#starting with the shepherds and going out to all the earth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

guiltyasdave · 4 months ago

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epiphany

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

tags/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n

summary: after a helicopter crash, frankie wakes up in a strange place.

a/n: once again i apologize for the pain i'm about to inflict on you. this was written for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge which i'm so so soooo late for (i'm sorry freya!) and this was originally @sizzlingcloudmentality's prompt/moodboard, but we were both going through the worst writer's block of our lives and thought switching might help (it did not), so the first thousand beautiful words are hers! <3 also thank you for beta reading and for all the yap sessions about this one in particular my love!

for an extra sad experience, listen to epiphany by taylor swift while reading :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

It is all noise, deafening noise, roaring rotors, beeping instruments, flickering lights, blinking warnings, screaming metal, screaming people, his own voice, so loud it made his ears ring. Then he saw it. Again. His mom, cradling him, his dad, telling him he was a good boy, Juan, his first cat, curled up in his lap. Friends, his brothers, most of them dead now, rotting in graves, the women he loved. His baby momma. His child, smiling up at him, tiny, fat hands grabbing into the air. Fuck, his life was flashing before his eyes. Again. How often would he have to see this, all his good moments and why were there bad moments, too?

A massive jolt goes through the helicopter as he hits the ground and now the smell of copper, fuel and earth fills his nostrils. Wet, dark, quiet earth. The smell of a grave. The beeping and whimpering blurs into one soundscape, a wave of sounds on which Frankie slips away as his eyes close shut. Dark, quiet earth. Like a grave.

A sheep. Or more than one? They bleat. They coax him out of his unconsciousness, every sound a beacon for his mind to find his way back into consciousness. Out of the dark peacefulness, back into the light. Frankie groans, everything hurts, not only his body, his whole existence hurts, feels broken and ripped. The sunlight cuts through between his eyelids, blinding him, but that is what he wants, the light. He needs the light.

He shields his eyes and finds himself in a meadow. Poppies, cornflowers, grass. Wet, rich earth under his palm as he tries to push himself up. The buzzing of insects. And the bleating sheep. He finds himself in a dream of cottage life. Then he turns his head and sees the helicopter, the carcass of the metal beast he tried to fly too close to the sun. Like Icarus he came crashing down.

He doesn’t have to check, he knows “a fatal crash with zero survivors” when he sees one. Frankie got lucky, again. Somehow death spared him, he always does. Maybe the old fella took a liking in watching Frankie fuck up his life over and over again.

Military training kicks in, he checks himself for injuries and finds no major ones. Maybe a broken rib or two, a concussion for sure. He grunts and pushes himself onto his knees, crying out in pain that he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from.

A furry head appears out of the tall grass, white curls, pink nose, floppy ears, black and vigilant eyes. The snout opens and a bleat comes out. Like a complaint for this human being. To better not disturb the peace in this meadow any further with his mediocrity of surviving yet another accident that should have killed him.

“Sorry,” Frankie mutters and finds the energy to rise to his feet. Shaky, wobbly, the scent of earth and grass clinging to his damp clothes and skin. “You know somewhere for me to find help?”

Another bleat, then the sheep turns and starts wading through the tall grass with all the time in the world. Frankie watches the little bum disappear between green blades dotted with red poppies. He might as well follow the animal. Perhaps he will find a shepherd this way. Or a good shepherd may find him. God knows Frankie is in desperate need of some guidance. Or at least medical attention.

So he starts walking, more limping than anything else, his boots cutting a swath through the grass and flowers, every step causing mayhem for bees and bugs. The sheep, a few steps ahead of Frankie, sways through the meadow like a ship through green waves. It doesn’t turn around once, doesn’t turn towards its herd, the animal simply follows an invisible path that Frankie can’t see. Maybe he is losing it now, following an animal after having a fatal crash like it was his guide. But he had done weirder things in his life. Maybe he had hit his head really hard on the ground when he got thrown out of the helicopter.

His head hurts, his legs hurt, breathing hurts as well, but the scent of summer and peace fills his hurting lungs and every breath soothes the stinging and rippling in his chest.

It takes some time, but finally, after hobbling behind the sheep, the meadow opens into a clearing, a gravel pathway starting to show and leading to a cottage. A small house with walls made out of stones, big and small, various shades and colors, a crooked roof, ducking under some trees as if it was hiding from the eyes of anyone who was not welcome. The birdsong sounds different now, too.

Another bleat and the sheep starts trotting towards the house, the front door open wide. Silence. There is no sound to be heard, no voices, no music playing, no banging of pots and pans. Just birds, humming insects, the sheep drinking water from a bowl. Peace, comes to Frankie’s mind as if someone had seeded the word into his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, on a creaky bench in front of the house, basking in the last warm rays of the sun before it hides behind the trees. Ten minutes maybe, or an hour. His thoughts were flowing molasse thick behind his forehead. Thoughts about the crash, thoughts about the lives he has on his list, thoughts about who might miss him if he disappeared for good this time.

His eyes flutter shut. The sunlight is warm on his skin, painting the darkness behind his eyelids orange. It’s like he’s floating away, on his way to the sun once more.

“Francisco?”

Your voice is soft, almost as if the wind had whispered his name. He opens his eyes, turns his back on the painless bliss of unconsciousness once more.

Rays of the setting sun frame you where you’re standing in front of him, giving you a warm glow, illuminating the flowing fabric of the dress that you’re wearing. He doesn’t question how you know his name, how you feel familiar even though he’s certain that he’s never seen you before. He must have hit his head really hard.

“I— I crashed,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and the words scraping his throat on their way out.

His hand vaguely gestures in the direction he came from, but he can’t see the helicopter anymore, no sign of the crash either, only seemingly endless fields of grass and wildflowers, with trees in the distance. How far did he walk?

You nod, seemingly unsurprised. The sheep that led him there nudges your hand with its snout and you scratch through the wool around its ears, muttering what sounds like thank you. It bleats at him once more, before finally trotting back to its herd, blending into the white dots among the green.

You pick up the wooden basket you had been carrying and tip your head towards the open door. Your eyes had been trained on his face, but when he stands up on unsteady legs, they trail down his frame, lingering on his side where blood has been seeping through his shirt and the stained fabric is clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He barely registered the pain while he was sitting there, but now, it grows to full intensity. Maybe it’s more than a concussion and a cracked rib after all.

He follows you over the threshold, taking in his surroundings. The stony walls, littered with mismatched wooden shelves, filled with books and flowerpots. Small windows through which the evening light is filtering in. Worn down furniture, cushions that he would love to sink his tired body into right now. An earthy, heavy scent, cleansing his mind and his lungs.

For the first time in years, there’s no underlying need for the artificial high that has kept his head over water and simultaneously pulled him under.

“We need to clean you up,” you say, eyeing his bloody shirt again.

You lead him up a wooden staircase, creaks accompanying his every step, and into a small bathroom. The light from a round window reflects off forest green tiles, mesmerizing him. You fill up a bathtub, adding oils from little glass bottles, until a herbal scent is wafting around him.

Carefully, you help him strip off his clothes down to his underwear. Lifting his arms hurts like hell and he sucks in a harsh breath when his shirt unsticks from the open wound on his left. Some of the pain eases as soon as he sinks down into the warm water, a grateful sigh falling from his lips. You smile at that, a small, timid thing, and he wants to keep looking at you, wants to make you smile again, but you settle on the stone floor at his back, pushing down on his shoulders until most of his body is submerged.

With a cloth, you start on his face, cleaning off mud and dried blood, so gently that it barely stings when you touch scratches on his skin. You move on to his hair, letting him lean back, your fingers massaging over his scalp, easing the tension, the worry that he’s carrying around with him. Finally, you probe at his rips under the water’s surface, fingertips dancing over the open wound there. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it feels less heavy, less biting somehow.

Your hands trace over the scars littering his torso in gentle touches, soothing phantom pains that have long passed. “I’m sorry about these,” he thinks he hears you say, so quietly that he’s not sure if the words were meant for him to understand.

“‘s not your fault,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut once more as he sinks deeper into the warm water.

He awakens surrounded by soft white bedding, a wooden ceiling with exposed beams over his head and the light of early sunrise falling into the room, painting it golden. He stretches without thinking, only a sting at his ribcage reminding him of the day before.

It all feels like he’s walking through a dream, one too beautiful to disturb. So, he doesn’t wonder how he came here, who you are, why you seem to know him, how you seemingly healed most of his injuries simply by giving him a bath. If this is what an actual dream feels like, not the nightmares he usually has, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Everything feels easy, here, with you. There don’t seem to be any clocks in the cottage, so he has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Still, he finds you in a small garden behind the house, tending to vegetables that you’re growing there.

He feels your gaze flying over him, like you’re checking what state he’s in. Then, with a smile, you start explaining what you’re doing. Which plants to water, which vegetables are ready to be harvested. He works alongside you, naturally, like he’s always done this. It feels good, using his hands and body like this. Growing something, helping someone, doing good.

He follows you to the small kitchen, watches you prepare things, storing them in a pantry. You explain which herbs you are growing in small pots on a windowsill, handing them to him one by one to let him smell them.

The sun is rising higher, warming the air floating in through the open backdoor. You take his hand and pull him outside again, walking down an invisible path through the green fields surrounding the cottage. Bees are buzzing in the wildflowers around you and the sheep are bleating occasionally, watching the two of you with curious eyes, but not coming closer to investigate.

You’re wearing a dress again, the skirt flowing around your ankles in the light breeze and the sunlight illuminating your figure as you skip a few steps ahead of him. Frankie can’t help himself, picking a few of the flowers and handing them to you. His heart almost cracks at your wide smile when he gives them to you, your fingertips grazing his.

Back at the cottage, you put them into a vase on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent mixing with the house’s earthy notes in no time. It’s a small thing, but in a way, it's a trace of his presence here. It’s almost scary how much Frankie likes that thought.

It becomes a routine, as easy as breathing. The two of you taking care of the garden first thing in the morning, then a walk through the fields. The sheep start coming closer, even though they don’t let him pet them the way they do with you. He barely hurts anymore, the wound at his side almost completely healed.

In the evenings, you make tea from the herbs that you’re growing. Frankie has never liked tea, always proud to be a black coffee guy, but this one is different. It calms him, slows his thoughts down and fills him with a peace he didn’t know life had to offer. And it’s something that you made. For him, to care for him.

One night, you’re both sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and listening to them crackling. He starts telling you about his past, about all the regrets that haunt him. About the men that he’s killed, about all the pain and sadness that he’s responsible for. About the woman and child that he abandoned, all to chase a high that he knew was unreachable.

He feels lighter, afterwards, like a shadow has lifted from his heart. You take his hand and rest it on your thigh. Your fingertip dances over his open palm, drawing delicate shapes over the calloused lines of his skin.

“All the violence it took you to become this gentle,” you sigh.

Your smile is sad, and he wants to kiss it off your lips. He’s never felt gentle one day in his life, has always been made of brute force and rough edges, but here, with you, he thinks you might be right.

With every passing day, the peace seeps deeper into his bones. Maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe everything that happened before was the dream, a nightmare, and he finally woke up.

That evening, you’re singing while preparing dinner. He puts down his knife and the potatoes he’s been chopping and takes your hand instead. You grin at him, still singing as he sways the both of you around to the melody. His heart aches at the sound of your laugh.

He pulls you closer, leaning in, eyes darting to your lips. For a second, he could swear that you’re moving towards him too. Then you sigh, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, stopping him. He freezes.

“Frankie, you— We can’t. You can’t stay here”

Suddenly, his whole body feels cold.

“Why not? I want to be here. With you.”

Under other circumstances, he’d be ashamed of the whine in his voice.

“Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“What do you mean, my time hasn’t—”

Tears well up in your eyes. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip.

“I’ve already kept you longer than I should have. I’m sorry, Frankie. You have more life to live. I’ll protect you, just like I have before.”

Before he can say another word, before he can even attempt to understand, your arms wrap around him. Your lips sink down onto his, just as soft as he imagined, just as sweet.

Then, everything dissolves. The stone walls around him, the setting sun through the window, the scent of herbs and fresh flowers. It leaves only the feel of your warm body, your lips on his. Until that disappears, too.

His eyes fly open, seeing nothing at first. Sound erupts around him like an explosion. Blurry shapes move in his periphery. The air is thick with smoke, his ears are ringing. His mouth tastes of blood. Hands are frantically pulling at him, moving him, shouting at him, around him, in words that he can’t make out.

It’s like he’s watching, barely present in his body as someone feels his wrist for a pulse, shines a light into his eyes, checks his body for injuries. He doesn’t understand. He was good, he was healing. He was at peace.

His body is limp as he gets strapped onto a stretcher. They may be talking to him, he thinks.

“He must’ve had a guardian angel,” someone next to him says.

Frankie isn’t listening. He’s scanning the treeline, the landscape around him. It was all right here, the sheep, the meadow.

It’s like you’re still right there, the phantom of your presence next to him, but he can’t see you anymore. Just like it was before, he could swear he hears you whisper.

thank you so much for reading <3 as always, comments and reblogs are love, i'm so excited to hear what you think!

and check out this gorgeous art piece by @millersblud 🫶🏻

#janas fics #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader

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red-riot-unbreakable-heart · 1 year ago

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Kirishima gives Todoroki S*x Tips | Todoroki x Reader Fic

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: Shoto Todoroki x Fem Reader! 💋, Shoto Todoroki x Eijiro Kirishima Friendship

Genre: Fluff, Sex, Friendship, NSFW

CW: MDNI!, discussing sex, foreplay, p*rn, hickies

Shoto Todoroki doesn’t really get sex until he gets it.

He loves you and knows you want to do it…so naturally he does research. If there’s one thing Shoto is good at, it’s mastering a subject

When Kirishima loses his virginity, he lets Shoto ask him questions. They sit late into the night at the library, reviewing and analyzing Kirishima’s 30 minutes of action. Shoto takes notes and in that straightforward way of his, asks for Eijro’s opinions on positions, foreplay and hickies.

“Did you perform oral sex on her? Is the female anatomy confusing?” He asks, causing Eijiro to go red in the face. Eijiro nods yes to both. “It took a few minutes, but once I got into it, I figured it out pretty quickly!” He says earnestly. Shoto scribbles down a reminder to Google some detailed diagrams of the female body when he gets home.

“Foreplay is super important, because girls need to, like, warm up before they’re ready to bone.” Eijiro adds, motioning for Shoto to keep taking notes.

“I didn’t know that.” Shoto blinks, surprised. To be fair, he had never really thought much about sex until you’d brought it up a few months earlier. He knew the rudimentary mechanics from middle school health class, but had never wondered what went into the act beyond the basics of reproduction.

