#fictitious beasts

[sivavakkiyar]

from Perec’s Life A User’s Manual. As the wiki article shows, ‘Gelon The Samartian’ might figure as a different translation, or more likely I think a deliberate misattribution (idk), but the text Perec uses is directly lifted from Rabelais’ 4th book of Pantagruel: (… “also a tarand, whom he bought of a Scythian of the Gelones’ country”.)

Rabelais includes a final statement that Perec leaves off:

“When the creature was free from any fear or affection, the colour of its hair was just such as you see that of the asses of Meung.”

[billcyphersballsack]

Actually no joke I need to see more slay the monster (or whatever the reverse au is called) content.

I need to see the princesses perspectives translated into voices I need to hear how they think how they process. So much of (some of) the perspectives power comes from their control over their situations and I wanna know what they’d do with that partially taken away

I need to see the voices translated into perspectives I need to see how their forms are twisted and shaped by the princesses interactions with them.

I NEED to see how the narrator would respond to the shift. The entire reason the voice of the hero initially puts doubt in the player and hints that the narrators word might not be law is by pointing out the obvious tonal dissonance of a hero SLAYING a princess rather than SAVING her. But that doesn’t exist with slay the monster. The narrator wouldn’t need to work as hard to convince the player that they’re doing “the right thing” cuz it’s a monster! It’s chained up and dangerous and going to hurt a lot of people if you don’t kill it! The voice of the princess (my decided title for the VOT Hero in this au cuz obviously the actual Princess would be called the shifting mound the same way we’re the long quiet) would then have to take an angle of “we’re supposed to protect our subjects and our people. Monster or not, isn’t that what this creature is?” Which is still an appeal to the common trope as well as your morality. The narrator would play into your role as a princess like crazy going on about your duty to protect the world you rule over and to save innocent people who’s lives are in your hands, basically what he does to the long quiet but more

Mostly though I just think an inverse of their situations in the cabin would be fun. The chapter one princess is such an interesting character because she’s not the perfect victim. Her honey sweet voice and her doe eyes and her innocent scared demeanour aren’t necessarily fabricated just overplayed. She is genuinely scared, that’s the part that’s true, everything else is a desperate appeal to your humanity that you’ll let her go. It becomes somewhat real in the damsel rout when you free her and warn her and fight tooth and nail to save her, but for the most part it’s for show. If you come down there with a knife or decide mid convo you’re actually gonna kill her for real she drops it. She’s harsh and cold and keeps you at arms length, she acts bored and above it all when she speaks to you picking at her nails and glaring at you. GRANTED THAT COULD ALL BE WRONG! Maybe the harsh and cold personality is the fictitious one, a front built up to protect herself from danger, and really the frightened and desperate personality is the real one. MAYBE THEY’RE BOTH REAL! OR MAYBE THEY’RE BOTH MADE UP. It’s probably that last one but for the sake of my bit we’re going with the first one.

The point is the princess tries to appear put together and composed in both these versions of her personality, but deep down she’s like a caged wild animal and isn’t afraid to act like a caged wild animal if she has to

Now imagine the inverse of that, for The Monster

Outwardly a beast who smarls and claws at every surface trying to break free from its prison. If you bring the blade it slinks into the far corner of the room and hisses and spits while you trying and communicate with it but if you go unarmed it will lunge at you held back by its chains just barely. It’s frightening it’s threatening there is no attempt to appeal to any morality or present a domineering front to strong arm you into doing what it wants, it’s just pure violence and fear, a creature who wears its emotions on its sleeve. Depending on what you do it’s iterations become more or less beastly (I’d imagine guys like Stubborn or Broken or Hunted or Cold would get even more violent or reactive but guys like Paranoid or Opportunist or Cheated or Contrarian would have a more pensive and thoughtful approach, you can decide for the rest) but as you play and as you try and speak with it you discover actually there’s a lot more complex thought behind its eyes, and once the fear subsides there’s a person with throught and feelings hiding under all those feathers and teeth. Also not the perfect victim, they also bite the hand that feeds, but like a little to the left you know

Can you tell? Can you tell it’s like a worm digging into my frontal lobe and eating away at my brain? Huh? Can you tell???

[consultingskeletondetective]

Virginal, chapter 2

Michael had left you alive, and you couldn't begin to fathom why. You know all you can do is try and forget it and move on with your life.

Except...Michael has followed you home.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, hair pulling, forced orgasms

The police hadn’t caught him yet.

