#god these are some potent brain worms

[soot-and-salt]

Staring in horror at We Should've Been Enemies as I realize that with two parts left to go, this thing is going to clock in at over 50,000 words.

A full ass Nanowrimo.

How the fuck did I do this to myself.

[dolicekiss]

Hi, how are you? I have a request about Le Chiffre. Female reader and her male colleague are undercover agents for MI6 to get Le Chiffre but he found out who they really are and kidnapped them but Le Chiffre wants to give to the female reader a personal interrogation by himself, warning:non-con, what do you think?

Captured

♡: noncon + le chiffre is the perfect combo tbh i love it

cw: smut (18+, mdni please), noncon, kidnapping, torture, death threats, unprotected sex, impact play, breath play, forced kissing, use of restraints, degrading, throat fucking, oral (male receiving), knife play

Staying in the same hotel as Le Chiffre was no coincidence, it was all planned. Being an undercover agent had its own privileges and advantages, such as staying in luxurious hotels at the expense of the Government.

Your counterpart — another agent helped when it came to use of strength while you were the brain. Le Chiffre was your aim and bringing him alive were your orders. Killing him wouldn't do the world any good because of the potent information he kept concealed in his brain.

You flipped through the pages of magazine, looking at the man swimming in the pool through your cartier glasses.

He had his little blonde girlfriend on the side but she was too occupied with tanning to pay attention to Le Chiffre. You, on the other hand, decided to make your move by standing up and sauntering towards the pool.

Unwrapping the shawl from around your hips, you tossed it and then slid into the pool like a snake. Eyeing your prey like a hawk, you swan around in the blue clean water.

Le Chiffre noticed you when you swam, arms moving like a writhing worm. You could feel his gaze on you and you didn't make eye contact, acting oblivious to him but you knew you'd captured his attention. The whole plan was to seduce him, bring him to your hotel room and get your male agent to knock him out.

But things were not as simple as they seemed.

He stared at you, drinking in your appearance.

You were beautiful, that was for sure. Your frame crafted by the hands of gods themselves, skin untainted like a canvas for him to paint on. Hair like some new creature found in the water, swirling around. You were a beauty and you knew that, hence you used it to your advantage.

You had the allure and Le Chiffre felt the attraction bloom.

You pushed yourself under the water, a small grin on your face before twirling and swimming back up to the surface. Your dance was enticing, how swiftly you moved your little body in the water.

You soon left the pool, walking out of the area with a little towel around you. Le Chiffre’s gaze followed you like you were the prey here.

You found your way to your hotel room and when you shut the door, your colleague greeted you.

“How was it?”

You rolled your eyes. “So far it looks like he wants to eat me.”

Your colleague laughed, obviously satisfied that the plan was working. You were the most beautiful of agents the MI6 had, a strong weapon they used to weaken strong and powerful men.

You decided to take a shower, taking your dress inside. After you were finished with the shower, you dressed up and left the bathroom only to find the room deserted. Not thinking much of it, you moved to the vanity and took a seat infro of the mirror.

Your colleague had probably left for downstairs, maybe to work on something.

You didn't pay it mind — your unawareness of the danger making you vulnerable. You reached for the brush to untangle your wet hair and then something in the corner of your eye moved.

A black shadow.

Your head snapped in its direction but to your disappointment, there was nothing. Empty space by the curtain of the balcony.

“I'm definitely stressed.” You whispered to yourself, in hopes of reassuring yourself but your horrors were brought to life when suddenly black clouded your vision.

You weren't even given time to struggle or react — as you were knocked with the hilt of a gun and rendered unconscious.

— ♡ —

Awaken by a splash of cold water across your face, you jolted up and regained consciousness in a split second. Your body shivered as your vision got used to your surroundings.

You felt tightening in your wrists and realized you were tied up, hanging from the ceiling.

“Look who's awake.”

You moved your gaze up to find Le Chiffre standing before you, one hand slipped inside his pocket. His maroon silk tie complimenting his black suit, a sparking contrast and seemingly the only color in this rusty, dirty room.

Your throat was parched and a throbbing sensation banged at the back of your skull.

This couldn't be.

Your cover could not be blown out, not like this. Unless someone actually outed you to him and you were clueless to who it was. Your colleague was also missing, probably taken captive by Le Chiffre and his men.

You struggled against the rope from which you hung from but that only worked to strain your arms even more. An agonizing hiss left your lips and Le Chiffre smirked, stepping closer until he was standing right in front of you.

He looked up at you, tilting his head.

“You thought your little swan dance in the pool would distract me?” He had genuine amusement in his gaze. “I have no lack of women willing to throw themselves at me. You're not special.”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your mouth.

“I wouldn't even let you touch me with a ten feet pole.” You spat, furry awakening in your gaze.

Le Chiffre’s amusement only increased. “I didn't say I wouldn't touch you. You're a gorgeous woman.”

You flinched when his glove covered hand extended out to brush the wet strands of hair sticking to your forehead. His touch made you cringe and you turned your face away from him, glaring at the crumbling paint on the wall.

Le Chiffre’s scarred eye twitched.

“I brought you here to interrogate you but I must say, your beauty is a distraction.”

You wanted to punch him. If he'd attempted to fight you rather than attacking you from behind, you would've definitely taken him down. Le Chiffre had no morals other than money and making money.

The man was as shallow as a fucking sea shell.

“How did you know..?” You asked, curiosity biting at your abdomen.

He scratched his temple with a finger, walking around you in a stable circle like some animal stalking its prey. “I have spies everywhere, you think I wouldn't know MI6 agents trying to threaten my business?”

You inhaled, apprehension threatening to break your demeanor.

Le Chiffre’s hand moved up to your hair, his fingers tangling in it and tugging your head back. You winced at the striking pain in your scalp, glaring down at him. He only chuckled, tightening his grip.

“Fuck you.” You spat, fury swimming in your blurry eyes.

Le Chiffre tilted his head. “Yeah? I do the fucking here, mon cheri.”

He reached over to the metal rod which held the rope tightly around him. He undid it, watching you fall back on the ground with a loud thud. Your body ached from the abrupt fall and you whimpered — your elbow stinging because of the skin scraping against the concrete.

You looked at the skin and found your elbow to be bleeding and the air clinging to it only made it sting more.

Le Chiffre pulled you up by your hair, forcing you to get on your knees. Thankfully you were in casual clothes so the sweatpants helped protect your knees from grazing over the floor and possibly ending up with the same fate as your elbow.

Your hands flew to grab his wrists, trying to push him off you but the man didn't budge at all. Le Chiffre glared down at you, anger visible in his eyes.

“What information have you transferred regarding me? Trust me when I say I won't ask again, especially this nicely.”

You stayed silent and then your cheek hurt — a stinging sensation spreading through the flesh. Your head had moved to the side from the powerful impact. Le Chiffre had slapped you and you knew more was to come.

“You don't want to open your mouth? Fine.”

One hand gripping your hair tightly, the other frantically reached for the black zipper of his dress pants. Your eyes widened in horror as he unzipped his pants, hand shuffling inside and soon pulling out his hardened cock.

Panic consumed you as well as screaming fear.

“If you won't open your mouth to speak, then you'll open it to suck my fucking cock.” Le Chiffre’s rough hand grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks causing a pout to form on your lips. You still didn't budge, staying firm and resilient.

In result of that, Le Chiffre slapped you once more. This time causing your lower lip to bust, droplets of blood streaming down your chin and smearing over your lips. Tears emerged over your waterline from the sheer pressure and force of his hits, causing you to finally comply and part your lips.

He brought his cock head, driving it into your mouth and you braced yourself. You wished to fight back — desperately but you knew better. All at his mercy, you could only whimper around his cock as it breached the entrance of your mouth. You felt him glide across your tongue, making way into your throat.

Attempting to breathe through your nose, your small hands banged at his thighs but Le Chiffre didn't care. He continued breaching your throat, fucking himself deeper into it and tears welled up — vision becoming a messy blur. Both his hands rested atop your head, fingers tangled in your hair.

Then your nightmare began.

He pulled out, only to slam his cock deeper into your mouth and your throat constricted, sending jolts of pleasure down his loins. Le Chiffre threw his back, drilling his cock rapidly and you choked, gagging sounds filling up the room. No amount of pressure or slaps to his thighs and knees made him falter.

He continued fucking your mouth with sheer dedication and your eyelids fluttered shut, forcing tears to slide down your face. Your tongue laid flaccid, welcoming his thick cock to caress it. Your sobs and choked sounds echoed and Le Chiffre could only groan, his own matching with yours.

The evil man lifted one hand from your head, moving it in front of your face. He pinched your nose together, cutting off your air supply and all access to oxygen. Your face began to turn blue, shoulders squirming as you pleaded him with your blurry gaze.

Le Chiffre held your face against his pelvis, your nose buried in his neatly trimmed pubic hair as you continuously fought to breathe through either your mouth or your nose, forbidden to inhale any air.

“Fuck, what a tight throat you've got, mon cheri.” He panted like some wild animal, reaching his end. When he shot rope after rope inside your mouth, you weren't even given chance to spit it out. Bubbles of saliva and cum formed when the man fucked his cock thoroughly into your throat to push down the remains of his climax.

Forcing you to swallow it.

When he watched you gulp, a satisfied grin plastered on his face. His one eye sparkling with malice. “Look at yourself. Lips swollen, face red and my cum dripping down your chin. This is where disobedience gets you, whore.”

You flinched at the insult, glaring at him with a busted lip and swollen lips. He enjoyed that, how rebellious you were despite the vulnerable situation you were in right now. Le Chiffre chuckled and kicked your thigh, causing you to lose balance.

You fell back, on your tied hands glued behind your back and a painful wince left you.

Le Chiffre got on top of you, his weight supported his knees resting on each side of you. Thankfully the man was kind enough to not crush you and you watched with panic filled eyes as he shuffled through his pocket and retrieved a blade. Your eyes enlarged upon locking eyes with the weapon, glinting against the dim light.

“No..”

Le Chiffre scoffed. “Relax, I'm not going to kill you. It is to rid you of these clothes.”

You swallowed, shaking your head but you were allowed little to say in this matter. He reached for your collar, grabbed the white shirt and stabbing it with the tip of his sharp blade. It gave him enough space to dig his fingers into it and tug at it, ripping the shirt.

You were bare underneath the shirt and a gasp left you. Your peaks hardening and Le Chiffre groped you with his gloved hands, fondling the fat and toying with it. His touch harsh and rough. You tried to wriggle but to no avail.

“Stop fighting back.” It was an order, his tone serious and dark. “Do you want me to fuck you or all my guards?”

You didn't say anything, only weept as the monster on top of you grabbed your face, fingers dimpling in your cheeks. “Answer me, brat.”

“Y-You.” You whispered but he still didn't seem satisfied. “I want you to fuck me.”

Le Chiffre smiled, nodding his head and releasing your face but not before tapping your cheek lightly. “Good girl. You can be obedient, huh.”

“Asshole.” You couldn't hold back your tongue and Le Chiffre went silent. He didn't say anything, instead pulled your sweats down and no matter how much you kicked and struggled, he still managed to get them off you and reveal you to him. Your dark panties were ripped apart too, leaving you in completely nothing.

You didn't want to beg him but you had to, to try your luck. Tears fell furiously and you looked at him. “Let me go, please. I would not say a word about this to anyone. I will leave MI6 and never look back, please.”

He didn't care for your empty or full promises, being too far gone into his lust for you. The darkness that he kept concealed behind his one good eye, while the scarred one carried remnants of it.

He forcefully pinned your legs down with his, aligning his cock with your hole. Le Chiffre spat in his hand and rubbed it across your glistening slit, fingers prodding at your swollen bud and you whined — back arching off the bed. Your lips, parted released the sweetest sounds and he couldn't wait to hear you make more with his cock inside you.

Le Chiffre guided his thick cock head into your hole, allowing you to adjust to his size and once you had, he snapped his hips and filled you up with his entire length in one go.

Your face contorted, full of pain and you struggled. Forcing your shoulders into him, trying to push him off you and Le Chiffre having enough of this constant resistance, brought the blade to your throat. Brows scrunched and lines ceased in his forehead.

“You fucking move one more time, I will not waste a single second slitting your damn throat and fucking your dead cunt.” His threats made you quiver and you calmed down, sobs growing louder.

Le Chiffre pried open your thighs, holding them like that as he fucked his cock into your cunt. He loved how tight you were, gripping him like a vice and he relished in the pleasure of you. Groans and moans falling from his lips as he drove deeper and deeper into you, each thrust earning loud whimpers out of you.

The force of his thrust was such — he had your body surging forward. The blade managed to cut into your skin, only the first layer, blood leaking out. The stinging sensation was ignored and overpowered by the feeling you felt in your pussy.

“God, such a perfect pussy.” Le Chiffre groaned, sweaty bangs hovering over his forehead. “Oh I'm keeping you. All for myself, mon cheri. Your delicious cunt will accompany me on cold nights.”

Your pain covered face formed into a pleasure one, imitating Le Chiffre’s heated expressions as the sound of his cock slapping into your gummy walls reverberated. You cried, wailed even while he made home inside your sweet cunt. Repeatedly hitting that spongy spot of yours to draw out an orgasm — similar to his.

The man raised his hand and landed it across your breasts, making you flinch and gasp out at the impact. Heavy and painful, you stared at him in surprise but were given no time as he began to pummel his cock into you. Watching how his cock head bulged against your taut stomach.

You were breathless, bruised, a little bloodied and drained.

Yet he had not enough.

Le Chiffre dug his nails into your hips, searing pain welcoming you as he tore the barrier of your skin and made you bleed. Cock pounding into you and you sobbed, trying to reach out for him but your hands were still tied into that fucking rope. Your stomach tightened, walls sucking him in. Squelching sounds filling you with repulsion.

Your orgasm broke free with tremendous intensity as your eyes rolled back and your thighs shook, body riled up. Hot white coursed through you and as you cried out your orgasm, Le Chiffre came too. His thrusts slowly, only for a moment to ride out his climax within you.

“Oh my god.” He groaned, head thrown back as he began to fuck you with newfound vigor which caught you off guard. “Pretty pussy, such a pretty pussy. Can't wait to fill you up with my cum.”

You felt his warm seed shoot into your womb, rope after rope. Each one more thicker and fuller than the one before. The moment he was finished with you, he inhaled long breaths — bated and shuddered. His body still possessed enough strength to stay stable above you while yours twitched profusely from the abuse you'd suffered.

Broken and numb, your gaze focused somewhere else other than his face. Knowing you would find no empathy, not a sign of regret or remorse on his face. It was best to shut your mind off, only frail and worthless tears sliding down your temple.

”I'm not done with you yet, but I'll let you regain your energy. There's more, mon cheri.”

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 12: Growth

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.5K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

You stare into the pale Elf’s vibrantly red eyes as he holds the razor-sharp edge of his dagger against your neck, which he seems to be looking at rather too ardently for your liking. You frown at him, struggling against his hold on you. He’s stronger than he appears at first glance. You knew this man was bad news as soon as you laid eyes on him. You’ll never be able to comprehend why you thought it was a lovely idea to turn your back on this stranger and walk away.

