#and him feeling so vulnerable! like a rabbit in a snare

[mightymizora]

The ever present desire I have to write a scene with Manva patching a wound that Gortash has acquired during some fight and physically shaking with the need to just eat him whilst also being overwhelmed by the idea that he might die.

[ridorukunmajitennshi]

Beauté! 100 points!!

Thank you so much for that Rook drabble, it is simply perfect! The beauty, the obsession, and Rook being, well, Rook in the most raw, dirty, fully consumed form; all of it is delicious.

I unfortunately can't reblog this, since my blog is open to minors. But I will be coming back to this again and again! And I'll be pondering the questions that came up while I was reading too: How long does Rook continue with this? Does anything more come of it? Did the reader/MC become aware of his, ah, exploits? How do they react? Even better, what if they were watching him, too?

And it is completely fine that it's past the "suggestive" mark, I think that Rook just tends to increase the emotion/intensity of whatever he's in :) In any case, your writing was - and is - très bien!

i'm so happy you enjoyed!! thank you for taking the time to let me know your thoughts on it (totally understandable on not rb'ing!) ♡

some more creepy rook thoughts under the cut hehe⋯ (mdni, n/sfw)

↠ How long does Rook continue with this? Does anything more come of it?

Part of me feels as though—because of his nature as a hunter—Rook is very capable of playing the long game! You deserve only the best, most impassioned confession in the world once he finally snares you; and if that simply means waiting for months upon months, then so be it. (It's not like you're going back to your world, right? You wouldn't be thinking⋯ that you could escape him that way? Even if "I See You" can't reach your world, you shouldn't underestimate his devotion!)

Rabbits are quite fast little animals, after all. And you being so quick and easily startled is why he dubbed you his "lapin" in the first place. The best way to make you feel comfortable is for him to be gentle, subdued, and quiet—but ooh, sometimes it's so difficult when you're this resplendent!

Even with that said, he's not quite actually⋯ silent, about his obsession with you, is he? ♡ "Mon lapin, that agitated gloss in your eyes as you bound in surprise is why I can't help but continue to sneak up on you." ♡ "I only use my Unique Magic consistently for one person. Who is it? Ah, why don't you try to guess?♪" <-has made it very obvious ♡ "My apologies, mon lapin, talking with my favorite little bunny is always so delightful, it seems I've taken up your afternoon. Hm? It's fine? Merci! I love you so."

If you feel the same way as him is all up to you—but, if he continues to one-sidedly vie after you, it might end with you in a net.

↠ Did the reader/MC become aware of his, ah, exploits? How do they react?

I love imagining the moment you catch sight of him in the bushes, calloused hand languidly stroking his erect cock as your image reflects in his hazy, dilated eyes—your gazes meet, and fuck, Rook has never once felt such a rush. An unparalleled surge of euphoria that's so very intense he can't help but reach climax right then. He knew you were his dream come true, he knew it! And Rook doesn't chase after you, for once, as you leap away in surprise; the tremors of his orgasm still rippling through him.

That night, your fingers quiver as you brush them against the strings of your curtains, that indelible image of Rook pleasuring himself to you coruscating in your mind.

⋯ You don't often leave your curtains open at night, but as the heat of arousal pulsates throughout you, you leave them be. You have to know he's watching you, and that thought is so wholly tantalizing that you find your hand snaking into your pyjama bottoms.

"Mon lapin, you⋯" are far too ravishing for words, for thoughts—no, Rook feels you so deep within his soul that he doesn't stifle the moan overflowing from his lips just from watching you in this vulnerable, amatory state.

↳ Even better, what if they were watching him, too?

Your movements grow more fervid as you touch yourself, back arching off the bed, and you roll your head to the side as the rapture fills you—and once again, you discern Rook peering into the window.

And when your fingers don't stop, you find yourself with a visitor.

[undersilverlake]

Under the Influence

No One Special | Link x Reader (GN)

Summary: How long can you resist the urge to give into Link again?

Warnings: toxic relationship, mentions of drugs and alcohol, controlling behaviour and mentions of sex

Words: 850

Your phone lit up for the third time within ten minutes as the repetitive tone rung through your dimly lit bedroom and your fingers itched to reach over to your bedside table and finally answer it. You knew he would just keep calling. The sensible thing to do would have been to switch off your phone and put him out of your mind but your heart still yearned to hear his voice and who were you to deny it?

“What do you want?” you demanded.

He didn’t answer immediately, all you could hear through the receiver was the faint roar of a car engine, from the noise of it you could tell he was speeding.

You scoffed and hovered your thumb over the red button.

“Please don’t hang up,” Link finally broke the silence, as if he could see what you were doing and you faltered for a moment, “I… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

His words were slurred and he was clearly intoxicated, no doubt on a cocktail of drugs and alcohol and your throat immediately tightened with fear at the same time your heart rate rocketed with anxiety and you sat up in bed.

“Link, you’re drunk.” you sternly told him, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the way your voice trembled. “You shouldn’t be driving in that state. Pull over.”

You hated the way he was still able to make you worry over him despite the fact you weren’t even together anymore and you were pretty certain he would never spare you the same reaction if the situation were reversed.

His laugh taunted you, as if he found some sort of sick satisfaction in knowing that no matter what he did, deep down you would always care about him.

“If you care so much why don’t you come pick me up?” Link proposed, you knew what he was doing, he wanted to find out whether or not you were still at his beck and call, he would be disappointed to discover that you weren’t.

“You can pull over and call an uber.” you instructed him.

“I’ll only stop this car if you pick me up,” he negotiated and you dropped your face into your palm with frustration and resisted the urge to give into him.

Never again you told yourself.

“If I get into an accident it would be your fault, you could have prevented it. All you have to do is drive me home.” he spoke again when you remained silent.

It took everything you had in you to not immediately jump out of bed and run to him and erase weeks of therapy. He knew the reason you refused to see him was because if you did he would stand a better chance of once again snaring you in his toxic web, just like he had every other time.

All he needed to do was act a little vulnerable, make you feel needed and tell you that you took such good care of him as he shed a few crocodile tears, then have a faux epiphany as he realised how badly he treated you and promise you that it would be different this time as he looked at you with his hypnotic, deep, dark eyes that were the entrance to the rabbit hole that you fell into every time.

And then you would land back onto his bed as he whispered sweet nothings and empty promises into your ear while he worshipped every inch of your body with tender hands and soft lips and put you to sleep with one of the best orgasms you ever had, only to wake you up in the morning with the smell of roasted coffee and a freshly cooked breakfast delivered to you in bed with a gentle kiss on your forehead that left you wondering why you even left him in the first place.

Through the receiver you heard the engine grow louder, indicating that he was driving even faster, you swore he controlled your heart with his pedal as it too picked up speed and thumped against your chest almost painfully.

You wouldn’t put it past Link to purposely get himself into an accident just to make you feel guilty because, like he said, you could have prevented it and he knew once you felt guilty it would be like a hook which he could use to reel you in and you wouldn’t have the strength to fight it.

Knowing it would be easier to resist him without the feeling of guilt looming over you like a black cloud, you looked at your options and realised there was never any with Link, there was only ever the illusion of choice and it always lead you exactly where he wanted you either way. Even when you thought you had finally broken the vicious cycle, you quickly discovered he still controlled you like a puppet master.

You felt yourself physically trying to swallow the words back as they climbed up your throat but there was no defeating them, just as there was no defeating him and with a frustrated sigh you let them pass.

“Where are you?”

[fanfic-collection]

Loki x Reader: Apocalypse - Ch 11

One more chapter and then I gotta unstuck myself, so hopefully the updates won't slow down

-

“In order to find the source of their power, we’re going to need one of those spears.” Loki straightened his face.

You pulled away from him as he became business-like.

“Spears?” Tony and Bucky asked.

Bucky held his arm up to his nose, moving away from the death, still looking through the phone. “Damn, I wish it weren’t so cold outside, if freezing weren’t such an unappealing option…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder once more and shuddered.

“James, where are you?” Loki asked.

Bucky sighed and rolled his eyes, “I’m just down the coast a couple hours’ drive.”

“Metal man, meet up with James and be on the look out for frost giants, find a spear and contact me when you do.” Loki ordered.

“What are you going to do?” Tony asked, melding back into his armor.

“I’m going to look for one as well. Well, I say look.”

“Oh no, you are not going out alone.” You crossed your arms.

“I counted on that.” Loki smiled.

You blinked.

“Well I was going to ask how I reach you but I guess I’ll just call my cousin. You got blankets to keep her warm if you’re out too long?” Tony asked.

Loki smiled.

You looked at Loki’s shit eating grin suspiciously.

“Oh no, I don’t like that look, don’t give me some, ‘We’ll think of something’, bullshit. My cousin is a virtuous lady, don’t you go corrupting her.”

“I assure you, I can conjure up whatever supplies are necessary.” Loki bowed low.

You felt your cheeks flush.

Loki held his hand out blindly, “Shall we, no point in staying here.”

Tony grumbled under his breath. “Bucky, I’ll meet you down the coast in a quarter of the time. Last person to get a frost giant spear is a loser.”

“Then may the best man win.” Loki replied.

“Oh put your dicks away you two.” You grumbled, grabbing Loki’s arm and guiding him through the apartment towards the door.

Loki’s cheeks tinged pink as Tony sputtered after you. You could hear Bucky laughing on the phone before Tony irritably clicked it off.

Back in the main area, you gathered up supplies, redressed in your outerwear and looked at Loki and Tony. “Alright, I’m ready.”

The three of you wound your way downstairs and stopped at the door leading outside.

