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colourstreakgryffin · 7 months

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heyyy, btw i hope you liked the story I wrote for you<33

can you write Tanjiro x fem reader for a royal au where Tanjiro is in charge of testing all food and drinks for the royal family to make sure it’s not poisoned by sniffing it? like maybe one day the chef just brings out the food and tanjiro doesn’t get to test it and it turns out the chef put something like cyanide in the reader’s tea or something like that and Tanjiro like runs in and quickly takes the tea from her before she can drink it.

Oooh! I really like the Royal AU aspect, it’s so smart! I’ve honestly been a roll with Tanjiro too and I’m all for it~! I love this angel of sunshine so much!

Kamado Tanjiro- Wait, Your Majesty

“My princess~!” Tanjiro, the Royal Poison Detector bowed politely as you giggled at his adorable, optimistic voice and passed him with a unwanted heavy heart. You didn’t want him to have to wait outside, you wanted him to come inside and eat with you

His job, at the castle of the royals, was to smell the supplies of foods and drinks shipped over from other kingdoms and from the kingdom’s own markets for any trance of deadly laces. You, alongside your parents, highly valued him and his incredible sense of smell, he was such a high position for something as simple as smelling food for poison, and it was why he got such a hefty check

He constantly protects your lives, from disease and from assassins with poison. Anything rotten or foul-smelling, the servants took Tanjiro’s word and immediately threw the food out. No matter how much it took to make it nor how safe it seemed

The King, your father, was truly thankful to Tanjiro over and over, for constantly protecting the lives of his beloved family and he was willingly to keep up his payment to the young man. He knew well that Tanjiro doesn’t lie, it’s impossible for such a loveable character to be twisted and lie, and the King even tested Tanjiro before he was hired as a precaution, the experiment was such a success that none of the royals doubted Tanjiro’s ability

Tanjiro wholeheartedly cared for the health and safety of his kingdom’s royalty, as he cared for the people like him’s health and safety. Tanjiro doesn’t really remember how he managed to land this role but he is always happy to be of service. On a cool but dazzling night, Tanjiro alongside a pair of highly-trained royal knights guarded the large entrance of the dining room. Tanjiro, himself, had lots of knight training and he could fight if he needed

Almost all knights he trained with proclaimed he was on a level of a prodigy as he mastered specific techniques and movements with little fail. Tanjiro is truly incredible and you knew that well, more than your parents did, you had developed a crush on the “lowly, coal boy”, the more you spent time with him

The dining room consisted of the King and Queen with their one and only daughter, you. Finishing up their lunch as you begin to crave a sweet treat as a nice touchup from your truly incredible dinner, asking the butler politely for a chocolate moose. Neither of your parents argued with your wants, you’re in charge of your own body and nobody can tell you what to do

“Royal Poison Detector, come” A friendly yet partly-exhausted maid remarked when she strolled up to him as Tanjiro immediately skipped over to her to follow her to the grand and familiar kitchen of the palace. Such a huge area that smelt like a culinary heaven, potent with savoury chicken, vegetables and pastries. Tanjiro smiled sweetly at the hardworking patrons of the castle as he watched them work vigorously

He felt truly pampered as a worker of the palace as compared to them. All he did to earn money and love from the royal family was sniff foods and shipments for anything fishy, he didn’t work his back off. Though, he was always willing to be around for you, the crowned princess, when no other knight was available or simply when you asked him too

It’s the least he can do

He suspected a wave of beautiful dishes to be presented to him by the many chefs but before the one glass of chocolate moose, in which he guessed was order by you or the Queen. The infamous King entered the kitchen and snapped his fingers for Tanjiro’s attention, ignoring the number of maids and butlers. Of course, Tanjiro immediately listened to his King’s orders and approached him with that unchanging, heart-fluttering beam. He must have wanted his services elsewhere?

It was simple and it made Tanjiro laugh a bit. The King wanted advice on princes of choice for you and he figured to ask the only other teenager your age and he was thankful that one is a boy. He may know the type of guy you would want and Tanjiro was surprised by the King’s rockiness. He understood well that he wanted the right suitor for his daughter and Tanjiro gave the older man his best opinion

As usual of the entire palace, the King took his word and flashed a grateful smile. He did that a lot and he wouldn’t stop. To him and his wife, Tanjiro is one of the most important workers they have

“Thank you, Tanjiro, my boy. Please return to your services now” Tanjiro nodded without a single ounce of refusal and turned around to be met with the eyes of a chef but nothing. Wait, where is the chef with the dessert? He hadn’t gotten the chance to smell the glass, it was his job to protect the family as he took a deep breath to try locate a trail leading out of the miniature ballroom-sized kitchen

And he did find a trail after only a few seconds of closing his eyes and smelling as deeply as he could… a disgusting smell trail

Poison! The dessert is poisoned!

“WAIT! MY PRINCESS!” Tanjiro called out at the top of his lungs, effectively alerting you to draw the sweet contents of the moose from your lips before anything could touch the skin. Your mother and father were equally as alarmed, they never argued with Tanjiro’s remarks. If he said something was poison, it was poison!

Tanjiro had sprinted out of the room and threw the doors open with heaves for air as he only thought to get that dessert away from you, the mere millisecond he realised he could smell a pungent thread of poison in the air. He can’t be too late to protect the family, no! He can’t! Thankfully, he had caught you, just in time before you took the first bite of your craved dessert

Oh thank goodness… he saved you

“IT’S POISON! DON’T EAT IT!” He was sprinting full speed to the table without a second to take a breath, he didn’t get to smell it as he was occupied discussing a important task with the King. Shit, no, he seriously hoped you didn’t take a bite of that moose, it didn’t seem like you did! His eyes didn’t trick him, were they? He could smell the hints of poison, such a powerful poison dumped inside the thick chocolate substances

It was disgusting… so thick and suffocating. What a nasty, chemical-like smell…

You dropped the spoon instantly once looking at his concerned plum reds, the spoonful of moose landing messily on the silky red sheet of the dinning table as Tanjiro scooped up the dessert-filled glass from in front of you and dumped all of the jello-ey sweet into the nearby bin with a sigh of relief. That awful potent smile of medicinal-like chemicals is finally gone. You’re safe again, though, he felt bad for interrupting the privacy of the royal family’s dinnertime

It’s not like the King and Queen would ever get mad at him for protecting their daughter. He was their savourer

Your father was furious at the fact poison was even inserted inside the dessert. What chef made the desert?! Has a assassin infiltrated the royal grounds?! He gruffly ordered every guard the kingdom had inside the walls to fish out the many high-grade chefs working under the kitchen roof and Tanjiro, using his mighty hound senses, effectively sniffed out the culprit from the long line of horrified persons

“This one, your majesty! He has some type of poison inside his pocket!” Tanjiro’s confident-toned statement was right as a plastic bottle of deadly cyanide pills was drawn out from the chef’s uniform pocket when the guards tackled him to the floor. Tanjiro was always right, he never got anything wrong and you felt yourself falling deeper in love with the Royal Poison Detector standing before you, he kept saving you over and over

He is so selfless and brave, yet he was polite and he apologised to your understanding parents for ruining the dinner. You didn’t even care if he accidentally poured wine all over your gown, you just love him. You’ve always loved Tanjiro and whatever suitor your father wanted you to marry wouldn’t be like him. He would accompany you at night anytime you felt uncomfortable and he was at your doorstep in a instant

Sure, he was just the Royal Poison Detector to your parents and to the palace’s systems but to you, he was like a personal bodyguard and your crush. He waited on your hand and foot with zero problem, he’d make such a great King to you. Tanjiro was truly honoured to serve the crowned princess as she pleased, from the bottom of his heart

What working class man like himself wouldn’t want to help such a beautiful advisory, like yourself

“I’m very glad you didn’t take a bite of that moose, your majesty. But don’t worry now, you’re safe”

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sam198 · 5 months

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Chapter Three: The Climax of Deceit

As the magical exchange reached its zenith, a palpable tension filled the chamber. Sam, now acutely aware of the unsettling imbalance, hesitated. "Sir John, something feels off. I can't go on like this."

Sir John, masking his delight with a feigned urgency, insisted, "We're on the brink of a breakthrough, Sam. We need to complete the final step to solidify the transformation."

With a nod, Sam reluctantly continued the enchantment. The magical energies swirled around them, creating an atmosphere charged with both anticipation and deceit. As the intensity grew, so did the transformative magic coursing through their tails.

The climax approached, a crescendo of enchantment and illusion. Sir John's once-tiny, limp tail now stood erect, brimming with stolen vitality. Sam's majestic appendage, though diminished, still retained a glimmer of its former grandeur.

In a sudden twist, the magical currents intensified, driving both men to the edge. Their tails quivered, charged with the magical essence ready to be unleashed. Yet, hidden beneath the facade of collaborative training, a sinister agenda unfolded.

As the moment of climax neared, Sir John seized the opportunity. With a swift and unexpected motion, he redirected the magical flow, causing both tails to release their enchanted essence. The magical juices shot forth, intertwining in mid-air like a spectral dance.

Sam, caught off guard, tried to resist. "What's happening? Sir John, this isn't part of the training!" he exclaimed, a hint of panic in his voice.

But Sir John, driven by envy and the thirst for rejuvenation, was resolute. He lunged forward, his mouth capturing the stream of Sam's magical essence. A twisted grin played on Sir John's lips as he drank deeply, absorbing every last drop of the stolen vitality.

Sam, overcome with shock and resistance, struggled against the force of the magical exchange. His attempts to pull away were met with a relentless suction from Sir John, who reveled in the stolen magic coursing through his weakened form.

The climax of deceit unfolded as Sam's once-potent tail now stood limp and drained. Sir John, fueled by the stolen essence, felt a surge of rejuvenation coursing through his aged body.

As the last traces of magical juice vanished, a sinister satisfaction gleamed in Sir John's eyes. Sam, weakened and disoriented, collapsed to the floor, his betrayed body unable to comprehend the treachery that had unfolded.

The chamber, now quiet save for the echoes of the magical exchange, held the secrets of their transformative encounter.

Chapter Four: The Puppet Master's Mockery

As the magical exchange reached its climax, Sam lay sprawled on the chamber floor, his once-grand tail now a feeble shadow of its former glory. Sir John, rejuvenated and reveling in his newfound power, circled the fallen personal trainer with a sinister grin.

"Well, well, Sam," Sir John jeered, "seems like the tables have turned, or should I say, the tails have turned?" He motioned toward his now robust tail, brimming with vitality.

Sam, weakened and disoriented, tried to sit up, but a wave of exhaustion held him captive. "What have you done, Sir John? This wasn't part of our training!" he protested, his voice a feeble echo of its former self.

Sir John chuckled, a sinister mirth emanating from his rejuvenated form. "Oh, Sam, you were always too trusting. I merely took what was rightfully mine—the vitality that you squandered on youth and arrogance."

He approached Sam, his once-frail tail now erect and pulsating with energy. "You wanted to train with the best, to absorb the essence of greatness. Well, you got more than you bargained for."

Sam, glaring up at Sir John with a mix of betrayal and confusion, managed to utter, "You won't get away with this, Sir John. The consequences of such dark magic are beyond your comprehension."

Sir John scoffed, circling Sam like a vulture reveling in its triumph. "Consequences, you say? I feel more alive than ever! Look at you, drained and feeble. I've achieved what you never could—a true transformation."

With a taunting glint in his eyes, Sir John seized Sam's limp tail, now reduced to a pathetic micro appendage. "What's this, Sam? Your once-majestic tail has become nothing more than a pitiful excuse for magic. Perhaps I should start calling you Micro-Tail Sam."