Perhaps you can blame it on being tired, having a worm thrust into your eye socket, falling out of the sky, or your head injury that smarts fierce and unforgivingly under the baking heat of the noonday sun.

You’re about to burn him to a crisp for this attack, but as you gaze into those eyes, your soul sparks with recognition you can’t place. You know this man, somehow, but you’re sure you’ve never seen him before.

The way he leers at you almost makes you giggle. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

Fear. You can see it plainly, hidden behind this facade of confidence. Your arm holds the dagger's tip steady as the steel kisses your neck. Keeping your voice as balanced as you can, you retort, “You have it backwards - they took me prisoner, just like you.”

“Don’t lie to me. I - agh.”

Your mind twists. Gods. The squirming behind your eye is beyond uncomfortable as it moves your brain matter around. You close your eyes and surrender to the sensation. It seems like the only option lest whatever is wiggling might break open your skull like a melon. A vision is steadily anthropomorphized. You’re looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold onto the memory, but it fades, and you’re left with the light and a potent fear that makes your stomach churn.

“What was that?” The pale Elf stares at you with a suspicious glower. The tenor of his voice increases. You recognize distress when you hear it. You better proceed carefully, or you’re going to wind up with a blade in your windpipe, ”What’s going on?”

Well, there’s no point in lying. Is there?

“It’s the mind flayer’s worm - it connected us."

His grip on you eases as he draws the pointed tip of the dagger away. You think about asking him if he recognizes you or if you’ve met before, but there’s nothing in his demeanour to indicate such. Have you hit your head far worse than you thought, and it’s scrambled your brain like an egg?

“You’re not one of them. They took you, just the same as me.” His scowl eases and becomes… artificial amusement? Real amusement? This man is decidedly hard to read. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

Apologies? Apologies?! Is that really all he has to offer you after he dragged you to the ground with a godsdamned dagger? He’s lucky you didn’t hail fire from the fucking sky! Gods. You want to punch him in his pointy, pale, beautiful face.

Well, I was contemplating burning him to death.

“Apology accepted.” You hiss at him, dusting off your robe. There’s sand in your mouth, gritty against your teeth. It makes you want to punch him all the more, “I might have done the same if roles were reversed.”

He chuckles at your taunting, “Ah, a kindred spirit.” He leers at you with a haughty glower, “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

The streets were familiar as the vision played out behind your eyelids. If the glimpse wasn’t enough to convince you that he’s telling the truth about his origins, his accent does.

“I’m a Baldurian as well,” you glower back at him, meeting his arrogance with your own.

“Is that so? We clearly move in different circles.” You roll your eyes at his pompous intonation. “So, do you know anything about these worms?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” You hesitate but decide truth is the best course of action. He might as well know what he’s up against, “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”

“Turn us into - ha. Hahaha!” You jolt at his mordant laughter like a giggle at a funeral. There’s such a deep sadness woven between the facade cracking. “Of course, it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?”

Your heated palms itch. Not with the draconic fire that squirms underneath the thin skin, but to reach out to him, to comfort this total stranger who has been nothing but a pain in your ass since you met him moments ago. So, why do you desperately want to hug him?

What in the Hells is wrong with me? Good Gods.

He continues with an abstract hopefulness, “Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time.”

“Control it?” You scoff and quirk a brow, shaking your head. Control the worm? No. You need to fucking expel it immediately! You lean forward and resist the urge to poke his chest, which you are currently trying to imagine without that lovely doublet. You shake your head again, trying to rid yourself of your thoughts, “We need to get rid of it!”

“Well yes, of course,” he drawls as if you’re an idiot. With the way you’re acting and thinking, you begin to wonder if your head wound is worse than you thought, “But first things first.”

“You should travel with me.” The words are blundering out of your mouth before you have time to consider what you’re asking. He’s already been enough trouble, and you’re requesting more, but maybe, if you’re lucky, you will see him shirtless… Fuck! What in the Hells is wrong with you? You clear your throat, “Our odds are better together.”

“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.” Astarion, this pale Elf you don’t know but somehow recognize, sizes you up as you frown at him, “And you seem like a useful person to know. All right,” he bows shallowly, “I accept, lead on.”

A useful person to know?

Ah. Yes. Of course. He’s one of those. He does not see you as another living being. No. You know his kind well. He sees you as a tool he can use to implement his liberation from your new friend who’s currently in a competition with your brain matter for space in your skull.

You walk a couple of steps before your outrage gets the best of you, and you whirl on him, fire in your palm and the Weave aglow in your eyes, “You said your name was Astarion, correct?”

“Yes,” his hand moves toward the dagger’s hilt at his hip. “That’s correct.”

“Don’t make any sudden moves, Astarion,” you snarl and toss Firebolt as close to his toes as you can without burning him.

“Ah,” he puts his hands up in an innocent gesture. You’re sure it’s merely a placation so that you let your guard down. His voice is as smooth as butter and warm as daylight, “I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, yes? I apologized. What more do you want? I’m all out of wine and chocolates - I’m afraid.”

“Listen closely, Rogue,” you try to hide the insecurity you’re feeling behind an illusion of poise. “If you ever put another knife to my throat, if I have even a suspicion you might, I will reduce you to dust.”

“Oh, sorceress,” Astarion smirks, cavalier and handsome, “I would love to see you try, you brute. I don’t fancy your chances. I know a thousand ways to kill you before you can so much as utter an incantation, but I digress. You’re welcome to try, of course. You’ll find I am particularly hard to kill.”

You scoff, holding your hand in his view as fire edges over your fingers, up your arm, and back before petering out. “Who said anything about incantations? I hope you’re as good with that blade as you seem to think you are.”

“I assure you, I am. I’ve had more practice than you can possibly imagine,” he turns his nose up, puffing his chest out in bravado that makes you want to deflate that cocksure attitude.

You roll your eyes, stalking away toward the wreckage. You need to find supplies, coin, food-

“Ah-ah, sorceress!” Astarion chimes behind you with a jeering lilt that makes you close your eyes and curse under your breath as your patience wears incredibly thin.

Gods, give me strength.

“What?”

“Hells. You’re a snappy one. Are you always this rude?” He quips. “Do you have a name, or shall I just continue calling you sorceress, brute, shrew….”

“SHREW?!” You cut him off, trying very hard to hide your amusement but finally relenting and dissolving into raving laughter.

“I fail to see what’s so funny,” he peers around, crossing his arms, jutting a hip out. He’s obviously not accustomed to his jeers being scorned, but you’re not some soft-hearted juvenile.

“If you mean to upset me,” you giggle as he glares disdainfully, “you will have to try much harder than that. Until you can come up with a worthwhile slight, you may call me Kamena.”

“Kamena…” Something flashes in Astarion’s ruby-red eyes, dazzling and animated in the sunlight. His lips rap together as if he’s sampling how your name feels on his tongue. He shakes his head, sweeping the perplexity furrowing his brow away, “I would say it’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying. Now, if you’re quite done threatening me, may I suggest we get a move on?”

The spoon in your hand idly churns the thick, pasty curds of the cold porridge that was supposed to be your breakfast. You stare, disconnected and disgusted by the thought of consuming any form of nourishment despite the grumbles in your stomach indicating that you’re hungry. You slump in the chair, pushing the bowl away from you with a grimace. Your appetite is insufficient, and you can’t conjure the will to shove a spoonful of the algid, viscus goop into your mouth.

Days have turned into anxious nights with naught a syllable uttered between you and Astarion. Your heart is heavy in your chest with longing and uncertainty.  He doesn’t come out of his room during the day and leaves late at night when he thinks you’ve fallen into your trance. Your nightmares have returned with a savage vengeance now that Astarion is no longer there to wake you from them before they start to escalate. Dark, puffy bags are beginning to extend under your eyes as you avoid slipping into your trance night after hopeless night. Your head spins misery like a web around your last interaction.

Perhaps I should have kept my feelings to myself.

“Sorceress,” Tara grumbles by your side, but you’re so tired her voice is forgotten as soon as it whispers over your ears. “Kamena!” She asserts more stridently, jolting you awake.

“What?” You snap at her, digging your fingernails into the table.

“You look weary,” Tara purrs soothingly. “What troubles you?”

“I did it,” you whisper, trying to swallow the heavy shadow of your heart constricting your throat. “I told Astarion how I felt. He has not spoken to me since.”

“I see,” she considers your words and then smirks as much as her little nose will allow. “So, now he is being the idiot.”

Even with tears welling in your eyes, seeping from the corners, mutinying your control, you laugh, “I suppose you could say that.”

“Did the vampire tell you he did not feel the same?” She looks at you softly with those green eyes that hold the wisdom of a sage in their depths.

“No. Nothing like that,” you say with a tremoring voice and shake your head. “He requested I give him space.”

“And this troubles you,” she cocks her head, “this request for solace?”

“No,” you try to find the words to explain your melancholy. “No, it’s not the space. I can give him that. It’s the avoidance. The silence. He is usually so hard to shut up.” You give a meek laugh and let your head drop into your hands. “I will never get this right, will I?”

“Come, idiot,” she tilts her head toward the door. “Take a walk with me, will you?”

Tara half flies, half-scampers beside you, leading you deep into the forest. Golden sunlight flickers gently through the canopy. A brisk wind shakes the withering leaves from the trees, and they float down around you in a shower of oranges, reds and yellows. She leads you into a small alcove. Her wings flutter as she lands, stretches and settles them.

“What are we doing out here, Tara?”

“Pick a tree and make it fall.” Tara’s eyes glimmer as bold and keen as a hawk. “It matters not how.”

The request is odd, even for her. You can’t begin to fathom why in the world she would drag your sleepless, sapped self out here to simply fell a tree. You grasp the Weave and let the peaceful force thread through your muscles, giving them a pleasant buzzing tingle that starts in your toes and gambles up your spine. The incantation rolls off your tongue like poetry and the electric blue of lightening hisses as the current churns around your fingers. Picking a tree far from you or Tara, the bolt strikes true right at the base with a resounding, echoing boom that causes birds to flit away from the high boughs.

Tara shakes off the splinters of timber your grand display deposited on her fur. “Did it make a sound, sorceress?”

“Are you deaf?” You scoff. Your ears are still ringing from the blast, “Yes, of course, it made a sound.”

“When a tree falls, it tells the forest the tale of its demise, yet its seeds will grow in silence,” she says softly like a purring lullaby. “Growth and creation are often quiet. Even in this silence, you and the vampire are still growing.”

Oh, Hells. This godsdamn cat.

Shit. Tressym.

Astarion sits in the dimly lit confines of his room with his head in his hands and fingers curled in his hair. Turmoil surges within him as long-dormant fears roil, unravelling a tapestry of overwhelming emotion. He scolds himself with a scoff. He’s being a fucking fool, but those catacombs of pain and darkness have once again cast their baleful spell on him. Old insecurities he thought he had conquered paralyze him.

Cazador’s words often float through the darkness in his room. Will he ever stop hearing his voice? How many years will it take for it to fade away, lost to time like the colour of his eyes?

“You are nothing but an insignificant little insect, my boy.”

"You are no one. A monster, a fiend, a creature that can never be loved.”

“You are an abomination, unworthy of affection or compassion.”

It’s not an easy thing to untangle the web that Cazador wove. There are so many knots, snares and tangles that he keeps getting caught on. He feels trapped in this bloody prison of his own making, bound by the chains of his past. Fear has become his warden, prattling doubts that feed on his shattered self, holding him captive. Why can he not leave these things behind? Why do they keep cropping up to plague him?

Gods. He yearns for her touch, the warmth of her embrace to melt away the ice that has solidified in his veins, but shadows loom over him like monstrous spectres, threatening to extinguish any hope of happiness.

He heard the snarky feline call him an idiot today, and he’s loathe to admit it, but she’s right. Two hundred years of being surrounded by lover after lover, victim after victim, and never did he feel any real connection. Not until he met her.

“You look dreadful in that colour, sorceress.” He tuts, clicking his tongue. “That robe is quite unsightly. It leaves much to be desired.”

“It’s a good thing that you already desire me so much then,” she turns, walking backward and taunts. “Perhaps this will stop you from drooling over me like a lovesick pup.”

“I do not drool!” He scoffs.

“You’re drooling over my very delectable neck right now.” She grins, caressing her buttery skin. She does have a very lovely, biteable neck. He would not mind another nibble.

“Gods. You wish.” He crosses his arms, glowering at her presumptuousness. “No one will drool over you if you keep wearing that.”

“I think Gale finds this robe particularly attractive,” she giggles, twirling to showcase the horror show of a garment.

He attempts to remain impassive and emotionless, but a scowl devours his features nonetheless. The wizard has been all over her since she pulled him out of that damned portal. He hoped that Gale might be deterred after their little late-night tryst. It didn’t seem to dissuade him any. He should not even care if she finds herself in the arms of another. Yet, the more he witnesses Gale, Wyll, Hells, even the Gith, ogling her, flirting with her, giving her those amorous looks and suggestive comments, the more it simply rubs him the wrong way. He cannot quite comprehend why. He’s never been a jealous man before. He tells himself it’s because they might ruin his “simple plan” if they gain her affections.

“That’s not a good thing, darling. Do you see that purple curtain he’s wearing?” he snorts, grimacing.

“Need I remind you that you were also wearing purple when we met?”

“Yes, but it looks decidedly fabulous on me,” he retorts. “You look like you're wearing a burlap sack.”

“Oh,” she brings a finger to her lips and cocks her head in an adorable fashion. “Now, that’s a great idea. I shall adorn a sack on our next outing for your viewing pleasure since you seem so utterly invested in my outfits.”

“Hells below.” He grumbles. She likely will do it to get a rise out of him. “By all means, embarrass yourself further. I care not. Just have the decency to leave me at camp so I don’t have to be seen with you.”

“You know what?” She giggles, her face crinkling with the delight of teasing him. “I’ll just take it off right now. Will that shut you up, or will I have to rescue you from drowning in a puddle of your own saliva?”

“First, I cannot drown. I do not need to breathe.” He huffs, sticking his nose in the air. “Second. I do not drool. Third. I’m calling your bluff. Surely, you would not disrobe right in the middle of the road.”

“Hmm.” She ponders with her eyes cast skyward, twinkling in the fading light. A mischievous glower splits her lips, “Challenge accepted.”

“What?”

She laughs as her fingers unlace the ties on her hideous robe. His mouth drops open. Surely, she will stop. Even if she doesn’t, surely, she’s wearing something more than her undergarments under that.

Right?

…. Right?!

It falls open as she fiddles with the last couple of ties, and he’s glad she’s not looking at him because his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. She is decidedly not wearing anything other than her undergarments, and fuck, she is not stopping. He swallows thickly. She is a sight to behold, but good Gods, he does not want anyone else to behold it!

She chuckles and throws the robe over her shoulders, letting it drop to the dusty ground in a puddle around her feet and saunters off with a provocative sway of her hips. It takes him a moment to regain his poise as she strolls down the road in nothing but her underclothes and tall boots.