“After you, Stark.” Loki held his arm out.

“Take care, Tony.” You said, hugging his cold armor.

“Yea. You be good.” Tony lowered his voice, “Be careful with him, got it? First sign of trouble, you call me, kay?”

“I will.” You appeased him.

Then Tony stepped outside into the blistering cold and shot off into the sky.

You slammed the door shut and shivered. “Alright, do you have any idea where to go?”

“I figured we’d just start walking, but first, give me your hand.”

You held your hand out to Loki, taking his in yours. Loki carefully moved his hand up your arm, sliding it gently up your shoulder, towards your neck and cupped your cheek for a moment. You felt your cheeks heat under his cool touch. The ghost of a smile touched his lips as he held his hand there a moment too long. Then, very delicately, he slid his hand up and on top of your head, raising it over your hood hair.

You had yet to put your scarf, goggles, hat, and hood on. Looking up at Loki’s hand over your head, you wondered what he was doing.

Green sparks rained down from his hand, dancing around you and on your clothes. Your clothing shimmered around you, slowly changing shape. You felt warmer, much warmer, and far less weighed down. Wrapped around your throat was a green and gold scarf, behind you was a forest green cape with a hood you could pull up over your head and hide your face deep within. Your chest and legs were covered in strange fur and leather armor like clothing, and you wore black knee-high boots. All of the outfit was green and black, accented with gold. Heat seemed to radiate from the gloves you wore and you looked down at your sleeves and the corner of your mouth quirked when you saw the horn motif on your wrists.

“What about my goggles?” You asked.

“The hood will suffice.” Loki replied.

“Uh-huh.” You pulled the hood over your head, there seemed to be an invisible shield at the edge of it and you nodded no longer doubting him. “Any particular reason for the color choice?” You asked shyly.

Loki cleared his throat. “It’s the only color the outfit came in.”

“The motif?” You added softly.

Loki’s face actually turned red this time and he looked away. “It came with the outfit.” He grunted.

You nodded, “Of course.” Your own cheeks burned.

“We should get going, James and Stark have quite the head start on us.” Loki waved his hand in front of him, his hand swiping in front of you, sliding over your stomach and you jumped, body electrified at the contact.

You quickly grabbed his hand and opened the door, dragging him outside.

The snowy wind buffeted you immediately but compared to the heat you had been feeling before, you almost welcomed it.

“Where should we go?” You cried out over the storm.

Loki’s voice responded intimately close to your ear, as though he was speaking in your mind, “They are using ambush tactics on the shelters. We could feasibly wait at one and hope they attack in small numbers.”

You spun around and saw that Loki was a distance behind you, arm against the wind, holding your arm as he followed after you. On you continued.

Loki’s voice continued, eerily close. “Yes, I’m talking to you telepathically, no need to scream.”

“Please don’t read my mind.”

“Just what you speak.”

“Oh, ok.”

“I have a particular… affinity with frost giants.”

“What?”

“They especially hate me.”

“Is that why those three attacked you all alone?”

“Yes, it was a waste of resources to attack a lone straggler. Much better to kill a group of humans. But they knew me, and I am something of a prize.”

“We have a target on our backs?” You glanced back at Loki. “Does my makeover make me more vulnerable?”

“On the contrary, it’s reinforced armor. In addition to giving you an extra protective layer to the cold, you’ll have a better chance of surviving a strike.”

“Oh, thank you.”

The two of you continued walking. You guided Loki, when you stumbled, his strong arm gripped you tight and held you firm, preventing you from falling. While you may have been his sight, he was certainly your every other sense.

It was eerie how quiet the city was. You were so used to the bustling lively city that you had spent so many years in just months ago and now…

Just the howling of the wind, abandoned cars creaking, the crunch of your bootsteps on the icy snow, shop signs swinging and banging against walls as they threatened to finally break free: every noise set you on edge.

You looked up at the sun, it was getting low in the sky. This was the farthest away you had been from your home since the snow had started. Your heart started racing and you looked back at Loki eyes wide. He couldn’t see you.

“Loki?”

“Yes?”

“The sun’s setting.”

“And?”

“Nothing survives after sunset.”

Loki stopped walking, tugging you to a halt. Turning his face towards the sun, feeling the heat on his face, he gazed up in its general direction. “We’ll make camp. Do you see a safe, unexposed area?”

“There’s an alleyway over there.” You pointed.

“You’ll forgive me for not knowing where that is.” Loki’s mental voice managed to sound dry and sarcastic even in your head.

You sighed and dragged him over towards the alley. The three buildings came together in a courtyard with only one entryway. “There’s no electricity in this part of the city.”

Loki waved his hand and a tent appeared on the ground, large and green.

You guided Loki into the tent and saw it was well furnished with blankets and pillows and it was almost as warm as your apartment on the inside. Magically heated?

“You really go for the green theme, huh?” You said, sitting down and pulling down your hood, while crossing your legs.

Loki moved towards you, his hand gripping your shoulder so he could know where you were, as he slowly sank down to the floor on his knees. He hummed, “Yes I suppose so.”

Unable to stop yourself, you kept hold of Loki’s hand on your shoulder and pulled him back farther, pulling him down until you were both laying on your backs, gazing up at the ceiling of the tent. Loki slowly stretched his legs out with a soft grunt and a sigh as he relaxed. His blind gaze staring down at you. You reached up and twisted one of his curls around your finger idly, feeling bold.

“What do you see?” You whispered.

“Just shades of red.” Loki replied.

You nodded, rolling onto your side and propping yourself up on your elbow. Slowly you began braiding some of the strands of Loki’s hair that seemed to get in his face. Loki stiffened and lay still, his sightless eyes looking towards your hands.

Heart pounding in your chest at this boldness, you continued to braid. Loki laced his fingers together on his chest. Laying still, his chest rose in short shallow breaths.

You bit your lip glancing down at him.

“I can hear your heart flutter.” Loki murmured.

You swallowed hard, quickly letting go of his hair, “Oh.” You stammered.

He frowned, reaching for your hand until you offered it back towards him.

“Pretty bird.” He murmured, sliding your hand towards his face, and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Now your heart was thundering. If your heart had been a bird trying to break free of its cage before, now it was a rabid rabbit thrashing in a snare. But did you really want it to leave?

Throwing caution to the wind, you moved closer, realizing the tent was getting colder. Was the night intensifying? You grabbed one of the blankets and pulled it over you, resting your head on Loki’s chest. Frowning, you couldn’t tell Loki’s heartbeat. His deep steady breathing, forcefully steady, long and even covered the sound. You grabbed his free hand and touched the inside of his wrist, pressing your fingers to the delicate veins.

There was a steady thump, thump, thump. Did he really have so much affect on you, and you so little on him? But then, how fast was his pulse supposed to be?

Perhaps it was the fact that you were pressed against the god of mischief, perhaps because it had been so long since you had seen – let alone touched – another being, a dangerous idea crossed your mind. You hoped Loki wasn’t reading your mind, and wouldn’t anticipate it.

Shifting slowly, you slowly moved your hand from Loki’s grip. You could see the frown cross his face. The clear question asking if he had displeased you in some way.

You crawled closer to him and before he fully realized it, your lips found the delicate vein on his throat, kissing it gently. Your tongue lathed on it, staying long enough to feel the uneven spike in his pulse as he moaned softly.

‘Gotcha.’ You thought smugly, pulling away and moving back to rest your head on his chest. Out loud you said, “Get some sleep, Loki. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day.”

[pbaintthetb]

Watership Down Rant pt.2/ How Hazel (Arguably) Misinterprets Bigwig

“Bigwig would certainly be a useful rabbit in a tight corner, he would also be a difficult one to get on with. He certainly would not want to do what he was told- or even asked- by an Outskirter.”~ Chapter 3, Hazel’s Decision.

As I briefly mentioned before, Hazel is the POV character, and while there is a narrator, it can sometimes be difficult to separate the two. My first time reading the novel I was much more inclined to go along with Hazel’s interpretation of Bigwig, but after finishing, seeing Bigwig’s whole character journey, and on a reread I don’t entirely agree. There are two main characters who Bigwig gets very angry at in the novel, Fiver, and Strawberry. Strawberry who Bigwig blames for leading to Bigwig’s almost death (and he forgives it soon enough), and Fiver who is continuously (at least in Bigwig’s  eyes) putting Hazel in danger- until the snare incident.

Hazel seems to imply that Bigwig is trying, whether maliciously or not, to create trouble. One of his fears when they leave Sandleford and Bigwig asks to join is that, Bigwig, as an Owsla and generally much larger and slightly short tempered rabbit is going to fight with him for position of leader. A position Hazel feels naturally falls to him. Hazel lets Bigwig come with them, mostly because he can’t really refuse him, but also because as much as Hazel doesn’t want a power struggle he’s aware that he needs strong fighters and someone who knows more about the wider world- aka, Bigwig. (More on Hazel’s pragmatism later.)

Bigwig’s two flaws that Hazel picks up on and I agree with are- he can be quite short tempered (though we’ll see, Bigwig is good at separating personal feelings from  non-personal matters), and specifically doesn’t take uncertainty particularly well.

However, these aren’t traits that make a particularly good Chief Rabbit, Bigwig can think on his feet- but not as well as Hazel, Fiver, or even Blackberry. I feel like Bigwig is somewhat aware of this fact (his reaction to being told he’s not suited for a task later in the novel due to his temperament is one of someone who doesn’t disagree, but doesn’t like the fact). Therefore, my basic point is that I don’t think Bigwig is gunning for Chief Rabbit, and I particularly don’t think he is at any point trying to usurp Hazel. As to whether he truly believes Hazel is their true/great Chief Rabbit  from the beginning… no. But, he does acknowledge him as leader of the group, he does seem to default to him, or at least treat him as equal, and his criticisms of Hazel seem to be more that he wants Hazel to be better than Bigwig thinking he, or anyone else, would make a better leader.

