#cl moore

[imsupposedtobestudying-whoops]

I couldn't decide which flavour of lines for her... Jirel of Joiry, warrior Queen from the 1930's - created by the great C. L. Moore.

[tromroan]

Jirel ☀️

[retrocatastrophy]

I was iffy about Jirel of Joiry at first, as I found her quite difficult to be likeable (at least to me), though I'm quite aware that she's not a goody two shoes character, she is meant by design to be in the grey territory.

So far I've read 4 out of 7 stories (yes, I'm counting the newest one, though I haven't read that either), those being The Black God's kiss, The Black God's shadow, Jirel meets magic, and The Dark lands, and my favorite has to be the Dark Lands. Moore's worldbuilding is far more interesting to me than Moorcock's, and that man was all about chaotic worlds. Jirel quite literally goes to hell in The Black God's kiss and The Black God's shadow, and I felt the dread and the alieness of it. And while those two are not among my fav stories, I still like the description of the setting.

What I also like about Jirel is that while she's a force to be reckoned with, she's still a woman with weaknesses, but with far greater mental strength than physical. People respect her for her determination, as seen in the Dark Lands, where the bad guy literally cannot force himself to force her to obey him as she loses the spark that he adores. She's also shown fear and terror, showing she's still a human who can get overwhelmed in dire situations.

While she's not among my fav characters (yet), I very much respect and admire her, despite the first two books having some major issues in her characterization.

[proceduralbob]

Immature intelligence is dangerous. A kid will skate on thin ice without making a test first.

Absalom, Henry Kuttner

As read in The Best of C.L. Moore & Henry Kuttner

[rpgsandbox]

Jirel of Joiry

Art by Saša Đurđević

[stardustandrockets]

✨️Mid-Year Book Check-ln!✨️

What book has surprised you most this year?

The first six months of the year are over, so let's have a bit of a check-in!

Best book of 2023 so far: ☆The Whispering Dark by Kelly Andrew—Unless I read something exponentially better, I foresee this being my favorite book of the year

Best sequel of 2023 so far: ☆All the Feels by Olivia Dade—I haven't stopped thinking about Alex Woodroe since I read this book in February

Favorite reread: ☆A Marvellous Light by Freya Marske

New release you haven't read yet, but want to: ☆Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

Most anticipated release for the second half of the year: ☆New Adult by Timothy Janovsky, Bishop Takes King by Ashley Poston, and The Library of Shadows by Rachel Moore

Biggest disappointment: ☆Midnight Duet by Jen Comfort—The only reason I'm putting this here is because it was way hornier than I anticipated

Biggest surprise: ☆Even Though I Knew The End by C.L. Polk—This novella reads like a sapphic Supernatural fanfic and I am here for it!

New favorite author: ☆Kelly Andrew—She only has the one book out right now, but damn did it blow me away

Newest favorite character: ☆Colton Price from The Whispering Dark

Book that made you cry: ☆Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune—As problematic as he is, I loved this book and didn't expect it to make me cry

Book that made you happy: ☆Fake Dates and Mooncakes by Sher Lee and The Princess and the Grilled Cheese by Deya Muniz—Both books were absolutely delightful and made me laugh far more than anticipated

Most beautiful book purchase: ☆The Name-Bearer by Natalia Hernandez—The Rainbow Crate edition is absolutely stunning 😍

[darknight3904]

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Eight- Rebirth

Summary: Back on the road, uncertainty befalls your group as you and Tommy discuss the past, present, and future.

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, themes, language, gore, and horror. . Check the Series Masterlist for expanded warnings.

Word Count 2.6K

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

August 2005, Upstate New York

Tommy is gently shaking you awake, his deep voice mumbling your name as you hazily stare up at him. You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep, all you know is that the sun is setting and Joel has turned off the main road and into a thick brush of trees. 

“Y’gotta eat something before you go back to bed,” Tommy says as the car comes to a stop with a thump. 

It’s semi-quiet as you tuck into a can of cold can of Dinty and Moore Beef Stew. Joel’s loud slurps fill the car as he quickly eats whatever he’d chosen from the bags. Your back is pressed to Tommy’s chest, leaning into him as he eats, his hands brushing your shoulders gently. 

Lara is feeding the baby a bottle, her gaze never leaving his chubby face. You keep thinking about her voice, how desperate it had sounded when you heard it for the first time ever. You had presumed she might not be able to speak, but today she proved you wrong. 

After dinner, she begins to doze with the baby, thin, freckled arms cradled around him like he’s going to disappear.

“M’ takin’ a piss.” Joel declares, “Then we’re decidin’ where to go. Can’t stay in this damn car forever.” 

The car door slams, Joel disappearing into the night, and you’re left alone with Tommy and a slumbering teen and her baby.

“Where are we going to go?” You hum 

“Dunno, Boston seems like the best bet though. We were headed there last summer anyway.” He says 

You nod, thinking back to the original plan Joel had proposed, it felt like it’d been ages since then. You don’t know what else to say, what you do know is that you’re going wherever Tommy goes. Uninterested in what else lurks in the world, you’re focused on surviving by Tommy’s side. 

“Lara spoke today.” You blurt out 

“She can talk?” Tommy asks 

“Yeah. Those men tried…taking the baby, she yelled at them. I thought I was fucking hallcinating at first.” You say 

“Shit, here I was thinking we should all learn sign language or somethin’.” Tommy says, “Was gonna start teaching you some.” 

“You know sign language?” You ask full of doubt 

“Yeah, I know some. There was this deaf kid in my high school, used to ride the bus with me before I started driving.” Tommy says, “Taught me some words.” 

“Like what?” You ask curiously 

Tommy makes a few quick gestures with his hands, you have no idea what they mean but you’re impressed. The squeaking of the car door has you jumping, you’re still on edge from those men earlier. Back in Tommy’s grasp, you’re holding tight to his forearm when Joel climbs back into the car. 

“You okay?” Tommy whispers 

“Fine.” You shiver, leaning back into him and his warmth

Joel stares at the two of you for a moment from the drivers seat, as if he can’t quite understand what to make of you both. Then, as quickly as it came, the curiosity is gone, and that scowl he’s had since Sarah died has returned. 

“We’re heading north, to Boston. Dunno how far this piece of shit will get us, it’s tires are real low and Tommy and I didn’t get a chance to change the oil before we got chased out.” Joel says to the two of you, “Also, quit teaching her curse words in sign language.” 

He reaches over, tapping Lara’s knee to wake her up, “You listening? Unless you wanna try your luck alone, you’re coming with us, you and the kid.” 

You roll your eyes at Joel’s stern tone. One look at Joel’s incessant hovering over Lara and the baby would have anyone, even a stranger, knowing he was bluffing about leaving her behind. If it really came down to it, you were sure he’d drag her kicking and screaming to Boston.