“Shoto. My dude. This is going to be harder than I thought.” Eijiro puts his face in his hands. “How does someone our age have little to no knowledge about sex?”

“I wasn’t interested in it until now.” Shoto says flatly. “But now that Y/N wants to do it, I want to, too.”

Eijiro stares at Shoto thoughtfully through his fingers. “That was a pretty chivalrous response.” He admits, lifting his head from his hands. “You just want to make your girl happy, I can get behind that. But Shoto – if you don’t want to have sex, you don’t have to. Enthusiastic consent is key to solid intimacy.”

“I really want to do this.” Shoto says insistently. “I don’t really understand what all the hype is about, but I want to try it with y/n. I want to feel close to her that way. And maybe once I do it, I’ll understand.”

“Alright, man. Then I’ll help you. Consider me your Sex Expert. Your Sexpert!” Kirishima grins at his witty wordplay.

Shoto looks at him skeptically. “Haven’t you only had sex once, though? How much of an expert can you possibly be?”

Kirishima deflates. “I don’t see anyone else out in the library at 11pm giving you sex advice!”

“True.”

“So let me teach you what I know.” He says sagely. “Just call me your Sex Sensei!”

Shoto snorts out a laugh. “Pass.”

“Fine, be like that. Regardless, you are now my student. I will shepherd you into the next phase of your sex life with chivalry and grace.” Eijiro is really getting into the bit now. One look down at Shoto’s nervous face pulls him back down to Earth. “What’s wrong?”

“This is a lot. What if I’m bad at it? And what if y/n hates it?” Shoto closes his notebook and looks pleadingly at Kirishima with his mismatched eyes. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Calm down, man. It’s really not as big a deal as you think! And I’ve already committed to being your Sex Sensei, so we’re going to see this through together.” He motions for Shoto to open up his notebook again. “Now let’s start with the basics – have you ever watched porn?”

--------------- FIN for now! ------------------------------------------------

I'm working on a longer fic to really dig into this exploration for Shoto! I love the idea of Kirishima being such a bro and trying to help his friends however he can. I also LOVE the idea of Kirishima fucking someone once and believing that makes him the resident expert on sex.

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original-begay-docrime · 2 months ago

Note

It's just a mini adventure story about Odysseus.

The Great Cyclops & Sheep Heist

It started, as all great disasters do, with boredom.

Odysseus, now officially a son of Hermes, had been spending way too much time perfecting his prank game. So, naturally, when he saw Polyphemus (Poseidon’s favorite cyclops) herding his sheep near a sacred spring, he thought, Why not steal them?

So he did.

Getting past a giant, one-eyed shepherd was no easy task. But Odysseus had an idea—a stupid, brilliant, absolutely ridiculous idea.

One night, while Polyphemus was sleeping peacefully, Odysseus snuck up and poured salt water straight into his massive eye.

The results were instantaneous.

Polyphemus woke up screaming. Not just any scream—a full-blown, deep, earth-shaking, "I AM IN THE WORST PAIN OF MY LIFE" scream. He clutched his eye, rolling around in agony.

"WHY?!" he bellowed. "WHY DOES EVERYTHING BURN?!"

Then, through his blurry, salty vision, he saw a blurry figure in the distance. "Oh, great one!" the figure (Odysseus in disguise) shouted. "You must cleanse your eye! The gods demand you wash it with more salt water!"

"That... that sounds like it would make things worse," Polyphemus groaned, still writhing in pain.

"Nonsense!" Odysseus said, pushing him toward the ocean. "Trust me, bro. Would I lie to you?"

And Polyphemus, in his infinite, one-eyed wisdom, did exactly that.

He plunged his face into the sea, hoping for relief—only to immediately experience Round Two of searing, eye-melting agony.

Cue more screaming.

Meanwhile, Odysseus was already at work, smuggling every single sheep out of the cave while the cyclops was busy blinding himself even more.

By the time Polyphemus was done dunking his head into Poseidon’s domain like an absolute fool, Odysseus and his new fluffy friends were long gone.

The next morning, Poseidon stormed into Olympus, dragging a half-blind, traumatized Polyphemus behind him.

"YOUR SON," Poseidon roared at Hermes, "has kidnapped my Cyclops and ALL his sheep!"

Hermes, ever the chill dad, just sipped his nectar. "Well, did you lose them, or did he find them?"

"HE TOOK THEM!"

"Sounds like a you problem."

While the gods bickered, Odysseus was already planning revenge. Because if there was one thing he didn’t do, it was let things go. So, after months of careful planning, he got back at Poseidon in the pettiest way possible:

By tying shipwrecks into his seaweed-like hair while he was asleep.

This wasn’t a simple job—no, Odysseus spent months intricately knotting tiny wrecked ships into Poseidon's sacred locks. Every morning, Poseidon would wake up, shake his head, and a dozen tiny boats would fall out like confetti. Sailors started treating his hair like the Bermuda Triangle.

It took Poseidon a decade to get rid of them. Even now, he occasionally finds a rogue mast tangled in his curls.

And what about the sheep?

See, while everyone thought this was some grand, elaborate prank, Odysseus’ reasoning was much simpler: he just wanted a warm winter coat.

When Poseidon finally found the stolen flock, they were all standing there—bald. Completely shaved down to the skin. No wool, no fluff.

Not even eyelashes.

Polyphemus, holding the most pitiful-looking, shivering lamb, turned to his father and whispered, "I can see the shame in their eyes."

Meanwhile, Odysseus was lounging in a full-length, custom-tailored, ultra-soft fleece coat, looking smug as hell.

Worth it.

I love this so much!!!

#epic the musical #Epic fanfic #God Odysseus #Odysseus #Epic Odysseus #Polyphemus #epic poseidon #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer

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kelpietheshifter · 9 months ago

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Introducing My 1950s Housewife Life

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Abt me ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆: Alice Lexington <33

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 19 years old <33

˚୨୧⋆𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒔: Childcare, Ballroom dancing, Dancing, Crocheting, Cooking, Cleaning, Baking, Sewing, Fashion Designing, Horseback Riding, Snow Skiing, and Horse Dressage

˚୨୧⋆𝑵𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚: American

˚୨୧⋆𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔: English, Spanish, Italian, Patois, German, Chinese, Tagalog, French

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑵𝒆𝒕 𝑾𝒐��𝒕𝒉: 3.5 Billion Dollars

Relationships (mostly family) ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝑬𝒅𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑳𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒐𝒏

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 42

We married 2 months ago, but we dated a year before that. I am this man's PRINCESS. He is the CEO of the biggest oil company in the world (It's generational) and he's an amazing man, whom I love dearly. This man basically created Princess Treatment. When he's not working on business deals and such he's at home being a great husband and father. He loves the piano, collecting vintage cars, and yachting. He's the whole package and I love him.

𝑴𝒚 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝑫𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒉 𝑳𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒐𝒏

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 15

Deborah and I are 4 years apart, we went to the same high school and we were friends, but not extradionarily close since I was a senior and she was a freshman when we met. We get along well and now that we're family we're the best of friends.

𝑴𝒚 𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅, 𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒔𝒐𝒏

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 22

Frances and I are best friends because of our husbands but that doesn't mean we love each other any less. Our husbands (Charles was my boyfriend at the time) introduced us to each other at a Charity Banquet and we hit it off immediately. When we're at our homes in the suburbs we talk shit about the other moms, bake, drink, and dance together. This woman is my other half.

𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅, 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒔𝒐𝒏

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 26

This is John, He's Frances' husband and a very close friend of Charles. Charles considers him as his little brother. He inherited his father's spot in the Lexington Oil Company so he's very wealthy and highly ranked amongst the families. This is man can DANCE. When we all go dancing if I'm not dancing with Frances or Charles I'm dancing with him. He's such a gentleman, he's into pottery and swimming. I actually scripted a scenario where he teaches me pottery. I love him. Frances bagged herself a GREAT man.

𝑴𝒚 𝑮𝒐𝒅𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑱𝒓.

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 5 months

I LOVE MY GODSON! Me and Charles are the godparents of Frances and John's beautiful baby boy. Whenever me and Frances are hanging out in our houses in the suburbs we watch him while tidying up, baking, or watching movies. He's my pride and joy I love this kid.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒐𝒏 𝑫𝒐𝒈𝒔, 𝑺𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑷𝒆𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓

˚୨୧⋆ 𝑨𝒈𝒆: 1 year old and 4 years old

Scruffy is Charles' German shepherd and Pepper is the poodle he surprised me with when we first started dating. They're best friends and you can NOT separate these two I swear. They have such different personalities, Scruffy being a rough-housing hooligan and Peppers being this proper and polite baby. I love them both dearly and they mean the world to me.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

˖𓍢ִִ໋𓇼⋆𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒓˖𓍢ִִ໋𓇼⋆

ᡣ𐭩 Racism is not a problem in this reality

ᡣ𐭩 The Lexingtons are the richest family on earth while the Williamsons are the twenty-first richest

ᡣ𐭩 We own 3 houses the Lexington Villa, Mansion, Beach house, and then a whole bunch of miniature properties that I did not take the time to memorize

ᡣ𐭩 All the wealthy families get together for banquets, fundraisers and balls a few times a year

ᡣ𐭩 The world is always like the 1950s-60s even as time progresses

#shiftblr #reality shift #shifters #shifting community #desired reality #realityshifting #shifting #shifting realities #reality shifting #reality shifter #black shifters #Shifting to 1950s #Housewife dr #1950s dr #black shifter #poc shifter #poc shifters

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villainofmyownstory · 1 year ago

Text

Day Zero chapter 3

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pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x plus size fem!reader

summary: Meeting another person after 2 years of loneliness was not supposed to be like this.

tags: AFAB reader, plus size reader, dog german shepherd, alcohol, weapon

author's note: I don't know... I'm not satisfied with this chapter. I think I reread it and edited it too many times. From this chapter, what happens after days 730... will be in the present tense because, for example, in the next chapter we will return to day 64, of course it is described in the past tense, so it just seems logical to me. I'm not changing chapters 1 and 2, I hope you don't mind. I think I've been spending too much time on this story and I'm starting to think too much.

Thank you all for your positive feedback. You don't even know how much this means to me <3

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Chapter 3: The one when you met

Day 730

Ghost

There are plenty of things in this damn city that he will never run out of. When Ghost was left almost alone, with Riley by his side of course. Already in the first days, the man noticed that there were things here that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Even when he's gone, many of these items will remain in his warehouses for years to come.

Ironically, what he needed the least, alcohol and clothes.

He was never a demanding person. He didn't expect much from life. He was a rather simple man. A roof over his head, a supply of food, a place to train and peace of mind. So when he realized that this city was only his, he was very happy and satisfied. Not that he hated people. It was just better when they were as far away from him as possible. Somewhere in the background, preferably far from his sight and hearing. For many years he felt irritated by the closeness of another person. Of course, there were a few people who managed to get under the lieutenant's shell and understand his moods, behavior and motivations. However, there were few of them. That's right, they were.

In the army, he worked with several people. For many years he had no one outside of work. No family. No other relatives or friends. So when the captain sent him to a well-deserved rest after another long and hard mission. Ghost couldn't find his place for the first few days. He was simply irritated by mundane, everyday things. Going to the bank, store, clinic or even the gym. Too many people. Everywhere. Constant conversations, gesticulations. Noise.

Too much.

So he was grateful for the development of technology. When he could finally sit in front of his computer in the comfort of his own home and get things done in the office or via an app on his phone. The less contact with other people, the better. That's what he thought.

Now that Riley is missing, the soldier wonders about the meaning of his life. If the world had in some way done him a favor by removing other people from his surroundings, why did he have to take away the one being that made him feel alive. That his life has any meaning.

He wasn't a monster. Of course not. It wasn't like he was hoping for some kind of annihilation of humanity, that he would be the sole survivor on earth and be able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He just wanted some peace, on his terms.

However, he felt no sadness or regret as he patrolled the empty streets or checked another empty building.

He had lost too many loved ones in the past to grieve over nameless strangers now.

He shouldn't drink. He knows it perfectly well. Two years. 730 days of sobriety. He had promised himself that big day, he had promised Riley, that he would never feel that burning liquid in his throat again. So that he won't become such a madman when alcohol starts circulating in his system again.

So that he does not become his own father. He couldn't even think of this person as someone close to him. Disgusting creature. Reflective sadists. Sperm donor and that's it. Which should never have existed. He buried that monster a long time ago. Just like Ghost buried his own self.

Apart from losing Riley, this was the man's greatest fear in his life. That by drinking alcohol and getting closer to people, he would show them who he really was. That he was just like his twisted psychopathic father.

And he didn't want to be like that, he couldn't. He preferred to hide behind the façade of a domineering, boorish lieutenant in a mask. Pushing others away from himself. The further, the better. He didn't want to hurt anyone.

He preferred to be alone.

He wore a mask almost all the time. He hid his face from the world. He never showed his true self. He hid his identity and the man he was behind a piece of cloth.

Now that it was just him and the dog, he didn't have to cover his face.... And although sometimes in the morning he was looking for a black mask on the nightstand out of habit, he got used to the pleasant feeling of air on the skin of his face. If necessary, he placed a few masks here and there. Just in case someone, somehow showed up in his town.

Now, standing in the pantry with his heart pounding, he unhesitatingly reaches to the back of one of the shelves where he hid the alcohol.

He purposely hid the bottles in the back of the cabinets behind other things so that every time he looks here, he won't notice the colorful bottles at all.

So that nothing would tempt him.

Pulling out a bottle of bourbon, he moved the cans of food and didn't hesitate. He feels that if he does not immediately drown his sadness in a glass of amber drink, he will not be able to bear the pain of another loss. Looking at the label, he smiles to himself. Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve 15 years 107 proof*. Searching the homes of these rich people had some benefits. Rich motherfuckers who didn't know what to do with their money bought everything expensive. The more zeros in a line, the better.

When he returns to the office, he doesn't even look at the surveillance system.

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Day 731

Ghost

He lost himself. He drank himself unconscious. It was long after sunrise, it is even after noon.

“Dammit”

Ghost mutters, slowly getting up from the chair he fell asleep in a few hours earlier.

He should have been looking for the dog since dawn. He shouldn't give up. He shouldn't lose hope. However, when he lost sight of the dog, something inside him broke. It reminded him too much of the previous two times he'd lost loved ones. He lost control again. Something thwarted his plan. He lost his stability. Monotony, life according to plan.

Barely walking, tripping over his feet and knocking several things off the dresser, he reaches the bathroom. He doesn't care about anything anymore. Everything is the same to him.

When rinsing her face with water, he does not look at her reflection in the mirror. He can't look into his own eyes. Again, he directs his steps to the pantry. To get another bottle. Ghost has already lost count, another bottle to forget.

