stormlit

[stormlit]

@hostiae (lestat)

there are so few people amalia wishes to see while she is appreciating her freedom — true freedom, for the first time not only since she was turned, but in her entire life — but the petty upper-class humans with their society she has never truly fitted into are still giving her space. even the vampires aren't at her door, at least for a little while; dear, beloathed george was so popular amongst them that amalia fears it won't last, but at least she has right now.

she can enjoy herself, before she has to work out what kind of life she's going to live. who she's going to have to pretend to be to fit into it.

luck has never been on amalia's side, everything it appears to have given her having been engineered or some fucked up consolation prize, but perhaps, at least, this is something shiny she did not have to pull out of the dirt herself; her surprise visitor is not someone she has to turn away, after all. ❝ mr de lioncourt! i didn't know you were in town. ❞ amalia is in front of him with unnatural speed, her smile genuine. there are so many things she could say, ranging from the prim to the improper. so many things she wants to say. ❝ —do you fence? ❞

#hostiae #AMALIA BRAGANZA / ic. #AMALIA BRAGANZA / verse / main. #now u gotta write him alksjhdf #listen what better way to make the sexual tension WORSE than a sparring session

[stormlit]

❝ good thing i ain't planning on givin' him none, then. ❞ why should somebody else's preferences matter to her? corned beef makes sadie's stomach churn, but she's not gonna tell someone else not to eat it. this guy doesn't have to use guns if he doesn't want to, but sadie's not just going to dump hers to make a stranger happy. folks die out here, if they ain't armed. and they are a comfort to her. they are a solid reminder that she isn't the defenceless young woman anymore, left huddled in a nightdress with only a kitchen knife. sadie adler can fight back, these days.

nobody's taking nothing from her, ever again. that includes her guns. god knows this guy wouldn't be the first to try, but if the doctor only talked her down to sidearms, nobody else is succeeding.

for a moment, sadie walks round the hole, looking for a decent anchor point, then returns to her horse, picking up her lasso. ❝ we got the length of this, 'less you got rope of your own. reckon it might be enough. ❞ will it? sadie has no idea. she doesn't even know if it'll hold, since it's hardly its usual purpose. ❝ you got a name? ❞

"i think i'm a few miles from town right now and i've got something else going on," considering the entire situation she's in, getting to town to get a cowboy hat is pretty low on the radar. this seems to be one of those trips that's gone sideways.

( there are good ones; there always are. no one would continue doing this if that were the case. okay, she might. really, she might. at this point it's barely about the adventure, and more about feeling really, truly herself. still. )

she would've loved to be in town.

"he spends a lot of time doing a lot of fuck all," she says that last bit louder, just in case it bounces around and reaches the doctor down there.

she thinks about it for a second. he's either getting rescued or he's not getting rescued.

"do you know what? i don't feel like dying today. though i've got to say, my mate's not the biggest fan of guns."

#isbrilliant #SADIE ADLER / ic. #SADIE ADLER / verse / dw. #sadie vc: even the doctor couldn't get me to give up my guns #the doc somewhere in the west: time to try again!

[stormlit]

❝ you're a damn liar, ❞ rosalie says, all warm amusement; if she had wanted a boring chauffeur, she'd have asked someone else. mickey probably would have taken her, if she'd promised him a dance. but that sounds boring. like sully, she itches in her skin, desperate to do something other than sit by her bunk and write letters home to parents and friends who could never even imagine her life now. how can she explain any of this to them? even the good is so far removed from the life she left—and isn't rosalie glad for it?

she doesn't want to be the same person. she doesn't want the spell of her transformation to be broken by the clock striking midnight. she's a better person for it.

her hand slots easily into his, an unspoken promise that, while they might complete her errands (she needs more watercolour paper), they're not going to do it the quiet way. ❝ you a driving instructor now? ❞ well, it's not the worst idea she's ever heard. kent's motorists might think differently. jesus, if she learns to drive over here, is she going to think everyone at home's on the wrong side of the road?