Just a few days ago, Joel had brought back a big backpack stuffed with clothes for Lara from some little home he’d stumbled across while hunting. You hadn’t missed the small smile that inched across his face when she picked through it and settled on a soft oversized hoodie before writing thank you into her notebook with a big smily face beside it. You knew he also liked the baby, always making sure he was holding the elephant Joel had made, plus you had the sneaking suspicion Joel was working on another one, you saw a hunk of wood poking out of his backpack earlier. 

“George.” She softly says staring at Joel and then looking back at you and Tommy 

“What? M’ Joel, not George.” Joel says, looking at Lara like she’s losing it, his eyes widening when her voice fills the car.

“No, Joel, she’s saying-” You start 

“My baby, his name is George.” 

The three of you look at Lara who holds the newly named George close to her body, light blonde curls stick up from his head in every which way as he sleeps, tired from a day in the car. Lara looks down at him with a fondness you’ve never seen on her face before, her thumb running gentle circles over his chubby cheeks.

“Alright, well,” Joel sighs, tiredly, “You and George, you’re coming to Boston with us. No sense in getting yourself killed out here.” 

Lara stares at you, big blue eyes glowing in the dying sun, “Okay.” 

The next day, you wake up with a terrible ache in your neck. Tommy’s arms fall off of you as you wiggle away from him, in desperate need of a good stretch and to relieve your bladder. You quietly shut the car door, trying not to wake anyone as you tiptoe over broken branches and crunchy leaves to where a decent-sized bush sits. You’re quite literally mid-stream when a branch snaps behind you, your hand flies to the gun you took from Tommy’s bag, only to find Lara standing there, the newly named George balanced on her hip, his wooden elephant in hand. 

“Can I help you cook breakfast?” She asks 

“Oh, um, yeah sure. Let me just finish peeing.” You mumble, still not entirely used to hearing her speak. 

You watch the spam sizzle over a fire in the pan you’d snatched out of the kitchen yesterday, occasionally flipping it with a stick. Lara sits a few feet away, watching you as her baby sits on her lap. 

“So, George, huh?” You ask as you sit down next to her, “Any particular reason for that name?” 

“It was my dad’s name.” Lara says softly 

You nod, staring down at George who looks up at you, offering the elephant with outstretched arms. 

“It’s a lovely name.” You compliment 

“What do you think Boston will be like?” Lara asks, “Joel said he heard that the military had some safe zone set up.” 

“I’m not sure. Tommy, Joel, and I heard about that over a year ago. I hope it’s true though, It’d be nice to not have to worry about keeping watch everynight.” You say honestly

Lara nods, a soft breeze flows through the air, pushing her long red hair off her shoulders. It was well past her shoulders, falling to her mid back.

“When we get there, maybe I can give you a hair cut. You’ve seen me do Tommy and Joel’s, I think I could definitely do yours.” You offer 

“Only if you let me cut yours.” Lara bares a small smile on her lips 

“Deal. But if you screw it up, I’m taking it personally.” You grin, nudging her 

A soft silence falls over both of you as you stare at the fire, listening to the crackling flames, they were probably done by now. 

“When we get to Boston, we’re gonna stay together, right?” Lara suddenly asks, her voice small 

You turn to her, “Of course. Not gonna leave you and the world's cutest baby to fend for yourselves in some military camp.” 

She nods, wrapping her pale hand around yours, “Thank you, for everything. You could’ve kicked me out or killed me back in the winter but you let me stay.” 

“Are you kidding me? My conscious would’ve eaten me alive if I left you out there to freeze. Besides, Joel would’ve eventually let you in anyway, I have the sneaking suspicion that he’d got a soft spot for you and George.” You explain 

“Always thought he hated me.” Lara sighs sadly 

“He’s a grump, but he cares. Just doesn’t know how to show it.” You wave her off 

The car doors open up, Joel and Tommy climb out, walking over towards you, probably woken up by the scent of food. 

“What’re you two talkin’ about?” Tommy asks as he approaches 

“Girl stuff.” You say 

“You.” Lara jokes a sly grin on her face

Well damn, you weren’t expecting her to have a sense of humor under that skittish act she had going. 

“Well shit, hope it was good stuff.” Tommy grins 

“Just sit down and eat.” Joel cuts the conversation off, his signature scowl on his face 

After breakfast, you watch Joel try to teach Lara to shoot. She’s not very good, but you don’t have the heart to tell her. If she’s lucky, she might be able to take out a slow-moving infected, but definitely not a living person. 

Tommy lounges next to you, his gaze anywhere but the shooting lesson that’s happening nearby. 

“I hope you’re thinking pure thoughts, Miller.” You sigh when you catch his eyes, raking over your figure 

“Not one, darlin’.” He hums, “M’ actually thinkin’ about that red bra you had and if you packed it before we left yesterday.” 

“You’re a total perv.” You roll your eyes, cross your arms over your chest 

“Can’t a man appreciate his lady?” Tommy gasps 

“No, not when he’s wondering what bras she packed.” You huff, you loved him but sometimes you weren’t used to his blatant obsession with you. You’d only had one boyfriend before Tommy, a guy named Liam who was more interested in his truck than you. 

“So what I’m hearing is you have it?” Tommy boyishly grins at you, leaning towards you

You push is face away from yours, your hand landing on his forehead as you do, “No, creep. It’s back at the house. I didn’t get a chance to grab it.” 

“Well, shit.” Tommy sighs dissapointed, “Don’t worry, I’ll find ya a new one. Betcha theres a mall in Boston, probably a Victoria’s Secret, some slinky shit with your name on it.” 

“What are you gonna plan your Black Friday list while we’re at it too? Get a good deal on a new cell? Maybe a new recliner as well?” You tease 

“Course’ I always wanted a big ass TV for my living room. One of those huge ones to watch football on.” Tommy says 

“So what I’m hearing is if we were together in the normal world, you’d be one of those guys shouting at the TV for four hours each Sunday?” Your nose wrinkles in disgust, thinking of how boring football was. 

“Eh, maybe.” He shrugs, “Maybe not.” 

“Yeah, okay.” You laugh, knowing he was lying through his teeth. You picture Tommy sitting on the couch, dressed in his favortie teams colors while he screams at some overpaid player to run the ball. 

“Hold up, you’d go out with me, even if the world wasn’t literally tits up?” Tommy asks, his dark brown eyes staring into yours, 

“Um, of course, I had like…a major crush on you for two years before all this.” You confess embarrassingly 

Your hands fiddle with a big leaf that sits on the forest floor. You’d already slept with him countless times, called him your boyfriend, and now you were embarrassed to admit you had a crush on him. 

“Shit, you mean if I asked you out, you would’ve seriously gone out with me?” Tommy laughs his voice airy with disbelief

“Well, that’s what I just said, so…” 

“Always thought you thought I was some old creep.” Tommy says sadly, “Never even dreamed I had a real shot.” 