It didn't matter. It's just that nothing makes sense anymore.

Wobbling on his feet, he returns to the small room, sits in the chair at the desk and takes a few sips straight from the bottle. Regret - he finally feels it. Another sip. Drown, drown. And he only hopes that alcohol will soothe this feeling, that it will help him fill the void he feels after Riley's disappearance.

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Day 732

Ghost

Another day of drinking. Once he touched his lips and felt a sharp substance with his tongue. And he fell into a trance again. It was hard to break out of it. Constant drinking. Vicious circle. Another bottle and another. Let it burn, sting, hurt. Just to feel something. Physically.

Finally, as if something was calling to him, he struggled to get up from the chair and dragged the body to the kitchen, he decided he had to do something. Anything other than just sitting here. With a lot of thinking, wondering, blaming. He's not a victim, he's not. He has to look for the dog. Keep going. He can't show weakness. Even before himself. He felt a little embarrassed. That he gave up again. Too quick and easy. He looks at the mess he probably left behind the night he drunkenly tried to make himself something to eat.

“I'll deal with it later,” he muttered, heading towards the dressing room. Trying to keep his balance, he stops in the hall, next to the small surveillance room, and freezes.

One screen was active. Detected movement.

"Fuck..." Ghost is angry with himself, pissed off. That he hadn't thought about sitting in front of the screens and looking at the city earlier. But now wasn't the time to blame himself or dwell on the situation. He must finally take action.

Looking at the screen, the soldier can't believe his eyes. He not only sees his beloved dog on the screen. Who slowly walks through one of the streets. In the live footage, he sees a figure walking.

Person.

Alive.

Without thinking, he quickly runs to his room to change and grab his gun. It's definitely an ambush. No one in their right mind would wander in the middle of the street in a strange city in the middle of the day. With a dog by my side.

Bait.

Surely the rest of the group was waiting somewhere outside the city or on the roofs of buildings. He has to do something, he has to get Riley back. Adrenaline stimulates his body, his thoughts flow in one direction. Bring Riley home. Punish those who had the nerve to steal his dog.

He had never driven under the influence of alcohol, but he had no choice. It would take him too long to walk downtown, and he couldn't let the intruders get any closer to his house. Or worse, they'll leave town with his dog.

Besides, the only danger in driving a car in such an environment was himself. And he doesn't care about his own health and life.

Before leaving, he checks the camera again, the figure slowly approaches the City Hall building.

"Easy target" Ghost smiled, plenty of space to capture. He loads his gun and runs out the door as fast as he can, his fingers firmly wrapped around the sniper rifle.

While driving through the city streets, he tries to focus on driving straight, but at the same time he is constantly looking around for a potential threat. It definitely has to be a larger group, Ghost is expecting several people. To his surprise, however, he doesn't notice anything unusual.

Finally he stops and he leaves the car a few blocks from the town hall and starts walking towards it. He hopes he's not late. That the intruder and his dog hadn't moved too far.

There were rather low buildings near the town hall, so a block earlier he turned left and headed to one of the skyscrapers, from where he would have a better view. A better place to attack. However, there is no time to enter it. He freezes in place because he hears Riley barking and then a human voice. A woman's voice.

“Shit…”

He muttered through his teeth. Of course he might have expected a group of travellers to send a woman or a child out to scout. To stir up sympathy only to have someone lose their guard.

He has to play it differently. He looks around the street and decides to enter the restaurant on the corner, remembering that there is a passage inside and he will have a perfect view of the street where the town hall was located. As he walks through the abandoned building, he mentally curses himself for drinking so much. Adrenaline helps him focus and stay upright, but he fears what will happen if he ends up having to aim his gun. When he reaches the storefront overlooking City Hall, he freezes.

Woman pets Riley tenderly and happily says something to him.

Dog seemed to sense his presence because it sits on its hind legs and looks towards the building where the soldier is.

Without thinking, Ghost raises his gun and takes aim.

He must get the dog back and show the strange travelers that they cannot take what is his. That he is in charge.

Fractions of seconds. Ghost pulls the trigger, shoots. The woman falls forward. Without even realizing the threat standing in the dark building in front of her. She falls, but not from the shot. There is not a single drop of blood. No screaming in pain.

It was Riley who pulled her over. He saved her. He protected her from the bullet.

Assessing the situation, Ghost quickly leaves the building and continues to aim his gun at the lying woman.

He didn't expect this development, of all the possible scenarios that went through his head. He did not foresee, despite years spent on the battlefield, reading thousands of training materials.

That the dog would be against him and protect some random stranger.

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Day 732

You

Everything happens so fast that it is impossible to rationally connect the facts: the shot, Riley pulling the leash and the fall. So much, in a split second.

But the only thing that is echoing in your head right now is whether or not Riley is okay.

So you don't notice the massive, tall and masked figure slowly walking towards you... The first thing you should do is check the condition of the dog. Riley. That's all that matters to you. You sit on your lap and look closely at the dog.

“Riley, oh boy, are you okay? Show yourself".

You check the dog, and after making sure that the dog is alright, you find no trace of blood or the slightest injury. Relieved, you slowly get back to your feet. Straightening up, you finally see with horror the figure standing in front of you who wanted to shoot you a moment ago. And now it's starting to dawn on you what just happened. What is really happening and that you are in great danger. You open your mouth and then close it, repeating this action several times, you want to say something. But what can you say at a time like this? No words come out of your throat.

“Stand where you're standing and let go of the leash”

The masked man growls lowly, slowly turning his gaze from you to the dog, slowly stepping closer to the two of you.

“Raise your hands above your head and don't move.”

You shiver with fear, chills running through your body. The sound of a man's low voice, any human voice other than yours after many months. Weird feeling. Irrational.

After a while, you finally recover and slowly raise your hands.

“Let go of damn leash!”

You look at the man with fear. It occurs to you that this must be the same man who left the letter on the tower. Anyone else could be masked and not call themselves Ghost. He was tall, well built. He was dressed in tactical gear, a bulletproof vest and... a mask. This was no ordinary balaclava. A skull was attached to the material. The front part, with a fragment of the upper jaw, eye sockets, and forehead. It must have been a human skull. You involuntarily shiver harder in fear, trying to take a deeper breath. This was not what meeting another human being was supposed to be like. This wasn't what you expected.

Ghost will raise his gun higher, still pointing it at you.

“Riley. Heel.., come here"

He calls to the dog, breaking the terrible, prolonged silence. The confused dog stands up and takes one step towards the soldier. But he doesn't go any further.

“This… this dog is mine”

The words finally fall out of you, you muster up your courage and whisper, keeping your eyes on the man

“Don't take him away from me. Not again.”

“Your dog? I think you've got something wrong"

Ghost growled, clearly annoyed. His arm muscles visibly tense, this entire exchange makes no sense to him. Waste of time.

"Y-yes, he's mine..."

You start to say, trying to control the emotions you're feeling. You slowly lower your hands.

“I can prove it. Just let me”

Regardless of the fact that the gun is constantly pointed at you, you have to prove it to him and keep the dog with you. No matter what, at any cost. You want to reach into your backpack and take out that old worn-out photo that you still carry with you to this day. One of the few souvenirs you have kept from your past life.

“Hands up, damn it, I'm not playing any games. Give the dog back and leave town."

Ghost shouts, you can see that he is becoming more and more irritated by your behavior.

“You can take everything you find and leave my city. Riley stays where he belongs - with me."

You shake your head negatively, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying not to cry

“No, the dog is mine.”

“Oh, damn it, I don't have all day for unnecessary discussions. Tell your people not to come back here again. Or at least have the courage to show up in person and not send a woman. Pathetic".

As he says this, he finally lowers the gun and pats his thigh, trying to get the dog's attention.

“Riley! Heel!”

Thinking little, or probably not thinking at all, you reached into your backpack and opened the zipper, looking for a photo.

“Dammit, kid, you don't understand what I'm telling you. Leave the dog and fuck off."

You don't care anymore, if you were to leave this city without your dog, you'd rather die here. Now, at this moment.

You take out the photo, which you have carefully secured to prevent any further damage. You raise your hand, holding the photo, and try to stop it from shaking. Despite your emotions, you calmly say to masked man

"Look, this is my dog. Mine. Look, Riley's missing a piece of his ear. You see? Dog in this photo doesn't have it either…”

The man hesitates for a moment, but decides to approach and take a closer look at the photo in your hand.

“That doesn't prove anything,” Ghost starts to say, but you interrupt him

"What do you mean? How many dogs of this breed have such a wound? How many have a black collar with an engraving on the back, with the exact name and phone number?"

As you say this, you state what is written on his collar

“You could take this off him and read it.”

"How do I know there's something written inside?"

There was silence. Another long, tiring one. You looked at each other without saying a word.

The man was taller than you and towered over you, his broad frame creating a shadow above you, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked at you. As if he was trying to read what was going on in your head.

You feel a little dizzy. The whole situation was so strange, so surreal. This wasn't what my first conversation with another human being in two years was supposed to look like. This wasn't how the first meeting was supposed to go. At least it wasn't what you imagined.

There's something wrong with the man across from you. Weird, dark, terrifying. His attitude irritates you and something inside you finally breaks. You explode.

“Ghost, listen…”

You started, raising your voice slightly

“I don't know what your intentions are, why you're so defensive about this town and this dog. But I came here alone! ALONE! I haven't seen a living person in two fucking years. I don't understand what kind of travelers you're talking about and why you don't want to admit that this dog is mine. But... but I don't want to leave, not after finding Riley."

When you say this, you look at the dog that sat between you and the soldier. Riley lay down, as if he was also tired of all the strange interaction between two people he knew, through which he was confused.

Ghost remains silent, never taking his eyes off you, as if wondering what to do. Pros and cons.

Finally, the sound of the watch interrupts his persistent gaze, and the man sighs loudly, as if resigned, and says

“Let's just say… I believe you. Temporarily”

The man secures the gun and hangs it on his shoulder. Seeing this, an involuntary smile appears on your face.

“Come on, kid, it's late. We have to go”

Ghost points to the sun, which is slowly starting to hide behind the buildings

"We'll finish this conversation somewhere else. Come on, both of you."

He waves his hand and points in the direction to go.

“Go ahead, I'll watch your back.”

The walk to the car doesn't take long, and you're glad that you won't have to walk another distance on your still scarred and aching legs.

"No way!"

You scream in shock when you see a large, dark pickup truck parked in the cul-de-sac.

“You have a working car! I couldn't find..."

Standing at the passenger door, a man interrupts you, stands next to the trunk and you open the hatch

“Riley, get in. You sit in the back too”

He points to the trunk of the pickup truck

"What? Are you kidding me?"

This man was behaving absurdly. You guess that years of loneliness made him unable to behave socially. He forgot what it was like to interact with another living person.

“Just. Get. In. And don't whine unless you want to walk to the tower. You know the way.”

The man looked at you without blinking.

“To the tower? Why are we going to the tower?”

You say in disbelief, letting go of another exchange of words, slowly climbing into the trunk and sitting down next to the dog. Ghost closes the trunk, making sure the dog is safe, and gets behind the wheel.

“We need to visit your companions. Since they're not in town, they're probably waiting for you there. You know my name, so you must have read the letter.”

As the car starts moving, you start to wonder if you did the right thing by getting into the trunk. Letting a stranger take you away, God knows where. There was something wrong with this man. He thought Riley was his and that you weren't coming to town on your own. Maybe he too, like you, has been living alone all these months. And he clearly couldn't cope with it. You hug the dog, just hoping that when you reach the tower, the man will finally believe you and let you stay.

Nevertheless, you did not want to be left on your own again. Only now did you feel how much you missed another living person. How much you needed to feel someone's presence. To know that you were not meant to live in isolation. You felt that the burden that had stuck with you through those many sleepless, weeping nights had finally fallen from your shoulders.

Maybe it was destiny. This was your fate.

So, you accept it already.

Even if from now on, you will have to live with this strange, mysterious man in a mask.

taglist:

@leviathanleva @chocolate-noodles @vmaxis @poohkie90 @ghostlythots @nobodys-coffee @famouscattale @youdontneedtoknow1226 @pimpinsins @justguessfan @novasilvae @pausbirudanlumbalumba @ella2497

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #cod #ghost #call of duty fanfic #cod au #ghost x reader #dayzero💀

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pastshadows · 9 months ago

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 19: I Will Find You

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: 4.8K

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.

The constant drip, drip, drip of water raining from the stalactites is unnerving, and your fingers tremble as you set up the tent. Astarion wraps his hand around yours, giving it a small squeeze. He takes the metal stake from your quaking grip and hammers it into the stony earth.

“We should not have brought them.” You catch just a flit of Astarion’s crimson eyes as they flash to the side to leer at you accusingly. “Their hearts beating is like ringing a dinner bell.”

“They promised to stay in camp while you and I do the scouting,” you conclude in a clipped response.

The initial idea was for Astarion and you to go alone into the Underdark and search for the siblings whose scars did not match the parchment that was discovered in the derelict manor. You would have been able to convince Gale to stay behind with Hecat, but Shadowheart was as obstinate as ever, declaring that you would have need of a Cleric should things go south. It’s not common for you to lose arguments, but after hours of back and forth, you eventually conceded.

Gale, Hecat, and Shadowheart are all erecting their tents in a tense silence. A makeshift fire pit has already been situated in the middle of camp, crackling and popping with whatever wood you could scavenge.

“Lovely,” Astarion chirps with feigned cheeriness. “A stationary meal then, like a hobbled goat left out for wolves.”

“I tried,” you say under your breath, trying to keep the agitation out of your voice while unrolling bedrolls and placing furs. “They are not sheep I can shepherd. If you could have done a better job convincing them to stay behind, you were more than welcome to try your hand at it.”

He scoffs. “As if those imbeciles ever listened to me.”

“They just want to help.” You try to assuage his irritation.

“I know,” Astarion sighs, brushing his hands together to clean off the dirt. “I just wanted you all to myself again. I miss home — our home. Gale’s is lavish, but it’s becoming rather crowded as of late.”

You crawl into the tent, and Astarion joins you, holding his arm up for you to curl up next to him.

“I miss home, too,” you acknowledge. It may have started out a little rocky, but those days spent lounging in bed, talking, and making love from sunup to sundown fill your heart with longing to return. It had been nice to leave behind all of this and just be. It makes you rethink your decision not to pursue the deal offered by Aldous. “It was nice, just you and me.”

“Indeed,” he agrees with a heavy exhalation. He buries his nose in your hair. “I cannot wait for this to be over, and we can return. We could buy a new residence if the other is too… painful.”