Sam winced as Sir John played with his diminished tail, a cruel mockery of the once-proud appendage. "You were the golden boy, Sam, but now it seems your magic has lost its shine. I wonder if anyone will even notice your feeble attempts at enchantment."

As Sam lay humiliated and drained, Sir John continued his relentless mockery. "You wanted to absorb greatness, to be on par with the best. Well, congratulations, Sam—you've become a reflection of your own inadequacy."

Sam, feeling the weight of humiliation, couldn't muster a response. The stolen essence had left him not only physically weakened but emotionally shattered.

Sir John, reveling in his triumph, took a step back, surveying his once-frail body now brimming with newfound vitality. "You see, Sam, greatness is not merely about muscles and magic; it's about seizing opportunities, even if it means taking them from others."

As the echoes of their confrontation lingered, the chamber's magical aura began to settle. Sir John, now standing tall and mocking, had successfully orchestrated a tale of envy and deceit. Sam, once the epitome of vitality, lay defeated and humiliated.

The details of their transformed bodies spoke volumes. Sir John's once-feeble frame now boasted a robust physique, his chestnut hair seemingly infused with a renewed vibrancy. His face, once etched with the wrinkles of time, now appeared more refined, as if the stolen essence had erased the markers of age.

In contrast, Sam's once-youthful features were marred by the drain, his hazel eyes dimmed by the betrayal. The grand tail that had defined his magical prowess now hung limp, a mere vestige of its former glory.

Sir John continued to taunt Sam, savoring every moment of the fallen trainer's humiliation. "You were the beacon of vitality, Sam, but now I hold the torch. A fitting lesson in the art of magic, wouldn't you say?"

As the chamber's magical energies settled, Sir John reveled in his newfound power, leaving Sam to contemplate the consequences of his misplaced trust. The tale of envy, deceit, and stolen vitality reached its conclusion in the dimly lit training chamber of Eldoria.

#body swap #cockshrink #male body swap #bodyswap #toptobottom #reality change #age progress #age regression #body theft

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transmechanicus · 10 months

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Mankind is incapable of sorcery. This is not a value judgement or an act of prideful gatekeeping, but a statement of fact. On levels genetic, morphologic, and cognitive mankind is constrained in ways that prevent their inherent biological application of magic. They lack crucial genes shielding them from the potent radiation of extradimensional forces. Their joints are too restrictive, their number of limbs too few. The spectrum of their senses is far too narrow, and rare is the human mind that can comprehend the complex underlying theorems required to do more than poorly imitate the might of sorcerers of other species. Many a human fool has sought to grasp at magic and has been twisted by bone breaking, gut wrenching gravitic forces as their flesh burns and bleeds from within.

The motions of witches and spellcasters are not entirely an act of control, but also rather the expression of self distorting and intractable forces being exerted in exchange for miracles manifested by complexity of one’s mind. This lesson was slow in taking for humans, but it was one they overcame with typical determination.

First was the creation of the psycho-frame, a device that could divert the locus of magical catalysis to an artificial point, allowing humans to cast magic through more resilient and adaptable proxy constructs. Following several centuries later was mankind’s first artificial witch, an AI synthesis of machine learning and simulated replicas of human brains.

This latter creation revolutionized human control of magic, allowing its use on a significantly expanded and coordinated scale, as well as its study and analysis by their symbiotic machine organisms for the first time. It was not long after that humans began utilizing magic as their primary means of FTL, being less resource intensive than the temporally compressed accelerators they used prior. Now every interstellar ship had a meadow of proxy sorcerers on its bow, exerting the will of a God Machine at the vessels heart, tearing open reality to carry mankind to vistas far and grand.

There upon those distant horizons they found such beauty, but in far greater frequency horrors beyond count. Beings evolved from their first fusing of cells in parts of the galaxy saturated by dimensional bleed and convinced of their cultural and biological supremacy as masters of witch physics. Cities arranged upon worlds for the conduction of sacrificial spells by entire planetary populations. Planetary bodies were torn asunder from systems away, and the flow of time upon stars and their orbits was twisted to send human populated worlds towards disaster at the will of alien cult magi. Moon sized inter-system super predators blasted lightning and neuron burning insanity at any human ship that dared enter their conception of territory, hunting mankind’s vessels like fish in a vast black sea.

There was no counter to such things, not that could be mustered quickly or reliably. Ship designs were altered from the colossal Void Arks carrying entire cities of military, governmental, and civilian crew, to stripped down Witness Frigates run only by a Demigod class AI and a brave few humans to accompany them in mankind’s efforts to chart the stars. Only when a system was thoroughly explored and catalogued directly would any further Arks be sent. So into the black were sent thousands of unblinking mechanical eyes and beating hearts.

What do you think they found?

#my stuff #writing

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bellasmumblingsandmusings · 3 days

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What Could Have Been

Chapter One

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 6.6K

Status: Ongoing

Author's note: A story about two broken people making mistakes, not being heroes and yet trying to find a way to love themselves and each other.

Song for this Chapter: Yearning Hearts - Forgotten Odes - Eternal Eclipse : Spotify Link

A03

Entire Story Link on AO3

Spotify Playlist

Chapter One

The Ancunín Estate played host to a lavish ball, its opulent halls filled with the elite of Baldur's Gate and beyond. Astarion, draped in his most resplendent attire—a meticulously tailored white brocade shirt, its fabric whispering against his skin, embellished with intricate gold embroidery that seemed to dance in the flickering candlelight. Long sleeves adorned with delicate ruffles gently caressed his wrists, while his trousers, fashioned from the darkest of cloths, hugged his form with a sleek elegance that bespoke his aristocratic bearing. His polished boots clicked softly against the marble floors as he moved through the throng, every step a silent proclamation of his presence.

Radiating an air of amusement and aloof confidence, Astarion surveyed the festivities from the fringes of the ballroom. Though surrounded by a sea of faces, he stood apart by choice, his demeanor a careful blend of poise and concealed intensity. In the depths of his crimson eyes, a faint glimmer of darkness flickered, a silent promise of the secrets he held close to his heart.

As his gaze swept over the transformed Ancunín Estate—a place once shrouded in shadows and despair under the cruel gaze of his sire’s control, now bathed in the soft glow of candlelight and laughter—Astarion's thoughts turned inexorably to his beloved, Sima. In the midst of the glittering crowd, he longed for her presence, a beacon of light in a sea of pretense and artifice. Yet, beneath his suave exterior, a torrent of emotions churned—a potent mix of desire and determination, longing and regret.

With each polite exchange and forced smile, Astarion concealed not only his emotions, but also the true purpose of this grand affair: to reclaim Sima's heart and soul, to draw her back into his embrace. As he navigated the intricacies of courtly conversation, his mind whirled with plans and strategies, each one crafted with meticulous care to ensnare her in his web of desire and control.

While his desire to reunite with her burned fiercely, he acknowledged the potential necessity of prolonged seduction. Should his former companions dare to impede his designs, he would confront them head-on, employing any means necessary to remove the obstacles obstructing his path. Their tacit acceptance of his ascendancy, coupled with his consummate manipulation and surveillance skills, rendered their opposition insignificant.

The decision to initiate her into full vampirehood weighed heavily on his soul, a testament to the depth of his commitment and the gravity of his desires. Though he recognized the looming shift in their power dynamic, he remained steadfast in his conviction as her eventual master and sire, his resolve unyielding in the face of uncertainty.

Amidst the façade of polite society, Astarion’s now-warmed veins filled with fierce longing, his every thought consumed by the woman who held his heart in her hands. With each passing moment, his anticipation grew, a silent countdown to the moment when he could finally claim his desired prize—Sima, once and for all, by his side.

In these quiet moments between dull conversations and cutting dressing downs, Astarion's mind wandered to the past, a haunting echo overshadowed memories. For all he had gained, the absence of Sima made his triumph incomplete, a bitter reminder of the one thing he desired most but could not yet possess.

The downfall of the Nether Brain marked Astarion's ascension to prominence in Baldur's Gate, a victory that solidified his dominion over the city's underbelly. Freed from the shackles of his former master's influence, he now reigned supreme, his authority unassailable by mortal standards. Through a web of bribery, blackmail, and subterfuge, he exerted his control over the city's key figures, safeguarding his domain and advancing his clandestine agenda. Though the city's rulers tread cautiously around him, recognizing the peril of antagonizing the enigmatic vampire lord, Astarion's pact with Duke Wyll Ravengard ensured his continued autonomy, provided he operated from the shadows.

Astarion was only broken out of his reverie by the announcement of the chamberlain noting the arrivals of heroes of the realm. As the companions made their grand entrance into the hallowed halls of the Ancunín Palace, their camaraderie palpable, Astarion's gaze lingered on Karlach, Gale, and Shadowheart. Intrigued by their seamless bond, he couldn't help but marvel at their unique talents and indispensable roles within the team. Despite his confidence in his ability to best them, the courage and loyalty they displayed to one another was undeniable.

The music swelled in the grand foyer, amplifying Astarion's impatience with every passing moment of delay. In a darkened corner, he found himself pinching the bridge of his nose. Though surrounded by the opulent crowd, he watched the clock with a silent urgency, his eyes scanning for Sima's familiar figure amidst the throng. Frustration mounted with each fruitless glance, uncertainty clouding his mind as the night stretched on. Leaning against a wall, he engaged in conversation with an elder spawn, detailing Sima's appearance in hopes of spotting her. Disappointment gnawed at him as the minutes stretched into hours, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. With the looming threat of losing his prize, he sipped from his wine goblet through pursed lips, and his mind turned to prior failures.

Since assuming mastery of the palace, his spawn had multiplied under Astarion's command, a reminder of his past and a reflection of his power. Despite his efforts to train them, each encounter served as a painful reminder of his abuse under Cazador's rule, deepening his unease.

Despite his efforts, Astarion had not succeeded in erasing Sima from his thoughts over the past year. Not even close. He had tried with various lovers, both men and women, and had even attempted in some desperate moments to find solace in the company of his spawn, but they only served as painful reminders of his past abuse at his sire's hand. Each entanglement and empty carnal release deepened his sense of longing for Sima, intensifying the void she had left behind. None could match her beauty, her wit, or her intelligence—none could hold his interest as she had. His frustration and self-disgust clawed at him, his inability to replace her driving him to lash out cruelly at those who sought to fill her void. He was even disgusted with himself for not being able to find anyone better.

The spawn he had sent out to survey slinked back to Astarion, its demeanor anxious. Frustration and worry gnawed at the vampire lord, his jaw gritted and tense as the possibility of her non-arrival cast a dark cloud over his thoughts.

"What now?" Astarion snapped, his annoyance thinly veiled. "She still hasn't shown up?"

The spawn shifted nervously. "No sign of her, Master. We've looked everywhere."

Astarion rolled his eyes, a sneer playing on his lips. "Of course not. Why would she make things easy?"

The spawn swallowed hard, clearly fearful. "Sorry, Master. We've tried our best."

"Clearly not hard enough," Astarion muttered under his breath, a derisive chuckle escaping him. Louder, he said, "Keep looking. And if anyone gets in your way, deal with them. I don't care how."

The spawn nodded frantically. "Yes, Master. We'll find her, I promise."

Astarion waved a dismissive hand. "Just go. I've got better things to do than deal with your incompetence."

As the spawn hurried off to resume its search, Astarion's irritation simmered beneath the surface. The thought of Sima's continued absence grated on his nerves, threatening to ruin his plans. But he refused to let it derail him. Not when he was so close to getting what he wanted.

