#Scandinavian muscle

[tenebris-aurea]

Oh we like lying for fun

yes i like lying on the internet. for fun. it’s funny, yes

[vyvilha]

Can you tell me more about mavka and what her deal is? She reminds me of Scandinavian huldra from thr little I've heard and I'd love to learn more about her!:D

hello friend. a mavka, navka or nyavka is an undead forest spirit, one of type which ukrainians call the covered dead (заложні мерці) — spirits of people that died of unclean, improper death, and therefore couldn't finish the transition and weren't allowed to the orherworld. the name covered undead comes from the fact that in old times they weren't properly buried, and were left in forests covered by leaves and twigs.

generally mavky are envisioned as beautiful girls, although in some regions there are beliefs about male mavky (sometimes called didky). mavka looks perfectly human except for the fact that their backs lack skin and muscle, exposing their innards and spine. they aren't malicious, but are obliviously playful and can hurt people during their plays — tickle or dance you to death, drown, ward you off your tray. in some western regions it's also believed that time goes faster when encountering them — what is felt like several hours could actually be several hundred years.

navky live in forests and mountain caves, and they like to dance, weave, play and prank wanderers, especially young men. to ward off mavky valeriana, garlic and wormwood are used, as well as wearing your shirt inside out. like most undead spirits in ukrainian mythology, navky are most active during the green festival/rusalka week.

there is a ukrainian holiday called navsky velykden, or undead easter, celebrated at the first thursday after easter. in this day all mavky, rusalky, upyri and all the other unclean forces celebrate easter. at night during the holiday it was prohibited to visit churches, since celebrating undead could dismember you if spotted.

[genderfluid-insomniac]

im ready to die im so scared and embarassed but if its alright with you (im sorry your rules not that detail so im not sure) but maybe you would be up to write a ns/fw drabble with merman Wanderer, Albedo or Aether(separate) ? either of them sound interesting honestly. but if its not your thing its alright.

Mermen!Wanderer, Mer!Albedo, and Mer!Aether (separately) x reader (NSFW)

Wanderer

The sounds of people talking at the beach tried creeping up into your mind but the sudden thrust of Wanderer’s cock stopped anything going on in your mind and your eyes rolled into the back of your head, cold violet scales rubbed against your inner thighs and smooth lips marking up your neck. Your lover kept a quick pace, vibrant lavender eyes flickered to you then to the public beach not even 30 feet away and his smile curved up into a smirk.

“Wanna be louder? Let other people enjoying their day know that you’ve been getting fucked like the slut you are.” The hand over your mouth did little to cover your moans and mewls being drawn out of you by every time his cock hit that one spot in your hole. One of his hands snaking down to play with your chest and trail down to pinch the sensitive spots of your body, his webbed hands and fin ears brushing against your skin and wetting them.

“How do you think your friends would feel if they knew your lover wasn’t abroad at a Scandinavian school studying history but a merman who takes pleasure in fucking you so hard you can’t even stand the next day.” Whispering those words into your ears and emphasizing each word with a harsh thrust, biting down on a soft part of your neck that was particularly sensitive, and grinning wildly as you squirmed and thrashed like fish in a net.

Albedo

Blackness was all you could see but feeling was a different story as your veins felt like they were lit on fire and your senses overwhelmed you as you ground your hips against your lover’s tail. His fingers played with your chest, desperately trying to get reactions out of you by twisting and sucking your nipples.

Heat spread through your body despite knowing you were underwater, the cold water ghosting your skin and feeling helpless with your hands and legs bound (as if being underwater wasn’t already a unique experience with the help of special seaweed Albedo got you). “Relax, my darling. You’ll get your release soon.” He flipped his fins so the light smooth fibers grazed over your bruises and sensitive skin, fluttering your eyes shut at the pleasurable sensation.

The lack only enhanced your sense of touch and the many orgasms you already had had taken a lot out of you but your body said otherwise. If only you could see the smirk and curious gaze you knew he had on his pale face, gold scales creeping on the edges of his cheek, and bright teal fins blushing when you begged for more.

Aether

Long blonde braided hair floats on top of the water and touches your thighs as the merman’s tongue laps at your hole greedily, humming contentedly whenever you grind yourself on his face and ignoring the ocean waves washing against his face. Using his tail to keep himself steady and arms circled around your waist so you would say where he wanted you to above water.

The clash of the cool sea water and his hot curling tongue in you shook your very core, trembling whenever you were just about to cum and Aether stopped eating you out only kissing your inner thighs. Locking eyes with you as if to say “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We aren’t done yet” and firmly gripping your ass, eliciting a moan to slip from your lips.

You went to open your mouth when your lover dove back in, tongue fucking your tightening hole and trailing one of his hands up to your chest to play with your nipples. Lost in your head in the haze of lust barely able to speak now that you were about to orgasm and crying out at the euphoria coursing through you, mentally thanking your lover for having strong enough tail muscles to keep you up and slipping into his grasp as he brought back into his arms.

[drakyns]

I saw that youre writing hiccup+jack but you also claim you want to take a more """historical""" interpretation with your rps? so which one is it?? you have to pick one or the other :/

hello, happy new year! yes, you’re right; i ship and write one of our beloved 2010s dreamworks nostalgic ship hijack with my wonderful best friend and creative soul-mate, @frystsnow. i’ve been having such a fun time! and yes, you’re right again; i am taking a more historical approach and interpretation with my portrayal of hiccup. but no, you’re wrong; i don’t have to choose one or another. my hiccup (håkan) has a more historical take and is queer (demiromantic and bisexual). one does not interfere with another whatsoever.

first of all, thank you for your question! though i don’t know if it stems from genuine ignorance or a hint of homophobia or hypernationalism. either way, i want to extend the benefit of the doubt and commend you for taking the time and energy to send in your inquiry, even as an anon. as someone who specialises in medieval queerness in my current master’s degree and as a licensed history teacher, it’s incredibly heartwarming to see people questioning things (even when it comes to literal fictional ships). i shall not, therefore, take your question as an attempt at an insult. instead, i will respond to you as i would to one of my students and/or the public at a conference. please let me know if you’d like any clarifications, and i’d be more than happy to oblige. should you need such access, i’m excited to send you pdfs of the following scientific articles, too.

i am assuming, by the tone and content of your comment, that you take vikings to be these white-centric, heteronormative, misogynistic and savage-like people, correct? the good old supreme white and straight men propaganda. they were barbarians, blindly bloodthirsty, and god knows how virile they were! they wanted to conquer the world, behead their enemies, muscles and brawl everywhere, grrrrr grrrr! etc etc. the whole spiel of supreme predators/conquerors. this mythical belief has roots in the hyper-nationalism and romanticism ingrained in 18th century northern europe: to prove themselves as worthy, old societies, germany, sweden, denmark, england, scotland and many others utilised their ties with these old tribes and reshaped (rewrote) narratives to fit into their then-current ideals of power, masculinity and politics. an excellent book on historical representation and its rewritings across geographies and due to political influences was written by f. r. ankersmit and a 38-page preview can be found at this link.

it isn’t far off to claim, then, that the use of symbols, narratives and imagery from old norse cultures have been continuously used to represent politics of hate in various countries with the rise of patriotism and alt-right extremism. just look at how john toll’s braveheart (1995) is a hymn to white supremacists in the usa or how european incels love robert zemeckis’ beowulf (2007). i highly recommend reading verena höfig’s article about old norse myths being used as tools for radical nationalist groups and andrew b. r. elliott’s book on medievalism, politics and mass media. “viking men are straight, hyper-masculine and obey this white fantasy of pure dominance.” this way of thinking, shouted and supported by reactionaries, reinforces whiteness, androcentricity, and authoritarianism. medieval scandinavian societies were highly intelligent: being a viking was a profession, not an identity in itself. diplomacy was important for commerce and cultural trade. battle-crazed lunatics were frowned upon, if not straight up removed from tribal settings, as they represented danger to the whole society. a conscious and perfected balance of violence, peace-keeping, trade, conscious pillaging and sea-voyaging made vikings who they were. how else do you think that they kept in contact with asian and african societies? even indigenous ones in americas, too! they were not interested in expanding and conquering more than they could keep and they valued communal efforts. so when contemporary media (tv, books, comics, games) represent our oh-so-beloved macho vikings as being queer or even not all that violent or intolerant, people tend to frown upon such a notion, thinking they’re ludicrous. this, as i’ve continuously expressed up until now, is political propaganda—an old, outdated and incorrect one.

you might here be thinking: “okay balu, i get it, vikings weren’t all that masculine, nor that savage, nor anything, but were there really queer vikings?” and the answer to that is: YES! first of all, queer people didn’t suddenly sprout from the ground all of a sudden. we’ve always existed from the very beginning of times—queerness is humanity itself. have you ever wondered why loki, a literal mythological norse god, is genderfluid and pansexual? he’s also described as one of the oldest of the bunch, alongside odin himself. if a deity exists in mythology, it’s because they represent societal beliefs and practices. or do you think people made up whatever they thought was cool, and everyone just agreed on their ideas, canonising said things in their literal tribal history just because, hey, it sounds neat? it’s more logical to deduce that, since loki existed, people like him existed, too, no? and not only loki—jess nevins has a superb paper on how most of the old norse pantheon are queer gods and goddesses, from gender to sexuality (it’s the first one of the list, though the others are super interesting, too). contemporary religious practitioners of heathenism and ásatrú also heavily embrace and welcome these queer readings. this is further endorsed by critical analysis of old poems such as the poetic edda, lokasenna and others, which contain concepts such as hvatr and blauðr, which are used interchangeably between men and women and their partners, not to refer to their binary genders per se, but about their role as either more submissive or dominating in a relationship.

if you need more “concrete” evidence other than theological, linguistics and culture studies, do not fret—archaeologists and anthropologists also agree that the “viking” (read: medieval pre-christian scandinavian) societies were more queer than most people think. for example, marianne moen studied graves in norway and, with the little samples she had, she concluded something fascinating: the biological sex of individuals (read by the use of double x chromosomes detections or the absence thereof) did not always correlate with their masculine/feminine social roles, i.e by their clothes and materials they were buried! a woman could be dressed highly masculine, and a man completely feminine. unlike our modern societies (that claim to be o so progressive and freeing), they were not bound by fixed societal norms. they were fluid. moen’s study is also a further contribution to hedenstierna‐jonson’s research team findings: in 2017, they found the body of an elite viking-age warrior in sweden, which many historians and anthropologists hyped. at first, they thought the individual was sexed male due to the “maleness” of the objects found in the grave site. however, upon further investigation, they were biologically sexed female (two x chromosomes, bone structures, as well as ritualistic objects for young womanhood). a lot of people wanted to contest such a finding because the belief that women can be powerful rulers and warriors just like men are is something detested by traditionalists, as we all know. however, what was more interesting is that said warrior individual seemed to socially fluctuate between masculine and feminine roles throughout their life (being accepted and honoured by their tribe, by the way), and had a partner that also fluctuated between masculinity and femininity. they were, therefore, both queer in gender and sexuality. as well, ever since the start of the 2000s, studies have shown that queer expressions of sexuality and gender can be found being supported by religious practices and objects—a book called “queering norway”, edited by pal bjorby and anka ryall is fairly popular on that front. it has the contribution of many historians, anthropologists and more on old norse traditions.

lastly, in case you wonder if we can read dreamwork’s “how to train your dragon”’s characters as being queer, the answer is, of course, yes. i will not enter into art studies discussions or literature queerness appropriation theories because otherwise this post would be much longer than it already is, but i will say these points: hiccup is literally described, from the first movie alone, as not being like the other kids. this could be read as him being autistic, as him having adhd, as him being queer. as well, the presence of monsters (especially dragons) in media tends to represent queerness/clash with heteronormative ideals (i recommend checking out jeffrey cohen’s seven theses chapter). it’s a queer series by its very theoretical premises and execution.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 75] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

The air burns in your lungs, and every bounding step sends shockwaves of tension through your knees and hips, a consequence of a sedentary work week- not to mention a rowdy previous night. Sweet spit pools under your tongue, but this impromptu jog was a necessary response to electric muscles. You'd be a fool to think your paradoxically exhausted and alert mind could get any sleep, and some fresh air would probably do you some good. Puffs of misty breath were illuminated by passing streetlights, your muscles screamed for relief that your racing mind couldn't afford. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and it won't for a while. It's hard to say if you got any rest last night, but you'd memorized the wallpaper pattern well enough to see it when you blink. 