“You’re like 28, that’s not that old.” You say, you’re 22 now, it wasn’t that big of a gap. Your own parents had been six years apart, of course they hadn’t met until their 30s but still. 

“Darlin’, m’ 31 right now,” Tommy says, a hand resting on your knee, rubbing circles into the fabric of your pants, “Was 26 when we met.” 

“Oh. Whoops.” You laugh, “Well, I don’t care. Besides theres bigger problems out there then you, old man.” 

“I ain’t that old.” Tommy huffs annoyed, “Sides’ if I’m old, then Joel must be ancient in that little head of yours.” 

You toss your head back and laugh, his disgruntled face has your stomach fluttering as you tease him.

“Joel’s always been old, though. He used to tell me he’d go buy me new jeans from Walmart cuz the rips in them weren’t “normal”. And then there was that time he came over to my house on Christmas and fell asleep before dessert was ready.” 

“That the year he farted in his sleep and Sarah caught it on that old video recorder?” Tommy smiles 

“Yup!” You grin 

Your smile falters as your mind replays the memory. It was the first real Christmas you and your father had since your mom died back when you were 14. You were 17 at the time, you hadn’t met Tommy yet. Normally, it’d just be TV dinners in front of a half-hassed tree and then a few presents and then bedtime.

Instead, Sarah had accidentally invited herself over one night while you were watching her. After that, you convinced your dad to put on a good show, insisting on a big ham and different side dishes. You had scrambled up the attic steps and pulled all your mom’s old Christmas stuff down, insisting your dad help put up the stockings and place hers above the fireplace, her name written in clumsy glitter glue letters from when you made it back in Kindergarten. 

You’d never get that back. The warmth of celebrating Christmas with your dad, with Joel, with Sarah, with your mom. It was gone, stolen away by cancer and a virus you still didn’t have a name for. Sarah’s body was decomposing in some ditch somewhere, and Joel was a broken man, a shell of himself that didn’t laugh, didn’t smile, and never reminded you of the man who’d fallen asleep on your couch after his third helping of mashed potatoes. 

You sniffle a bit, wiping at your eyes that have started to sting with salty tears. Your fists clench, fingernails digging into the soft skin of your hands. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Tommy asks concerned 

“Nothing.” You sniff, “Just thinking about the past.” 

Tommy nods, understanding immediately. He pulls you into his side, your head resting on his shoulder. 

“M’ sorry life turned out so shitty. You didn’t even get to experience the real world before it ended.” Tommy sighs sadly

“It’s alright.” You softly say, taking his hand in yours and placing it in your lap, “I got you now.” 

Tommy presses a kiss to your forehead, his words echoing yours, “You got me.”

You’re content to stay like this, your eyes fluttering shut as you bask in the late August breeze, wrapped up in Tommy as he keeps you tucked to his side like nothing bad can ever reach you. You’re not sure how long you stay like this; all you do know is that when your eyes open again, Tommy is pushing you off him, cursing loudly as he shouts Joel’s name. 

You blearily try to follow him, but the shrill sounds of screaming is throwing you off. What is happening? Your knife is strapped to your waist, and Tommy has his gun, charging off in the direction of what you presume to be Joel. 

Another loud scream bounces off the trees, birds flutter into the air as the crack of a gun goes off, followed by three more shots. It takes another shrill scream followed by the loud wails of a baby for you to realize something bad is happening. 

Lara. 

Next Part

I return to Tumblr. I passed my finals (somehow).

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter; I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@freythecrazyfae @rae-gar-targaryen @keseqna @eniepascal @jakecockley @aphroditesblunt @soberbabes @daisyhams

@h0neylemon @womenlover0

[youremyheaven]

The Astrology of Beauty Marks/Moles

This is really random but something I have noticed recently. In my observations natives who have Punarvasu, Mrigashira, Pushya nakshatras had beauty spots/marks that are considered iconic. A lot of Punarvasu natives tend to have facial moles, which is interesting.

L to R

Busy Phillips- Punarvasu Moon (the mole on her jaw and on her neck)

Karina Yoo- Punarvasu Moon (the mole is under her lip)

Caroline Polachek- Mrigashira Sun, Punarvasu Moon & Mercury (the mole next to her nose)

Mariah Carey- Punarvasu Moon (the mole under her lip)

L to R

Jennifer Lawrence- Mrigashira Moon (the moles are on her neck & chest)

Kate Upton- Mrigashira stellium (sun, mercury & ketu) (the mole abover her lip)

Khloe Kardashian- Mrigashira Moon (the mole under her left eye)

Maya Rudolph- Pushya Sun, Venus in Mrigashira atmakaraka & Ketu in Punarvasu (the moles on her left cheek)

Feist- Punarvasu Moon (the mole on the left corner of her lip)

Rachel McAdams- Mrigashira Moon (the mole on her chin)

Mandy Moore- Pushya Moon & Mrigashira Rising (the mole under her left eye)

Selena Gomez- Pushya Stellium (Sun, Venus & Rising) and Ketu in Mrigashira (the moles on her boob)

Eva Mendes- Pushya Moon, Saturn & Ketu in Mrigashira (the mole on her cheek)

Goldie Hawn- Mrigashira Moon, Mars in Pushya & Saturn in Punarvasu (the mole above her lip)

Angelina Jolie- Pushya Rising & Venus, Mercury in Mrigashira atmakaraka and Saturn in Punarvasu amatyakaraka (the mole above her eyebrow)

CL (Lee Chaerin)- Pushya Moon (the mole under her lip)

L to R

Natalie Portman- Mrigashira Sun (on her left cheek)

Julia Roberts- Pushya Rising (under her left eye)

Katrina Kaif- Punarvasu Sun (on her right cheek)

Dita Von Teese- Mrigashira Moon (under her right eye)

Wonyoung- Venus conjunct Saturn in Punarvasu (amatyakaraka) (under her left eye)

Devon Lee Carlson- Mrigashira Moon & Mars (atmakaraka) with Mercury in Pushya (on her left cheek and chin)

Chaeyoung- Pushya Moon (corner of her mouth)

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

That's it for now!! I wish I could provide some kind of explanation for why Mrigashira, Pushya & Punarvasu gals tend to often have moles (obviously anybody with other placements can also have moles) but I think this is a "correlation not causation" type scenario for now. Hope this was fun tho lol

[vintagegeekculture]

The Evil Little Hairy Cave People of Europe in Pulp Fiction

From the 1900s to the 1940s, there was a trendy theme in occult and horror stories that the explanation for widespread European legends of fairies, brownies, pixies, leprechauns and other malicious little people, was that they were a hereditary racial memory of the extremely small non-human, hairy stone age original inhabitants of Europe, who still survive well into modern times in caves and barrows below the earth. Envious of being displaced on the surface, these weird creatures, adapted to the darkness of living underground and unable to withstand the sun, still mean mischief and occasionally go out at night to capture someone.... usually an attractive woman....to take to their dark caves for human sacrifice.