feet lead them effortlessly over towards the motor pool, voice teasing as she asks, ❝ i guess you won't be wanting your bribe, then? seeing as i already have it. i'll have to find some other fella to give it to. ❞

it ain't mischief, she says, and the grin that has stretched long and easy across his face gives way to a chuckle, cheeks bunching. it ain't, but trouble can be found in an empty barrel when the alternative is the incessant drumming of his thoughts. since stumbling back to base in the early morning hours, the rhythm of it has been beating against the walls of his skull without pause. a day-trip to canterbury would not be so enticing to most ( hence the bribe. ) but the allure is not the destination, it is the distraction. the promise of a radio turned too loud, of hair across his face, the wind howling in his ears. it's the silencing of the drums, drowned out by the noise of being alive.

" of course. we'll be perfectly well behaved. " sugary sweet is the lie that isn't intended to fool either of them as he pushes himself out of his chair, hands flattening out the sides of his uniform before one is extended to her. " come on, we've got places to be. " the offered hand waves imploringly, a playful wiggle of the fingers, " and mickey is full of it, by the way. thirty minutes? i could teach you to get us there in that time. "

#flypug #ROSALIE PEARSON / ic. #ROSALIE PEARSON / verse / main.

[stormlit]

#AMALIA BRAGANZA / visage.

[stormlit]

Ella Purnell as Lucy MacLean - Every Single 'Okey-Dokey!' Fallout (2024)

#LUCY MACLEAN / visage. #fallout spoilers // #fallout tv spoilers //

[stormlit]

❝ mm-hm. you wanna get yourself into town, get a real cowboy hat. blackwater's thattaway. ❞ sadie has never understood it, the need to try things on to fit in, when all it does is make someone stand out like a sore thumb. since that day in rhodes, she's worn what she wants to wear. even when she travelled, when she saw things she couldn't have imagined (not, she hastens to add, by choice), there was comfort in her clothes. or maybe that was just her revolvers.

okay, yeah, it was the revolvers. sadie can admit that.

frowning, sadie peers down over the edge. ❝ spend a lot of time hiding in holes, do they? ❞ well, shit. she's staying here now, ain't she? sadie doesn't see that she's got much of a choice. ❝ i ain't rappelled much neither, but i figure it's one'a them things that's easier with two. don't look like there's another way down. ❞

there is an audible and offended gasp. "i do not!" one offended hand reaches out and touches her hat. so what if she'd raided the tardis' wardrobe, it was a fun raid of a wardrobe. who knew the doctor had all that stuff? she'd laughed her head off trying it all on.

she doubts they were ever quite going for historical accuracy.

"can i not be dumb and arrogant at the same time?" she doesn't mention she's not carrying a gun because she and the doctor never intended on needing one in the first place. she argued for the water pistol from pompeii for a couple of minutes, and may or may not have tried to sneak out of the tardis with it in her pocket before he caught on.

got a good bit away and everything.

"everyone's got to start somewhere." no time like the present, right? her teeth dig into her cheek as she stares down. "it's a long story. the short version is my friend is down there."

#isbrilliant #SADIE ADLER / ic. #SADIE ADLER / verse / dw.

[stormlit]

❝ i was in danger anyway. ❞ oh, the stupid, self-sacrificing boy; he no longer needs a wisdom's guidance, not with all that he is, but nynaeve can't help the protectiveness she feels towards her two rivers friends, even when they are the ones protecting her. ❝ we all were. this is bigger than just you, rand, and we're better together, aren't we? ❞

@stormlit liked 🐉 for a starter

"I would have told you everything but I knew that it would only put you in danger."

#caracarnn #NYNAEVE AL'MEARA / ic. #NYNAEVE AL'MEARA / verse / main.