Going for a jog with everything you own on your back is oddly freeing in a way. Like you could slip into the woods without a word and live like a nomad in the Germanic birches and pines. Escape duty, shed discipline. Responsibility would slide off you like rain off a wing. It makes you wonder if you could do it. Slink away from it all, dye your hair, and find a small Swedish commune that might take you in, rural enough to be free from CIA surveillance. Settle down with some Scandinavian man who warms your back at night and spend your days selling goat's milk soaps at farmer's markets. 

No, that's not you. 

You're too loyal—Loyal and stubborn. A slave to what's familiar, as counterintuitive as this career may be to that ideal. Loyalty is a flaw and a blessing in equal measure, a double-edged sword. But what are you loyal to if you're not even loyal to yourself?

A glance at the stony plaza that'd been the bane of your existence for the last few days was now almost entirely stripped of all military presence. Pop-up tents and armoured vans that hosted chin-scratching commanders now sit as they once were; jagged cobblestone sidewalks with orange leaves peppering every other stone. It's like you were never there. But that's the goal in the end: To sweep high-strung military situations out of the public consciousness as soon as possible, and carry on being the invisible, omnipresent, but lethal phantom guarding the streets against a greater evil. Maybe Ghost was onto something when he got that callsign. 

This state is always the most unsettling in every mission. The bad guys are gone, the good guys are gone, and you sit in this odd liminal space where life has paused for an indeterminate amount of time. It makes you wonder about the first line cook or waitress to step into that restaurant after you'd occupied it. Would they be able to sense the tension and panic you felt while sitting at those tables where they'd served thousands of guests? Would the line chefs be aware of how many hundreds of times you'd paced through their workspace, raking your mind for a glimmer of insight? No, no they wouldn't. You're just a pawn, transitory and unfamiliar. Leaving behind no impact save for the ones your higher-ups choose to acknowledge you for. 

Laswell didn't have you on some private jet like last time, it looked like a much larger plane, the kind you'd been on dozens of times before. It's not quite a 747, but maybe a bit smaller. Either way, you seemed to be the first on the plane out of your colleagues, but the flight attendant didn't blink twice when you crossed paths to find your seat well before the scheduled takeoff time. You didn't even care to change your clothes after your jog, only slung on a hoodie and settled in by the window for a long flight. That half-eaten chocolate cake and a mess of sheets, a puddle of water in the bathroom, and that dumb fucking yellow box were all left behind. Whatever the contents of that box were would be left to the cleaning staff to interpret; you could only hope it's not a gun, knife or, maybe a skinned cat, or some other macabre item you'd expect from someone that wears a skull mask every day. 

Baritone voices caught the peripheral of your hearing, and Price and Gaz came down the aisle with the rest of them, carrying on their conversation as they stopped beside you. A few other people were on the flight by now, tinkering overhead lighting illuminated about a dozen other patrons in suits and hoodies. Time stood still when Price stopped to sniff the air, honing his attention on Ghost, who sat, ever the tempered one, eyes straight and alert like a good little soldier while Price inspected. You'd snapped out of your trance when he grumbled something about Ghost smelling like his 'nan,' your blood ran cold. On top of that, you only connected the odd look Soap gave you after about thirty seconds of staring into oblivion, probably noticing how oddly you flickered to attention at that moment. Ghost looked grumpy and sunken, but it's hard to say. The fucker is always grumpy and sunken. You'd only caught a glimpse of white on black when he slung his pack into the overhead compartment. For now, you sat in silence as your other coworkers filed in, dodging eye contact as you both waited to have all your personal space sapped by Gaz or Soap or Price or whoever. 

Only when the pilot chimed in on the intercom did you get a grasp of where you were even going. Seol, Korea. What is she bringing you to Korea for? You haven't a clue. Hopefully, she knows you don't know a word of the language, and you could only pray that she won't give you a week to master it. Especially with the knowledge of how poorly that went last time. The plane accelerating glued you to your seat, and you got to watch this humming German cityscape spark to life in the early morning hours. It didn't take long for you to sleep, eventually drifting off as Gaz sat with folded arms beside you, snoring. 

Eventually, the familiar falling sensation made you jolt awake, and time passed in a ritualistic haze. A mechanical walkway invited you to leave the plane, and you hurried to follow along with your colleagues' broad strides. However, they disappeared in a hurry, taking a route that looked more like an employee corridor, leaving Price to nod in the direction of the rest of the passengers. You obediently followed his gesture, not that you had much of a say. Laswell greeted you at the airport, or rather, she sat at one of those airport cafes, blonde bangs bowed down to a manilla folder next to her coffee. The cast she'd worn for the past few weeks was off, now free from the reminder of your little stay in Al Mazrah.

"What's the sitrep? " You pulled out the chair across from her.

She didn't seem startled or surprised by your presence, only lightly flipped the folder shut, stray paperclips poking out from a series of cluttered pages. Bony fingers knit together, and she seemed just as calm and casual as ever. 

"There is no sitrep," she shrugged, and your heart sank for a moment. 

A million and more thoughts surged through your system, immediately defaulting back to something you'd done. Just as you began to suspect that CIA technology had read your mind, and she caught on to your fantasy about fleeing to Sweden, she spoke again.

"The boys are off to another mission. You'll be on standby," she took a long drag from her paper cup. 

"Am I being benched?" The question lept from your chest before you could even process the words. 

"What?" an odd amusement lit up her cheeks. "No- like I said, just on standby. We're just not currently in need of a linguistic specialist, that's all."

The words soothed your mind, and the humour of your assertion caught up to you. A guilty mind made you eager to get defensive. What the hell is wrong with you?

"Don't look so glum, I'm here too," she cooed, reclining in her seat as crowds of people with trailing suitcases flurried past. "We're keeping you at a hotel in Seol, it's an award-winning highrise in the downtown district. I know how you like to keep up with your studies, and there's a library just across the street."

The sentiment would be relaxing, soothing even, if it weren't for a single phrase snagged in your mind.'Keeping you.' Maybe it's as simple what she described, and perhaps she just chose a poor choice of words. You've seen constant action for so long that you've developed velocitation from moving from mission to mission so rapidly that sitting on standby feels odd. It's about time, really, as building tension doesn't recede with this new environment like it usually would. 

These streets seem so alive compared to the uneasy situation you were retreating from, bustling civilians seemed like a foreign sight; it's like you're used to worried eyes and mothers shielding their children as you pass. No Humvees or helicopters in sight, just neat grey suits and kind-eyed women sweeping their storefronts. You can't help but expect the other shoe to drop, and a sense of skepticism of their nonchalant posture muddies your darting gaze. You both walked past a precious little billiards bar sat on the corner that caught your eye, its neon pink sign reading 'Sakura' in flickering letters. You'll have to check that place out if you get the chance, but it's hard to say how long you'll be on 'standby.'

"Have you been here before?" you asked idly, unable to resist glancing at every flashing sign you pass. 

"Twice, but not for leisure," she turned you down another street of neon signs and high-rises. Low dark clouds suggested you were about to get some weather, and the thick smell of rain hung in the air, "there's a CIA base nearby."

"It seems like the kind of place best explored after working hours," you sigh. 

You filled the space with idle small talk to diffuse the unsettling suspicion that something was off. It crept on your nerves like a horror movie or that feeling in a thunderstorm where the air is thick and ready to ignite. Here you are, now particularly isolated from people you only hardly knew to begin with, slinking through unfamiliar and lively streets toward a destination you'd have no hope of finding without Laswell's guidance. 

But as your little outing came to a halt, a wall of glass and steel opened its doors to welcome you. It was just like she said. Beautiful. A glass hotel with stylized hexagonal windows jutted out over an affluent cultural district, blue ceramic tiles slid down the side of rooftops, meeting vivid paper lanterns of red and pink, like an effortless blend of historical and contemporary architecture. Something old and new, borrowed and blue. You couldn't help but be thankful for the shelter and cool air conditioning as warm autumn rain started to patter on the sidewalk behind you. 

This new hotel room was a significant upgrade from the last, though that's not a hard metric to beat. It nearly took your breath away when you stepped out of the elevator and past a cold metal door. The surge of rich colours, dim, sultry lighting, and fuscia and neon hues on dark, luxurious textures mingled with your senses. Even the air smelled expensive, like roses and cashmere. A glass chandelier hung like bubbles over a dining set, and stylized chartreuse sculptures only vaguely resembled chairs gathered around a glass dining set. Rich cyan floors squeaked under your boots, echoing through a hotel room that looks more like a modern art museum.

"You'll be in the penthouse, but don't be too flattered- it's the only room we could get on short notice," she snorted, turning to face you as you gaped. "Here - let me see your phone."

You blinked, almost unsure of what she'd just requested. It'd be easy to forget you even have a phone, not just the dinky burner she uses to summon you to work. From the bottom of your pack you hunched over, you wrenched out the sleek cellphone she'd given you as a replacement for your previous one. Essentially a brick, it held no familiar phone numbers or passwords, leaving you locked out of your lifeline to your personal life. She took it in her pale palm and tapped at the screen, watching her enter a new contact into the device. 

"Text me if you need anything, I'll be right around the corner," she flicked the phone back into your fingers, now with a single contact named 'Kate.'

"Yes, ma'am," you spoke through a tight smile.

"Anything," she spoke sternly, nodding and disappearing past the glossy steel door with a click. 

And just like that, you're alone again. A different flavour of alone-ness than usual. They can sweeten the pot with fineries, but an underlying rage poisons what should be relaxation. It was hardly dinnertime, but you couldn't stomach the food that sat in a tray with condensation dripping from the lid. Frustration made you apathetic. You walked like a mindless zombie toward what must be the bedroom after the initial door you opened proved to be a grand bathroom. Maybe it's the change in climate that's giving you a headache.