Displaced by the arrival of Indo-European language speakers at the dawn of the Bronze Age, these original, not quite human stone age people of Europe were driven deep underground into caves and barrows below the earth, where they went mad, adapted to the darkness and acquired a fear of daylight, became extremely inbred, in some cases acquired widespread albinism. It is these strange little people who gave the descendants of Europeans a haunting racial dread of places below the earth like mines and caves, and it also is these strange, hairy troglodytes who originally built the uncanny and mysterious menhir, fairy rings, and stone age structures of England, Scotland, and Ireland that predate the coming of the Celts and Romans.

In some cases, these evil troglodytes are usually identified with the mysterious Picts, the pre-Celtic stone age inhabitants of the British Isles. In some cases, they are identified with the Basque people of Spain, best known as the inventors of Jai Alai, and the oldest people in Europe who speak a unique language unrelated to any in the world.

The original codifier of this trend was Arthur Machen, a horror writer who is less remembered than his contemporary, Henry James, but who may be the best horror writer in the generations between Poe on the one end and Lovecraft/CL Moore/Clark Ashton Smith on the other. His story, "the White People" from 1904 (a reference to their strange cave albinism) was a twisted Alice in Wonderland with a girl who is irresistibly attracted to dark pre-Roman stone age ruins and who is eventually pulled underground.

In addition to being a great horror writer, Arthur Machen was a member of the Hermetic Society of the Golden Dawn, an occult organization, and was often seen at the Isis-Urania Temple in London. Many of his works have secretive occult knowledge.

H.P. Lovecraft in particular always pointed out Arthur Machen as his single biggest inspiration, though he combined Machen's dread and occultism with Abraham Merritt's sense of fear of the cosmic unknown, seen in "Dwellers in the Mirage" and "People of the Pit."

Another and scarier example of this trend would be "No Man's Land," a story by John Buchan, a Scotsman fascinated by paganism and horror, who often wrote stories of horrific discoveries and evil rites on the Scottish moors. He is often reduced to being described as a "Scottish Ghost Story" writer, a painfully reductivist description as in his career, Buchan wrote a lot of thrillers, detective, and adventure stories as well. In later life, he was appointed Governor General of Canada, meaning he may be the first head of state to be a horror writer.

It was Buchan who first identified the cave creatures with the Picts, something that another Weird Tales writer decades later, Robert E. Howard, would roll with in the 1920s.

Howard is a very identifiable kind of modern person you often see on the internet: a guy who talks tough, but who was terrified to leave his small town. He created manly man, tough guy heroes like Conan the Barbarian, Kull, and El Borak, but he himself never left his mother's house. It's no wonder he got along well with his fellow Weird Tales writer and weird shut in, HP Lovecraft. With 1920s Weird Tales writers, despite your admiration for their incredible talent, you also can't help but laugh at them a little, a feeling you also apply to a lot of Victorians, who achieved incredible things, but who are often closet cases and cranks who died virgins ("Chinese" Gordon comes to mind, as does Immelmann).

With Howard, his obsession with the Picts and the stone age cave dwelling people of Europe started with an unpublished manuscript where at a dinner party, a man gets knocked out and regresses to his past life in the Bronze Age, where he remembers the earliest contact between modern humans and the original inhabitants of the British Isles, the evil darkskinned Picts. This is a mix of both the "little cave people" story and another cliche at the time, "the stone age past life regression novel," another turn of the century cliche.

Still with the Picts on his mind, Howard would later create Bran Mak Morn, a Pict chieftain, who predated Kull and Conan as his Celtic caveman muscle hero. Howard was of Irish descent and proudly anti-Colonial and anti-British, with his Roman Empire and Civilized Kingdoms as a stand in for the British and other Empires, which he viewed as rapacious and humbug, a view shared by his greatest inspiration, Talbot Mundy. His "Worms of the Earth" gets to the heart of why these little cave people scare us so much: they remind us that we live on land that is impossibly ancient and we don't fully understand at all.

It was another Weird Tales Writer a decade later who wrote one of the last stories about the little hairy cave people of Europe, though, Manly Wade Wellman in 1942. Wellman was mainly known for creating the blond beefcake caveman hero Hok the Mighty set in stone age times, and for his supernatural ghost stories of Silver John the Balladeer set in modern, ghostly Appalachia (like many ex-Weird Tales writers, he made a turn to being a regional author in his later career, in the same way Hugh B. Cave became a Caribbean writer), but Wellman also had a regular character known as John Thunstone, a muscular and wealthy playboy known for his moustache who used his great wealth to investigate the supernatural and the occult. Thunstone had a silver sword made by St. Dunstan, patron of Silversmiths, well known for his confrontations with the Devil.

Most John Thunstone stories featured familiar stories, like a demon possessed seance and so on, but one in particular featured a unique enemy, the Shonokins.

The Shonokins were the original rulers of North America, descendants of Neanderthal man displaced by American Indians. This fear that the land we live is ancient and unknowable and we just arrived on it and don't know any of its secrets is common to settler societies, who often hold the landscape with dread, as in Patricia Wrightson's fantasies of the Australian Outback. It was easy enough to transport the hairy cave people from the Scottish Moors to North America. I suspect that's what they are, a personification of a fear shared in the middle class, that in the back of their minds, that everything they have supposedly earned is merely an accident of history, built by rapacity and the crimes of history, and that someday a bill will come due.

A text page in the May 1942 issue of Weird Tales gives strange additional information on the Shonokins not found elsewhere:

Since then, there have been too many examples of evil cave people who predate Europeans. Philip Jose Farmer's "The All White Elf" features the last survivor of a pre-European people who live in caves. A lot of other fiction of course has featured the Picts, but according to our modern scientific understanding, which describes them as much, much less exotically, as a blue tattooed people not too different and practically indistinguishable from the Celtic tribes that surrounded them, and which they eventually blended into.

[lonestarbattleship]

"Photograph taken from a Japanese plane during the torpedo attack on ships moored on both sides of Ford Island shortly after the beginning of the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941. View looks about east, with the supply depot, submarine base and fuel tank farm in the right center distance.

A torpedo has just hit USS WEST VIRGINIA (BB-48) on the far side of Ford Island (center). Other battleships moored nearby are (from left): USS NEVADA (BB-36), USS ARIZONA (BB-39), USS TENNESSEE (BB-43) (inboard of West Virginia), USS OKLAHOMA (BB-37) (torpedoed and listing) alongside USS MARYLAND (BB-46), and USS CALIFORNIA (BB-44).