It had been almost a week since your encounter with Michael Myers in the woods on your way home from work, and he’d been on the run ever since. You hadn’t reported what had happened to the authorities, even if you’d been on the verge of it many times. You’d spent the whole week waking up in cold sweats with a gooey and shameful mess between your legs at the memory of Michael’s large hand on your neck, or the sense-memory of his cock pressed heavy and dangerous against your core. The way he’d used you, fucked you, like his own little plaything haunted you.

No one could know what he’d done to you, no one could know how you felt about it, even if the guilt gnawed at you. Maybe if you’d told someone, they might have caught him by now, and people might still be alive. But there was a part of you, a part of you you wished you didn’t have, that reminded you that if Michael wanted someone dead, then there was nothing any earthly power could do to keep that person alive. Michael left no survivors.

Except for you.

It had been on the news religiously all week; police were baffled by his location and utterly at a loss for his motivations and patterns. Michael, it seemed, cared not a bit to cover his tracks. He even seemed to decorate his murder scenes artistically, propping bodies up and, blurred though they were on the television, reminding you of a sick and gruesome game of action figures. They were Michael’s bodies, to do with as he pleased. Twelve people he’d killed since he found you. Twelve. That the authorities were aware of, anyway. The thought chilled you to the very core.

You’d learnt from the heavy reporting that Michael Myers had been being held at the Westbrook Sanitarium for the criminally insane, not four miles from where you worked, and he’d escaped that night he’d taken you - thrust against your weak body until he came on your cunt like a wild animal. 

You were the first person he’d come across, apparently, and after years of solitude, Michael had some frustrations to take out on you. You knew well who he was, you recognised that mask and that boiler suit the second you’d seen it. You’d grown up with stories of the boogeyman who’d murdered his sister the same as everyone else, thrust into the spotlight when he’d escaped from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium a few years ago and murdered a bunch of teenagers on a spree. You’d seen the youtube video essays and buzzfeed articles on the stoic killing machine who’d baffled psychologists and doctors up and down the country, maybe even the world. You’d walked past books in shops written about this monster, his silence, his rage, his gore and death and damnation were a part of your culture. It made it easy to forget that Michael Myers was real, and not just some fictitious product of a sick mind. He became very real to you that night, your own personal boogeyman.

You’d learnt that Michael Myers was no man, he was an evil spirit, a hell-sent silent demon, a ghost - one that was haunting you. 

You turned the television off and went into the bathroom, shucking your clothes into a messy pile by the bath as you stepped under the cool spray of the shower.

It was a warm day, your skin over-hot, and you welcomed the clammy dribbles down your back. You washed quickly, fingers pressing too familiar over the lips of your pussy, you expected them still to be swollen, puffy from use where Michael had rutted his scorching and elephantine cock against you like a beast in heat, but it wasn’t. It was like it hadn’t happened. Except it had, of course, because you still wore him on your skin. His fingertips were in every bruise, his grip was the ache in your bones with every groan of your sore body. It was like he’d marked you, made your tiny body a part of his eclipsing form. 

You shook your head frustratedly to yourself in the bathroom mirror before flicking the lightswitch off and making your way to your bedroom. You couldn’t think of him every moment for the rest of your life, you couldn’t live in fear of the boogeyman. He had left you alive, and you had to live with that. Michael was gone, and you’d never see him again. 

You pulled a short nightdress on, the flimsy material to combat the hot and sticky night you anticipated, and you made your way to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle to take to bed. 

The outside light was on.

It wasn’t yours, but your neighbours. It was motion-sensored, you knew that because it blinded you every time you stumbled back from a night shift.

You frowned before crossing to the door, to close the blinds over the glass so no one would be able to see into your home in the middle of the night. Your hand tangled in the string before it froze, along with the rest of your body. Like your blood had frozen to ice inside you and made you a dead weight to the floor.

Michael was standing under the light, 50 yards away from your door. He was staring sightlessly at you through the empty eyes of his mask, utterly emotionless. His hands rested unclenched by his sides, his back razor-straight as always. He was just watching. His form gave no indication of how long he’d been there. Maybe hours.

Fear shot through you and the string began to shake violently in your grip as you stared at him. He’d come to finish what he’d started, you realised in horror, he’d noticed his mistake in leaving you alive. Was it so you couldn’t tell the police? Was it just that you needed to die, he’d had you in his grasp and that was that, a rageful itch under his skin that wouldn’t be quenched until your blood was soaking his hands?

