#Scandinavian muscles

[ghostgirl-22]

Yk that fall out boy lyric that goes “i only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me”? I really think Art would pull some shit like that on Patrick.

Penny for thought? ✨

Well you can have a whole story for that anon and a song <3

18+ MDNI

Art only crashes out when Patrick gets a boyfriend for real.

—-

It probably begins when Art actually sees Patrick with a boy for the first time. Not just hanging out. But doing other things. He pushes into the dorm one evening after getting in from the library and Tanner Peterson’s pulling up his boxers while Patrick’s pulling the sheet over to cover himself. 

“Dude I thought you’d be out longer, I’m really sorry man.” Patrick says, all the color in his cheeks likely not from shame but exertion.  

Apparently they started seeing each other a couple weeks ago but had been keeping it quiet. 

Art shrugs like it’s okay. Even makes himself smile and tease them a little. He’s not sure why his throat feels tight and his stomach feels weird. He’s walked in on Patrick before, always with girls sure, but he’s not homophobic. At least he doesn’t think he is. But it sticks in his mind.  The moment buries itself there. Takes root and starts to rot his brain. This is real. Patrick’s with a boy. Patrick had sex with a boy. 

Tanner Peterson. This Scandinavian guy with dirty blonde hair and icy grey eyes who’s 18 or 19 but looks like he could pass for 25.  

After that night Tanner is everywhere, throwing an arm around Patrick’s waist during practice. Letting it linger there like he knows Patrick’s body intimately. Whispering things in Patrick’s ear that make him grin. Leaving hickies all over him, for Art to notice whenever Patrick gets naked to shower. Marking him like he owns him. 

This bitter lump settles in Art’s throat.  He swallows down on it late, late at night when he touches himself, holding his breath so Patrick won’t hear. His mind fixating on the now expanded “memory” of Tanner with his shorts tossed on the floor of their dorm room, Patrick in front of him,  bent over on his hands and knees, muscles of his back pulled taut, pushing back as Tanner thrusts inside of him over and over. 

Patrick making sounds that Art hears all the time in different contexts, his loud moaning when tasting something he’s been craving. His soft little “oh fuck yes,” when he’s finally relieves himself with the door wide open after an especially long practice. His “oh god, please right fucking there,” when the PTs help him stretch a particularly tight muscle. 

And then Art’s filling up one of his gym socks, biting his tongue to keep it in. Catching his breath quietly and rolling over to hide the sock between his mattress so he can sneak it in the laundry the next day. God. It’s probably the fifth night in a row he’s done this and it’s just now that the realization finally sets in. He wants to be Tanner. He wants his fucking best friend. 

It’s Art’s fault actually that his girlfriend ends it right before Homecoming. It’s not like he’s been paying much attention to her. it doesn’t really hurt the way he expects it too. it’s felt kind of inevitable for a while now. 

The worst part about it is he kinda has to go to homecoming anyway because they’re also giving out team awards and he and Patrick made the list again. 

He thinks it can’t get much worse but the next day, he and Patrick  get home late from the mess hall to find a sign on their door, Homecoming? With Tanner’s initials. TP. 

“From TP? toilet paper?” Art says, he’s not trying to be mean but maybe there’s something a little nasty in his tone. 

“You’re an asshole, but I’ll let it slide cause you’re a little bitter about love right now,” Patrick smirks, peeling it gently off the door. He’s trying to seem nonchalant but Art catches him smiling at the invite when he thinks Art’s not paying attention.     

It’s like that for the next few days until the dance. Patrick being giddy over Tanner and then immediately going stoic with apologies and sympathy for Art. He has no idea what’s really going on. How Art really feels. On top of that, he’s invited Tanner to get ready with them. 

Tanner shows up at 7 and he’s snuck in a bottle of vodka, which fine, maybe he’s good for something.

Art pours some in the decorative shot glass he got back when they played in Portugal last winter and tries not to notice when Connor walks behind Patrick in the mirror, hands on his waist and they’re talking all low. He’s kind of embarrassed for how often they’ve starred in his fantasies. It gets a little more urgent when he realizes he’s hard. He grabs a pillow to cover his lap before swallowing the entire glass. And another. 

He manages to adjust himself before he gets dressed. He stares blankly at the pale pink corsage he ordered sitting pointlessly on his desk. Patrick swoops it up. “I’ve always wanted to wear one of these,” he smirks. ”Can you put it on me?” 

Art forces a laugh, he knows Patrick’s just trying to lighten the mood and make him feel better but now that Art’s got feelings it doesn’t feel light at all. He swallows and sneaks a glance at Tanner. 

“Dude relax, it’s not like he’s gonna get jealous or something,” Patrick laughs. 

“Well not unless you broke up with your girlfriend and are suddenly into boys,” Tanner says lightly. 

“Yeah… right,” Art focuses on the corsage, takes it out of the box, he’s flustered, Patrick standing so close, smiling at him. Art fumbles with it. “Ow,” Patrick flinches back when Art accidentally sticks him. 

“Shit I’m sorry,” Art says. 