Bigwig has a basic level of respect for Hazel from the very beginning, seen when he allows Hazel to speak to the Threarah, even though Bigwig knows it will create trouble for him because he trusts Hazel has a decent reason. Who doesn’t Bigwig really respect? Five, at this point he’s entirely neutral, but he trusts Hazel to trust Fiver. There is still plenty of room for Bigwig’s respect of Hazel to grow- arguably culminating in Efrafa- but he never once treats Hazel as lesser or makes a bid for power. The closest he comes to a mutiny is actually against Fiver and specifically because he thinks Fiver is endangering Hazel and Hazel’s authority.

Now, Bigwig’s not perfect, he does feel he’s owed more respect than say, Blackberry or Dandelion (though he also respects their own skills and talents and gets pretty mad when Cowslip’s rabbits aren’t impressed by Dandelion’s story telling), but also like... eh, he’s not wrong. Bigwig is the most knowledgeable about the world (Blackberry is a mad genius, but he more theorises things than knows) and is often the one explaining crucial things- roads, snares, predators, and most importantly- how to stay safe. He and Silver (tldr Bigwig but calmer) often stay up to take watches- amd this, like most of the tasks Silver and Bigwig do together are clearly coordinated and arranged by Bigwig. Bigwig also takes charge of a lot that Hazel feels he should do as leader, but Hazel is not lazing about during these times, he’s taking care of other tasks that a leader needs. The most usurp thing Bigwig does is essentially take charge while Hazel is away, but he always hands it back. Bigwig works like a second in command- and Hazel doesn’t seem to see this. This is particularly funny but also a misunderstanding on Hazel’s part when considering some of the first things Hazel does is put Bigwig in this role. Additionally, Bigwig is more than happy to share is wider knowledge as a result of his experience, but mostly to Hazel- because teaching takes time and it’s not worth, for example, teaching Pipkin how to fight a cat. This is why I feel that Bigwig simply wants to improve Hazel, he’s very calm and polite when he teaches him about the road, and points out that as an Outskirter and not an Owsla there is no reason why Hazel should know these things when Hazel is embarrassed about the fact. Both the other two Chief rabbits we meet in the book are ex/current Owsla, Hazel is not, and thus it makes sense for Bigwig to catch him up to speed. Personally I think Hazel is paranoid about his own position and protecting that outwards.

Onto how Hazel views Bigwig and why I think he’s wrong- but with textual evidence. 

“Bigwig would certainly be a useful rabbit in a tight corner, he would also be a difficult one to get on with. He certainly would not want to do what he was told- or even asked- by an Outskirter.”

Hazel seems to think Bigwig wants to usurp him because he was more powerful than him before they left their home. And in Hazel’s mind this is justified by Bigwig’s bluster and the fact that Hazel keeps stumbling across him taking charge of the rabbits... because Hazel has been away/busy/doing another important task and someone needs to hold down the fort- so Bigwig steps up, and then quite calmly steps down once Hazel is back, who doesn’t seem to quite see this at first because he’s paranoid. No Hazel hate, just truth.

However, for all of Hazel’s fears, there’s little truth to them. I’m going to quickly run through all the supposed challenges Bigwig offers upto their arrival at the Warren of the Shining Wires. (I’m deliberately not calling it Cowslip’s warren- because it’s not, he’s not Chief- the human is, the rabbits just live there.)

“If you’ll take my advice-” began Bigwig. “If we stay here any longer I shan’t be able to,” answered Hazel.~ Chapter 4, The Departure (after Bigwig has bested Holly, immediately before they leave Sandleford.) See how respectfully Bigwig brings up his potential criticism? And there is no note of Bigwig being resentful, rude, or sulky that he was shut down. He acknowledges that now is not a time for discussion/democracy, it’s a time to pack up and follow Hazel- whereas you’d expect some kind of grudge if Hazel was right. At the very least you’d expect something the next time Bigwig “criticises” Hazel in chapter 5. However, Bigwig simply states that the group needs to stop, he lists out the reasons why he knows Hazel won’t want to, but also lists why they need to- simply put that Fiver and Pipkin physically can’t. At this point Bigwig doesn’t even know Pipkin’s name (he refers to him as “this half-sized fellow”), but he’s one of Hazel’s squad and Bigwig’s protective instincts are coming out. Hazel is reluctant, but listens. Also of note is that Bigwig doesn’t demand this in front of the group as if it were some power-play, he walks off away from the group to quietly talk to Hazel, and it’s still Hazel who announces they’re stopping. Bigwig is not trying to convince Hazel of this after the fact.

Chapters 7-8. When the Badger finds them it’s Bigwig who leads them away, however, this most seemingly obvious element of insubordination is not remarked on by Hazel- internally or otherwise. This is because Bigwig is the only one who knows what it is, how dangerous it is (it’s of the “lets not invite trouble” variety). And yes, it’s because he’s Owsla, but Silver is Owsla too- this is how Bigwig seems to view himself, not as Chief, but Captain of the Owsla for their group and sharing power with Hazel. Now, Hazel has not given this role- but as we’ll see later he kind of defaults to putting Bigwig in it and Bigwig has already won a fight for Hazel, it’s not an unreasonable assumption. Bigwig is very annoyed when they arrive at the river and takes it out on Hazel- who notes that Bigwig is only steady if he’s certain of their options. Hazel uses some flattery to calm Bigwig down (honestly, a great talent of Hazel’s in many situations).

Bigwig gets angry. So, in chapter 8 Bigwig starts to actually shout and rage, but it’s interesting to note that this is prompted by Fiver. Bigwig is clearly irritated at being led to a dead end- but it’s more the exhaustion and confusion than anything about Hazel. However when Fiver says they need to swim the river (noted to be impossible for exhausted rabbits by the narrator) that Bigwig starts to get annoyed- remember that Bigwig was the one who got them to stop earlier. Especially considering there are other options. Still, Bigwig lets it go. And again, when he comes to talk to Hazel about a potentially sensitive situation he talks to Hazel aside from the group, and comes to ask what Bigwig should tell the group- Bigwig very much asks for permission not forgiveness. It’s when Hazel says they should stay- clearly for the Benefit of Fiver Bigwig gets annoyed- probably because of his slightly more worldly nature- they are in a very open and vulnerable position and he’s smart enough to know that Hazel just wants him to cross the river. However, some flattery, and Bigwig happily swims across, alone, to scout. This, again is very telling. Bigwig is clearly able to swim the river and not altogether unwilling.  It also displays Bigwig’s protective instincts and why he’s such a good Captain. Bigwig’s issue is revealed- though Hazel doesn’t seem to realise- to not be crossing the river, but the fact that not all the rabbits are able to make it. This culminates in Bigwig screaming at Hazel, after BIgwig reveals there’s a dog in the woods. First, he gets all the other rabbits to swim across (Bigwig has returned) and then he shouts at Hazel to go over, and not to stay for Fiver and Pipkin saying they’ll all be killed. Even Hazel notes here, that he’s surprised, but admiring the fact that for all his talk, Bigwig isn’t running off to save himself. Bigwig is a captain and can’t leave his men to die, but Hazel is the leader and he can’t leave the survivors. Frankly I’m very interested to see if Bigwig would have stayed, fought Hazel, or dragged him had Blackberry not saved the day. The main point here is that Bigwig never challenges Hazel on the grounds of not trusting or respecting his authority, only occasionally his decisions, and primarily for the collective safety of the group. However Hazel is still viewing Bigwig as a fierce independent rabbit who is going to make trouble.

4. Hawkbit, Speedwell & Acorn challenging Hazel, Chapter 10, The Road and the Common.

Hawkbit, Acorn & Speedwell (HSA) start to challenge Hazel, first saying they’d like to stop (they’ve been having a very gruelling climb), and then it escalates to saying they’d like to go back because they believe Hazel is lying to them and full of it. Notably they bring up his lack of knowledge about the road- something Bigwig did talk to Hazel about in front of the whole group for once. Hazel starts trying to explain why this is stupid (if the rabbits go back they’ll be killed), and what they even expect him to do, likely in the hope that HSA will talk it out until they air their grievances until they realise they’re wrong. However HSA are cut off before this can happen by Fiver and Bigwig approaching, Fiver who wants to talk to Hazel, and Bigwig who- it’s not explained why he’s there- but he’s heard the whole thing (likely looking out for Hazel). Bigwig scowls and says he’s going to have a “few words” with HSA- which from the little we hear through Hazel’s POV is mostly insults with the purpose of reminding them their place. We hear what we’re told is likely the end of Bigwig’s speech though and-

“And now, you bunch of mole-snouted, muck-raking, hutch-hearted sheep ticks, get out of my sight sharp. Otherwise I’ll-” [then he’s cut off by the wind]. 

Once more evidence of Bigwig throwing his weight around doesn’t support him being a usurper, in fact he seems angry at the disrespect to Hazel, and is doing his best to make sure dissent and disorder doesn’t fester in the ranks. Whether Hazel or Bigwig’s approach is better is a different story and more to do with their different personalities and roles- Chief/Captain.

Hazel, upon returning asks Blackberry where HSA are and we’re told this:

 "There's been a fearful row. Bigwig told Hawkbit and Speedwell that he'd scratch them to pieces if they didn't obey him. And when Hawkbit said he wanted to know who was Chief Rabbit, Bigwig bit him. It seems a nasty business. Who is Chief Rabbit,anyway--you or Bigwig?" 