[stormlit]

❝ is this a time machine or ain't it? ❞ it's true that sadie had never heard the words time machine before today, that she has no idea what one really entails. but if it can travel anywhere, why not to a time so close to the one it just left? why not go and fix things, put the world back the way it was meant to be, before some fucking outlaws decided to have some fun and ruin two lives in the process? she can't understand why the doctor doesn't think it possible. what's the point of this fucking thing, then?

she wants to see her jakey again. she wants him to be alive. that's all it is, isn't it? ❝ i know you ain't fond of me, but it's one person, doctor. and he was a real good man. ❞ if he'd lived, she wouldn't be the person she is now, she wouldn't be here right now, but sadie doesn't care about that. she doesn't care if it's a swap, her life for his. she rubs her forehead, eyes hot. ❝ please. ❞

@stormlit !

he sympathises with her. how can he not? nobody is more acutely aware of how loss feels than the doctor. he has lost more than most people will ever experience, much less lose themselves. still, he cannot approve of what she wants to do. the web of time must be paramount.

" you can keep your money, i've never found much use for it. " he would be bemused at the offer if it wasn't borne out of tragedy. " whatever happened to you, mrs adler, is etched in the stone of time. there's no undoing that, however much i might want to. "

#crazypaving #SADIE ADLER / ic. #SADIE ADLER / verse / dw.

[stormlit]

between herself and ash — and, more importantly, the network of hunters online who love any excuse to brag — jo has a pretty solid way of finding out information. she probably could have reached the rugaru conclusion without armand's help...eventually. and that's just it, isn't it? eventually doesn't really cut it when people are dying, and someone who's been alive god knows how long has more information than she could ever hope to find from a bunch of too-drunk, too-past it guys with shotguns.

it's just easier when she doesn't think too hard about what armand is. because she likes him, and he's useful, but she thinks her daddy would be turning in his grave if he knew she was friendly with a vampire. sorry, dad, but i'm doing it my way, too.

jo shrugs a shoulder, but it's probably no secret that that's exactly what she's asking. armand probably doesn't need to listen to her thoughts to figure it out, either. ❝ maybe. depends on what it'll cost me. ❞

armand has no interest in drawing the violent attention of hunters to himself. there are some, he knows, that would kill him, that would kill every vampire in his nest and reduce it to ash for their existence alone. he keeps a close eye on hunters that might seek to cause him harm, relies on the whispers of others when hunters start eyeing his home with ill-intent. he has no mercy for hunters that want him dead. he trusts that jo wouldn't turn on him for no reason at all. just as he trusts if harm came to her here, there would be the modern equivalent of pitchforks at his door.

but that isn't all that drives him to help her. if he didn't like her, he could easily turn her away ( there were absolutely hunters he would quickly slam the door on, rather than invite them in ).

❝ i hear it's worse than vampire hunger. the craving just grows and grows until they can't resist it. ❞ the idea of being a monster hungry for human flesh would have made his mortal stomach churn, and even now, he's grateful for his taste for blood, over the tragic monstrosity of a rugaru. his brow furrows when she looks up from her book, the statement catching him off-guard, because he can see where this may be going.

❝ yes, ❞ he replies, leaning back with his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. he breathes a sigh, ❝ are you trying to ask for my help? ❞

#devourcr #JO HARVELLE / ic. #JO HARVELLE / verse / main.

[stormlit]

this is not the story ylfa is supposed to be in, but she has to wonder if it's the one lady éowyn should be in, either; is there a version of her story where the orcs don't come, and things aren't bad, and the men don't lock a group of women and children in a room in the vain hope that they survive? does she have a happy ending? it's not something ylfa can ask, of course, but she has to wonder. maybe this all is this world's version of the times of shadow. maybe there is a group of people here, like ylfa's friends, trying to fight the encroaching darkness with nothing but bows and steel.

❝ a bottleneck? i'm good at those. those orcs won't know what hit them. —my axe. it'll be my axe that hits them. ❞ she will help. for as long as she is here, for as long as it takes to find her way back home, ylfa will do whatever she can to help keep these people safe. (she has to wonder: will the wolf find her, if she dies here? will she get to wake up again? she doesn't know. but death doesn't want to get his jaws into her yet, and so she'll do everything she can to avoid finding out.)

but there is no fighting yet, only waiting. ylfa doesn't want to think about the crying kids or the restless need to break out of here and fight. she can't do that, so she listens to éowyn instead. ❝ why don't you do it anyway? ❞ she asks, genuinely curious. some of the greatest fighters she's ever seen have been women. they were still good fighters, even if they were trying to kill her. ❝ it's been peaceful for the men, too, but they still fight. you'd be a really good shieldmaiden. that's such a good title. ❞