Impossibly soft crushed cotton sheets were left with trails from your wandering hands, and cyan sheets on a sleek yellow bedframe looked like something worth more than your yearly salary. Whatever your salary even is. Tall concrete walls and slick floors would otherwise be contemporary and soothing if it didn't feel like a stone box. Suddenly, the air was tight in your lungs, and claustrophobia began to make your chest thunder. A grand window wasn't any relief, only reminding you how long the fall was down to those slanted tiled roofs. From poverty to luxury, from frenzy to tranquillity. It's not hard to understand why you feel like an impostor in this satin undersheet. 

You're being punished for getting involved with an unavailable man and separated from him as it would be in any workplace relationship in the military. The only proof that any of that happened is a manifesting bruise on your upper arm and a consistent low ache in your abdomen, painful reminders in a metaphorical sense of a heavy heart. No matter how much you might argue that you're not interested anymore, you've crossed that line, and you can kiss this task force goodbye. 

You'll miss Soap and Gaz, and Price is a sweetheart once you get over his gruff outer shell, but in the end, you can't help but feel your passion fade. It doesn't have to be permanent, and maybe your emotions are getting the better of you. It's been a year of constant service; it's no wonder you're being stretched thin. What's worst of all is you can't properly place your discontentment, making any diagnosis useless. You just need a reset to get away from these perfumed sheets along your shoulders. Laswell gave you her contact, but it's not easy to communicate your complex emotions, especially in this career where you're expected to be stoic and unyielding. What have you gotten yourself into.

Are they knowingly stationing you in places where they know you don't know the native language so you can't travel far? Maybe, maybe not. Is a weak sleep schedule and weeks of physical and mental exhaustion making you feel a heightened sense of paranoia? Maybe, maybe not. Are they putting strips of tape over your hotel doors to track if you leave, thinking you didn't notice it as Laswell stepped out? That much is for sure. 

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Apologies for the late chapter, we’ve got more chapters coming soon. I didn’t want to publish an (in my opinion) uninspired chapter, I couldn’t settle with what I’d written originally, deadline be damned. If you’re wondering where I’ve been for the past few weeks: Here

Master List

[rmelster]

My Questions are:

What do you think of the Firebrand movie?

Do you hate it when people say, This is not a documentary why do you care?

What do you think about Henry VIII's story being repeatedly recycled in historical dramas?

If you are a screenwriter and director of a historical drama series, what will you do?

Hi @marianadecarlos! Thanks for asking!

To your first question, I am sorry to tell you that, as much as I have seen the trailer, I have not watched Firebrand. It was giving Scandinavian horror movie with the witchy stuff so I don’t know.

Your second question is easier: Yes, I mislike when people say that. A LOT. But specially when it comes in supposedly “historical” shows and movies, like those of Philippa Gregory. The one I dislike the most is The Spanish Princess.

Yes, I am sick and tired of that bitch of Henry, and I hate when the cast young and handsome actors to play him and give him a more sympathetic view, specially when they write about Anne Boleyn and so own (like on Wolfhall and the Tudors).

If I was a screenwriter, I would actually make works of actually underrated royals and historical characters, and by God, I would not sex nothing up. I would also try to cast or characterise actors so that they resemble their historical counterparts (like, I would not just choose very thin actresses and muscled actors).

Regards :)

[artificial-transmutations]

Closer Than Flesh - Conflict

Jake is almost sad to see Dominik's body change. In this in-between state, Jake is Jake again. Not Dominik and not yet whoever he is going to become. Still, this doesn't change much of his state of mind. He feels powerful and in control, being able to freely use the magic of the stone now. He can't really control yet who exactly he is going to become, but that is only a matter of time. Hair explodes all over his body. A dense full beard forms in his face, and his stylish haircut grows out into a wild mane of hair. But not only his face gets hairy: All over his chest and stomach, body hair grows in. Not decent or trimmed, no. A wild forest of hair is what materializes on Jake's upper body. Soon, pretty much every part of his torso is covered by a dense fur of hair - clearly visible, since Dominik's natural blonde hair color has vanished in favor of a dark brown. The changes quickly spread to his extremities as well: Both his arms and legs are covered by a layer of body hair as well, and his large cock gets embedded into a rich pubic bush.

As even his feet and the back of his hands get hairy, finally, the rest of his body follows the changes. The already fit body of Dominik explodes with mass. Both fat and muscles stack on his bones, and he gets considerably taller, to slightly over two meters in height.

The biggest changes however are not to Dominik's appearance but rather to his body shape and motion. Whereas Dominik was fit and athletic, Jake is now broad, heavy and tall, a powerhouse of a man, a force of nature.

His face quickly loses the youthful softness of the streamer it had before and becomes rugged and weathered, piling up a few years of age, leaving Jake at least in his mid-thirties.

As the changes to Jake's body slow down, clothing starts to appear on him. Not bothering with any underwear, a sturdy pair of durable pants forms over his legs and groin and his hairy feet are being wrapped in heavy boots. Finally, as always, the world comes back. The wooden planks of a small fishing boat form under Jake's massive feet and a rugged Scandinavian coast line around him. Finally, the bright blue sky and the ocean come in, completing the scenery.

Jake takes a deep breath of the salty air. There is no doubt the magic stone worked well. Even though Jake has never visited this part of the world before, he is sure that this was Norway. There are mountains in the distance and the shoreline just looks like Jake would expect from a Nordic country.

His new body feels powerful and great. It doesn't take a genius to guess that he is probably a sailor or a fisher. There is no one else but him on the small boat, so he has every time to explore his new body.

Everything about it is positively massive and strong. The dense coating of hair expresses his manliness well.

Jake scratches his head. What is it he wanted to do?

He groans when he remembers the conversation he had with his dick. It was so annoying. Having a talking cock sounds fun until you actually have one. Now he just wishes it would shut up for good and just be a normal part of his male anatomy.

He sighs. He should head to Båtfed now. To be honest, he isn't quite sure what he is about to do with the weapon there, but perhaps he can force that red demon guy to stop bothering him and make his cock behave normally.

That Jake has no idea on where his destination is or how he would steer a boat there doesn't pose much of a problem for Jake. He doesn't know, but his host body knows for sure. It's getting easier and easier to access knowledge and skills, so Jake just needs to close his eyes for a second. When Bjørnar opens his eyes again, he knows exactly where to go. Silently, he gets to work.

***

Skyler has mixed feelings. Mog'Tol's plan has worked extremely well, and from what he heard, the binding circle has been destroyed. The joy of revenge is somewhat diminished however from the fact, that the stone, that stone with the hated sigil of the past, has not yet surfaced anywhere. It is probably only a matter of time. Skyler has enough time, it's not like he is mortal. But he hates waiting, and every passing day makes him more vulnerable. It is not strictly unusual for demons to disappear for a year or a decade, but the more powerful ones, like himself, have some kind of representation at least. If word gets out about his powerless condition, he might very well lose more than just his reputation. And now that Mog'Tol knows, it's a race against the clock.

Still, humans are greedy. It will probably only take one or two months until one of them pillages the remains of the secret society, at most, and then he will have his magic back.

One or two months pass, and while Skyler is right about the pillaging, to his boundless frustration, 'his' artifact has not yet surfaced. There are other stones, presumably with demonic magic sealed in it that have appeared in the mortal world, but as big as the temptation is, Skyler dares not to lay hands on them. Not without his own magic, at least. If the original owner of that power would notice, Skyler would be no match for them right now. As frustrating as it is, the best course of action is to lay low and wait for now.

So, Skyler waits. And waits. And waits. Months become years, but there is not a single sign of his sigil stone. Of course, Skyler has sent his agents, human with weak minds that he is easily able to take over, to search for it discretely, but the stone does not appear in any collection. Over time, Skyler is forced to retreat more and more into his palace. Mog'Tol has apparently not yet told anyone about Skyler's situation, but there are rumors already.

To explain his public absence, Skyler has spread the rumor he is working on a bigger project in his palace. He didn't specify what exactly, which served in his favor, as the other influential inhabitants of hell are busier to discuss about what he is working on but to doubt it all together. But sooner or later, his lie will be revealed.

The years turn into decades without any new development. Just as his patience has worn out, Skyler senses a spark of hope. A tiny, miniscule part of his magic has returned to him, like a thin string of red mist. Someone has used the stone! Finally, the wait is over!

Immediately, Skyler heads for the mortal plane, following the traces of his magic like a blood hound. Would it just have been that tiny sliver of magic, Skyler probably would not have found its origin at all. But whoever used the stone seems to have taken a liking to his magic, as shortly after, more and more of his power is being activated and freed. It's still a tiny amount, and at this rate, it would take more decades for everything to return to him - but that isn't Skyler's plan. He successfully pinpoints the origin of the magic and will just take his power back from that mortal.

He did underestimate that mortal somewhat, Skyler has to admit. As he confronted the young man in his living place, he had the audacity of using Skyler's own magic to escape.

It matters little. Since he used magic to escape, *his* magic, Skyler just needs to follow the trail of power flowing back to him. That mortal fool might have gotten lucky once, but that won't happen another time.

It happened another time, and Skyler is confused by it. He had the situation, and that weak mortal's mind under his control - until he lost that control and he slipped away again. It is extraordinarily rare for a mortal to have a mind so strong he can resist Skyler's influence - and initially, this mortal had not shown any signs of such a strong mind at all. Still, at the very last second, Skyler's influence had been pushed out. That should be impossible. A single mind should not be able to become that strong all of a sudden.

Still, it was no problem. Skyler has another conversation with Mog'Tol, who hints that maybe his presence allows the mortal to use the stone like that. Nothing easier than that. There is no need to get his hands dirty himself, after all. He will just use his spies to find the mortal again and then appear and take the stone.

Skyler could scream in frustration as the mortal slips away again. He had the perfect opportunity and took over his spy at the right time, but still, the mortal being escaped his grasp barely. Skyler looks down at the dripping wet body he has stolen from some Polish construction worker. Time to change plans. He will send his minions to take away the sigil stone - and only then would he appear himself. That way, the stone wouldn't activate in resonance and the mortal has no means to escape.

Apparently, he had underestimated the mortal man again. It was a conundrum to Skyler. Even though the mortal obviously had a weak mind and succumbed more and more to the influences of the hellish magic, he had managed to activate the stone himself. How was this possible? He could consult Mog'Tol again but decides against it. He needs to adjust his thinking. Instead of chasing the mortal all over his plane of existence, he would just let him work for Skyler. Skyler had enough summonings to know how humans work. Promise them power, promise them immortality and they do exactly what you want. Skyler actually has every intention to honor this deal. It isn't hard to give the man what he wants, and he has proven to be an oddity among men. A conundrum Skyler would very much like to study further once he has his powers back.

So, the next time, he tracks his magic down to a place the mortals call south America, he proposes the deal to the mortal. He knows better than to press him for an answer - humans react poorly under pressure - which is a blessing most of the time, but not what he wants right now. After he sees the man disappear again, Skyler smiles. Not long now, and his magic and a brand new servant will be his.

***

Skyler really doesn't understand why he is having this visions of Baelnath, but for the first time after 'waking up', this is not the first thought he has. Baelnath has offered Jake a deal? Why didn't Jake tell him? Sure, his Dominik personality has been difficult, but this is important! Their lives depend on this! Then, another thought crosses Skyler's mind. What if Jake didn't tell him because he plans on agreeing to the deal? No, this can't be. Jake wouldn't have done what he did if he planned on becoming a servant of Baelnath. After all, why would he be looking for the angelic essence then?

