#ave plague

[oculus-de-malus]

Getting lost in this one whilst working today...

#king plague #ave plague #music #listening to now #Spotify

[newbordeaux]

#c: josephine #thank u person on the gallery who made that s*mara we/aving sim #her nars contour in plague-ridden dunwall <3

[mothkeeperrising]

Good morning fellow germs let's get this bread

#CONQUEST CONQUEST CONQUEST #i ended up with 558 levels in AV alone. we are winning this week or so help me #Kahvin Noon and Drudd killing it with badges as always #Scavhunt's also slap thank you ufo #flight rising plague #plague flight #flight rising dominance

[topguncortez]

Court of Thieves | | Chapter 5

previous part | masterlist | next part

synopsis: The realm prepares to say goodbye to the King. Jake has his first council meeting. Questions arise about Lady Mitchell and her relationship with Sir Bradshaw.

word count: 4.7k

warnings: historical inaccuracies, era-related misogyny, mentions of murder, virginity, mentions of assault, pregnancy, religion, witchcraft, mentions of child death, violence

The Abbey was one of the oldest buildings in all of Brinefell. The gorgeous stone building stood tall and daunting, with stained glass windows depicting the story of The Stations of the Cross. As a kid, Jake loved spending his days in the Abbey, running through the sanctuary, playing hide'n'seek in the garden, sneaking in to watch choir practices, and staring at the painted windows when he should’ve been paying attention to the Cardinal.

 But over time, the Abbey became a place he avoided. His relationship with God started to fall apart when he watched his mother grieve his baby brother. An innocent baby, whose life was only a mere weeks old, and God decided he needed to die. Jake had watched good men die on the battlefield and the villains who slain them get away. He didn’t understand how God let innocent men and babies die, while the real enemies still scoured the Earth. 

But Jake knew that his grandmother had an excellent relationship with God, or so she said. She had devoted herself to serving God and his “anointed king” of Brinefell since she was a child. She had always trusted that God had a plan, and who was she to disrupt it. But also, who was she to let the plan fall by the wayside. Queen Maria would do whatever she had to to make sure God’s plan was carried out the way it was meant to. 

The sound of Jake’s footsteps on the marble floor interrupted the Latin words that fell from Queen Maria’s lips. She sustained rolling her eyes as her grandson knelt beside her, doing the sign of the cross. Jake didn’t say anything as he knelt there with his hands clasped and his head bowed. The Dowager ignored his presence the best she could, continuing to run her hands over her rosary beads, and recite “Ave Maria” and “Pater Noster”. But the occasional huff or sigh out of her grandson drove her attention elsewhere. 

“Are you going to say something-” 

“Shh, Lady Grandmother,” Jake spoke, keeping his eyes shut, “I am praying.” 

The Dowager couldn’t help but roll eyes. She rested back on her heels, Jake doing the same as they both said the Sign of The Cross in perfect Latin before standing up. Jake offered her his arm as he led her out of the Abbey. 

“I do hope you found sleep, Lady Grandmother,” Jake said as they walked into the vestibule of the Abbey. 

The Dowager scoffed, “I would’ve found it better if that witch-” 

“Future Queen of Brinefell.”

The Dowager stopped in her tracks, forcing Jake to look at her. She was no taller than five foot, but her presence was enough to make grown men shake in their boots. Jake had seen the nice old lady that he called ‘grandmother’ and he had also seen the lady that they call “Queen”. 

“That girl will bring nothing but sorrow and death to this realm. Her mother tried to overtake the throne from my son with her bastard boy, claiming he was my husband’s kin.” 

“What?” Jake asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

The Dowager sighed, pulling her hand away from Jake’s arm, and walked down the hallway, fiddling her rings. She had sworn she’d never talk of it. It had been an awful time in her marriage to the late King Benjamin. A war, a plague, a scandal, rebels rising up to try and usurp her husband and kill her children. The Dowager had done all she could to try and push those dark days away. Between praying and going to confession, those memories still haunted her mind. 

Turning to face her grandson, the Dowager sighed deeply, “The girl’s mother claimed that she. . .” She stopped, shaking her head, and regaining her posture, “King Benjamin had taken a mistress, and it was the girl’s mother. It was an awful time in our history and your grandfather was weak, and that witch seduced him.” Her footsteps echoed as she walked back down the corridor to stand in front of Jake, “She tried to place the bastard boy ahead of my own son, ahead of you. It was witchcraft that got her daughter here and it will be witchcraft that kills your bloodline.” 

Jake looked down at his boots, his jaw clenched. He knew that his grandfather had mistresses, but he never knew of a secret son. Jake knew of what happened to kings with potential usurpers out there. He heard of what happened to King Richard in England. It sent a shiver down his spine. 

“Where is he?” Jake asked, “Where is this boy?” 

The Dowager swallowed, adjusting her position, “Dead. But you mustn’t let that girl-” 

Jake raised his hand, silencing her words, “I believe her word. I believe her when she says she is untouched. I believe her when she says she is a follower of the word of God. I believe her when she says she has no idea about this supposed curse and witchery.”

The Dowager huffed and turned back to the doors of the Abbey, “I pray you are no fool like your grandfather.” 

Jake watched as she walked back into the Abbey, his mind running with the new information. It wasn’t uncommon to hear stories of women who claimed they had the craft. Jake had been witness to great stories told around fires by women half-dressed with gold necklaces and bracelets covering their bodies. They always said that they could provide the soldiers good luck before their battles, but the only thing Jake had seen them provide was a nasty case of syphilis or the occasional bastard child. 

But one thing did stick in Jake’s mind. The same memory that had been dancing in his head as he pleasured himself at night. The look and feel of you in that pink nightgown as you stood in his rooms. The way your breasts strained against the sheer fabric, your nipples hard and pink like rose buds. How soft and sweet your skin felt under his touch. It was like he was in a trance that night, and how easily he would’ve succumbed to it if you hadn’t been so frightened. He felt awful after he came to the thought of you, knowing that you would’ve cast your virtue away to please him. 

“Dear God. . . tell me I’m making the right choice,” Jake muttered, looking up at the painted ceilings of the church. 

— — — 

You could remember your mother’s funeral like it was yesterday. 

You could remember that the sun did not shine once. It was a dreary, miserable gray day. It was abnormal for that time of year in Brinefell, but you felt as though it was fitting for a day of a funeral. 

You could remember how uncomfortable you felt in your dress. You had lost weight from not eating, and your dress that you had tucked away for other funerals had become too big. There was no time to have it altered, so your matron pulled your corset tighter than normal. It dug into you as you sat in the church pew for hours during the service. That was another thing you remembered, was how sore your bottom and knees felt from sitting and kneeling. 

You could remember talking to so many people but not remembering a single one of their faces. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling and accepting condolences from people you would never see again until maybe your father’s funeral. Between Bradley and your sister, you were served enough wine to keep you loose and from crying. Your body felt so heavy and tired from the hours you spent crying in your mother’s rooms. The wine made your head swim and Bradley had to carry you to bed. 

You wished that today felt different. But a funeral was a funeral. And it didn’t matter who it was for. Your ladies were running around your rooms, helping you get dressed in that same black dress you had worn years ago. It fit a little better now, you had put some weight back on, but it still felt uncomfortable to wear. 

Once you were dressed, and the veil had been situated over your face, you walked with your ladies out to the front of the castle. Various noblemen, wives, lords, and ladies were gathered in their finest black clothes. A horse-drawn carriage, with four white horses with black cloaks and gold armor, was stationed in front, waiting for the King’s coffin to be placed on it. This funeral was certainly more lavish than your mother’s, but it was one fit for a King. 

The moment that the Queen walked out, it was as if all the oxygen in the atmosphere had been sucked away. Elizabeth kept her head held high as she walked by the crowd, her face covered in a beautiful black lace veil, and a gold crown sitting on her head. Her daughters trailed behind her, wearing similar black dresses with gold trim. It made your heart swell knowing that the Queen was surrounded by her children. You could remember how much your father had relied on you, Allison, and Bradley during those first couple months without your mother. 

“Where is Lady Mitchell?” The Queen asked aloud. You felt all eyes go to you instantly and you wanted to hide. You had planned on sticking to the back, staying clear, and letting the royals mourn with each other. 

