ever:

ZOBOT!!!

a communicator, drone, weapon, this little guy can do it all. Must've been the coolest shit for kids in the 70's.

All in all, a fantastic start IMHO. One of the most entertaining first episodes from the showa Era of tokusatsu.

Join us next time for Zone Fighter episode 02: " Attack! Destro-King!"

Don't miss it!

[learningtoeatokayagain]

random

So much in my life has changed the past few years. I broke up with someone who was making me feel small. And the more space I've had from him and that relationship, I've realized it was what it was, which was pretty awful overall. And this constant like, fucked up shit around like, realization of how horrible the relationship was. And the fucked thing about dynamics like that is like, there were also good and positive things and connection and interest. But I've heard more about him and his fucked up behavior. And I'm really glad that I'm not around it him or that shit anymore.

With that, I've grown a lot from. However, it's also made me sad because like, I keep ending up in these situations of giving people chances and chances over and over. It's because I try really hard to believe in people because no one believes in each other. I keep getting stuck in this dynamic. And it's fucking so confusion because I keep getting fucked over by people. lol. Like, why do I keep giving people chances? excuses? I don't know. I don't get it.

So then I think back to when my parents were still married. I liked my dad. I truly did. He did fun things with my sister and I. He brought us outside and did fun things with us. He bought us things. We got to see his job. But then there was also a side of terror that I felt around him. There are so many random fucked up memories I have related to him. So many random things. Plus the abuse. So it's like, okay the first man in my life, my dad, I am supposed to like, feel safe and cared for by him. He loves me. He's supposed to not abuse me, etc. And then when my mom left him, she had to do it in a way where her friend helped her pack up as much as she could and we left. I didn't say bye to anyone. My mom did it all in secret.

So then, I am supposed to like, see my dad. Act as if everything is fine. I didn't for a long time after the divorce. The first time I saw him, I was so scared. Then he made me think my mom was feeding me bad shit about him. But that fucked with me hard because I witnessed his abuse. I was one of his victims. So then it's like, why and how am I supposed to be begin to understand like, how the things my mom said that were like, exactly my own memories of him were fucked up and wrong and that my mom was a crazy bitch.

So there's the beginning of me like, somehow wanting to believe in people and hear their sides because people deserve chances. Partly because I still loved my dad, even though he did some fucked up shit. And I wanted him to be okay and maybe I wanted him to be okay so it would feel better for me to love him, still. I don't know.

So my first relationship with a man was violent. And he was violent toward my mom, my sister, and myself. And he's never acknowledged any of it. Or apologized. He's always blamed my mom. And since I have stopped talking to him, I know he blames me. But he is never at fault. It's totally insane to me.

Then I ended up with someone very similar when I'm 18. But before that, I was used by men and experienced so much violence by so many. Anything from being told I have to show my tits for cigarettes, to cat calls, to being hit on while I'm working at McDonald's, to the entitlement my stepdad had over all of us, to the dude who raped me when I was 17, to the McDonald's coworker who stalked me, to the multiple men who were not clear about intentions and used me for sexual things, etc. etc. So I got pregnant at age 18 by a dude who was manipulative and abusive. I know I've written a shit ton on that relationship.

Then this last ex, it's the same fucking shit. The same fucking shit after all the god damn trauma fucking therapy I've done. I still end up dating a dude who has been accused multiple times of rape, as well as like, raped me. And it's been so stupidly fucking hard to say that he did that. But when I take a step-back from it, I know that's what happened. It's just so fucking weird because I have so many doubts about it and I don't really get why. I don't fully trust myself with what actually happened and I don't know why. I forget the details and then they come back and then I'm like, omg this is clique. Which I don't even know why this is happening or coming up either! Then I think of feedback I've gotten from friends and one friend said that our sexual relationship was so unbalanced and unequal. And all this shit is continuing to be so fucking frustrating because I try so hard to communicate my needs and wants with people, but it doesn't seem to go anywhere. But then, yet, I still want to believe and trust people.

The most recent example of this is watching a college friend slowly turn incel. Then he continues to spout his insanity at me and expecting me to like, just listen. His latest rant was about trans people and issues. I just can't engage with him anymore. And I was only realizing this shit after telling my partner about it. He said this is a pattern: men using you and you're loyal to people. And it's like, why does this loyalty fuck me over? It's this pattern of giving people so many chances because I believe in people.

Then this gets into these thoughts of me thinking - am I just crazy? What is it about me that makes people treat me the way they do? Because it fucking keeps happening? Or am I like, selfish and self-involved for even thinking that? Am I self-involved for thinking that people are treating me shitty, but they actually aren't?

I'm also so tired of processing this shit. I've accepted it's there and that horrible, shitty emotions will keep coming up. And I will I guess, keep at it. But I don't want to. I want to be fucking done with it because it's exhausting. And I get into this headspace of thinking I'm like, good, I've processed it, whatever whatever. But it keeps coming up because other men fucking bring it up because of their own fucking shitty as behavior. This shit is inescapable. I'm sick of giving them space and time and attention.