A small part of his mind nagged on. There are possible explanations. Perhaps he wants to give it to his future master as a gift? No. Skyler refuses to believe that. Probably, Jake has only forgotten to tell him. That must be it.

Concentrating on his surroundings, Jake has obviously transformed into a new body again. Rough cloth rubs against Skyler's length and the space inside the pants is filled with sweat and hair. A lot of hair, actually. Skyler cannot remember a body that was that hairy down here. It isn't that bad though - that groin he is attached to is definitely manly and primal, which Skyler likes.

Pretty immediately, a gigantic hand readjusts Skyler's length. Apparently, he has chubbed up a bit thinking about the situation he is in. Skyler briefly considers getting harder and stimulating Jake further but can stop himself for a moment. On a rational level, this is getting him nowhere, and Jake potentially in a bad situation. On an instinctual level however... He is a cock. A piece of cockmeat. His prime duty is to get hard and be sticked somewhere to fuck. Or be jerked off. What does he care what situation Jake is in? He needs attention, now. When your cock calls, you have to answer, that what he... that's what... it? is for. Yes. Skyler is a cock and that is its purpose. Skyler is completely hard now, and it throbs inside the rough work pants. Jake's big hands come down to readjust himself, but every touch of Skyler's length only serves to make it harder and more demanding.

Finally, with a grunt, Jake's big hands open his pants and Skyler springs free. They are on a boat and as far as Skyler can see they are alone. But all that doesn't matter to it right now. Without saying a single word, the gigantic man wraps his hand around Skyler's body and starts to pump. No foreplay or more stimulation, just raw power and desire. Skyler feels as its mind meets the primal thoughts of the man jerking him and their thoughts become one once again. Just pumping away, trying to get more pleasure out of his dick. Jake/Skyler thrusts in his hand now, in complete silence but with barely contained force. After a few minutes, he can feel himself getting closer, and, with a non-descript grunt cums in a wide arch over the reeling, into the ocean.

The journey takes a few days since the town of Båtfed is on the other end of Norway, close to the very north. During the journey, Skyler thinks less and less about Jake's possible betrayal or what it has seen in this vision. In fact, Skyler thinks less and less in general. It lets itself being used for pissing, and of course for the regular jerk offs, but that's it. That's what it is for and that's what it does. Not a single word is exchanged between Bjørnar and his cock, during the whole time. Bjørnar is not a talkative guy in general, and there is nobody here to hear him. Skyler on the other hand, is a cock. Why should he speak to his owner?

It is only when Bjørnar and his cock finally arrive at Båtfed that the situation changes. Bjørnar moors the boat, and stretches, before walking towards the red wooden building of the stave church that is clearly visible outside of town. He has landed outside of town, since he likes to avoid any company if possible, and luckily, there is nobody there. During the days on the boat, Bjørnar had some time to think. After a few days of settling, Baelnath’s offer doesn't sound all too bad to him now. Sure, he would be a servant, but everyone is a servant of some kind. And being able to choose his bodies freely sounds really appealing, at least compared to going back to his magic-less life, that seems so far away now. However, he still has a trump card. He will get that divine thingamabob and trade it for an even better deal. Less servant, more equal to Baelnath. He, Bjørnar has the power right now, or at least he will have it shortly. No need to settle for anything less than what he wants.

Stomping towards the red building, he is surprised to actually see another human being out here. A twenty-something boy with blonde hair and a twinkish build is looking out to the ocean. Immediately, Bjørnar's dick reacts to the fuckable man, but Bjørnar disapproves. He has no time for that.

Instead, he tries the church door, only to find it locked. He rattles the door with some force, but it's stable enough. He would either need to get a key or break it down. There is no reason not to break it down, aside from the boy with the white shirt who has taken notice and approaches Bjørnar. Great. Human contact. Just what he needed.

"Do you want to visit the church?" asks the boy. Even his voice is light and cheerful. Disgusting.

"Fuck no. I just want to get in there." Bjørnar spits out.

"I'm sorry, but it's closed most of the time. My uncle is the priest here and he only opens the doors for service." The boy's eyes are sparkling in joy, even though he is talking to a hunk like Bjørnar.

"Oh, then I will break down the fucking door then." Bjørnar growls at the boy and stomps towards the door.

"Relax! I've got the keys right with me. I can show you the inside if you like, but only if you promise not to break anything." The boy quickly says and smiles a disarming smile.

"Okay, okay. No breaking anything. Lead on."

"Of course. But first... let us talk about the master's offer."

Bjørnar turns around, as the voice of the boy changes and gets a neutral, puppety tone to it. Sure enough, the eyes of the other man are glowing red now. He is being controlled by Baelnath now. Bjørnar just hopes that he is only here for him and doesn't know about the weapon.

Bjørnar grunts. Being so close to his goal, he has lost much of the respect for the red demon, especially since he is not here himself. Bjørnar still has the magic stone and can escape anytime he wants, but that would be rather inconvenient. No, he will resolve the situation another way.

"Right. The master." Bjørnar says slowly while trying to come up with an idea. "Who is that again?"

The tone of the boys voice does not change as he responds: "You know him well. Baelnath, the twisted master of flesh."

So, Baelnath is using magic to control that boy, huh? Well, Bjørnar has magic at his disposal himself. Time to use it.

He concentrates on the stone in his hand and feels the power surging. However, this time, he doesn't direct it at himself and his body, but at the young man's mind in front of him. He feels a slight struggle, but as Bjørnar can just throw more and more power at the problem, he quickly dominates the battlefield of the mind.

"Say it again. Who is your master?" Asks Bjørnar in a demanding tone.

It takes a moment, but the young adult responds differently now: "My master is... you. You are my master."

Bjørnar grins before being reminded to his arousal by his throbbing cock. "Good. Now, suck me off."

He opens his pants with his free hand and releases Skyler into the open. The blond boy does not hesitate for a moment and drops to his knees. In seconds, Skyler is all the way down the boy's throat, chocking him lightly. Bjørnar does not care about that he is out in public right now. There is nobody here, and if someone was, Bjørnar would not care. He pumps his hips, pushing Skyler down the boy's throat and smirks as he hears a muffled groan.

Bjørnar decides he needs more and pushes the other man's head with his free hand against his groin, almost choking him. "There. You are a good little slave, aren't you?"

The blonde guy interrupts his servicing only briefly to answer in the same monotone voice: "Yes, master."

"Good boy." Bjørnar says as he pulls down his pants even further and starts pumping his dick directly into the other man's throat. He thrusts and moans, finally cumming down the blonde's throat with a grunt.

After that, Bjørnar pushes the blonde from him and to the ground. He just bellows a "Now, the keys." and, as he receives them, does not care about the spent man on the ground anymore.

Skyler on the other hand is present like he has not been for a long time. It has mind-melded again with Bjørnar during his exploit and what it had seen scared it deeply. Bjørnar, Jake, is gone so far it really couldn't recognize any sign of its old friend anymore. Is that really it? Skyler cannot believe this. There has to be a way out for them, there just has to be. So instead of dozing off as it normally does after orgasm, Skyler stays present as good as it can as Bjørnar unlocks the door. Luckily, the beary man has not bothered to put it back into his pants, so Skyler can see.

The interior of the church is small, but quite beautiful. The sunlight shines in through colorful stained glass windows, and a few candles are burning. It's narrow in here and everything is made of wood. Naturally, the air inside is pretty hot, at least for Nordic people.

At the back of the church is a small wooden shrine, and Bjørnar is certain that what he is searching for must be there. He stomps closer until he stands in front of the closed shrine, hesitating for a short moment. Skyler isn't sure what is going on in Bjørnar's head, but he senses his chance.

"Jake!" he addresses the huge man who flinches a bit from the unexpected voice in his head. "I don't know what Baelnath promised you, but don't do it. We are here, Jake, and there is the weapon. Let's take it and defeat Baelnath!"

Skyler puts all the sense of urgency it can muster into these words. A moment passes and then Bjørnar starts laughing, in a deep, arrogant voice.

"I almost forgot you were there, little kuk[cock]! So, you little asshole listened in to the conversation I had with my slave?"

Bjørnar spits out on the church floor. "Know your place! But no. The deal is not bad, but I can do better. I'm not gonna take the deal. Instead, I am going to become much more, all on my own. Baelnath is pathetic. With the magic stone, I can be so much more powerful than him. I'll take over his slaves and make them mine. They are going to serve me. And nobody on earth can stop me, because only *I* have the magic."

Skyler is horrified. What is going on with Jake? It gets really angry. How can he just throw away everything like that?

"Jake, stop that! This isn't you!" Skyler shouts angrily.

"Oh, shut up! Nobody can stop me, not even you. Especially not you, you are just a cock. First thing I am going to do is silence you, for good. There is just one weapon on earth that is capable of stopping me, and that is inside this wooden box here. But not for very much longer."

With his strong arms, Bjørnar just rips open the shrine and reveals a crystal on a wooden stand inside. The crystal is beautiful: Warm yellow swirling light fills it and shines outward without any need of further illumination. The light isn't unpleasantly bright and yet, it fills the room naturally like the sunlight on a warm summer day.

While Bjørnar hesitates for a moment, Skyler's thoughts are spinning. If Jake destroys the angelic essence, all is lost, for good. It absolutely cannot let that happen. There is just one thing it can do now.

It has done it before and despite just having cummed, Skyler concentrates really hard on getting hard again. Come on! It has managed to do so in Romania, and so many other times now. Just... come on.

And really, Skyler's length grows rigid. Now it uses everything he has trained back in Germany. It knows that it will only stay in control for a short duration, the duration of one erection, but it has to try.

Skyler's strong mind overwhelms Jake's weak one as he is just reaching out to grab the crystal. Skyler stops the movement in his track and Bjørnar tries to use his other hand, sweat dripping from his brow in the hot church. It's a battle of minds, but Skyler eventually succeeds in bringing the hulking body under his control. It stands there, panting, and with a large erection. Now what. The hardon will subside eventually and then it's all Jake again. Jake is still present, in the back seat of its mind and there is nothing Skyler can do to hide something from him.

Skyler looks at the swirling light crystal and then at Bjørnar's body again. It is out of options. It needs to do *something*, anything at all.

Soon, Jake will control Bjørnar again and then the angelic essence must be out of his reach.

An idea appears. It's a crazy idea, but Skyler doesn't feel like it has much choice. It *must* act now, no time to think it through.

It grabs the crystal which feels warm and pleasant to the touch and carefully lifts it up to its face. Skyler just hopes this works, as it lowers the crystal until it touches the very erect dick. Skyler concentrates hard, but it is not even necessary. Easily as a wish, the golden light inside the crystal intensifies and flows out of its transparent home and into the flesh of Skyler's dick body, filling it and surrounding it for a moment, before sinking in gently.

Skyler feels a clarity it has not felt for a long time. Everything has a purpose, even it... no, even he. He doesn't know what this purpose is, and it is up to him to discover this, but as the angelic essence fuses with his being, it feels like he can do it.

During all the powerful emotions, Skyler has completely forgotten about his concentration, and as his dick body softens, Bjørnar is immediately present again.

Pure hatred fills his voice as he shouts: "You fucking idiot! You motherfucking traitor! Was that your plan all along? To have that power for yourself? Asshole!"

