#until i said so

[lousycamper]

There Will Be (Were) Giants

Chapter 1. The Marksman?

He doesn't remember.

His yellow eyes narrow, while he aims his trusty rifle. He shoots something – what? – and gets to the next thing. Works alongside some...one – who? – who has enough raw power to snap him in two like a toothpick and leave a trail of frost and corpses in their wake. He remembers nothing else, except of a feeling of morbid fascination and sounds of gunshots echoing all around.

He doesn't remember, and, as far as he concerned, he can't. Each time he starts asking himself these questions, it leaves him with nothing but a head-splitting migraines. So he stops, untill the pain goes away. It gnaws and eats at him, that he can't recall anything at all beyond those snippets. He tries his best to ignore this feeling of irrational guilt. It's hard, because there's not much to keep his mind occupied.

He wanders around the seemingly broken world with nearly nothing on his person, except for a slightly torn wide-brimmed hat, a fairly tattered but still wearable poncho, a slightly singed set of clothes, and a very familiar, despite being partially splintered, weapon. It actually hurts to see this familiar rifle in his hands damaged so badly, that it renders it nearly completely useless. It actually causes something inside of him to twist and cause pain. It's just... He probably could shoot it fairly well, but he isn't really sure that he can fix it.

He survives off what he can get when he can get it. Berries, roots... Sometimes, when he's particularly lucky, it's meat of some twisted creature, caught in a makeshift trap. He sleeps when he can find shelter, usually below trees or in caverns. He drinks from streams, boiling water when he can. This is how he learns, that his survivalist skills aren't nonexistent, although they are nothing spectacular.

He bandages three of five his eyes as well as he can, with bandages made out of torn off parts of his clothes. The ugly wound that mars a better half of his face begins to scab, becoming a scar. Somehow, his strange luck makes it so he didn't lose his eyes. He's endlessly thankful for that, because his eyesight is mostly the thing that saves him these days. The realm he's inside of has no shortages of various beasts or disasters to throw his way. Even though with two eyes he can see fairly well too, it's the other three that help him really pick out details on further distances and see much better in the dark. His face wound still heals, forcing him to bandage himself, but he still can see through the gaps in between wraps, always staying vigilant.

If he spots danger, he runs away, because there is simply no way for him to take on any one of encountered monstrosities in a fight. He doesn't stay in one place for long either. Not that he has any particular destination in mind, but camps attract attention, and he wants none of that. He feels like there's enough of it concentrated at him already, from all the creatures here. All the eyes... He's got trouble sleeping, and that's an understatement. Maybe that's why he has these migraines and hallucinations...

Sometimes it's a pipsqueak of some sort, in clothes with tears from claws and teeth, staring at him with his only good eye. Sometimes it's a hulking giant figure, partially covered in beaten and worn metal armor. Another one looks like a kid with spidery legs made of spiky vines and treeroots, sprouting all kinds of leaves and mushrooms as something that looks like a hooded cloak. The fourth is actually fancy, with his clothes looking akin to a rich pirate captain, but this one slowly crumbles into dust before his eyes. And the last one, the only woman among them, even though tough and brutish, looks like she had something searing-hot explode her into pieces, and then was sewn back together. Whoever did that, wanted it to hurt as much as possible, because the stitches were ugly and very much poorly-done. She wore a hat, made of a head of a wild boar, and both she and the dead hog looked at him. Thinking of them made his head hurt again.

Even more disturbing was that he had the same stitches as that woman. Gruesome, visible and stretching along all of his body. He couldn't help, but see some sort of connection between them, despite her being his hallucination and making his migraines spike.

That's the reason for his reaction to actually seeing another someone, not something, alive... Is both disbelief and relief. The fact that he can see them with his limited vision is so relieving, that his knees nearly buckle. Nearly. He regains his composure, a bit suspicious yet, while making his way to the... Man? He shouts at them, using his trusty gun as a prop to hold himself upright – he feels worn after long hours of trekking through the torn-apart world. He waves his hand at the person and can't help but smile. It's gonna be alright. He found somebody!

He is met with a look of shock and bewilderment on other man's vaguely familiar angled redish face, partially hidden under the wide-brimmed hat. Two yellow eyes look at him with a mix of interest and disbelief. The instrument in his hands, something that looks like a guitar, but isn't a guitar, lays forgotten, as a man stands from his place at the encampment, his dark clothed sillhouette a stark contrast on the unkept background of the surrounding world.

— Marksman?.. Is that you?

He stops himself, now only a few paces from the man. His throat hurts, because shouting after who-knows-how-long of not speaking to anyone would do that to you, of course. So, he opts to instead tilt his head quizzically, while looking at the known-unknown musician.

Is he? Isn't he? Who is this Marksman?

(Look me up on ao3, there might be more stuff you'd like)

[aluminumneedles]

I'm knitting in the corner at a party

and guys my age stop by to tell me I remind them of their aunt, of their grandmother. This is a compliment and I take it as such. They confess to having tried crochet once, and I smile. They get back in line for the bathroom.

I'm knitting in the corner at a party and a queer woman sits on the floor next to me, arranges her skirt, and smiles up at me. (I try not to blush.) She asks me all the questions on her mind about my craft and I answer them, hands still moving. We swap yarn sources. She doesn't stay, but she knows where to find me.

I'm knitting in the corner at a party and everyone knows where to find me when they need a minute, when socializing is too much and the music is too loud and they need to catch their breath. They pretend to be checking in on me, which is sweet, but I can see the relief in their eyes the moment they stop performing for a house full of people. They sit down and tell me things and all the while they never take their eyes off my hands.