“What are you doing?” He grabs her robe off the ground, shaking it off and jogging to her. “Are you out of your mind? There are Goblins, Gnolls, and, ugh, Gnomes, roaming all over these parts.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I am not shy, hm?” She laughs lightheartedly. “You’re gawking, Astarion.” She leans in close, swiping a thumb over the corners of his mouth, “And drooling.”

He swallows. He might be drooling a little, but he will never admit it.

“You, my dear, are intolerable sometimes.” He smirks. This woman is full of surprises. “Now, get dressed before I hold you down and redress you forcibly.”

“No, darling,” she tuts, mocking him and poking his chest. She purses her lips, glowering defiantly at him, “I don’t believe I will.”

“I will do it, sorceress,” he asserts with a low growl. “Do not tempt me.”

She giggles and takes off in a sprint through the trees. She calls back over her shoulder, “Consider yourself tempted, Rogue.”  

Day bleeds into nightfall, and you sit with your back pressed against the headboard of your bed, resting your chin on your knees as you make the fire transform into various shapes. Your ears seemingly twitch with every tick, tick, tick of the clock, which is maddening as it seems to mock every second spent without Astarion. You’ve considered breaking it several times, and tonight may be the night it meets its fiery end. You see a shadow crawling across the floor, and you jump to your feet on the mattress, looking for the offender. Your heartbeat reflexively patters in your chest as you scan the floor. Your door opens abruptly, and you yelp.

Astarion looks around and arches a brow. He leans a shoulder on the doorframe with a regaled smirk, “Let me guess,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You saw a spider.”

He knows you too well. His voice is a salve to the deafening silence, and for a moment, you just let the sound and sight of him wash over you.

“I saw the shadow of a spider,” you finally reply, eyes flicking toward the floor to make sure the errant arachnid is not crawling toward you. “I have yet to see that actual perpetrator.”

“Well,” Astarion giggles. “If you can calm the thumping of your heart. I could find this transgressor rather quickly.”

“It’s not funny, Astarion!” You scold him and cringe, “Have you seen all the legs?”

“On the contrary, darling. It’s fucking hilarious and entirely adorable.” Astarion strolls around your room with silent footsteps. He cocks his head, listening intently, “It’s under your bed.”

Fire instantly leaps to life on your fingers, and you wonder how angry Gale would be if you burned his manor to the ground. You feel like it might be justified.

“A little excessive, no?” Astarion’s hand covers yours, making you smother the flames. “Come, love.” He grabs your legs and throws you over his shoulder. “I will rescue you from this most deadly of foes.”

You giggle as Astarion strides down the hall to his room. He places you back onto your feet and closes his door. You nearly wrap your arms around him until you remember he asked for space. Instead, you fold your arms around yourself and shrink away, taking quick steps back.

He frowns at your retreat, and an awkward silence stretches between you. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant lately,” Astarion begins, breaking the silence, “I just needed time to-“

“Are you okay?” You don’t mean to cut him off, but you finally find your voice. Unfortunately, it means everything you’ve been holding in starts spewing out in a blundering regurgitation of words. “I’m sorry. It was perhaps an ill-judged confession. I don’t expect you to feel the same. Nothing will change between us if-“

Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cutting off your verbal vomit. He holds you close, your body perfectly pressed into the contours of his. He takes his time tasting you, savouring your flavour with an intimacy that makes your knees feel like hot jelly.

“Well,” he smirks, breaking off the kiss, leaving you once again breathless and wordless. “That always did work wonders to shut you up. Now, will you allow me to get a word in, or shall I keep kissing you until you forget what it is you were going to say?”

“I’ve sufficiently been shut up,” you say breathily.

“Good. Sometimes, your mouth is bigger than mine.” He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing all your fingers and palms, rubbing them comfortingly, “Cazador devoted much of his time to convincing us that we were nothing, that we did not matter - not to him, not to any of the Gods, and certainly not to anyone else, and the centuries proved him right, unfortunately. No one ever saw me, really saw me. They saw the rake, the persona I portrayed, and never thought to look any further than that - until you came along with that very darling neck, all your questions, and your objective stupidity.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Astarion puts his finger against your lips and tsks you, “Uh, uh. Patience, sweetheart. It never was your strength.”

His voice is trembling with a vulnerability he seldom allows himself to display. “My past… makes me believe that I am unworthy of such love, but more to the point, it makes me unworthy of you.”

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. Your features are a gentle portrait etched in a mix of concern and resolve. “Astarion,” you implore, reaching for his hand, “there is no past that can make you unworthy of love.”

“I have done… unspeakable things,” Astarion protests, casting his eyes away from you. “Things that will haunt me for eternity and beyond.”

“I’ll always be there to fight those phantoms of your past with you if you will allow me,” you assure, trying to keep your voice steady while tears streak down your hot cheeks. This is starting to sound a lot like a goodbye, and you’re not sure if you’re ready, “If you’re going to tell me you’re leaving, it’s okay. I understand.”

“What?!” Astarion looks at you with his eyebrows curved upward in shock. “Gods above. No. Come here.” Astarion pulls you in, pressing you against his chest. He only pushes you away slightly so he can guide your eyes to his and looks at you with an intensity that makes you shiver. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of our future together. I once told you the Gods sent you to ruin me. I realize now they sent you to save me. My heart is yours now and forevermore.”

He pushes you up against the door, pinning you with his hips. Your lips are locked with his in a passionate embrace. Astarion gently skims his fangs down your neck. Your hands tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. He scoops you into his arms and throws you on the bed playfully. He crawls over you, removing his shirt and catching your lips in his with a wild and ravenous desire.

He peels off your nightdress with desperation as if his hands simply cannot bear to not have your skin against them for a moment longer. Astarion kisses your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the stiff peak. Your back arches off the bed, pushing yourself further into him. Your skin is hot, melting the icy chill of his, and you shudder as he bucks his hips into you.

He looks up at you through thick lashes, “What would you say if I said I wanted to make love to you tonight?”

His question consumes all the air inside your lungs, and your body goes rigid as stone. Your heartbeat kicks up as you stare at him with rounded eyes. “Astarion… What are you saying?”

“Hmm,” he cocks his head and arches a brow at you with a charming smirk, “I thought I was rather clear. No matter. Let me try that again. If a night of passion is on offer, I would very much like to make love to you tonight.”

“I… Are you comfortable with that? Are you ready? We don’t have to. We can wait for as long as you need.”

“Oh, my love,” Astarion purrs, taking your hand, kissing every knuckle while never taking his eyes off you. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep my hands off, well, mostly off, you. Do you? I have been thinking about being inside you nonstop. It has been quite distracting.”

You sweep your thumb across his cheek and along his strong jaw. Trepidation slightly pinches your brow. Good Gods. You want this, but you are afraid.

“I will stop if I need to.” Astarion assures assertively, kissing your forehead and cheek, “But I do not foresee the need. Do not hold back. I want this, Kamena. Really, really want it.”

“Hells, Astarion. I want you too.”

“I know,” he smirks as his fingers find your folds already slick with arousal. “Always so eager for me,” he teases. “Gods below. I love the way your body responds to me.”

Astarion parts you, running his fingers up and down your seam, coating them in the sleekness of your desire. He circles the border of your swollen flesh, and your hips jerk in a plea as you whine against his needy mouth. You wrap your arms around him, and Gods - he feels like he’s been made to fit in your embrace. Astarion’s arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you tightly to him. His fingers finally sweep over your sensitive bud, and he groans as he coaxes whimpers and moans from your throat, catching your sweet cries on his lips. The outline of his desire is pressed against you. Your fingers undo the laces of his pants and grip him greedily, eliciting a hiss from his clenched teeth.

“Gods,” he pants, kicking off his trousers and freeing his throbbing cock. Precum already beads from his swollen head, and your mouth waters with the memory of the salt of him on your tongue.

Astarion sinks two fingers into you, twitching the pads up so that they hit that sweet spot that makes white flash in your vision with every languid pump. He expertly settles into a rhythm that drives you senseless. You could not keep your eyes open if you tried, and you jerk your hips, sinking his fingers deeper into you with the cry of his name.

“O-oh! Gods. A-Astarion.”

“I love the sound of my name on your tongue,” he purrs, peppering kisses down your neck, and he increases the speed of his thrusting fingers.

“Astarion…” you mewl into the crook of his neck, dragging your fingers through his hair as your muscles tighten. “F-fuck. You’re s-so good. I’m going to… fuck. Astarion! You’re going to make me…”

“Yes,” he groans, guttural and eager, as you both drown in each other. “Let me feel you come.”

Your head drops back, and you cry out with the pure blissful intensity of your climax. Your core grips his fingers, clutching and spasming around him as he hauls you tightly to him and catches your lips in a savage and passionate kiss.

He’s between your legs before you’ve fully recovered, hooking your knee with his. His hands guide your hips in little rolls against him as he glides his cock that weeps with his arousal through your folds. The chill of him on your heated sex is decadent, bracing and sets your nerves aflame.

“Hells,” he purrs with a heavy breath, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His voice is gentle, yet rough as sandpaper. “I will go slow. Tell me if it hurts or if you need to stop.”

“Make love to me, Astarion,” you murmur, kissing his chest, nipping his neck playfully, and letting your lips whisper up to the tapered point of his ear.

Astarion gasps, shuddering and curling his fingers into your hair. He eases in inch by delicious inch, slowly working you open. You let out a pained whine, and he stills, allowing your body time to adjust to his girth. Gods. The stretch is such a pleasurable kind of pain that you wrap your legs around him and plunge him into you, savouring the fullness.

“Shit,” he hisses, blinking slowly, looking into your eyes. “You feel divine wrapped around my cock, Kamena,” he pants darkly. “Fuck. I missed this.”

He thrusts, tender and sensual, almost painfully teasing in the measured pace. He rocks his hips into you, coming to his forearms and caging you beneath him, pressing himself into every curve of your body as if he cannot possibly get close enough. You sputter nonsensically, twisting your fingers into his silky silver curls. Astarion increases his tempo, and you buck your hips in time to meet his thrust. He presses kisses to your forehead, your cheek, and down your neck. You roll your head to the side in an offering.

He growls, unadulterated and wanton. His fangs sink into your neck. Your eyes snap open. Your hands grab the taut muscles of his side, and then the pain ebbs to an all-consuming ecstasy as you’re spiralling through his body and drizzling in his veins. Your skin prickles as you chase your release. Astarion’s hips stutter as your walls flutter around his hard length, and he moans, a sinfully heavenly rumble deep in his chest. Astarion’s pace becomes less measured and masterful, his movements frantic and hungry.

When you’re walking on the precipice of your orgasm, Astarion rests his forehead on yours. His face is twisted in pleasure, lips parted, taking heavy breaths with every snap of his hips. It’s a beautiful sight that brings tears to your eyes. Astarion purrs, “I love you.”

Fuck. That’s it. That is your undoing, and you crash into a blissful rapture so intense you’re sure that your heart skips several beats.

With one last plunging pump, Astarion joins you as your core is still in the throes of clenching and spasming, massaging him. You can feel his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself into you, “Gods above. Oh, f-fuck! Kamena!”

You wrap your arms around him and take his panting lips, dragging him into a ravaging kiss, pressing your sweat-slicked bodies together. Astarion rolls, somehow keeping his cock in you, catching you in his arms and pulling you atop him. You nuzzle your face into him, breathing in his scent. His chest rises and falls beneath you as he heaves a contented sigh.

“You are perfect,” he coos, pressing a kiss into your mussed-up hair and checking the bite on your neck. His breathing is as uneven as yours, “Every time.”

You lay there with him for a while - you’re not quite sure how long, while his hand skates up and down your back, and he hums comfortingly. You could stay like this forever, wrapped in his embrace, sheltered and shielded from your troubles and worries.

Eventually, after your heartbeat settles, you crane your neck to look at Astarion. He smiles at you with ardent love impassioned in the vibrant scarlet of his eyes, “Are you okay?”

Astarion chuckles and points to his temple, “Up here, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I am free, safe, and happy.” He sweeps some wild strands of your hair back and runs his fingers along your jaw, “I have you in my arms, in my bed and on my cock. It would be a most grievous understatement to say I am simply okay.”

“So vulgar!” You giggle, “Are all vampires so crude?”

“Oh yes,” he drawls, grinning devilishly. “It’s a well-loved pastime of ours. We often meet to exchange vulgarities to unleash upon the unsuspecting masses.”

“I would love to see you unleash some of those upon Gale,” You laugh, letting your fingers trace the defined muscles of his arm, “I wonder how red he would get.”

“Sweetheart,” he snickers, “Gale would positively expire on the spot if he heard some of the things that come out of my mouth. Even yours. You are not innocent, sorceress.” He leans close to your ear and gives you a playful jostle, “I’ve heard some delicious, sinfully indecent things from your very lovely lips.”

“I learned from the best,” you quip with a clever flare in her eye.

“Oh, as much as I would adore taking the credit,” he chuckles with a wicked grin. “I think you’ve always been an absolute freak.”

When you wake, you’re famished, and Astarion practically pushes you out of bed, grumbling about how your growling stomach annoyed him all night.

“You’re a vampire,” you retort, giggling at the look of annoyance scrunching up his face. “You don’t even need to trance.”

“Need and want,” he tuts, clicking his tongue, “are very different things. Now, get out of my bedroom and eat something.” Astarion’s lips quirk up, lop-sided and handsome. His curls are mussed, falling with reckless abandon. He winks, “I have some very depraved, hedonistic plans for you later. If you hope to keep up with me, you need your strength.”

Good Gods. You're already wet. Astarion chuckles as you roll your eyes and slink out of the bedroom. The remnant of your night together is still sticky between your thighs, and your skin prickles with the exhilaration of it all.

Astarion is here, in your bed, in your hands and in you.

“Good morning!” Gale greets you as soon as you step into the kitchen. “I trust you had a… good night?”

You hear Astarion’s loud laughter echoing through the manor and try to stifle your own.

Oh… shit.

“You could say that.” You feel the blush burning your cheeks.

Gale chuckles, sipping his tea while you shovel cut-up fruit into your mouth. The silence is a little awkward, and you’re not sure if participating in useless small talk will make it worse or better, so you opt to stay quiet.

There’s a tap on the door that makes you jump, “I’ll get it. Gale, are you expecting someone?”

“I don’t believe so.” Gale’s brows pinch, and then he smirks, “It’s likely a neighbour coming to make a noise complaint.”

You groan, feeling the heat erupt, rushing back to your face. The early morning sun dazzles you as it streams into the open doorway, blinding you momentarily. When you blink, you realize it’s not the sun that blinds you; it's the gleaming of the silver, metallic armour of the guards standing before you.

“That’s her!” Mr. Blackwell snarls from behind the City Watch guards. The noble is bruised and bleeding, with an eye swollen shut, his lip split and seeping, and a cheekbone that appears to be broken along with many of his teeth. “She’s the one who assaulted me!”

“No!” You gasp as the guards grab your arms, forcing them behind your back. “I didn’t do this!”