        éowyn is not quite surprised by ylfa's questions. their time together has proven the girl to be quite astute, even and especially in matters of battle. “there is a passage in the back of the cavern that leads through the mountains. should the worst happen, we will send the women and children along and cover their escape.” she nods to the doors leading back out into the keep. “we will use the cavern's entrance as our choke point, and keep the orcs occupied long enough for the others to flee.” she has thought about this a great deal.

        what she does not mention is the fact that she imagines they both must know: neither éowyn nor ylfa is likely to survive, if things come to that. they will fall defending what is left of rohan's people.

        storm-grey eyes return to ylfa's face as she declares herself a good defender, slight smile returning to the white lady's face. “and i believe it,” éowyn says. she had, after all, argued with her brother as to why a girl ylfa's age should be allowed to carry around such a weapon. he assumed she could not possibly know how to use it, whereas éowyn knew better. ylfa already has the bearing of a warrior, despite her age.

        “the women of rohan fought as fiercely as our men, once,” éowyn says, the slightest tone of wistfulness in her voice. “my mother told me stories of the shieldmaidens. her tales inspired me to pick up the sword.” she shakes her head. “but much time has passed since then. times of peace, where our contributions were needed less at war, and thus our potential skills in battle were forgotten.”

#heartsdefine #YLFA SNORGELSSON / ic. #YLFA SNORGELSSON / verse / main.

[stormlit]

any trust here is fragile, and they both know it; jo will never completely trust a monster, and armand knows that she has an army of hunters a phone call away, should she change her mind. but it's hard to think of this quiet, unassuming man as a monster, when this isn't the first case he's helped her out on, hard to imagine him doing the things she's killed other vampires for. maybe altruism isn't what guides armand, jo doesn't know, but he's still doing the right thing. and he's not killing her, either. jo doesn't know if that's true trust, but it's something.

it's better than nothing. and he's not the worst company.

❝ so it just happens? no...turning, like you? just one day you're human and then wham, you wanna eat people? ❞ gross. dangerous. unstoppable. but hunters specialise in stopping the unstoppable, don't they? this probably isn't a job jo should take on alone but...her mom would kill her, if she knew. and then she couldn't help anybody. ❝ flamethrower? gasoline and matches? this says they're faster than normal, so catching it's gonna be the issue. ❞ she looks up from the book to armand. ❝ you're faster than normal, too. ❞

there's something to be said about age as a resource. he's had all the time in the world to soak up knowledge, to inspect myths for breadcrumbs of truth. if vampires existed, if they had a long, endless history — what did that mean for the monsters in other tales? what he'd learned was truth had seeped into the stories and in some cases were closer to reality than they had ever been to fiction. after centuries of being one of those creatures, it was both a matter of soul searching and curiosity.

and now? it both interested him and turned out to be a more lucrative venture. and sometimes, it was enjoyable engaging with humans. though, he had to admit that too many of the hunters he met were painted from the same brush. rugged, angry, unable to offer him respect and in return received much less than the ones he liked.

jo, he likes.

❝ they live tragic lives. born with it, like a genetic disease that lays dormant until they're in their prime. eventually, the hunger becomes too much to bear and once they taste flesh, their humanity goes with it. they all sound like folktales, stories to keep your children locked in at night, ❞ he muses, circling back from the table to return to the chair.

❝ fire should do it. it's finding a way to light them up that's the challenge. ❞

#devourcr #JO HARVELLE / ic. #JO HARVELLE / verse / main.

[stormlit]

Aubri Ibrag as Lizzy Elmsworth in every episode of The Buccaneers (2023-) 1.02 Women or Wives

#ISRA NAZAROVA / visage.