The party has wound down and I'm still knitting and the hosts, two guys in their twenties, thank me for "helping to curate the vibe." I had no idea that's what I was doing. I leave the party having forgotten to drink anything and without that woman's number but with many rows added to my top-down raglan sweater. I call it a night, and a good one.

[lemongogo]

life of regret

[lazylittledragon]

at the friday panel andrew wincott said raphael and astarion should go on holiday together and i can’t stop thinking about it

[musubiki]

my favorite fields of mistria boys 🥰

[egophiliac]

still ruminating over Lost In the Book With Spooky Skeletons Part 1, so here's a selection of some of my favorite little bits! (...some more loosely paraphrased than others) (I just feel like Idia has no room to criticize in general, okay)

anyway, I'm sure we're just going to have a fun time celebrating Halloween and nothing bad is going to happen whatsoever! :)

[shotmrmiller]

sex pollen trope where you're the one affected, having been exposed to some dense gas while on an op that felt like harsh sandpaper across your throat and lungs, and now you're a feverish mess on some ratty cot in a safe house and with only ghost as company, it's miserable, as the saying goes.

hair sticking to your sweaty skin, plastered onto your forehead and neck, every swallow feeling like you've got a mouthful of sand, your fluttering pulse wild and deafening in your ears, and the throbbing ache deep in your core, the blistering heat right below your navel— it'd only been uncomfortable in the beginning, the faint throbbing incredibly familiar, but the more you ignored it, the worse it got.

and now you're here, with arousal sticking your underwear to your pussy, unable to do anything about it because your lieutenant is seated in a corner that lets him have both you and the front door within his line of sight. a quick, discreet rub under your clothes is not an option.

someone put you out of your foggy misery.

"squirmin' like a worm on a 'ook isn't gonna help." his staring doesn't either, yet he does it anyway.

"got to make sure ya aren't dyin' on me." you want to snap that you don't think proof of life is on the darkened stain between your legs, the retort pressed behind clenched teeth but another thick wave of bestial need rolls over you and god, you're about to shove your hand into your underwear, propriety be damned—

"best you don't do tha'." why the fuck not? "you'll only get relief for a moment 'fore it comes back twofold." he says as if he's reading off the morning paper and not watching you fight tooth and nail to not fuck yourself against the pillow your head is on. (soap's offer to be friends with benefits is only looking better by the hour.)

you hastily decide that it'll be better than nothing. you'll just have to rub your pussy raw until this drug runs its course and you're telling him to piss off or don't, but you've had enough. you're stuck here with him anyway, no flight home until the morn and you're not about to spend it writhing around.

"if tha's wha' you want," ghost bites his gloves off, spitting them out onto the ground before curling his hands around your ankles and dragging you toward him. "i will help." your entire world narrows down to the feel of him touching your skin, his fingers searing as they hook into the waistband of your pants, and you almost kick him in the mouth trying to get them off faster.

"but 'm not fuckin' you." the bite of disappointment is quickly forgotten, his breath warm against your slick pussy, and after three quick glides of his tongue over your pearl, your orgasm crests, pulse after pulse of pleasure so potent it stung.

in less than a minute you're burning again, need thrumming through you and with the heady push and drag of his middle finger over your sensitive nerves, curling in you until he can fit two, three—

you're lost.

(ghost telling you that he's not doing anything else because if he's going to fuck you then you're going to remember it falls on ringing ears.)

[hinamie]

in spite of everything, I had fun <3

[counting-stars-gayly]

I’m actually LOVING how Rick Riordan, and the other writers of the show, took his initial concept of a Percabeth rivalry fueled by that of their parents and kind of turned it on its head?

Now, instead of Annabeth being wary of Percy because he’s a son of Poseidon, he’s wary of her because she made a callous impression on him. They get off to a rocky start even before finding out who Percy’s father is, and when they finally do, Annabeth doesn’t care. Instead of them fighting because of who their parents are, they’re fighting over their own opposed worldviews.

Then, instead of them arguing over which of the gods is cooler and who was right in the story of Medusa, they realize that, just like Medusa, Annabeth is a victim of her mother and that, unlike Medusa, she is a far kinder and stronger person, unwilling to repeat the cycle of hurt. They realize that, like his father, Percy often acts without considering potential consequences and that, unlike his father, he is a far kinder and stronger person, willing to step up for someone he wronged and whom he cares about.

Instead of Percy and Annabeth’s rivalry being focused on that of their parents, it’s focused on who they are, themselves. But the path to friendship is still the same: a realization that they have each other’s backs, no matter what, because they’re not their parents after all.

[dreadfuldevotee]

The way the everyone talks about Assad is truly hilarious to me. Rolin Jones keeps throwing him into the deep end just because he believes in his ability. Eric and Luke agree that Assad is soooo nice and sweet but gets scary as fuck when he gets in-front of that camera. Sam saying watching him perform is "spine tingling".

And then you hear from Assad and he's just all "I was shitting myself the entire time, idk what I'm doing"

[milktrician]

(what the. who threw a wife plot device in the middle of a peak lord meeting)

i thought about this bit at the end of the airplane extras the other day. bro why are you looking at your coworkers like that rn

[swordmaid]

back to the shadows 🌑

inspired by the storm by pierre auguste cot, shri’iia and astarion running away from the sun bc he’s a vampire and she has sunlight sensitivity.

please zoom in to see the details! 🥹🫶

[thetimelordbatgirl]

The police in Scotland have the chance to do the most funniest thing right now.

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[rendevok]

“Take my hand” pages 16-18

1 -> 3 - day 4 - swap

[waitineedaname]

miso soup should count as a real world healing item