“‘s all good,” Patrick smirks, straightening it then patting Art on the shoulders. 

“You look so handsome. No more shots for you though.”  He says as he pins the matching corsage on Arts lapel.

He doesn’t need anymore. He’s tipsy by the time they get to the school gymnasium. It’s nearly unrecognizable, streamers hanging from the ceiling, packed to the brim with kids, not just from MRTA but also a neighboring tennis academy. There’s a live band in the center on a raised platform. A local pop punk band playing covers of all the popular songs right now with tons of kids crowded just below the stage clapping along and cheering. It kinda feels like a dumb high school movie.

 Art ponders the band, before joining the sad group of people sitting up on the bleachers sipping punch and pretending that their feet are super interesting. All while sneaking glances at Tanner and Patrick dancing.

If anyone can get away with coming out at Homecoming it’s Patrick. 

Only one group from the other academy seems interested in bullying him about it and they’ve always been assholes. Unsurprisingly Art’s ex shows up at the dance with one of them. 

That brings Patrick back over to him. “Dude what the fuck? Did you know she was gonna go with him?”

”I had no idea,” Art says. 

“Fuck dude, this is so fucked up. I feel so bad,” hes staring at Art with all this concern in his eyes when the only person in the whole place that Art is actually jealous of right now is Tanner. 

“I’m gonna find the bathroom.” Art mutters. 

“I’ll come.”

“Just don’t linger in there ladies,” Coach Pritchard warns condescendingly. As they pass him to leave the gymnasium and head down the hallway to the bathrooms. 

“Dude i feel terrible. What do you want? What if i convinced Jenny Kline to dance with you?” Patrick continues, when they're alone in the boys bathroom. 

“Your ex?” Art hiccups.

“She always thought you were cute,” Patrick says. 

At this point Art can’t take much more of the sympathetic looks. “Stop okay.” He says, he’s just tipsy enough to fall apart. 

“Come on, i want you to have a good time. Don’t let her fucking ruin it.” 

“I don’t care about her.” 

“that’s the spirit.” Patrick says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Fuck her. You’ve got me.”

“God Patrick,” Art says, staring into his eyes. He’s been trying not to look at him. Thinking maybe if he didn’t he’d get over it. But Patrick’s even better looking after Art’s had a few. “Fuck if you feel so bad for me maybe just… drop him and leave with me.” He blurts.

”We have the awards ceremony man we can’t just skip out—” 

“No I mean—I mean whatever you’re gonna do in bed with him tonight. Just—“ Art takes a deep breath. He’s never been very smooth with words. “Maybe just…do it all with me….”

Patrick’s face goes borderline unreadable like he’s trying really hard to comprehend something and getting stuck. It’s really difficult to get him tongue tied. at any other time Art might be proud of himself but right now every second of silence feels like a century. Then the bathroom door swings open and a few more guys they know wander in. Including Tanner. 

“There you guys are, I’ve been looking everywhere,” Tanner grins. 

Patrick looks over at Tanner and then back at Art, his cheeks beginning to color. Art gives him an out by disappearing into the bathroom stall. 

When he gets out to wash his hands there’s a lot more guys crowded by the mirror, maybe the band is at intermission. Some of the freshman and sophomore’s are fixing their suits and hair and generally chatting. Patrick was sitting in the windowsill on the other side of the room with Tanner. A newly lit cigarette in hand smoking out the window. He puts it out and shuts it. Looking at Art as he tries to make his way closer. Art just manages to dry his hands and escape the bathroom before Patrick can reach him.

He spends the rest of the dance mostly trying to avoid them, flirting with other girls. Inviting them to dance. Mostly getting rejected. “Look maybe another time Art… but I think you’re still trying to get over Whitney,” Angelica Masters says, her eyes so full of pity. 

Even when they get called up to stage for their award being that year's most successful number doubles team, Art manages to avoid Patrick by talking excessively to their fellow awardees and then hurrying off the stage as the music starts up again. 

It’s not like he can avoid Patrick forever, but the vodka is starting to wear off and with the cold hard tinge of sobriety he’s even more miserable and ashamed of himself. 

“Hi,” Patrick catches him finally. On his way out of the gym, about to disappear back to his dorm room. 

“Patrick, hey uh— sorry I was really tipsy.” Art says quickly. 

“Yeah I bet,” Patrick says and he walks Art backwards up against the brick wall of the building and presses their lips together. 

Art raises his eyebrows, heartbeat stuttering at the shock of it. It feels like he’s suddenly been ignited. His eyes sinking shut a beat later. He gasps and feels Patrick’s tongue flick against his lower lip. He parts his lips and lets his tongue slide into Patrick’s mouth deepening the kiss. He takes hold of Patrick’s waist, hands sliding into his jacket along his waistcoat. Patrick’s fingertips massaging the nape of his neck as he cradles Arts face. Both of them breathing heavily through their noses, gasping into each other's mouths. grabbing at each other like it’s possible to get even closer. 