Bigwig, being Owsla manages discipline much firmer and through strength/power. Hazel notes that he doesn’t know who the Chief Rabbit is, merely that Bigwig’s stronger. But this is actually a very good example of Bigwig’s loyalty- he’s angry but sticks to physical discipline while they’re merely talking about not wanting to follow Hazel. However, once they start snarking and perhaps suggesting Bigwig lead a coup/suggesting he’s a usurper/Hazel isn’t a good leader you can see how the switch flips in Bigwig’s mind. He doesn’t take the insult well, Bigwig views himself quite clearly as a second in command, and a loyal one at that. (Loyalty, strength and protectiveness are some of Bigwig’s best features). The incident isn’t really focused on again, but safe to say there’s no more questioning who’s really the boss, just as there’s no questioning Bigwig’s tendency to lead in lieu of Hazel. This isn’t just because of Bigwig’s own presence, it’s a lot to do with how Hazel treats Bigwig, even if he doesn’t seem to quite consciously focus on it yet…

Lastly to note and really seal the deal, when they meat Cowslip several of the Sandleford Rabbits refer to Hazel as “Hazel-rah” (calling him chief), Bigwig… doesn’t, but he doesn’t seem to object in any way, and, in a scene that I will dissect, really does seem to view Hazel with incredible respect and as leader- to who Bigwig follows but offers meaningful criticism to allow him to be better.

[teiranlavellan]

Compassion and the Lady of Iron

Thank you @honestly-wilde​ for the prompt!

(Talesfromthefade): “Cole trying to help Vivienne, for the DWC?”

@dadrunkwriting​

Madam Vivienne de Fer stared into the darkness of the canvas tent she shared with three other people in the middle of the forest wilderness.  She had waited, her eyes closed and her hands folded—still visually striking even when in repose—until she heard the semi-silence of sleep from the three tents that housed the Inquisition’s Inner Circle.  She had chosen this tent of her three options because it lacked Blackwall’s stench and Bull’s tendency to take up most of the available space.  Now she listened for the signs that she was relatively alone; the only moments of solitude when traveling with nine companions: Sera’s sleep-mumbling at a predicable broken pace, Teiran’s still-asleep flip from one side to the other and Cassandra’s snore.  She listened to the nocturnal silence outside their tent, the crackle of their ember-filled fire pit being punctuated by various snores and deep breathing. Vivienne was safe.  She could scrub away the invisible mask she always wore.

Fingers running along her soft skin, Vivienne’s façade began to crack and pull away. Bastien’s death had been two weeks ago, but with so much to do at Skyhold, she had made herself believe it didn’t hurt that much.  Not really.  The many threads to pull, cut and tangle amongst the visiting nobles and long-distance contact with Val Royeaux had been a suitable distraction.  But ever since they had left the safety of those ancient, stone walls, Vivienne had felt the bubble of grief begin push its way from beneath the surface.  If she didn’t allow herself some leeway, it would burst at an inopportune time.  So, Madam de Fer had counted on this moment of privacy.

She wept beneath her hands, silently and without a single sob escaping her beautiful lips.  Her heart overflowing with loss, every sentiment she had pushed down and denied leaking through her mute cries.

A voice that wasn’t hers but perfectly mimicking the timbre of her own voice whispered near her head, “Bastien . . . Bastien, how dare you leave me.  How dare you die—It’s alright Vivienne.  I can hel—”

Caught in her moment of vulnerability and sensing a demon in their midst, a stray thought of “Am I in the Fade?” passed through Vivienne’s mind before the blow. Lightening arcing from her palm, she struck above her with the speed and grace of a snake.  Throwing her bedroll aside, Vivienne twisted away from the demon and stood, tears fresh on her face and her finely shaved head brushing the top of the tent’s canvas and pole.

Two screams registered on Vivienne’s right, one following the other.  The mage glanced over and froze in shock.  Sera was hysterical, jumping around like a rabbit caught in a snare.  Teiran’s back was to the enchanter, but the gleam of steel and a knife’s handle protruded grotesquely from the elf’s side.  The horror on Cassandra’s face and the blood on the Seeker’s hands as she held the Inquisitor in place made Vivienne feel as if she had been the one struck by lightning.

Alarmed exclamations and the sound of sleepy confusion outside the tent reached Cassandra’s perception.  The warrior had been plunged headfirst into a crisis, but this wasn’t the first time. She tried to remain calm as the blood pooled around her hand on Teiran’s side, but Sera’s hysterics were jarring her half-asleep mind and the smell of ozone and blood permeated the small space. Looking for aid, Cassandra glanced up at Vivienne, but the enchanter was uncharacteristically frozen in shock and, even more unusual, in tears.  The tent was sliced open as one of Bull’s horns pierced the fabric and then his two meaty, gray hands grabbed and pulled at the wide slash.  The tent fell slack and enveloped them for a brief moment before being flipped off by many hands.  When the fresh night air hit her, Cassandra saw them all stop and stare at the scene lit by Solas’ veil fire.

Solas, clad only in a pair of long pants, was the first to move: a single, hesitant step halfway between the smoldering heap that was Cole and the gasping, bloody mess that was Teiran.  Solas’ face was lined with indecision and reeling with the possibilities; calculating that he could save them both on his own, in this instant if he showed his true capabilities.  His imagination worked out the consequences of his dilemma: either he saved them both right now or risked losing the one he didn’t personally attend to.  However, saving both simultaneously would raise too many questions and then he might lose her in the end.  But could he live with himself if he lost the precious spirit of Compassion to this world of his own creation?  Could he live with himself if he lost the Anchor too?  Solas’ mind railed against his heart, “What was most important to him?”

The eye of the storm, Cassandra took control of the situation.  Drawn by the movement of Solas’ step and seeing the intense swirl of emotions in the typically composed elf, Cassandra decided how best to delegate the healers, “Solas!  Help Cole.” Cassandra moved along the line of faces until she landed on the handsome Tevinter, “Dorian. Help me with her.”

Solas hesitated only for a moment, hovering between mutiny and affront at the decision being made for him, before lithely fade-stepping over to the still-sparking Cole. Checking the spirit for breath, Solas infused as much power behind the healing spell as he dared.

“What happened?” Dorian spat out, yelling over Sera’s string of nearly-incoherent profanities.  

Dorian, wearing a sleeveless robe with a fabric belt, navigated the folds of canvas hiding the contents of the tent until he stepped upon them almost losing his balance in the cramped space.

“Worry about that later.  Vivienne!” Cassandra rounded on the frozen mage in the outline of what was moments before their tent, “Help Dorian.”

Feeling Teiran convulse under her hand, Cassandra braced her.  Dorian kneeled behind the elf.  Teiran coughed blood, her lungs spasming from the puncture of Sera’s knife.

“Ma’am?”  Bull asked cautiously, his eye darting between Dorian and Vivienne.  “Can you walk, ma’am?”

With a swipe of her hand, Vivienne replaced her mask, “Of course dear.”  She held the slit hem of her low-cut dress as she stepped around Sera and sat down beside Dorian, who was muttering agitatedly to himself.  

“No.”  Came the hollow but nonetheless powerful sound emitting from Solas.  He took a step away from Cole and fixed his distant gaze on Vivienne as if he meant to remove her physically from Teiran’s side.  His healing magic was still swirling between his outstretched hand and Cole.  Cole twitched, slowly fading back to consciousness. Solas’ distant gaze, still seeing Cole’s injuries, fell on Cassandra, “Look at what she has done.  We cannot trust her.”

Cassandra looked between Vivienne, Teiran and Solas, then she took hold of the handle of the knife. “Solas, you have enough to deal with healing Cole on your own.  We cannot lose the Inquisitor.  We will deal with that after the danger has passed.”  She turned to Dorian and Vivienne, “Ready.  Now!”  She pulled the dagger free and let it clatter to the ground.  The blood pooled quickly and Teiran slumped unconscious in Cassandra’s arms.  Cassandra, bearing the elf’s weight, gently lowered her on her back.  Dorian and Vivienne followed the body, eyes glazed and green-hued magic swirling and mending.

Solas bared his teeth in frustration, watching the Enchanter closely.  He monitored the internal and external damage being repaired by Dorian and Vivienne from Cole’s side of the tent.  Cole revived under Solas’ hands and took his first shaky breath since being struck.  Solas refocused exclusively on his own patient, sending soothing thoughts and magic to the spirit who was now experiencing a previously unknown facet of having a body: physical pain that cannot be waylaid by will or intent.  Solas reviewed his own first experience in this realm and tried to decide how best to heal Cole’s mind as well as body.

All this time, Sera had continued to stare at the knife, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.  Blackwall stepped up and over to the distraught elf, tucking her under his shoulder, leading her out of the destroyed tent and towards the fire that Varric was building up again.  

Blackwall positioned Sera near the fire.  “This is bad. Bad.  Bad.  Shite. Piss-balls.  I’ve killed her.  I’ve killed Quizzy.” Sera yelled sporadically, sitting on the ground in her underwear.  

Varric sighed heavily at the thought of getting anything out of Buttercup.  Instead the dwarf let Blackwall take over rebuilding the fire and he rejoined the group gathered around the sundered tent.

Seeing Cole’s eyes open and staring, Varric approached and sat opposite Solas, “Kid? Can you hear me, Kid?”

“I still don’t understand.  No matter how I pull at it, the pain won’t go away.”  Cole muttered softly, staring into the stars above rather than looking at either the elf nor the dwarf beside him.