[stormlit]

nate has done a lot of things in his life that people would consider daunting. millions of people watch him on tv every week. he's played professional sport in front of thousands of fans who'd love to beat him up if he did something wrong. he quit a sport he loved playing while still in the prime of his career, and continues to speak out about the way players are treated. tabloids still want to dig into his personal life, considering him a reasonable target — albeit one who seems to live a boring life. all of these things would make a vast majority of people at least a little nervous.

but standing here, asking ella to go out with him, nate feels more nervous than he ever did walking onto the pitch at wembley. butterflies are swarming so violently in his stomach that they're halfway up his throat.

she smiles, and nate's nerves melt away. ❝ okay! cool. awesome. ❞ well, some of them. he swears he knows what he's doing. he just...likes her so much. every time they hang out, nate never wants to it to stop. ❝ god, sorry, i was figuring out how i was going to play it off if you said no. i really do know how to talk to you, i swear. ❞ suddenly, he grins, boyish and warm. ❝ i'm so glad i didn't have to come up with anything. ❞

@stormlit : do you want to get a drink or something? ( ella & nate )

this isn't what she got into the business for, despite what the chirping of certain bastards on social media might think; this isn't what she got into the business for! ella never imagined that she would have created the relationships that she has with certain players in the league, let alone that any of them would enjoy the company of someone whose job it is to ask them the questions they never want to answer. it's all something that ella has spent years trying to wrap her head around, but she definitely doesn't have years to try and understand the depths behind nate's question.

instead, she sits her pen down and slowly closes the notebook she had previously been scribbling in when he had approached her. a warm smile, finally reaching her eyes, is a hard one for ella to hold back when she looks at him. ❝ i would love to. ❞

#firstd0wn #NATE FAURÉ / ic. #NATE FAURÉ / verse / tl. #england's most put together ex-captain is not immune to being flustered bc he likes a girl So Much

[stormlit]

this is the last place that jo wants to be. getting information from a vampire may not have the connotations that making a deal with a demon does, her soul is not at risk here, but that doesn't make jo comfortable with owing a vampire. she's even less comfortable with putting any level of trust in a creature like that, when she's killed vamps before—but armand's knowledge hasn't been wrong yet, and she's sure he's not hurting anyone. (nobody who isn't willing, anyway; the fact that there are people who want to be bitten turns her stomach.)

but you lay down with dogs, you wake up with fleas. she's not sure where this is going to lead, and jo doesn't like that; she's a planner, a researcher. she knows about vampires. and even though there are times she almost forgets it, armand is one.

one who, to his credit, knows a lot. he's a resource the internet can't match, so full of folktales and fiction as it is. and though she hates to admit it, jo doesn't know much about rugarus. ❝ didn't even know they were real, ❞ she admits, trying to recall what she had thought were just stories. really, she should have known better. picking the book up from the table, jo frowns, flipping through the pages. ❝ it being humanoid'd explain why it's been hard to track. you know how to kill 'em? ❞

( @stormlit asked: for a desperate starter . jo // starter prompts // always accepting ! )

under casual assessment, it might have appeared like he wasn't as invested in what she had to say. he remains still, back against the plush chair cushion, watching her from beneath a furrowed, curious brow. he hasn't matched her energy — and only watched as she desperation seemed to find its way into her voice ( is that what it was? desperation? ). often, if desperate hunters came to his door, they were demanding. entitled. there were times he sought to refuse them, based on their attitudes alone.

it's never been that way with jo, however.

people are dying. he can respect the desperation to save them and while he has no real vested interest in random people's lives ( whether they lived long or hardly at all ), he appreciates hunters who care more about the people than vengeance for the monsters they're hunting. especially when it was just a lust for killing, same as any creature.

❝ it's eating people? ❞ he finally says, a sign, that he had every intention of helping without outright saying it. he stands, wandering to one of many bookshelves, eyes hunting for the correct spine, ❝ knowing you've probably gone through the typical culprits, ❞ he takes a book and tosses it to the coffee table. ❝ have you considered a rugaru?❞

#devourcr #JO HARVELLE / ic. #JO HARVELLE / verse / main.