On the near side of Ford Island, to the left, are light cruisers USS DETROIT (CL-8) and USS RALEIGH (CL-7), target and training ship USS UTAH (AG-16) and seaplane tender Tangier. Raleigh and Utah have been torpedoed, and Utah is listing sharply to port.

Japanese planes are visible in the right center (over Ford Island) and over the Navy Yard at right. U.S. Navy planes on the seaplane ramp are on fire.

Japanese writing in the lower right states that the photograph was reproduced by authorization of the Navy Ministry."

U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command: NH 50930

Colorized by Irootoko Jr: link

[imsupposedtobestudying-whoops]

Someone stop me of adapting all of C.L.Moore’s work into comic form ⚔️

[tromroan]

Another Jirel with gold lines, because I think it looks... quite cool.... (Jirel of Joiry is a medieval warrior queen, and fantastic original character by the great C. L. Moore - one of the pioneer women writers of sci fi and fantasy!)

[tsunflowers]

I would love to take a class where the textbook is "the future is female: 25 classic science fiction stories by women, from pulp pioneers to ursula k le guin" edited by lisa yaszek, and you just read a story every week and discuss it. they're arranged in chronological order from 1928 to 1969 and are obviously picked not only to demonstrate each author's style but to reflect social attitudes of the era. there would really be a lot to talk about in an academic setting. but even if I can't teach that class I recommend giving it a read if you're interested in old scifi. these were the standout stories to me but you may have different faves when you read it

"the black god's kiss" cl moore, 1934. a female knight travels through a portal to a land she considers to be hell in order to find a weapon capable of defeating the man who conquered her. this is the one I posted saying "it's just like the alien from alien." the imagery is so vivid and engrossing that i can't believe it was written 90 years ago

"all the colors of the rainbow" leigh brackett, 1957. an alien husband and wife on a diplomatic mission to earth find that sundown towns don't appreciate aliens much either. liberal use of the n word in this one bc the characters are extremely racist but I found it to be a very unique example of sf/fantasy discrimination metaphors. I'd love to discuss this one in a class bc I kind of feel like it's not a white woman's story to write but I also don't think a black woman would have gotten it published in 1957? definitely an interesting one

"pelt" carol emshwiller, 1958. a hunting dog brought by her master to an alien planet to hunt exotic furs finds that the native species can communicate with her but not her master and becomes torn. since you're in the dog's point of view you never get the full picture of what happens but it's very melancholy

"car pool" rosel george brown, 1959. it's truly just like an episode of a sitcom where a group of women who run a hovercarpool for their kids let a three armed alien kid in and things go awry. the standout is the relationship between the protagonist and a rival mom who she envies bc the rival mom can pull off wearing a real boudoir slip

"another rib" john jay wells & marion zimmer bradley, 1963. stranded male exocolonists accept an experimental procedure from an alien friend that will allow them to give birth and further the human race despite their captain's intense homophobia and transphobia. interesting in its portrayal of gender and srs bc the alien brings up the fact that humans have already accomplished gender-affirming surgeries but there's also never any implication that the men will become women. they just become men capable of giving birth. however I learned from this anthology that ms bradley enabled child sexual abuse so fuck her

"when I was miss dow" sonya dorman, 1966. a shapeshifting alien from a masculine mono-gender race is made to take the form of a human woman to learn more about human settlers and resents it at first but is fundamentally changed by the experience. made me want to cry a little

"nine lives" ursula k le guin, 1969. two guys who are getting sick and tired of each other after a long mining expedition on a faraway planet are joined by ten sexy and beautiful 20somethings who are all clones of the same guy. the clones can act in unison but also keep each other company. this could be the future of the human race... or not

[proceduralbob]

[pleasereadmeok]

"You're not drinking?"

"Oh I think you're getting pissed enough for the both of us!"

Matthew Goode and Mandy Moore in 'Chasing Liberty'.

'Chasing Liberty' is now on Netflix in Canada. 💃🏼

📷 CL my edit

[fatal-iistic]

Part 2 of 3

Summary: Stuck in Shadow Company's lion den, Blair could use a hero

Pairing: F!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Blood, gore, war crimes, torture, violence, explicit language, a very angry woman, Phillip Grave is an asshole

Sleep shouldn’t be tough.

Blair has to sleep with white noise. She thinks it's probably because of the subtle tinnitus she acquired over the years of being around too many explosions and unprotected around gunshots (those things they told you about at boot camp, the same things every soldier seemingly ignores until half their hearing is depleted). In her bedroom at home, it’s an aging box fan that lulls Blair to sleep. Soft, rhythmic sounds — something so primitive, a tactic used on infants to soothe them to sleep.

(She doesn't want to admit that the white noise always helped her fall asleep because it drowned out the cacophony of her intrusive thoughts. Blair’s biggest flaw stemmed from the fact that she thought too damn much, could remember too damn much, had seen too damn much.)

Something seems off, though. This white noise is an unsteady rattle, a noise that causes more vexation in the woman’s brain than soothing. While constant, it lacks a rhythm, and the oddened senses of her battered cranium can’t bear the inconsistency. Blair hates how finicky her mind and body had become over the years — what she would do to be able to pass out on the ground with the distant rattle of explosions from across the town (that lifetime had shipped, sailed, and sunk now).

The wiring of her brain starts to commence neural connections, piecing together awareness from her sleep. Her head throbs. And she feels an excruciating sensation stabbing in her side as she draws in a deep, steady breath. Like a light switch, the events of the last few hours streamline through her brain, jolting the woman awake violently. 

Eyes fly open. The first thing Blair attempts is to shove herself into a sitting position, but she finds that task incapable with her hands restrained together. Instead she jams her skin against zip ties, the pinching sending a wave of pain through the woman’s forearms.

"Easy, there," a gentle voice murmurs. "You'll mess up my stitches."

She whips her head to her left, spotting a young man seated next to the place she's been laid. Her brain starts to analyze the dilemma. She’s on top of an office desk, utilized like some makeshift hospital bed. The man at her side wears a deconstructed Shadows uniform (identifiable mostly because the only souls wearing all-black in the last few days had been members of Shadow Company), juggling a first aid kit on his lap.

"Who the fuck," Blair hisses, "where the fuck?"

Both statements go unfinished. Blair remembers being held at gunpoint in Las Almas. She remembers hearing Graves' voice over his boys' radios. 

"You need to hold still," the man repeats. He tilts his chin to meet Blair’s wide-eyed and feral gaze. He has soft features — naïve and young like a kid fresh out of boot camp. JDark brown eyes hold a seemingly calm comfort in them, but Blair doesn’t take the bait. Every fiber of her being is in fight or flight mode.

"Again, who the fuck are you?" Blair hisses, her voice dropping in tone. 

"My name is Corporal Daniels. Right now, I'm your medic in shining armor, Miss Moore," the medic introduces himself, though his tone lacks any surplus of hospitality. It's formal. To the point. 

"Don't call me that," Blair warns.