Angrily, he smashes the now-empty crystal to the ground, where it shatters into a thousand little shards and pulls out the sigil stone.

"So, that's how it is. My biggest enemy was never the demon, it was my own fucking dick. A fucking enemy, in my own fucking body."

His voice grows cold, as he continues: "If you are against me, I will need to look for allies elsewhere. I'm going to Baelnath now."

Demonic magic swirls around him, as he invokes the stone's powers again and vanishes in red mist.

Outside the church, a single black raven who had watched the scenery, spreads out his wings and flies away.

There is quite a lot going on between the two of them and things aren't exactly looking bright. Let's just hope this ends well. If you want to read the previous chapter, you can do so here. This magic link leads you all the way to the beginning. You can read the next episode here.

If you like to support my writing, be sure to head over to my riot page. Not only the warm feeling of supporting a mediocre TF writer awaits you there, but also awesome benefits, like the critically acclaimed Dropout Dorm storyline!

[nosenipped]

⁎      ┈   ❄️ 〝 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍   𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴． ུ 

©   all  curated  content  is  made  &&.   developed  by  me.   plagiarism  will  not  be  tolerated.

𓎟𓎟　　⺌　general　desc.　༣

❛  jackson   overland   frost,  'jack   frost.'

❛  324,  physically   18.

❛  6'0",  183cm.

❛  masc—agender,  he﹨they.

❛  korean,   caucasian.   aspec—pansexual.

❛  winter  spirit  ┄  vessel   of   a   star.

𓎟𓎟　　⺌  verses   &&.    inspirations.  ༣

 fitted   for   all   genres,    outfits    ﹠    gear   mostly   catered   to   modern   times   with   exceptions.    storyboard   curated   for   ROTGOC   timeline    ﹠    coincides   with   other   verses   such   as   the   big   four.

 ✦  ┈  inspired   by   huening   kai,    legend   of   jokul   frosti,    poems    ﹠    literature   of   winter.

𓎟𓎟　　⺌  outlooks    &&.    psyche.  ༣

body's   sprawled   with   norse   runes   ﹠   scars﹔   a   tapestry   of   battles   won   ﹠   fought   for.    pointed   nymph–like   ears,    twitches   whenever   they're   disturbed.   toned   ﹠   athletic   body﹔   broad   shoulders   ﹠   slimmed   muscles.   mole—speckled,   cheeks   dusted   with   moonlit   freckles.

commonly   spotted   wearing   korean   streetwear,   easily   identifiable   with   a   white   or   blue   hoodies.   paired   with   piercings,   and   ripped   pants   ﹠   jean   jackets.   a   loud,   boisterous   piece   to   garner   attention.

keeps   their   distance,   not   fond   of   adults   but   very   friendly   towards   children.   playful   ﹠   observant,   so   much   more   than   meets   the   eye.   the   fine   line   of   fun   ﹠   tragedy,   he   who   burdens   the   sorrows   of   children   upon   steady   shoulders.

undiagnosed   ADHD   ﹠   dyslexia.    prone   to   depressive   episodes   ﹠   self—isolation.

𓎟𓎟　　⺌  nitty   gritty.  ༣

guardian   of   fun,   herald   of   winter.   lord   of   the   trees,   king   of   childhood,   king   of   wild   things.   santa   claus'   second–in–hand.   often   the   unexpected   overseer   of   the   naughty   list.

lives   in   the   willow   of   sorrows    ﹠    big   roots   speckled   across   the   globe   with   his   siblings   ﹠   twinetender.   if   not   travelling   by   the   winds,   he   utilizes   the   willow's   gateways﹔   a   passageway   granted   by   the   trees   themselves   for   their   sovereign.

often   seen   flittering   around   the   globes,    commonly   talking   to   and   ﹨   or   helping   wildlife.   his   willow   is   often   used   as   a   shelter   or   a   place   to   hibernate,   ironically.   currently   he's   housing   an   ermine,   a   wolf   cub   ﹠   an   old   reindeer.

manages   an   army   of   snowmen    ﹠    legions   of   leafmen.    refer   to   2013's   EPIC.

before   becoming   guardian,    he   was   an   elusive   figure   FEARED   by   adults,    but   loved   by   children.   he   wasn't   believed   in,   but   seen   as   a   warning﹔   a   cautionary   tale.   appearing   more   cryptid—like,   as   opposed   to   elvish.

reigning  vendetta—brought   white—out   toward   families   who've   ill—treated   their   children,    bringing   their   souls   with   him   to   the   afterlife.   self—enacted   punishment   as   judge,   jury   ﹠   executioner.

these   feats   were   passed   down   from   urban   stories   to   folklore.   most   infamous   nickname   dubbed    ＇JOKUL   FROSTI＇    in   scandinavian   mythology,    the   symbol   of   DOOM.   once   brought   up,   however,   his   memory   hazes   along   with   the   inclusion   of   other   lifetimes.

capable   of   fierce   squalls    ﹠    blizzards,    conducted   by   twinetender.   expert   swordsmanship   ﹠   adept   with   firearms.   flexible   from   martial   arts   ﹠   parkour.

untapped   talent   into   the   power   of   the   STARS,   commanded   by   galactic   tides   ﹠   memoirs   of   the   golden   age.

[mecthology]

Buggane from Manx Folklore.

The Buggane, in Manx legend, is an bulky subterranean creature with features akin to those of a mole. It is said to be in bodily appearance similar to a hairy version of the Scandinavian troll, with glowing eyes and massive tusks. Bugganes, as magical creatures, can not cross running water or tread on hallowed ground. Occasionally, fairies may use Bugganes as a sort of hired muscle, having them punish people who have offended them.

A shapeshifter, the buggane is generally described as a malevolent being that can appear as a large black calf or human with ears or hooves of a horse. Another tale describes it as a huge man with bull's horns, glowing eyes, and large teeth.

The most famous tale tells of a buggane who unintentionally ended up on a ship heading to Ireland. He was determined to return to the Isle of Man, so he created a storm and directed the ship towards the rocky coast of Contrary Head. However, St. Trinian intervened after the captain promised to build a chapel in his honor. With the saint's guidance, the ship safely reached Peel Harbour. The buggane, furious, exclaimed, "St. Trinian should never have a whole church in Ellan Vannin." When they tried to build the chapel, the local people had to put a roof on it three times because the buggane kept tearing it off.

Despite its defeat, the roof was never replaced, and the roofless church can be visited to this day.

Follow @mecthology for more myths and lore.

Pic: Generated with AI

Source: Cryptidwiki and Wikipedia.

[herrlindemann]

Sonic Seducer, June 2015

The exotic blossoms of a band break: After Rammstein said goodbye to the collective scene after their furious final show at the Wacken Open Air in summer 2013, the individual group members are slowly but surely returning with solo projects. While guitarist Richard Kruspe kicked things off last fall with the release of the second long play from his all-star artist collective Emigrate, spring 2015 will also be dominated by the Berlin industrial metallers. While keyboardist Flake Lorenz is trying his hand at writing books, frontman Till Lindemann is also letting the sparks fly again in every way possible: On the debut album of his solo effort of the same name, the flame-retardant muscle man has enlisted the help of Hypocrisy/Pain mastermind Peter Tägtgren. Together we'll be firing on all cylinders for 'Skills In Pills' from June onwards - and all in English!

The good news at the very beginning: the all-clear can be given. Despite all the rumors and speculation, the founding of Lindemann does not mean the end of Rammstein, as Till solemnly explains in the preliminary discussion about his latest field of musical activity. "Peter and I have been planning this project for ages. We had to keep postponing it because of time constraints — either he was on tour or I was busy with Rammstein. For me, Lindemann means more of a vacation from Rammstein. 15 years together is a long time. During this time we lived almost exclusively for the band and neglected our private life a lot. Some band members have small children and we are aware that we need more time for our families and whatever else is going on these days. It was urgently necessary for some of us to take a longer break from Rammstein. A break during which you can collect yourself again and really relax without the next appointments being on your calendar."

Anyone who knows the New German Hardness pioneer and the Scandinavian death metal veteran knows: you won't rest for a single minute on the twelve tracks of 'Skills In Pills'. On the contrary. As the names Rammstein and Pain suggest, on their first album the Lindemann/Tägtgren duo created a darkly bombastic, subtly electro-fied hybrid monster that stomps through the metal forest with glowing eyes, broad shoulders and a dirty grin to make his way through the mainstream and underground regardless of the losses. A real man's record, the result of a German-Swedish friendship that has now lasted a good 15 years. A long shared history that, according to Tägtgren, "starts with bar fights and continues through vomiting in Chinese restaurants" to the present day. Sounds too weird for a PR stunt, as Lindemann confirms. "We met when Flake and I got into a fight in a small bar somewhere in the north of Sweden. Peter somehow got in the way. I previously only knew him from seeing metal clubs and bars in Stockholm, but had never spoken to him. Back then we hung out a lot with the guys from Clawfinger and our mixer at the time, Stefan Glaumann. A time when I was out every night and knew all the clubs. Peter and his brother really saved our asses in that fight and kept us out of a lot of trouble. He calmed the heated tempers and said to these guys: By the way, that's the singer from Rammstein, they're okay. Afterwards there was home-made beer for the whole house. Then we all crashed really badly together."

Instead of burning off their excess energy in trendy shops in Stockholm, LindGren now prefers to spend her time on 'Skills In Pills'. With instant neckbreakers like 'Ladyboy' and 'Golden Shower', the bizarre fetish metal smash 'Fat' and the polarizing family planning guide 'Praise Abort(ion'), the duo will be open-mouthed and perhaps one or two scandal headlines from June onwards in relevant tabloids. The new pieces are based on Till Lindemann's notorious, deep black humor, which was often misunderstood in Rammstein and in his two previously published volumes of poetry. In English form, all non-German-speaking regions now have the chance for the first time to immerse yourself in the eerie and beautiful world of thoughts of the R-rolling fifty-something. Brutal humor for everyone.

"It’s just part of my job. I've always tried to let a certain kind of humor shine through; even if sometimes it wasn't much fun to record the songs. I can't judge whether this is the light, carefree side of Till Lindemann. The biggest difference is definitely that the songs are in English - a completely new field of work that I'm working on today."

The album was created in Peter Tägtgren's semi-legendary The Abyss studio in the tiny village of Pärlby, around 200 kilometers northwest of Stockholm. Where over the last twenty years milestones have been recorded by mostly black metal formations such as Dimmu Borgir, Dark Funeral and of course Peter's numerous in-house projects, last summer they clubbed their way through their collection of acoustic pills in a relaxed mood. Relaxed feel-good atmosphere à la Lindemann. "In his studio you can literally throw a fishing rod into the water from the comfort of your own home. Peter did the editing of the songs and I fished during my breaks from recording. We approached this project without any great expectations or plans. We just wanted to do something together. Everything has developed step by step into what you can hear and see today. Initially we thought we'd record a few songs and put them online to see how people would react."

"We are very serious about music," concludes Peter Tägtgren. "We are extremely proud of what we have created together with this album. But at the moment the project is still in its infancy. You have to see how much the audience likes our work. If it goes down well out there, I could imagine playing concerts with Lindemann. But at the moment it is still too early to judge. We'll wait for the feedback first."