[stormlit]

❝ i really thought i was gonna have to bribe you, you know. ❞ she'd been ready and everything; rosalie guesses that sully, like herself, is itching to get off base for a little while, and maybe playing chauffeur for the day isn't such a hard sell. she loves it here, there's no denying that. some days, she thinks she feels more at home in this foreign country than she ever did back in the life she left behind. but she gets itchy feet, too. she wants to explore, not sit and think.

feigning nonchalance, the mug is lifted to red lips and she takes her time to sip at her coffee as though she's got all the time in the world. ❝ i wanna go to canterbury. mickey in the motor pool says it's a half hour, maybe forty minute drive away. i persuaded him to give me a car with enough gas. i just...don't know how to drive it. ❞ she'd never had cause to learn, back home. barely does here, either, but the trains are unpredictable and hardly run on the weekends. she leans forwards, excited. ❝ it ain't mischief, but there's an art gallery and the cathedral. and i need to pick up some art supplies, the village has nothing. will you take me, sull? pretty please. ❞

loaded fork pauses halfway to his already open mouth, lowering with intrigue as blue eyes track her graceful descent into the chair, gaze flickering from her coffee to where trouble is spelled out in her eyes. the response in him is immediate, posture that a moment ago had told of a long night and too much of the pub's tap is exchanged for something perked, alive, at the ready.

" yes , ma'am . i sure do. " he hums through barely contained excitement. as he leans in on his elbows, a conspiratorial smile inches onto his face ( a cat with cream in sight, the hangover and his breakfast are both equally forgotten )  ⸻ trust rosalie to make downtime a little bit more bearable. " you gonna tell me what you need a driver for, or is it a surprise ? "

#flypug #ROSALIE PEARSON / ic. #ROSALIE PEARSON / verse / main. #rosalie is such a pretty popular girl(tm) but she is also just an art nerd

[stormlit]

#DONNY NOVITSKI / visage. #DONNY NOVITSKI / re: julia trojan. #god i love them so much #we were so right for these fcs

[stormlit]

❝ sure, you're no force, but words to tend to have more than one meaning. and i like words. this one's from latin. invādere. ❞ well, if she can't yell at the fucker to leave her alone, maybe she can bore him to death. mostly, billie is so full of anger (and fear, so much fear; her heart is about to run off to mars it's going so fast) that it has to be expressed somehow. vocally seems better than putting holes in her ship. and though her gun hand isn't shaking, she's never actually killed anyone before. ❝ hm, let's see, we could go with invade: to encroach upon, or lean more towards an invasion of my fuckin' privacy. invade: to affect something in an unpleasant or annoying way. you're annoying me. ❞

and none of this answers the question she really wants to ask: what does he want from her? why is he here? why is he fucking...trying to deescalate? of course nobody wants a gun pointed at them, but it's his own bloody fault.

stars, she's so scared. that's what all this righteous indignation is, really. this ship was meant to be different. a fortress. now she's going to have to sell it, get something else. maybe less of a junker, this time, now she's not running away. ❝ a traveller. turn up uninvited at a lot of places, do you? ❞ billie rubs her forehead, and her gun arm drops to her side. she's so tired. ❝ so, what, that a nice way of saying you're a thief? the only thing that's worth anything is the ship itself, and as you've so nicely told me, it's a piece of shite. so you can fuck right off again in your— ❞ what the fuck did he call it? ❝ what's a police box? —if you say it's a box for police, i swear i'll shoot you. ❞

he has a small laugh at the low levels of snark being levied by the AI. probably not the best idea to laugh while being held at gunpoint but he has never been accused of possessing good sense, now, has he?

" invading? " he is very quick to protest. sure, he may not have asked permission but this is hardly an invasion. " i'd be a fairly shoddy invasion force by myself, wouldn't i? " coffin? loo? " police box, actually, circa twentieth cenntury. an antique, someone with your taste in ships should appreciate that. " he replies, ever so passive aggressively. at least he had the decency to call her ship cozy.

" you-you keep using that word! i'm not invading, i've never invaded, never will! " this situation is becoming ever more tense now, isn't it? oh, to not be held at gunpoint at least one day. " let's just take a deep breath, okay? start to calm down. i am not an invader, all right? just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill traveller. " swallows a lump in his throat, this is the crucial bit. lessen hostilities, lessen the chance of getting shot.

#crazypaving #BILLIE SHAW / ic. #BILLIE SHAW / verse / main.