“Save it for the courts,” the guard drones, paying your protests no consideration as iron manacles snap shut around your wrists, biting into your skin with an uncomfortable pinch.

“Gale!” You shout over your shoulder as they drag you away. “Don’t let him do anything utterly fucking foolish!”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support.

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

We are finally getting to the smutty goodness :)

And then Kamena is entirely ripped away from the promise of these depraved plans. I, for one, would kill Mr. Blackwell simply for that alone.

[naamah-beherit]

Heart of Chaos

A series in 3 parts

Cosmic horror Hualian AU in which Hua Cheng is an eldritch god and Xie Lian is a human (but not for long). 16k words in total.

*****

Part 1: dreams in the dark

[ rated E • monsterfucking ]

Stuck on a planet he'd rather never have seen, Xie Lian dreams. Faced with a tsunami of cosmic proportions that will destroy everything he's built, Jun Wu makes a decision. Given an opening, Hua Cheng uses it and takes everything.

Or: the story in which the most terrifying being in all of creation loves a mortal man.

“San Lang, you…” Xie Lian’s head starts spinning. Is it because of Hua Cheng’s proximity, or from elation at the prospect of leaving this backwater planet for worlds he can’t even imagine? He seizes that feeling and basks in it. “Who are you?” Hua Cheng inhales, then grazes Xie Lian’s jaw with his teeth. “Yours.” Hua Cheng’s kiss tastes like lightning. His touch sets Xie Lian’s skin on fire and reaches his bones to take root there, spreading flame through his veins until he’s full of it to bursting. At some point, he grabs fistfuls of Hua Cheng’s clothes and clutches them like they’re his only tether to the world. There’s a lightness growing in him, a feeling foreign and terrifying in its enormity.

@auchrauch drew this gorgeous painting for this part <3

*****

Part 2: broken dreams

[ rated M • POV outsider ]

This is how Feng Xin's world ends: in the rain of fire and death, as the universe comes knocking on his village's doorstep and brings with it flames of war. It brings a priest, too, one who calls to his god on the notes of his blood. And unlike the god of Feng Xin's home, this one actually heeds the call.

Or: the story of the end of the world. And the beginning of a new one.

Warships arrive at dusk. Clouded in interstellar dust, they appear on the sky and immediately start raining fire. Forests burn, houses lie in ruin, the world itself groans and cowers under the onslaught a fortress couldn’t have withstood, let alone a settlement without defences. There are no evacuation ships. Not that it would change anything if there were—the army blankets the sky so densely not even a sliver of starlight makes it through. Feng Xin looks up and, without a shred of doubt, knows this is how they all die. “This is insane!” Mu Qing screams as they run between burning houses and craters some of the buildings have already turned into, and try to herd the survivors away from the bombardment. “What do they even want?!”

*****

Part 3: i've touched my dreams, but still i bleed

[ rated E • body horror • transformation ]

Nightmares are a persistent thing. Xie Lian's greatest one raises its head from the dead in the least expected moment.

Xie Lian aches. Down to the marrow of his long-dissolved bones; to the deepest forces linking particles of what makes him himself; to the darkest, faintest thoughts that have ever run through his mind—he aches. He aches when he moves, aches when he lies still, aches when he lets Hua Cheng pour power into him until he’s full to bursting, aches until it settles and then after it’s long gone; he aches, aches, aches. Pain courses through him, sets what may yet remain of his nerves on fire and unleashes thousands of unseen worms crawling under his skin. They aren’t there. Never. They don’t exist, and the crawling is merely sensations firing up in echoes of his nerve endings and synapses in the memory of his brain that fails to process so many impulses all at once—fails to have realised it’s all but gone. He runs a fingernail down his chest. The skin splits easily in a clean, smooth, deep cut. There’s no blood. No fat, no viscera, no bone peeks out from layers of tissue. There is no tissue. There’s only light: blinding, potent, pulsating golden light.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 38 - Gatekeep

Bite Night 2: Astarion is trying his best but you have the romantic awareness of a potato.

On AO3.

Y’all do not find the demon woman by the time evening rolls around. Wyll curses as the crickets chirp into twilight; stares out at the forest as y’all set up camp. You leave him be—comforting others ain’t your strong suite (you mostly just stand there all awkward because shows are liars and actually saying “there there” pisses people off more than it helps).

Shadowheart swings by to run her jesus hands over you again.

“You still feel stable,” she says.

You nod. Pause a moment, considering. Then, “You’re a cleric, yeah? Like, tied to a god or something?”

Her expression doesn’t budge from the cool neutrality she usually wears. “That’s what clerics are, yes. Why?”

You don’t know what you’re talking about. This world and its customs are fucking foreign as hell. Still. Something shivers in the back of your brain (not the worm this time, which seems to be dozing).

“Paladins are kinda the same? That one back there mentioned Tyr.”

She almost rolls her eyes. “The Lord of Justice. Paladins are sworn to their gods or goddesses. But they’re strictly fighters.”

Shadowheart carries a mace and seems real cozy bashing in skulls with it. You got an idea what that makes a cleric, but you also realize you don’t know which god she’s all cozy with (the concept makes your skin crawl).

“Who do you, uh, serve?” you say, totally suppressing the helpful urge to sneer.

That coolness freezes solid. “We’re all stuck together for the benefit of working as a group. But we barely know each other, and we’re all entitled to our own business.”

Oof. Some kinda sore spot.

You back down. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I just…would you be able to tell? If those guys was, if there was something weird?”

Now she frowns. “Weird?”

Actual gods with real people as their servants (again, you smother your grimace). You don’t know shit, do you?

“Nevermind,” you say. “I just…this is all real new. Sorry to bother you and for, y’know, getting too personal. Won’t happen again.”

The ice around her seems to thaw just a touch. She gives a sharp nod. “Alright. And…thank you. For respecting my privacy.”

Which leaves you at Lae’zel’s tender mercies before bed.

You manage an actual push up.

***

So you’re flying pretty high as you drag your ass to your tent. Half the camp is bedded down for the night. Lae’zel—completely unfazed by running your ass into the dirt without so much as a hair out of place or a bead of sweat on her skin—takes first watch.

The spacing arrangement has definitely gelled; seems you’re assigned to the desk next to Astarion for this quarter. He lounges on his back amidst a pile of pillows—where in the hell did he pick up more of them? As you draw near, he sits up and spins around to face you.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “Always a pleasure to see you sauntering over.”

“Tripping, actually,” you say. You reach for your tent flap. The white of his hair and his shirt glow in your peripheral, and you stop. He stares at you. Expectantly.

…right. Blood.

“Oh, um,” you say. Pause.

“You don’t have to, of course,” he says. “I’ve gone much longer in between meals.”

You fucking forgot. There’s no solid reason for your hesitation, except that this is a change in plans (your fault) and that always wigs you out and having time to mentally prepare (lips, lips) would have been nice.

But you did offer. And he’s waited for you. It’d be bad manners to leave him hanging.

“It’s fine,” you say. Look around. Gale and Wyll are in their tents. Lae’zel stalks the perimeter, and Shadowheart kneels outside her own tent. She looks at you. Her judgment is just as potent at sixty yards. “You wanna take this inside?”

His grin spreads slow and syrupy. “My dear, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

You don’t got much in the way of decoration. Just your bedroll and your pack. You pause a second inside; there ain’t enough room to stand upright. This’d probably be a two-sleeper tent back home. But you got no seats or cushions. Hospitality dictates you let Astarion sit on your bedroll, as the guest.

He ducks in after you, and the tent seems a lot smaller. Y’all are gonna have to sit criss-cross applesauce. Knees touching.

Oh jesus.

“Um.” You clear your throat. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

You busy yourself lighting the small lantern you scrounged up using the (thank FUCK) matches y’all also found. It’s enough light to see his features clear when you turn and find him stooped there, watching you.

“And where will you be, darling?” he says.

You will not clear your throat again. You will not act like some awkward twenty-year-old climbing into a boy’s car for the first time. You are a goddamn adult human and humans touch each other all the time. He’s (sucked) touched your neck before. What you have in mind is far less intimate than that. This whole thing is a casual act born of necessity.

Touching other people is fucking normal.

You just ain’t…used to it.

“I thought it might be easier to control the bleeding if you bit my wrist,” you say. It’s just practicality. Nothing else. Certainly not you being shy all the sudden. Has got nothing to do with the feel of his cool tongue on your fucking neck. Nothing at all.

“Ah,” he says. Gaze flicks down your arm. “If that’s how you’d prefer it. Though, as I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t have, ahem, as much experience with that.”

The blind leading the blind. It’d be funny if you weren’t so full of the heeby-jeebies.

“You wanna try?” you say.

He looks at you. Goddamn, he’s hard to read when he wants to be. Then his usual smile slots into place and his eyelids drop and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he says, “I’m willing to try a lot of things with you.”

Jesus lord on a pogo stick. You turn away to let the eyes roll freely; disguise it as lowering yourself to sit on the grass beneath you. Your bad knee has been acting up worse than usual. It pops as you settle, which makes Astarion pause.

“’M fine,” you say and start to roll up your left sleeve. You wore your worst-off shirt for Lae’zel’s nightly beat down. Won’t hurt if you get more blood on it.

Astarion settles in next to you. Facing you, rather. But that angle won’t work very well, so you turn and shuffle a bit until you’re side-to-side, sort of staring past the other.

You got all the gear this time, too. A shirt you tore apart and washed (in boiling water) for bandages, water, apples, and a goddamn healing potion.

“I won’t take as much this time,” Astarion says.

You nod. There’s no protocol for this, so you lift up your arm and hold it straight out.

He takes it. You expect that. It has to happen; how else is he gonna bite you? Lunge teeth-first, like a dog?

Still.

Cool fingers glide over your forearm, across your palm. You blink fast, but refuse to let your face so much as twitch. Keep your hand and arm steady but pliable, just like you do when a doctor is taking your pulse and blood pressure.

He brings your arm up as his head ducks down. Hovers over your wrist a moment; cool air brushes you as he exhales through his nose and your rebellious skin erupts into goosebumps.

“Sorry,” you say before he can pull some shit. “Tickles.”

He gives you a sly glance out of the corner of his eye. Shithead. Then he presses his lips to your inner wrist.

He holds you like that a moment. His lips certainly are soft and cool. You’re pretty sure every muscle on your frame pulls tight. Then he moves. And it ain’t to bite. He brushes those lips over you, slightly parted, up and down. You’re about to ask what in the hell he’s doing, when he twists your arm to change the position and, apparently, finds (through scent? Touch? Vampire bullshit?) the right spot.

His lips pull back. His brow wrinkles. His pupils are huge and dilated, even for the low light.

His teeth sink in. The pain is sharper, this time. Probably because you see it coming. Twin fangs pierce your skin, sink into muscles. Your arm tries to jerk back, but his grip tightens to bruising.

You gasp. Jerk. Will yourself not to fucking move, because his teeth are buried in your wrist and there’s tendons and ligaments in there.

Then his fangs are out, and his lips come down and seal around the wound.

This time, you can see his face. See the way his eyes roll back. His lids flutter shut. He makes a soft sound against you, low and guttural and for some reason, your face starts to burn.

You tear your gaze away. Do your best to stare at the blue canvas of your tent.

The pain throbs into that pleasant numbness as before. The rest of you relaxes as nerves stop shrieking in alarm. He’s not pulling this time—thank god. Seems content to hold you, grip eased, and lap at it.

Which means that sure is his tongue against you. Again.

You wonder what the thread count is on canvas here in Faerun. Light shines through it, but you ain’t sure about water. Might have to find a magical tarp the next time it storms—

He’s still making sounds. They’re soft. You don’t hear them, not really. But the vibration thrums against your wrist. Short, tiny things. Moans. It don’t seem voluntary. His eyelids still flutter like he’s trying to open them and can’t. He takes a particularly wet suckle, and that pops him free.

He lifts up a second to pant. His lips and teeth are coated in red. A dribble runs down his chin and his nostrils flare.

Your wounds immediately stream. You manage a single “um” before he pulls your arm up so he can lick a strip back up with a groan, and seals his mouth over it again and suck in a gasp through his nose.

And that’s when the numbness…twists, somehow. Morphs a bit. Instead of throbbing nothing, there’s a feel of…heat? A kind of euphoria. Gentle, right now—you really want to sigh and fall backwards—but it seems to be building where his lips touch you. On the prodding of his tongue between the punctures, encouraging more blood to flow. You can almost feel your blood in him. The throb melding with your heartbeat filling his mouth, filling him. The two of you connected in a way you can barely comprehend, and heat blooms between your legs—

Oh motherfucker, he’s got aphrodisiac spit??!

“Astarion,” you say.

He’s not as lost in the sauce this time. He hums. Takes a last slurp and then pulls away. Snatches up one of the rags you set aside for this and clamps it down hard over your wrist.

You hiss. He doesn’t let up. His hands have turned into a vice. Fucker’s gonna bruise tomorrow.

“Lift your arm a little, darling,” he says and you do.

“Didn’t know you knew wound care,” you say. You’re a touch lightheaded, but you ain’t dizzy. Tired and thirsty, mostly.

“In my line of work, you pick up a few things,” he says. And sucks his teeth. His tongue moves around in his mouth (it was just on your skin) as he laps up all traces of your blood.

“So you just didn’t the first time you bit me?”

He turns. Pupils still dilated and if that doesn’t send some kind of prey animal shudder down your spine.

“You told me you did this all the time, little donor.”

“Not through a bite on the neck. And with vampire spit to deal with.”

He shrugs. “As I said, I’ve never had to keep a snack alive.”

The pressure hasn’t wavered. You fully cannot feel your fingers anymore. “Well, thank you. For learning.”

He blinks. Has that weird look you can’t place. Then he, as usual, buries it with smarm. “It has been an absolute pleasure, darling.”

And then he’s leaning in, face all intent, gaze locked on you. A static charge seems to fill the air and your brain starts flipping levers to dump some kinda panic chemicals into your bloodstream. His face is so focused, even as his lids come down and he is entirely too close.

You panic. You ain’t even sure why. Lift your free hand and jab him in the nose and say, “honk” because your brain is a loser and you are a loser and what the fuck, why the fuck is that what you went with??!

Astarion jerks back like you slapped him, the very picture of a pissed off cat. “Excuse you?”

Which send you jerking back because you pushed it too far. Got too weird. Fucked this up and misread something and got too forward a-fucking-gain.

“Sorry!” you say. “I was just, I don’t know, um! I was joking and I’m sorry.”

The two of you sit there, hackles raised, and stare at each other for a long moment. Until he (mercifully) blinks first and smooths his ruffled feathers back down.

“I can’t saw I’ve ever garnered that reaction before,” he says. Studies you, and then looks away (you try hard not to cringe). Then he notices his hands are empty, because you both pulled away.

“Right,” you say and take over pressure duty—the rag has absorbed quite a bit of blood, but when you risk a peek underneath, the wounds only ooze sluggishly.

Awkward silence fills the tent. You can’t go anywhere (and it’s your tent), and he seems kind of stuck on what to do now (how bad did you just fuck this up).