[her-devils-advocate]

Let not them hear, the mutterings of all your fears.

♥. Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

♥. pairings: Nate Sewell / Female Detective (Named)

♥. content warnings: Blood, violence, mentioned trauma, spoilers for the ending of Book 1

♥. notes: I've been wanting to write my own version of the nightmares inflicted upon my Detective after the events of Book 1. I am weak for a good angsty scenario, so this was perfect.

I also apologise for the sheer amount of writing that I've been uploading recently, I've had a lot of free time mixed with a lot of ideas and the motivation to write them!

Title is taken from the song "The Horror and the Wild" by The Amazing Devil

♥. Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47440027/chapters/119546788

♥. Word count: 1990

The first thing she sees upon opening her eyes in the dimly lit room is the abundance of the thick, red substance coating the walls. The decaying metal of the warehouse underneath peeks through the macabre sight as if it were trying to escape.

With a sharp intake of breath, she realises where she is. What she's currently witnessing paint the walls around her.

Blood. 

The strong metallic scent flows through the air, assaulting her senses as she tries to calm her breathing. Panic rapidly floods her system as she looks around the small room. The sickening smell is almost suffocating as she watches the substance slowly ooze down the walls, making its way towards her as if it were alive. The interior of the warehouse bleeds out as long needles, filled with a murky maroon liquid, jut out of the slowly eroding walls. The horridly familiar liquid within the sharp needles slowly drips out, silently adding to the crimson ocean on the ground below her.

Valerie tries to sit up, a cold terror shooting through her when all she can move is her head. The cold metal of the medical table seeps deep into her flesh, the restraints cutting into her as she thrashes. At that moment, more needles begin to emerge through the walls, almost as if summoned by her growing fear. 

The more she struggles against the restraints holding her still, the closer the needles begin to reach towards her, her chest rising and falling more and more as the restraints get tighter and tighter.

Before she even gets the chance to scream, the urge is ripped from her throat the moment she feels the thin, bony fingers brushing across her forehead, chilling her more than the metallic table could. The fingers gently caress her, almost as if trying to sooth her from the hysterical state as the unknown figure moves into her vision. The fingers continue their cold trail down to her cheeks, a pale thumb brushing along her jaw as she tries to make out his form amidst the darkness of the room. 

She goes to yank her head out of his hold, only to be met with a low growl, his grip growing harsher as he holds her in place. His fingers move to tilt her head up to look into her eyes, grinning at the tears building up and threatening to fall. His own features are hidden behind the growing shadows around them. Only the midnight black hair clinging to his pale face, along with the chilling smirk which shows a glimmer of fangs, dare to show through the haze of darkness.

The figure releases her jaw in favour of gliding his finger down to her throat, sharpened nails threatening to break the skin as he roughly grips her. She whimpers as he moves down to whisper into her ear, the scent of iron managing to grow stronger as he does.

“I thought I had told you before, Detective.” His low chuckle mixed with the purr laced into his voice makes her blood run cold, paralysing her further as she feels his breath ghost over her neck, the odd feeling of déjà vu creeping into her mind. “You can never escape me, I will always return for my vessel.”

His words echo around her, her chest rising and falling heavily as confusion and familiarity wrestle one another within her mind. Angry purple blotches begin to invade her pale skin the more she continues to fight against her restraints, desperate for freedom as the blood continues to rise. 

Desperate for freedom as the needles continue to close in on her. 

Desperate for freedom as the strange -yet familiar- man lowers himself closer to her neck. 

“Please, don’t do this. Unit Bravo will…” White hot pain overwhelms her, replacing her words with a sharp scream as Murphy roughly sinks his fangs into the tender flesh of her neck. Her vision blurs, thick tears pouring down her cheeks as he viciously laps up her blood like a starving animal.

After a short while, he finally ends the torture, pulling away from her bloodied throat with a satisfied sigh as he looks down at her with a mocking smile. Slowly threading his fingers through her long hair, he then yanks her head up to look at him in the eye, power dancing within them as his smile widens even further. He roughly throws her head back onto the medical table before breaking out into manic laughter, vanishing into the darkness of the room as if he was never there to begin with.

The horrid, bloodsoaked room spins around her as Valerie begins to grow weak, the exhaustion overriding the terror clawing at her mind as she fights to keep her eyes open, afraid of what would happen if they were to close. 

“Val…?”

A distant voice calls through the darkness as pain shoots across her body, radiating from the large gash now present in her neck, the wound continuing to pour as she lies still on the table. Almost as if it were offering her life to the waves of blood below as her vision fades to black.

“Val….!”

With a ragged gasp, she sits up in the bed, her jade green eyes darting around the room before settling onto the warm, brown eyes gazing back at her in concern. Nate hovers over her, kneeling on the bed at her side, a golden halo of light behind him, created by the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. The old tome that he had been reading had since been tossed aside, in favour of rescuing her from the clutches of twisted memories, content on returning to torment her once the sun had set.