The lines of concentration on Solas’ face deepened, trying to communicate and heal the spirit simultaneously and quickly.

“It’s not that kinda pain, Kid.  You just gotta wait for your body to heal.  But don’t worry, I’ve seen Solas do this before.  It’ll be alright.”  Varric reassured Cole with a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

The sound of glass clinking together announced the return of the Iron Bull.  The Qunari pushed a healing potion into Varric’s hand and then held a blue bottle of lyrium out to Solas.

Eyes still glazed, Solas shook his head, “Give it to Dorian please.  I am almost finished here.”  Solas reached over and grabbed Cassandra’s blanket, throwing it over Cole with an efficient grace. Varric slowly tucked the blanket under Cole’s sides and feet while Solas continued healing the last of Cole’s charred flesh.

Taking a few steps to the right, the Iron Bull kneeled beside Dorian and put a hand on his arm, “Here. Drink this.”

Dorian’s glazed eyes roamed over the uncapped lyrium potion, then one of his bloody hands reached for it.  The mage downed it in three long gulps then returned the blood-smeared vial to Bull. His mustache twitched with the sudden burst of magical energy and his magic took on a more turquoise shade of green as it continued to swirl around the Dalish elf.  Bull handed a red healing potion to Cassandra, who accepted it without taking her eyes off of Teiran’s slack face.  Then Bull stood and came to kneel before Vivienne, offering her a blue vial.

“I have no need of it.  Thank you darling.”  Vivienne refused graciously, never taking her glazed gaze away from the tree line beyond Cassandra’s shoulder.  

Bull grunted and then left the healers to replace the vials in their respective stashes.  Still looking for something to do, Bull pulled the ripped tent completely free of its supports and dragged it over to the newly revived campfire Blackwall had made.  Seeing the rigidity of stress in both Blackwall and Sera, he offered them a thick needle and thread.  Blackwall accepted with a nod, rolling up the sleeves of his shapeless, long nightshirt and the two men began stitching the hole in the tent.  Sera didn’t even look up, her forehead still on her knees.

“Cole?  Can you stand?”  Solas asked, his magic dissipating and his task complete.

           “I can.”  Cole said in his own voice before switching to an imitation of Solas’ voice, “I would see you safe, but I must . . . I need to. . . I need to. . .”  Cole blinked at Solas, “Where did you go?”

           Solas pulled Cole slowly to his feet, then supported his weight under the boy’s shoulder.  Varric lead the way back to the tent he and Cole shared with Iron Bull, holding the tent flap open and then stepping back inside the tent.  Solas tucked Compassion into his bedroll then turned to Varric, “Will you—”

           “I got this Chuckles.  Go help them.”  Varric replaced Solas by Cole’s side.  “Alright Kid, now this is going to taste awful.  But you need to drink it, alright?”  The dwarf said as he uncorked the healing potion.  Solas left them and returned to the other healers, appearing at Cassandra’s side in moments.

           Cassandra started at the elf suddenly next to her, but relaxed when she realized it was just the apostate.  She watched Solas add his healing magic to the other two and marveled at his magical stamina.

           Teiran’s eyes flew open and she struggled to breathe fully, her body shaking and convulsing.  Cassandra and Vivienne held Teiran’s shoulders against the ground in an attempt to keep her body still while the last bits of organ and flesh were healed.

           Solas’ soothing voice broke through Teiran’s sudden distress of consciousness with the calming and foreign sound of Ancient Elven mixing seamlessly with Elven, “You will be able to breathe in a moment.  Lie still and take shallow breaths.”  he instructed, trying to calm her and focus her mind on the challenge of the new language rather than the physical pain.

           Teiran bit her lip and scrunched her face against the pain, trying to block it out and understand what was being said to her but her oxygen-deprived brain swam without focus.

Cassandra gripped Teiran’s shoulder, but it was no longer necessary.  Teiran stayed still of her own will.  The Seeker and turned to Solas, “What was that?”

Ignoring the question, Solas repeated himself with a new mixture of the two elven languages, trying to remember which phrases and words he had already taught Teiran and which ones she would struggle to understand.

Teiran’s breathing came easier as the three mages finally completed their work on her lung and her nearby organs.  Dorian sat back with an exhausted sigh, leaving the other two to do the relatively easy work of stitching the remaining flesh.  When it was done, Vivienne sat back on her heels and narrowed her eyes at the blood soaking her high-collared and embroidered night gown.  With a flick of her hand, she stood and used the dregs of her magical supply to force the liquid from her dress and into the nearby grass.

Solas’ magic still flickered through his grip on Teiran’s left forearm, the Anchor sputtering in response as Solas searched for any flaw in the elf’s healed body.  Once satisfied, he released his grip and turned his lethal gaze on Vivienne, who folded her arms against his condemnation and waited patiently for Teiran to rise.

Palms pressed flat against the tent’s ground cover, Teiran focused on taking deep breaths until the pain in her head cleared and she could feel blood pumping through her limbs. Teiran pulled herself up to her elbows then Cassandra steadied her and pushed the healing potion between her lips. After draining the vial, Teiran felt the rush of vigor and turned to look at each of the faces around her.  Then she ran her hands along her bloody and torn sleeveless tunic and felt the drying pool of blood under her soaked capri-length pants. Dazedly, Teiran asked Cassandra, “Is everyone alright?  Were we attacked?”

Cassandra swallowed, “You were stabbed.  Sera was frightened and likely believed we were under attack.”

Dorian stood, “The question is, why was Cole here at all?  Much less injured.”  The Tevene threw the blood from his clothes into the night air carelessly and turned an eye on Vivienne.

Teiran’s eyes widened and she looked around quickly, her voice wavering, “Co-ole?”

           “Cole is well.  It would appear our First Enchanter struck him down with a bolt of lightning.” Solas spoke through clenched jaw.

           Vivienne cleared her throat and addressed only Teiran, “Inquisitor, I apologize for my part in this unfortunate affair.  Your pet demon came into our tent unannounced and I responded accordingly. However, I could not have anticipated you would also be injured.  Rest assured, we should ensure this does not happen again by sending the demon away and forbidding Sera to sleep in such close proximity to weapons.  It really would be in everybody’s best interest; don’t you agree dear?”

           Solas was deathly still, except for his hands, they were twitching lividly, “It is Cole who is owed an apology from you.  Yet you would use this situation to demean others and ingratiate yourself farther. Truly, it is you who should be sent away.  Cole was only performing his function as a spirit of Compassion.”

“You expect me to apologize to a demon?”  Vivienne asked incredulously.

           Teiran took a deep breath, marveling over the ease with which she could now do so. She understood now, Cole had been trying to help Vivienne who had, of course, reacted poorly.  Putting aside her curiosity over why Vivienne had elicited that response in the spirit, Teiran glanced from Solas to Vivienne.

Over the past couple of months, Teiran had taken to secretly thinking herself Keeper of her own, relatively new Clan.  She refused to turn any of them away, but getting them to work together and become the Clan she saw them potentially being someday was proving a monumental task. Mustering all her leadership skills, she quickly thought of a way to administer justice to restore the relative harmony of the diverse group rather than punish any of its members.

           “I accept your apology, Vivienne.”  Teiran started to stand with Cassandra’s aid, “But you should apologize to Cole as well. I know that you think Cole is a demon who means you harm, but you are the one who harmed him.  And if he surprised you by entering without anyone’s knowledge then he had the chance to harm you, but he didn’t.”  Teiran took another deep breath, then left the stunned mages with Cassandra supporting her steps.  Pulling upon her own magic, Teiran wiped away the blood that clung to her clothes and body.

Solas watched them leave, staring after the Inquisitor and evaluating the fond feeling that was beginning to appear more and more frequently when he interacted with the Dalish elf.

Dorian was the first to move, clearing his throat, he followed Teiran and Cassandra to the campfire and sat beside Iron Bull, who was weaving thick stitches through the tent’s canvas and still sporting only a pair of loose shorts as his nightly garb.

           Teiran, upon entering the company gathered around the flames, was greeted with varying exclamations of joy at seeing her fully recovered.  Teiran approached Sera without Cassandra’s support and sat down next to her.  

Poking out from behind her knees, Sera and Teiran conversed softly, mending the situation.  Soon, Sera was spreading her typical vibrant energy as she moved from person to person to engage them in broken, laughing conversation.  Then, stealing the thread and needle from Blackwall, she snuck up beside Teiran and began flamboyantly sewing the hole her dagger had made in Teiran’s tunic.  Cassandra stiffened at the sight of Sera wielding a sharp instrument so close to Teiran, but the Dalish elf survived the encounter without further injury.

Watching the scene from afar, neither Solas nor Vivienne had moved yet.  Then without looking at the other, Vivienne and Solas each departed. Once they both realized they were heading in the same direction, they paused just outside Cole’s tent.  

Vivienne broke the tense silence, “If I might have a moment of privacy?”

Solas hesitated, then stood aside but remained at the entrance to the tent.

“That is unnecessary, but if it pleases you by all means stay.”  Vivienne replied as she entered the tent.  She found Varric sitting next to and chatting amiably with the gangly, cross-legged teenager.  Vivienne had to remind herself that this was a demon, however much he appeared fragile and naïve.  Swallowing her misgivings and putting the finishing touches of sincerity on her mask, Vivienne steeled herself and completed her task of making an apology for causing “it” harm.  Then she politely reminded “it” to refrain from entering without permission and never at night before taking her leave.  She passed by Solas’ disapproving set of his jaw and rejoined the other companions sitting around the fire.