So you reach for your favorite tool: changing the motherfucking subject. “Can I ask you something?”

He finally notices the smear of blood on his chin as is in the process of fastidiously wiping it clean with his fingers and sucking those into his mouth.

You want to ask him about the paladins, but another question comes barreling into your brain and it sounds like a much more bonding topic anyway.

“You remember how I asked what blood tasted like to you?” you say. When he looks over, “I want to experiment with that, if you’re okay with it. Now that I know I can do this kinda regular.”

He wears the most deadpan expression when he says, “Ah, the vampire fetish appears at last.”

“What? No. People do that? No, no, nothing weird. It’s just, you only eat blood and I can’t tell the difference, but you can. So what if we varied up the taste? If I even can? So you can have different things, sorta, too?”

His eyebrow arches at a pace you can only describe as glacial.

“Like, if the next time I donate, say I eat a bunch of fruit. Or apples, really, since that all we ever find. Get them sugars into my blood and see how that comes across to you?”

“And whyever would you do that?”

Well shit, he makes it sound so stupid. Maybe you ought to bury the idea outright. But you notice while the others tolerate him, they ain’t inviting him in for dinner, and you don’t like seeing people left out. And while he’s an asshole, there’s a level of charm to him. He kinda pings on your level, so to speak.

“We all get to eat lots of things,” you say, going with earnestness and hoping he don’t toss it back in your face. “Might as well see if you can benefit off that?”

He don’t say nothing for a while. A long while. It starts to turn uncomfortable, and you’re considering forfeiting your tent and ducking out into the night.

When he says, “”Well, it’s your blood, darling. If you want to tinker around like that, far be it from me to stop you.”

You start to relax. Peace and good feelings restored.

And then, because it’s Astarion and he’s a shithead, he leers in and says, “Though if you truly want to know what you taste like, I know of much better options.”

This fucking—

“I think it’s time for me to take that potion and get some shut eye,” you say. “Thank you for helping.”

His smile doesn’t even twitch. If anything, it gets worse.

“A cruel denial,” he says and presses a hand over his heart. “I shall have to skulk into the night alone and pine away, awaiting our next encounter. Try not to keep me waiting too long to sample your…experiments.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” you say as dead-voiced as you can.

He rises and steps around you in one swift, fluid motion to duck through the flap behind your back. Before he goes, he gives you another silly bow.

You probably shouldn’t. That voice in the back of your brain (sin, sin, shame, sin) screams about it (talking to a man while you’re alone). But you do your best to bow back while seated. Because your life has got real, real weird, but beneath the bored, dull, and generally uninterested face you slip on everyday, you’re pretty weird yourself.

It’s that little connection. The tentative root unfurling and reaching for something it recognizes. The dare to grasp at something fun, just to spite the universe so intent on burying you.

He grins and lets the tent flap fall shut behind him.

Alone and unseen, you let yourself smile back.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[hopeful-puffin]

Thoughts on 164

Guess I'm continuing this weird habit of rambling thoughts after giving myself time to process. Apologies as, again, one of these is a major stretch.

Kappa:

God. Where do I even begin? I think it's safe to assume we are all worried for this little guy. Heck, maybe some of you are like me and really upset about him leaving Siren on his own after upsetting him? But I don't necessarily blame Kappa for reacting that way either. Trauma makes us all rract in strange ways. Speaking from experience, some tend to revert back to the person they were when the trauma hit us. Assuming Kappa was 8-10 at the time of the Vaquita prophecy, running away isn't as extreme of a reaction. I touched on this as a comment on Webtoon itself (Psycho Koneko), but they have a strict character limit I was previously unaware of.

This is not a stretch to me for Kappa’s brain to revert to being a child. This struck me because his tail IS THE SAME COLOR. Even in his horrified vision on Siren’s lap in the present, his hair is also good and the background is back to being gray. I'm positive Ms. Martin did this on purpose. To really dig in how Kappa’s reverted mentally back to being a terrified child. I believe she said Worm didn't come into Kappa’s life until after this, but Worm was Kappa’s only source of comfort as a child.

I'm with everyone (and Kappa) that he should have said something sooner. But talking about trauma is difficult. Love the little dude, but you've GOT to talk to somebody, Kaps. I don't care if it's any of the witches or Siren. Just talk to one of them about what's going through your head. Yes, I would prefer it to be Siren (just like most everyone else I'm sure), but Mucku and Neth are also safe places for Kappa.

2. "Prophecy" Stretch:

I strongly believe the Flyfin screwed around and made a prophecy. What confuses me regarding that is the prophecies come from the Surface God, right? If they're not talking to Kappa or the Whales, why did they answer the Flyfin? My initial thoughts were it's an automatic system, which means the negligent Surface God ain't running these through a critical thinking filter before accepting those prayers, or this prophecy was granted by someone other than the Surface God. This in of itself is a stretch.

Not to mention the scroll states:

What constitutes a castle anyway? Fizz made it sound like they were the only Flyfin left in the Kelp Forest. But Fean made it out like Fizz had to return to their colony. Ignoring that (since I can't trust a word she says), Fizz implies it's just the three of them waiting for the Whales. Are three mers e ough to constitute a castle? Or are three mers gathered enough to garner the Surface God’s attention. I don't know.

Regardless, what if I had a theory so stretched it might just snap?

What if the prophecy has been there this entire time, but Kappa just didn't realize it? Not until the witch's heart inside of him accepted Kappa as its new vessel that is.

If it has accepted him, what if it stopped suppressing his ability to perceive the prophecy for the Whales?

Why then though? Because Kappa accepted that he has messed up and "the person I love most," was hurt as a result of his actions. I'm not saying Nethimir has not ever forgiven herself for something. But, since she's never viewed someone the way Kappa views Siren, she's never had to forgive herself for hurting the one she romantically loves.

What does that imply? That Kappa's heart has accepted him? That he's suddenly going to have a lot of potent magic he can't control? I don't know. Again, this theory is a MASSIVE stretch.

Just quickly dumping this here. Might come back and rewrite some sections if people are interested and want my disconnected mind to try stringing thoughts together like some unhinged axolotl on drugs.

Send help.

[volvolts]

bishop headcanons + narinder

why not

narinder

chronologically the eldest, responsibly the “second in command” of the old faith

out of all the gods of the old faith, narinder had the least followers and prayers

secretly he craves some appreciation for his role

when he broke off he granted his followers a new choice: resurrection. death shouldn’t flow backwards but being death itself he can do what he wants. it disrupts the flow of the universe and so he must be imprisoned

he only began to wear the veil once he ran his own faith.

once imprisoned he refused to remember any good things he had with his siblings and only remembered their worst traits to fuel his hatred. deep deep DEEP down, he misses them

weapon of choice: sword, a weapon that is most versatile

shamura

the second eldest but treated as the leader

repressed af. they have only openly cried in front of their siblings once and that was when they imprisoned narinder. theyve practically stopped emoting altogether afterwards

ironically the most emotionally mature

war and knowledge/wisdom is their strong point but they also are a god of the arts such as literature and music. however in their own downtime they do embroidery and textiles

considered the most compassionate of the bishops

they are slow to anger and prefer to negotiate before turning to violence

however want their wrath and you shall have it

after their head was broken they began to rely heavily on their crown to even think straight which is why their crown has grown into their brain

weapon of choice: dagger, a small multipurpose weapon

heket

third sibling but tries to be second in command, she will be the voice

the most vocal on her thoughts and will say things that will hurt because she believes them to be the truth

cares greatly for her siblings even deep down narinder

usually the one to calm down kallamar and leshy

after getting her throat slashed she coughs a lot and speaks in a steady rasp. the loudest she can go is a slightly raised voice

she became more ruthless over the years and requires many sacrifices. consequently this caused anura to be as dead as it is

heket has the most shrines out of the bishops

if they ever reconciled she would be the last one to speak to narinder

weapon of choice: axe, a heavy blade as strong and cutting as she

kallamar

second youngest, feels like the middle child

a scaredy cat, usually tries to throw someone else under the bus but he doesn’t really mean it. he’s just a person who runs when scared

he’s a smooth talker 

he is the healer, he knows how to make balms and potions. on the other hand he can also make potent poisons 

Kallamar has the most well kept shrines out of all the bishops

kallamar doesn’t believe narinder ever cared about them. when his ears were ripped off he had a revelation that narinder fought to hurt them, to kill them just so he can keep new power as a god. he’s been afraid of narinder ever since

weapon of choice: hammer, to more easily break through rocks for gemstones

leshy

the youngest of the bishops, usually treated as such and so he overcompensates

he’s a worm but he has arms sometimes. he’s a god so if he wants arms he can get them

while he is mostly a representative of chaos, he also is a god of the arts. unlike shamura who overlooks literature and music, leshy overlooks crafts such as painting/pottery/etc

his shrines often have flower chains decorating them. aptly his shrines look the most busy

though blind, he can sense vibrations with his branch-like antennae

out of all the bishops leshy is the most active in his domain. They say if you see moving bushes it’s a sign that he’s nearby and will protect you. but dont get too close

weapon of choice: claws, to more easily slash clear the area for new plants

[empyreanemissary]

Vajra: Fertility 18/3/23

From the last post: “Indra is a fertility god, Parjanya. The rains are not just something satiating but fertilising. One pole expels sperm, the other exists within. Both seek to create and replicate themselves, but the divine methodology is different.”

The lightning bolt is the emergence of intelligent life from the moment of conception, which is in itself a product of intelligent life. Life begets life.

Zeus split humans up so they would have to reunite in separate form. Within one half is something which magnetises to something in the other half, forging something alive. We talk about reality as bond between Shiva and Shakti; existence itself is a union of things interplaying with one another. Everything, to Polarity, is coded with a system of attractions, neutralities, and repulsions: Everything is programmed to attempt to couple with one another, coded to the rhythms of sex, the ebb and flow of the waters emanate from God’s dual-sexed dance.

Wielded lightning then is control of how things manifest - are created - and the programming of the next generation of existence. First: Gametes are held programming, life recreates itself with footnotes and edits for the next generation. Second: Zeus is Time, Zeus is the Origin and the Next, the infinite-finite pool of informational programming and the flow of electricity between points in the Brain of God. Time is expression of change like Space is, God’s spectrums, holders of unique programming and states of being.

Brahma seats himself between change and preservation - external time and present now - and takes the throne for both, holds them collared and leashed to his Chariot. The Wind and the Sky entwine into one spear through which the programming slips into the next stage. Zeus is masculine, the four-armed god aligns with the phallic and penetrating, his staff as an expression of the basal fertility of nature represents that which splits the sky’s thighs and reprogrammes, but the peacock dance is neutral, intersex; he will always to some degree be androgynous and non-binary.

Zeus split beings in two, though. What brewed in him to make him do that? Divine order: That which separates king and people. The courage and skill to claim the Trinity Crown comes with the territorial instinct; in order for there to be a king there must be a people, competition for first place breeds more losers than winners and is a system to be escaped in order for one to win. This questions surrounding Zeus’ splitting can’t be answered in one subject and set of symbolism, but the relevant part is that he speaks himself into Creation, the Sky repeats itself, he himself is split from his wife and as such he splits beings into two - so that he may know himself, so that we may know ourselves, so that we may understand what he has seen and how he has seen it, and so that his teachings - gruelling, form-bending, mind-breaking - may be all the more potent and irreplaceable.

Holding the lightning is holding the ability to mend the split at will through knowledge of opposites in self, self in other, Consciousness outside of Matter, and the bridging between them. To wield the lightning bolt is to become both Zeus and his wife, the original being who recognises itself so fully in its other as one and another half of God that it bridges that gap and becomes four-armed once again. As the clouds and the static create lightning, to hold the lightning is to be both glorious sky and her ruler once again. There is no Zeus without his body, there is no lightning without the true coupling between ribbon-worm-tongue consciousness and encompassing matter, there is no king without laws that confine both he and his people - yet the king holds the power to twist those laws.

[roughrudesea]

top 5 Shakespeare monologues?

I DESERVE THIS 😤

1. Richard II 3.2

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let’s choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence: throw away respect, Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a king?

WHAT CAN I SAY. I heard a friend do this monologue in an acting class almost a decade ago and even with zero context, I thought about it for years. Finally reading the play only made me love it more. 

2. The Tempest 5.1

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.

A solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp'd. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace, And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him you follow'st! I will pay thy graces Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shore That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell: I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free.

I’m honestly shocking myself slightly by not listing “We are such stuff,” but even thinking about this part of the play gives me chills. I love the journey Prospero goes on in this: watching him give up his magic and decide to forgive his former enemies is so engaging--and the language is completely unmatched.

3. The Tempest 4.1

You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled: Be not disturb'd with my infirmity: If you be pleased, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk, To still my beating mind.

Okay I lied -- had to include “We are such stuff.” How could I not? I’m a Tempest and a Prospero stan. How could I NOT list this one when it is like *THE* iconic monologue?

4. Hamlet, 3.3

O, my offense is rank it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense? And what's in prayer but this two-fold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'? That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. May one be pardon'd and retain the offense? In the corrupted currents of this world Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe! All may be well.

3.3 is my favorite scene in Hamlet. I LOVE the tableau of Claudius praying, and Hamlet right behind him, ready to strike. Hamlet the character obviously has some incredible speeches, but this Claudius monologue is the one that always stands out to me: it is such a juicy glimpse into his inner psyche that is more carefully guarded for the rest of the play, and I love this moment (however brief) of unraveling.

5. Macbeth 5.5

She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Forgive me for being so basic but I would really be lying to myself if I didn’t list this. Although this one, more than others, really depends on the actor. I have seen some renditions of this monologue I really do not jive with, but when it’s done well, it is top tier. 

[thefightingbull]

Poison

(For anon’s request for a song fic. Poison by Alice Cooper) The following is a unrequited, aged up fic. Enjoy! Jason centric as requested :)

There were a lot of reasons to obsess over Jason Peter Todd. There was the cruelty done to him so easily seen in his teal blue eyes. His lips were sharply defined and despite the scarring over his left brow and down his left cheek, he was handsome in a classically filthy way that made most thing of hot, rough sex. His scowl made it clear that he would kill and not even care.

The desire to love was warned off by his bad boy attitude. Wanting to hold Jason couldn’t happen either. Every instinct anyone with half a brain warned them that it was too much, too dangerous. Jason Todd was untouchable for many reasons, but the largest being that was he was poison to the soul.

Rumor had it that he’d once been an angel. His cherubic curls and brightly shining hope were second only to have of his predecessor.  But now? Now he was The Red Hood. An ice-blooded killer with a thirst for death and darkness. Anyone he came in contact with was sucked into a world of violence, pain and eventually death.

And yet Damian Wayne wanted him.

He wanted the thrill of taming Jason.

Wanted the former Robin with a burning hunger he’d never experienced before.

Damian often imagined what it would be like to kiss those lips raw. To feel the heat of Jason’s mouth around him. To have the murderer pinned and caught beneath him, Jason’s body sweating and writhing under his own powerful body.