As the chamberlain's booming voice once again filled the grand hall with its announcement, Astarion's attention snapped away from his swirling frustrations. "The heroes of Baldur's Gate have arrived!" The words echoed through the opulent chamber, drawing everyone's gaze toward the entrance.

His heart lurched as Sima glided into view, her graceful presence accompanied by the towering figure of Wyll, now Duke Ravengard. Astarion's breath caught in his throat, caught off guard by their unexpected arrival. The sight of them together stirred a tempest within him, threatening to engulf him whole.

Surprise gave way to a surge of jealousy and resentment as he watched them approach. The image of Sima by Wyll's side fueled the flames of insecurity that smoldered within him. Despite their truce, Astarion couldn't shake the gnawing suspicion that lingered in the depths of his mind. Was this mere coincidence, or had Wyll orchestrated this meeting deliberately to rattle him?

Standing by the grand staircase, Astarion's grip tightened on the polished railing, his knuckles turning white against the ornate gold and white finery he wore. His narrowed gaze followed Sima and Wyll, his chest tight with the fever of rage which made him feel choked. The thought of them together, of Wyll stealing her away from him, ignited a fierce blaze so profound that he etched its evidence into the wood beneath his nails.

But Astarion was a master of disguise, a performer on life's grand stage. With practiced ease, he forced a mask of indifference onto his features, concealing the storm raging beneath the surface. His jaw clenched with determination, refusing to let his vulnerability show, even as the weight of his emotions threatened to crush him.

This would not be his moment of weakness, not in front of the elite of the Upper City. Astarion straightened his posture, as he suppressed the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He tightened his grip on the goblet in his hand, the nails clinking hard against the delicate crystal. He would not allow Sima, Wyll, or anyone else to see him falter. Not now, not ever.

Across the mass of the prestigious assemblage, Sima battled down her surging fear.

Her heart raced as she descended the ballroom steps, Wyll's reassuring presence by her side. Despite the ornate decor disguising the past, the echoes of betrayal lingered, too close for comfort. Her ebony curls shone like polished silk, and her dark brown eyes betrayed no hint of intrigue. Her mahogany fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the intricate fabric of her black gown, the memories of past pain still haunting her every step. Yet, she had made a promise to Shadowheart, a promise that compelled her to confront the past, no matter how painful.

As they descended onto the ballroom floor, Sima glanced at Wyll, his steadfast support bolstering her resolve. She offered him a grateful smile, her eyes reflecting a mixture of uncertainty and determination. His reassuring squeeze on her hand sent a wave of comfort through her, easing the tension coiled in her chest.

"So, still up for being my buffer tonight?" Sima asked Wyll, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness beneath the determined facade.

Wyll nodded, his expression filled with concern. "Of course. Whatever awaits us, Sima, I'll stand by your side. I'll shield you from harm, even if it means bearing it myself."

Sima's shoulders relaxed slightly at his words, a brief moment of solace amidst the swirling chaos of emotions. She leaned into Shadowheart's embrace, exchanging pleasantries with the rest of their companions. Each hug, each shared glance, served as a silent reassurance, a reminder that she was not alone in this battle.

Across the room, Astarion's eyes followed Sima's every move, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. She felt his gaze like a physical caress, stirring a heady concoction within her—anger, longing, and a hint of fear.

When Lord Crane, a tiefling nobleman, approached her, Sima accepted his invitation to dance with a bright smile. As they glided across the floor, her movements graceful and fluid, Astarion's gaze bore into them with palpable fury.

As Sima danced with Lord Crane, she exchanged playful banter with him, her movements fluid yet guarded. She chuckled inwardly, desperately hoping that Astarion's attention was diverted elsewhere, perhaps with a newfound companion. His cutting words echoed in her mind, a painful reminder of her perceived expendability. Reflecting on her journey from Amn to Calimport, where she’d honed her skills as a bard while delving deeper into witchcraft and sorcery, she considered offering Lord Crane a tarot card reading. The occult intrigued him, but she remained cautious despite his seemingly benign demeanor.

As Sima exchanged pleasantries, even briefly with Lord Crane, the rampant indignation caused Astarion’s veins on his neck to spike, and he couldn't bear to watch any longer. With a surge of jealousy burning in his chest, he glided through the throng of ball attendees, cutting off Lord Crane and placing a possessive hand on Sima's arm.

"Sima. Might I steal this dance from you?"

Sima felt the sudden warmth of his touch, a stark contrast to the chill of his former embrace as a spawn. She tensed instinctively, her body stiffening under his grasp. Meeting his crimson eyes, she saw a hardness that hadn't been there before, a distant glimmer of something she couldn't quite place. Sima managed a thin smile. "If the Lord Ancunín insists."

As Astarion led her onto the dance floor, she couldn't shake the feeling of being ensnared in a trap of his making.

Astarion responded with a thin smile, his eyes betraying only the briefest hint of hunger. Every word he spoke felt like a half-truth. Despite the changes in him, he still felt an unexplainable pull towards her, a magnetic force that defied logic. "You honor me with your grace," Astarion replied, his voice smooth but strained slightly on the edges.

He guided her into the dance, his touch firm yet oddly chilly. Despite his efforts to maintain a façade of civility, there was an unmistakable edge to his movements, a hint of restraint that belied the intensity of will to possess his former love.

Astarion understood that their bodies could tell a story of their own; their dance held an undercurrent of something darker beneath the surface—a predator sizing up their prey. He drew Sima closer with effortless grace, dancing as he always had, yet there was a subtle shift in his demeanor that felt like a hunter poised to strike.

As Sima danced with Astarion, she felt a broiling fever across her skin—a mixture of rage, betrayal and anxiety. With each step, she fought to maintain a semblance of composure, her movements fluid yet guarded. She glanced at him briefly, then looked over his shoulder, carefully considering her next move. She tried to maintain a distance between them in the dance, but with every subtle attempt to pull away, he gracefully and unwaveringly drew her closer, his grip allowing no refusal.

Astarion pulled her in again, drawing her closer until they seemed to share breath. He could feel her resistance, but he kept his grip, remembering her penchant for these little games. He offered her a half-grin, his eyes glinting with a hungering gleam as they locked onto hers. Despite her attempts to hide it, he could see the fear lurking in the depths of her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the power he held over her.

As if she could ever forget how his body made her feel. Sima considered that the sheer proximity of him made her recoil and mourn in equal measure. But fancy footwork couldn't mask cruelty, malice, or arrogance. She reminded herself of this, realizing she had to be extremely cautious. He wasn't a spawn anymore; even her thoughts were not safe from his reach. While Shadowheart may have cast Protection from Evil and Good on her, shielding her from compulsion and charm, she understood she had to guard herself vigilantly tonight.

She remained deliberately silent, recognizing that the stakes of this perilous game had escalated. In this delicate waltz, speaking first meant relinquishing the upper hand.

Astarion took another step, drawing them even closer, his hand clutching her waist. His movements became subtly more aggressive, reminiscent of the deliberate strides of a stalking wolf. His gaze remained fixed on her, and in the lingering silence, she felt his lips caress her neck, his voice barely a whisper.

"Careful , darling. I could be tempted to mistake your silence for acceptance and think you enjoy being this close to me," Astarion warned, his tone laced with amusement.

Sima sharply turned, resisting his lead but managing the step gracefully. Only a master dancer could discern her attitude from the footwork.

"Oh yes, I forgot; deference is your preferred state for all your interactions now, my lord, " she retorted, her tone sharp with sarcasm.

Astarion's eyes narrowed ever so slightly at her comment, his grip tightening on her abdomen. He knew her defiance was just a game, a part of their twisted foreplay.

He smiled at her, his darkening red eyes dangerously glinting. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Would it bother you so much if you found yourself in a state of deference to me, little love?"

Sima practically clawed his shoulder and locked eyes with him as she hissed the words, "I'd rather die, my lord ."

As he’d expected. Disobedience was the essence of Sima; without it, she wouldn't be herself. He could already see she would be an intriguing mate, and her challenge promised to delight him in every way.

Astarion chuckled at her words, squeezing her the curve of her waist harder and pulling her closer to him. He felt the heat of her anger fueling those words. There was a fine line between genuine rebellion and play, and he relished dancing on that edge. Despite her anger, she seemed so vulnerable in his arms. How could he resist playing with her?

He responded with a seductive smirk on his lips, his body tightening against hers.

"And what if I were to command you?"

Sima turned with him hip to hip in a circle, her eyes burning into his, her body graceful and yet cold towards him. "I'd like to see you try your tricks on me. Perhaps I have a few tricks of my own now, my lord ," she growled back.

Every word of dissent from Sima was a powerful turn-on for Astarion. He enjoyed the tension that came with her fighting back so fiercely.

Astarion pulled her into his hips hard for a moment, then pressed his stiff cock against her, as from his lips danced hair's breadth away from her pointed ear. He crooned the next words.

"What if I were to pin you against the wall, my sweet darling? My powerful hands holding you against it, my chest pressed against yours, while I whispered sweet nothings of domination and punishment. That must sound enticing." His voice softened, and his eyes were full of promised intent, yet there was an underlying tenderness to his words. He was enjoying this.

Sima's sigh spoke volumes, her eyes locking onto Astarion's with a mix of boredom and disgust, her body language radiating a sense of readiness. "The greatest mistake you made was thinking I was beneath you. So no, it is decidedly not."

Astarion paused for a moment, genuinely considering her words; his eyes turning into brief slits as he did so. She was not in the slightest below him, and yet the act of her being so defiant made him feel as though she were. At the same time, he was genuinely thrilled to have someone he could play with who was really playing back for once.

"I should hope you don't think I was underestimating you. But very well. Challenge accepted. I look forward to finding out just what your tricks are, sweetheart ."

As Sima continued to follow his lead, her brown eyes glinted with veiled intent. She had a plan, unlike him, and she had no intention of waxing poetic about it. That ridiculous soliloquy after he ascended still lingered in her memory. Perhaps he was intoxicated by power at the time, but who could tell? She smiled, sharp and cold, like a dagger concealed beneath silk.

"Be ready for disappointment."

Astarion's response was immediate. He erased the distance between them, his presence enveloping her. His eyes held hers with an unwavering stare, his breath ghosted against her skin.

As the dance came to an end, Sima's gaze met his, the promise of a contest passing between them. "What is it you used to say during battle? Your rapiers held high, right… Shall we dance ?"

Astarion's eyes flickered with recognition. This was more than just a dance—it was a battle of wills. He no longer sought to woo her; his desire was to possess her, to see her submit to him. His words carried a hint of threat, his arousal fueled by her defiance.

With a wolfish grin, he replied, "With pleasure."

As he pulled her back into his arms, leading her into another dance, this time the intense volta, Sima countered with, "Terms of engagement?"

"My terms: Sima Shoker must submit to Astarion Ancunín and accept his terms of complete submission. If she wishes to be my equal after such a state of complete submission, she will earn it by proving her devotion to me as such. All other terms are non-negotiable at this stage in our relationship."

Sima scoffed as he tightly held her by the waist, guiding her through another turn to maintain appearances. "Spoken like a true former magistrate. Tell me, is there an acre of land, or is there a allotment of chattel? How boring. Let's make it interesting, shall we? You show me all your cards, and I'll show you mine."

Astarion snickered. "If you wish us to be upfront about our intentions, so be it. But if you have no chance to win, don't play at a game . You are mine in every way, my love. A mere mortal with a pathetic few levels of arcane study has no chance against a centuries-old, experienced vampire. You have only two cards to play: to submit or run. Which will it be?"