You gulped and stepped through the crowd, curtsying to the Queen, “I am here, Your Majesty.” 

“Come here, child,” The Queen gestured and you followed so dutifully. You went to stand on the other side of Jane, the Queen’s eldest daughter, but Jane gently stepped to the side. 

You gave her a look but she simply nodded her head to the Queen, “Queen’s orders.” 

You licked your lips and stood in Jane’s spot, on the right side of the Queen. You stood there for a moment, watching as the noblemen and lords gossiped amongst themselves, their eyes still on you. 

“My Queen,” You whispered to Elizabeth, “Shouldn’t I be on the-” 

“You are the Queen now,” Queen Elizabeth said, looking up at you through her veil, “My power is gone, and I simply have a title.” You nodded as the King’s guard stepped out of the castle. 

Jake stood at the front of the King’s coffin, dressed in his finest black clothing with a black crown on his head. His nose and eyes looked red as he led the guard and the coffin towards the carriage. A small sob escaped out of Jane’s mouth, and you grabbed her hand, squeezing it. Jake’s face was stoic as he stood to the side, watching as his father’s coffin was loaded onto the carriage. You wished you could go and hug him, to comfort him. You hadn’t even seen him since you ran after meeting the Dowager. 

When the King’s body was loaded, Jake nodded toward the riders at the beginning of the procession, giving them the all-clear to start the journey to the Abbey. You, the Queen, and her daughters fell in line after Jake and the King’s guard. The Dowager was riding in another carriage with the King’s brother and his wife. The moment the procession was outside the palace gates, your eyes widened. The streets were lined with mourners, some of them crying, some of them throwing flowers, some of them standing in awe at the sight in front of them. 

“God save you, Prince Jacob!” 

“God save the King!” 

Mourners yelled as you passed by them. Many of them curtsied to the Queen and cast their condolences, but she never turned her head to look. Queen Elizabeth kept her eyes straight on the wooden box that held her dead husband. You admired the Queen’s strength as you were yet to see her shed a tear. 

The church service was long, even longer than your mother’s had been. The church choir sang several hymns, and several different cardinals read scripture passages. You had been sat next to Jake, who sat at the end of the pew. It felt wrong to you, it felt weird as though the Queen should be next to her son. You kept stealing glances at the pew behind you, where the Queen sat with her daughter. She leaned her head on her daughter’s shoulder, her eyes red with unshed tears. You refrained from reaching over and grabbing Jake’s hands as you sat and listened to scripture. 

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” The Cardinal said as the King’s guard raised the coffin for its final procession to the final resting place, “Amen.” 

“Amen,” The crowd responded. 

Jake waited, watching as his father’s body passed by him. His green eyes were locked on the large statue of Jesus on the Cross in front of him. You looked around, noticing that no one was moving, everyone waiting with anticipation. 

“Your majesty,” You whispered. Jake looked down at you, and you nodded your head towards the King’s guard. 

Jake looked over his shoulder, “Mother.” 

Queen Elizabeth gave her son a sad smile, “The King walks first.” 

Jake gulped and nodded. He stepped out of the pew, turning to face the back of the Abbey. He held his arm out for you to take. You wrapped your hand around Jake’s bicep, giving it a reassuring squeeze as he led you down the aisle towards the back of the church. 

— — — 

Three days after King George had been laid to rest, the castle had turned over from their period of mourning to a time of celebrating. The black curtains had been lifted off the windows, letting the sunshine through. The paintings had been uncovered. The lords and ladies had changed out of their black clothing and back into colorful clothing. The word had spread that preparations for the royal wedding could begin. You felt a sort of giddiness as you sat through dress fittings and picked out things such as flowers and gold plates for the wedding. Jake had placed all preparations in your hands, which was both a blessing and a curse at the same time. 

“My Lady, can you move slightly to your left,” Hans Holbein said. Hans Holbein the Younger is one of the greatest portraitists of the current century. You had seen his paintings of your cousins in England, the princesses in Spain, and the nobles in Germany. To have a portrait done by Holbein was of the utmost honor. This was why you nearly had a heart attack when Clara woke you up this morning and told you to get ready for your wedding portrait with the one and only Hans Holbein. You weren’t sure how long you had been sitting still in the heavy white dress and crown that had traveled all the way from Scotland. 

“It is quite the skill you have, Master Holbein,” You said, “I have seen your portraits before.” 

“Thank you, My Lady,” Hans said, “God gifted me with this talent and I mustn’t waste it.” 

You smiled, running your fingers over the gold lion that was stitched into the dress, a subtle nod toward the Seresin family crest. There were also blooming lilies on the skirt, a symbol of your own house. 

“Isn’t this a sight to see,” A voice called out to you. You lifted your head slightly, seeing a smiling Bradley standing in the doorway, “I didn’t know you could clean yourself up so well.” 

You blushed. It had been a couple of days since you had seen Bradley. Bradley handled funerals about as well as you did, and decided to go back home to be with your father during the King’s funeral. It hurt to not have your best friend around during that time, having no one to confide in after The Dowager’s accusations. You glanced over to Master Holbein, who looked between you and Bradley. 

“You can take a break, my Lady,” Hans said, “A short one, please.” 

“Thank you,” You said standing up. Bradley walked over to the platform you were standing on, offering you a hand. The dress was almost as heavy to walk in as it was to sit in. The crown felt even heavier as you walked down the steps, keeping your head up. Bradley led you to the table full of cheeses, meats, and fruits, in the back of the room that had been a gift from Queen Elizabeth. You had hardly seen her since the day of the funeral, but she had showered you with gifts such as a new prayer book, new shoes, and jewelry. 

“You really look good, Ducky,” Bradley said sincerely. You nodded, grabbing the vase of wine and pouring yourself a glass, “I’m sorry that I-” 

“Did you know what happened to my mother?” You asked, turning towards him. 

Bradley sighed, running a hand over his face. He had heard a rumor about what was said to you when the Dowager arrived, “My mother used to tell me a story of witchcraft and a lost prince,” He shrugged, “I always thought it was a way for her to get me to say my prayers.”

You nodded, taking a gulp of wine. Your mother and Bradley’s mother, Carole had been close as girls. They had plans of marrying nobles at court and raising their children together. When your mother had fallen pregnant with the King’s bastard, everything had changed between her and Carole. Carole didn’t see your mother as the same girl who was her best friend growing up. Instead, she saw her as a temptress, a liar. It was on her deathbed, that Carole had begged for your mother to be there. Your mother held Carole’s hand as she apologized for abandoning her, and begged her to look after Bradley. 

“Do you believe in the story? Of the Lost Prince?” You asked. 

Bradley shrugged, “I don’t know. It could be true, but it could also be just a scary story to trick kids into behaving.” 

“I wrote to my sister,” You said, reaching for a piece of cheese. 

Bradley furrowed his eyebrows. Sure, Allison was your older sister, but your relationship with her was strained, “Is that a good idea? Given her. . . history?” 

You gave Bradley a sad smile, “I’m not sure if anything is a good idea anymore.” You looked down at your dress. It was the most elegant thing you had ever worn in your life. It gave you a sort of imposter syndrome as you wore it, “I’m surprised this crown doesn’t weigh more.” 

“It’s not the imperial crown,” Bradley said, popping a grape into his mouth, “I heard that one is a real pain in the bollocks.” 

You laughed loudly, reaching for another grape. Bradley helped you walk back up to the platform to finish your portrait. Bradley made himself comfortable off to the side with a plate of snacks and told you about his trip back home. Your father was doing alright and was looking forward to coming to the wedding. Mistress Rotchford was still walking around the palace as though she had a stick up her ass. Your beloved wolfhound, Tidus, had found a new home on your bed and in your closet. You made a note to write your father and ask if he can bring Tidus with him. You weren’t sure if Jake would like a dog in the castle, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Tidus would come first in your mind, always. 

“Your father still thinks he can out-hunt me,” Bradley laughed, “The old bastard didn’t even get-” 

“Your majesty!” You stood up quickly, nearly knocking the crown off your head as Queen Elizabeth stepped into the grand hall. Bradley and Hans quickly stood up, bowing to her as she walked towards you. She was still dressed in black, and you weren’t sure if she would ever change out of it. 