It didn’t make sense. He was stood in the street, bathed in your neighbours motion light like a bloody homing beacon. Surely they’d seen him. Surely someone had seen him and called the police? Why weren’t there any sirens? It was deathly quiet. Just you, him and the wind. Maybe it was a fever dream, a sleep paralysis nightmare and your demon had returned to you.

He began walking leisurely towards the door, his pace bone-tinglingly unhurried as ever, before he stopped at the glass and peered down at you. You shrank, paralysed with fear. You’d somehow forgotten just how big he was. He might have been two foot taller than you, and just as broad, taking up the whole of the door so he blacked out any light behind him. That was as good a metaphor as any to describe Michael. The darkness followed him. 

You didn’t know why you weren’t moving, dazzled, you supposed somewhere in the back of your mind. A monster brought to life, in front of you, enough to convince yourself that you were dreaming.

His fist shattered through the glass, shards of glittering ice hitting the kitchen floor as his hand curled down to find the handle. You screamed, backing off so violently your back hit the fridge and tears wept down your cheeks until they were quite literally soaking the front of your nightie. This was no dream. It was a nightmare incarnate. 

Even his violent outburst seemed calm somehow, shattering your backdoor into shards of glass like it was nothing. His large hand found the door handle and began to rattle it, and the noise caused your brain to snap back to where it needed to be.

You forced your eyes from him, pushed yourself away from the fridge and scurried into the living room. The front door was in your sights. You didn’t know precisely what you planned to do with yourself when you got outside, your brain hadn’t made it that far yet. All you knew was that you needed to survive, and you had no chance of that locked in the same cage as this rabid animal.

You grabbed for the front door handle with a hiss of accomplishment, throwing your gaze back over your shoulder to ascertain how much time you had. No time. Michael was already in the living room, walking towards you like he had all the time in the world. You shrieked in pure terror at his towering form as you flung the door wide open, the concrete of your front step was cool on your barefoot but the sensation barely lasted a second as fingers tangled roughly in your hair and yanked you roughly until you fell onto the carpet. The open-palm of Michael’s free hand slammed the front door shut, cutting off your exit, and the oak creaked under the force of it, the foundations of the house damn-near shaking.

You scrambled onto your knees, screeching, crying, grasping at his hand in your hair, wincing when every flex of his fingers yanked at your scalp, tearing individual hairs out by the roots. He had to bend his back to hold you to the floor, his emotionless mask looking down on you. His breathing was barely audible over your devastated screams. You couldn’t move.

“Please, please, please, Michael, please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! I won’t! I don’t want to die, please let me go, please, please-”

You could barely beg, your throat hoarse, your words sobs. He didn’t respond except to drag you into the middle of the room by your hair, kicking the coffee table aside to make room for you both in the middle of the floor. One of the wooden legs of your poor table snapped under his boot before he tossed you down like a ragdoll. Your back hit the carpeted floor and it shook your whole frame. You instinctively planted your palms on the floor behind yourself, to crawl back, to spring up, you didn’t know.

Michael’s boot came to rest on your bare thigh, his weight utterly solid and you wailed as he pinned you to the floor. Your nightie had ridden up, not to the point of indecency, but enough that his boot kissed your flesh. You froze as fresh tears streamed down your face, remembering exactly what he’d done the last time he’d had you like this, as if just realising how acutely vulnerable you were in this position. Were you even wearing underwear? You didn’t think so. His boot was mere inches away from your exposed cunt, all he’d have to do was push your dress up and he’d see everything. See how fucking wet you were. You hated yourself.

“Please,” you tried again, voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him. Submissive, you realised, prey before a predator, begging for its life. “What do you want?”

He didn’t move, you could barely tell if he was breathing, just staring down at you as everything else in the world fell away. His hands were still loose by his sides, no knife, you noted, but a grim red-hued dirt on the rough palms of his hands you could identify without too much guesswork. Your stomach rolled.

His hand raised and you jolted, expecting pain, to be struck, stripped, killed. 

How long had he been searching for you? Maybe he’d never left, maybe he’d been one step behind you all week, watching you sleep, watching you shower - were those twelve people dead because they lived close to you? Did you kill them?

His large hand came to rest over the front of his crotch and your mouth fell open. Not again. Why me? You were already shaking your head, breathy hitching sobs racking through you.

“No, Michael, please -”

He toed your thigh with the steel-gap of his boot, shoving it to the side, affectively opening your legs and you wanted to close your eyes, the feeling of vulnerability and shame as he spread your legs for him hurt something deep inside of you, you felt dirty and shameful in every one of your nerves. Your slick was soaking the back of your nightie and probably your carpet too. What the fuck was wrong with you?