It’s the sound of some freshman girls giggling that finally makes them come up for air. A couple of them leaving the gym barefoot, high heeled shoes in hand. 

Patrick still has one hand on arts face, thumb brushing along his cheek. He gazes intently into Arts eyes. “You love to make things difficult for me, huh?” Patrick says softly.

“I’m sorry, I— I just—I want you.” Art admits.

“Yeah of course you do now, perfect fucking timing.” He looks down and adjusts the corsage on Arts jacket. “Wait till I tell Tanner… I mean what are the fucking odds that you break up with your girlfriend and you’re suddenly into guys.” He says dryly.

Arts still a bit shell shocked, he’s all but forgotten about Tanner and everything else until Patrick says that.

“He doesn’t have to know,” Art says quietly. “I mean we’re roommates so…”

Patrick laughs. “You’re such an asshole. God come on… I’m gonna have to  figure this out.“ he says.

“Wait where are we going?”

“Well it’s a dance…” Patrick says,locking their arms and guiding Art back into the gym. “So you know we’re gonna figure out a way to dance.”

(If you made it this far here, have a song and be emo 🖤 )

[dept-of-monster-affairs]

Part of the Family

Note: previously posted under nicsnort but Tumblr decided to shadowban then terminate the account without warning. (this will be my monster blog from now on, even if the other is reinstated)

m!Orc (Sehbuv) x f!reader

Word Count: 4945

Contains: Public sex, exhibitionism, implied impregnation, groping, fingering, Orcs using 1920s slang

Orcs came to defend your town when demons invaded. Now they've settled in, and after years of teasing them, they've finally had enough. It was time to make you part of the family.

If you want to ignore my self-indulgent worldbuilding lore skip the indented text

Press Release The Curious Case of Orcs As we discover more about the world beyond the Rift, many monsters and creatures thought only to be myths appear to be real. Additionally, many creatures not based on myth but more modern fantasy works also appear to be real. The most notable of these is the Orc.  Orcs were initially thought to have been the creation of J. R. R. Tolkien for his seminal work The Hobbit. While Tolkien was known for basing the creatures of his world on the tales of Scandinavian folklore, the existence of Orcs in this folklore was tenuous at best. Etymologists and mythists linked terms similar to Orc/s (Orcus, Orke, Orcneas, etc.) as other names for goblins, orges, or evil spirits. No matter the origin, Orcs became a part of mainstream fantasy and appeared in other works such as Dungeon and Dragons, Warhammer, and World of Warcraft. Despite our cultural myths' lack of longevity for them, Orcs are real, and parts of our fantasy stories are true regarding them. Orcs are often tribal and historically nomadic, have a penchant for war, are larger than humans, and are green to grey in coloration. However, most Orcs are not the evil raiders of our stories. While perhaps they were at some point, given the tales they tell of their history, we must remember that humans had plenty of cultures that raided others to survive. In fact, like many raiding human societies, Orcs are very happy to settle in areas they deem their territory and adopt parts of the regional culture. However, the former practice has put them in conflict with human governments, who often treat Orc tribes as gangs as they care little about human laws and bureaucratic measures, preferring to demand tribute from human villages in exchange for protection from greater threats such as demons. With their cultural flexibility, Orcs also have flexibility in what they consider an Orc. True-blood Orcs are eight feet tall or taller, have enormous muscle mass, an almost non-existent nose, red eyes, sharp tusks, and are without the ability to grow hair. No true-blooded Orc has been found in this world, and they live in extremely remote areas across the Rift. Due to their raiding and nomadic nature, most Orcs have bloodlines that include other species - mostly elvish and human. These Orcs range in appearance, but they are shorter and less bulky than their true-blooded relatives. They have smaller tusks, can grow hair, have a slightly more human-normative facial appearance, and are less likely to immediately turn to violence to solve their problems. Whether due to magic or genetic dominance, Orc features (large size, green/grey skin, and tusks) will be present in any offspring of an Orc and is considered an Orc, no matter the genetic heritage, by other Orcs. Orc tribes also contain Orc-kin. Orc-kin are those who are brought into Orc tribes but are not Orcs themselves. Orc-kin are typically the favored mates of Orcs or adopted orphans but may include those who prove themselves worthy in battle. Orc-kin are treated as full members of the tribe and recognized by other Orcs as members of that tribe. The Division of Monster Research will continue to study Orcs and all monsters to provide accurate information and help protect humanity.

Your sleepy little town had never expected an Orc tribe to move in a few years ago. Granted, you never expected the world to be invaded by demons, either. You remembered the moment that the Orcs rode into town well. They had been riding massive black horses the size of Clydesdales but with fire around their hooves and sharp meat-eating teeth. The Orcs had worn their traditional war paints and openly carried their weapons. Everyone had been terrified. Would they slaughter you all? Enslave the town?

They had called for the “ruler” of the town to speak with them. You vividly remember watching the town mayor approaching, trying to hide his fear. The tribe leader, Chief Gorim - a battle-scared, dark green, seven-foot-tall beast of a humanoid - slid off his horse, towering over the mayor, staring him down.