The Lindemann album ‘Skills In Pills’ will be released in June; The detailed interview with Till and Peter can be found in the next issue.

[scandinav-muscles]

[cathumanwarriors]

AU Plans for Rock, Midnight, and Half Moon

I've expanded upon Midnight and Rock being a thing in the Warriors universe when their roles aren't clearly defined. I have a really cool idea for why they exist and what role Half Moon has to play as the first Stoneteller.

The first piece of information being that Midnight, while not immortal, has existed since ancient Sumer and was worshiped as a goddess for her staggering height. She was bestowed the power by a figure to see all that was happening all at once in the present, and became known as the goddess Mulanadiri. She is the eldest of her, Rock, and Half Moon. She also goes by other names. Some called her Inanna, goddess of love, fertility, and war. Millennium later, others called her Gaia. The Sisters know her as the Great Mother. She is the originator of this AU specific trait called the "Amazon gene", that increases physical height and muscle density in people with XX chromosomes.

Rock was born in ancient Egypt some time during the Early Dynastic Period as an Egyptian peasant who one day got lost in the desert. He was found by a strange man who led him to an expanse of tunnels to take shelter in. When he finally left those tunnels and returned home, he discovered that his family was dead and entire centuries had passed yet he remained untouched by time. He discovered he had the power to see the future, and his body would not age. He tried to stop the futures he saw in his visions, yet it was futile. He could only soften the blows, not fully stop them from happening. He became disillusioned, tired, resigned to his fate, and his body strained with the trauma etched into his body. He became diminished and less than human, a living corpse plagued by visions that spoke of endless destruction. He was known by many names, each mostly retaining the same meaning. Fallen Leaves knew him as Stein. Jayfeather knew him as Peter. Millennium ago, some called him Osiris, for how he guided the dead to their afterlives. 

Finally, there is Half Moon, the baby of the bunch. Born 800 A.D., she was a normal Scandinavian girl born into the group we called the Ancients that had split off 200 years ago to form a new religious community. She loved a boy called Jay’s Wing, but after he emerged from his trial to become a man, he had changed. He uprooted her entire way of life and cast the final stone to leave their home. He appeared 6 years later to name her the leader of their community, the first Steinsjóna (Stoneseer), then vanished forever. He revealed he was not Jay’s Wing, but Jayfeather, having been born a millennium later to a world on the verge of destruction. She would become her people’s leader, and after her death, their goddess. Jayfeather gave her the power to know all the history of the past and see beyond the physical into people’s minds. She can read the history held in a person's mind, all their past thoughts and memories.

With frightening clarity, she realized that he had condemned her to become a concept, an abstraction, for the sake of the world. Half Moon as she was known in life was erased, and all that remained was the Goddess, whose people did great good and great evil in her name. She was known as Freydis the Half Moon, Freydis the High Priestess. The ancients, who would become the Guild of Endless Waters, were once known as the Sect of Freydis. 

Since that moment Jayfeather appeared, everything was set into motion. Half Moon was able to walk through dreams to find Midnight, who was able to discover in the world where Rock sequestered himself. With their powers, they realized what needed to be done in order for Earth to survive. The Three must come to pass.

Moth Flight had to become the first High Healer, in order for her to give birth to Blue Whisker, Bubbling Stream, Spider Paw, and Honey Pelt. Blue Whisker would become the direct ancestor to Mistmouse, mother of Stagleap, grandfather to Ashfoot, grandmother to Hollyleaf, Lionblaze, and Jayfeather.

And in order for Moth Flight to exist as she was, the world had to become much more small than it was. So Half Moon set into motion a butterfly effect that led to migration across the world much earlier than it did in our real world. Wind Runner would have to see opportunity at moving to the new world, and she would have to give birth to Moth Flight.

Goosefeather had been given his visions from Rock in order for him to plant the seeds in Bluestar for her to ascend to become leader, and so Firestar could join the Clans. The plan was to have Lionblaze, Jayfeather, and Dovewing be born to the same mother, but a wrench was thrown in the plan. Hollyleaf, uh, is not supposed to exist.

The Three come to realize that they were the ones who gave Midnight, Rock, and Half Moon their powers, and that their powers are far stronger than they realized. In order to save the world, they must go back in time to make a stable time loop that leads to their existences, and unlock their powers' full potential.

Dovewing was the one who gave Midnight her powers. Lionblaze is the one that gave Rock his. And Jayfeather was the one responsible for giving Half Moon her powers. 

Lionblaze's power isn't to be hurt in battle, it's the ability to predict time. He can't be hurt because he knows all the moves that will happen nanoseconds before they happen intuitively. With his powers fully unlocked, he could stop aging, see into the future, and always know what is going to happen before it happens. He embodies the concept of Future.

Dovewing's full power goes beyond the ability to see and hear great distances, it is the ability to feel and experience everything in the present. She can transcend space into the spiritual realm, and become the very essence of the world itself. She embodies the concept of Present.

Dovewing must travel back in time to create a stable time loop that leads to her birth by planting the seeds in Cloudpaw's mind to stay a warrior, when in the future Lionblaze saw he stayed a Clan outsider. This leads to Whitewing, who gives birth to Dovewing and Ivypool.

Jayfeather's full power is the ability to know everything that has happened, the power to walk through the past (time travel), and the ability to transcend space and time to change events in the future through knowledge of the past. He embodies the concept of Past.

After the Dark Forest is defeated, and the dead are purified, the Three give their powers back to Rock, Midnight and Half Moon, who then finally fade out of existence after thousands of years, finally at peace. Half Moon’s words to Jayfeather, that she’ll always wait for him? They are changed to mean that she will be with him as the earth and sky around him. He shackled her to her prison of being a god, and so he unshackled her and set her free. 

(Also, Hollyleaf might be an anomaly in the very fabric of the universe that shouldn’t exist, and Dovewing was supposed to be Lion and Jay’s sister. I haven’t figured that part out yet. I think it's a fun idea to make her, or least who she used to be, be the reason why the Dark Forest exists.)

[reedsofintimacy]

What do you look like? If I may ask 💕

Of course 🥰

I'm tall (6'4), white (scandinavian) with short brown hair.

I wear glasses, and give off a kind of nerdy grandpa professor-ish vibe (thinning hair on very top to match)

I have more of a cute face than a defined one, but I'm finally starting to not look 14 anymore now that I'm in my mid 20s. I think i kinda look like a bird as far as animals go but idk haha

My outfits aim for scholarly but not preppy/old money, so usually chinos and a layered solid color tee and unbuttoned button up.

I was always very narrow and scrawny growing up but the past year ive filled out some and been doing strength training some for the first time. Still not super toned and chiseled, my tummy is still soft, but there are now muscles underneath the cushion lol. I'd like to get a lean-muscular style of body eventually but still working on it

Lemme know if i can add anything else 😇

[scrapsovereign]

That One Time I Got Kidnapped By An Evil Vampire Lord Ch. 9

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57838303/chapters/151278898

Summary:

Mac has an unexpected visitor with an unexpected message. She learns more about Astarion's mysterious past and receives an intriguing offer.

Pairings: past Ascended Astarion x Evil male!Tav, Ascended Astarion x Original Female Character

Trigger warnings/Tags: DnD in-universe racism, Self-gaslighting, Astarion's past trauma (heavily redacted for manipulating his target aka Mackenzie), Possessive Astarion

A blanket of fog covers the peninsula that makes up the neighborhood of West Seattle, the sleepy mist muting the vivid colors of late summer. Mackenzie breathes in and can almost taste the crispness of fall in the air alongside the onshore flow. She makes her way mindlessly through the backstreets that lace around the hem of Beach Drive, finding herself standing in her grandparent’s driveway.

She raises her head to gaze at the eaves of the slate blue 1920s style bungalow house.

Mackenzie knows then she must be dreaming. Developers had torn down her grandparents’ home years ago to make room for a neat row of townhomes. 

Tracing a curious hand over the freshly warmed hood of her grandfather’s forest green 1993 Ford Ranger, she registers a tune floating from the detached garage she hasn’t heard in a very, very long time. 

“Ohhhh~! 

Gja’vok farurm sjolmz 

Heth’fjad vothlag kvinnr 

oz sjolm krenl th’ras vothlagr!

oz sjolm krenl th’ras vothlagr!

oz sjolm krenl th’ras vothlagr! Hei!”

“Gramps?”

The thinning snow and copper hair belonging to her grandfather shoots up from the floor of his hand-restored wooden Chris-Craft boat, grinning from ear to ear.

“Mi aeling! Just in time to help get the daily catch to the greenhouse!”

Mackenzie shudders, his nickname for her doing nothing to soften the blow of his request. Of all the bonding activities her subconscious had chosen, why did it have to be cleaning the fish in the greenhouse sink?

“You could turn over the compost instead,” he lilts with his heavy Scandinavian accent, erupting with a good-natured laugh when Mackenzie visibly gags at the suggestion.

“That obvious, huh?” She wonders, holding her arms up to assist with lowering the cooler containing the mystery seafood.

“I remember you making a similar face the last time we were out on the water together,” he admonishes a crooked and stubby, calloused finger at her. “Glad we went when we did. Your grandmother left us shortly after that, and I couldn’t help but follow.”

Mackenzie’s arms flop to the side as her strength drains away with her color. How many years has it been since they’d passed away, fifteen? Twenty?

“I bet you’re old enough to have a beer with me this time, eh?” He asks with a soft voice and a wry, cheeky wink. “I���d make you a Manhattan, but we don’t have enough time to enjoy one.” 

“Beer really isn’t my thing,” Mackenzie explains, only to be shushed by her grandfather.

“Keep it down, I don’t want your grandmother knowing I’m drinking with you. Here- catch!” he launches a white, gold, and red can into the air with a whistle. It arcs above her and she hops back a couple of paces, just barely catching the ice cold projectile in her hands.

Mackenzie cracks the can open with visible distaste and takes a polite sip while her grandfather rips the aluminum tab open and guzzles it down. He crushes the empty can against his head and tosses it overboard, cheering for himself when it lands in the recycling bin. 

“And that’s how I passed my try-out for the Seattle Supersonics,” he guffaws at himself, his boisterous glee quieting when he doesn’t hear Mackenzie laughing with him.

“Copper for your thoughts, child?” He asks softly as he opens up another can of the bitter, pale beer, taking a noisy sip to punctuate his question.

“I have so many questions, and none of the words to ask them.”

He leans out the side of the boat with an arm made of corded muscle, gazing down at her with amusement. 

“I’ve got some! How’s: I’d like to see the look on that knife-eared prick’s face when he finds out yer heritage after playing 'hide-the-pickaxe' with you?” 

Mackenzie had chosen the wrong time to give the vile drink another go. She coats the ground in front of her with a sputtering spray of beer, shocked by his boldness. Her grandfather chuckles, using the moment to drag the cooler closer to the rudder while she gathers her thoughts. His stocky frame climbs down the metal boat’s ladder and grasps at the cooler’s handles, jerking it towards him with a wheezing grunt.

“Knife-eared? As in pointy ears? They look like mine, Gramps-“

Her grandfather plops the cooler down in front of him, wiping his forehead with the front hem of his grey, ratty Boeing 737 tee shirt. 