“No need to bow to me,” Queen Elizabeth greeted with a simple nod of her head. She stood in front of you, her eyes looking glassy, “I knew that crown would look perfect on you. It was a gift from my mother when I had my wedding portrait done.” 

“Thank you, My-Lady-the-King’s mother,” You grabbed the sides of your dress to curtsey, but the Queen held her hand up. 

“It’s a hard habit to break,” The Queen smiled, and curtsied to you, before turning on her heel and walking out of the room. 

Bradley couldn’t help but beam at you with pride, as you sat back down on the chair to finish the portrait. 

— — — 

“The first order of business,” Mister Brooke said as he stood at the table, “Is a congratulations to our crowned King, Prince Jacob.” 

Jake gave a simple nod of his head as the council of his advisors congratulated him on achieving his birthright. It felt weird for Jake to sit at the head of the table, his late grandfather’s crown sitting upon his head. He had sat in on council meetings when his father was in this position, now he wished he would’ve paid a little bit more attention. But he felt as though he was in good hands with Lord Floyd and Mister Brooke by his side. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Jake said, “As this is the first council since my late father’s death, I want to keep things simple. The country is still in a state of mourning as we work to change everything over,” He took a seat in his chair, “I want an update on Argerus and Eastland. Sir Fitch?” 

Sir Fitch bowed his head, “Argerus seems to be holding steady, not backing down but not pushing forward. I have correspondents still out on the field. Eastland, however, they are beginning to grow restless and there’s a rumor of plague. Some say it is the sweat.”

Jake cursed, “Send a rider to Eastland, take with them gold and bread. I want to try and contain this plague as best as we can. If this is the sweat. . . it could tear this country apart as it did for my cousin in England.” 

“If I may,” Master Moore spoke, and Jake had to refrain from rolling his eyes, “I do not think tis’ smart to send a rider to Eastland. They are poor and decrepit as it is. What good will gold and-” 

“It will keep them at bay,” Jake answered, “It will keep them from rising up and trying to rebel.” 

“They wouldn’t have a need to rebel if-” 

“I do wish to save you your breath, Master Moore,” Jake said, folding his hands on the table, “It is said and done. Gold and bread will be taken to Eastland. Anything else?” 

The table was quiet for a moment before Master Moore stood up. 

“I know I am not the only one on the council who has… some concerns about the new reign,” This time Jake didn’t hold back from rolling his eyes, “The Prince is young and has spent most of his time out fighting or frolicking around. I think it is in our best interest to appoint a regent until the Prince has been crowned.” 

“And who do you think that should be, Master Moore?” Jake sneered. 

“I nominate myself, as the closest guard to the king,” Master Moore said, looking around at the council. 

Jake knew that this would happen. His father had spoken many times of his distrust for Master Moore. Moore had served on the King’s brother’s council and had only managed to keep his head by begging at the King’s foot. The King told Jake that he feared that Moore had a secret plan to try and overthrow him, or to find something to try and get him to lose his power. 

Calmly, Jake stood up, “I think, as the future King, I should be able to pick my own advisor. . . and I pick Lord Floyd.” 

“Me?” Lord Floyd said, looking up at Jake. 

“Of course,” Jake smiled, patting his friend on the back, “You served my father in Tournai, and you served me in Argerus. You stood by my father’s side when he was dying. You deserve this.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lord Floyd bowed his head. 

Master Moore scoffed, “That’s just what we need, another boy at the hand of the throne.” 

“A boy I am not,” Jake sneers, “There is no one at this table my father entrusts more than the Lord Floyd, and I intend to honor that. And that is the end of that conversation. Next order.” 

Lord Floyd cleared his voice, “In the spirit of celebration for the upcoming marriage of our Prince Jacob and Lady Mitchell, I think it would be within good authority to consider adding Lord Bradshaw and Sir Mitchell to the council.” 

Jake hadn’t had much interaction with Bradley, but he didn’t like him. A couple of times Jake had ventured out to find you, he had always found Bradley by your side, making you laugh until you cried. It angered Jake how friendly and relaxed you seemed around Bradley, but around him, you were stiff and firm. As though you had to keep up the regal act around Jake. He hated it. 

“Can’t we just. . . send him a fruit basket?” Jake asked. 

Lord Floyd rolled his eyes, “Sir Mitchell was one of the King’s closest friends when he was a part of the King’s guard. He is an expert archer, a suave swordsman, not to mention the father of your bride. Lord Bradshaw fought in Tournai alongside your father as well. He’d be a great addition to the council.” 

Jake sighed, “Fine. Lord Bradshaw can be a proxy for Lord Fitch and the King’s guard. As for Sir Mitchell. . . we’ll give him the house in Magnus.” 

“I live in the house in-” Master Moore started to say. 

“It is settled,” Jake smiled. 

“I do propose we keep him away from Lady Mitchell,” Master Moore said, earning a glare from Jake. 

“For why?” He asked. 

Master Moore chuckled, “Well you do know the-” 

Jake slammed his hand on the table, standing up, “This council is supposed to advise the king on the well-being of his nation and the enemies that surround it. Not pick at my wife and tell me treasonous stories,” He looked at Master Moore, “There will be no more talks of my bride before she has even become my bride. Council is over.” 

Jake pushed away from the table quickly and left the room. Lord Floyd was quick to follow by his side, as the newly appointed advisor. Jake walked with haste to return to his chambers, anger flowing off of him. He was pissed that someone mentioned you. You had nothing to do with the court, at least not yet anyway. You, at least, still had some time to learn the ins and outs of what a queen was supposed to do at court, while Jake was thrown right to the wolves. It was times like these that he hated his father for leaving the world so early. 

“Your majesty,” His grandmother said as Jake turned the corner. She curtseyed to him as Jake stopped in his tracks. 

“Lady Grandmother,” Jake bowed his head. 

“You should be delighted to know I have chosen to stay.” 

“Stay?” 

“Here,” She smiled waving her hand and Jake felt his heart stop in his chest, “My son no longer sits on the throne and you will need someone who can be an advisor to you. I have stood next to three kings on the throne.”

Jake shook his head, “Lady Grandmother, I don’t need-” 

“It’s not up for argument, child,” The Dowager smiled, before curtsying and walking away. 

Jake clenched his jaw as hot anger flowed through his body. He was tired of being called a boy. He is the King. He is the closest thing to God on the Earth. He was not a boy who could be pushed around by Master Moore or his grandmother or anyone else. 

“Floyd,” Jake looked over his shoulder at his friend, “Tell my wife that I acquire her presence for dinner.” 

“Yes, your Majesty,” Lord Floyd bowed his head. 

“Privately.”

taglist: @cherrycola27 @yanna-banana @laneylovesglen @elijahmikaelsonbitch @desert-fern @prettiewittie @hangmanscoming @damrlova @captainmoonknight @jazminlahey20 @seitmai @xoxabs88xox @princess76179 @clancycucumber230 @soulmates8 @dempy @starberryhorse @kmc1989 @thedroneranger @loving-and-dreaming @tiredqueen73 @sanfransolomitatm @hardballoonlove @djs8891 @hookslove1592 @yuckosworld

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#top gun #top gun maverick #top gun imagine #top gun fan fic #top gun fan fiction #top gun AU #top gun maverick imagine #top gun maverick AU #top gun maverick fan fic #top gun maverick fan fiction #Jake seresin #Jake seresin fan fic #Jake seresin fan fiction #Jake seresin imagine #Jake seresin x reader #Jake seresin x you #Jake seresin x OC #Jake seresin x y/n #Jake seresin AU #Jake hangman seresin #hangman fan fic #hangman fan fiction #hangman AU #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman x y/n #hangman x OC #Bradley bradshaw #Bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster Bradshaw

[kc5rings]

Watching Ave play Unicorn Overlord, having a good time

Reach a mission that has a cool and very recruitable looking taciturn nun in a plague doctor mask

Sits up in my seat

The moment you actually recruit her she takes the mask off with no cosmetic option to put it back