Sima's smile was sharper than ever before. She had been very busy this year. Very...very busy. She leaned in close to his ear, her lips barely brushing it. "I choose to fight."

Astarion let out a dark chortle.

"Oh, darling... You've made a truly fatal mistake, haven't you? You think, maybe in your hubris, that you can fight me ? I would drink you like milk from a chalice . Your little tricks won't work on me. I know far more secrets and have experienced far worse than you ever could. I know how to fight dirtier than you ever could. Now..."

He whispered with a drawl in her ear, the promise of pleasure hinted.

"Come on. Submit."

As he turned her and dipped her, Sima retorted again, "Now, you played your cards. Let's go back to the terms. Compulsion? Command? Old hat really , but whatever you like. Ahh..one question..very important..your misguided calls for me to submit are what? Prelude to a turn? Is that it?" She leaned into Astarion's pointed ear, each word laced with venom and anger.

"Old hat?! " Astarion replied, the mask of charm falling from his features and anger flashing in his crimson eyes. For the briefest moment, Astarion's fangs revealed themselves before disappearing again behind his lips.

"My terms have not changed, mortal . You will submit to me utterly and completely. And yes, in time, I would turn you into my equal. My beloved. My beautiful, sweet, and powerful vampire consort. But right now...

Astarion leaned close to Sima's ear.

"...You submit. Then you earn it ."

Sima nodded, his words a testament to his changed nature. "So, the same lies as before. Let me guess: I submit, and you turn me into a spawn and then a true vampire. So much for learning from your mistakes. So much for loving me. But that was the real lie, wasn't it?" As she seared the words through pursed lips, he spun and pulled her in, facing him with their arms entangled.

"Let me be clear: I will turn you into a vampire . You will be equal to me. I truly and deeply loved you." Astarion leaned close to Sima's face, his features softening just slightly as his eyes trailed to her lips.

"But I will not let you take advantage of my feelings for you. I need to know I can trust you, Sima. You also need to be able to trust me. And so, we have the terms. You submit first, and then we earn each other. Fair, no ?"

Sima pulled up her chin, defiant and proud. "My, my , you really have everything figured out, don't you?"

Astarion pulled her closer and whispered directly in her ear. His tone was a sensual hiss. " My love, you've no idea ."

Sima grasped Astarion's hand harder as they continued to dance in the ballroom, their tête-à-tête as masterful as any dancer's footwork. "So then, let the games begin. You try to use your tricks on me, your spells, and your vampiric charms. And if I lose, I suppose I lose. Now, let's discuss when I win . I've heard your terms; now hear mine."

Astarion smiled as he spun her into another dip, his eyes flashing with amusement as he trailed his nose over her cleavage, inhaling her jasmine scent. His demeanor was flirtatious, and his grin was devilish. He spoke with a breathy murmur, leaning down to whisper into her ear. "And what terms would those be, my darling?"

As he pulled her back up with a snap, a smile that would shame any devil and wither any cleric was on Sima's lips as she whispered in retaliation, "If I win, you'll let me change you back into a spawn."

Her eyes locked with his, and Astarion could tell behind those chestnut eyes she was completely and brazenly honest.

Astarion's lips parted in a cruel, mocking smile. The challenge was accepted, and the terms were set. There were nothing but the slightest of pauses in between, just long enough to savor the moment.

"Then it would appear that we have ourselves a little bet, my darling . If you manage to truly best me and take all my tricks off the table, then you may try to make me a spawn again, and I will abide by your terms."

Sima smirked. "And if you win, then you can expect me to, in time, accept true vampirism. You did say I get an adjustment period. How merciful of you ."

"My mercy knows no bounds, love." Astarion dipped her once more, only wanting to inhale that sweet scent again, his lips trailing over the swell of her bosom that he desired to devour. The game had begun.

As he raised her up, Sima let out a haughty breath and looked out to the garden. "How about the hedge maze? See if your charms are up to snuff there. As good a place as any and away from prying eyes."

Astarion nodded, a faint, secretive grin tugging at his lips. His eyes gleamed with wicked fervor. "That is indeed a lovely idea. Come, we'll take a stroll, and then we'll see just how powerful a witch you are."

Sima recoiled from Astarion's touch the moment the dance concluded, as though his grasp had scorched her flesh. She had to bite back on the wrath that welled in her. No, no, she had to be calm . So she smiled slyly and picked up the skirt of her gown.

"After you."

Astarion's smile held firm, a veneer of charm masking the tumultuous sea of emotions churning within him. His grip on her hand tightened, a subtle yet unmistakable assertion of possession as he led her beyond the ornate doors, onto the expansive, well-tended lawn that stretched before them. Bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, the manicured grounds of the estate unfolded like a canvas of natural splendor.

In every direction, the gardens sprawled in a tapestry of colors and scents, each bloom murmuring secrets of forgotten romance and whispered promises. Flowerbeds burst with vibrant hues, their petals unfurling in delicate homage to the night. Pathways meandered through the verdant expanse, inviting exploration beneath the starlit sky.

Towering trees stood sentinel along the perimeter, their branches reaching skyward in silent supplication. The gentle rustle of leaves overhead provided a soothing backdrop to their clandestine journey, yet beneath the tranquil facade, a sense of latent danger lingered in the air.

Amidst the evergreen beauty, the maze beckoned from its corner of the estate, a labyrinth of greenery waiting to ensnare the unwary. Though they had yet to enter its twisting passages, its presence loomed large in the moonlit night, a testament to the intrigue that awaited within—a dangerous game of wits and wills, where every step held the potential for betrayal or triumph.

Sima surveyed their pending battlefield, then turned her gaze to Astarion as she retrieved her bag of holding.

"I do hope you don't mind. I'll be ducking behind that hedge to make a change. Running in a gown is l ess than a fair sport ."

In response, Astarion smiled at Sima and spoke with a taunting murmur. "A woman after my own heart."

He released Sima's hand as she dove behind the hedge to change. Astarion leaned against a tree and crossed his legs, his expression relaxed and confident, seemingly content to allow Sima the chance to prepare for their game.

Shortly thereafter, Sima emerged again, the faint rustle of her attire marking her return. Clad in sleek black leathers that hugged her frame snugly, she appeared with an air of quiet confidence. Her laced boots and gloves matched the dark ensemble, while her long, loose black curls danced gently in the breeze. Astarion recognized the outfit immediately—the one she wore on the night they defeated Cazador during his Ascension. Sima raised an eyebrow, a silent gesture of challenge.

Astarion smiled with a hint of amusement at the outfit. The familiar pang of memory from the ritual was unmistakable, but that did not dim the spark of desire that flared in his eyes at her body. He glanced away and spoke with an air of detachment. "I must admit, darling, that I have missed the sight of you in this outfit."

Sima gave him a sharp smile. "Fitting, don't you think? I find it poetic, considering once I win, you'll be going through another change tonight by my magic, per our terms."

"A fitting bit of theater, in truth. One to show how the tables have turned and how the mighty have fallen, " Astarion quipped with unveiled snark as he approached her and cupped her chin, tilting her head up towards his own. His dark red eyes glinted with a certain cruel amusement, as well as lust.

Then his hungry gaze traced the contours of her body, his fingertips lingering tantalizingly close to her skin, as if savoring the anticipation of touch. With a hesitant caress, his hand followed the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, and the line of her arm until it hovered just shy of her elbow, before gently cupping her cheek.

Sima recoiled from his touch once more, as though acid poured from his fingertip, a palpable tension simmering between them. "Shall we? Use your powers to try to ensnare me as I run through the maze. If I resist and make it through the maze, I win. Understood?"

"As you wish, darling." Astarion's gaze burned with a volatile mixture of malice and desire, undeterred by her evasive maneuvers. His confidence radiated in his stance, an aura of arrogance underscored by the promise of challenge.

"Ready yourself. I shall give you a fair warning; I shall not go easy on you."

Sima met his gaze with unyielding resolve, her eyes reflecting a steely determination. "Five-minute head start?"

"Five minutes is fair, I suppose. A sporting headstart for my bride-to-be. I'd suggest using your time constructively" Astarion quipped, his arrogance and pettiness unwavering in the moment.

Sima turned without a word, but as she reached the frame entrance of the maze, an unusual sincerity colored her tone. "Do you remember when I told you that you deserved better after 200 years of torment? Do you remember when I told you to do the ritual, thinking that was freedom?"

A hint of tenderness softened Astarion's expression as he listened to her words. "I do remember, yes. What of it?"

Sima's gaze softened, revealing a depth of emotion. "I was wrong."

A flicker of surprise crossed Astarion's features. "Wrong how, darling?"

Sima's eyes seemed to penetrate his soul. "You're not free; you're not even trapped. The ritual destroyed you. So, I was wrong."

Astarion's expression contorted with scorn and frustration, the weight of her words bearing down on him. Despite knowing the truth in her words, he couldn't afford to falter now. Amidst the tempest of emotions, the ember of his resolve burned brighter. "So...how do you solve this paradox of logic, darling? What would make me whole? What would solve the mystery of me, oh wise and powerful witch ?"

"What I promised, once I win, of course. I could even bring you mortality, or just reverse this mess. Like I said, it's been a very long and busy year." Sima adjusted a glove, as if the answer was more than evident, even with an air of nonchalance.

"And when you lose, will you allow me the same opportunity to fix you ?" A glint of defiance flashed in Astarion's eyes as he spoke, his tone laced with determination. The prospect of defeat was one he couldn’t allow in his mind.

"You wanted a true vampire and an equal. The terms are set... Not having second thoughts, are we ?" Sima cooed, the words a reminder of that fateful night, so long ago when he had tried to coerce her into becoming his spawn. Stung by the memory, Sima gritted her teeth.

"Absolutely not. And I have a feeling that neither of us is bluffing, are we?" A wry smile played on Astarion's lips as he watched Sima disappear into the maze's depths.

"I'll see you in 5 minutes."

With a determined stride, Sima silently ventured into the darkness of the hedge maze.

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3-2-whump · 1 month

Text

Intro to Caretaker: Guard Shack

Author's Note: the audiobook our new OC is listening to tells a story from the world of @whumped-by-glitter, go check her out if you haven't already. I got her blessing to post this excerpt from her WIP here so that Nico would have a riveting book to listen to.

TW/CW: slavery whump, drug use (in the book). Wow, a relatively short TW/CW list this time!

This was the easiest money Nico Clemenza had ever made. From noon to about 8 pm, he sat in the little guard shack at the entrance of the mansion, opening the gates for the people who were authorized, and not letting in the people who weren’t. It took him a mere three weeks to memorize the faces of each Costa member, what cars they drove, their schedules, etc., but that was the hardest part, so far. The rest of the job involved plenty of downtime, which the young law student used to further advance his studies and slack off on his phone. He really should thank his uncle more profusely for finding him such a nice gig at this place last spring.

Costa Insurance operated out of the old mansion that once belonged to Luciano Antonio Costa –Boss Tony, as some of the older members referred to him. When his grandson, the current Boss, inherited the family business a couple years back, he also inherited the mansion and the several acres of land that came with it. Yet Don Thomas remained content to stay at his penthouse apartment, which led to the Organization renovating the grand old house into an office space, leasing out their previous downtown location, and moving the front to the outskirts of the city. Now here he was, staring blankly out at a long stretch of forested road, gun on his desk next to his textbooks and thermos of coffee, completely and utterly bored.

Just because it was the easiest money Nico ever made didn’t mean he enjoyed making it.