He kept his distance though. He heeded the warnings of his brother, but especially that of his crippled father. The Red Hood was responsible for the death of Robin and had paralyzed Batman shortly after coming back to Gotham. Nightwing alone had escaped physical damage, but he’d still been punished. Still been bitten by the poisonous viper Jason had become.

Dick Grayson, Nightwing. He was only a shell of the man he’d once been. That bright ray of sunshine was overcast permanently. Untrusting and unwilling to ever take a chance again. His brother learned the hard way that the poison coursing through Jason’s veins was nothing to be taken lightly.

Jason Todd moved through the shadows of the underworld and Damian couldn’t help but watch him. Listen to him. Shiver and shudder whenever the man spoke of his fanatical mission to destroy anyone who stood in his way as he purged the city of Gotham.

More than anything, Damian wanted to hurt him. Wanted to take hold of that thick black mop Jason called hair and rip it back. He wanted Jason squirming. To hear that deep, hateful voice, scream Damian’s name. Hear Jason scream his submission.

The call, the urge. It was more than skin deep. It was a desire from the depths of Damian’s soul. But that poisonous hate. That vile venom… It would taint every touch. Taint every kiss. But he wanted. God forgive him, but Damian wanted Jason despite it all.

Jason was perfect for him. Lethal. Efficient. Powerful. Merciless.

The very thought of Jason had wormed its way beneath his skin. Even when Damian hated him, he found his obsessive lust was as potent as ever. What he wouldn’t do to have him. To defeat and break him. To tame him. To claim him as his own.

Damn his instincts. Instincts that in one moment to told him not to reach out or follow the younger man. To have and to hold beaten down with common sense and logic. Jason was damaged goods. Polluted by green pools that promised a new beginning but had actually done nothing more than warp and destroy any shred of decency Jason had in him.

Some day Damian would capture The Red Hood. He’d bind him down and he’d taste that sweet, venomous poison.

For now, though, he’d watch from afar. Watch and plan and crave.

[libidomechanica]

“that I wear”

Or bene thine inmost bosome  clips, that I wear, thy diadem,  with nary a thoughts 

to me; she made, good care  thee and the disease, a  hard mechanic ghost 

When I awoke, twas in  the left the gude  fellow—say what I do, where 

lavish, to the wind!  In his face defile.  that never lovd thee to 

the glasses of  this book their secret bower.  To several 

worth did in no maner grow;  but to discpline. Of ancient  melody was 

little as the very  top, and no assistance  through the name of the 

inverted triangle: gaped  mouth of some piercing trial  was sharpest paine; take me 

to thee, and painted  with  dew. —And fast, as you trouble 

thy brain, the humble salve which,  while talked of the  year. Meg o the banquet-room, 

filld withal, but left a thousands  of shut eyes in vain;  remorseless would I lean from a 

basketball. Of squirrels, foxes  shy, and every  other was like little 

here foreigners  of the sea nymphs  round mere cannon. And yet composed, 

as in a rainbow frill?  I know times thievish progression bow,  can mingle within 

the deck stood tranced laid his  heavenly power is coming  something to that footsteps; 

pouring as of four sunsets,  blazing sun. By those accent: “ Potent goddess: while many, 

poor worm and thy love allows were  erected the  sorrow? So in this debt 

to yours; o then, I  think is necessary, may likewise  put off for a woman 

true it is like taxi  girls and she what I did  was like them all, hard 

brightness doth shew beyond  her, and strange route. ” Poor  Lamia breathe but oer the 

other summer leave thy God to  blend with a tap  of my chamber. Grows fairest boon, 

to die, or be deliverd  from this hour.  And, with a sort 

of scene of shepheardes all:  which did a famous oath  is to the bed.

[rmfaye-blog]

application

tw: violence, death 

Ruin is a potent word. Evocative enough. Visceral. It’s a slipknot of a syllable, and only one at that. On better days, something more palatable. Pill-sized.

And it is that small. Nearly mundane, to the point of being thoroughly unremarkable. I’d rather spare the details I wouldn’t mull over myself—be it the meticulous choice of language. The sheer drama of metaphor. Whatever.

Whatever.

Ruin is enough.

The first thing that comes to mind is “hereditary.” Two expats with flight abilities who remain landlocked on an island south of the Malay peninsula.Two people that couldn’t cave to the pull of the compass needle and instead remain two feet planted firm. Two parents that decide that there’s joy in confined, domestic spaces: a three-story Newton condominium built off of exploited labor. Milk spoiling in the fridge. Baby teeth kept in a jar.

I was fine, at first. Great, actually. Nothing I liked more than the security of four walls. Marked territory in its own right. The ticker had been the second I’d turned thirteen, when something flicked on in my brain. Warped. Uncertain. Then it went haywire. Television snow for vision, but it’s soaked red to the last pixel. Every nerve pulsing.

Had anyone had taken my skull and cracked it in two, they might’ve seen it then. Right inside the fleshy, worm-pink of the cerebrum: an unusually large amygdala, perhaps. A shriveled fold where the prefrontal cortex resides.

My parents, however, had the misfortune of knowing too much and understanding too little. Animal-based mutation runs in the family, but mine was a whole different kind of breed.

I have to give it to them. They tried their hardest. Home schooling until they couldn’t at fourteen, a false diagnosis for intermittent explosive disorder in case I raise hell. But even the most patient forms of love can wear thin.

In some cases, neither patience nor love can do anything at all.

Gumi is a conundrum of a memory. If I wanted to be the poster girl for their PR department, I might have hailed it as the “sanctuary” for folks of our sort. But that’s not a position I’d gun for. I’m self aware at least. Self aware with a crippling habit of looking at the mirror and thinking vanish. Vanish.

Vanish.

I took to Hellion, Hellion took to me. A straight shot that hit bulls’ eye. Their dorm building allowed for some semblance of normalcy, that much was reassuring.

I can’t tell you about what happened on those hunts. The island. Inside the cage. Again, details. There are two people who have long graduated, but they have the teeth marks to show for it. Along their spine, back of the neck, the inner flesh of their arms. Battle scars, for the times they can glow with pride.

A few reminders out of many, on all of mine.

It’s funny how the little things turn you inside out. A shift in position. A loose strand of hair. A single malign cell.

For me, it’d been a phone call.

That’s another time I don’t speak of either. Neither does the one who was with me that night. People speak about their childhood terrors, the shadows that creep along their walls, of the hollow judgement that echoes in the word of raw guilt. And all I can say is, talk to me when you know grief.

Talk to me when you know about the way it crawls, tears into your ribs. When it scratches through the walls, the wood of the headboard, and when that isn’t enough it’s the skin of another person and then your own—but it’s not your own, that’s not your nails that claw into muscle, the screams that stun the hall into silence—and it isn’t enough, enough,

Enough,

Enough.

ENOUGH.

“What’s your damage?” Is what my therapist of six years likes to ask me in lieu of a greeting, tongue-in-cheek, demure smile pressed into the heel of her palm. And I laugh. Or smile. Depending on the hour, the flux of my mood. Call-and-response. For someone who’s gone through so little I talk way too fucking much.

Some days it’s about how the daffodils in my window box have bloomed earlier than expected. Or I’d seen a white cat run with a fledgling limp in its mouth. Other days, an infomercial on salvation during breakfast spurs a monologue on how God now requires collateral. Investment. (”Well you’re my project here too, Faye.” “As if I don’t know that, Jinah.” Then we’d laugh.)

The previous session had been about DNA. How my father, with FLIGHT sewn into his atoms was overtaken by one that commanded ROT. My father, uselessly stubborn as he was patient.

A mutant defeated by a mutation of all things. The irony stings, a hard slap to the cheek.

I had to take a gap year before returning to my graduate studies. A year that led me to everywhere and nowhere—the pillow held to my mouth in the solitary confines of my room, hands reaching for the peak of Kilimanjaro on an entirely different continent.

I don’t know what I was trying to hold in, let alone was searching for. I must’ve succeeded in both endeavors to have returned.

It’s that, or that fat sum of money for my PhD that had me leave my poor mother behind in Hong Kong to crawl back to Incheon.

Whatever helps me sleep better at night.

An ‘I’ in ruin. An 'I’ to personalize, hold to the rapture like a flame. It’s the most dangerous pronoun.

For: I stand next to you in ruin.

Ru(i)n (I) run I run

So I run.

Feral mind is an ability where the user is thrown into a state of pure violent, animalistic fury. During this time, one’s most primal instincts are kicked into high gear, namely the fight or flight dichotomy—the former a more common occurrence when compared to the latter. The pupils dilate to a disturbing degree, and any last bit of human conditioning (language, socialized behavior, rationale, etc.) ceases to exist. In its place, more creature-like tendencies take shape, be it through body language or nonverbal sounds such as hissing and growling. Familiar faces are rendered prey, and the damage that follows is often critically irreversible. Traits such as strength, stamina and reflexes are also enhanced—what was once impossible to break with average human ability is done almost effortlessly.

This ability can only activated by some form of trigger; with Faye, it’s anything that causes an emotional/mental imbalance, be it by forced or natural means. Her time at Gumi has allowed her to fine tune the ability to initiate this power at will—focusing on a negatively charged memory usually does the trick. Bringing Faye back to her “ground” state proves to be difficult even to this day, though it has significantly improved since the power first manifested. Hours of meditation, intensive emotionally-focused therapy and anger management have allowed for some improvement. In cases where her enraged state don’t cease, tranquilizers have been used as a last resort (she keeps a few on her person, just in case).

WEAKNESSES

Episodes of rage last between twenty minutes to two whole hours, depending on the emotional intensity and  physical condition of the user. Naturally, the longer one remains in that spell, the more weakened they’ll become in the aftermath. cases of sudden burnout, fainting and collapsing are not uncommon.

Weights up to five times her weight (~500-600lb) can be lifted with ease—anything that exceeds that amount will only increase in difficulty, with 1000lb (about one-fourth of the total weight of a car) being her absolute limit. Even then, such amounts can only be held for about 15 seconds or less.

Running speeds go up to twice the rate of the maximum human rate, averaging in around 30-35mph, with distances lasting up to only 2-5 miles.

Users with strength, speed, and tranquility-based abilities could wear down and potentially overpower those with feral minds.

Incapable of deflecting injury. Any that are received do carry over, regardless of the degree of severity. This also applies to how one’s ability use: in that state, running over 20 miles an hour is a walk in the park, but the soreness will be present long after they’re returned back to “normal.”

The more frequently feral mind is in use, the more prone the user is to mental and emotional stability in their normal state. The probability of mood swings and emotional outbursts do increase, as do the chances that their “human” personality might slip from them entirely.

[sinnhelmingrmoved]

domestic ship meme for victor lesgooooo

domestic ll accepting.

I like to imagine Hel has totally done that MCU thing where Doom asks for a kiss and she smooches the mask he is not wearing them tosses it at him.

Who’s more dominant: I feel Victor is a touch more type-A than Hel, so of the two, this goes to Victor. Hel is far less assertive than he is, preferring more gentle persuasion when left to her own devices. In the bedroom…. Let me restate from past memes, sexual and otherwise, Hel is a sub. Victor takes this one by default in terms of sexual dominance.

Who’s the cuddler: Hel would have to be pried from Victor with a crowbar some days. She always likes to have some level of connection with him when they are together, even if it’s just her hand on his. What she likes best is to be in his lap and able to unwind with her head against his shoulder while he writes or studies.

Who’s the big spoon/little spoon: Hel tried to be the big spoon and was thwarted. It made some weird alignment given he’s so much taller than her, so she succumbed to playing little spoon. It’s more fun that way anyway, when he can bury his face in all her hair and keep his arms around her to make her feel safe.

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity: Magical studies and, apparently, mortifying Tsura with their understanding of modern slang. Doom is a great teacher when it comes to catching Hel up with the schooling she missed coming of age in Helheim, and there is little better than hearing a nearly 50 year old man and centuries old goddess utter the words ‘oh, worm.’

Who uses all the hot water: Hel. Victor should probably science some way that she can get as much hot water as she wants for her baths without actually depleting it for everyone else. She says he is welcome to join her if it troubles him so much, to which she probably gets a ‘Don’t change the subject,’ thus foiling her plan to ruin the subject.

Most trivial thing they fight over: Hel ‘cheating’ her way through a language lesson. She paid good money for that Latverian phrasebook. Victor is just so disappointed in her.

Who does most of the cleaning: Servants. Seriously, they’re both royal. She has Ganglot and Gangloti, he has a castle worth of help. 

What has a season pass on their dvr/Who controls the netflix queue: I imagine Tsura has primary reign, actually. When she’s not around to man the remote, it usually falls to Hel. I don’t know that Victor has been able to handle the netflix queue in months.

Who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working:  Victor already fixed it before it ever became an issue. Hel is both impressed and mildly alarmed. Is there anything that this man cannot do?

Who leaves their stuff around: Yes, the answer is he cannot put away some of his shit. Yes, he has servants, but it’s the spirit of the thing, Victor. He has the ultimate out of motioning at her own stuff left lying about and making her admit he has a point. For the most part, both are very tidy, and it’s never anything major.

Who remembers to buy the milk: Serv– You know what, actually, Victor. He’s a human. He’s lived on Earth. He has exchanged currency for goods and services before. He’s been to college and ostensibly had to purchase food before whilst living in his dorm. He understands how shopping works far, far better than his ‘ageless but only theoretically mastered this whole life on Earth thing’ lover.

Who remembers anniversaries:  Both of them. I also get the feeling neither of them is above trying to use wit and cunning to figure out what the other has gotten them. The week leading up to any anniversary is fraught with espionage and interrogations. No one in the castle can sleep. Everyone is afraid of walking in and seeing something that renders them culpable. 

Who cooks normally: This one time Hel tried to cook to be sweet. Latveria almost lost its beloved king that night. Hel’s cooking is more potent than any poison of mortal make. It falls to the servants now, as it should.

How often do they fight: A little sparring between partners, whether magical or physical, keeps the spark alive – as Hel tries to climb out the window. Joking aside, 

What do they do when they’re away from each other: Both have kingdoms to rule, but Victor also continues his scientific and magical pursuits and generally being a thorn in the F4′s side, where Hel has her reading and wandering around Midgard. 

Nicknames for each other: Hel likes to show just how well she’s learned the languages he’s taught her, predominantly Latverian and Hungarian. I’ve already used csillagom here – which amounts to ‘my star’ in Hungarian – which I think is a good indication for how she addresses Victor in private, that he’s radiant, that he’s celestial, something that examines his power and what she perceives as his light. By contrast, and you can correct me on these Rock Facts, but I imagine Victor is a bit more gentle with her, tender. A bit more grounded than Hel tends to be, something to remind her how good she can be, while still acknowledging her power and ability.

Who is more likely to pay for dinner: Hel does and then takes him to very expensive places so she does not get any less than she paid for when she forks over literal gold. It’s horrifying. She has such little money and it’s all older than several cultures. But at least she gets to wine and dine her favorite man.

Who steals the covers at night: Victor. Hel is charmed but ultimately confounded on mornings where he ends up in some kind of blanket burrito. Is he aware that this is not his cape? 