“Mi aeling. By the hammer. You saw them this morning, didn’t you?” He crosses his arms, arching a bushy eyebrow as high as she’d ever seen it go.

“Yeah, actually I did…” She mirrors his pose, stroking her chin in sync with how his stubby fingers pet the wiry fibers of his beard. 

“And you saw them out of the corner of your eye…didn’t you?” He prompts her, his eyes gleaming with warmth.

Mac shakes her index finger at him. “Well, now that you mention it…”

He steps over the cooler with an “uff-da”, bending her index finger into a curve with his perma-dirt stained hands.

“There you go. Never want to point directly at someone, lest you be pointed at in return,” he mutters softly. He embraces tightly around her middle, squeezing her with a pressure that pops her back.

“Pay attention to the thin times and places. They reveal what is concealed. Where the elements meet, such as the earth and the sea. Transitions, like the rising and setting of the sun,” he lists somberly in a voice that doesn’t sound like his, pulling away to look up at her with his kind, laughter-etched face. 

“Hmm. You’re taller than I remember,” he grouses, comparing their heights with the flat of his hand. He grunts when his measurement reveals Mac to be a full head higher than him, narrowing his eyes as the gears turn over in his head. “You’ll have to duck when the time comes. It’s the only thing I’ll make you promise.”

Mackenzie is so lost. “Gramps, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Not what, WHOM,” he clarifies for her, scratching at his beard. “Mi aeling, all the gold in Fort Knox couldn’t prepare you for what’s going to happen tonight.”

He tsks, shaking his head. “And could you believe your guardian spirits were going to sit with their thumbs up their incorporeal asses?! Bunch of lazy stiffs, leaving it to ‘ole Torben Eriksson to do their damned jobs for them.”

Mackenzie’s mouth tries out different shapes as she shuffles through her useless brain, searching for the right question to pry him for answers.

“In case you’re wondering, it’s not your new beau,” he sighs, his eyes flickering up to the wooden beams of the garage coated in cobwebs. “I couldn’t tell you to keep your mitts off that prancing, plank-shaped ninny if I tried. I don’t get why you’d want to get tangled up with that in the sheets, and I suppose I don’t have to.”

“After all, you’re a grown woman now!” he reminds her with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, “Free to make your own mistakes…”

West Seattle, Washington 

Friday, August 25th

7:15 PM

Mackenzie startles awake with a gasping breath, the sheen of sweat that coats her brow feeling cool in the evening breeze. The world spins around her as she sits up to lean on her elbows, her pulse rattling the bones that cage her pounding heart. She slows her breathing, her dizziness and ringing ears subsiding as she eases back into consciousness.

“Are you quite alright, darling?” 

Mackenzie feels Astarion’s cool hands rubbing reassuring circles on the small of her back. 

“I…think so?” She sits up to face him, her breath almost stolen by how handsome he is, illuminated in shades of gold against the azure blue sky. “I had a dream about my gramps and he was real candid about his feelings towards the end, there.”

Astarion’s brow furrows in concern. “Do you have these…’dreams’ often?”

Mac shakes her head, looking out towards the red ball of light beginning to set over the horizon. “No, they aren’t as vivid or self-aware. Truth be told, I’m a little freaked out by it.”

”I can’t believe it’s already sunset. How long have I been out?” Mac yawns, politely excusing herself for doing so.

“Mmm…a few hours, give or take,” he muses, looking off to the side as he recounts the passage of time on his elegant fingers.

“Oh. Oh my goodness. I’m sorry for falling asleep on you. I didn’t mean to just pass out. I hope you weren’t bored,” she apologizes, feeling a pang of guilt for having left him to his own devices for so long. 

Ari would have expected her to remain awake and ready to serve his needs, no matter how badly her body needed rest. Her therapist would tell her this was called ‘hypervigilance’ and ultimately contributed towards more fatigue later on. Mac always figured that was a problem for her future self. Current Mac had to survive the day, no matter the cost. 

“Hush now, my sweet. I’m not surprised. You’re likely exhausted from how much we’ve exerted ourselves,” Astarion reaches out to Mac, gathering her in his arms. She relaxes against him with a contented sigh, listening to the slow beating of his heart intermingled with the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. 

Astarion brandishes Amanda’s dog-eared copy of A Court of Thorns and Roses in front of them before setting it back down on his lap. “I had plenty of entertainment to occupy my time whilst you slumbered so peacefully.”

Mackenzie’s stomach feels like it might turn inside out from shame. “Oh. Oh no, oh God. You found the faerie smut.”

Astarion’s chuckle rumbles in his chest, his lips pressing a kiss to her temple. “If you’re embarrassed, don’t be. It’s an interesting little read. Not my usual fare, but still amusing nonetheless.”

“If you finished it, don’t spoil it for me. I haven’t gotten very far, I’ve only read the first few chapters. Not because I don’t want to read more. I don’t want to see the story progress,” she opens the re-usable shopping tote she’d used as a beach bag, shoving the novel down to the very bottom.

“And why would that be?” Astarion tilts his head in curiosity, watching Mackenzie busy herself with packing away their things.

Mac stops to consider his question, her eyes meeting his when she finds the words a beat later. “I don’t want my delusions shattered. She goes from barely making ends meet, starving and struggling to care for her family to living a life of luxury. She has no responsibilities aside from showing up for dinner.”

“Does that sort of lifestyle sound appealing to you?” Astarion turns on to his side to face her, leaning on his elbow against a massive driftwood log.

Mac snorts out a noise of agreement, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. I’d love being a fae prince’s consort. Who wouldn’t want to wear pretty dresses and paint all day? But alas, we live in a late capitalist, dystopian hellscape and let’s be real here: nobody in their right mind would want me as a trophy wife.”

Mac holds the moment between them in uncomfortable silence, waiting for Astarion to respond to her self-deprecating humor with anything but staunch disapproval. When she realizes he wouldn’t deign her with a reply, she changes the subject. 

“Anyways. Sorry for passing out super hard when you started petting my hair after we ate lunch. I’ve never felt more relaxed in my life. You make me feel really comfortable, and you’re pretty good at that,” Mac puts her hand on his thigh, feeling the captured heat of the sun on the fine, lightweight woolen fabric. “That being…uhm. It’s like you know exactly how to touch me.”

“It isn’t difficult, if you know what to pay attention to. Gods, I’ve had more than enough practice,” He scoffs with a flourish of his hand.

“You…have? Oh,” Mac stammers, her mouth going dry. She sneaks a sideways look at him, his mention of having had other lovers making her feel uncomfortable in her own skin. He tries to take her hand in his, but she wriggles out of his grasp, perching atop the driftwood log he leans against.

“I suppose that sounds awful without context,” He solicits, holding up an open palm. 

“Context? As in your past?” She narrows her eyes with her inquiry. 

“Precisely. After all, it’s only fair that I show you mine after you’ve entrusted me with yours,” he winks at her after muttering his entendre, joining her on top of her driftwood bench.

Astarion breathes in deeply through his nose, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Shortly after I graduated from law school, I served as a magistrate. One evening, on my return home, a group of vagrants assaulted me. They’d taken issue with a ruling I made, beating me within an inch of my life.”

Mac turns to face him in open-mouthed alarm, noticing the far-away look in his eyes as he begins his tale.

This isn’t at all how she’d expected his explanation to start.

“That’s when…he showed up,” Astarion continues, the muscles of his jaw tensing at the mention of the unnamed man. “I told him I wanted to live, and he saved me. In the years to follow, I would spend every minute wishing he hadn’t.”

“After that fateful night, he enslaved me, along with six others. I would go out into the streets every night at his command to bring him the most beautiful souls I could find, playing the part of the whore, the rake. Lure them into coming back to his estate where I would…’entertain’ them until he appeared,” he sneers, his body going rigid. 

Regretting her jealousy, Mac connects the dots of why he’s so talented at making her feel good as his truth is revealed. She had felt his arm gradually stiffen, recognizing the guarding of his muscles as he recounted his past. She does what she feels would comfort her the most by leaning into his sideways embrace, nestling her head against his shoulder. 

“I attempted to escape only once. It wasn’t successful- shocking, I know. He found me before I could leave, and I…I was locked away by myself for a year. And that’s hardly the worst of it,” Astarion shudders, horrors unspoken replaying behind his haunted eyes.

“How did you get out?” Mackenzie boldly places her hand on his forearm, stroking the rough spun fibers of his shirt with her thumb. 

Astarion smiles at her touch. “I, along with several other individuals selected seemingly at random, were abducted by a cult and transported together. Chaos ensued onboard, and we crash landed hundreds of miles away from proper civilization. Making our way back to where we were taken was a challenge, but when we arrived back in the city, our merry band of weirdos successfully dismantled the cult.”

Mac shuffles closer to Astarion. “Did your abuser try anything when you got back in town?”

“He most certainly did. And oh, he paid dearly for it,” Astarion savors the memory as he drawls out the words slowly.

“What happened to him? He’s not still after you, is he?”

Astarion snorts. “Heavens no, he’s long gone. When they found his will after his death, I had been named to inherit it all. His estate, fortunes, lands, and his title. You could say all’s well that ends…not as bad as it could have.”

Mac stiffens, pulling away to look into his eyes, seeking the truth. “Wait a minute. Did you say lands and title? As in you’re…a lord? Like an actual landed noble?”

“Indeed. I am Lord Astarion Ancunin. Pleased to meet your acquaintance, darling,” He raises Mackenzie’s hand to his lips, peering up at her with eyes that sparkle like rare jewels in the waning light.

“Holy shit,” Mac whispers to herself, a line of red rising up her neck. “Yeah, uh…pretend that I didn’t say what I said earlier. You know, the thing about living a life where a hot fae prince just takes care of me and I wouldn’t want for nothing? Oh, fucking hell…”

“Are you not allowed to daydream? I too used to wish a handsome prince would appear out of nowhere and sweep me off my feet,” he murmurs to her, nudging his head against hers like a cat marking its territory. 

Mackenzie notes how affectionate they’ve been with each other, feeling a catch in her throat when she realizes at this time tomorrow she’ll be alone. Her time together with Astarion has an expiration date. Her ‘handsome prince’ will be gone at the stroke of midnight, continuing on with his life and she’ll go back to the mess that’s become hers. A bittersweet tear escapes that she quickly wipes away, facing the reality that they’ll have to part ways soon. 

“I…I wish you didn’t have to leave. A single day isn’t much of a sample size, but you’ve been so sweet to me. Nobody has ever treated me so well or been so patient and understanding. I’m not going to forget you. I’m grateful for the time we’ve spent together,” Mac steels herself for their eventual parting, preparing to shift away from him. “I’ve never met anyone who’s like you, and I don’t think I ever will.”

Astarion refuses to let her turn away. He rises, impossible to ignore as he looms above her, his index finger alongside the hinge of her jaw.

“Oh, you sweet thing. I’d already decided on what to do regarding your person, but that about settles it.”

Mac feels her core throb and tighten from his tender gesture. “Settles what?”

“Come back to the Gate with me, Mackenzie,” Astarion pleads as he gets down on one knee before her, taking her hand in his. “I couldn’t bear to depart without you.”