At least he had this audiobook on his phone. When he wasn’t doing his course work or watching the leaves of the trees rustle in the wind, he listened to audiobooks and the occasional podcast to stave off the ever-present threat of boredom. Currently, he was listening to a fantasy adventure narrated by a woman with a silky suave voice:

‘Dasa retreated to a quiet place outside of the cave that was now their refuge. He knew soon enough the weekly dose of Divinity’s Downfall would take effect. It was a potent poison, quite possibly the nastiest poison in existence, deadly in the worst way.

‘Fortunately, or unfortunately for Dasa though, it was just an extremely strong hallucinogenic and he did not want to be anywhere near either of his masters when the familiar claws of delirium sunk into his mind. While the drugs didn’t make him violent or anything, it just got embarrassing when Divinity’s Downfall loosened his tongue and he let all his thoughts spill out. Plus, he didn’t want Annika to know about the poisons; that was his burden alone.

Dasa sighed, silently wishing he at least had his glass shards, the only thing he could say he owned. His first collection was left behind when he was taken to the palace, the second one was burned with the palace. A tear slid down his cheek. Dasa knew it was selfish; he shouldn’t be crying when Princess Annika and Master Jarek had lost so much more, but it just seemed like nothing would ever be his own. Not even his own body was his own, and the Tallisians could read his thoughts whenever they wanted, so he didn’t even have freedom in his own mind.

‘‘Master Corvius was right all along, I am just a thing to be used or thrown out on a whim,’ Dasa thought bitterly as another tear slipped down his cheek, the poison beginning to seep its way into his -’

A succession of sharp raps against the guard shack door broke the immersion. Nico jumped a little in his seat, turning around to see who interrupted his story. A slim young man dressed all in black stood outside, his fist retreating from where it had knocked. The intern, his mind supplied. He usually rode out with the Boss at the end of the day. Nico hastily paused his audiobook and rose to open the door, running a hand through his unkempt dark brown hair in an attempt to keep up the appearance of neatness. “Hey,” he greeted, plastering on his signature smile. His classmates didn’t call him the ‘high school heartthrob’ for nothing.

Nico never got a close look at the intern until now. Cal –that was his name, right? –looked a bit young to be an intern, with his rounded, boyish facial features yet to melt away into hardened lines. He was a little shorter than him, though that coiffed tuft of black hair on top of his undercut gave him about an extra inch or so of height. His mocha brown skin contrasted with Nico’s fair complexion, as did his dark brown eyes, compared to Nico’s forest green ones.

“Can I eat my lunch in here?” Cal asked. His voice was a soft timbre, like a glacial lake in a forest. He hardly spoke with an accent, which made Nico feel a little self-conscious that he was expecting one.

“What, why?” he asked. Nobody ate their lunches outside. There was plenty of room in the refurbished dining room, wasn’t there?

“I usually eat my lunches outside, but it looks like it’s about to rain soon, and I would rather not be caught in it,” the intern explained. Nico looked up towards the heavy gray sky. The forecast mentioned chances of scattered showers around mid-afternoon... “Yeah, sure, come in,” he shrugged, moving aside as he opened the door a little wider.

The boy shuffled past him as he entered the guard shack, muttering a quiet “thanks” as Nico shut the door. He slouched back into his seat, then felt immediately guilty that there was only one chair in the guard shack and that his guest would have to stand and eat.

“Wait, would you like to sit down?” he asked, reluctantly rising yet again.

Cal eyed the chair warily as if it would bite him before saying, “No, I’m alright, thanks.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I’ve been sitting all day, it’s fine,” Nico insisted. He pushed his chair forward in invitation. The intern shook his head again. Nico shrugged in defeat, resuming his spot in his chair as Cal unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat.

“So… your name’s Cal?” he asked, starting a conversation. He never got visitors to the guard shack before, unless they were there to tell him someone of consequence was coming or going, or to yell at him, so he didn’t want to bore away his first real guest.

A nod in between bites of food answered his question. “What’s it short for? Calder, or-”

“Khaled,” the boy corrected, washing down his last mouthful with a can of Coke.

Nico’s mouth opened in a quiet ‘oh.’ He quickly quirked his lips into a friendly smile. “My name’s Nico,” he said proudly. “Nico Clemenza, future attorney!” He gestured proudly towards his thick textbooks and unopened laptop. “My uncle got me this job to help me make some extra dough while I pursue my law degree!”

“Oh, um, that was nice of him,” his guest replied before taking another bite of his food.

“How did you get here? Not many people know about job openings in Costa Insurance.”

“Temp agency,” Khaled answered bluntly and a little too quickly.

He offered a low whistle. “Your agency must have one of our guys on the inside, to be able to get you into this job.”

Khaled merely shrugged as he ate the last couple bites of his lunch and chased it with a swig of Coke. “So, what is guard duty like?”

Nico let out a prolong, exhausted sigh. “Boring as hell,” he admitted. The intern chuckled a little at his honesty. “But at least I’ve got my phone and my laptop out here.”

“Wait, does that mean you get Wi-Fi out here?” Khaled asked, tilting his head toward the laptop.

Nico nodded. The boy visibly perked up. “Can you look up the FIFA U-17 World Cup for me?” he requested with urgency. “I missed the last couple games when I was grounded.”

Nico opened his laptop, quickly signing in and searching it up for him. “You’re a soccer fan, then?”

“Football,” Khaled corrected, “the real football.”

Nico scoffed; as a star quarterback during his high school days, he felt personally offended by the sentiment. “You mean soccer. The less cool football.”

Khaled ignored him, an audible groan escaping his lips as he read the results. “My team didn’t make it!” he whined. He sunk his face into his hands. Nico reached up to offer an awkward pat on the back, knowing the feeling all too well. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” the boy muttered, “they were playing against Spain; La Furia Roja are strong as hell, after all!” He set his hands down and leaned back against the wall with a sigh.

“Want to watch what you missed?” Nico offered. He was already pulling up footage of the game on another tab as Khaled gave a small, eager nod. “Come closer,” he beckoned, blowing up the video to full screen.

All too soon, a dissonant beeping noise sounded from a pager hooked onto the intern’s belt. “Damn,” he pouted, “my break is over.”

“Well, at least it’s not raining too hard out there.” The light pitter-patter of rain intensified into a torrential barrage on the steel roof of the guard shack. Nico awkwardly chuckled; looks like he spoke too soon. He grabbed the large coat with ‘SECURITY’ emblazoned on its back from where it hung on the door knob, extending it out to his new friend. “Take this, and give it back to me at the end of the day,” he offered.

Khal took it gratefully and wrapped it over his thin shoulders as he made his exit. “Oh, and don’t be a stranger,” Nico added before he was fully out the door. “Come back anytime and we can watch some more soccer!”

The young intern flashed him a small smile. “It’s football!” he laughed. He raised the coat over his head and dashed into the pouring rain. Nico shut the door behind him, slunk back into his chair, and hit play on his audiobook. He couldn’t help but bear a matching smile on his own face. Looks like his job wouldn’t be so boring after all.

Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump@whumped-by-glitter

#whump writing #whumpee #caretaker #the start of a beautiful friendship

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lunargrapejuice · 2 years

Text

we will never be apart

diluc ragnvindr x reader | 1.8k + words

warnings: angst/comfort, mentions of blood/injuries, no pronouns used, ahh if i'm forgetting anything else just tell me

the howling of the wind as the front doors of the winery swing open violently, followed by a thud much too loud and heavy to be footsteps, draws you from your book and has you rushing from the master bedroom and into the dark hallway, the pages of the novel left askew on the sheets in your abrupt departure.

frigid air from outside makes the manor even colder than it normally is this time of night and your thin short silky pajamas weren’t doing much to help keep you warm but you didn’t have time to think about how cold you might get or throw on a robe, not when your worst fears were already churning uncomfortably in your stomach. they only grew worse when you looked over the banister to see diluc on his knees at the threshold of your home. it’s too dark to make out much but there’s no mistaking the long, fiery, mane of hair that flows towards the ground in his slumped over state.

you can’t speak or call out to him. everything feels caught in your throat and you worry if you speak you may choke on the words but adrenaline and a racing heart move your feet as quickly as they can down the grand staircase. as you get closer you see one hand keeping his body from meeting the cold hardwood and the other gripping at his side desperately. bright red bangs cover his face but you can hear how hard he’s breathing, see in the dim moonlight coming through the open door the deep breaths he fights to take with every rise and fall of his back.

a strong gust of wind rattles the doors and quickly you close and lock them, not wasting another moment to make your way to dilucs side and reach out for him with shaking hands. you swear all you can hear is the beating of your heart in your ears as you help him sit up, bringing his arm around your shoulders and with all the strength you can muster, help him stand up while supporting most of his weight. something wet and warm begins to seep into your night dress and stain your skin beneath, the smell of copper becoming more potent the more his blood stains your clothes.

the only thing that breaks through the sound of your panicked heart is his strained voice calling your name. the way it sounds makes the tears you didn’t know were welling up in your eyes fall down your cheeks without permission.

“y/n.. i..” he grunts when you tighten your arm around him and begin to make your way up the stairs. he’s so heavy; barely able to walk, his heavy boots dragging against the cold hardwood with every step you take, hardly able to use his hand to help him up the railing. it’s up to you, and the strength you worry would break at any moment, to help get him up along with his stumbling steps.

“don’t speak. save your strength.” you reply, your voice is uneasy as the hands that are holding onto him, that are dripping with his blood. but no matter how hard you cried, no matter how the anxiousness in your stomach made you nauseous along with the terrible coppery smell, you had to keep moving, had to let it bubble over without control because right now your only focus was being sure diluc was okay. he had to be. what.. what would you do without him.. if he died in your arms-

you have to stop your racing thoughts before they consume you. almost to the bathroom. it will be okay. it has to be okay.

it’s not the first time diluc has come home injured and you had to bandage him up, you’d say by now you’ve gotten quite good at it, but it’s never been this bad, never been this scary. there was no staff here at this hour, no one to call for a healer unless you wanted to leave diluc alone to do so by yourself but you aren’t sure you could stomach to leave his side in this state.

normally diluc would sit quietly at the edge of the tub with a stern expression, his eyes not meeting yours as you cleaned and wrapped his wounds but tonight he can barely lean against the side of the tub as he tries to take off his coat and vest. your hands stop his own, trembling fingers peeling off the dirty and stained fabric until he’s left bare chested and he’s laying against the tile flooring, head resting against a towel. this time it’s your eyes that don’t meet his, even though the ruby orbs you love can't focus on anything but your distressed visage.

he calls your name but you don’t reply. using his teeth to tear off his glove, it comes into your peripherals, gently resting on your cheek, using his thumb to wipe away the tears that continue falling from your eyes. he hadn’t meant to worry you, hadn’t meant to use all of his strength after getting injured and stumble home only to barely make it through the door. the bloodied pajamas you wear, the shakiness of your hands and the worry in your crying eyes makes his heart ache far worse than the wound you’re attending to. he’d be okay, as long as he could ease your worry, stop your tears, he was sure of that. he’s suffered far worse but the reassuring words he speaks to try to tell you as much never seem to make it to you.

you don’t hear his voice, can barely register the hand that holds your face and wipes your tears. how could you when you can’t focus on anything but the injury at his side that slows how badly it’s bleeding as you apply pressure and a salve adelinde made for situations just like this. it wasn't meant to patch up wounds for good but as it foams against the gash it stops the bleeding and hopefully numb the pain. the crimson splotches are so bright against his porcelain skin and as the salve works its magic you continue checking the rest of him, cleaning every small cut you can find before coming back to gash on his side.

his body flexes under your hands when he attempts to sit up, using all of the strength he has left to come closer to you, to comfort you. “wait! don’t get u-” you’re interrupted by a finger under your chin pulling your face from his toned stomach and to his soft eyes instead. normally you’d expect him to be mad that he’s hurt but tonight there’s no anger or irritation in his expression, he’s worried for you far more than he is himself.