#LET! PEOPLE! KEEP! THEIR! MASKS!!!!!! #RAUAAAARGH

[familyabolisher]

hi ave i think you mentioned orhan pamuk a while back? i have been meaning to read him for ages now. i just started a different book for my after hours fiction reading but i think it's gonna be a quick one so, my question is, when i get around to it is there a particular pamuk you'd recommend to start off? slash, general invitation to talk about pamuk and his writing if you want :-)

so the two pamuk novels i've read are the museum of innocence and my name is red, in that order; i read the museum of innocence on @huayno's suggestion that it pairs vvv well with lolita, which is definitely true and may be a useful point of interest for you as an introduction! however, the museum of innocence is also upwards of 700 pages, lol---my name is red is more like 400-500 (i don't remember exactly, but it's definitely the shorter of the two), so if length is a concern then you might be better off starting with that. also, i think both are equally compelling pieces overall, but my name is red was the more successful in keeping me consistently engaged throughout---so that might be the better one to start with? but really, both are excellent starting places. (i really should read more of him!)

but, yeah, pamuk---from what i've read---is great. a real knack for adjusting the precisions of his tone to exactly suit the narrative, never falling into that Generic Third Person Voice that seems to plague so many novelists; also has the v funny habit of inserting himself in as author-character, which produces that kind of simultaneous affect of verisimilitude and wink-nudge towards 'dishonesty' and discursive construction that i enjoy. the conceit of my name is red especially is v ambitious---a sixteenth-century murder mystery set amongst the workshop of the sultan's miniaturists and told from the alternating perspectives of various characters, suspects, victims, the murderer in question, and painted objects---and just, really really skilfully executed. (not to do the "if you love X you'll love Y" but it really reminds me of the name of the rose, which i also love, if umberto eco is on your radar at all.) would really highly recommend pamuk---i hope you enjoy him!

#ask

[unbidden-yidden]

Jewish Song of the Day #40: Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai

Comments:

Okay so this one is a little tricky to explain the context of, because it requires a certain baseline of existing knowledge, but I'm gonna try.

So this is a Lag b'Omer song, for reasons I will get to momentarily.

Lag b'Omer is the 33rd day in the counting cycle of the Omer - the 49 days between the second day of Passover (Pesach) and the holiday of Shavuot, which commemorates the giving of the Torah to the Jewish people by Hashem from Mt. Sinai.

Lag b'Omer is celebrated for a couple of reasons:

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who lived in the second century of the Common Era, was the first to publicly teach the mystical dimension of the Torah known as the Kabbalah, and is the author of the classic text of Kabbalah, the Zohar. On the day of his passing, Rabbi Shimon instructed his disciples to mark the date as “the day of my joy.” The chassidic masters explain that the final day of a righteous person’s earthly life marks the point at which all their deeds, teachings and work achieve their culminating perfection and the zenith of their impact upon our lives. So each Lag BaOmer, we celebrate Rabbi Shimon’s life and the revelation of the esoteric soul of Torah. Lag BaOmer also commemorates another joyous event. The Talmud relates that in the weeks between the Jewish holidays of Passover and Shavuot, a plague raged among the disciples of the great sage Rabbi Akiva (teacher of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai), “because they did not act respectfully towards each other.” These weeks are therefore observed as a period of mourning, with various joyous activities proscribed by law and custom. On Lag BaOmer the deaths ceased. Thus, Lag BaOmer also carries the theme of loving and respecting one’s fellow (ahavat Yisrael).

(Source: Chabad - read more about it here)

Because of this, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai is associated with the day, and therefore this song exists.

It is also worth noting that the first 32 days of the Omer (also referred to as the sephira) traditional Jews observe a number of mourning customs, including restrictions on music. I typically observe some level of this, so JSOTD might go on hiatus for that month, or at a minimum, might switch to a capella music only. I might also switch to doing a "Jewish Teaching of the Day" instead. Please let me know what y'all think in the notes. There is also another similar three week period during the summer months of Tammuz and Av where mourning customs are observed. I will likely do the same thing during both.

The Omer doesn’t occur until early May, but I figured I'd give a heads-up while I am talking about this anyway.

Enjoy the song and let me know your thoughts!

#jumblr #jewish music #Jewish Song of the Day

[whirlybirbs]

"have a drink with me" w/ johnny soapy mactavish <3

                        ( ! beautiful gif from this set by @sgt-gaz )

;     —   liars den   |   johnny "soap" mactavish

summary: drinks and pining shared. pairing: johnny mactavish / gender neutral!reader, birdie tags: casual beers, yearning pining, and breaking the rulebook on fraternization, casual johnny family mention a/n: did you know this man is my little meow meow.

Your eyes settle momentarily on the scars across his knuckles as the good Sergeant tosses back his beer. 

You drag your gaze away as if scorched — and Johnny catches the flicker of your lashes as you lean forward, brace your elbows against the bartop, and cast your eyes to the tele above the bartender's shoulder playing the Liverpool-Manchester match. 

John swallows his swig roughly. 

You inhale, then exhale.

...You shouldn't be here.

A bead of condensation runs down your bottle's neck and rolls over your fingertips. 

This — this little off-the-clock wind-down? This is a bad idea. Because here, in this shitty Ranger bar, you're sat down beside him. Johnny motherfucking MacTavish. 

...Fuck.

He's a good man. Loves his mum. Calls home often. Has three sisters, all older. He's got a heart a' gold and a smile charming enough t' widdle down even the Lieutenant. 

Handsome t' boot. 

Kind.

Funny.

Everyone loves the bastard. 

And you have been trying your damndest to keep your distance. Miles worth. Thirty-thousand leagues worth. He's head-level, and you're choking up in the thinning atmosphere — and that's how it should be. 

But, fer fuck's sake — cut him some slack, would ye? He's tryin' here. Pullin' every damn string he can to get you on their comms. Yer th' best watcher they got, after all, with Laswell back state-side. He doesn't trust anyone else t' be his eyes. Only you. El-tee says he's got it bad.

Maybe he does.

Have a drink with me, he asked after the debrief. 

You realized a long time ago you couldn't say no to him — tonight is no exception.  

So, here you are. Hip to hip at the bar, shoulder to shoulder sipping beer that's just cold enough. 

"Y' look miffed."

You snort into your drink and slide your eyes away from the late-game goal replay. 

"That's just my face."

"Nah," he crosses his arms with the bottle still in his left hand, "Yer face's pretty. This face ain't."

You straighten slightly and inhale tightly. 

John's smirk twists a bit. "Relax, birdie."

You swig your beer and drop your head. "Heard from Alejandro lately?"

"Yer deflectin'."

You roll your look his way and flatten your stare. You're met with a satisfied smile that's tugging, tugging, tugging at his lips. The shadow of stubble there hides dimples. 

"I am not."

"Yes," he emphasizes as he uncrosses his arms and leans closer, "Y'are."

"I'm just askin'—"

"Are y' mad at me?"

You blink hard. 

John's face is expectant.

You realize your mouth is open. 

"...What?"

"You," he prods your shoulder gently with his pointer finger, then takes a sip, "'ave been avoidin' me like th' plague, birdie."

You fall quiet. 

You frown.

"...No, I haven't."

Johnny tuts. 

You wish you could just tell him. That you feel your entire chest tighten when he steps into debriefs. That he makes your job harder because you're always watching him and only him. That you have had dreams about touching his face, dreams where you kiss him and it's all starlight and peace and quiet—

"Mum always said lyin' is unbecomin'."

And despite it all, you muscle down the yearning and offer up your best smile.

"We're good. Promise."

His eyes settle on the dig of your smile in your cheeks. He drags his gaze away as if scorched. 

"Alright."

...Fuck.

#liars den #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x you #john mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish imagine #MY LOOOVVVEEEYYY #mw2 imagine #mw2 x reader #mw2 fic #mw2

[loadedberetta]

the wolf is not to blame // Ghost x Reader (fem no body desc)

cw implied non-con, general dark woods vibe, intimidation, hunter-prey dynamics

1.2k words

She registered the pair of boots sitting by the foot of the dresser like a parasite latched onto its host. They'd been there for weeks. Two weeks almost exactly, since Simon moved out, rather stormed out of the apartment one night after a particularly nasty fight. They burned the decaying remnants of their relationship, and argued over the fire, streaks of the greenish-red flames illuminating their true faces.