She looks down at his large hands gently holding onto her own, keeping them still as they tremble. Noticing her still panicked gaze, he flashes her an apologetic smile, one which quickly dissolves back into the concerned look which was becoming more frequent.

“Sorry…You were clawing at your scar, I didn’t want you to injure yourself further while I woke you. Do you wish to talk about it, dear heart?” He moves one hand to gently stroke her cheek, brushing away the tears that had fallen as she slept, before moving to tuck a loose strand of ebony hair behind her ear.

She remains frozen for a moment, hypnotised by his tenderness as the talons of the nightmare begin to detach themselves from her mind. She slowly untangles their hands, crawling into his lap and pressing her face into the silk fabric of his nightshirt. Protected within his hold, he gives her the time needed to compose herself, her throat still too tight to speak. He always gives her the time.

“...Murphy.” 

Her quiet mumble is almost stolen away by the small cry that the name provokes, but he could hear her over anything, even a hurricane. Without needing to hear more, his arms tighten around her, holding her as close to him as he could while tucking her face into the crook of his neck. He runs a hand through her long hair as he gently sways the two of them while she cries. Each choked sob from the small woman in his arms sends a flurry of miniature daggers into his heart, wishing he could have done something to prevent the events of that night. Wishing he could do something to help mend the scars those events had caused, both physical and mental, not realising that his presence was the balm that soothed those wounds.

After countless hours of holding her close, afraid that if he were to let her go, she would shatter, her sobs had lessened into small sniffles. She slowly moves her head to look up at him, the shy expression looking out of place on her lovely features.

“I’m sorry, you probably have better things to do than to deal with this.” She averts her eyes as she gestures towards the closed book laying on the bed, the bookmark thrown haphazardly besides it.

With a steady hand, he gently strokes her chin, tilting it up so that he could meet her eyes once more. Nate’s voice is no louder than a whisper, yet full of adoration. “Never apologise for that, you will always be my priority, Val. I will always be there to support and to help you, no matter what.” As if to seal his oath, he presses a tender kiss to her lips, chuckling as she deepens it.

With one last kiss out of the many shared, he reluctantly pulls the two of them to their feet, smiling down at her confused expression. “Since I figured that you will protest against any suggestion of getting some more sleep, why don’t you go and wait for me in the living room. I’ll make us some tea.”

Stumbling into the living room, she grumbles at the bright lights which greets her tired, watery vision, trying not to focus on the various expressions painted upon the vampires scattered around the room. Giving a small, shaky wave to the group, she slowly shuffles towards the plush sofa, flopping down onto it with a small sigh as she tries to ignore their curious yet worried stares.

“You look like shit.” Mason’s gruff voice cuts through the tense silence, yet concern and warmth could be heard within, despite the harsh words. Ignoring Adam’s glare and Felix’s gasp, he shrugs. “Just saying it how it is, she does.”

She looks up at him with reddened, wide eyes as Adam gets ready to scold Mason for causing her to break down again. Before Adam gets the chance, a small giggle floats throughout the room, startling the group as she smiles up at him. Gaining a small, lopsided smile from the vampire in return.

“Yeah, kinda feel like it too.” She moves her hand to drag it through her hair, her body and mind finally beginning to relax as Felix lifts her legs, sitting beside her on the sofa and placing them over his lap.

“Bad dream…?” His voice is unusually quiet as he examines her, the fresh red marks running vertically down her neck don’t go unnoticed by them all. An uneasy feeling settling within all of them, the guilt swimming within as they see the continued aftermath their teammate suffers- that their friend suffers.

Noticing the heavy atmosphere that had fallen upon them, Val nods, wincing slightly at the memories still buzzing around in her mind. 

“Yup…You can probably guess what it was about.” She gestures vaguely to her neck, her smile dropping briefly as she sighs. Shaking herself out of it, she smiles even brighter, trying and failing to sneakily steal the pillow resting behind Felix as she speaks. “But it's alright, Nate was there to help me again!”

Almost as if on cue, the gentle clinks of the ceramic mugs can be heard, signalling his arrival as Nate ducks below the doorframe. His eyes instantly fall upon Valerie, his expression brightening as he witnesses her and Felix bickering over the pillow, Mason smirking at Adam’s reluctant smile as they all watch the duo.

The shadowy tendrils of her memories slowly fizzle away within the comfort of the team’s presence. 

After placing the mugs on the overly decorated coasters, Nate gently plucks the pillow away from them as Val sits up, letting him take her place so that she can use his lap as a pillow instead. 

“Thank you…all of you.”

The group looks down at her, fondness gleaming within their eyes.The room remaining blissfully quiet, no one wanting to disrupt the calm atmosphere. An atmosphere she certainly deserved to relax in, until Felix pokes her foot with a grin. “That's what family is for, Val. Looking after one another.”

“He’s right, ya rouhi. You can relax now, we will be here to protect you. Always.”