“it’s okay y/n,” he speaks, his tone calm and reassuring. finally you hear his voice. diluc has never been very good at words of comfort but for you, if it meant your tears would dry and the smile he loves would return, he would always try. “it looks far worse than it feels. please, don’t waste your tears for my sake.”

you bite your bottom lip, an attempt to stop yourself from crying more because you know you needed to be strong for him but it doesn’t work out the way you wish it to, if anything you’d say it's making it a little worse. your tears seem unstoppable as ever. using the back of your hand you wipe away the growing wetness on your cheek. “h- how could i not when you’re hurt?”

his touch on your chin is beyond gentle, radiating with warmth and it only grows warmer when he caresses your jaw before the tips of his fingers brush your hair behind your ear. you can’t help but lean into it his touch, closing your eyes in hopes you could now calm down and not think about why you’re kneeling on the cold tile in the bathroom, in the middle of the night, covered in a color you normally couldn't get enough of but right now is making your whole body burn almost unbearably.

“i’ll be alright,” dilucs words are as tender as his touch and full of sincerity. “it wasn’t my intention to worry you-.”

“but diluc-”

suddenly and softly his forehead finds solace on yours and you find, as you often do with diluc, his touch steals your breath away. the smell of his shampoo and the mint on his breath invades your senses- making you forget about the scent you couldn’t stand before.

“i wouldn’t be dishonest with you, my love. please trust me when i say i’m alright,” his breath fans against your cheeks. strong, calloused hand finding its way even deeper into your hair with every word he speaks, until he is protectively holding the back of your head. “i will always be okay as long as you’re by my side… but i will be more careful in the future so you don’t have to worry like this again.”

“i always worry for you ‘luc,” you whisper, the last of your tears flowing down your cheeks and onto his scar ridden chest. you want so badly to wrap your arms around him and hold him against you but you don’t dare further hurt his wounds. instead your hands find his muscular arms and hope to relieve some of the stress he’s putting on his body by comforting you like this as you cling to him.

“i know,” he replies before attempting to hide a grunt of pain. your worry of hurting him makes you want to pull away when you hear the pained sound and you try to cautiously but he holds you steady against him, not letting your foreheads part. how did he have such incredible strength? “i am beyond thankful for that, and for you. i don’t know what i would do without you.”

“the feeling is the same,” you sob quietly, the tears you had just stopped starting to come back no matter how much you will them not to. “i.. i thought-”

“i have no intentions of ever leaving you y/n,” his hand in your hair tightens and the air in the bathroom grows warmer and warmer with every word of love he speaks. “i swear it. more than anything else in this life, i am yours and we will never be apart.”

“diluc.. i.. i love you so much.”

“i love you too, more than you know.”

the numbing agent slowly starts to ease dilucs pain while his words ease your own aching heart and though tears still fall from your eyes, your lips curl into a loving smile that matches his own. the bathroom is silent as you bask in each other's love while you finish bandaging him up and in the comfort of knowing things truly would be okay.

genshin impact masterlist | main masterlist

#genshin impact #diluc ragnvindr #genshin impact x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc #genshin impact angst #diluc ragnvindr angst #genshin x reader

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britsyankswheels24 · 2 months

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🇬🇧 Buckle up for a journey through the illustrious history of the Bentley Brooklands—a true icon of luxury and performance in the world of automotive excellence! Crafted by the esteemed British automaker Bentley Motors Limited, the Brooklands represents the epitome of elegance, power, and sophistication.

🏁 Introduced in 1992, the Bentley Brooklands took its name from the legendary Brooklands motor racing circuit in Surrey, England—a fitting homage to Bentley's rich heritage in motorsport. From the moment it rolled off the production line, the Brooklands captivated enthusiasts with its timeless design and impeccable craftsmanship.

🎩 Designed as a grand tourer, the Bentley Brooklands exuded understated luxury and refined elegance, with its sleek lines, sumptuous interior, and handcrafted details. Whether cruising along the open road or gliding through city streets, the Brooklands offered a driving experience like no other, blending comfort, performance, and prestige with effortless ease.

⚙️ Under the hood, the Bentley Brooklands boasted formidable power, courtesy of its potent V8 engine, delivering exhilarating performance and effortless acceleration. Combined with advanced suspension and braking systems, the Brooklands offered a smooth and refined driving experience, allowing drivers to conquer any journey with confidence and grace.

👑 The Bentley Brooklands was renowned for its exclusivity, with production limited to just a handful of examples each year. Hand-built by master craftsmen at Bentley's renowned Crewe factory, each Brooklands was a bespoke masterpiece, tailored to the exacting specifications of its discerning owner.

🌟 Today, the Bentley Brooklands remains a symbol of automotive excellence and refinement, cherished by collectors and enthusiasts around the world. With its timeless design, unparalleled performance, and unwavering commitment to luxury, the Brooklands continues to uphold Bentley's legacy of craftsmanship and prestige on the road.

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darubyprincx · 3 months

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"magic isnt real" Have you never heard of the real life wizard Weird Al the grand master of mimicry and Jack Black the archmage of immense power used for immensely silly things and landlords who are like necromancers with all of the negative connotations and none of the sex appeal? have you never met a poet who casted a spell (wrote a poem) so potent that it seared itself into ur mind forever. have you never read a really good astrophysics book and felt yourself become more in tune with the universe. have u never had a cat lay and purr on your chest and tangibly felt your health points regenerate second by second. you fool. you fucking idiot. get a new glasses prescription because you OBVIOUSLY cannot see SHIT

#ray's tag

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veronika-tserber · 1 year

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The "Sling" Chart Shape 🎯

Photo Source: аstro-seek.com

SLING (noun) "A device that uses a strap, piece of cloth, or ropes for supporting, lifting, or carrying objects."

This chart shape is one of the easiest ones to spot. Four signs (or approx. 120° of the chart) are occupied with planets (yes, even if there is an empty sign in the middle), and there is one planet sitting right across the filled area. We call it a "Singleton". Please, note that we consider only the planets in chart shape analysis! If there are other celestial bodies near the Singleton, such as asteroids, comets, or points, we ignore them.

There is another chart shape called "Bucket" which looks similar to the one above, but the difference is that instead of 120°, half of the chart is occupied with planets (180°). If you personally know someone whose chart wheel is a "Sling", you might've noticed how focused they are on the themes of their Singleton planet. Many famous people also have it, because the great amount of energy and time they pour into that area (the planet + the house where it sits) allows them to gain mastery of it!

This is especially true if the "stone" of the Sling is a social planet, which points to a greater level of ambition and potential for wider recognition. The transpersonal planets, Uranus/Neptune/Pluto can take a lifetime to master, but nonetheless, they would point to an extraordinary life and the potential of this person to influence the masses on a grand scale.

The planets sitting across the Singleton play a supportive role and serve as the metaphorical "rubber strips" that these people draw back to shoot their shot!💥The obsession they can have with the Singleton is way more intense than that of the "Bucket" folks because there are usually conjunctions or a stellium involved, which make the "pull" stronger and more potent.

Celebrity Example:

"The Weeknd"

This is the chart of "The Weeknd", a.k.a Abel Tesfaye. I am sure y'all know who he is. If you don't...that's weird. No judgments, tho. 😂

His chart shape is a nice "textbook" Sling with Jupiter as the Singleton planet. If we didn't know who he is, we would still be able to tell right away that his social ambitions, beliefs, and self-expression (it's in the 1H) are a major focus in his life.

Although Abel has a stellium in the 7H of close personal relationships, those actually support his career goals and ambitions. 😅 This is also enhanced by the fact that half of the Stellium is in Capricorn, the stereotypical ambitious workaholic of the zodiac. And indeed, doesn't he sing mainly about love and relationships? It seems like he uses his painful and cathartic experiences in that area (look at that Pluto/Moon conjunction and Venus/Saturn) as a way to advance his career and reputation, as well as to discover his personal strength, self-image, and faith in life. Ain't nothing wrong with that!

Jupiter in watery Cancer also points to him using his emotional sensitivity, charm, and artistic, romantic nature to reach his goals. I've noticed that many famous artists have prominent Cancer in their charts, especially if the masculine planets (Sun/Mars/Jupiter) are involved. Why? Because they give someone the desire to actually express their emotions and do something productive with them, although we'd need to see a good amount of Earth in the chart for this, too.

What else do we analyze in a Sling? We look at the beginning and ending planet(s) of the 120° section by following the zodiac direction, which is counter clock-wise. We pay attention to this as it tells us how someone begins and finishes anything in life.

In Abel's case, we see that the section actually begins with the conjunction between two planets - Pluto and the Moon. The ending planet is clearly his Sun. So, at the start of any project, he is secretive and prefers to nurture it behind the scenes. At first, he's not even that interested in fame or gaining wealth as his goal is to reach an emotional catharsis and transformation through his creative expression (it's in the 5H). This is exactly how his career started. According to Wikipedia, "Tesfaye began his career in 2009 by anonymously releasing music on YouTube."

However, at the final stages of that project, he's ready to shine and get all the glory, baby. Yes, the Sun is in the 8H, which isn't the best placement for visibility and self-expression, but it's at the end of it, and it conjuncts the 9H, which is all about expressing our truth, and venturing into the big wide world.

The last thing I'll touch upon is the importance of knowing how long it takes for the Singleton planet to tour the zodiac, a.k.a the length of its cycle. But we only take this into account if the planet is social or transpersonal since the other planets move too quickly.

It takes Jupiter 12 years to go through each sign. This means that every 12 years, "The Weeknd" will probably reach a significant milestone in his career. Alternatively, he might dramatically change his worldview, values, and his vision/long-term goals in life. We can further divide a planetary cycle into a half-cycle, and in this case, we get a 6 -year half-cycle. Every 6 years, he could gain some kind of new insight or understanding that will put him at crossroads and ask him to make a big decision in regard to his future direction in career and life, in general.

He actually started releasing music when he was around 19 (that's his 3rd Jupiterian half-cycle), and he released his debut studio album when he was 23-24 (second Jupiter cycle). Perhaps, at a certain point, he will get tired of the shiny glamor of fame, materialism, and the desire to climb the social ladder, and will get back to basics (Cancer at 0 degrees). Starting and nurturing his own family, and being a great father to his child(ren) may become the most important thing for him. We'll see, I guess. 😁

The Ask Box is open for specific questions, folks! 😊

- Foxbörn

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ 1

ᴄʜᴀʀᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢꜱ

ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴜʏ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴇ?