She'd also found a jumper in the laundry basket that she couldn't touch for the life of her. As if roots grew around it and pulled it down to the bottom of the hamper, turning it into rot and moss, somehow sustaining her while simultaneously plaguing her every growing sprout of potential happiness.

Still, she couldn't rid her sweet garden, the lovely place she retreated to each night of his belongings.

She half-expected for him to return, and convinced herself to keep the items around.

Even when a lone trespasser stumbled upon her carefully curated eden and plucked her ripe fruits right when they were the most supple and sweet, leaving behind empty apple cores strewn around the patch and nasty bootmarks in his wake, as he left just as quickly as he intruded into the dense woods on a whim.

- And the time Simon returned, couldn't have come soon enough. She knew it was coming, the crisp air around her had already whispered about him to her. When the three knocks on the front door resonated in the home, she wasn't even surprised. She opened the door to find Simon waiting in the hallway. He spoke before she could. "'m looking for a jumper and a pair of boots. Must 'ave left 'em here."He grumbled in his gruff voice, avoiding her gaze.

She sighed and opened the door more. "Be quick about it." That's all she told him before he walked past her, hands in pockets, hood of his sweater still up.

He disappeared into the bedroom quickly before emerging with the pair of boots. "The jumper?" He asked noncommittally and waited for her to reply with a tilt of his head.

"Laundry." She answered a little breathy, unsure why she was short of air. Him disappearing in the bathroom pulled her from her thoughts and she followed. She stood still in the doorway and looked up at him, only to see that he was holding a foreign piece of clothing in his hand.

"Whose is this?" He asked almost accusingly. Her face hardened and she snatched the garment from him. "None of your concern." She replied while she exited the bathroom and threw the item on the bed to hide her embarrassment about letting him find it, hoping the fabric of the covers would swallow the piece of cloth like a wet pile of leaves disappear a small corpse of an animal.

She couldn't see his hardening expression, lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the place she disappeared from.

"You done packing?" She asked when she returned, trying to shift the topic from the obvious. Leaning against the doorframe, she crossed her arms and looked up at him, expecting an answer.

He reached into the laundry basket and pulled out the jumper he came for; "I'm not going anywhere." Came his reply, along with a stern, almost meditating look at her.

"You don't live here anymore, Simon. Now get your shit and leave." She retorted, trying to hold her ground, but starting to slip on the mossy, muddy ground and rapidly losing her footing in the dense, wet holt he summoned around her with his words.

"You were with someone." His mouth barely moved with his words, yet their weight sat heavily on her shoulders like vines growing on her unrelenting.

"None of your damn business." She hissed at him, feeling cornered by his presence.

"Someone spent the night here." He stated the obvious. Someone breached his territory.

"What happens then?" She scoffed audibly, but it sounded too desperate to be believable. "You don't own me anymore, Simon."

He chuckled darkly, maybe how she imagined a fox to laugh. "Foolish of you to think tha'…" He sighed pensively and moved ever so slightly closer to her. "Do you have any idea how much of a stupid fuckin' idea it was, to let anyone else touch you?"

His voice dripped with sarcasm, much like a prey animal's saliva hangs from its teeth when they sense the addictive aroma of fear filling the air the closer they creep to their helpless victims.

"You had your chance, and you messed it up." Her hands gripped the doorframe behind her as she felt Simon's suffocating presence close in on her.

He scoffed, bearing his fangs. "You think I'm the reason we broke up? That just proves my point, pet." He accentuated the derogatory name he used, which made her flinch. His brows shot up slightly as he continued; "Everything that happened was your fault. You pushed me away, the only person who seemed to care about you… for someone who leaves the moment they get their feed from you? I took you to be better than that, but I guess I was wrong…" He practically drawled, metaphorically licking at the supple pink of her skin before biting down on a vital vein.

"Get out." She managed to force it out of her mouth as Simon towered over her. She would have been too embarrassed for him to sense just how much of an effect she had on him. "I don't want to hear it." She said, squeezing her eyes closed, her hand in the air pointing toward the front door.

"Just because I'm right?" He smirked and tilted his head slightly again. "Look at you, you can't even deny it, pet." He was standing over her at this point, belittling her with solely his broad, muscular figure that seemed to be covered in dark, dark fur that furrowed in excitement and wrath equally.

"Oh fuck off…" She turned away from her, feet rooted in place by a nefarious rush of an emotion vaguely similar to zeal, danger close to triggering her fight or flight response. "Why are you suddenly so interested in what I'm feeling?" She squeezed the words past her lips with her eyes screwing shut.

"I'm interested in what you're not feeling… and that is me." He leaned in, face only inches from hers, his hot breath fanning over her exposed jugular. "If I'm a joke to you, why are you still afraid of me?" He growled at her, donning a wolfish grin she didn't dare observe, as it was already plastered on the insides of her lids.

"Simon, please leave." She whispered. "Leave before I make you leave." Her terrified, delicious scent slowly crept up his searchingly flaring nostrils.

He laughed that small muted laugh that reminded her of a hyena almost; condescending and mocking.

"You can't make me." He took a final step toward her, closing the last stride between them and enclosing her in his vicious space. "I'm not going anywhere, don't worry." He soothed her with his venom while snaking his hand up to her face, where he cupped her cheek with a bruising strength, pressing her flesh onto her teeth, making her wince. "I'll always be here for you, even if you don't want me to."

so yeah- I don't think I should string this idea any further, it sits right with me as is. feral possessive Simon will always have my heart.

#beretta does fics #yet again a drabble I'm calling a fic #someone stop me #simon ghost riley #cod mw fanfiction #ghost cod #cod fanfic #cod mw ii #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #simon ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley

[paperlovesadness]

Random list of words or sentences I am now obsessed with and plagued by on the daily because of the specific ways Alex Turner and Miles Kane said them:

✨ Adjacent ✨ cash register

[considered trying for another] babeh~

[While Miles tickled his] ~belleh

~SHANGRI-LAAAH~

That's it! The new Last Shadow Puppets record is behind that bush (👈👉)

Just as you were saying sun I was thinking Beatles

are you being 𝓕𝓪𝓬𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 somehow

[if it's a movie it's the kind of thing where It's] visually stunnin' but there's not really much of a plot

Particularly Puppety

Looks like a little ~island~

ALRIGHT JAMES ENOUfff--

--S͓̽t͓̽o͓̽p͓̽ ͓̽i͓̽t͓̽ ͓̽j͓̽a͓̽m͓̽e͓̽s͓̽

Look! I'm a human crab

You roob the queen's nose & you can 'ave five wishes in a day [*Alex says smth sceptical about the amount of wishes*] oh yeah five wishes

BUT WHERE I REALLY WANNA GO IS SHANGRI-LA IN MALIBU

.

#this is the tip of the iceberg #and yes I have in fact watched these videos of them way too many times #it's my happy place okay??? #listen I'm functioning on not a lotta sleep the past three days #let me make my little lists #// #my posts #The Last Shadow Puppets

[tismrot]

SONGS REMINDING ME OF GOOD OMENS

(…That isn’t Hozier, Queen or Taylor Swift, but still accessible enough. Maybe. We’ll see. And yes, you should read all the song lyrics.)

Pulp - Common People

Susanne Sundfør - Slowly

Nine Inch Nails - Closer

Alanis Morisette - Uninvited

Kate Bush - Wuthering Heights

Blink 182 - I Miss You

Burial - Archangel

A Perfect Circle - Imagine

AWOLNATION - Sail

Joy Division - Love Will Tear Us Apart

Tove Lo - Habits

The Smiths - How Soon is Now

Fever Ray - If I Had a Heart

Underworld - Born Slippy (Nuxx)

Billie Eilish - Bury a Friend

King Plague - Ave Plague

The Dresden Dolls - The Perfect Fit

—

Let me know if you want the more inaccessible playlist for the type of weirdos who are equally as likely to dose over on E at a party as they are to fall asleep in a chair listening to Grieg.

#crowley #good omens fandom #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #innefable husbands #crowley edits #ineffable divorce #good omens playlist #good omens music #good omens score #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens tv

[magnetothemagnificent]

how does the fasting work.. when can one eat and drink?

Jewish fasts are split into three types:

Private fasts, minor fasts, and major fasts.