The sun nestles itself in between the far-away Olympic mountains, the last of the day’s light illuminating them in a ruby glow. Mac flinches, her field of vision clouded, overtaken by a torrent of mist surrounding Astarion. Crap, are her eyes dry again? She tightly squeezes them shut, hoping it helps to clear her sight. 

All the air in Mackenzie’s lungs evacuates from the dramatic shift in Astarion’s appearance.

She follows the connection between them with trepidation. Her eyes widen at the replacement of his fine linen shirt with an intricately detailed, opulent ensemble befitting a vampire lord. Her lips go numb as she notices how well the red and black jeweled jacket melds around his muscled frame, how perfectly the rich blood-red silk-velvet cloak around his shoulders drapes around him. 

Mac inhales sharply in awe as her sapphire blues meet his, crimson and aglow with dark, forbidden power. An aura of regal authority emanates from him, rolling off him in waves. Her gaze travels along of the outline of his figure, all the way from the sharp obsidian crown and pointy ears nestled in his silver waves to the painstakingly crafted breeches, ending at his kneecaps nestled in the beach's greige sand.  

The sun fully sets in the distance, disappearing beneath the Sound. The wind picks up then, causing a full body shiver to ripple through her. She closes her eyes in reaction to the breeze, her shoulders temporarily squeezed all the way up to her ears. 

When she opens them again, the vision of the wicked prince on bended knee is gone, replaced by the kind and beautiful man she’d spent the last day with. A dull headache sets in as she recalls something vague, a whisper of a thought about sunsets and where the land meets the sea. 

She ignores it, troubled by the possibility she might need to make a quick trip to the psychiatric urgent care in the morning. It wouldn’t surprise her if she’s at the beginnings of a breakdown from the stress. She’s been through more in the last day than some people experience in a lifetime.

“Come with me. Help me make the ridiculous things we’ve vowed to one another in the heat of passion real. I want you to be mine, and mine alone,” Astarion’s expression darkens with his confession, his voice growing husky at the mention of claiming Mac as his.

“You’re serious,” she thinks aloud, still rattled by her hallucination moments ago.

Astarion’s jaw twitches. “Absolutely. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Mackenzie idly wonders if Astarion hit his head while she was passed out earlier today. “You really want this. Me? To go with you? Why?”  

“Because I desire it. That reason alone should suffice,” he clips, becoming visibly irritated with her repeated disbelief.

Mac tries to tug herself away from him, rising swiftly to her feet. Astarion holds her steady in his grip, his eyes tracking her as she moves, watching her silently for a few seconds before he speaks.

“My treasure, is your reluctance in part to believing you are unworthy? You shouldn’t believe the things you tell yourself. They couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Mac sighs softly when Astarion kisses the tops of the hands he holds. “All that aside, I am fully aware of how mad it is of me to ask this of you. It’s terribly short notice, and so soon after you’ve ended things with Ari, but I couldn’t care less. I’m quite taken with you, more so than I expected. My affections for you have grown from a single drop of rain to an entire ocean; to part ways with you now would surely be the ruin of me. Return with me Mackenzie, nothing else would make me happier. Please.”

Mackenzie’s eyes brim with moisture, her earlier misgivings dissolving as she takes in his ethereal beauty in the twilight. Astarion was unaware that his request to come away with him is how she wished Ari had proposed to her- on bended knee at sunset at the most special place in the world to her. 

His tepid hands grip hers, his pleading crimson eyes flit back and forth, searching her flushed face for an answer. 

Well…she has the next few days off. What’s the harm in throwing caution to the wind and seeing where fate takes them?

She nods, a shy smile spreading across her face. Twin tears fall in tandem from eyes colored ultramarine in the early dusk, tracing a crystalline path down her flushed cheeks. 

“Yes. Okay. I’ll go with you.”

[ladycatofwinterfell]

I love iwtv, of course my brain still has one major problem with it. No nedcat vampires.

That can be remedied, as the great vampire Armand once said. A short and horribly self indulgent iwtv/nedcat crossover fic because you sent this ask and I wanted to write it. Louis pov, nedcat in the iwtv universe, set shortly before Louis and Claudia get to Paris

The woman had brilliant blue eyes. Impossibly blue. And her dark red hair had a luster to it that wasn’t human, it was obvious even in the dark. The way she stood so still she could have been mistaken for a statue was another clue to her nature.

Louis wouldn’t even have seen it if it wasn’t for that she had stopped to look at him. She would have been another human hurrying through the night to get into the warmth and light of a building as quick as possible.

Claudia. Claudia, where are you?

Vampire, there was another vampire. He had accidentally found a vampire and Claudia wasn’t with him. Where had she gone off to?

The woman vampire was still looking at him, not moving a muscle. He was doing the same, was afraid of scaring her off.

I don’t mean harm, he tried. Don’t be afraid.

She winced, must have received his words.

Who are you?

English, not from there. Not British, though. Maybe Irish. Sounded Irish.

Louis chanced a step closer, raising his hands to show they were empty. He couldn’t scare her off, not before Claudia had come.

Claudia? I found one, Claudia. Another vampire.

And then he spoke out loud.

“My name’s Louis” he said softly. “There’s another one with me, but we’re just passing through.”

A man came walking with quick steps from the street behind the woman. Not human either. There were two of them. He had stumbled upon two other vampires on accident.

“Where is this other one?” asked the woman as the man came to stand next to her.

He put an arm around her waist protectively, regarded Louis with coldness. Eyes like stone, though that was the most remarkable thing about him. The woman was beautiful, he was quite ordinary even as his looks had been enhanced by vampirism. Long, brown hair that was streaked with grey. A well kept beard in the same colouring. Long face.

Two other vampires.

“Somewhere around here” he said. “A young girl.”

“American vampires” the man said, his voice as cold as his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Also not from there, but not from the same place as his seeming companion. Scandinavian, maybe. Though Louis wasn’t as sure about that one.

“On our way to Paris. As I said, we’re just passing through.”

Suddenly he heard footsteps somewhere behind him. A bit away, but she would be with them soon. Finally.

“We hear Paris has seen better days” the woman told him.

“Isn’t that true of most places in these times?”

The woman gently freed herself from her companion and slowly crossed the street. She never took her eyes off Louis as she came closer to him and the man followed a few steps behind her.

“I’m Catelyn. This is Ned, my husband.”

Married vampires. But then maybe vampires with companions of the opposite sex did that. He didn’t know.

The man, Ned, didn’t say anything. He kept looking at Louis with suspicion in his eyes, no trust there at all.

Still Louis extended a hand towards Catelyn. Chanced a handshake.

“We don’t get a lot of wanderers” she said when she accepted it.

Up close Louis saw her face in even more detail. A few more human years than him, he’d guess she had been close to forty when turned. Same with Ned.

Claudia came to a skidding halt next to him, she must have been sprinting as fast as she could.

“Neither did we when we were living in one place. Not a single one, actually” she said excitedly, immediately reaching for the woman’s hand. “I’m Claudia.”

The woman met her with a smile.

“‘Claudia’” she repeated. “A pretty name. Are you his daughter?”

“More like a sister.”

Made quite young, that one.

It was Ned’s voice but Louis wasn’t sure he had been meant to hear it. Ned’s eyes had been at Catelyn when he sent the telepathic words. But then couldn’t he control it?

A glance at Claudia revealed nothing, she was still smiling. Had she heard?

“Did one of you make the other?” Catelyn asked when she had turned back to them.

Ice water over his head, still Louis forced himself to be neutral.

“No. We were made by the same vampire. An American stray. How about you?”

He chose to politely ignore that he had heard telepathic communication between the two of them.

“Same maker” Ned replied shortly.

“Made at the same time” Catelyn added.

It sounded weird, but who was he to judge?

“Are there more of you here?” Claudia asked.

Catelyn shook her head, her hair flowing over her shoulders as she did so.

“Just the two of us” she said and there was a hint of sadness in her voice. “Our children have all left to wander a long time ago.”

“So you’ve got several fledglings?”

“When we were turned we had five children and when they reached adulthood they all chose vampirism.”

They had made vampires of their entire family. Their children, all cursed into the darkness by their own choice. Had the children known what they were all along? That their parents were vampires? And how had that come to be?

“A family of vampires” Claudia said, obviously amazed by it. “Never heard of it before.”

They hadn’t heard much about anything, really. There was what little Lestat had told them, what little the had found in Romania, and what Claudia had learned from her books.

Catelyn took a step backwards so that she was standing just next to Ned, took his arm.

“I don’t think it’s too common, but I don’t know” she said. “We don’t meet a lot of other vampires.”

Uncommon everywhere, not only in America. Perhaps there had been some truth to what Lestat had said.

“This is the first time we’ve met a pair!”

“Really?” Ned said.

He remained much more guarded than Catelyn, who seemed to have warmed to Claudia. Something about his tone bothered Louis. It felt rude.

“Don’t seem to be a lot of us around in general” Louis shrugged.

“In the cities there are more.”

Like in Paris? Would they find more in Paris?

There’s gotta be a few in Paris then, came from Claudia. More like these ones.

“Oh, they’re not all like us” Catelyn smiled, obviously having heard that.

Even as it had not been intended for her she answered. Why was that? What did she mean by it?

“Sorry” Claudia got out, surprised.

Perhaps they were too used to no one being able to hear them. Lestat had been cut off from their telepathic communication, they hadn’t used it around the woman in Romania. Maybe it had been the same with Ned before, maybe he was used to it being just him and Catelyn.

“No worries. You’re young, there’s much to learn still.”

“I might look like it, but I’m no little girl” Claudia immediately corrected her.

“Young in the blood, I mean.”

Older ones, then. He hadn’t been sure. She had said their kids had wandered for a long time, but what was a long time?

“We’re from medieval times, Mr. du Lac” Catelyn let him know. “The old Europe.”

It wasn’t just telepathy, she was breaking into his mind. Spying on his thoughts. Bringing out a surname he had not given her while answering a question he had not spoken out loud. More and more of a power play.

He tried to push into her mind in return, the same way he did with humans, though found nothing. Like when Claudia shut her mind to him. It was solid, there was no way through. He was at a disadvantage. Attempting to get into Ned’s head was like running headfirst into a rock.

“Cat” Ned said, somehow managing to be both stern and soft at once.

She just gave him a quick look in response.

“You’re welcome to our home for the day” she then said. “Unless you already have a hiding place.”

“Really?” Claudia asked, obviously delighted.

He didn’t know how freely he could speak, still the telepathy was better than saying it out loud.

We don’t know these people, Claudia. If she’s telling the truth they’re much older than us, and much stronger.

“Of course” Ned said. “You’ll be safe from the sun there.”

They’re nice, Louis. They won’t hurt us.

And how were they supposed to know that?

“That’s very kind of you” Claudia told them. “We’d love that, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all!” Catelyn smiled. “Our children come home every now and again so we always have coffins ready.”

There was unease at it all, but when they turned and began walking back the same way they had come from Claudia eagerly followed them. And Louis definitely wouldn’t leave her to it.

[nitewrighter]

I do think Elric actually has a decent amount of muscle definition but it’s like a weird stretched out lanky version of those Scandinavian health guys who take ice baths and eat raw fish and juniper berries and have Too-Defined 90’s Spider-Man action figure deltoids. Fremen Bod but Longer.