#astro notes #astro observations #astrology houses #astrology #zodiac #astro community #zodiac signs #birth chart #natal chart #astroworld #horoscope #astrology chart

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grandmasterpotent · 1 year

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▌│█║▌║▌║ 𝗢𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗡𝗼𝘄ツ ║▌║▌║█│▌Online shopping made fun! ✱⁎∗*✤܍ 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟎'𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧 ܍✤*∗⁎✱

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howieabel · 10 months

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“At its root, the logic is that of the Grand Inquisitor, who bitterly assailed Christ for offering people freedom and thus condemning them to misery. The Church must correct the evil work of Christ by offering the miserable mass of humanity the gift they most desire and need: absolute submission. It must “vanquish freedom” so as “to make men happy” and provide the total “community of worship” that they avidly seek. In the modern secular age, this means worship of the state religion, which in the Western democracies incorporates the doctrine of submission to the masters of the system of public subsidy, private profit, called free enterprise. The people must be kept in ignorance, reduced to jingoist incantations, for their own good. And like the Grand Inquisitor, who employs the forces of miracle, mystery, and authority “to conquer and hold captive for ever the conscience of these impotent rebels for their happiness” and to deny them the freedom of choice they so fear and despise, so the “cool observers” must create the “necessary illusions” and “emotionally potent oversimplifications” that keep the ignorant and stupid masses disciplined and content.” ― Noam Chomsky, Necessary Illusions: Thought Control in Democratic Societies

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iratusmus · 1 year

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honestly its a real shame we didnt get to explore moebius as a concept more because it has like an incredible amount of potential to be a really interesting deconstruction of the "alternate universe where all the moralities are FLIPPED!!!" type of stories. like i was talking about it with @/goosewhisker and she brought up a bunch of super interesting points like. okay see the main question that most of this springs off of is... what, exactly, is the relationship between mobius and moebius.

i think its really worthwhile to go ahead and put in this question ian answered on his now-defunct forum that has frankly haunted me ever since i first found it. i've transcripted it below for easier reading.

"Question #4 wrote: When we talk about anti-Mobius, is this an evil version of Mobius really? They seem flipped around, but Knuckles, for example, is a good guy really in either dimension, and anti-Sonic… well, there's some potent foreshadowing in #172. But if anti-Mobius isn't an evil Mobius, in what sense is it the anti-Mobius?" In terms of Anti-Knuckles, at the time he was the antithesis. Knuckles at that point was still a nebulous hero - distrusting, hermit-like, and ultimately heroic in that he helped against the greater evil. Anti-Knuckles also was very open and telling about himself and his world, the exact opposite of Knuckles who sequestered himself away and generally kept everything to himself. Our Knuckles has grown to be more open, trusting, helpful, and truly heroic. One would assume the Anti-Knuckles wouldn't be nearly as approachable nowadays. I think calling the Antiverse the "evil Mobius" is too easy. Originally that's exactly what it was, but as its slowly built up over the years there's more to it. Mobius is a world under one dark cloud as the Eggman Empire seeks to conquer everything. Despite this there are pockets of hope, of heroism, and selflessness that fight back. On Anti-Mobius, the one beacon of hope is Dr. Kintobor's hospital and what he's managed to rescue in the Great Forest. The world is in a perpetual state of chaos as pockets of selfishness, ruthlessness, and misery sustain each other. Mobius is an example of hope enduring despite all odds. Anti-Mobius is a sad look at inevitable doom. I'll have much more to say on this later on.

so as ian himself says, moebius is no longer just the "evil mobius", but at the same time it can't really escape the shackles of being the inverse of prime mobius (see: knuckles vs anti-knuckles). so is this connection one way? do the inhabitants of moebius truly have any free will, or are they simply bound to be the opposite of their mainline counterparts?

i think scourge is definitely an interesting way of exploring this concept. as a character he's concepted on the idea of somebody who hates the idea of being considered a derivative of somebody else. he's not his own person - he's simply a discount version of the "real" him. his identity isn't his own. in his desperation to become anything that isnt sonic, ironically he ends up leaning into... well. still being a derivative of sonic. namely, what he is. anti-sonic. so even in his attempt to break free of the place that the universe has assigned him as a "sonic", he ultimately becomes exactly that.

does he really have free will, or is he simply confined to his lot in life? alternatively, is it that his natural inclinations/personality/choices are exactly that of his assigned place, which is how he ended up as the "anti-sonic" in the first place?

there's also another aspect to consider here - zonic says that scourge's "mutation" has made him "something of a wild card in the grand scheme of things". a line which is... never explained. but fascinates me nonetheless.

what is scourge's mutation, then? is it the master emerald incident, or is it that he rejected(?) his assigned place in the universe? if its the latter, then what does that mean for the rest of moebius, who have all followed in his footsteps (willing or not) to take on new, personal identities that are allegedly separate from their mobian counterparts?

buns' joining of kintobor is also definitely worth mentioning here - at the point that she switches sides, bunnie is still an unwavering freedom fighter. morally, both the mobian and moebian are on the same side. given that after the antoine incident, bunnie was going to join eggman's side to get legionized, what does that mean for the moebius/mobius connection?

is it possible that when scourge made them all take on new identities, he made the connection twofold? can changes in a moebian now affect their mobius counterpart? ironically, again, could scourge's attempt to break the ties between mobius and moebius only brought them closer together, now that both sides could potentially affect each other?

on a different meta note, i really would've liked to see more of moebius just because like... if mobius is a world where people are generally default "good", then is moebius a world where people are generally default "evil"? are they literally set up to fail because of the world they were created into?

frankly, going back to ian's commentary on moebius posted earlier... its no wonder that scourge (+ by extension the rest of the ss) ended up like that. the entire thing is so screwed from top to bottom and i wouldve killed to see it explored more.

#sonic #sth #archie sonic #on a different note though i kind of like the ambiguity of it all. leaves a lot open to interpretation which is fun #also dont ask me where to access ian's forum i havent the faintest clue where i found it #the quote i pulled from a page on the wayback machine but like. i have no idea how to get to his forum again sorry

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denimbex1986 · 5 months

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'****

“That was completely nuts!” So exclaims Catherine Tate’s ever-eloquent Donna Temple-Noble during the dizzying climax of ‘The Giggle’, Doctor Who’s third and final 60th anniversary special. In-universe, it’s a perfectly understandable reaction to a particularly wild development involving a high striker hammer and the Doctor’s trusty TARDIS. It also just so happens to be a pretty solid summation of the episode as a whole. Because make no mistake, Russell T. Davies’ Whoniverse-reshaping grand finale — a breathless hour of blockbuster telly that’s thrilling, chilling, heartwarming, and headspinning (and that’s just the Spice Girls needledrop!) — is completely nuts.

If last week’s spaceship-in-a-bottle ep ‘Wild Blue Yonder’ was a masterclass in restraint from RTD, then consider ‘The Giggle’ the showrunner unleashed, swinging for the fences with a story rocking more threads than Ncuti Gatwa’s wardrobe. Kicking off with John Logie Baird’s invention of television in 1925 and one ‘Stooky Bill’ — a real puppet so malevolent it makes Annabelle look like a Squishmallow and acts as the villainous Toymaker’s (Neil Patrick Harris) chosen vessel for global chaos — Davies quickly picks up where ‘Yonder’ left off. In short, ol’ Stooky Bill’s musical giggle — transmitted through every screen across the world — has got into everybody’s heads, convincing them they’re 100% right about everything. Screen-enslaved masses utterly convinced they’re right who won’t take no for an answer? Thank goodness this is science fiction, right?

It’s safe to say RTD’s righteous fury at the current sociopolitical climate is more of a focal point here than in the previous two specials. Within a span of mere minutes, Davies’ satirical set-up ruthlessly apes anti-maskers, anti-vaxxers, alt-media conspiracies, and governmental apathy. Some of it — a man endangering himself and others by needlessly standing in the middle of the road because he believes that’s what his taxes have paid for — is lacerating in its absurd plausibility. Other elements — the decidedly camp, to-camera “No change there, then” when a suspiciously Johnsonian PM blithely asks “Why should I care about you?” — are perhaps a little too on-the-nose for comfort.

The central assertion behind this plot — that the world we live in has unmoored itself from principles of right and wrong in favour of individualist notions of winners and losers — is a potent reminder that this all pours from the same pen responsible for Years & Years and It’s A Sin. An early doors monologue from Tennant’s Doctor on how humanity has never struggled to hate, given from within UNIT’s swish new Avengers Tower-looking HQ is vintage RTD. (The new HQ, combined with return of Jemma Redgrave’s Kate Lethbridge-Stewart and the reintroduction of Bonnie Langford’s classic Who companion Mel do nothing to defuse suggestions a spin-off is imminent.)

Alas, no sooner has the apocalypse-level threat been established than we find the Doctor and Donna hotfooting it back to the TARDIS for a trip to Soho circa 1925 in search of the mysterious giggling noise. Here, the episode pivots into out-and-out horror territory, as the duo enter the domain of Neil Patrick Harris’ alternatingly camp and utterly chilling big bad the Toymaker. A kind of problematic deepcut villain from Who history, here the Toymaker is reimagined anew as a palpable existential threat to the Doctor, a manipulative puppeteer and cosmic game player who renders The Master a barely apprentice-level adversary by comparison.

It’s only really as the Doctor and Donna move through the Toymaker’s Gothically manifested dimension — an exquisitely designed realm of dank hotel corridors, pupaphobe-triggering marionettes, and creepy carny puppet shows — that ‘The Giggle’ pauses to catch its breath. It’s in these moments director Chanya Button lets Davies’s otherwise relentless script breathe, augmenting the specials’ ongoing conversation with the show’s own legacy. It’s here that the Doctor is brutally confronted with his past companions’ fates, and it is here that his increasingly fraught sense of self (“Without the TARDIS, without the sonic, without the Time Lord, what am I?”) is interrogated by the God-like Toymaker. “I made a jigsaw out of your history,” Harris’ Toymaker teases, referencing and then discarding the Whoniverse canon’s more outré recent revelations with outlandish ease. It’s a fascinating way to put a pin in the Timeless Child and Flux of it all, Davies simply suggesting that “The Canon” is just one great game.

Speaking of games, mere moments later, the trio — the Doctor, Donna, and the Toymaker — find themselves back in 2023, the elemental ne’er-do-well turning soldiers into balloons while dancing to ‘Spice Up Your Life’. It’s a particularly bananas tonal shift in an episode filled with them, and one that leads the Toymaker and the Doctor directly into their final game.

Without getting into the specifics of it all, if you’re reading this then you likely know that Ncuti Gatwa’s Fifteenth Doctor makes an earlier introduction than many would’ve expected in this finale. That said introduction involves the newest custodian of the TARDIS playing a universe-stakes game of literal catch, in his underpants, and he still manages to arrive on the scene as a force of wit, warmth, sass, and spunk tells you all you need to know about how much of a treat we’re in for come Christmas Day. As the dramatic peak of a 60th anniversary celebration, Y-front-clad ball games (steady!) really shouldn’t work. It is, of course, ludicrous, But it’s also such a uniquely, singularly Who thing to do that it plays out as if it simply couldn’t have been anything else. Gatwa’s arrival within that pivotal moment of transition — for the show and for Tennant’s Fourteenth Doctor — is sensational, the actor’s unique Scottish-Rwandan brogue and hopeful energy sparking a multitude of possibilities for just who the next Doctor will be. Instantly though, he feels *right*.

Now, the discourse will indubitably rage on about the ramifications of ‘The Giggle’s canon-busting denouement. Is it a damning indictment of modern franchises and fandom’s refusal to let things go? Or is it more simply a sincerely delivered reminder that — after years spent running on fumes in a universe gone mad — we’re all just a little bit burnt out, all desperately in need of nothing more than to sit and be with the ones we love for a while? The answer is probably, ultimately, somewhere in between. But of one thing we can be sure. RTD’s final salvo for Who’s 60th celebrations offers — in construction, writing, performance, and execution — a blessedly uncynical and sadly increasingly rare thing; a truly happy ending. That Tennant and Tate — who both finish their run here on a real high, as sarky and in-step with one another as ever — get to go out smiling, ending the show’s ongoing accumulation of trauma across NuWho, is a real balm for the soul.