“Maybe,” you muse on the notion. “Where would you want to live?”

He shrugs. “It matters very little to me. Anywhere is home with you.”

“Even this tent?” You twist, crawling further into his lap, and he cradles you in his arms with a grin.

“Yes,” he coos softly. “Even this godsdamned tent.”

You brush your fingers through his hair and narrow your eyes mischievously. “You’re a terrible liar, Astarion.”

The crimson of his eyes burns, and he scoffs with a rumbling, deep laugh. “I said it’s home as long as you’re here. I did not say it was an acceptable accommodation for someone of my import.” He glances around. “There is very little room in here to do all the terribly depraved things I wish to do to you.”

“That never stopped you before,” you taunt back with a giggle.

“And it will not stop me now,” he purrs, dipping his head to mould his lips to yours. "I am a master of improvisation, after all."

Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he tightens his grip on you, slipping a hand into your hair to hold you to his insistent mouth. Astarion sucks on your lower lip gently and takes advantage when you gasp, slipping his tongue in to tangle with yours.

“If you two are quite done canoodling in there,” Gale’s says from somewhere outside the tent. “The meal has been served.”

Astarion breaks the kiss abruptly to stare at the tent door with a vexed, furrowed brow. He leans close, keeping his voice low. “Canoodling? Truly? How old is he?”

You giggle at his ire. “What’s the problem? Don’t you want to canoodle with me?”

Astarion groans, rolling his eyes. “Decidedly not. I want to make love to you; commit the carnal sins of depravity, fuck. I do not canoodle.”

Kissing the tip of his nose, you taunt. “I see so much canoodling in the centuries to come, my love.”

“You’re terrible,” he grunts, pushing you away playfully. “Come. We need to get you fed lest your stomach growl and keep me up all night.”

“How bad does it smell?” You whisper.

“Bad,” he smirks. “Atrocious, if I am being totally honest. It’s times like these that I am thankful I do not have to sup on food.”

He was definitely not lying. The food is rather bland, and you would prefer not to eat it, but it’s either this or listening to Astarion complain about your growling stomach all night, so you shove spoonfuls into your mouth and try to focus on the conversation and not the taste.

Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat share stories, though it’s mostly Shadowheart and Gale reminiscing while Hecat is enraptured and dazzled by every tale of daring they spew. It unsettles you to let her know this much of your past, but you cannot quite see the harm in it. They know well what to keep to themselves and mostly just tell her perfunctory random things.

“Did you really do that, dragon girl?” Hecat inquires, breaking you from your thoughts.

“Do what?”

“Allow a servant of Loviatar to beat you bloody?” Hecat grins widely. “And taunt him the entire time.”

You narrow your eyes at the pair, who are snickering like fools. Astarion chimes in before you can confirm or deny this. “Oh-yes. That was a splendid day,” he says dreamily. “So much blood, although a dreadful waste for it to end up on the filthy floors.”

“I seem to remember you enjoying yourself a little too much, Astarion.” Shadowheart quips blithely.

“Nonsense. There is no such thing as too much when it comes to watching others be beaten and bloodied by an imbecile in a costume,” he taunts deviously.

Gale shakes his head in disbelief. “I must say, I am glad I missed that particular spectacle. It sounds positively hedonistic.”

“Gods. You are truly as vanilla as they come, Gale.” Astarion laments with a smug undertone.

Gale’s brows furrow. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”

Shadowheart bursts out laughing, Hecat snickers, and Astarion cannot hide the jubilant chuckling even though he tries.

“Do you remember that time you got drunk on blood, Astarion? You came out of the forest, stumbling and slurring your words, looking for our fearless leader,” Shadowheart says, bringing her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter. “I do not believe I ever saw you in such a spectacular mood again.”

“My friend!” You mock him, and giggle when he shoots you a pointed look.

“Do you people even realize how much blood there is in a bear?” Astarion grunts, crossing his arms to feign irritation and jutting his chin out pompously. “It would be comparable to you drinking a barrel of spirits to yourselves.”

“You can get drunk on blood?” Hecat asks, obviously astounded by this new information.

Her eyes sparkle with the firelight when she looks at him, and she swoons. It makes you bristle like an angry cat, but you manage to conceal it before you can scoff.

Astarion nods. “If there is enough of it, but it’s not exactly drunk, it’s more of a euphoria.”

“It’s drunk,” you retort quickly, shoving another spoonful into your mouth. “He couldn’t even stand without tripping over his own feet. I would never have believed he possessed the capability to be so positively ungraceful. Embarrassing, really.”

Astarion bumps you with his shoulder, making you almost spill your soup or stew. Honestly, you’re not quite sure what to call this connection.

“Ungraceful? Let’s not go throwing stones, sorceress. Glass houses, and all that.” His eyes narrow, and he tries to frown at you, but his eyes are glinting with amusement. He gets up and bows shallowly. “As delightful as his conversation has been, if you’ll excuse me, I will retire for the night before we can do any more of,” he waggles his fingers at the group. “This," he cringes.

“Me too,” you add in, taking his offered hand. “We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

Gale smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yes. I’m positive you’ll be going straight into your trances. Rest well, you two.”

“Would you mind keeping it down tonight?” Shadowheart gibs with a snooty upturn of her nose. “It was a long night of travelling, and I would like to get some sleep.”

Hecat eyes rake over Astarion, and you flush, but not with embarrassment. You take what you hope looks like a normal step in front of him to shield him from her sultry gaze. In all truth, it’s less for him and more for you, but both things can be true.

“Hmm…” Astarion muses, tapping his chin with his finger. “Unlikely. We will canoodle as nosily as we please,” he chirps boisterously.

Shadowheart groans out loud , letting her head hang, and mumbles, “I’m going to cast Silence over your tent.”

Astarion smirks. “You must concentrate to keep that up, don’t you, flower? I wish you the best of luck. I am positive I can draw it out far longer than you can manage to stay awake.”

Gale nearly chokes on his food, going as red as Karlach. Shadowheart pats him hard on the back with a sly grin. “Hells below. Goodnight,” she finally says, chuckling and making her way to her tent.

When you crawl into your tent, Astarion digs through the pack and tosses you one of his shirts, which you quickly hurry into and slip under the furs.

He joins you quickly, his nimble fingers doing up the laces at the front of the shirt you’re wearing. “We cannot have you catching a chill.”

“I do not get grumpy!” You snort.

He smiles widely, the tips of his fangs peeking out from his perfect lips. “You get downright petulant,” he jeers. “Would you like to read or rest?”

“Read,” you confirm.

Astarion grabs the book, lays back, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you close. “Lights, my dear.”

Tiny, pinpoint spheres float from your palm into the air, like tiny golden stars. You read the pages with your head resting on his chest, and he turns them when you tap him with your finger. Before long, your eyes begin to flutter shut despite your attempts to keep them open.

He presses a kiss on your forehead, pulls the furs up, and tucks you in tenderly. You murmur, moving to push your face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. The orbs of light ebb, blinking out one by one, and Astarion hums low and lyrical until you slip into your trance.

The Arcane Tower dominates the horizon with its spectral glow from the lit lamps. It’s simultaneously an unsettling and welcome sight. Though the devastation of the spawn on the environment can be seen on account of the skeletal remains of creatures large and small, none have crossed your path. It’s hard to know whether to be glad or alarmed by it. The last time you were overtaken without much warning.

“I would hear them long before they could descend on us,” Astarion assures, sensing the neurotic turbulence that’s making you grip your quarterstaff so hard that your knuckles are white and straining. “If I give the order, run and do not look back.”

Your brows pinch, and you exhale noisily through pursed lips. “You can give the order, but I will not run,” you retort, shaking your head. “If you think I will leave you, you’re out of your godsdamned mind.”

“They are less likely to attack me.” Astarion grunts with a pronounced sigh and a rigid scowl. “I will not smell like food to them, but you smell delectable.”

He doesn’t understand - can’t understand — how wild and raging they are because you’ve run from this conversation despite his repeated attempts to have it.

“Tell that to Sebastian,” you murmur dryly. You don’t pay any mind to what you said until you realize Astarion has stopped dead in his tracks and is staring at you wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“Sebastian?” Astarion looks askance. “You saw him?”

The fondness in his voice is unmistakeable, and even though it is beyond silly, your jealousy spikes your blood with flames, and your heart rate soars on the wings of the envious monster you’ve become.

“He saved me last time I was here when I was attacked,” you reply tunelessly in an effort to keep the resentment out of your voice. This is not the time or place to have yet another conversation where Astarion reassures you, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. “He was the only one of the spawn that didn’t seem completely savage.”

Astarion’s head cants slightly, picking up on the revving engine that is your heart. He knows, you think, and you wait for him to react in one of two possible ways. He will either chastise or soothe, depending on his mood.

“That soft heart is what got the idiot killed in the first place,” Astarion remarks frivolously in that devil-may-care breeze he so easily encompasses.

It’s hard not to laugh at his flippant comment. Perhaps many would find it cavalier and uncaring, but to you, it’s wholeheartedly something Astarion would say.

“Humans are incredibly slow learners,” you quip back offhandedly with a rascally smirk while continuing down the path toward the village.

Astarion grins deviously. “That, coupled with their supremely short life spans, it’s a wonder they have not gone extinct.”

“There’s still time,” you concur.

“I think we should kill them,” Astarion blurts suddenly with furrowed brows, looking at his feet in contemplation.

“The humans?” You arch a brow at him, not quite following the switch.

“What? Hells. No. I have a casual relationship with murder, not genocide. Gods. What do you think of me?” He chuckles, smirking smugly, when you scoff at him. “The spawn. If we find them and they are beyond any hope of redemption, I think we should put them out of their misery. I likely should have done it when I had the chance. I had hoped they would be able to learn control, but if that’s not possible..." He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It’s what I would want should I ever find myself robbed of speech and reason again.”

You put your hand on his chest. His hands come to your waist, and his fingers firmly squeeze. “Whatever you want to do, Astarion, I support you. I will follow your lead.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are scarlet mirrors reflecting a canvas of sorrow and regret. “Thank you.”

Your footsteps on the rickety boards that make up the scaffolding in the abandoned village thump, echoing out into the cavernous crepuscule ceiling blanketing the lake. The boats that once carried you towards the old temple of Shar and the forge have scuttled themselves, lying on their sides with their masts reaching out like the arms of drowning men begging to be saved.

The village is as silent as the dead, except for the soft whooshing of waves brushing the banks of the shore. Astarion offers his hand and pulls you up the small cliff, and you both crane your necks to look at the tower dwarfing you.

“Do you hear anything?” You ask as your heart leaps into your chest with memories of watching his siblings deliberate your fate.

And subsequently begging them to let you die, which they obviously decided was not in their best interest.

“Nothing.” Astarion says with a frown. “They could be sleeping.”

The idea of walking through the floors of this place fills you with nothing but dread, and you swallow thickly, your muscles buzzing with something between adrenaline and terror. Astarion’s hand snakes into yours, and he holds your shaking fingers tightly.

“You do not have to go in there,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low in a timbre meant to soothe. “I am capable of searching the place by myself.”

Have you really become so timid that Astarion now offers to leave you behind and retrieve you when he’s finished? There was a time when he never doubted your ability to handle a situation, but it seems those times are long gone. Is it that he cannot trust you to react in time in the face of danger? Does he think you will fold like wet parchment?

The woman you were might be a memory, but you are sick of being afraid — of being the weak link. Most of all, you’re appalled by the pity you see reflected in his eyes as he looks at you like an abused pup.

Maybe you might not be who you were, but you have the chance to become whatever or whoever you want. For better or worse, a new you awaits, lurking just outside of the box you’ve built around yourself, addicted to this lonely kind of love that has done nothing but hurt.

She might be dead.

But you live.

You live.

You squeeze his hand, tugging him a little more harshly than you meant to toward you, grabbing his armour, and pulling his face down to your height. “Where you go, I go. Remember? Stop treating me like a child. You requested I stop being so gentle with you; I’d like the same curtsy.”

Astarion’s surprised expression morphs into a sly grin, and he closes the distance between you, catching your lips. You melt into him, pressing your body into his. He grips your hips, pressing them firmly into his, and grinds against you. It seems like an odd place for this sort of act, but you’re not complaining. It’s been some time since he’s taken you into the dirt.

Unfortunately, he breaks the kiss just as the throb between your legs makes you squeeze your thighs together for relief. “It’s been some time since you bossed me around like that with such delicious authority,” he grins. “I quite like it, you know,” he purrs.

Astarion turns quickly and gives you a gentle shove and a playful swat on the ass. “Come on, bossy thing. After you.”

You roll your eyes at him with a huff, but you cannot hide the yearning smile quirking your lips up and dazzling in your eyes.

You only make it a couple of steps before you hear his taunting voice. “And Kamena? If you want me to make love to you in the dirt, you have but to ask. I would be more than pleased to throw you down, let my hands explore every inch of you, map your goosebumps with my tongue, taste you.”

How would the old you have reacted to such lewd comments? No. How would the new me react? Who do I want to be?

You pivot quickly on your feet and walk backwards while he stalks toward you like a predator. His scarlet gaze is filled with a hungry desire that makes your flesh ache.

It’s time to start reacting without thinking. You were never innocent or soft-hearted, but you were sweet once upon a time. It no longer feels right. There is a new bitterness to you — a fiery bite.

You would rather be whisky neat than sweet tea.

“It makes me wet when you look at me like that, Astarion. If you’re not careful, I might request that you take me right here.” You purr low and seductively, and you relish the way his eyes light up.

Hedonism suits you.

Astarion chuckles, smirking mischievously. He taps his nose. “My love, I know you’re soaked. I hope the others have rested while we are doing all the hard work. I doubt they will be getting much sleep tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that, darling,” you taunt, turning and hurrying toward the tower. “Gale and Shadowheart will be more than used to our… late-night trysts.”

“You’re a tease, Kamena.” He grumbles, adjusting his trousers. “This is not comfortable.”

“I’m happy to assist you out of that armour at your request,” you quip, and giggle when he groans.

“Good Gods. You’re cruel, sweetheart.” Astarion growls low and silvery, walking up to you and ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear. “Now, get going so we can get back to camp. I’m feeling rather peckish.”

Astarion drags his fangs down your neck — not enough to break skin, but it sends a pleasurable shiver cavorting down your spine with the promise of later. You don’t smother the breathy sigh that shakes out of your throat, and your core clenches involuntarily.

You groan and push forward, determined to scour this damned place as fast as you can so you can retreat to your tent. The massive front doors to the tower are already ajar when you approach, and the first floor holds nothing more than barrels, crates, shelves, and boxes. There are some signs of life with random articles of clothing strewn around, but they are covered in a thick layer of dust and sediment.