“You are afraid, human,” the chieftain commented in a low growl. “No need to be afraid. We have come as protection.”

The chief handed the mayor an official-looking parchment—a work contract. The Orcs were aware that rural regions of the human world lacked protection against the demonic hordes as the governments focused on protecting cities. So many of the Orc tribes, well-practiced in fighting demons and monsters, crossed the rift to provide protection. All the Orcs asked for in return were places to set up camp, provisions they could not gather from the land itself, and access to this world’s weapons and healing knowledge. A reasonable offer for people seeing the logic of their world changing rapidly and no way to fight against the demons otherwise.

True to their word, the Orcs protected your town and several others in the area. Unfortunately, their protection came with many more strings attached than originally stated. It was, for lack of a better phrase - a protection racket. Little did the towns know that Orc tribes were similar in structure and philosophy to the Italian Mafia. A rather ironic twist of fate, given that your little town had been the center of some Mafia activity over a century ago during the Prohibition Era. The small museum in town was a historically preserved speakeasy that told the story about the gambling den, a whiskey smuggling route, and a good old-fashioned shoot-out between the Feds and the gangsters along Main Street.

It was even more ironic that your Orcs - attempting to adapt to this “new human world” - decided to forgo their traditional dress and begin copying the Mafia’s style. The 1920s to 1950s Mafia was their preference. Their bows and arrows were replaced with machine guns. Their leather skirts and vests were replaced with cotton suits and fedoras. They began picking up the slang by watching documentaries and old films. The chief insisted that everyone call him “Godfather” and would tell everyone how the lead actor in that famous film looked like an Orc without the tusks. 

Sometimes, their obsession was more silly than scary. You overheard an Orc contemplating whether to call her future son the short Orc-like Tony or Al’capone after the “great warrior chief.” And seeing a non-warrior Orc in a flapper dress with the warriors wolf-whistling at the “sight of his gams” was certainly something. Who would have ever guessed that Orcs were into cross-dressing? However, given how Orcish genders seemed to be warrior and non-warrior regardless of sex, maybe it wasn’t cross-dressing. The Orcs had decided that warriors wore suits and non-warriors wore flapper or swing dresses.

Even with the Orcs running this protection racket, the town benefited more than it lost. You had all heard the horror stories of the areas first hit by the demons - towns annihilated, mass slaughter, people forced into slavery - compared to that prospect, paying a tribe of Orcs in tomato sauce, pasta, and historically accurate clothing was nothing. Not to mention that just like the Mafia they modeled themselves after, the Orcs started smuggling goods to and from their home dimension. The state and federal governments did not want any trade of materials that could “corrupt” humans (whatever that meant), but if they wouldn’t protect your town from demons, why bother listening to their ban? Magic potions were amazing.

But that all wrapped around to you. The person running the local speakeasy museum that the warrior Orcs claimed as their primary hangout spot. You were a historian and preservationist. While you had always sold alcohol at the museum’s speakeasy bar for those wanting to try moonshine or the local whiskey, it was never supposed to be a real bar. Yet, you had transformed the speakeasy museum into a functional bar at their large, weapon-carrying insistence. Your job had become more bar tender than museum worker, but to be honest, before the demons, your museum hadn’t ever gotten much business. Luckily, the “person in control of the alcohol” was a position that Orcs respected, and as you were the human who ran the “shrine” to the human “warrior tribes,” that respect was doubled.

“Here we go, boys,” you announced, setting five glasses of whiskey in front of the Orc warriors who had just come in from patrol.

“Ah, you're the bee’s knees, doll,” they replied with relief. You had long overcome the bristle you felt at being called “doll.” The Orcs were copying more of the language of the period they idolized. You had asked them once what they thought it meant - a pretty non-warrior - at least they were calling you pretty.

You headed into the backroom to gather more whiskey. Each Orc typically drank half a bottle when they came here after patrol, so you had to grab a few more to satisfy this group. As you were in the back, you could hear the chatter and laughter of the patrol join that of those already a couple of cups deep.

“Shrine maiden,” an Orc called out before swearing in Orcish, “ raudt, doll! Bring another round of Oakengleam!”

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Some older Orcs struggled with the new slang when drunk and still fell into their old terms. They swore whenever it happened, but the translator spell refused to translate anything inappropriate, meaning you knew lots of Orcish swears. With your arms full of four bottles of whiskey, you returned to the front. The Orc that had called out to you leaned against the bar, putting full weight on the old polished wood.

“I told you, Ozoch, that was the last of it. You’ll have to wait until the runners return from the Rift.”

“Come on, it’s the chief’s - I mean - the don’s favorite. I know you have to have some.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You are suggesting that I use Godfather’s private supply to satiate your already drunk stomach?”

“Don’t try to use the Don to threaten me, weakling.”

Silence began to fall among the Orcs as they listened in. You lifted your head defiantly. The Orcs valued strength. Not just physical but mental. Backing down now would lose much of the respect they held for you. “I’m in charge of the alcohol. Even if I had Oakengleam, I wouldn’t give it to you for that. Get out and dry out.”