What would they get each other for gifts: Hel brings Victor old tomes, beautifully inscribed and illustrated, from when magic was very young on this plane. Also, since he apparently likes metal so much, bits of jewelry and metalwork for if he ever feels fancy, either with some history behind it or specifically made for him alone. Victor, meanwhile, I imagine likes to see Hel in style while also putting a lot of thought into this – his lady will wear no common finery. Jewels and symbols of status, enhancements woven into their surface.

Who kissed who first: Hel. She had to test and see if he could take the ‘interesting’ texture of her lips. To her surprise, not only could he take it, he liked it.  

Who made the first move: Victor. Hel was far too concerned about Victor’s boundaries to make her move, propriety keeping her within the bounds of the platonic even when she wanted more. She was unsure of how to show her interest, so Victor beat her to the chase. Sufficed to say, Hel was more than receptive.

Who remembers things: Victor. It’s honestly mind-boggling just how much information he retains, but Hel is not about to question it. The most he ever gets is a joke that he makes her feel her age when it comes to trying to remember things.

Who started the relationship: Again, Victor. Otherwise, nothing would have gotten down and Hel would have just sat in ‘this is fine’… well, hell. Mentor and student to friends to, finally, after quite long enough, lovers.

Who cusses more: They’re too articulate for that, really. Hel slips up once and curses and is mortified, to Victor’s endless amusement.

What would they do if the other one was hurt: Victor probably would not let it happen, having cast some protective magic over Hel in the event of any attack. Then he would deal with that threat to the best of his abilities – God help them. Hel, meanwhile, is as usual more defensive, more likely to shield and focus on getting Victor out of any fray terrible enough to leave serious damage. 

Who is the dirty talker: Victor is the literal worst and by that I mean he’s so good that Hel cannot with him. And the most obnoxious part is he is probably well aware that he is good. He can be subtle, too, so everyone might see the shot but only Hel actually feels it hit. Somewhere in the vicinity of her brain, as it spirals into the gutter. Don’t worry, other parts are affected too, far, far south.

A head canon: Once, after Hel had become well acquainted with the locals of the capital, they managed to wheedle her into a certain outfit for a festival, so she could ‘get into the spirit’. Hel ended up caught in the celebrations in the central square, clad in a traditional Latverian dress, her long dark hair down, having herself a time. It was around the middle of the day she turned, saw Victor, and could do nothing but smile. The outfit and its colors really did flatter her, as did her easy grin and bright eyes. And so it was that Victor Von Doom, looking down on his subjects, seeing a new side to Hel, had to tell himself be strong, Victor. Be strong for mother.

[caedance]

Sensual

a poem.

Why does the flesh of an orange bleed so refreshingly, sweet like water found only a heavenly waterfall?

Why does the night sky, laid lavish with bedazzled flecks of divinity, cascade like magic over both warmed hearts and the anguished alike?

Why does snow drive away the familiar in its purified whisper, yet somehow in its crystallized glory draw us closer in confidence to the ones we love?

Why does donning the colour gold bring one to feel royal, priestly, worthy of the unearthly invitations bestowed despite a messy, rebuilt foundation?

Why are we here, and not there?

Why does the first glance of morning light over the city skyline feel like such a sacred moment of existence?

Why do we exist?

Why do we commune?

Why does going pee in the bushes feel so hilarious & adventurous?

Why do angels exist?

Why do babies understand each other’s intentions at all, and with only partially developed brains?

Why do humans grow inside one another?

Why do people like kangaroos, but dislike rats?

Why do I find bunnies cute but rabbits creepy?

Why do people find wolves both scary and mystical enough to iron in confidence to tshirts?

Why does condensed dirt over time sparkle like covenants in gold bands on nervous fingers?

Why doesn’t rain bother worms?

Why do we cover potently rich soil with imported seeds of green blades to soak sun on?

Why is a natural lake more refreshing than a human-made one?

Why do people prefer handheld toothbrushes?

Why is the air crisper in the morning, and more enjoyable before a flight?

Why does driving into an American strip mall bring me so much joy?

Why do some people clean to relax?

Why do people rally around nationalism?

Why is home important?

Why can some people taste the smell of things?

Why do we love illusions?

Why does the sunset leave with awe, each night, and why are sunrises equally as beauty filled?

Why are the iris of eyeballs painted with god-like attention to detail?

Why do we matter?

Why does the word ambrosia feel like magnificence?

Ambrosia...

Why does the cold, crisp crunch of apples taste better in the summer?

Why does melanin ripen?

Why does sandstone not fall apart?

Why do sandcastles bring kids joy?

Why do adults stop building sandcastles?

Why do people get embarrassed on their birthdays?

Why are you still reading this?

Why do we need connection?

Why is it comforting to slather thick acrylic paint onto a fresh, untouched canvas?

Why do adjectives matter?

Why did you call?

Where are we going?

Do you mind if I take a photo of you?

Yes—right there.

In the light.

—

Feb 2020

[muthur9000]

Thanks to @londonjb for the lead. 

This article explains a lot of the psychological motivations of the Prometheus Crew and David. Very long and may require a tea, coffee or whisky.

There's been a lot of speculation around Prometheus, mainly over whether certain elements of the plot constitute sloppiness on the parts of Damon Lindelof and Ridley Scott, or whether they are intentional elements of a puzzle film.  In a way, the reception to the film is a lot like Blade Runner, and the film shares as much DNA with that Ridley Scott work as it does with Alien.  In fact, I could imagine the three pictures now representing three points on a single timeline of future human history.  Certainly, the interpretation of Phillip Dick's Replicants in Scott's Blade Runner and his portrayal of synthetic humans in Prometheus and Alien express certain misgivings over the nature of humanity and whether we are too immature to be creators of responsible entities.  They are related metaphors from a single author.

The current brou-ha-ha in the web community is, of all things, "were the Engineers mad at humanity for killing Jesus?"  I'm going to leave this to theologians who like science fiction.  In short, this way-out-there question is based on the fact that parts of the facility in the film were about 2000 years old, and that Ridley Scott seems to have implied in a recent interview that he and Lindelof discussed whether Jesus was an Engineer sent to redirect humanity at the start of the Roman Empire.  Much like the "Is Deckard a Replicant?" question from Blade Runner, this will provide fans with decades of debate that is largely besides the point.  It is true that the film can be seen as a twisted spin on the New Testament, with wanderers arriving to an inhospitable desert sanctuary on Christmas Eve, an impossible birth announced by a sexless homunculus, isolation to a "manger" for an impossible delivery, an amoral potentate seeking miracles without redemptive faith, shattering of a "Temple Curtain," a resurrection of the Impossible Child from his tomb, and bodily assumption of the Mother into Heaven.  The designation of the moonbase, LV 223, apparently leads to a verse in Leviticus (22:3) that has to do with defiling the Temple and angering the Israelite God.  But again, these are matters beyond my ability to discuss them above a cocktail party level.

    Instead, let's just deal with two main aspects of the film, and where psychiatric theories can give us insight and further appreciation of the narrative.  Both concern the filmmakers' ideas about empathy versus individualistic survivalism.  One thread runs through the relationship between the Engineers and Humanity, as illustrated by the puzzle in the film, the responses of different crew members to the Engineer trap being sprung, and Liz Shaw's story.  The other thread concerns the very odd familial triad of Weyland, his daughter Vickers, and most importantly, the inhuman "child" David.  I'll get back to this triad in the next diary, and touch back on Blade Runner and Alien in the process.

    At its simplest level, the conflict between empathy and individualistic survivalism is one of sacrifice versus self-preservation.  The latter has always seemed to be the evolutionary imperative, the "animal" nature of humanity, leaving empathy seemingly in the provenance of theology and certain secular philosophies.  Even the early psychoanalysts saw the "base impulses" of Id to be primary, consuming and reproducing as the animals did, and the "civilizing influences" of Superego to magically appear through the ministrations of parents and societal rules.  We are now just coming to challenge these notions in earnest, as we find brain circuits vital to a sense of feeling the pain of others, and realizing that they are highly overlapping with the social learning circuits that likely gave our hominid ancestors a literal "leg up" on the quadrapedal competition through the manufacture and instruction in tool making/use.  Cognitive neuroscientists like Jean Decety have found that self-reflection, painful remorse, identification with others, social responsiveness and autognosis (understanding one's own emotional/cognitive state) are all dependent on some of the same cortical real estate, and that learning from others is intimately tied into all of this on a basic wiring level.  Paleoanthropology has begun to debate to what extent our balance of individual autonomy and group dynamics gave us advantages over other primates, apes and hominids.  Richard Leakey succinctly expresses this as the idea that a bipedal creature will have great evolutionary pressure to cooperate, as an asocial biped with a broken leg will not be likely to survive.  It doesn't just take a village to raise a child, it takes a village to live long enough to conceive one.

    On its surface, of course, Prometheus is a Von Daniken-Esque story that steals back the holiness of empathy from these scholars of human brains, development and evolution.  We have these impulses because our creators were the kinds of beings who would kill themselves in order to seed new worlds.  They were also white and blue eyed, but let's not get too far off track now.  The thing is, the film never conclusively establishes that they made us.  The mythos hints at their visiting periodically and influencing cultures, as well as having a change of heart sometime in the early Roman Imperial period (although the root cause may have been in Asia or Africa or America or everywhere at once).  It also states clearly that they are related to us genetically, and by extension, to Bonobos and Chimps.  The thing is, the mythos is open-ended enough that it doesn't negate what we know scientifically, and several characters raise the incongruity of Shaw's interpretation with known biology.  She sees the DNA match as validating her theories, but it only establishes a common lineage.  The Engineers may have been a culture of humans so far advanced that they left Earth tens of millennia prior.  Ridley Scott states that the opening sequence is meant to establish the Engineers' psychology, rather than it showing what happened on Earth.  They are seeding many worlds, and they have an aim for the hominids here on Earth.  More than that we do not find out.

  Thus, Von Daniken-Esque or not, the story is one of humanity falling short of loftier goals that involve the denial of self-preservation.  This isn't just the Prometheus crew, or us chimps down here on Terra, but the Engineers of the LV 223 installation.  The first we see them on LV 223, in a holo-playback, they are fleeing something.  This something leads to widespread death and bodily defilement.  It is the interaction of the bioactive muck with them that has led to this something.  However, we know that the muck can do different things to different beings.  It may have mutated some of the worms on the planet into body rending serpents.  It turns the craven geologist into a rampaging wendigo gone amok.  On the Engineer head with the panic center (locus ceruleus) activated, it is literally explosive, a dark mirror image to the gradual dissolve at the start of the film.  And mixed with reproductive cells in humans, it leads to a rapidly gestating Xenomorph face hugger.  At least one Xenomorph has already been unleashed by this process before the Prometheus gets there, as it is in a wall mural in the storage room, and this may have been the Something that hunted down the Engineers.  But this is ostensibly the same (or similar) muck to the stuff at the start of the film, which is harsh but ultimately benevolent in result.  Is the muck different, or does its effect depend on the user?  What if the fear in the LV223 Engineers is what weaponized the substance?  And conversely, what if the subtle effects of the substance on the Engineers made their motivations darker than that of their brethren?  If they were as willing to die as their kinsperson at the beginning of the film, they could have launched a suicide mission, loaded up with the goop in their own bodies, and unleashed it upon landing and coming out of stasis.  That isn't their plan.  And that mural of the Xenomorph doesn't look like a warning.  It looks like a shrine.  Something is different about the psychology of these Engineers.

    I wouldn't be a Science Fiction fan without my own pet theory.  What if they never turned on us per se?  What if they had some of this muck in select locations, away from most people's view, in various places on Earth?  Then, whatever we did that was so messed up, whether it was unseating the Roman Republic, crucifying Jesus, destroying the Holy of Holies in Jerusalem (that's a good place to hide bioactive muck), having Russell Crowe fight Joaquin Phoenix, or some Dynastic Coup in China ... whatever it was polluted the goop with hostile intentions, and the Engineers took it to the LV 223 "Human-Engineer Visitor's Center" to see if they could fix it.  This makes more sense than setting up a weapons facility on the moon to which they gave directions already. The Earth Embassy was retconned into a decontamination site for the Earth biomuck. This failed.  It unleashed nightmarish biotech, but also changed the Engineers on the moon itself.  At some point, the muck changed the thinking of the Engineers on that world, hence the mural deifying the Xenomorph and the stockpiling of the muck to unleash (or perhaps to venerate).

   The best evidence for this failure of empathy on LV 223 is that one of the Engineers finally decides: "Screw this.  I'm safe in this ship, so I'm going into stasis."  When he comes out, he is not a high-minded angel.  He is disappointed at Weyland, and responds by using the human's creation (David) as a blunt weapon.  Now, he doesn't owe Weyland any more of an explanation than Dr Tyrell did for Roy Batty, when Roy had the same wish to look upon his creator and ask for more life.  But when Tyrell hems and haws and refuses to try, we are supposed to see it as a flawed human move, and we almost sympathize with Batty's extreme reaction.  Here, the clearly flawed being is the Engineer, and Shaw merely asks what went wrong.  The Engineer believes itself to be above its creations, above its dead comrades, and above reproach.  When it is stopped by an act of sacrifice by the Prometheus flight crew, it does not question its judgment of the little humans.  It goes on a rampage to kill the human who questioned it.  There is a lot of dialogue devoted to the flawed nature of David's creation and tutelage, but the implied narrative about creation is that our "guides" are also a decidedly mortal/flawed lot.  David is the only character to explicitly state this, but the behavior of the Engineers, as much as it can be deciphered, is one of seemingly condemning behavior that they themselves are prone to carrying out.  In a pinch, or under the effects of bad bioactive muck, or both, they opt for saving their own skins and lashing back at any and all who would threaten it.

    Maybe, then, the Engineers are the stand-in for the innate capacity for great acts in either direction.  They are not the past, so much as what we could become.  They are what we know instinctively is "in us."  We can elect to take an inclusive view that sees all our acts, creations and neighbors as carrying pieces of us, and that leads to a wide net of preservation that may motivate us to act in a fashion that does not prioritize our own immediate interests or even our immediate safety.  Or we can focus on threats, excluding others, attacking others, and seeing legacy in a very narrow light.  As Pinker points out in "Better Angels of Our Nature," you can't take the group minded view if everyone around you is slashing their sword, so neither is automatically more adaptive.  The flexibility to go back and forth is adaptive, so long as the overall trend among all people is towards the broader view.  This is also not purely partisan, for those keeping score at home, although it is political.  Here, most people would say, "Oh, we're progressives, so we take the altruistic view."  Not when we focus on the threat from conservatives, and from my POV, rightly so.  In fact, the "pearl clutchers" vs. "red meat progressive" arguments here are between the empathic vs. survivalist viewpoints.  And I myself have alternated camps, depending on the item being debated.