The third floor is likewise unoccupied, but there are random packs here. Astarion and you rifle through them but find very little to indicate who they belonged to. They could have been travellers, adventurers, or his siblings.

Or aventurers his siblings ate...

Astarion stands with his arms crossed by a bed when you glance toward him. Walking over, you follow his anchored gaze and see a doublet that he seems particularly interested in.

“Petras’s,” he mumbles.

“Was he always such an asshole?” You ask, remembering the way he wanted to eat you to get back at Astarion.

Astarion snorts out a small laugh. “He was always a snivelling idiot. We did not get along particularly well. Why?”

“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,” you shrug. It’s not exactly a lie. The way he talked to Astarion when you found him in the flophouse had made your blood boil, and you actually rather enjoyed watching Astarion burn him, but you refrain from telling him the whole truth.

He regards you with a highly arched brow, reading you the way he does, so you quickly move off toward the elevator to get out of his scrutiny. There is little point in telling Astarion the specifics. It would only create more animosity, and his siblings are the only family he has. You will not be responsible for the further deterioration of whatever relationship he has left.

In the event you die, from old age or otherwise, they might be the only thing he has left.

“Come on. We should keep moving.”

“In a rush, are we?” He saunters over.

“I have a date with my very charming, handsome lover that I wish to get to.” You wink at him, your foot hitting the button to go up to the fourth floor. “Post haste.”

The elevator ascends to the topmost floor. From what you recall, it’s mostly destroyed, and you doubt there would be any reason for his siblings to be there unless they were trying to watch for attacks. If that were the case, though, you imagine they would have made themselves known by now.

When the elevator clicks into place, your heart stops in your chest when you see the pale, snake-like grin of Aldous staring back at you with several other spawn poised just behind him.

“Sorceress,” he pouts sarcastically. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you would have been smart enough to recognize a good deal when it was offered.”

You scoff, turning your nose up, and your teeth grate together. Astarion growls, sliding in front of you with his daggers already held, poised and ready to kill. You cast Stoneskin on Astarion out of a reflexive habit.

“I’ve been waiting to meet you,” Aldous chimes, his voice braided with choler. “It seems the odds between us have evened out, and I cannot wait to make you watch me drain her dry just as you did to me.”

Astarion laughs cruelly, snarling. “I enjoyed your death the first time, but I will enjoy it all the more the second.”

This is not a good place for a battle. The floor has fallen prey to the ravages of time in too many places, with large blocks and rubble littering the pieces that remain, restricting space and movement in equal measure.

You try to find the button to descend, but Aldous notices your movement and barrels toward you. Astarion leaps into battle, and the clash of blades rings out in the air. The two are almost a moving blur of glinting steel as they grapple. Astarion’s footwork is superior, and he gains ground until the other spawn join in the fight.

Adrenaline anoints your muscles and nerves, and your heart throttles in your chest. You cannot lose him here. You will not allow it. Flames writhe over your body, your skin heating to unfathomable temperatures, driven by a hatred so intense it seems to consume all fear. You Misty Step between Astarion and Aldous to intercept the charging spawn.

Thunderwave throws them back. Your fingers dance in their perfected rhythm, and you lace the Weave into spells with quick and masterful precision. You catch a spawn by the neck to your left, and flames erupt from your palms until their screams subside. With your other hand, you summon Chain Lightning, killing some but causing the remaining ones to seize up with paralysis.

You skate through them with your quarterstaff in hand. With limited space and Astarion and Aldous moving around the battlefield with the speed of a shooting star, there are a limited number of spells you can use for range. You’re forced into close-quarters combat, which hinders your abilities.

Clawed fingers rend your skin, sending a sharp agony radiating through you, making you suck in a sharp breath. The spawn hisses at you through their teeth, fangs bared. Before you can retaliate, Astarion is at your side, his shoulder slamming into the spawn and throwing them to the side. There is no time to catch your breath before Aldous attacks while Astarion is preoccupied protecting you.

“Astarion, down!” You shout.

He remembers the command and leans down, flattening his back so you can roll over him. Scorching Ray blasts from your palms, buffeting Aldous and forcing him to counter and change his path on a whim. It gives Astarion enough time to get into a better position and continue pushing Aldous back while you deal with the other spawn.

You cannot use Sunbeam in such a small area, not with the way Aldous and Astarion are moving, but you’re not merely the embodiment of fire; you’re a wildfire that cannot be thwarted. You pellet the spawn with fire that burns as white-hot as your hatred and rage. A ball of fire to the chest of one sizzles straight through them. Shatter to throw the ones to your right off the edge of the building.

You sink into the battle and luxuriate in the ghostly-coloured death that writhes over your skin and explodes from your fingers.

“Solicallor, switch!” Astarion snarls.

He only ever asks to switch in battle when he’s been injured and needs a moment to recover. You look back in horror at the blade buried in his shoulder and Aldous’ maniacal laughter permeating the air.

You cast Telekinesis, throwing the spawn in your path to him off the building, and try to sprint to his side, but you’re not fast enough before Aldous instructs the spawn remaining to create a barrier.

Every spell in your arsenal jumps off your fingers and rolls off your tongue, but you cannot get to Astarion before Aldous has pushed him near the edge of the tower.

In a fraction of a second, the spawn all sprint toward Astarion, throwing themselves off the edge of the tower to their deaths. The last thing you see are his scared red eyes and him shifting as fast as he can to grab Aldous by his armour. Aldous thrashes, trying to pull free from Astarion’s grip, and another blade sinks into Astarion’s stomach.

“I love you, Kamena,” he smiles as his feet lose their footing. “I would have liked to marry you in this life, but I will find you in the next, thiramin.”

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

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: - Chapters might be a little smaller for the foreseeable future. Sorry! - Astarion 🥺 - I smash my keyboard angrily whenever I have to write Aldous' name.

#astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion romance #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion bg3 #astarion x female tav #astarion x oc

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nyarlathesleeper · 28 days ago

Text

Alien 3

Trigger Warnings throughout for topics surrounding SA, violence, and the death of a fictional child.

And spoilers for many Alien movies, obviously.

So anyone who knows me well knows that I adore the Alien franchise. They're some of the most inventive, exciting, and compelling sci-fi horror franchises of all time, and the first two are basically perfect films. It's unfortunate then, that I have to hate Alien 3 so severely. I have a lot of thoughts about the movie, and I felt like laying them out here. I'm going to be assessing some core themes of the franchise, as well as Alien 3 itself, to see what I think does and does not work. Unfortunately, not a lot I like, so my list of positives is going to be short.

So first off, Alien. What is? Alien is a dystopian sci-fi setting centered around the Weyland-Yutani corporation, its quest to harness the unstoppable killing machines that are the titular aliens, and Ellen Ripley, an unfortunate space trucker who just wants to go home and take a nap. The setting, at its core, oozes anti-capitalism like the aliens ooze... everywhere. The Company, as WY is usually called, cares nothing for its employees, colonists, or any human life so long as it can have the Xenomorph for its weapons division. The story therefore, has two monsters our characters need to overcome. The Xenomorphs, and the company. Both monsters equivalent in their inhuman disregard for life in order to satiate their most base instincts. Survival in the face of forces larger than any one person.

The Xenomorphs are a creation from the mind of H.R. Giger, whose psychosexual monsters are debatably perfected through these films. It's no secret to people who enjoy film analysis that the Xenomorphs are meant to embody the horror of sexual violence and motherhood. The forceful implantation by face-huggers, the adults kidnapping people for use as future incubators, and the birth of chest-bursters being only slightly more bloody and violent than a human birth. Sexual violence, then, is also a consistent theme in these films.

Motherhood isn't just a negative theme, though. Starting with Aliens, Ripley herself is fleshed out as a mother and mother figure. It's revealed that her daughter Amanda had died by the time she returned to Earth, and she's given the opportunity to become a mother figure for Newt, the only survivor of the space colony on LV-426 invaded by the Xenomorphs. Ripley, the only parent among the rough and tumble space marines she's with, is the only one capable of calming Newt down, getting Newt to trust her, to have hope of a life outside of the hell she's been trapped in for weeks. Ripley is somewhat distant at the start, but by the end of the movie is fully embracing her role as a protector of this young girl, alongside her new Space Marine flame, the three could start something resembling a normal life once it's all over.

And then we get to Alien 3. Sigh. An egg is shown to have made its way onto the Sulaco, the marine vessel Ripley, Newt, space marine Hicks, and synthetic Shepherd all escaped on. It's shown making its way into one of the cryo-pods the four are sleeping in, though which is not revealed. This causes a fire and all three pods being ejected, which make their way to a nearby prison planet. Ripley is (kinda) the only survivor.

So they killed off Hicks. Big deal. Good character, but not essential. Newt is a much harder sell. There's a scene early in the movie where Ripley, suspecting that Xenomorphs may have had something to do with the escape pods ejecting, demands for an autopsy to be performed on Newt. And something about this scene feels gross to me. You rip away one of our girl's primary motivations for carrying on, and now you have Charles Dance saw her child's ribs open on a cold, morgue table? There's something voyeuristic about the scene, about her suffering in that moment, that just really rubs me the wrong way.

Now don't misunderstand, I'm not mad that they killed Newt. I'd be fine with it if they did something with the idea. Used it to explore more of Ripley's character, but no. There's a scene where she and Hicks get cremated, and that's that. It never shows up again. Newt was, prior to that point, a key element in exploring one of the series' core themes. To erase her from the story prevents you from developing the theme in that direction, so you need to replace it. To call it a missed opportunity would be an understatement, in my opinion.

If you were worried that they'd botch the themes of sexual violence, don't worry, they did that too! Sexual violence in the Alien movies has, prior to this movie, purely been associated with the xenomorphs. Their assault and invasion of one's body is imo the most horrific element of the setting, death being preferred to being used as an incubator for basically everyone involved. It's graphic, painful, the idea alone is the cause of countless nightmares for Ripley. Abduction by the xenomorphs is therefore tantamount to the threat of SA.

Now, if you'll recall, the movie is set on a prison planet. An all men prison planet, at that. There aren't too many inmates, as technically the facility isn't in use anymore, but the last few residents have stayed in order to seek a relatively peaceful life away from the rest of the universe. This does not save them from being depicted as mostly violent thugs, giving Ripley lecherous gazes from the sidelines. At one point, as she's attempting to unravel the mystery surrounding the crash, she's accosted by multiple inmates, who threaten to rape her. She fights back, naturally, but has to be saved by the religious leader of the inmates. It should be no surprise that I hate all of this.

SA in horror is nothing new. It's a well established part of the genre, especially its shlocky, exploitationy side. But that's never been what Alien was. Alien depicts characters in their underwear, sure, but it's all casual. Some would read a sexual element into it, but I'm not one of them. I think it's about vulnerability. A calm before and after the storm, as it were. But to directly and explicitly sexually assault your main character? That's a bit beyond the pale. It's a threat meant to be relegated to the inhuman terror that is the xenomorphs. This could be part of the movie's themes surrounding the darker side of human nature, a theme I'm happy to explore, but this doesn't really contribute to that. Probably ought to briefly tackle that while I'm on it.

Being on a prison planet, most of the characters are explicitly criminals. Several are explicitly stated to be there for violent crimes against women specifically. You could make a statement about the way women are treated in men's prisons (any excuse to inject my transgender ideology into one of my favorite franchises), or just a way to address the ways women are preyed on by humans, but that's not really what Alien 3 is doing. The movie instead opts for a sort of redemptive angle. Charles Dance plays the prison's doctor, himself an inmate, and he's shown to be a smart, sensitive, kind man, despite his past crimes. The prison's priest, played by Charles Dutton, was a rapist who converted to space pentecostalism while in prison. He's shown to dislike Ripley, as he believes her to be an object of temptation that will lead his flock astray. He does eventually come around in the end, respecting Ripley as an equal, even dying for her. The movie is very interested in making you wonder whether these men who have committed terrible crimes are worthy of forgiveness. And though it isn't explicitly focused on the ones who assaulted Ripley, it feels like they're wanting you to ask that about them too. It is an interesting idea. Maybe a movie with some degree of competence could've done it well.

As I've said, I don't think it's done well. Not enough attention is given to the prisoners or the topic of redemption to actually sit with these ideas. Helping Ripley kill the xenomorph hunting them down in the prison can't fully be considered a selfless action, and too much time is spent on Ripley and her inner turmoil for it to get any development. Not even the super secret twist is that good at developing the theme of sexual violence, which I will be spoiling soon so if you're interested in finding out for yourself for some reason you have now been given ample opportunity to look away from, is that Ripley was the one implanted with a xenomorph in the beginning of the movie. There was a bit of a misdirect, with a dog/cow (depending on which version you're watching) being implanted at the very beginning, though clues to the reveal were still present. This is one of Ripley's worst nightmares come true. A violent, horrifying violation of her autonomy, somehow made all the more terrible given she wasn't even aware of it. And the movie does nothing with it. She asks to be killed, and resolves to kill herself after the xenomorph in the prison has been definitively killed. And that's it. She gets the occasional pain in her chest, and that's it. I feel like I've said this a lot, but so much more time should've been dedicated to building on that idea.

And that's kinda the biggest issue with Alien 3. It's a movie with lots of ideas that could be interesting to explore, but does little to nothing with them. Focusing on any one of them would've made the movie infinitely more worthwhile. I mean hell, look at Covenant! One of the weaker movies from a horror standpoint, but an incredibly interesting character exploration of our favorite robot eugenicist David. One solid theme would've saved this movie from being the worst in the franchise. But the exploitative sa scene, on top of the flagrant disregard for developing Ripley's character, on top of being a bad horror movie? I just can't forgive it for any of that.

There are certainly things to like about the movie. I think the idea of a dead, decaying prison colony is an interesting idea for a setting. And it's certainly visually striking. But ultimately, not too much is done with it? There aren't any weapons, and everything is malfunctioning, so that adds a decent amount of tension, but it feels less like a prison, and more like a factory. The vibe is good, just underutilized. I think the use of stop motion for the xenomorph is a good idea on paper, but it looked too janky and out of place for it to really work as a tangible threat most of the time. I do like some of the characters, I like Ripley's brief scene with the even more wrecked Bishop, and both Charles Dance and Charles Dutton are highlights of the movie. But other than that? It's just not a movie I want to come back to. A movie of disappointments and betrayals. Sigh. Alien 3.

#Alien #Alien 3 #Ridley Scott #H.R. Giger #Xenomorph #Weyland Yutani #I like to call it Alien Cubed because of how the 3 is notated on the poster #Alien Cubed #Alien 1979

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ineylesian · 2 years ago

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hey!!!