[missameliasmithers]

Find Your Place: The First Night

Part 1

Read on AO3

After stopping for supplies from a kind merchant along the road, Aloy and Nil made camp in the middle of a clearing in the woods. The pink glow of sunset had already bathed the sky in a warm glow, so they gathered wood for a fire and laid out their newly acquired bedrolls. Seeing the wild look on Nil’s face when he held the canister of blaze, Aloy confiscated the bottle and set the fire herself with a drop or two. The last thing they needed was for Nil to dump the whole canteen in and burn a signal flare in unclaimed lands or worse still, scorch the entire forest to the ground.

Before they lost the last traces of light, they set out on a hunt. The forest was bountiful and teemed with plump fauna for their supper. They fell a turkey and a boar each, knowing from experience they would need smoked meat for the times ahead when hunting would be scarce. As Nil cleaned their kills, a satisfied gleam in his eye, Aloy arranged a small smoker from the scraps of an old, broken watcher. It was crude, but it would have their food ready by the time they set out the next day.

They cooked half the turkey over the fire that night, starved from travel and the remnants of the grand battle they fought earlier.

“It all feels so long ago,” Aloy said after a bite. “Like it should be years since we defeated Hades, but it’s only been a few hours ago.”

“Big moments tend to have that effect,” Nil replied through his meat. “The suspense of it all builds to a climax that makes the denouement feel insufficient. The prologue is always a calm, one that is such a stark contrast to the rising action that everything slows. You just have to learn to appreciate the tranquility of it all.”

She stared into the fire thoughtfully. “It seems like my whole life has been never ending rising action. I’ve hardly ever given myself a moment to rest. I’m not sure I know how to handle tranquility.”

“It’s easy enough,” he said. “You find something in the quiet that means something to you, and you let the stillness of the moment lull you into meditation.”

She gave him a pointed look. “Is that what you do after killing someone?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. I actually did it a lot more when I was a kid.���

Aloy perked. Nil never offered much about his past. “Really? What did you think about?”

“My parents, mostly,” Nil said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. “Everything I did as a child was a reflection of them. I remember I was eight when I killed my first boar. My father had been training me with a bow for weeks and I wasn’t very good at it; kept hitting rocks and ruining the arrowheads. But one day my arrow struck right between the eyes of a male boar and the only thing I could think about in the ringing silence of victory was how proud my parents would be when I brought home the carcase.”

A soft smile spread across Aloy’s lips. “It sounds like you really love them.”

Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could name it.

“Yeah,” he said.

They finished eating by the time the final moments of day disappeared on the horizon. Bellies sated and muscles tired, they fed the fire, walked the perimeter one last time, and stoked the little smokehouse. Smoothing out their bedrolls, they began shedding their gear for the night.  

Their armor accumulated in a pile beside their rucksacks. Aloy removed her warrior’s circlet from her hair as Nil made to pull off his helmet.

She suddenly realized she had never pictured what Nil might like under that metal headdress of his. She supposed her mind had just assumed he had hair like many of the Carja she has seen in her travels, all tight braids or cropped cuts, anything short that didn’t catch on their helms. As he yanked the helmet off however, Aloy discovered that Nil’s hair was as unexpected as he was. It was razored at the sides and brushed back to keep stray strands from falling into his eyes. He did not tease it into thick strands as Rost had done, nor did he tie it back in Carja fashion. She did notice however, as he ran his fingers through his locks to loosen them, that there were smaller braids intermingled here and there.

She hadn’t realized she’d been staring until he met her gaze.

“Problem?” he asked.

He almost looked like another person. Smaller. More vulnerable. More human.

“I’ve never seen you without your helmet before,” she replied.

He snickered. “Did you think it was attached to me?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You just look… different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Just… different.”

He chuckled to himself as he unbuckled his holster, letting the conversation drop.

They settled into an amiable silence as they crawled inside their bedrolls. The ground was a rough comfort to Aloy, reminding her of previous travels and her past hunting trips with Rost. The night air was mild and calm, a slight breeze sweeping by to rustle the trees intermittently. The sky was dark but cloudless, the moon illuminating the clearing and complimenting the multitude of shining lights scattered across the heavens.

“What do you think they are?” Nil asked suddenly.

Aloy glanced at him. His arms were folded behind his head as he stared, bright eyed and transfixed at the sky. “The stars?”

“Yes.”

She returned her gaze to the night. “I’m not sure. The Nora used to say they were the freckles of All-Mother.”

His laugh rang in the silence. “That’s a lot of freckles.”

“Some people have a lot of freckles.”

“I’ve noticed.”

There was something in his voice that made it sound like was talking directly to her, but when she looked over he was still looking at the stars.

“I always thought they were the Old Ones,” he said.

“Really?” Aloy asked, surprised.

“Yes. There was just something reassuring about the idea that the slain could live on above us, watching and protecting us.”

“That’s an odd thing for you to say,” she remarked, “considering how many people you’ve killed.”

“I don’t believe every soul can live on,” he said. “Those who live tainted lives should be cast to the demons. When I see the light fade from the eyes of the wretched, I hope they fall into the deepest darkness. But those who are pure, the children, the innocent, and the people who fight for justice, I think they should be able to continue on, to see the contributions they made to the world, the people they’ve affected.”

She thought of Nakoa. She thought of Elizabet. She thought of Rost.

She sighed. “That would be nice.”

She was in Mother’s Heart, sitting around a fire with Teb. The tall flames kept them warm as they perched on logs side by side and discussed the years between their first meeting and the present. Teb held cloth in his lap and stitched the fabric as he listened to her tell stories of her childhood in the Embrace.

She was with Petra in Free Heap, hunched over a worktable and tinkering with bits of the forgewoman’s latest invention. They passed tools to each other as they worked, and took swigs out of the same water canteen. They filled the silence with sly banter and hearty laughter.

She was in the forest, bow at the ready and Talanah at her side. The sun was rising over the hill and backlit the imposing pair of Ravagers before them. She shared a look with her Hawk before pulling her string tight and loosing a barrage of fire arrows at the machines. The beasts roared and charged, and their hunt was underway.

She was in the banquet hall in Meridian, flanked by Erend and Avad as they ate supper at the impressive, imperial dinner table. Her plate was full of food from her lands and her cup with drink from Erend’s. The air was filled with their energetic chatter as they snickered and chuckled at each other with a sense of familiarity that only came from close friends bound in battle.

She was trapping with Rost.

The woods were bright as they ventured out to check their snares. Two had already come up empty, but their third held a rabbit that would feed them well enough. They walked together in that earnest companionship they had forged as foster-father and daughter. Every now and then they would stray from the path to pick off the wandering Watchers in the area, competing amongst themselves who had the better shot before moving back to the trail.

They were checking their fourth trap, talking about medicinal plants, when the darkness crept in. It seeped up from the ground and swarmed in through the air, engulfing the two of them in a black haze. The thick of it pressed into her lungs and she choked, looking franticly at Rost in panic. He was gasping for air just as she was, wrapped up in the skulking shadows that seemed to swallow them. She tried to scream, but no sound could escape past the smoke in her mouth. She reached out for Rost, but the darkness just consumed her hand. She started thrashing around, trying to loosen the grip the mist had on her, needing to get to Rost the more the life left his eyes.

“Aloy! …Aloy!”

Aloy jolted awake, a desperate gasp wrenching from her lips. Her chest heaved with each laborious breath and her mind reeled from the shock of reality. Her forehead was drenched in sweat and her hair clung to it in matted pieces. She had also somehow wiggled out of her bedroll.

“It’s okay, just breathe. You’re fine. You’re okay.”

Nil was kneeling beside her, hair tousled from sleep and shirtless in his nightclothes. He was holding her upright, bracing her back on his shoulder and grasping her upper arm with his hand gently to support her weight. The feel of his skin was a small but effective comfort, a tactile reality. Still, the dream lingered in the shadows of the forest night and Aloy found herself reaching for Nil in return.

“That must have been quite the nightmare,” he said, voice groggy. He must have just awoken. “You were flailing in your sleep. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said numbly between breaths. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She didn’t need to look at him to know he didn’t believe her.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked.

The darkness flashed back into her mind, devouring her friends, stealing the soul from Rost… She shivered despite herself. “No.”

His voice was a patient, soothing rumble in her ear. “It’s normal to be afraid of dreams, you know. They’re one of the only things in the world we cannot control.”

The laugh she barked out was short and skeptical. “That sounds odd coming from you.”

She could feel the vibrations in his chest as he chuckled. “I’m not without my own fears. There are plenty of horrors lurking in the crevices of my mind ready to assail me the moment I close my eyes.”

She tried to twist around to see his expression, but their position made the movement uncomfortable. “What could you possibly be afraid of?”

“Perhaps that is a discussion for another day,” he said. “All you need to know is that dreams are fabrications; they do not exist. Nothing can hurt you in your own mind.”

“The past can.”

“Yes, it can,” he said with a nod, his stubble brushing against her hair. “But it can also heal. You have to purge your mind of plagues, dominate what controls you. Your mind is your own and no demon has the right to dictate your thoughts. You’re a warrior, Aloy. You can slay the darkness hounding your dreams.”

She wasn’t sure if she believed his words, but the fact that he was here speaking them helped settle her racing heart. “Thank you, Nil.”

And then there was that rumbling chuckle again, like thunder after a drought. “After all you’ve done, it’s the least I could do.” He paused for a moment, assumedly looking at the horizon as he said, “Day will break within the hour. Shall we break camp and venture forward?”

Relief flooded her. After all this fuss, she wanted nothing more than to keep her idle hands busy and her frantic mind off that black smoke. She detached herself from Nil and stood, fixing her twisted clothes.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go find something to shoot.”