Overall, ‘The Giggle’ — and by extension these three specials as a collective — successfully act as a heartfelt paean to the messiness and madness of making and watching Doctor Who. They provide a graceful rehabilitation of the show’s recent history, reflect poignantly on Who’s enduring cross-generational appeal, and yet still somehow manage to smoothly clear the field for Ncuti Gatwa’s run as the Doctor. Occasionally they’re a tad unwieldy, with so many ideas that some struggle to breathe as RTD has his cake, eats it, and then duplicates it before going back for seconds. That’s never more apparent than here in this filled-to-bursting finale. But at the same time, they’re also a promise. A promise to embrace the new, to make Doctor Who fun again, and to regenerate the show with enough love coursing through its veins to fill two hearts, to power two TARDISes. And to that we can only really say, one last time, “ALLONS-Y!”

A messy, madcap, yet ultimately fitting finale to Who’s 60th anniversary celebrations, ‘The Giggle’ marks David Tennant’s departure from — and Ncuti Gatwa’s arrival in — the TARDIS with real flair.'

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theculturedmarxist · 10 months

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The member nations of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization – consisting of the teetering Masters of Empire and their tawdry entourage of class-stratified vassals – have just concluded a historic confab in Vilnius, Lithuania, capital of the alpha Baltic chihuahua.

In a shockingly transparent but otherwise rather banal series of events it became unmistakably clear that their grand plans to subject Russia to the “rules-based order” have come to naught.

Among others, the following consequences will ripple in the wake of this reality:

Russia will achieve a decisive conclusion to the war on terms they dictate.

NATO is shattered as a military alliance, and coming apart at the seams as a political alliance.

Germany is on a trajectory of becoming a failed state, and as it goes, so will go the incoherent iron and clay mixture of the so-called European Union.

The great myth of overwhelming US armaments supremacy has been exposed as little more than a modestly scaled boutique enterprise utterly ill-suited and ill-prepared to prosecute industrial warfare against a peer adversary.

Of course, many will immediately object:

“But the US hasn’t even employed its military in Ukraine! If the US entered this war with its awesome air and naval power, and its “best-in-class” army … well, the Russians would get pounded to dust within a few weeks.”

Well, I hope the thesis is never put to the test, because it will NOT end well.

I am now more convinced than ever that Russia’s specific strengths match and will consistently defeat the American military’s perceived strengths.

Russia admittedly does not wield an expeditionary military, but the concept and constitution of the military it has built renders it effectively unbeatable in its own neighborhood.

A little over a year has now passed since I published an essay entitled The United States Could Not Win and Will Not Fight a War Against Russia. I have recently revisited it. I felt no impulse to change a thing. Indeed, I am struck by how much it is more apropos now than it was a year ago. I believe it constitutes an essential element of understanding in relation to the geopolitical realities at work in our world circa 2023.

Since I wrote the article, there have been many twists and turns in the path of the continuing quasi-proxy war in Ukraine between the rapidly descendant American Empire and an increasingly resurgent Russia. But in early July 2022, it had, in my estimation, become undeniably evident that Russia had effectively wrecked the formidable original proxy army the empire had built, trained, and partially equipped on the foundation of Ukrainian flesh and blood, and a substantial collection of legacy Soviet implements of war.

Sure, there were still scattered potent remnants, but it had been degraded at least 60% by that point in time. Despite a few own-goals along the way, the Russians accomplished this using a force less than half the size of the one the Ukrainians arrayed against them, while inflicting severe equipment losses and at least a 7 to 1 casualty ratio.

So NATO was forced to up the ante. Aspiring to address the obvious Russian advantage in firepower, they shipped several batteries of M-777 155 mm howitzers to Ukraine, followed soon by a few dozen M-142 HIMARS rocket launchers.

Both weapon systems enjoyed a smattering of early successes that were ecstatically trumpeted by western media and their devout disciples around the world.

Meanwhile, tens of thousands of Ukrainian young men were being trained in NATO bases dotting Europe and the western hemisphere. They were instructed in the use of NATO equipment, and to fight the Russians according to NATO battlefield doctrine.

By mid-summer, a significant portion of this second iteration of the Ukrainian army had arrived back in Ukraine, along with hundreds of NATO infantry vehicles, mountains of ammunition – and perhaps most significantly – a substantial contingent of NATO-affiliated “volunteers” from many countries within the western alliance, notably Poland.

I am convinced this escalatory step convinced the Russians they must immediately begin to more fully prepare themselves for the prospect that NATO would directly intervene in the war.

First they gave priority to learning how best to track down and destroy the limited-mobility M-777 howitzers. And rather than obsess unduly on targeting the elusive HIMARS launcher vehicles, the Russians instead focused on electronically jamming / spoofing the GPS sensors or otherwise shooting down the rockets with their short- and medium-range air defense systems.

(Their success in this respect has been nothing short of a revolution in military affairs. It is unprecedented in the age of aerial warfare. Yes, some missiles still get through, but not many, and typically only in the absence or on the outskirts of Russian ECM and air defense coverage areas.)

The Russians had, throughout early- to mid-2022, made significant offensive advances into the Novorossiya regions of Kherson, Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, Lugansk, and Kharkov. But as the summer waned, they began to perceptibly consolidate the entire line of contact. They then quickly brought to pass popular referenda in all but the Kharkov region – thereby formally assimilating the other four into the Russian Federation.

In mid-August 2022, the AFU began to advance against Russian forces on the western borders of the Dnieper River near Kherson. The Russians savaged the initial attacks, but then assumed a tactical-retreat posture. This continued for many weeks as they methodically contracted their lines into a bridgehead on the western part of Kherson city proper, all the while exacting severe losses on the attacking forces.

They would eventually effect an almost-flawless evacuation of twenty thousand troops and virtually all their heavy equipment to the eastern bank of the river, blow up the Antonovsky bridge, and then proceed to savage the AFU troops on the other side with artillery and airstrikes that continue to this day.

As September rolled around, the Ukrainians (with significant numbers of NATO-affiliated “volunteers” in the vanguard) moved with an even more potent force in the Kharkov region, aiming for the strategic cities of Kupyansk, Izyum, and Kremmenaya.

Again, amid much triumphalism in the western punditsphere, as well as bitter recrimination and hyperbolic dooming from the Russian 6th column and its acolytes, the Russian high command effected what I observed to be an orderly, well-executed fighting retreat to the other side of the Oskol river, where they had prepared fortified lines and installed substantial reinforcements.

At that point, the Ukrainian offensive in the Kharkov region reached its high-water mark, and as autumn turned to winter and then to spring, every attempt to advance further was met with a decisive repulse.

Though consistently ignored by those who laud the “lightning advances” of the late-season AFU “counter-offensive” in Kharkov, the attacking Ukrainian forces were horrifically mauled between the first week of September and mid-October – and ever since.

As the Russians contracted their lines to much more defensible positions, they concurrently mobilized and commenced intensive training of several hundred thousand reservists; ramped up armaments production to completely unforeseen levels, and settled in for the next few months to fight a punishing war of attrition against Ukraine and its NATO benefactors – even as they simultaneously prepared to face the credible possibility of direct NATO intervention.

That said, despite a mostly defensive posture throughout late 2022 and early 2023, the Russians did launch an operation against the strategic cities of Soledar and Bakhmut that few foresaw would evolve into the greatest battle on European soil since the Second World War. “Surovikin’s Meat Grinder” would eventually consume many tens of thousands of Ukraine’s best remaining troops and equipment.

In the end, the second iteration of the Ukrainian army was degraded even more comprehensively than was the first.

Ukrainian air power has long-since been rendered effectively negligible. Provided with occasional but very sparse deliveries of old Soviet aircraft from the former Warsaw Pact nations, they have continued to manage occasional stand-off missile strikes, but close air support has been nonexistent.

Russian missile strikes on Ukrainian infrastructure in early 2023 served to rapidly deplete the legacy Soviet air defense systems. And all western shipments of would-be replacements have proven to be inferior to Ukraine’s old stocks of S-300 and Buk systems.

Fantastical Ukrainian and western media claims of 90%+ shoot-downs of Russian missiles notwithstanding, the Russians now routinely strike targets throughout Ukraine where and when they will.

Most debilitating of all, persistent ammunition shortages have now become acute. Original and supplemented stocks of Soviet-sized 152 mm artillery are all-but exhausted. And despite the US having coordinated the shipment of millions of NATO 155 mm artillery shells from every nook and cranny in the empire’s vast global network of bases and those of its obedient vassals, the cupboard is now bare.

What was widely (albeit fallaciously) believed to be a nearly inexhaustible supply of equipment and ammunition in the warehouses of the Pentagon and its various less-than-sovereign minions around the globe has been exposed as entirely inadequate to the demands of a real war.

It is an astonishing development in the eyes of a great many in the world.

And yet, it shouldn’t be.

In my July 2022 article, I prominently cited US Army Col. (Ret.) Alex Vershinin's all-important analysis regarding The Return of Industrial Warfare, which had appeared in RUSI a couple weeks previous. If you have not already done so, I highly recommend this short but powerful essay. His entire argument has now been confirmed by events.

Here in mid-July 2023, almost everything that eighteen months ago was only seen through a glass darkly is now undeniably apparent to all with eyes to see:

Far from being massively attrited, as any number of empire-compromised NATO rent-a-generals and politicians have ludicrously argued from the first weeks of the war, the Russians have employed an extremely impressive economy of force to achieve their objectives. To be certain, they have suffered losses in men and equipment that would be far in excess of anything western nations could abide. But the fact remains that the Russians have inflicted the most disproportionate casualty ratio of any major war in the modern era.

My sense of the matter is that the aggregated total of Russian, Donbass militia, and PMC Wagner combat deaths is probably in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand.

On the other side of the line, Ukrainian combat deaths are now almost certainly in the range of 250k to 350k – at least 20k of that total occurring just since the first week of June.

The third iteration of the Ukrainian army, equipped predominantly with imported NATO armor, artillery, and ammunition, has been torn to shreds over the course of the previous six weeks of their last gasp offensive. The AFU very likely has been husbanding its scant remaining stock of NATO equipment and ammunition for one last “charge of the damned”, but otherwise Ukrainian offensive potential is played-out, and there will be no fourth iteration of a Ukrainian army to face the Russians on the field.

Meanwhile, upwards of four-hundred thousand uncommitted Russian reserves are champing at the bit to be turned loose. With Russian military industrial output now in high gear, these troops are better-equipped than any that have yet taken part in this conflict.

The Russian air force has received substantial numbers of new airframes from the production line. Attack helicopters roam the battlefield with near-impunity. Russian supply of strike drones, cruise missiles, and supersonic air-launched missiles appears to meet all its battlefield demands. Its so far modest deployment of hypersonic missiles has shown them to be extremely potent weapons that defy the attempts of antiquated western air defenses to interdict them.

This war is a lost cause for the empire and its hapless allies in Europe and around the world. And that, of course, is the unavoidable conclusion that has finally managed to seep into the otherwise dense skulls of the various participants at the recent NATO summit in Lithuania.

The Masters of Empire now face a no-win scenario. They must abandon their failed Ukraine gambit — and inexorably, over the next few years, yield to maximalist Russian demands regarding the roll-back of NATO to its pre-1997 borders — or else yield to the mad impulse of a futile attempt to subjugate Russia by force of arms in the form of direct US/NATO intervention into this war.

Either way, the decline of the empire will be radically accelerated; NATO will almost immediately cease to function as a credible military/political alliance; the EU will dissolve as a monetary/political "union"; the demise of the global dollar system will rapidly gain momentum.

And though many, if not most, find risible the assertion that these things could possibly come to pass in anything like the near- or medium-term (2 - 5 years), I increasingly expect they will be proven catastrophically mistaken.

#russia #nato #ukraine conflict #european union #us imperialism

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