I was wondering, how would Ghost react to the reader scolding him?? like, something happens that disrupts the mission and it's his fault and the reader scolds him, not aggressively, but still I would like to know Ghost's reaction

Also, the idea that he and the reader have a romantic relationship but he's still a bit strict :)

(I used the translator to write all this!! sorry if there are any translation errors, English is not my native language :D)

WALK AWAY FROM THE SUN

— SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

— AO3 | MASTERLIST | EVENT

— WORD COUNT | 3k

— WARNINGS | canon typical violence, hurt/comfort, mentions of weapons, arguments, mentions of trauma.

— SUMMARY | you often meet ghost at his shortcomings, but nothing serious as this has yet to happen.

— AUTHOR’S NOTE | tysm for the request 🫶🫶 i wanted to expand on this just a lil but made sure to keep the original prompt, i hope you enjoy!! hope the scolding isn’t too strict :)

Ghost thinks he’s having trouble breathing.

He doesn’t know if it’s because of the worry sanctioning in his chest, or the bullet lodged in his ribs. It takes a few seconds, he breathes, and a slightly ragged puff of air crawls its way back up his esophagus. Shallow wounds never hurt him, but ones that fester in the mind nearly paint his vision black.

It was a bad mission, destined to go wrong the moment Price laid out the plan. Too many HVTs to secure in such a dangerous zone, touched down in a land similar to post scorched earth. Calls of concern were dismissed by Shepherd, this mission was too important to let go, and they were to complete it, no matter the cost.

Nevertheless, things went south, fast. Nearly an entire squad of foot soldiers dead in under one hour, and only 2 out of 4 targets eliminated. It wasn’t long before Price called in evac, the mission’s end along with it. There was always time again to try again. Until the screaming started, and Ghost was nowhere to be found.

It was capture or kill, and it was certain no one was getting captured at this rate. You’d seen it all, the look he gave Price as he was getting into contact with Shepherd, and the miniscule shake of his head as he tightened his gear. The screams were yours, are you out of your fucking mind?-- hair whipping against the wind as you watched him disappear into the flames, yelling for the pilot to touch down.

Any sane soldier would have shaken their head and waved to confirm exfil, but this was nothing near normal. The 141’s purpose isn’t sanity, it’s loyalty. Price wasn’t going to allow himself to lose more than one soldier, and it was apparent that you were leaving with or without his permission. He strapped a tracker to your vest before you jumped.

Ghost wasn’t expecting to get shot. Maybe the adrenaline kicked in too early, or maybe the opportunity was just too good. The last two HVTs right in his line of sight, running through the open, unarmed.

Or so he thought.

He sits slouched against a wall, the hand clamped over the bullet’s entryway growing progressively more damp as the minutes pass. He should’ve expected someone with a target on their back to run around with a gun, anything lethal, even, especially after watching his friend’s jugular fly from his neck. Pointed a gun and blindly shot. A rookie mistake that put him and his whole squad at risk because of some halfhearted words Shepherd hammered into his head.

He believes in no matter completely. Maybe that’s where he comes short.

Frankly, Ghost isn’t even worried about the lingering pain in his abdomen, or the fact that the last target escaped. He’s worried about the person coming to find him. Something in the back of his head grows into a throbbing pain in the frontal lobe and he closes his eyes, hoping it’s not you that’s coming.

Who could he be kidding? Of course you were going to come for him. You always did, and always will. It’s a danger that follows when you happen to love someone you run into the frontlines with. Something that was going to get one of you killed one day, purely because he knows he’d do the exact same thing.

Ghost curses under his breath. You’re just like him sometimes, blindsided and hard headed as they come.

Falling debris and the thud of boots join the rasp that serves as his breathing. You’re here, and it looks bad, worse than he expected. Your eyebrows are knit tightly together, and he can see the dribble of blood that rolls down your chin due to how hard you bite your gums. Your skin is laced with sweat, and you’re panting, hard.

He’s only been bleeding out for three minutes. With you here, it feels like an eternity, and the grasps of something much worse than death are holding time still. When he finally shifts his lips to speak, you shove a cloth against his ribcage, hard. All that comes out is a strangled grunt, and he falls silent. No one renders him as speechless as you do.

He hasn’t felt so small since his father. It’s deserving, every last bit of it. He let go of himself and you still came to save him. He should be feeling nothing short of gratitude, yet he only feels as though someone dragged him into the undertow and left him to drown there. The way you refuse to meet his eyes strikes harder than any other bullet, and for the first time, he doesn’t know what to do.

All he can feel is the fear that you have instilled in him, and his consciousness slips before he can think of anything else.

—

Forgiveness is a hard thing to earn. In the 141, it seems more rational to die than seek it.

Ghost doesn’t consider death. He’s considered nothing, not since a bullet put him into a coma for a week. In that time, he dreamt of choppy waters and black riptides. The slosh of imaginary waves greeted him more times than your voice did.

He only remembers it once. You asked one of the nurses how he was doing. When she said he’d wake up, you left.

You don’t wait up on people, Ghost knows that. No part of him holds the expectation that you would’ve cared just a little more and stuck around. You knew he’d live, and that was the end of it. You walk away from the sun when it burns you.

When it comes to the battlefield, you’re cold as ice and follow rational orders to a tee. You keep your head on straight until you don’t, because taking care of others feels better than sprinkling soil over an empty grave. The way you think is profound yet humanity never fails to escape you, it’s what dragged you to him, stone-eyed and indifferent on the surface.

People around him always say it’s impossible to get attached in the military. He almost believes them, but he thinks of you and all else fades. Like a moth to a flame, he knows you’d follow his trail into hysteria. He knows it frustrates you, habits such as those are hard to shake. You’ve spent too much time by his side to quit. Couldn’t shake you even if he wanted to.

It reminds him of three years ago, with you curled up beside him in the depths of Syrian mountains. You’d offered him some bourbon for the pain– he’d been stabbed in the leg, covering up with the excuse that it’d help with the cold. You knew how to tempt him, just one drink turning into the whole bottle empty at your feet. Only you could make him succumb to something like that, listening to you ramble on about how careless he was to get stabbed, hours of it, the coziness of you and the blankets drilling static into his head.

Ghost could hold his alcohol better than you. Barely felt a buzz from the drinks in his system. But this.. your head lightly bobbing against his shoulder, haphazardly checking on his bandage before kissing the exposed skin beside it. You were right, his whole body was on fire, so enamored with you, the feeling of home creeping along his skin in short, fatigued breaths.

He vaguely remembers when you turned to your side, hands hot on his pulse and sinking underneath. Everywhere, you were everywhere. You had taken him by storm and the buzz of the bourbon heightened his senses to a point where it was nearly unbearable. It took every fiber of his willpower to listen, straining against the irrevocable hold you had placed on him, fighting to restrain himself.

Amidst the haze, you asked him if he would do something for you. In that state, Ghost thinks he would’ve tried to overthrow the entire planet if you wanted him to. Instead, you uttered something short of ten words, and he made one of the biggest mistakes of his life when he answered.

“Promise me you’ll look out for yourself, Simon.”

Your inquiry seemed small, fragile, and simple to be compliant with in the moment. He shuns himself for failing to remind you of who you were, what you were fighting for, and that looking out for yourself is a restraint only some can hope to afford. It’s a luxury that separates people who want to save the world from those who do.

“Alright, then.”

Drunk or not, he made a promise. Broke it just as easily. He resists the urge to bash his head against the wall as consciousness returns to him, opting to thank the nurse with a few words scribbled on a napkin before disappearing.

As much as he wants to scrub the sickening scent of antiseptic and illness from his skin, Ghost can’t bring himself to visit your room right now. He knows you’ll check the infirmary soon– despite what you say he knows you stop by, even if it’s for a second, yet he opts to leave base regardless if you come to find him or not. He’d rather speak to you when you’re on those terms. Guessing by the freshly washed sweatshirt that sits zipped up to his neck, you probably don’t want him dead.

He’ll cut his losses there.

—

The early hours of the morning creep along the skyline, spilling over the roads below. You walk, dismissing the dull ache in your feet from miles of dug up sidewalk and the scorching ground you had run across some days ago. It’s not long before the breeze picks up the scent of saltwater, light ripples rock calmly against marsh and you sigh.

You knew he’d be here. Always came when tragedy struck and life wasn’t fair. It reminds you of a homage after nights of terror in Urzikstan, peaceful, and nothing else. Somewhere you go when you can’t quite reach the ocean.

Ghost sits with his back to the sun, perched against a dock overlooking the water. Your legs come to a stop, and you stand still, wondering if this was all a mistake. Maybe you should just turn around while you can, run to the safety of a home that only carries a lingering scent of him. Here, the breeze makes you nauseous.

Everything here is riddled with sorrow and buried in tears. The cycle repeats, you think you deserve to cry.

You take a look to the sky and the clouds point you offshore. Saline winds pull you farther and it’s too late to reconsider leaving when your foot creaks against the dock. Ghost catches you in his peripheral, approaching slowly, the distance polarizing. It feels like glass is lodged in your feet. The gap waged feels something like No Man’s Land.

Ghost sits on the edge, one leg hanging over the water while the other sits folded at the knee. You lean against a support beam across from him, one glance and you think you might choke. Flashing rays dawn over the baclava settled over his face, drawing light to the skin bridged above his nose. Eyebags crawl and tear at paint ridden skin, blond eyelashes fluttering against smudged black, over the one part of him that feels normal. Nothing else does.

He stares ahead, umber hues washing over ripples cast by fish in waiting. You feel like you do everytime you come here, except sadness is held back by frustration, boiling underneath your skin and rising to the surface. Moments pass, the breeze dies down and beckons for you to speak.

“You broke your promise.” Pressure settles within your chest. Hurt floods the atmosphere and Ghost’s eyes leave the water. He thinks, you lie in wait, arms crossed defensively over your chest.

“You can’t rely on intoxicated words.”

It’s fair, yet completely unfair at the same time. You know it was an unreasonable thing to ask, came straight from the alcoholic worry that seethed in your mind. Normal people don’t make promises they know they won’t be able to keep. People that care too much ask of them.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”

Ghost says nothing. You know he wanted to keep that promise. Held it over his heart for three years, let it slip under his sleeve as all other things do. Something that happens when war is all you know. He knew you, too, but warfare is different from anything else. You understand that.

The smell of antiseptic reeks off of him, the sun licks at black paint and chips crumble. He’s nonchalant on the surface like always, but you know him. Underneath blood stains the hole in his abdomen that put him here. He leans toward it as if pain has become him.

He’s always been like this, body hungry for violence, mind begging for reconciliation. It’s how his mind is wired, shutting doors on people makes them want to close it in another’s face. You learned to coincide with it, but there’s still a line. The fact he crossed it so easily sparks the worry within and you fight the tears that push against your sockets.

Anger resides and reels back in, lapping at the shore and bringing you to your knees. You fear you’ll lose him that way.

It’s all you think about.

“What made you think that was a good idea?” You bark, grasping his chin to face you head on. “You think putting yourself in danger is no big deal, don’t you? Worried everyone sick because of a stupid HVT.”

He sees right through you. Worried me sick, he hears it as he would an echo. It’s a profession of worry, he knows you worry because you love him.

“We all have to make sacrifices.” His response is a dull front, you hear the guilt laced within. “You know that.”

You do. Things stay strict on the battlefield and remain that way. Until it’s him. When there’s Ghost, there’s always Simon. You learned to make that exception because you understood that. Ghost is not afraid to die. Simon is.

“What good are you to anyone if you throw yourself in the line of fire?” You spit, pointer finger snapping to hover above his wound.. “There’s no guarantee that someone will always be able to save you when things go wrong. You know that.”

He knows that, and he knows you.

You know there’s a darkness that lingers within him. It’s inevitable. Something that festers, building up until it’s strong enough to lash out. It’s selfish, cares and waits for no one. A walking death sentence that hangs over his head no matter the value he places in his life. It chases him in his dreams, trails a dark shadow over his head that turns him into the person he fears he’d become. Adapted him so the only thing he feels when he pulls the trigger is recoil.

“We win together, and we fail together, Simon. It’s not your responsibility to change that.”

He hates that side of his head that made him think otherwise. Hates himself more when he makes you worry.

Old habits die hard. It’s not easy to take, the way he knows those parts of him linger. You know when it comes, the front he manages with surgical precision shatters and he breaks down into hysteria because it’s too much for one person to handle.

Regardless, he tries. You love him for that. He loves you because you walked into his life and it gained purpose.

All that’s good in his life comes from you. The first nights in his life he felt welcomed to sleep because you were in bed beside him. Days fly by and he changes. You change with him. The small room he occupies at base doesn’t seem so lifeless anymore because you’re always in it.

He damns the way you smile at him, infectious, a snapshot memory he keeps in his thoughts. Thoughts that draw a compass in his mind that routes home to you.

Every part of him feels selfish for making you feel this way. It tears through him as a knife does and his nerves flay from the heat.

“I’m sorry, lovie.” It feels like he’s suffocating, drawing on the tears that slide down your face and drip onto your hands. He takes dampened skin and holds onto it as if he’ll lose you forever if he lets go. “‘M so sorry that I made you worry. Bastardish thing to do.”

His accent is heavy, dripping with resent and pleading for composure. It’s everything and nothing all at once. Your tears stain his hands and he feels like he always does when things go wrong. Except, it’s always you who quells him in the midst of nightmares. His mind races at the stutter of your breath, hands fumbling to push stray hairs out of your eyes.

“I love you, so much. Wouldn’t ever wanna make you worry, yeah?”

Silence passes for a minute. Seagulls chirp and water sloshes against eroded rocks.

Your eyes peek out from his hands, slotting your arm between his, reaching up. You tug and his mask bunches up at the nose, fingers smoothing over the surface of his skin, warm, grasping for affection. You yearn for his touch and he gives it to you without question.

Ghost tastes of gunpowder and the bask of the sun. It reminds you of home, slightly chapped, never wanting more than what he can give. He’s gentle, canines gently poking against your lips, perfectly still. You sigh inwardly at the feeling, reveling in all that he is until you can breathe no longer.

“You’re such an idiot.”

Your chest heaves, breath leveling with a rough scoff. His eyes crinkle like they do when he notices you packed extra eye black for him. Mouth parted, a ghost of a smile curving at his lips.

“I know, can’t seem to get myself sorted.”

There’s an underlying meaning to it. Passes through like the wind that cards through your hair. Guilt rides the waves, but you don’t want to cry anymore.

You just want to heal. Ghost understands that more than anyone else.