His mouth stretched into a mischievous smile. “Now we’re talking.”

They set about collecting their things; putting their armor back on, collecting the meat from the smoker, tying up their bedrolls. As they worked, she kept catching Nil yawn and felt a pang of guilt. Of course, she hadn’t meant to wake him up during the night, but he had awoken regardless and left the warmth of his sleeping sack to rouse and calm her. This too, suggesting they depart now instead of going ack to sleep, she realized was for her sake as well. He understood the need for her to do something after an unpleasant night like hers.

As he turned to her, gear slung over his back, Nil flashed her that Cheshire grin of his, and Aloy felt grateful for his presence.

Part 2 end

[mostnoblelancelot]

not the way you planned it | g & l

@gxpendragon @ladyxguinevere

The sun was edging toward the horizon when Lancelot found a place for them to make camp. Despite wanting to put as much distance between them and Camelot as he could, it didn't make sense to wait until nightfall. They'd be stumbling around in darkness, and everything would take twice as long. He hadn't noticed any sign of their pursuers in days and wondered, perhaps, if there weren't any, if Arthur's heart wasn't really in their recapture. He wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or guilty about that, and settled on some of both. It was probably going to be both for a long while.

Besides, he'd noticed Guinevere dozing on and off on her horse, and he wanted to make sure they were settled in for a decent night's sleep, if that were possible. It would be no good for her to take ill from pushing too hard. It was a calculated risk to build a fire, but he didn't want to dip too far into their food supply until they had to. They were heading north; game would get scarcer, and he couldn't set up a snare line and preserve any fresh meat until it was safe enough to stop for a time. They were more or less set for the evening, a rabbit cooking over the fire for dinner.

Guinevere had officially lost count, but she was sure it had been days.  It felt like weeks or months since they’d left Camelot, but it had likely only been days.  As they dragged on, her cheer waxed and waned, along with her energy.  She began to doubt herself as a travel companion, though she absorbed whatever he made an effort to each. 

The shadow looming over everything though, were the unanswered questions.  Was Arthur trying to find her?  Did he have the resources to try?  Did he have the desire to try?  Or did he not care, yet again, and return his attention to other and more important matters, more pressing for the safety of Camelot as a whole?  In that way, he had already sacrificed her time and again.  Why should this be any different? 

Then her emotions would complete the loop and contemplate the idea that her husband could be dead, killed by Mordred and left without adequate protection.  She had the best part of his Round Table with her, after all, so it was more than possible. 

She very nearly kissed Lancelot when she dismounted from her horse, free for a few hours.  But kissing him out of relief alone felt wrong for some reason. Instead, she did her best to be a helpmate, though she knew relatively little about how to hunt or kill, skin or cook.  She knew they were tucked away from the main paths enough to provide some seclusion.  She knew the ground was under their feet and the canopy of stars were beautifully rioting from their hiding places overhead as the sky grew darker.

There was a stream very nearby.  She scrubbed herself clean as much as possible without the proper tools to do so, rinsing the clothes she’d been wearing in spite of not having a line to dry on.  She found a knobby portion of tree bark to hang it out, choosing to let her undergarment air dry on her person in spite of its lack of cover.  It would dry quickly and, in fact, had managed most of the task by the time she sat down beside him.  She sat close enough to touch, and that was partially by design.  The emotional uncertainties, the long periods of travel, the tumble of feelings for him alone… it was all catching up to her.  She wanted to be close to him. 

“May I ask a favor of you?” She began, glancing over at him with no small amount of trepidation.  They had been intimate on prior occasions, and it was probably ridiculous of her, but she was not fully in control of her feelings.  She only knew what she wanted now.  “Would you be willing to lay beside me?”  She bit her lip, knowing her next words reached further back into time and space than just their last few days.  “I… find myself rather tired of being alone.”

Despite his own doubts, Lancelot was a steady companion. He didn't allow his emotions to interfere with what needed to be done to ensure their survival. If only he'd tried that strategy sooner, he might not have entangled her in this mess. He explained things when he could, pushing down the feeling that he was condescending to her whenever he did, but since much of their focus was on speed and stealth, there wasn't time for as many lessons as he'd like. He'd assured both of them that there would be more time for that later, and he'd teach her whatever she wished to learn. She was a quick study at anything she put her mind to. He'd never found her presence trying in the past, and he didn't now. Regardless of moods or guilt or regret, there was no other company he'd prefer.

It was difficult to tear his gaze away from her when she reappeared in her undergarment. He couldn't decide if it was rude to stare or a bigger disservice not to. She didn't deserve to be ogled like a creature behind bars, but she was nothing short of ethereal stepping out of the trees like that. He'd always found her beautiful, but there was little time for admiring her while they were hiding their indiscretions. He figured his expression was somewhere near 'gobsmacked' and made an effort to compose himself. It was difficult. Harder still not to wrap an arm around her when she sat close. The want for physical contact came easily, but little about their relationship so far was easy.

She spoke before he'd managed to find his tongue, which was a relief, and it was an easy question. "Always." He could imagine few things he wouldn't be willing to do for her, if there were any. Some of the tension ran out of him at her request, the tension of not closing that small, final gap between them. It was the permission he needed to wrap an arm around her, press a kiss against her hair. "Yes. Always," he repeated, quietly but with emphasis, in answer to her second question. There was never any question of her welcome with him, but he understood the trepidation, the vulnerability of asking, since he felt it himself. They'd shared a bed, but the rest of this was all new.

She had sensed his gaze on her more than anything else, allowing it to warm her and embolden her in spite of the chill of the water drying on her skin and from her sparse clothing.  Feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious at the weight of it, she kept her head down until she’d made her tentative request.  Once he embraced her willingly, breathing just a single and perfect word toward his acceptance, any reticence disappeared immediately.  

Instead, she was left with something a little closer to lust, deep affection and longing mixed in.  Everything she had been disallowing herself flooded her senses at once, with his lips to her hair, and it was the best kind of overwhelming.

For a moment, this warmth was familiar.  Whatever it was between them burned freely and unchecked in her, his kiss the spark that lit a flame.  

She pressed her mouth to his neck, the closest skin available, and recalled him by not only warmth, but also taste.  She recognized that she was being terribly forward, and perhaps a little brazen, but she couldn’t stop herself.  

They were free.  

While it wasn’t absolute freedom, it was enough for now.  She could lavish him with affection based on nothing more than feeling, and it wouldn’t be undermined by fear of discovery or reprisal.  The only demand on their time was the schedule they set.  While it was possible Arthur, and many others, were wounded or dead – they had escaped.  When separated from the negative emotions, it was freeing and lightness and perhaps even a little joyful.  She could, and did, pour all of that into each touch of her lips to his skin, until she found his mouth.

Perhaps she wasn’t ready to speak the words aloud, but she was ready to at least reveal herself in a kiss.

I love you.

He didn't have time, at the moment, to ponder on why she should feel self-conscious, but in the many long hours of travel that lay ahead of them, he would have more than enough time to mull it over. He saw her unsure of herself so rarely that he hadn't been certain that was what it was until she'd spoken. Perhaps, in trying not to overwhelm her with his own affections, he had not been clear enough in his declarations. Or, perhaps, it had little to do with his affections at all. Distance and all that had transpired since their flight from Camelot had slightly altered his perspective of their king (as, he suspected, Arthur now felt very differently about both of them). He couldn't come right out and criticize him yet, not even in his thoughts, but he knew that much of Guinevere and Arthur's marriage had not been happy. It would leave its mark as surely as anything else they had been through.

In the moment, her hesitation was gone so quickly he could almost believe he'd imagined it. The warmth and longing that took its place was both familiar and not. It had every forbidden touch and stolen kiss in it, without the fear of discovery or the regret of having to part too soon. They had time. They had no audience to play for. They were days from Camelot with no sign of pursuit. He happened to enjoy both forward and brazen from her. It had always been that way between them, quick to ignite and overwhelm his senses. Some of the guilt and regret slid from his shoulders with each brush of her lips. He'd betray anyone a thousand times to have her in his arms. They slid easily around her when her lips reached his, and he lifted her gently onto his lap to deepen the kiss.

In addition to all the the other things that were new or unusual about their current unusual situation, one thing she couldn’t remember them doing in the past is lingering.  Public exchanges couldn’t be too lingering, too overly familiar though they were known to be good friends.  Private exchanges had more of everything, but still couldn’t last for too long lest someone notice one or the other was missing.

This, though, wasn’t desperate or pressured.  This was unhurried, pure desire, unchecked by anything else.  This was something entirely new, something she hadn’t always known she’d wanted until she had it.  While she wasn’t thinking of Arthur in concrete terms as she shifted in Lancelot’s lap and kissed him back with a raw hunger that couldn’t be planned, she knew she’d never felt this way before.  The only shadows of it she’d had were with the man beneath her now. It didn’t matter if it were too cool or too warm, if her clothing was sparse and still damp from her bath, if they were in the woods or the ocean.  She couldn’t have cared less about the elements than she did presently.  She poured everything she could into their exchange, everything she needed to burn through to feel well again.  Love, guilt, passion, tenderness, anger, frustration – it bled out of her as she kissed him back with increasing chaos.  She needed this, for so many reasons, and she was dedicated to not naming a single one, but to giving and taking in equal measure.   It felt like a consecration, a vow, something solid to hold onto and keep, and she willed him to escalate it somehow.