Ozoch slammed his fist on the counter, cracking the wood. “Don’t tell me what to do! You ain’t tribe!”

“That don’t mean she ain’t correct,” a low growling voice said behind Ozoch. The older Orc stiffened. Godfather had just walked in the door.

“Chie--Don Gorim,” Ozoch started as he turned around unsteadily. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Godfather looked to the capo at his side and jerked his head. “Escort Ozoch out, Taugh. Take a walk, old friend, and consider how I said the dame was to be respected. Don’t make me force you to find that respect in concrete shoes.”

Properly cowed, Ozoch let Taugh escort him out. The old Orc likely would have a ground-down tusk the next time you saw him. It was a common mark of shame.

Godfather approached the bar. He silently examined the damage Ozoch did. A scowl crossed his face before he looked at you with a small smile. Reaching across the bar, he put a hand on your shoulder. “I will see this fixed, doll.”

Your heart rate was returning to normal, but you didn’t trust yourself enough to speak, so you nodded. He squeezed your shoulder lightly before releasing you. “Now, a mug of Oakengleam at my table, please.”

You breathed out slowly and returned his smile. “Of course, Godfather.”

Disappearing into the back where you kept Godfather’s private stash, you heard the conversation in the main room slowly return to normal. Alone among the alcohol, you took a moment to gather yourself. This wasn’t the first time you had to assert yourself, but it was the first time that an Orc had been violent towards you. Seeing them rip the wings off an imp with their bare hands was one thing, but knowing that fist would have cracked your head open was another. Allowing a couple of tears to escape your eyes, you quickly dried them. The don was waiting for his drink.

With a smile on your face, you brought Godfather his drink. While you were in the back, Taugh had returned, new abrasions on his knuckles. Godfather also had his advisor, Kormor, at his table. She was speaking quietly to him, ignoring your presence. 

The night went on as normal for an hour or so. More and more Orcs came into the speakeasy, nearly all of the warriors. You noticed that Kormor began walking around to the tables, speaking with the Orcs quietly. She would speak, they would take a moment, and then some would put up two fingers. It became apparent they were voting on something. You wondered what was so big of a decision that it required the warriors' input instead of the don's unilateral decision. It was none of your business, though.

 The bar's heat rose as the seats and stools reached capacity. It was not a big building, and the speakeasy area could only hold 60 humans or half as many Orcs. Your body was forced to brush against them as you served drinks. As you cleared mugs and glasses, bending over the table, their thick hands reached to steady you. Occasionally, an unknown hand was brave enough to sneak a grope in. Their earthy musk slowly began to make your head swim.

Godfather called for another drink. You ducked into the back, happy for the reprieve. Leaning against the cold brick wall, you felt your pussy throbbing. It was a secret you kept hidden from all those around you. You found the Orcs super hot. 

Before the invasion of demons, when all monsters were considered fantasy, monsters had been the subject of your fantasies. When it turned out that all sorts of monsters were real, when the Orcs came to your town, it was a terrifying but exciting moment. Unfortunately, the Orcs didn’t seem interested in humans sexually. Sure, they would occasionally grope you, but it seemed more like a game to them as they never did anything more. You had even started wearing the swing dresses they liked and brushing against them on purpose, trying to encourage them.

There were many times that after a long night of working, you had gone upstairs to your apartment above the museum with your panties soaked. You would take out your monster dildos and fuck yourself, yearning for it to be the Orcs you had just seen.

But now wasn’t the time for that. You didn’t have time to touch yourself. The don needed another mug of his favorite ale. As always, you would suffer through the arousal. As you set down a second mug of Oakengleam for Godfather, the underboss, Sehbuv, arrived. Sehbuv winked at you as he sat down. A faint blush came to your cheeks. He had always been one of the nicest to you and slipped you treats from the smuggled goods. It didn’t hurt that he was definitely one of the most handsome Orcs with forest green skin and alluring magenta eyes.

“Double whiskey, doll,” he ordered, “oh and, for you.” 

Sehbuv grabbed your hand and pressed something long, hard, and wet at the bottom into it. Looking down, you saw it was a tusk. An Orc tusk, yellowed with old age and very recently removed. To grind down a tusk of an orc was a mark of shame, to remove one was saying you did not recognize them as an Orc anymore. You looked back up at him, and he gave you another wink. Clenching your hand around the gift, you stuttered a thank you before running off for his drink.

“Stay a moment, have a seat,” Godfather told you when you returned. “We must have words.”

“Of-of course,” you replied, shocked and a bit worried. Your eyes darted around, looking for a chair. Suddenly, Sehbuv pulled you into his lap. You gasped, but along with sounding surprised, there was a clear undertone of sensuality in it. The Orc chuckled but didn’t say anything. You gave Godfather your attention, trying to ignore how your arousal spiked by merely sitting on Sehbuv’s lap. It did not help that one of his hands rested on your lower back to steady you.

“Doll, you’ve been a good associate of ours for a while now. What has it been four years?”