#arqhms #🐚 arqhmssummer23 #call of duty modern warfare #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod mw22 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon riley x reader

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mayflora-18 · 1 year ago

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Incorrect CoD Quotes #5

Sherlock: *gets stabbed*

Sherlock: Oh, look at that.

Sherlock: I’ve been impaled.

Nikolai: 😱

———

Nikolai, singing: I have loved you since we were 18.

Price: We met when we were, like, 23.

Nikolai: …

Nikolai, singing: I’ve been stalking you since I was 18!

———

Ghost: You have exactly three seconds to explain why you just woke me up.

Price: Because it’s morning and you should be awake.

Ghost: Oh… Interesting… I didn’t know you wanted to die today!

Price: Simon, you can’t kill me.

Ghost: It’s too late, I’ve already decided how.

———

Sherlock: I really like Eminem.

Soap: I prefer Skittles.

Sherlock: No like the rapper-

Soap: WHY WOULD YOU EAT THE WRAPPER?!!?

———

Sherlock: I have never seen two stable best friends. Always one of them has to lose their shit.

*Ghost and Soap look at each other*

Ghost: Wait, you’re telling me one of us is actually supposed to be stable!?

Soap: Ah, shite!

———

Soap: Who did you look up to most as a child and why?

Gaz: Uh, my parents because they were taller than me.

———

Soap: There are 1 million 13 thousand 150 words in the ENTIRE English Dialect and yet there is not a single combination of them that describes my URGE to HIT you WITH A CHAIR!

Graves: *pissed off*

*Soap pulls out a black umbrella from who knows where and opens it in front of Graves, showing him a hand that was giving him the middle finger*

———

Laswell: What was Plan A?

Ghost: Don’t fuck up.

Price: And what was Plan B?

Soap: Don’t fuck up Plan A.

Price: And what did you guys do?

Gaz: Fucked up p-

Sherlock: You fucked up Plan A.

———

Rudy: Ale, get out of the house. Valeria is here!

Alejandro: Well, tell Valeria to hold up because I’m doing some important shit.

*Alejandro starts playing music*

Alejandro’s phone: “You used to call me on my cell phone”~

Valeria: What the fuck?

———

General Shepherd: If you don’t like me at my worst, then you don’t like me at my best.

Price, holding a gun to Shepherd’s head: I don’t like you at all!

———

Sherlock: In every group of friends, there is the dumb one.

*Ghost looks at Soap*

Soap: Really

———

Laswell: When did you get here?

Price: I spent the night.

Laswell: …But I remember you leaving before I went to bed. You said “Good night, I’m going home!” And then you left.

Price: Yeah, but then on my way out I tripped and fell down the stairs.

Laswell: Oh my god, were you hurt?

Price: Nah, I just didn’t feel like getting up.

———

*at 7am*

Sherlock: Why is Gaz running?

Sherlock, yelling: Are you ok!? Is somebody chasing you!?

Gaz, yelling back: I’m running on purpose!

Sherlock: You’re running on purpose? It’s 7 in the morning!

———

Ghost: ArE yOu ReAdY tO DiE????

Sherlock: No??

Ghost: ThEn I’lL cOmE bAcK lAtEr!

———

Soap, slurring: You do realize that humans were really supposed to be on this earth to eat fruit-

Price: Is he drinking?

Soap: -in the wilderness butt naked-

Nikolai: I love it when he’s like this.

Soap: -and fuck, right?

Sherlock: He’s definitely drunk.

Soap: All this hard work shit is shit we brought ourselves.

———

Price: Where are you, Laswell? This place is fancy, and I don’t know which fork to kill myself with.

———

Soap, talking to Graves: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Graves: …

Soap: No, a summer’s day is not a bitch.

———

*Sherlock walks outside with a coffee in her hand*

*She sees JTF Ghost Team fighting Shadow Company*

Sherlock: god it’s brutal out here *sips coffee*

Rudy: Aren’t you gonna help us?

Sherlock: uhmm no *walks back inside*

Soap, shaking his head: You had to ask.

Rudy: 😰 She is a psychopath!

———

Alejandro: Keep your eyes closed, I have a surprise!

Rudy: Did you do the dishes?

Alejandro: I said surprise, not miracle.

#call of duty #call of duty oc #incorrect call of duty quotes #cod sherlock #cod nikolai #captain john price #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #kate laswell #rudolfo parra #alejandro vargas #valeria garza #kyle gaz garrick #general shepherd #phillip graves #inspired by youtube

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wormwoodandhoney · 23 days ago

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quarter one faves

quarter one (jan - march) book favorites under the cut, 15 books i really loved!

Sharks in the Time of Saviors by Kawai Strong Washburn - In 1995, Nainoa falls off of a cruise ship and is brought back safely to his mother in the jaws of a shark, turning him instantly into a legend marked to save all of Hawaii. As adults, Noa and his siblings must navigate what it means to be and to love a savior in a modern world.

Margo Has Money Troubles by Rufi Thorpe - Twenty year old Margo is a single mother desperate to make ends meet. When her estranged former wrestler father appears in her life to help out, Margo listens carefully to his stories about creating a character that audiences can root for - or against. Taking his advice on character creation, Margo starts an OnlyFans. Not a perfect book, but pretty fun. Soon to be a show starring Elle Fanning (who narrates the audiobook) and Nick Offerman as her dad.

Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett - You know how Terry Pratchett is great and the witch books are perfect?

Between Two Fires by Christopher Buehlman - medieval fantasy horror. A disgraced knight saves a young girl who may or may not be a saint, and she convinces him to take them on a journey to confront the literal demons wreaking hell on earth. Angels and demons and monsters and the plague and prophets and body horror. A bit bro-y for my taste, but the monsters are very good.

Blood Water Paint - a YA historical fictional novel in verse exploring the real life of artist Artemisia Gentileschi. Beautiful and sad, discussions of SA.

The Serviceberry - a nonfiction book about nature and reciprocity, and how we might consider this when considering our own personal economics.

Hungerstone - a sapphic retelling of Carmilla, about Lenore, an unhappily married woman who follows her ambitious husband to the moors. A carriage accident brings the sick and injured Carmilla to them, and, well, bloody desire ensues.

Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales - The final book in the Emily Wilde trilogy, a fantasy series about a very studious researcher named Emily whose studies keep getting interrupted by fairy politics and love.

This Is Amiko, Do You Copy? - A sad little novella about Amiko, a neurodivergent young woman struggling to understand and be understood by her family. Translated from Japanese.

The Knight and the Moth - Sybil is a prophetess cloistered away with her fellow sister diviners. When her sisters begin to go missing, Sybil and a handsome but heretical knight begin to search for them, along with a talking gargoyle. The mystery unravels more than just Sybil, and may lead to the unraveling of the gods themselves. edit here.

The Unworthy - ANOTHER story about cloistered nun-like characters, this time a horror novel about sequestered sisters in a post-apocalyptic landscape aspiring to ascend to the enlightened. Our protagonist keeps a secret diary to record her resentments and plots, and her unexpected feelings when a new woman arrives. edit here.

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter - A horror novel about an Indigenous vampire seeking revenge on the white buffalo hunters and those who aid them. Incredibly violent and triggering fyi!! edit here.

Three Bags Full - After their beloved shepherd is murdered, his flock of sheep band together to solve the crime!

Saving Five - A memoir by Amanda Nguyen, who, after her rape in college, chooses to become an activist for sexual assault survivors.

Harriet Tubman: Live in Concert! - Bob the Drag Queen's debut novel- Harriet Tubman comes back to life and wants to make an album. She reaches out to Darnell, a depressed out-of-work producer who has no idea what to expect.

#books #quarterly favorites

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hiswordsarekisses · 2 months ago

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Corrie Ten Boom said “If God sends us on stony paths, He provides strong shoes" He has already thought of everything.

The meaning (in Greek) of "the narrow way" is more like one with obstacles close by and all around you, making it difficult to pass through - and “narrow,” in some translations, is rendered “strait."

A strait is a position of stressful difficulty, perplexity, or need.

I saw a quote on Instagram that said something about how we won't be walking barefoot down the narrow road, and that is so true.

I used to think this “narrow way” was like a luscious soft green meadow, too, that I just needed to become perfect to pass through.

That’s not what it means at all. It means the road is hard.

And it's hard because it is the hard things that God uses to transform and perfect us.

And in the 23rd Psalm, those green pastures our Shepherd leads us through are not plushy green fields we lay down in and nap forever, either.

I looked up the Hebrew definition for them and it was rendered thresh and grass. King David did not choose those words by accident, I mean, we know they were divinely inspired - but check out how specifically:

The Hebrew pictograph looks like a door representing the idea of moving back and forth, with a picture of teeth meaning to press.

Combined these pictures mean "the back and forth movement of pressure".

The grains were placed on the threshing floor where they were trampled on and beaten in order to separate the hulls from the grain……

…as in “tread-on and broken.”

When I read that it reminded me of Hosea. Check out the following passages. 🙌🏻😭❤️‍🩹

“Therefore behold, I will hedge your way with thorns, and wall up her wall, that she shall not find her paths……” (2:6)

Therefore, behold, I will lure her and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably to her. And I will give her vineyards to her from there, and the valley of Achor for a door of hope. And she shall sing there, as in the days of her youth, and as in the day when she came up out of the land of Egypt…… (2:14–5)

“Come and let us return to Yah. For He has torn, and He will heal us; He has stricken, and He will bind us up. After two days He will bring us to life; in the third day He will raise us up, and we shall live in His sight. Then we shall know, if we press on to know Him. His going out is prepared as the morning; and He shall come to us as the rain, as the latter and former rain to the earth….” (6:1-3)

These passages are about unfaithful Israel, and not about our journey of transformation, but it’s so similar in His ways with us. He knows exactly what it takes to get through to each of us, to transform us, to teach us, and He knows strategically what witness is needed to be seen through all of it by those who need to see His faithfulness worked out in our lives.

So when we are afraid it might get too hard, we have to remember that He won’t give us anything that He has not already planned every kind of provision for. And He will never allow one unnecessary hard thing - but only exactly what is needed.

And it fills my heart with hallelujahs that He is so patient, faithful, and determined to finish what He started in us in spite of our kicking and screaming a lot of the way. Just like a child being carried away kicking and screaming from a busy road when they just cannot understand why you won’t let them run out there in the middle of traffic to get their ball.

🥹❤️‍🩹🙌🏻 His Words Are Kisses.

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elesheva · 24 days ago

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i went through the bin of baby clothes yesterday and wept through one small, precious item after another from, sure, nostalgia. or really the unsettling awareness of how quickly the tape runs out on childhood -- all the time i spend shepherding our son out the door to school or up the stairs to bedtime or somewhere else away from me, all to one day look back and beg for one more moment of this exact time of our lives: where i am the person he wants most to be around, and where he can say so, and does. where i am kneeling in the kitchen, tomato sauce spoon in hand, to make eye contact and listen carefully while he tells me that he missed me that day "as deep as the ocean and as high as someone going up into space," and i say jesus christ, me too kid, that's exactly it. it isn't supposed to be like this forever, i know. that's why we do it with a partner, if we are lucky enough, so that lauren can put her hand over mine and say "he'll call" when i ask if i should check in on him, three days after moving him into his college dorm or some shitty little apartment or wherever life takes him next. his birth and infancy are part of our stories, lauren's and mine, but we're approaching the parts that will be his and his alone. i can feel the wave cresting. how wonderful, how frightening. you can roll your eyes at me, but i'm right.

anyway. the clothes. the silly dry clean only cashmere suit that came with the only socks small enough for his brand-new feet, the hat i nervously worked onto his head in the corner of the operating room, the pajamas i put him in after his first bath. more than nostalgia, i was struck by the sense memory of those first weeks. the august heat on the treeless block where we were living. the pooling condensation beneath a plastic cup of iced coffee left on the changing table. the knowledge that unlike everything else i had done in my perfectly controlled life, i was not already good at this. nothing prepares you for parenting other than parenting. my therapist asks what we're doing differently this time, and i tell her -- a can of backup formula, a stable of babysitters, maybe a treadmill. more importantly, this baby will get parents who know how to dispatch motrin to an unwilling patient, how to clean the bottles, how to bump up against their own inadequacies and adjust. i'm not afraid of being tired, or wrong, or foolishly bad at the logistics of my life; these are the problems of the luckiest woman on earth. what i am afraid of is wrenching my heart open again like the creaky handle of a bank vault. when lauren and i started dating, my deepest fear was that i would get used to the feeling of her warm hand on the back of my neck. now i'm preparing to love another person who will learn to kiss my cheek, and in turn stop wanting to kiss my cheek. and like a fool, i can't wait to meet her.

#don draper the carousel gif

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roarndoodles · 24 days ago

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Vampiric

Chapter 1: Interrupted Dinner

Long ago, three races ruled over Earth: HUMANS, MONSTERS, and VAMPIRES

Frightened by the bloodlust of their counterpart, humans and monsters united to rid the world of its evil.

The third race fled, but the opposing forces were too strong.

Wiped from existence, humans and monsters settled back into peaceful life.

One day, a war broke out between the remaining races.

After a long battle, the humans were victorious.

They sealed the monsters underground with a magic spell.

Many years later a human child freed the monsters from their prison...

Bright moonlight peaked through the trees. Despite being near the end of fall, plenty of the forest was lush with life and greenery. The gentle autumn breeze wafted the dead leaves into the air, and as they slowly drifted downward, a couple caught on a disgruntled skeleton.

“so tell me again why yer draggin’ me into the woods at night?” Red asked, peeling the dead leaves from the fur of his coat.

Sans casted a glance to his alternate. “cuz you're my backup”

“for what exactly? and did it have to be at 1 in the fuckin mornin?”

“well” Sans started “ya know those trail cams i set up to keep an eye-socket on the perimeter of the property? i've been getting pings on one of them around this time every other night. the photos have all been pretty unclear, so who knows what could be out here to jump our bones. i brought you along for an intimidation factor. as much as it pains me to say, no one is gonna be scared out of their skin by just lil ol’ me.”

Red stopped walking as his hands trembled in barely concealed anger. “yer fuckin’ with me. you got me up at bum fuck o'clock to go to this shitty ass woods to check out what. an animal? I GOT A 7AM SHIFT TOMORROW CLASSIC!” Just as Red was about to go on another tirade Sans interrupted him.

“you hear that?”

In the newly quiet forest, a soft sound could be heard: humming. It wasn't a distinct song, there was no rhyme or rhythm, but it was soothing. Slowly, the boys moved closer into the dense forest where the song was most prominent. There, shrouded in darkness, was a figure petting an animal on a rock.

“what the- hey kiddo, what are you doing out here so late?” Sans said, eyeing the figure as the humming continued. “don't you know it's rude to be on someone's property at odd hours?”