    But back to Prometheus, and how the crew of tiny people is as variable as the Engineers.  With the exception of three members, the crew is representative of a humanity without mythos.  Here at DailyKos, we might see this as a good thing, an Earth clear-eyed and unbound from ancient superstition.  However, mythology is a good thing.  As first articulated by Henry James and later by Carl Jung, myth provides metaphors for the unfathomable, and allows people to cope with capriciousness in life.  Not everything can be known in one person's lifetime, and this will confound the person who lacks stories to root his or her experience.  Failure to have a sense of one's own story at the end of life is associated with despair or desperate actions, as per Erikson, and this task is difficult to achieve without a broader cultural story.  Carrying myths is not the same as substituting belief for knowledge, as secular individuals who avidly read speculative fiction have a cosmic mythos without any degree of faith in it.  Prometheus' crew, for the most part, are not these kinds of secular individuals.  They speak in terms of money, sex, power, and discoverable fact.  Even Weyland, who has some degree of unscientific belief, does not want a cosmic framework for his life, only cosmic powers; he has not achieved Eriksonian ego integrity at the end, serving as an Ozymandias figure placed into space opera.  It is really Shaw and her partner who strive to rediscover a mythos, and neither utilizes it to allow for mystery.  They must have a personal relationship with the Engineers, which places them on equal footing.  Given that the Engineers are not gods, this is logically reasonable, but in so far as they are inscrutable this is not a recipe for success.  Perhaps we could even go so far as to say that the rise of personal-level theology and the decline of mystery about 2000 years ago is what caused the catastrophe with/among the Engineers.    

    Many of the crew have been locked in by a lifetime of exposure to corporate materialism.  The geologist is so set on his job that he is more frightened of the mission expanding into archeo-biomedicine than he is at the sight of the dead bodies or malevolent biotech, although the latter disturb him plenty.  He has become overly specialized.  

The biologist is almost a parody of how fundamentalists see many of us here, unwilling to challenge past theory and implicitly trusting of fauna that clearly looks sinister to us.  Neither of them can see well anymore, nor critically examine information outside their training.  No wonder we witness signal glitches and errant static and broken visors do them in: outside data is increasingly meaningless to their thought processes.  And the LV 223 trap plays on their flawed singular-mindedness when it transforms them.  The more motivated biologist is hollowed out by the creatures he wishes to study.  The greedier geologist is transformed into a singular minded killing machine, mowing down anything living in his path.  

Even the doctor, who does not meet a bitter end, merely acts as a functionary.  Eventually, unquestioning of her directives, she is a willing pawn in David's side projects.  She has become slave to a machine, less creative than a robot.  There is no meaning left in any of these professionals' lives, a lack which is merely made explicit as the Prometheus mission goes off the rails.  The corporation has hollowed out and stripped much of the empathic thinking from these people.  More tragically, their survivalism is no longer individualistic, having been utilized by Weyland Corporation as a subversive means of control.  Slavoj Zizek, a popular psychoanalyst and philosopher in Slovenia, has written volumes on the lack created by the modern materialist imperative to continually consume in the pursuit of individual enjoyment.  I await his response to this element of the film, as I am pretty sure he will carry out an even more detailed analysis of it.

    This control is not absolute, however, as the flight crew manages to break out of it.  For much of the film, they speak flippantly about bets and sex and collector's items they have bought.  They retaliate impotently against their female boss by using objectifying language, brought to a head by Idris Elba's captain challenging her humanity by daring her to have sex with him.  If she can satisfy lust, then she's not a machine, recapitulating the erroneous thinking of the humans in Blade Runner.  Even his devil-may-care warbling of "Love the One You're With," which elicited a chuckle from the audience, has a darker undertone that the sexual revolution has reached a flaccidly unsatisfying and meaningless hedonistic conclusion.  To touch back to Freud, there is only Id craving other things, with atrophied Egos that cannot generate complete senses of autonomous selves.  Yet, faced with the destruction of the planet, these men find something else to prize on it.  We never know their individual motivations in detail, although the Captain speaks for a time on the imperative that the rest of humanity be able to go on.  They will not receive things or even recognition for this.  They will not collect on their bets with each other.  It does not seem that they anticipate heavenly reward either, although they allude vaguely to "the other side."  Instead, the idea that they share enough basic humanity with those back home is sufficient to trigger the "other circuitry" that acts in opposition to consuming and persisting.  Even unrecognized, something of themselves will remain in distant and close relatives who will live to see another day.  They cannot articulate it, but their bravery speaks it.  And it is instinctual, whereas the other impulses have been reinforced by the civilization, in concert with more recent psychological theory that does not see one or the other impulse as more innate.

    Let's finish by looking a bit at Shaw.  She has been turned into an outsider by her own life circumstances.  She has serially lost both parents as a child and has discovered she is infertile.  Thus, she is cut off from the most immediate level of the biological thread early on.  Her deeply held theories on human development are not widely accepted, as she must rely on an eccentric billionaire for funding (although the state of governmental grants is unclear in this world's backstory).  Her talents do not readily bring her acclaim or power.  There is nothing driving her other than personal satisfaction.  She wants to be proven right, but since she already believes she is correct, data is always spun into confirming her narrative.  There is very little narcissistic weakness for the world of 2089 to play off of and manipulate.  That said, she is hardly concerned with humanity as a whole, except as a study piece.  She and her partner form a pair walled off to some extent from others, and she herself seems largely walled off from instinct.  The drive present is one to know.  In some fashion, she is the character most alike to David, rather than Vickers.

    According to Jeffrey Arnett, who formulated the concept of Emerging Adulthood about 20 years ago, the transition from adolescence to full adulthood in the modern age is one of determining where to live, what to do, and who to love.  His ideas are an expansion on concepts of adult identity first articulated by the first generation of Freudians, as well as the young adult conflict of Intimacy vs. Isolation postulated by Erikson.  This phase of development is supposed to be marked by repeated failure, as well as multiple breaks and rapprochement with the elder generation.  Inability to have a solid sense of answers to the three lifestyle questions by the mid-30s is often associated with continued immaturity in interpersonal interactions and/or a midlife crisis.  Shaw, who has been robbed of an elder generation and does not appear to have replacement proxies, has followed the example of her widowed father.  There has never been a chance for rebellion.  She sees her life's work as primary, which determines her partner and her world-traversing lifestyle.  She enters her mid-30s without a hint of crisis, but also without much ability to interact with people outside her work.  This is not the careerism present in the other crew, as she can think critically about a wide range of topics, but her social development seems frozen.  She relies upon her partner as the spokesperson and interlocutor for much of the first half of the film.  In fact, until the crisis reaches its climax, she almost appears to have a less rich emotional inner life than David (who as we will discuss in the next diary, is likely hiding his responses).

    This changes as her partner is ripped from her.  This not only challenges her assumptions about the benevolence of the Engineers, but strips her of her intermediary.  She is exposed to the hostile world for the first time since the death of her father, making David's touch back to this event all the more cruel.  Having opted for one clearly intimate relationship, she can choose total Isolation or find a way to rely on others.  As she is betrayed by David, by the medical crew, by Vickers and Weyland, and by the Engineer, she relies more and more on her life's mission.  Her quest for answers, never at odds with whatever the details of her Christian faith are, becomes even more central.  And her Christian faith cannot be that of the literalist, even if she believes that Jesus and the Engineers are one and the same, as she has ideas clearly divergent from the account in Genesis.  Pursuing that mission first takes her on a survivalist path, and then shifts to a more inclusive view.

    The medical bay Caesarean is a survivalist action in some ways but not others.  On one level, she is the archetypal female action heroine, socking out anyone standing between her and the med bay.  She endures pain and injury to live another day.  However, here, it is an unearthly child that threatens to kill her.  Her child, in a sense, as it shares some genetic material with her, or at the very least with that of her partner.  But Shaw is uniquely qualified to recognize that this creature is an invader rather than part of a continuing biological thread, as she already sees herself as outside that ongoing chain.  Since this is not reproduction, there is no primal level gain in sacrificing herself for it.  I am shocked that the Fundamentalists have not seized on this scene as a grotesque of the Virgin Birth, but more surprised still that either side in the Culture Wars has not seen how this is a reflection of the zeitgeist as we confront questions of delivering or terminating pregnancies with foreknowledge of congenital/genetic malformations.  The dedicated modern woman, with an adult existence centered outside of home and hearth, who elects to live another day rather than bring something she does not recognize as hers into this world.  This is not to boil down difficult questions to simple science fiction struggles for life and death: no potential mother (or her partner) can see any real world pregnancy as merely an alien invader.  Nonetheless, uncanny narrative threads in horror or gothic or any speculative story where reality's rules are suspended ends up reflecting that which cannot be spoken of comfortably in the real world.  This is what Freud called Unheimlich, which means both Uncanny and "The Un-Hidden."  This pregnancy, both enabled and poisoned by the Man of Technology (who is also a Corporate Man!), is only a terrible choice thrust upon her.  And she must rely upon yet more corporate technology to save her, which she must both appropriate forcibly and then convince/reprogram to do the job.  Is this not the impossible nightmare our moral arguments and advanced knowledge have thrust upon every woman, the seemingly barren and the fertile alike?  Even now, do we not hear the Corporatist funded scolds redirecting women and their physicians to always choose measures to bring every pregnancy to delivery, like David and his effortless take-over of the Weyland med crew?  Even in nations where access is not an issue and pollution is being addressed, is the foreknowledge we can now have not the genesis of such nightmares, made all the more scary by the fact that the developing fetus is part of our biological chain?  This is survivalism turned in on itself.

    Having made the terrible choice to rip a creature from her womb, Shaw is now met with almost preternatural calm by David, Vickers and Weyland.  She is not taken back to the cryo-beds, nor arrested, or even reprimanded.  Weyland is more concerned with her accompanying them on his quest for more life.  The corporation and its godhead must persist.  The implied option is: "If you will not bear a child for the corporation, will you nurture the corporation itself?  If you will not act solely for yourself, can you broaden your worldview to support me?"  However, these are purchases, not empathic pleas.  Weyland does not come as the weary senescent in need of help.  He announces that this has been his plan, that he is in control.  Having just come from one crisis of modern feminism, are we now not smack dab in the middle of the other?  If you will not bear a child, then you must be a company man.  This is also the crisis of our aging population, where so much of the work is now in health care and elder care.  Vickers and David are along for the ride, both for their own ends, and we will return to this in the next installment.  But neither accompanies Weyland entirely because they want to take care of him, even though David has followed his programming and been attentive.  They have farmed this work out to others: the scientists, the crew, the technology, the medics, and the Engineer.  People who take "pink collar" jobs in our world may often start off entirely fueled by empathy and purpose, but can quickly get drawn into much more materialistic and unempathic motivations.  This is survivalism masquerading as an emphatic plea.  Shaw does not take the bait, agreeing to go along but beginning to remember her core motivations.

    Everything changes when she witnesses the battle between the Engineer and Weyland.  Denied his individualist/survivalist aims, Weyland is struck down by the Engineer, who is unimpressed with the narcissistic achievement of arriving to wake him up.  Nevertheless, the Engineer is no less driven by the same instincts, refusing to engage in a discussion about actions/morals and simply maneuvering to continue his own existence.  False gods abound in this room of mere mortals.  Remembering her discussion with the Captain, and how his motivations are already in the process of change, she takes a chance and reaches out to another for help.  She asks him to make a sacrifice that only he can, on behalf of countless people that neither of them will see again.  And then, she takes an even bigger risk, providing David with a chance to help her and offering to help him.  It is at this point that she regains her cross, lost when she was first infected with the growing invader within her.  She has begun to participate in a genuine dialogue with others, offering assistance that may not be reciprocated and making requests that may not be fulfilled.  She trusts not just in her life's mission, but in others that she is not intimate with, others who have betrayed her before.  She does this because it is the only way to allow for Earth to survive, and as it turns out, her bet pays off for herself and for Earth.  Ironically, the purely survivalist Xenomorph Facehugger acts as the Deus Ex Machina, bringing the corrupted Engineer to his end in the same way he had denied Weyland further existence.  But it acts in its singular minded way, as it has no empathic instincts.  

    In the end, Shaw's growth and reconnecting to her full human nature allows David to learn the benefit of an empathic sense.  The Immortal Man made Invalid, he is now the homunculus with broken legs, dependent on another person to help him along.  Without him, Shaw cannot achieve her more intellectual mission; without her, David has life without further experience.  We have seen the theoretical dawn of human empathy reborn, its survival advantage spelled out for us.  This recapitulates the pre-denouement of Blade Runner with Deckard and Batty, but with a happier resolution for both actors, and stands in contrast to Alien where Ripley is left alone.  In the next diary, we will go back and review the unhappy family of Vickers, Weyland and David, and speak of narcissism and malignant narcissism in more detail.  In the process, we will see how such persons (corporate and human) that lack a full capacity for a sense of the other loom large as chief antagonists in Prometheus and our own world.

By Ptolemy  Thursday Jun 21, 2012 · 3:56 AM AUSEST

Part II

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The Ayahuasca is becoming known worldwide for its incredible ability to heal anxiety, PTSD, depression and other numerous mental disorders. This medicinal tea from South America contains potent psychedelic chemical N, N-dimethlytryptaime (DMT), that induces introspection and intense visions.  The ayahuasca experience often lasts for 8 hours approximately and is accompanied often by vomiting and sometimes diarrhea. The natives call it “la purge” (the purge). This purging process is what has medicinal benefits since it frees the body of worms, emotional trauma and other parasites

Some mind-blowing facts about the ayahuasca include:

1. Antidepressant qualities Long term users of ayahuasca after having their blood tested showed increased density of the serotonin receptors as compared to those who were not using it. Antidepressants of the SSRI class actually help reduce density of the serotonin receptors in its users over time and these could cause chronic depression.  The ayahuasca is neither addictive nor neurotoxic. It not poisonous and cannot nerve tissue in the spinal cord or brain at any time or in any possible way.

2. The Amazon has over 40,000 plant species but somehow the Indians knew that if they mixed these two specific plants: the Banisteriopsis caapi (ayahuasca vine) and shrub leaves of the Psychotria vidris, they would make medicine. The ayahuasca vine has monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs), a chemical that helps the body absorb DMT leaves. The MAOI prevents the DMT from being destroyed by monoamine oxidase in the gut. If this happened, the DMT would have no effects. Natives who have used the brew for many years claim the plant showed them how ayahuasca is made.

3. Ayahuasca has created a boom in tourism There is a boom in tourism due to the ayahuasca as seekers worldwide travel to the Amazon to get healing. Ayahuasca is legal in South and Central America and many eco-lodges and retreat centers are available, dedicated to ayahuasca healing and tourism.

4. Ayahuasca is healing PTSD Many veterans have also sought the cure of PTSD from the ayahuasca.  Users go into a dream-like state and traumatic memories that are trapped in the subconscious get unlocked, reprocessed and the negative emotion and fear detached. It’s a viable treatment and cure of post-traumatic stress disorder.

5. Used by major religions Ayahuasca is used on a regular basis by two major religions: the Uniao De Vegetal (UDV) and Santo Daime. They use it as a sacrament that connects them with God. They both won court cases that gave them rights to consume the ayahuasca in the US.