“Nearly, yes.” The Orcs had been here for a little over five years but didn’t discover their obsession until a year after they arrived; the museum became their hang-out a few months later. Come to think of it, Shebuv had been the first Orc to visit the museum.

Godfather nodded. “And even before then, I remember you. You were the only human brave enough to bring the tribute to our camp by yourself. You were the only one interested in learning about us.”

“I am sure I wasn’t the only--”

“You were. The only one to genuinely be interested, at least.” Godfather leaned back in his chair, taking a long sip of ale. As you waited for him to continue, Sehbuv set his drink on the table, his hand going to rest on his lap but finding your thigh instead. You glanced at him, but his attention was on the don.

“Anyway, what I am getting at is that you, doll, have contributed a lot to this family. Big things like this speakeasy and spreading the knowledge of your past warrior families. And little things like adding our favorites to the tap and our images to the shrine of your warriors.” He gestured to the small section where you had put some photos of the Orcs in action and a group photo of the tribe after they had donned their “human” clothing for the first time.

“You have done all of this for us. In some ways, you are already part of the family. But as Ozoch pointed out, you are not family.”

Sehbuv’s fingers found the hem of your skirt and began inching up your thigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the don. “Given all that and what happened with Ozoch, I think it is time to give you an Orc.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I need a guard. Unless you are suggesting someone to help out around here lifting barrels and…” It was hard to speak coherently. Your head was swimming from the Orc musk and Sehbuv’s playful touch. 

Godfather’s eyes connected with Sehbuv’s. Instantly, the younger Orc’s roaming hand was on the table holding his drink. The older Orc’s attention turned back on you. “I don’t think you’re following. I mean uvna Orciani tullu --blasted bluenose witch, censoring the translation spell.”

Kormor touched his shoulder to calm him. “Why don’t you leave that for Sehbuv? Explain how things are changing.”

Godfather sighed and nodded. “Long and short of it. The demons in this area have been pushed back, and the Rift is secured. There is no need for the family to be here to protect your town and the others in this territory. My family is going back to our world.”

Your heart sank. All this time was wasted, and now your chance was lost completely.

“We cannot maintain our territory here and the Old World. The non-warriors, on the other side, need us warriors to return. But we do not want to leave behind the luxuries of your world. My family is leaving, but the Orcs staying behind will form a new family with Sehbuv as the don. We will each work a side of the Rift, streamlining our operation.”

From the depths, your heart soared. There was still a chance. You glanced at Sehbuv; he grinned. “Congratulations. I would have gotten some bubbly for you if I’d known.”

“Thanks, doll, I am sure we can find a way to celebrate.” The hand that had been supporting your back slid down and cupped your ass.

Godfather cleared his throat, forcing your attention back to him. “As I was sayin’, Sehbuv will be the head of the family here. This new family will need to put down roots to grow. Find humans in this world to bring into the family as Orc-kin.”

“And I want the first Orc-kin of my family to be you, doll,” Sehbuv revealed. 

Shocked was a tame term for what you felt. There weren’t any Orc-kin the tribe had brought with them, but you had heard of them. You knew becoming Orc-kin, an official member of an Orc tribe, was a massive honor and something not to be taken lightly. They only allowed those who they saw as worthy into the tribe. “I…I am honored…I--sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Kormor suggested dryly.

“Yes!” The entire speakeasy, which you just realized had been intensely listening in, cheered.

Godfather let them cheer for a full minute before raising a hand for silence. He was smiling. “Excellent. Usually, we would have a dedicated area for the induction, but I believe this sacred space works…and I don’t think Sehbuv can wait much longer. Let the ceremony begin!”

Another round of cheers. Chairs scrapped on the ground as the Orcs stood. They began moving the furniture to clear space. Sehbuv scooped you up and began carrying you over his shoulder. The Orcs began to separate into two groups: those who would stay with Sehbuv’s new tribe and those who would return to the other world with Godfather.

They spoke in Orcish to each other and began to circle around you. Sehbuv’s hand was solidly on your ass, his thick fingers squeezing your rump. Your arousal was spiking once more. You had to take care of yourself soon, or else you’d be begging an Orc to fuck you, but it wasn’t like you could leave in the middle of something like this.

Suddenly, you were on your back, splayed across a table, with Sehbuv pressing his clothed but very substantial erection between your legs. Through the haze of arousal, it clicked. “Oh, give me an Orc as in--”

“Knock you up, doll,” Sehbuv finished. Not quite what you had thought, but the result was the same. You were finally getting the Orc cock you longed for. Sehbuv slid his hand between your legs. His thick, calloused fingers pushed aside your sodden panties, gliding along your slick pussy. A wanton moan escaped your lips, and your hips tilted up needily.

“ Hratz kaara-en olumno ,” he said with pleasured surprise. The Orcs around you hooted and stomped their feet in celebration. His fingers began to stroke you slowly as his huge body leaned over yours. “I am going riteh kaar Orciani kaara-en juublern. ”

“I have no idea what you just said, but whatever it was - yes! Please!” You rolled your hips, grinding against his fingers. Now that your dreams had become possible, you couldn’t wait any longer. He slipped a thick finger into you. A low moan escaped you; his finger felt as thick as two of yours. 