“uhh…classic i don’t like the feeling of this”

The humming stopped. “Someone's property?” the figure said, their voice light and airy. “No no, you must be mistaken, this place hasn’t been owned by anyone in a long while. You must be thinking of that sweet farm a few miles North of here.”

“sorry to break it to you kid, but my family and I bought this place recently. now would you mind enlightening us on why you're out here so late”

The figure slowly stood up and the animal they were petting jumped off their lap and towards the two monsters. Red jerked back and grabbed Sans ready to teleport as a little lamb stepped into the moonlight. It looked at them with its yellow eyes, it's rectangular pupils boring into their sockets before it skipped away into the forest. “You see” Red and Sans’ eye lights snap back to the still obscured figure “I am a shepherd and the grass in this forest and surrounding fields is much more luscious than other areas. I've been coming here regularly to feed my herd before the winter frost comes.”

Sans thought back to why he bought the property in the first place. As soon as he stepped foot here, he could tell that the amount of magic concentrated here was incredibly higher than the surrounding areas. Perhaps the plethora of magic is helping the surface plants grow better?

“that doesn't explain why yer out here so late”

“The weather is much nicer at night. I'm sensitive to the sun, and despite the forest's shade, I still seem to get sun burns.”

“yeah likely story–” Red was cut off by a gasp as he stepped into the moonlight.

The air in the forest shifted and it seemed even quieter than before. In a lower voice the figure muttered “A monster.”

“yeah kid what about it?” asked Sans. Monsters had been above ground for nearly 3 years, and it certainly wasn't a surprise to see them around Ebbot.

“Is it true?” The figure stated. “Are you really made out of pure magic?”

“classic that feeling is back”

“Oh I’m just soooo lucky! A real life monster. This is quite the opportunity. Now… seeing as you did interrupt my dinner earlier, I think it's only fair that I get a bite.”

Suddenly, the figure was right in front of Sans. They swiped their claws, only catching a bit of his cheekbone before Red grabbed Sans and shortcuted 4 feet away. In the moonlight, the two skeletons got a better look at their attacker. They were tall and lanky with wild mid-length hair covering most of their face and ears. They were dressed in a dark, ratty cloak that covered most of their clothes. A tightly drawn smile was etched across their face and their eyes were partially closed, only showing a sliver of yellow. Slowly, the figure brought the hand that sliced Sans up to their mouth. A tongue darted out from their smile and licked the dust off of their hand. The glow of yellow in their eyes sparked before they were shut again.

“Mannnn, I'm just so lucky! You have no idea how hard it is to find pure magic. I've got to thank you, this will last me weeks.”

Red bared his teeth, licking his gold, false tooth, as he prepared to attack. “i don't know what the HELL yer on human, but you got some nerve–”

“Human? It's been forever since I've been mistaken for a measly human. Tell me monster, do you not know what I am? Do they no longer tell stories about us under your bed? I must laugh…”

“Surely you remember the Vampiric?”

As the figure asked the question in a low, threatening tone, they turned to fully face the skeletons. Two small horns peaked from the wild mess of hair along with two ears matching the lamb from before. A long, wool covered tail was partially obscured by the cloak. When the skeletons failed to answer, the figure sighed.

“Of course. Well, this dinner has been great, but I've got to leave. I'll see you two monsters around.”

“hey wait–” but before Sans could finish, the figure disappeared.

“the hell was that classic? the fuck's a vampiric? why did they lick yer dust? What the ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YER SURFACE.”

“let's go home. i think we need to do some research.”

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

Cross posted on Ao3

Prev - Next - Masterlist

#undertale #underfell #sans x reader

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reds-skull · 1 year ago

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Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

We're getting close to another favorite moment of mine... I can't wait to write it lol

“Rudy, Vargas.” Ghost greets them, sitting down to eat his breakfast.

The two Vaqueros nod, Rudy speaking with a mouthful, “Fantasma, slept well?”

He lifts his mask just enough to take a bite of the eggs, “no.”

“Oh.” Rudy swallows the food, “sorry to hear that?”

Alejandro snorts at his awkwardness, “what got you uneasy, hermano?”

Ghost sighs, scanning the room for stray Shadows. He leans in closer to quietly tell them, “caught a Shadow following me and Johnny last night.”

The men’s gaze darkens, “I’ve had a bad feeling about the Gringo for a while now…” Alejandro stabs a tomato angrily, “I’m starting to think he’s not here to support us.”

“What’s your theory?” Ghost indulges.

“He’s the Americans’ way into whatever this mess will lead us.” Rudy nods, continuing for the Colonel. It seems like this isn’t the first time they discuss this, “Shepherd wants his name on our success, and Graves is his toy soldier.” He frowns, “making his Shadows stalk you and Soap, however…”

Ghost finishes his meal, “Shepherd might want to eat the cake and leave it whole. I’d suggest watching each other’s back. Cheers.”

“Keep yourself safe, hermano. Thank you.” Alejandro gives him a sharp nod, mind undoubtedly swirling with all possible scenarios.

Ghost returns the nod, leaving mess.

If Graves turns his back on them, the fallout will fuck up more than just taskforce 141. The Vaqueros, Commander Karim and Keller, Laswell…

He knows too much. If he betrays them… Ghost will make sure he keeps his mouth shut.

Whether it’s on earth or Limbo, Graves won’t escape him.

Johnny waits for him when he leaves for the training grounds, grinning cheerfully when he spots Ghost.

He falls into step beside him, “goin’ to let Limbo out for a spin?”

His gruff accent sands down the tension he accumulated while talking about Graves, “need to take off the edge, don’t want them too wild on the mission.”

Ghost looks down at Soap, deciding to kick a little at his boots, “you sure you want to follow me to the field? Limbo still wants to take a bite off you.”

Johnny stumbles for a second, pouting up before smirking, “I’ll follow you anywhere, LT”

Ghost gazes at his eyes, the reflection of the sky encompassed within them. He’s only half joking when he murmurs, “that’s what I’m afraid of.”

He makes Soap stand far, perhaps a little over worrying, but Ghost rather having to shout for his Sergeant to hear than risk his life yet again.

As he lets Limbo loose, he thinks back to his Last conversation with his Reaper. How Johnny is supposed to kill him.

Ghost wishes he believed it more wholeheartedly. It could’ve helped with his constant concerns, his nightmares, the visions so real he can almost see Soap in Limbo now, vacant eyes chasing his light.

Ghost shakes the illusion away, Johnny isn’t here. No reason to torture himself with those ‘what-ifs’.

Limbo has returned to its usual state, his victims all screaming and crying, reaching for the protective light surrounding him. Things have been turbulent for the residents in these last couple of months. Ghost almost feels bad, if he ever let himself feel anything towards his eternally trapped victims.

It’s a slippery slope he rather not go down on.

When he steps out of Limbo, streams of blackened dirt point at Johnny, stopping only a few meters from the Scot.

Ghost huffs when Johnny waves over eagerly, calling out that he’s ‘faster than the creepy gits, LT!’ and that Ghost has nothing to worry about. Maybe once that was true, but the way his lips curl into a smile tells him otherwise.

They part ways when Soap has to go to yet another debrief, not before he taps his shoulder and promises to find him afterwards. Ghost’s heart practically sings when he murmurs, “you better, Sergeant.”

Garrick catches him while he’s still gliding on the high of those promises, a horrified face pulling him back to earth, “Gaz? What’s-”

“I need to talk to you.” his eyes flicker around, “privately.”

Ghost nods, instantly snapping back into business mode, “follow me.”

They silently make their way to the roof, the 4-storey building and the single access point, making for the most secluded place in the entire base.

Gaz walks over to watch the fields, avoiding eye contact with him. Ghost impatiently waits for him to spill whatever got him so frightened.

“Do you know someone called Kirill Bogomolov?” the Sergeant mutters, his back still towards Ghost.

He opens his mouth to give the negative, when he stops. Bogomolov… he has heard the name before.

Ghost inhales sharply. Konchar.

“Yes.”

Gaz’s head snaps around to gawk at him, “where? Who is he??”

“You first, Sergeant. How do you know Bogomolov?”

Garrick’s voice is somewhat desperate when he speaks, “my Reaper. It said… fuck, Ghost. Kirill was its, strongest Revenant of the Pull ever created.”

“Konchar was Reaped by the same Reaper that got you?” Ghost exclaims in surprise.

Gaz’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Ghost exhales, “Konchar is the callsign of Bogomolov. Why did your Reaper bring him up?”

“It said…” Garrick looks down, “it warned me about Soap. Told me I should stay away from him. That it won’t lose another revenant to ‘the Reaper of Destruction’.” Gaz’s eyes look at his, “Soap didn’t kill Konchar, right? Tell me my Reaper’s wrong, Ghost.”

Ghost narrows his eyes, “I heard about Konchar first when Soap lost his memory. He said Konchar killed his squad.”

Gaz’s face scrunches, “fuck…”

“Official reports state Konchar died from the explosion in Verdansk six years ago. Soap, allegedly, was Reaped in the same event.” Ghost’s mind races faster than he could speak, “Reapers don’t lie, Garrick. Soap must’ve…”

The Sergeant rubs his temples, exhaling a shaky breath, “killed Konchar because of that. But you said they couldn’t have met?”

Ghost goes over the timeline again, “if we assume the reports are faked, which they are since your Reaper won’t lie…” things are still so disconnected… “Konchar didn’t die in the explosion. Which means Soap was Reaped before it.”

Gaz floats a few inches of ground, “what do we know on the mission Soap and his squad were on in Verdansk?”

“Nothing. His file is fucking blacked out.”

He drops to the ground again, “couldn’t you ask Soap? You two are close-”

“Johnny won’t say shit.” Ghost almost snarls, frustrations building, “whatever happened there, it made him scream and ask his Reaper why it didn’t fucking kill him.”

“Jesus…” shock spreads on Garrick’s face, and he groans, “what do we do, Ghost? First your Reaper tells you Soap will be ‘your demise’, then mine shows up for the first time in months to warn me it will not lose another revenant.”

“Parra’s Reaper warned him about me as well.” Ghost recounts the memory, “they seem to do that when a strong revenant is around.” he sizes Gaz up, looking for any signs of fear. “We’ll bring it up to the Captain, but if it were up to me… I won’t let that change anything. Although…”

Garrick perks up, “we’ll keep a distance from Johnny when he uses his powers extensively. Don’t underestimate him.” Ghost finishes.

The Sergeant nods, “yes sir. I’ll go inform Price.”

Ghost stays behind on the roof a little longer. If Johnny and Konchar have met after his Reaping…

Is there anything on his file he could truly trust?

The revenant in question finds him while he haunts the halls around the meeting rooms, waiting for him to show up.

Johnny seemed surprised to see him there, and the expression quickly melts into a pleased sort of joy.

“Missed me that much, Ghostie?” he teases.

Ghost can’t stop his eyes from rolling, “in your dreams, MacTavish.”

Soap raises an eyebrow, saying with a lop-sided smile, “oh, you do a lot more in my dreams, LT.”

His face feels on fire under the mask, Ghost stiffens, “that so?”

“Aye” Johnny gives him a shit eating grin, “last night ye took me teh a fancy restaurant, treated me right. If only you were such a gentleman in my waking hours, LT” he puts a hand over his heart, shaking his head in disappointment.

Ghost cuffs him over the head, “don’t see you taking me anywhere nice, Sergeant. You get what you give.”

Soap rubs at the back of his head, frowning up at Ghost, “Oi! You know what, I’ll take ye somewhere real good next time we get leave. You won’t have any excuses after that!”

“I’ll hold you to it, Johnny.”

Soap smiles, the two of them gazing just a little too long at each other’s eyes (not his fault Johnny got pretty ones) when Price’s voice echos in their minds, “I’m truly sorry for interrupting you lovebirds, but we need you two here.”

A comically grief-stricken expression washes over Johnny’s features, “I just got out of debrief…” he whines.

“Won’t be long, Sergeant, just need to verify something.” Price sighs in their head.

Ghost takes hold of Soap’s drooping shoulder, “up and at ‘em, Johnny. The sooner we go, the sooner we finish.”

His Sergeant sighs loudly, “Aye sir…”

“No…” Soap takes a step back, voice shaking, “your Reaper too…? I-I don’t… I would never…”

Ghost takes a hold of his arm, stopping him from running away. He can feel the tension coiling up in Johnny. He knew his Sergeant won’t take the news well, that yet another person is now in danger of him.

Ghost wants to shout at all the Reapers in the world beyond, explain Johnny is the last person to hurt his teammates, that he’s righteous and self sacrificial to a fault.

He knows it won’t matter to them. They don’t care for such small, insignificant details of their human servants.

“We know, son.” Price attempts to calm him, “we’ll change the plan as much as we can, but you’ll have to use your powers to some extent. I’m sorry, but you’re irreplaceable.”

Soap tries to back away again, “no! I can’t- just make me do something else, I’ll be fine with exploding again, I can heal, I-”

“Johnny”, Ghost tightens his hold on him.

Soap stares at him, eyes terrified, “I can’t LT… If I kill any of ye… I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

Price looks between them, crossing his arms. Ghost thinks over the plan again, of the most recent iteration. Soap and Gaz were supposed to create a distraction, make the PMC revenant run away, only to be caught by the rest of their forces, and slowly be pushed back from all fronts.

He turns his head to glare at Price, “swap me and Garrick out, sir.”

Soap and Gaz both exclaim as one, “what?!”

“Go on.” Price squints.

“Me and Soap are the strongest revenants in our forces. If anyone could push the target, it’s us.”

“You two are not immune to each other, Lieutenant. It will be risky to send my best soldiers together.” Price comments.

Ghost feels Soap turn to stare at him, “if Soap is far enough, I can use Limbo safely.”

“And if you get caught in an explosion?”

Johnny takes the arm on him with his hand, squeezing and shaking his head lightly. Ghost ignores him.

“Limbo would stop them.”

Price’s eyebrows raise, Soap gapes at him from the corner of his vision.

The Captain's voice asks in his head, “have you done it before?”

He looks down at Johnny, “no” he whispers in his thoughts.

“Simon…”

Blue eyes shine up at him, skies that hold stars in their depth, “I trust him, John. With my life, with my death, with everything left in me.”

Price tilts his head, something sad softening his features, “...don’t make me regret this, Lieutenant.” he says out loud.

“I won’t, sir.” he doesn’t avert his eyes from Johnny’s.

Plot twist! Konchar and Gaz have the same Reaper!

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod ghost #cod soap #cod gaz #cod price #rodolfo parra #alejandro vargas #revenant au #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod fic #cod fanfic #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #when i say favorite moment #yall should already know its angst... lmao

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