"My apologies.”

She squints at the man, confused by his feeble demeanor and willingness to apologize. Maybe not all Shadow soldiers were scum of the earth. But Blair can't let her guard drop.

A guttural groan leaves Blair’s lips as Cpl Daniels dabs alcohol around the wound. Fingers curl with the stinging of the pain. Her face contorts and jaw clenches, the woman turning her head away from the medic. She fixes her eyes on the clock across the room, watching the harrowing seconds tick by as Daniels continues. It’s just before five o’ clock. She isn’t sure when the Shadows had plucked her out of Las Alma’s, but she assumes it must have been several hours of unconsciousness. 

"Where am I?" Blair croaks.

Daniels tapes a gauze pad over her wound. "The base…the Los Vaqueros base?"

"You mean Graves' new playhouse?" Blair snidely remarks.

"Yes."

"Why am I not dead?" Blair questions. 

Cpl Daniels doesn't answer her question, perhaps contemplating the actions of his commanding officer.

Blair chuckles grimly. "Don't know, either?" She asks. Cpl Daniels shrugs. The lack of conclusion in their conversation causes Blair to bristle. She's wounded, captured and this fucking headache hasn't gone away since she hit her head in the ravine hours ago. "With this fucking headache, I wish I was dead."

Daniels flinches slightly at her raised voice, though he does not feed into Blair's frustration. He sits there for a moment before nodding slightly, indicating his completion of sewing her back together. He assists Blair into a seated position, directing her to the office chair at the side of the desk.

She wants to fight, but she knows it's futile. Besides, Daniels didn't truly seem to be the enemy here. Just a bad byproduct of his employment choices. 

"Commander Graves will want to see you now that you're awake," Daniels reports, collecting his supplies.

"I'm not takin' visitors," Blair snaps. 

Daniels doesn't shift from her catty response. "I'm just giving you a forewarning."

Blair's lips turn downward. "Uh…thanks…I guess…"

He exits, leaving Blair in the quiet of the office. The hum of what Blair assumes is the central air is the only thing that keeps her company. 

She taps her boot listlessly against the floor. She feels overstimulated and overly annoyed. The zip ties at her wrist are far too tight, and she’s already evaluating the situation of snapping them and trying to go Rambo on the Shadows and this damn base (she isn’t incapable of breaking free, but the likelihood of her surviving beyond this office door at significantly dismal odds). 

Somewhere down the hall, she can hear the voices of more men approaching. Blair sets her shoulders back and straightens her spine. She’s too damn proud to let them believe they’ve found her down and out.

"The fuck we keeping her?" One of Graves' mercenary chides. "I thought we had orders to take them all out."

"And we haven’t,” Graves’ voice, sharp and short-tempered, is unmistakable. “General Sheperd has use for the American girl, and if the Brits are still out there, they’ll come flocking back to find her. It’s a lot less energy to let them come to us than to be hunting needles in a haystack. 

“This just screams bad idea, boss,” Another voice pipes up.

There’s a sudden halt in the sound of footsteps.

“I’m done taking commentary. You have your orders, now fucking follow them,” Graves snarls.

There’s a pregnant pause before a few mortified mumbles of “Sir, yes, sir.”

Graves nonchalantly shuffles into the room, arms held out at his sides as a menacing grin colors his face. He steps over the discarded papers on the floor, halting at the desk and propping himself with his hands planted on the desktop. Behind him, two other soldiers take a post on either side of the door.

"Ah, Blair. Good morning, sunshine," Graves greets too cheerily, for man who'd just snapped at his insubordination seconds ago. He pauses, head tilting. "Or should I call you Joanna? Do you prefer Joanna?"

Blair bites down hard on the inside of her lip, her blood reaching a boiling point. She knows Graves is trying to rile her up. It’s been an outdated tactic to poke the bear when it came to women hostages. Play into their emotions immediately. Taint the waters as soon as you can, because once you strike the match and ignite her emotions, the game is all but entirely over.

It’s a game Blair’s played a hundred times over.

A game she’s not about to lose to Phillip Graves.

"It's just Blair," she seethes, not allowing her anger to froth over. 

Graves shifts his weight, unsatisfied with Blair's lack of reaction. 

"Ya know, Blair, I really admire you. You're practical and skilled. Sheperd's records say you were born a war machine," Graves continues to prod. "I remember the news stories about Carl Moore. Guy was a fucking religious nutcase with too many guns. Then again, who am I to judge?"

Her skin feels hot as she listens. The last thing Blair needs to think about was her bastard of a father, yet Graves dives deep into the territory. Maybe this PMC pleb did know a thing or two about reading and exploiting his enemies. Blair catches her ire, reining it desperately back into its confines. 

"Is this some sort of demoralizing tactic?" Blair sighs, rolling her eyes. She couldn't let Graves see her aggravation. He already had her captive, he didn't deserve any other part of Blair. "I'm glad you can read, Phillip. Now is there something you wanted or can I go back to suffering here alone?"

"You're Kate Laswell's pet," Graves states.

"Hardly. She hasn’t been my handler in years. And even if I was her pet, what’s the relevance?”

"What do you know about Iran obtaining the missiles?"

A hearty laugh leaves her chest. She flashes Graves a dubious stare. "Yer askin' the wrong person. Besides, what interest do you have, Commander?"

"I'm paid to care," Graves remarks. "Just like Kate Laswell I'm sure keeps you well fed and tucked in at night to keep her secrets. You have no obligation to the CIA or the Army or NATO, the bidding she has you do is off the record. Black as night."

"You think I know a fucking thing? That Kate and I sit around late at night giggling about all the risky things she handles on a daily basis?” Blair sneers. Her jaw clenches, first furling from their constraints. She'd smash that pretty little face in if she had the liberty. "If Kate had a skeleton as enormous as this in her closet, she'd ensure it'd never see the light of day."

“Yet that CIA record of yours would disagree," Graves hums, his eyes glinting in the fluorescent light of the office. His shoulders shift as he leans closer to Blair, the man drunk on the sheer arrogance of unearthing Blair's old record.

Blair bristles. "Shepherd teach you to read with my dossier?"

He ignores her brash comment.

"Several complaints of suspected favoritism and nepotism. Am I recalling correctly?"

“Kate only ever made decisions based on logic, not emotion,” Blair rebukes. Her fists clench. It’s a statement that Blair only partially believes, an old argument and hidden secret that she and Kate had waged war on years ago. But there’s nothing in the classified files about their covert conflict, nothing that could be procured by General Sheperd and his mercenary dog. 

“You’re getting really riled up over this topic, huh?” Graves laughs.