“How long have you wanted this, doll,” he asked, slowly pumping his finger in and out.

“Ever since you rode into town,” you confessed breathlessly.

“That is a long time.” He slipped another finger into your dripping hole and sped up fucking you with his hand. “Is that why you’ve been teasing us? You’ve been trying to get us to fuk you.”

“Yes! Please! I’m going to…” You gripped Sehbuv’s forearms as a powerful orgasm rocked your body. As you rode out the orgasm, he slowed the pumping of his fingers. Chest heaving, you stared up into his lustful eyes. You wanted more. 

Seeing your determination, a grin came to his face. “Undress, doll, before we tear that dress off you.”

He pulled back, allowing you to sit up. As his hand removed itself from inside of you, he grabbed your panties and, with a smooth tug, tore them from you. You stared at him with surprise. Lifting your sodden panties up, he sniffed deeply, then gave you a wink. Tucking the panties in his suit pocket, he slipped the jacket off and removed his suspenders. 

You kicked off your flats and sat up on the table. Sehbuv’s magenta eyes burned as they stared at you while he unbuttoned his shirt. You stared back, soaking in each inch of dark green skin he revealed. Reaching behind your back, you unzipped your dress. You couldn’t wear a bra with this low cut-off-the-shoulder dress; pulling the dress over your head, you were naked. The Orcs around you grunted and whooped as your body was bared to them.

Sehbuv was only halfway undressed. Your eyes were on him as you ran your hand over your body. Cupping your breasts, you began playing with your nipples. Twisting and tugging at them, releasing little moans as you did. Sehbuv nearly tore his pants in his hurry to remove them. His Orcish member sprang free, causing your pussy to clench at the sight. It was just as you had dreamed. Bright pink glands dripping with precum were proudly framed by the dark green foreskin of his long bulging cock. 

He batted your hands away from your breasts, and his hands took their place. His calloused fingers felt even better against your sensitive skin. Your free hands pulled his head down into a kiss. His tusks pressed against your flesh, his large mouth and tongue quickly overwhelming you.

Pulling back, he was handed a cup. “Drink up, doll.”

Taking the potion, you, without hesitation, drank the vivid green contents. It was a bit sour but had no immediate effect. “What was that?”

Sehbuv grinned. “Mostly an endurance potion.”

You had no time to wonder what he meant by mostly. He grabbed your head this time and gave you another dominating kiss. Pressing you down against the table, you felt his bare erection between your legs. He was about the same size as the largest toy you could fit in you, but the heat of it against your flesh had already surpassed your room-temperature silicone replicas.

“Please fuck me,” you gasped as he pressed kisses down your neck. “I need your cock in me.”

Pulling back slightly, Sehbuv held his cock against your slit, running his glands along it. “Mmm, fuck is same word in Orcish. I learned a little English for this. Doll, I am going to fuck your cunt with my cock now.”

The wide head of his cock pressed against your needy hole. You could feel him stretching you. God, this was so much better than silicone. Your hands clung to his shoulders as he slowly slid himself inside of you. “You feel good. Look at you taking me so well.”

You could feel every inch of his hot, hard cock as it entered you. You needed more, though. You needed all of him. “Move, please,” you begged.

“Whatever you say, doll.” Sehbuv began to thrust. You screamed in pleasure as his shaft hilted and hit every sensitive spot within you. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with each thrust. After a few thrusts, you were already approaching another orgasm.

“Fuck, Sehbuv! I’m already…I’m…”

“Tonight is about you, doll, don’t hold back.”

Another orgasm rocked your body, but Sehbuv didn’t lose pace. He kept thrusting into you, extending your pleasure. As your orgasm ended, he began to thrust faster. Each powerful thrust shook your body. Your legs locked around his waist in an attempt to hold on. Sehbuv began to grunt, and his grip on your flesh tightened. He was getting close.

“Are ya ready for me? I’m gonna fill you up,” he announced with a low growl.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted as yet a third orgasm approached. You needed something else to push you over the edge. You need him to cum in you.

Sehbuv’s thrusts became erratic. Then with a roar, you felt his thick cock swell within you. A scream tore from your throat as his hot sticky cum poured into your womb. Your nails dragged across his back as your body writhed from the pleasure. You swore you knew you were pregnant that instant. Fuck, given the magic potion, maybe you were.

“You good, doll,” Sehbuv asked as your straining muscles slowly released him.

“Yes…” You replied. Actually, you were better than fine. As Sehbuv pulled out of you, your body was already buzzing to go again. That was some endurance potion.

“Good. Cause the next part of the ceremony is about to begin.” Sehbuv stepped away from you. You sat up to see where he was gone and saw that all the other Orcs who had joined his side of the family were now naked and aroused as well. They stared at you with lustful eyes.