So much had changed since the last time he'd kissed her like this. It had never been clearer that whatever was between them had also changed. This wasn't longing glances from across a crowded room or stolen kisses behind closed doors with the threat of discovery hanging over them. It also didn't feel like a desperate attempt to escape from their current circumstances, or at least not only that. The part of him that wondered if she chose to leave with him merely because she had no other choice but to stay and die melted under the heat of that kiss. What it felt like was, finally, the freedom to choose each other. Up until now, he hadn't been totally sure of her choice.

She poured everything into it, and he gave it all back: the longing, the wondering, the waiting, the fear of losing her, his total certainty that he would always want her over everything. His hands slid beneath her garment, seeking and warming skin still chilled from the damp. It had momentarily slipped his mind that they were outside, although it might not have mattered regardless. He couldn't be counted on to hold onto his reason when it came to Guinevere, and there was plenty he could do without undressing her completely.

[horrortoyou]

The Best Horror Movies of 2018 So Far

best horror movies  of 2018

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Hot damn, 2018 is turning out to be one serious year for repulsiveness. Around this time a year ago, Blumhouse had just conveyed the one-two punch of Split and Get Out, and that was just the beginning of a string of frightfulness hits that finished in IT turning into the most noteworthy earning blood and gore flick ever. So it's sheltered to state this year beyond any doubt has a ton to satisfy, however with the absolute most foreseen titled of the year still on the docket, it's as of now simple to see this is a standout amongst the most energizing and effective years with sickening apprehension history.

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The lineup has run the range from educated and existential fear to shocking retribution spine chillers and abuse twisted loathsomeness comic drama. We've discussed "raised repulsiveness," did the calmest popcorn chomping ever in A Quiet Place, recollected the amount we cherish Nicolas Cage, and delved profound into discussions over testing films like Annihilation and Hereditary. It's been an extremely solid year for the class, to be sure.

We're keeping this rundown bound to films that have been discharged in 2018 — be it dramatically, carefully or on a spilling administration — so you won't perceive any unreleased celebration top choices on here, yet we'll be refreshing the rundown consistently. Also, with movies like Halloween and Suspiria on the docket, we have a ton to anticipate,

Unsane.

A producer who's never substance to avoid any risk, Steven Soderbergh chose to handle enormous thoughts with little means in Unsane, another mental blood and gore flick shot totally on an iPhone (however as a matter of fact with some huge spending focal points and programming). The organization may appear to be a hacky contrivance, however in Soderbergh's grasp, it works, conveying a bizarre closeness to the skewed story of biting suspicion and society's preposterous hesitance to trust ladies. Claire Foy proceeds with her ascent to the best as Sawyer Valentini, a youthful agent who moves to another city after a frightening knowledge with a stalker. When she begins seeing him wherever once more, she starts to scrutinize her very own existence, and after an as well fair treatment session, she coincidentally concedes to a psychological healing facility where she could possibly be caught with the man she's endeavoring to get away. Soderbergh plays with your brain, and that is a large portion of the fun, however it's the manner in which he jabs and goads at the experience of uneasiness and entanglement that makes Unsane such a viable excursion down the rabbit opening. It tends to be somewhat obtuse and schlocky at minutes, yet when Unsane burrows at a nerve, it generally hits, making for a greatly frightening knowledge.

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Mother and Dad

For the wonky, wild awfulness drama Mom and Dad Nicolas Cage reunites with Brian Taylor, who co-coordinated Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, and the broadly OTT performing artist is unmistakably having a great time in the anarchic film. Mother and Dad pursues a suburbs gone to damnation when a puzzling mass insanity plunges on the guardians of the populace, giving them a voracious want to kill their own kids. It's an ideal corruption of the common request, and everybody on board has a fabulous time with the idea, hamming it up and inclining toward the blandness with jazzed merriment. Taylor knows precisely what sort of motion picture he's creation, keeping the run time trim and conveying various camp-frightfulness successions that keep the gathering of people smiling and squirming all through, including a doozy of an appearance from Lance Henrikson and the best utilization of Selma Blair's abilities in 10 years. Mother and Dad is a midnight motion picture to boot and it works so well since it never endeavors to be whatever else.

Veronica

After three [REC] films, executive Paco Plaza is back behind the focal point of another component film, something that shares some comparative characteristics with the [REC] establishment (short [REC] 3 Genesis), particularly the style, yet in addition how vulnerable Plaza can make a watcher feel inside a specific account. Notwithstanding, there's additionally one champion quality that makes the story profoundly close to home and lifts the force of the film by and large – an extremely solid hero. Veronica was roused by an unsolved case including a young lady who passed on not long after utilizing an Ouija board. In Plaza's film, the title character played by Sandra Escacena does only that and what pursues is to a great degree agitating, however it's Veronica's ground-breaking association with her three more youthful kin that ups the stakes ten times. It's a chilling, personal and exceptionally climatic experience that adds amazingly, one more thing to the endless rundown of motivations to avoid Ouija sheets. — Perri Nemiroff

Load

Immediately, Cargo has outstanding amongst other theoretical snares of any blood and gore flick this year — a man chomped by a zombie has merely hours to locate a sheltered place for his baby girl in the end of the world before he turns. It's basic, it's solid, and you're in a split second intruiged — luckily, it's additionally supported by a pitch-ideal execution from Martin Freeman and a delightfully shot take a gander at provincial Australia that gives the zombie kind a truly necessary new setting. Freeman stars Andy, the dad being referred to, executives Ben Howling and Yolanda Ramke furnish the performer with the ideal job for his reality fatigued aura, giving him a ton to bite on in a quieted, driven execution. Savvy with being excessively shrewd for its own great, Cargo relies on the groups of onlookers comprehension of how zombie films function, without turning into a meta-critique, or, in other words change of pace in a class that is simply beginning to break out of a time of staleness.

The Ritual

It's been a long sit tight for David Bruckner's first element film, however luckily, it was justified, despite all the trouble. The movie producer behind champion sections in Signal and V/H/S made his element make a big appearance this year with The Ritual, a Netflix unique that dives into the well of disgrace and lament to mine piercing, unmistakably grown-up dread. Goodness, and there's a quite extraordinary beast as well. The Ritual pursues four companions into the forested areas, where they adventure out grieve the passing of a dear companion, yet once they're there, a spindly, hardly observed animal frequents them consistently. Bruckner takes as much time as is needed building the dread, offering brief looks at their colossal stalker and utilizing the common cover of the backwoods further bolstering his good fortune in organizing his alarms, and between the chilling takes a gander at the animal, he takes as much time as is needed fleshing out the injury shared by these old companions and the contentions that would undermine to shred them regardless of whether they weren't being chased by an extraordinary power. The final product is a develop, downplayed blood and guts film that gradually settles in under your skin.

Overhaul

Saw and Insidious co-maker Leigh Whannell conveys his present for chilling ideas to the science fiction classification with Upgrade, a propulsive impact of technophobic fear that joins activity, loathsomeness, and sci-fi to wind up a standout amongst the most engaging movies of the year. Set in a not very new future where self-driving autos and bio-tech inserts twist a generally relatable image of the world, Upgrade pursues Gray Trace (Logan Marshall-Green) on a mission of retribution after a gathering of culprits murder his significant other and abandon him deadened starting from the waist. Everything changes when he's acquainted with STEM, a PC chip embed that enables Gray to move again, yet substantially quicker and superior to anything he at any point did previously, and not generally inside his control. Relying on a totally dazzling physical and passionate execution from Marshall-Green, Upgrade is part tech awfulness, part body frightfulness, and kick ass completely through, showing some savvy course from essayist/performer/maker turned-chief Whannell and demonstrating by and by that this person has a talent for snappy kind thoughts. In the event that you missed it, try searching this one out at home, since it's one of the most slender, meanest old fashioned science fiction rushes of the most recent decade and in a simply world, Marshall-Green's execution would be all the rage.

Vengeance

French movie producer Coralie Fargeat creates a treat shaded, sun-soaked bad dream of survival and retaliation in her singing directorial make a big appearance Revenge. Succintly titled and snappy to summon the oft-dull custom of the assault exact retribution subgenera, Revenge offers a more instinctive, refined, and a la mode turn on the material that never shies from its abuse roots. Flipping the male look on its head in a demonstration of subversive viewpoint moving, Fargeat challenges the crowd to denounce her explicitly uninhibited hero, Jen (Matilda Lutz), for her short skirts and Lolita-designed enchantment. While on a sentimental escape with her wedded sweetheart, the platinum blonde wannabe on-screen character teases and displays, sucking on a candy and granulating on her darling's companions, however when the snapshot of infringement arrives, it conveys a striking censure to injured individual disgracing and "what was she wearing?" attitude, uncovering the attack for what it genuinely is — the activity of a couple of frail, entitled, and frantic men. From that point on, Revenge is a jamboree of bloodletting as Jen first tries to get away, at that point survive, and at last overwhelm her attackers in a fierce, blood-heaving representation of resurrection.

Chilly Hell

A fighting Giallo return by method for sex bowed Taxi Driver, Cold Hell is a motor, kickass wrongdoing spine chiller of the most elevated request with a thick damp with sweat sheen of black market grime. Violetta Schurawlow conveys a breakout execution as Özge, an unpleasant cabbie in Vienna, where she spends her evenings grabbing rough and brutal clients, fuelling her inward anger with each new pickup — seethe she doles out every day in her Thai boxing club. When she returns home after another exhausting night in the driver's seat, she observes a grim homicide, and when the killer witnessess her as well, he sets his sights on Özge as his next unfortunate casualty. But, she is the keep going lady on earth you need to upset. Established in prejudice, sex and religion, Cold Hell has more to state than your normal thick spine chiller, and coordinated by Oscar-winning movie producer Stephan Ruzowitzky (The Counterf