Private fasts are fasts specific to only certain groups of people, that can be broken by holding a public break-fast in the form of a Siyum, a celebration when someone finishes learning a certain portion of Talmud.

The fast that falls into this category is Taanit Bechorim, in which firstborn males fast the day before Passover to commemorate the plague of the firstborns in Egypt.

Minor fasts are fasts scattered throughout the year that commemorate certain events in Jewish history, that tend to be shorter than major fasts and are more lenient about exemptions for fasting. They start at sunrise and end at nightfall.

These are:

Tzom Gedalia, which is the day after Rosh HaShana, which mourns the murder of Gedalia ben Achikam, the governor of the last remaining Jews in the Land of Israel appointed by the Babylonians. After Gedalia was assassinated, the last remaining Jews left the land, effectively sealing the beginning of the Babylonian exile.

Asara B'Tevet, which falls out on the tenth of the month of Tevet, which is today. This fast mourns the beginning of the Babylonian seige on Jerusalem.

Taanit Esther, which is the day before Purim, which commemorates the fast Esther and all the Jewish people fasted before coming before Achashverosh.

Shiv'a Asar B'Tammuz, which is on the 17th of the month of Tammuz, which mourns the breaching of Jerusalem's walls by the Babylonians and the beginning of the raid on Jerusalem.

Major fasts are longer fasts and considered more "serious", and therefore exemptions for who is obligated to fast are a bit more strict.

These are:

Tish'a B'Av, which is on the 9th of the month of Av, which spans from sunset the previous day and ends at nightfall. It mourns the destruction of Jerusalem and the Jewish Temples by the Babylonians and later the Romans. In modern times it's also used to mourn other genocides in Jewish history, especially the Holocaust.

Yom Kippur, which is the holiest day of the year and falls out on the tenth of the month of Tishrei. It's a day of reflection and atonement for the previous year and for the new year. Unlike every other fast, including Tish'a B'Av, all the prohibitions of Shabbat apply to Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is also called Shabbat Shabbaton, the Shabbat of all Shabbats. Other fast days are also prohibitted from occuring on Friday or Shabbat, and are pushed off if they do fall out on those days. Yom Kippur is never pushed off. If it occurs on Shabbat, then it occurs on Shabbat.

On a fast day, consuming food or water is prohibitted. Some people who can't do a full fast will drink water but not eat food, or will eat less food, or will take a break from other aspects of life, such as social media.

#fasting #fast days #jumblr #judaism

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

You may remember Xi Van Fleet. She's the Chinese immigrant who gave a speech to Loudoun County Public School warning about the teaching of concepts relating to Critical Race Theory and seeing alarming similarities to her experience with the Chinese Cultural Revolution.

--

The history of the 20th century is full of examples of countries that set out to redistribute wealth and ended up redistributing poverty. The communist nations were a classic example, but by no means the only example.

In theory, confiscating the wealth of the more successful people ought to make the rest of the society more prosperous. But when the Soviet Union confiscated the wealth of successful farmers, food became scarce. As many people died of starvation under Stalin in the 1930s as died in Hitler’s Holocaust in the 1940s.

How can that be? It is not complicated. You can only confiscate the wealth that exists at a given moment. You cannot confiscate future wealth — and that future wealth is less likely to be produced when people see that it is going to be confiscated. Farmers in the Soviet Union cut back on how much time and effort they invested in growing their crops, when they realized that the government was going to take a big part of the harvest. They slaughtered and ate young farm animals that they would normally keep tending and feeding while raising them to maturity.

We have all heard the old saying that giving a man a fish feeds him only for a day, while teaching him to fish feeds him for a lifetime. Redistributionists give him a fish and leave him dependent on the government for more fish in the future.

If the redistributionists were serious, what they would want to distribute is the ability to fish, or to be productive in other ways. Knowledge is one of the few things that can be distributed to people without reducing the amount held by others.  That would better serve the interests of the poor, but it would not serve the interests of politicians who want to exercise power, and to get the votes of people who are dependent on them.

-- Thomas Sowell on the Fallacy of Redistribution

==

Free stuff doesn't come from nowhere.

"I have never understood why it is 'greed' to want to keep the money you have earned but not greed to want to take somebody else's money." -- Thomas Sowell

One of the big myths about Thanksgiving is that the starving pilgrims were saved by the natives teaching them to farm. That's untrue.

https://www.aei.org/carpe-diem/thanksgiving-lessons-about-the-failures-of-socialism-and-the-success-of-private-property-and-capitalism/

The first Thanksgiving was a celebration of abundance after a period of socialism and starvation. The members of the Plymouth colony had arrived in the New World with a plan for collective property ownership. Reflecting the current opinion of the aristocratic class in the 1620s, their charter called for farmland to be worked communally and for the harvests to be shared.

You probably will not be surprised to hear that the colonists starved. Men were unwilling to work to feed someone else’s children. Women were unwilling to cook for other women’s husbands. Fields lay largely untilled and unplanted.

Famine came as soon as they ate through their provisions. After famine came plague. Half the colony died. Unlike most socialists, they learned from their mistakes, giving each person a parcel of land to tend to for themselves. The colonists threw off the statist intellectual fashions of their day.

The results were overwhelmingly beneficial. Men worked hard, even though before they had constantly pleaded illness. Fields were not only tilled and planted but also diligently harvested. Colonists traded with the surrounding Indian nation and learned to plant maize, squash and pumpkin and to rotate these crops from year to year. The harvest was bountiful, and new colonists immigrated to the thriving settlement.

Think about it. Imagine you're in a class, and the teacher says that every student will get the same grade, the average of all students. The low-performing students will be thrilled and won't do much. Why should they when they're going to score as high as the best students? The high-performing students will realize they're being dragged down by everyone else and not bother putting in the effort, because they're being exploited and carrying the weight for the whole class. The average will drop dramatically compared to the class total if each student had been able to keep their own score.

Equity means forcing everybody into poverty - whether that's academic poverty, intellectual poverty or literal poverty.

#Xi Van Fleet #communism #equity #equality #inequality #free stuff #collectivization #great famine #religion is a mental illness

[calico-heart]

Wash My Dreams Away

Ship: Astarion/Tav Rating: Teen (Snark, Flirting, General Theatrical Tomfoolery, Skinny Dipping, Deep Water) Summary: My not-very-reformed pirate Tav goes to bathe in a nearby lake one night, and Astarion follows her looking to instigate a bit of fun. A/N: Kinktober prompt fill . There's nudity but there's not actually any smut in this fic because they decided they'd both rather be gremlins.

Also on Ao3! Likes/Reblogs/Comments/Kudos welcome!

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

Lyra preferred the swell of saltwater and its foamy waves, but in a pinch, a tepid lake would do. She’d come alone – excused herself from the campsite to bathe. And then… simply stayed out. In the water. Floating.

If she closed her eyes she could pretend she only dreamed, suspended in her hammock belowdecks on a calm night, and that her life was not indelibly altered. 

Men and women and children, whose value in gold at the slave markets she could estimate with a glance, told her she was a hero. They toasted and feasted her for saving them from the same occult plague that slept in her own mind. Strangers with soft hearts asked her for leadership through a waking nightmare. Nobles called her to vengeance and bloodshed for the promise of coin and glory. Celestial beings she didn’t trust charged her with sacred duties she had no idea how to fulfill.

Now they traveled the mountain pass in lingering hope of a cure that felt further away every day. With each step people praised her courage. Her ingenuity. Her cunning. All she wanted to do, all she’d ever done, each step along the way, was survive. 

If this was really what made Adventurers different from brigands, she had to confess she didn’t really see the point in dividing them. At least before she’d been at liberty to choose her masters.

Thoughts murky as the open sea, she focused instead on the feel of the lake lapping at her skin, caressing her hair, and tickling the edges of her lips. Open water was a gentle, treacherous lover. Never safe, but familiar in the consistency of its caprice. Even here, so very far from the ocean she missed.

And while crickets and frogs were a poor substitute for the creaking of wood and the call of gulls, they had their uses. When the creatures nearby went abruptly silent, her eyes opened, and she sank most of herself beneath the dark waters. Only Lyra’s senses remained exposed.  

Reeds shifted along the rocky shoreline. Not from the wind. 