“Kate Laswell is not a traitor. You can tell Sheperd to royally fuck off.” Blair tries to rein in her emotions after being blatantly called out for losing her cool. She couldn’t let Graves see the cards in her hands. She couldn’t lose this game. “If there’s any snakes in the grass, it’s General Sheperd and his own self preservation. I’ve slept around with these types long enough to know a venomous traitor from a mile away, and I knew from the moment either of you breathed within my vicinity that you couldn’t be trusted.”

Graves remains quiet, face taut. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me," he responds after a long minute of contemplation. He signals at his men. "Warner, Briggs, don't let her fool you. There's plenty she knows."

The two mercenaries that had taken quiet post at the door step forward.

"Make her talk, L.t.," Graves instructs. With a dark smirk, he chimes back at Blair, "Have fun, Blair."  

She glares back at the man, giving a little huff. She rolls her stiff shoulders and gives her neck a crack. "Didn't you read my file, Phillip?" She interjects coolly. "This is my favorite part."

****

It's been nearly twelve hours. Graves' men had spent two sessions trying to get Blair to reveal information about the missile crisis, Kate Laswell, and Blair's own espionage – making up stories, giving her false beliefs of hope, desperately trying to corner Blair to admitting something worthwhile. Unsuccessful ("I can't tell you what I don't know. You all are fucked for all I care.").

Their tactics are useless against a seasoned agent like Blair. She’s spent days under fire from previous captors. She’s been starved, deprived of sleep, beaten, drowned and left on the brink of death. There’s nothing the Shadow Company could offer in a few measly hours that would push Blair over the edge. She’s too tormented to give them a scrap of material to run with (besides, Kate Laswell’s as clean and honorable as they came in the Pentagon). 

She remembers laughing at Warner and Briggs, trying to cause a rise out of the Shadows. Calling them CIA wannabes. Taunting them when they should be psychologically breaking her into fragments. What started as tactical attempts to elicit information just turns into sheer bullying. But the knowledge that she’s cracking their indomitable interior gives Blair the confidence she needs to hold on. 

Her back aches and she's certain it's bruised. Cpl Daniels had been back to assess Blair after the second attempt, but he didn't say much (he looked like a sad puppy. Blair could nearly taste the doubt that radiatesnoff the corporal and saturates the air. She almost wants to reach out and ask Daniels if he was certain of his trajectory). Perhaps Graves had commanded him not to speak to Blair, to not even give her the sentience of humanity. Before Cpl Daniels finishes his assessment, he gives Blair a soft look, words burning on the edge of his tongue, before he hastily grabs his things and departs.

(Poor kid. He deserves more than this band of mercenaries.)

She knew something had happened earlier at the blacksite prison down the way, the walls in the office building are thin. A whole legion of mercenaries taken out by a squad. Blair knows it's Ghost and Soap. Probably Alejandro and Rudy too. The news sparks a semblance of hope in the exhausted woman, a thing nearly extinguished as she sat gagging on water when Lt. Warner and Pvt. Briggs return for the second time. 

Blair doesn't know how she's alive by the time the afternoon sun streams into the lonely office that's been made into her den (the Shadows were managing some form of discretion, Blair admits. She would sooner consider lodging a bullet in her head where the tables turned and she was being mocked by her hostage). She sits in the chair, hands still bound, head throbbing from…well, everything. She wonders what's the next move, when the next session will begin. She tries to mentally psych herself up for it, though her mentality is met by an empty well.

It's either spite or anger or willpower that keeps Blair muscling through each hour. Any soldier worth their salt would've caved at this point. But Blair wasn't any soldier. She hadn't been at war her entire life to allow some feral dog like Graves break her. She hadn't endured the underbellies of this forsaken planet to let someone as insignificant as the Shadow Company best her. 

And she sure as hell wasn't letting it end here. Not when Johnny is still out there (unconfirmed but the prison break was enough indirect confirmation). As long as her comrades were still out there, Blair wasn't letting the fire inside her extinguish. 

(She decided at some point that she was going to ask Johnny to spend Christmas with her this year in the States. New York. She always wanted to celebrate Christmas in the big city.)

The anticipation of Lt. Warner and Pvt. Briggs returning, or perhaps Graves himself, starts to wear on Blair. Perhaps the burden of expectation is all part of the ploy. She watches the clock tick by slowly, one hour churning into a second and then into a third. She's exhausted, and she can't combat that. She’s seasoned, yes, but she had walked into previous incidents with a bit more fuel in her tank. 

At some point, Blair’s mind wanders towards some half-hearted attempt at a cat nap. The constant clink of the ventilation still bothers her hours later, an arrhythmic sound that grates against her eardrums. In a distant state of consciousness, traversing the desire to fall asleep, Blair hears a droning hum. At first she thinks it's some ancient part of the building's plumbing or central air again (I'll make sure to tease Alejandro on how outdated this piece of shit is, she muses to herself.) But the commotion mounts. Something explodes, a sound that rips Blair back onto the plane of reality.

Blair blinks, rolling her head to try and peak out the singular window that views outside. It’s the back of the building, and all she can see is the Mexican mountains rolling behind the base. Her heartbeat swiftens. She’s not naïve, she knows an invasion when she hears one. Someone is here, and they aren’t giving the Shadow Company any mercy.

The people inside the central building start buzzing. She can see several mercenaries bolt past the office window, heading for the front lobby in haste. There's a spit of gunfire outside the building, relatively far off, and another explosion. 

"We're under attack!" A cry echoes down the hallways. 

The Shadows are scurrying. Blair watches with amusement until Graves storms into the room. 

"You're coming with me," he growls, grabbing Blair by the back of her collar. Graves is joined by several of his men. Lt Warner is one of the soldiers in tow, and Blair thinks she catches sight of Cpl Daniels at some point before the massive glass window on the second story of the foyer shatters.

They duck into the main office. Graves discards Blair into one of the office chairs, descending upon the front window to observe the chaos ensuing in the compound. One of the other men steps up to ensure Blair is fastened to the office chair. Despite the carnage happening around them, the Shadows know Blair is a threat. The woman hisses as the zip ties cross tightly across her wrists, digging into the bruises already marrying her arms. She squirms, glaring up as Graves begins to pace the office floor.

He’s completely lost his cool. It’s a feat that doesn’t take much, a massive error in his programming. But now he’s beyond the point of rallying his calm, cool confidence back into control. The seasoned mercenary may have experience under his belt, but he’s failed to gather full inventory of his emotions. Perhaps that’s why he never wore the suit. Perhaps that’s why he wound up sleeping with government officials hiring off-the-record groups to do their bidding. He would never make the material of something honorable. 

"First the prison, now the base," Blair rumbles, a mocking laugh leaving her lips. Her words halt Graves in his tracks, the man pivoting hard on his heel to meet Blair's eyes. "You have a whole company, Graves, and you can't hold a station down against a squad."

Graves draws the back of his hand across Blair's face. Her face stings, tears burning in her eyelids. "Shut up," he growls, his finger pointed close to her face. "Shuttup shuttup shuttup shuttup shuttup."