“Now that the seed of our new family has taken root, it needs fertilizer, doll,” Sehbev explained, “Orcs believe that power from all those who fuck the mother is given to a child. And you’ve been teasing us for years. You’ll make sure we’re satisfied, right?”

Your body buzzed with energy from the endurance potion. You looked around at the variety of Orc cocks and cunts around you. A grin came to your face. “I’ve been waiting five years for this; you all better make sure I am satisfied.”

Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

Find more stories in my Masterlist

More Sehbuv (and the Family): NSFW Boyfriend Alphabet The Scars [SFW]

[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. 

<< Prev Chapter           Next Chapter>>

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 :)

[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   constellations   ﹠   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.

[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.)

[darkmaga-returns]

Story at-a-glance

Muscle memory allows for rapid recovery of muscle strength and size after breaks in training, with both periodic and continuous resistance training showing similar long-term results

While muscle strength and size decrease during breaks, they recover quickly with retraining, particularly within the first five weeks, due to retained myonuclei and neural adaptations

Short-term breaks do not significantly impact long-term muscle adaptations, suggesting that occasional training breaks are not detrimental to lifelong strength training

A study in Experimental Gerontology found that older men increased muscle strength and power by up to 36% after 12 weeks of resistance training, and even after a 12-week break, only 5% to 15% of those gains were lost, highlighting the power of muscle memory for rapid recovery

Research published in the Scandinavian Journal of Medicine & Science in Sports found that individuals undergoing periodic resistance training (PRT) regained muscle strength and size more quickly during retraining compared to those following continuous resistance training (CRT), demonstrating the benefits of training breaks in enhancing muscle memory

[drakyns]

𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗘𝗙 . . .

a brief study on håkan’s tattoos and physique. his body art was designed by himself and applied on him ever since he received his title as the official chieftain/jarl of berk and the northern islands. all of his markings represent his connection to either his tribe, family or dragons.

håkan has various tattoos across his body. on his chest’s pecs, there are two blackened wings: they represent toothless. above them, right in the middle of his collarbones, lies a combination of the algiz rune with an eye, his chiefdom marking. on his left forearm are traditional drawings of scandinavian art, representing his connection to his tribe and the northern lands. it describes his alliance; his sword and shield will always belong to berk. meanwhile, on his right arm and shoulder, it’s a drawing of a viking holding an axe and braving through the seas—an homage to his father. below it, around his wrist, is a blackened mark. it signifies a killing, avenging hand: a trophy and a warning for drago bludvist’s death, conquered by his own hand. his back also has a tattoo: a circle of runes and a prayer to the gods for protection, peace and strength.

a note-worthy detail is that his tribe and jarl markings brand him as a smith-chieftain. his father also had brandings over his body, though his were of a warrior-chieftain. in medieval societies, it was usual for chiefs to be either warriors, hunters or smiths; however, smith-chieftains were extremely rare.

if he marries someone in his canon verses, he’ll most likely design a complementary tattoo on his left arm to mark the union. this is to further represent his loyalty and dedication to not only the person he marries but also to their tribe/kingdom/land.

rough, calloused hands: though his touch is soft and warm, described as welcoming by many, it can feel highly textured. his palms do not feel like those of a jarl or hersir. dragons seem to love that, though.

håkan has chronic pain in his leg, specifically in his stump. when it gets too bad, he sometimes needs to sit or lie down to massage the region. toothless is capable of identifying when he’s hurting more than usual. he doesn’t like other people knowing about that, even if the closest people (the riders, gobber, etc.) can tell he walks “a bit strange”, almost limping sometimes.

he has fading scars across his body, mainly on his back and chest. some of them were caused by other people’s swords (be them friend or foe, from sparring duels to serious quarrels), while others were injured by wild dragons, claws or small bites. a few of those scratches were thanks to his misadventures across lands or doing forge work. he doesn’t seem to care about them. gothi, the village healer, has grown used to his frequent visits. surprisingly, she does not see him to treat occasional illnesses: he doesn’t seem to get easily sick anymore—his immune system has sky-rocketed in quality compared to when he was just a tiny lad.

hersirs from other lands that met him when he was younger may not recognise him nowadays, as he has changed so much, and not only in boldness. though he was very scrawny and short in his early teenage years—a “toothpick”, as gobber well-summarised him—his work as a dragon rider and a villager’s smith-chief made him develop toned muscles. his hair got messier and longer, too. his height is around 160+/185+ cm (verse dependent).

most of his strength is centred around his core (abs, chest, and shoulders), which grants him incredible balance despite having lost one of his legs. because he is used to riding dragons most of the time, he is not used to running for prolonged periods. cardio can be a real issue for him, and he sweats a lot afterwards.

he is quite hairy on some parts of his body. during his twenties, he tries to at least shave his beard at somewhat regular intervals, thinking it doesn’t suit him. sometimes, he will forget about it, generally when he’s focused on one of his forge projects and gets cooped up/isolated for a week or two. after that, he’ll ask either fishlegs or eret to help him shave. by his late twenties-early thirties, he lets his beard and hair grow a tad more than usual.

[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.