“Voyeur.” She accused. If it was an animal, it would ignore her. If it was a spy, they’d be likely to respond. Hopefully.

“I was checking on you.” Came the indignant answer a moment later, as a familiar dandelion puff of white hair emerged. “I thought maybe you’d been swallowed by a lake monster or something.” He shrugged.

Eyebrows scrunching, she slithered closer to the shore. “Well, I did ‘ave fish nibblin’ at me toes.”

“See? You’re lucky I came out here to save you.” Astarion waxed, “They’d have eaten you right up.”

“Ye’ll be rescuin’ me all t’way from t’shore then?” She scoffed. His arrival stirred a certain excitement in her, and she was quick to dismiss the unseemly brooding of before – it wasn’t for the eyes of others. Especially not him. 

“Well, yes. Obviously. So swim along over here and commence with the lecherous displays of gratitude.” He flourished a hand, tapetum eyes glancing nowhere obvious, and covertly toward the thick woods on the nearby shore. Always keeping watch.

“Right after me washin’?”

“I hope you’re not seriously objecting on that account.”

“Ye could join me.” She splashed, letting her breasts float to the surface, nipples pert.

“No, thank you. There’s probably leeches or something in there.”

A snort.

A glare.

Lyra rolled her eyes. “I’ll protect ye from t’scary bloodsuckers. It’ll be fun. Haven’t ye ever wanted t’do it in the bath before?”

“Where I’m from, a bath is warm water in a cozy room with clean towels an arm’s reach away and a soft bed waiting for me.” He jeered. “This is – marinating yourself in midge larvae and fish piss.”

“Where I’m from, that’s poncy, and this is a rare treat.”

“Yes dear, I know. It’s one of your more unfortunate qualities.”

Her playful grin soured. “Take a guess what isn’t sexy? Getin’ frisky in t’sand. Especially when yer wet. Gets every-damn-where.” 

“I’ll carry you up a tree, then.” He teased back. “Come now, will I have to woo you from the waters like a selkie?”

“Would ye–?” She asked, smirking, and then jolted. “Fuck.”

“Yes darling, I’ll fuck you.” He sighed, “Out of the water.”

“No – somethin’... somethin’ nipped my foot.” She answered, looking down at the black waters.

“See?” Astarion straightened. “That’s exactly why I won’t be joining you in there. I’m fairly certain Revivify doesn’t bring back lost limbs. Or certain other extremities. And I don’t want to have to explain that to Shadowheart.”

Lyra made for shore, only to vanish mid-cry beneath the surface. 

Stiffening, Astarion took several steps forward, but moonlight glinted off the waters, and beneath the echoing ripples, there was nothing to be seen. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.” He berated, lip tugged into a grimace, “Now enough games, Lyra.”

Silence.

“You won’t get me in there like this, either!” He insisted. “It’s not even a very good trick!” 

Nothing answered. Not even bubbles.

Several minutes passed, and none of his continued barbs caught anything in response. 

Worry, eventually, began to twist in earnest. 

He paced the shoreline, but the moon-glint followed him. It was impossible to pierce the dark. 

“Godsdammnit.” He hissed, glancing over a shoulder and then back at the smooth surface. 

“Well. Giant lake fish have to eat, too, I suppose.” Head tilting left and right, he shrugged. “I’m sure I can think of a way to make it sound more glamorous, darling. Though I daresay the camp deserves an honest retelling, for once. Some deaths are better left ungarnished.” 

He started to walk in the direction of camp. Caught himself mid-stride. Groaned, and glared up at the observing stars.

Faced the lake again. 

“You’d better not be pretending.” Astarion threatened, “If this turns out to be a clever way to get me in the water with you, I can guarantee you’ll have a run in with a real monster!” One moment more, then he added, “And not in a fun way!”

This, too, was met with silence, as he tugged off his boots and socks, and unbuttoned his shirt with furtive fury. For spite, he folded that and set it neatly atop the boots, before approaching the bank again, grimacing. He hesitated.

The water was still black. Still… still. Barely even a ripple. Not a clue how deep it might go, or what else might be lurking beneath. Ugh. And it’s going to be freezing, more than likely. 

Astarion went back for his clothes. 

Stopped. Huffed. 

Turned, again. But at this point, he reasoned, he may as well commit.

He pointed at the lake as if to tell it off, but any words didn’t make it past his fangs, this time. He only pulled his lip into a snarl and edged a toe in. 

That was the very moment he heard a twig snap, and a very not-eaten Lyra darted out from the reeds to his left wearing nothing but a shit-eating grin. 

Only vampiric reflex saved him being grappled, and he caught her mid-leap with a staggered step back onto solid ground. “You lying little– Mnnph!”

Lips cascaded into his, interrupting him with an appropriately lurid kiss. 

He pulled back, exhaling. “Were you just going to let me dive in there and laugh from dry land?”

“Obviously not.” She soubretted back, “I only wanted t’get yer shirt off. But it fair warms me heart t’know ye would have.”

“Next time something really is going to eat you and I’m not going to lift a finger to stop it.” He snapped back. And he felt very heroic for not simply dropping her onto the sand.

“Y’should beat the beasties to it an’ eat my yerself.” Lyra tilted her head, leaving the temptation of her throat on full display. 

Well. He thought he just might.

#bg3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate 3 #astarion/tav #astarion #fanfic #my writing #blood of my bloog #bg spoilers #vampire #lyra bg3 #lyra

[igotsnothing]

Shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist and post the first ten tracks, then tag ten people.

Oh, yes: tag game me! I was tagged by @akitasimblr, who is one of the first simblrs I ever followed. I love her edits, her sims (Maria and her "Woof-Woof" live in my heart rent-free), the Harper legacy (OMG, what a lesson on how to play legacies and I am failing splendidly...) and of course, LE CHAT. I was also tagged by my dear @greighish, who is the kind of person who when they enter the scene, they class up the joint, conversations get smarter, the air quality gets better, the silver polishes itself...You get the (museum-quality) picture: cool writer, music connoisseur, creative simmer, and kind and lovely human.

Thanks for the tag, friends!❤️

Umm... so nevermind that most of the selections on my playlist consist of morbid-sounding titles that make me seem like a hella off-brand Wednesday Adams. I am actually quite cheerful and upbeat when I'm lip synching to Pantera’s “Walk”.

Deadcrush- alt-J

The Actor- alt-J

Ave Plague- King Plague

Half Life- Zola Jesus

Wolf Like Me- TV On The Radio

Forever Suffer- Dark

The Killing Moon- Echo and the Bunnymen

Bela Lugosi Is Dead- Bauhaus

Taro- alt-J

Riverside- Agnes Obel

Who is gettin' tagged? Cool peeps: @crabbeychick, @silentsundown, @box-of-sims, and @ladysakuraavalon. You know the drill: feel free to ignore, etc. etc. etc. ❤️

#tag game #i love my moots #musical tag #non sims #i'm on an alt-j listening spree #look! VAMPIRES EVEN IN MY PLAYLIST #Staaaahp it!