Blair heaves, her mind reeling. "Go fuck yourself."

He aims his pistol at her forehead. "I was thinking you'd be a good bartering trade," Graves vehemently snarls, "But maybe I can make you a parting gift. Your brains painted on that wall should do."

He motions with his gun to the wall behind her, the one with the Mexican flag draped over it.

"Do it," she snarls.

She scowls at Graves, an essence of herself taunting him to do the job – something he'd consistently left to his mercenaries when it came to getting hands dirty. He clicks the safety off. A heartbeat of hesitation. At that moment, the building rocks as an explosion eliminates the barricaded door. Graves tosses a frantic look to the office door before bolting towards the back. Blair's body wilts, chest deflating as the immediate danger passes.

The human drive to survive is one hell of a drug. When it is no longer in need to sustain, every operation on overdrive comes to a crashing halt. She’s completely sapped. The only thing worth being aware of is the pain and the exhaustion that engulfs her entire body. 

There's a fire fight outside the office. Blair can hardly find a morsel of strength to catch sight of the Shadows and 141 combating. She hears the office door slam open, the noise causing her to flinch. There's a few rounds shot off as they dispatch the Shadows in the back room of the main office, and then a moment of silence. 

Her eyesight is blurry. She tilts her head, watching men adorned in dark masks flooding into the office. 

"Blair," Soap's voice exclaims, sliding to her side. He's tugging the ghostly mask up over his eyes, showing his face. He cups her cheek, worry etched along every crease. "Are you okay?"

A weak smile crosses her lips. "About damn time, Mactavish," she croaks, "you really know how to keep a girl waiting, huh?"

His lips crease into a shy smile. He fumbles with his knife, cutting the zipties free. Pulling Blair to her feet, Soap’s body becomes a source of stabilization for the woman’s fading strength. 

"Soap, Graves is escaping," Rudy warns. 

Their reunion is quickly diminished by the impending situation. There was still a battle raging on, and Phillip Graves was still at large.

"Go," Blair urges, squeezing his palm. Soap presses a brief kiss to her forehead before taking off.

Hands gripping the nearby desk, Blair keeps herself standing as she watches the other soldiers flood after Rudy and Soap. Last in tow is Ghost. Ghost wedges Blair against his side, escorting her behind the group. She wraps an arm around his abdomen, hugging him close as they hobble across the dilapidated office.

"Great to see you," Blair remarks tersely.

Ghost’s amusement, though his face remains concealed by his mask, is nearly tangible. "Nine lives, Rogue?"

"I'm losin' count on how many I have left, Simon," Blair remarks with a crude laugh. 

"Well, keep holding on, this isn't over yet."

"Sir, yes, sir."

***

When the dust clears and settles, the base is mangled but back under the control of the Los Vaqueros. Blair sits outside one of the hangars while one of Alejandro’s medics comb over her wounds (the ones Cpl Daniels had mostly tended to). Soap doesn’t move an inch from Blair’s side, hovering like a mother hen, which both aggravates Blair on some level, and the medic on another. But they both keep quiet — they’d all had a hell of a day.

"I'm fine, Johnny," she keeps repeating, trying to offer some sort of relief to Soap’s indomitable anger. "You killed all the assholes who hurt me." But he doesn't relent, that statement offering no peace of mind to the fiery Scottsman. 

"I was so fuckin' worried about you," Soap informs.

"I'm alive." Her manic smile, however sly and energetic, does little to comb over the issue. Soap traces his fingertips along the bruises on Blair’s wrists and arms, brows furrowed. Those calloused hands had killed a number of men in the last twenty four hours, but now they were gentle. Each touch was premeditated and amiable. 

"What the hell was Graves trying to get out of you?" He questions, the muscles of his jaw clenching. The fact that he’d C4’d the hell out of Graves and his tank toy was all the more cathartic, knowing how he’d commandeered Blair’s misery. 

“Dirt on Kate. Some sort of confession or lead that would take the fire off of Sheperd and flip the script to make Kate out to be the enemy.”

Soap snorts, grimacing. "Do you have anything good on Kate?"

Blair gives a soft huff of consideration. She shakes her head dubiously. "Other than the times she’s lied to her wife about her smoking habits? Hell no."

The medic finally clears Blair — advising rest, food and water. What remains after that moment is Blair and Soap, alone for the first time in days. 

Blair gazes at Soap from her perch on a small cargo container, her affection muted by the sheer exhaustion in her bones. Her hand reaches to envelop his, drawing him close into her proximity. Soap willingly drifts closer, arms brushing against hers as he stoops in. Leaning his greasy, damp forehead against hers, Soap cups each side of her face in his hands. He smells like polymer and gunpowder, like a soldier that had just stormed an entire base. Yet however dusty and dirty Soap is, his rugged appearance is betrayed by the absolute softness residing in his eyes as he cradles her.

(He’s so soft. God, she loved how soft he was.)

"God, I was so fuckin' worried," Soap sighs. He looks tired — nay, exhausted. Words could not surmount how battered both soldiers were. 

"We've been in dangerous situations before," Blair tries to remind, but her words fall on deaf ears. 

"I knew I had to find ya."

"Well, here I am," she murmurs. Her heart flutters against her ribs. There’s a quiet voice in the back recesses of her mind that reminds her they’re on duty. That they’ve never made a public move to indicate their relationship for the sake of professionalism. Yet, in broad daylight, after an insane thirty-some hours, they both throw that caution to the wind.

"Aye."

Her eyelids flutter closed as she leans closer into Johnny. Her breaths level and she feels like she could melt into him at this moment.

When was the last time I told Johnny I love him? The thought returns to Blair's mind. The same thing she'd wondered a hundred times over.

"Johnny, I–" she starts a sentence that is disrupted by Captain Price and the others approaching. Both soldiers peel themselves away, not for the notion of embarrassment, but so they both could give full attention to their superior.

"Chicago. We need to get to Chicago," Price reports. 

Blair glances at Johnny, nodding. "Hold that thought," she whispers.

The rest of the men pause as they observe the duo, acutely aware of the affectionate demeanor of them both. Blair flits her gaze between Gaz then Price and finally Ghost, with a fleeting glance at Alejandro behind them. Ghost knows. Price doesn't seem too fazed by the two soldiers dancing within orbit of one another, and Alejandro just wears a shit-eating grin behind the men of 141. But Gaz seems a bit stunned, dark eyes wide and lips parting slightly with shock. 

Blair leaps off the crate she'd been perched on, nodding at her comrades.  "Let's go get that sonuvabitch," Blair suggests. 

She sashays towards their transport, Soap slowly meandering back towards his comrades with a sheepish smile on his lips.

"Am I…missing something?" Gaz asks, flashing a glance at Price and Ghost.

Price pats his shoulder, the older man smirking softly. "Yes."