[morvantmortuary]

Maximilian “Maxi” Vincent Morvant

(The Reaper)

(Rarae Aves’s slasher/necromancer OC)

“Let’s get acquainted, shall we?”

age: Early 40s (9/9/82) (virgo, if he believed in that sort of thing)

birthplace: somewhere in calcasieu parish, louisiana (his mother’s family can trace their lineage all the way back to the Spaniards; his father’s people are of cajun stock from way back in the bayou.)

height: 5′11′’

current location: wherever you are and just out of sight. Usually found in Greymoon, Louisiana.

favorite book: other voices, other rooms - truman capote

hobbies: while running the Mortuary tends to keep him pretty busy not to mention his odd hour night work, he does tend to enjoy a few different things in his spare time. Maxi’s a connoisseur of horror movies, good and bad, and will happily talk your ear off about the accuracy of the gore/wound sfx - though he’s also a sucker for romcoms when the mood strikes. He occasionally can be caught playing video games (mostly also horror-related), collects rare books when he comes across a desired volume, and has been known to play the piano semi-passably at two or three in the morning after a few drinks. He loves going to New Orleans for concerts, live theater, and museums, and he stays the hell away from Baton Rouge on game weekends. He’s also a cheerful walking encyclopedia of death and funerary practices throughout history, including various plagues and epidemics that swept through Louisiana over the centuries. He loves animals (once having dreamed of being a vet before Death ruled his world so completely), and can often be seen leaving appropriate snacks out for the graveyard critters when he’s restoring older tombstones and mausoleums in the cemetery next door.

occupation: current acting funeral director at the family business, Morvant Mortuary

“What can I say? It grew on me, after a while.” He smiles, and it’s sweet, unassuming (but there’s still something too dark about those eyes of his - a brown so deep, it teeters nearly into burgundy). “It might not be… what I had in mind for myself, originally,” he says, and his eyes fall to his perfectly shined shoes. “But it’s fulfillin’, gettin’ to help take care of people on their worst days. Give them the rest the deserve. We don’t talk about that nearly enough in this country, honestly, and we can trace that back to when we started phasin’ out home funerals; funnily enough–” He stops himself, and laughs - a peculiar half giggle, half snort. It’s a nice sound (though there’s something under it, something that feels like it could tip into a mad cackle under the right circumstances). “But look at me, goin’ on. I’m sorry, I tend to do that about my line of work.” His eyes flicker back to you behind his glasses (and the focus is a little too keen, too watchful to be only polite interest). “Now. Tell me about your ideal funeral.”

a history, of sorts:

Maxi was always the oldest son. Dutiful, anxious, with an impeccable attention to detail even at a young age (he had to be, given the Morvant family’s notorious inherited temper). It seemed only natural he would follow in his father Vincent’s footsteps to take over the business his family built when they immigrated here, serving the town of his birth for over a hundred years now. …Vincent forgot to ask Maxi how he felt about this, however. While he went through the motions from elementary to high school, smiling through perfectly posed family photos, making perfect grades, he was planning his escape. To somewhere. Anywhere. To see the world, he hoped. The town he grew up in was enough for people like his parents and his aunt and uncle, but he would not be one of the people who ended up trapped here, living and dying within a stone’s throw of the same graveyard where everyone he’d ever known was buried (or would come to be). He was taken with art and literature, wanting to see the great treasures of history his European-Creole forebears used to speak of in rapturous tones.

Then, of course, Maxi became his parents’ only child. But that’s a story for another time.

Maxi’s mother, Mathilde, didn’t handle grief well. A hothouse flower of a woman even before the death of her youngest, she withered away within the house Maxi grew up in. (rumor had it she never left the house again after the funeral that day.) It fell to Maxi to try to take care of her, making meals carried into her room that went wholly uneaten, bringing her vases of flowers from her formerly prized garden before they all died out, trying to keep the curtains open only to have her shriek at the tiniest speck of sunlight.

Maxi learned too quickly the futility of trying to keep things alive. Especially when they didn’t want to be.

Vincent, not a man for expressing his grief, turned further into the family business and the family night business, now more determined than ever to pass the mantle in multiple senses to his oldest child and only son -- to make sure he left behind some sort of tangible legacy. (Maxi learned too quickly that he was not enough.)

For Maxi, there would be no dreamed-of going away to university, there would just be the minimum associate’s degree at the Greymoon junior college. He would apprentice under his father, pass the state exam as soon as he turned twenty-one, and take over as funeral director when Vincent was good and ready to retire.

Maxi contemplated running - one night, he even made it so far as the abandoned house on the Knox family’s property on the edge of town, where he tried to hunker down.

He doesn’t talk about what he saw there, ever. But whatever it was, it convinced him to come back. Just for a little while. (Just long enough to see this through.) He enrolled in the junior college, he got the associate’s degree in record time, and he began his training. Just as a good son would.

Mathilde died the day before Maxi’s twentieth birthday. He helped embalm his mother as part of his apprenticeship. He chose the hymns, the flowers, the photo for the portrait at the front of the chapel. It was said by everyone who attended - the neighbors, Mathilde’s former sewing circle, the Junior League, the Greymoon Historical Society, and anyone else who couldn’t resist a good snoop - to be a beautiful service. People exclaimed to one another that poor, sainted Mathilde (who had been wasting away for two years, who had made it no secret that she’d been simply waiting for her body to give out) looked to be at rest at last. Peaceful, even, after such strife at the end.

The entire time, Vincent stood at the back of the church, arms folded with a constant scowl on his face.

There was… an altercation, at the Morvant house that night. No one knows for sure what they heard. Knock on any door in town, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: someone heard yelling between the last two Morvant men, the cracking of Mathilde’s wedding china hurled across the room, a guttural scream accompanied by what sounded like howling, manic laughter, though no one would dare admit that aloud, and the slamming of a door. Then… nothing. Crickets sang away into the late summer night, and everyone went about their business.

The next day, Vincent was found dead in his own prep room of a broken heart, and poor little Maxi was left all alone in the world.

What followed the next few weeks was the most awkward standoff in the world: this sweet, polite, soft-spoken young man with perfect manners, and the parish sheriff who knew damn well Vincent Morvant didn’t die of no broken heart. He came by the house almost daily for the week after the murder, and every time, Maxi would be waiting with a plate of his great-grandmother’s famous cookies (an old German recipe) and a full pitcher of homemade lemonade. When the coroner finally declared there was no trace of anything untoward in old Vincent’s guts, not even his favored whiskey, the Sheriff about threw a fit right there on Maxi’s front porch. Maxi smiled and waved as he shut the door, but before he did, he smilingly told the old man that if he wasn’t coming by the plan a funeral, he’d need to come back with a warrant.

Given that Maxi was the only qualified person in his part of the parish, and no one wanted to send their meemaw the next town over when it was her time to go on and receive her Eternal Reward, Maxi was fast-tracked through the state exam. He passed it on his twenty-first birthday, exactly.

The next day, however, this proved all for naught: the family hearse was out of the driveway, and that boy was gone for five whole years.

The House stood empty, sheets over the furniture, with a cleaning service being wired money every so often to go in and clear away any truly troublesome cobwebs or dust bunnies. Keen-eyed neighbors noticed that it was a different crew every time, however… apparently, whatever they were being paid, it wasn’t worth it for most people to go back into that house twice. You could watch the ones that took smoke breaks stand there on the wide front porch, or near the garage door, with an uneasy shifting and a nervous glance over their shoulder every few minutes or so. If you were brave enough to walk over and ask one about it, they’d smile and laugh, insist they were being silly… but something about the house just didn’t feel right. (And not just because it was the last place lots of folks had spent their last night above ground.)

For the longest time, on windy nights, people could swear you could hear groaning coming from the loading and unloading door from the “business” half of the house in the back. It was just the wind, though. Of course. Without warning, Maxi slipped back into town one day, and opened the family mortuary right back up like nothing happened. It’s been running steady ever since, and now people from other towns bring Maxi their meemaws and other assorted family dead, having heard for miles around how dignified and magnificent all his services are — no matter who the deceased was or if their family had money.

…The only odd thing, in all of this, is that sometimes - just sometimes, mind you - people who attend the funerals tend to go missing not long after. Usually adult male relatives of the deceased: a troublesome cousin, a cantankerous father, a boorish brother. (Not to mention the unfortunate spate of pretty girls that have up and disappeared across multiple parishes during what would come to be called his “Bad Spell”  - but no one can prove they’re connected, of course.) It’s become a bit of a rumor that the Morvant business, for all Maxi’s empathy and efficiency, might just be cursed.

If you ask Maxi about this, he’ll give you a smile - a slightly pained one - and suggest perhaps it’s the same curse that took his dear Père, saints rest him, all those years ago. And how could you argue with someone whose own family wasn’t immune to… whatever this was?

But he’s such a sweet man, everyone in the town will tell you so. He hosts every funeral and wake himself, and he takes such care of the grieving families, it’s like the deceased is one of his own. He’s not one for the church, and for being so handsome, he’s most usually found in the company of a book or a stray critter in the cemetery.

But there’s nothing to say that couldn’t change, though, if he met another lonely soul...

#maximilian vincent morvant #maxi morvant #southern slasher oc #necromancer oc #slasher oc #daniel brühl fc #morvant mortuary #monsterkisser fics #slasher oc x reader #slasher oc x you #mdni