He fell to his knees in front of you, in a way that could only have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound as his large, gore-stained hands gripped your bare thighs and tugged until you were lying in front of him. You squeaked, your legs not quite touching his, more left hanging in the air as he scraped his calloused hands down your thighs in a way that definitely didn’t make your heart speed up, no more than it was already hammering, before his palms were flat on your inner thighs, pressing them apart and into the floor. You tried immediately and desperately to close them and his grip on you tightened to the point of extreme pain, your femurs tremoring dangerously like they might snap if you moved even an inch.

You stilled completely, you couldn’t tell where he was looking, but it seemed to be right at you, that emotionless masked expression, or lack of, giving you nothing, but you could feel the rage and the dangerous power wafting off of him, you could feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the strain of his bicep muscles in his boiler suit as he held you immobile and you swallowed, shivering in fear and pitiful acceptance as you stopped struggling. If you had any hope of getting out of this alive, and as uninjured as possible, you had to stop fighting. 

His pathetic, mewling hole, your brain supplied almost bitterly.

Once apparently satisfied you’d stopped struggling, MIchael’s grip on your thighs lessened somewhat, leaving deep red bruises regardless, and he shifted forwards on his knees, taking up more space between your legs, as he rucked your nightie up to your belly, sitting back a little just to stare at your pussy, exposed and dripping and vulnerable, as if getting a good look at the wet little hole that had made him come so hard the last time. 

Your cheeks burned boiling hot as he looked at you, your thighs twitching conspirately to close but you forced yourself to try and calm, utterly impossible, you trembled like a newborn foal.

He dipped his head between your legs and your back arched, startled, wondering what he possibly meant to do, particularly, your horrible brain chipped in, with a mask over his face. You could hear nothing but that breathing, before it was sucked in, the nose of his mask just nudging your folds and making you jolt. 

Was he - was he smelling you? 

He made no noise, his body shifted an inch. What was he doing? It was like he was searching for something. He kept his nose buried against your soaping heat for a few more moments before he apparently found it. Then he was sitting back up again. Your knees were nearly knocking together in terror when his hands, fuck, how were they so big? framed your cunt, pulling at the flesh of the tops of your thighs, spreading your folds, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh of your seam, your clit.

Oh fuck.

He prodded you with a long finger a few times, painful sharp jabs until he caught the rim of your opening and sunk in to the knuckle. It burned, it burned so hot, you clenched painfully around his finger. Fuck, it felt like the size of a cock all on its own. But the finger was withdrawn as quickly as it had breached you, like a fucking dip test, but no less rough on the way out and you grimaced. You had a pretty good idea about what was to follow, and the anticipation of the pain alone was enough to make you cry again. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you tried again pathetically, wondering somewhere in your mind why you were trying to distract him from fucking you, when the alternative was his heavy hands shattering your collarbone until your heart was pierced by your own brittle dagger. Survival, you kept saying to yourself, one day you might believe it, you were trying to live. Nothing else. Nothing else.

He’d already unzipped his boiler suit, you could just glimpse a sliver of pale flesh beneath but he undressed himself no further, reaching down into his trousers and pulling his cock free. 

Fucking hell.

It was a goddamn fucking monster. It sat snug in Michael’s large hand, long and thick, crown red with blood and dribbling precome, it curved up slightly, in a way that was designed to attack that spot inside of you, and when he dropped it, it dipped, bobbing against his boiler suit, so heavy under its own weight it could barely hold itself up, but it did, his cock stood proud and to attention, ready for action, as he shifted down a little, hands once more finding your thighs and hauling you practically into his lap. He threw your legs over his broad hips, stretching your thigh muscles, as his cock rested hot and heavy on your pelvic bone, like a leaden weight on you. Oh fuck, you were so fucked. It was near enough the size of your thigh, and you knew it was going to wreck you.

You jerked your hips uselessly, trying in vain to put some distance between you and Michael’s thick cock, you’d never had a partner that size before, you’d never even had a toy that size. It wasn’t going to fit, it was as simple as that. Except he didn’t care.

He pressed his hips up, taking you with him, lifting your back clean off of the floor so your spine was arched uncomfortably. He paid you no mind as he gripped the base of his erection and slipped himself down through your folds.

He was silent, calm and ferocious as he pressed forward against you with so much pressure that it hurt. You could feel his heaviness hard against your pelvic bone and you trembled in fearful anticipation of what was about to happen.

Finally, Michael found what he was looking for and his thick cockhead breached your hole barely a centimetre but still you gasped, already undone by being so violently penetrated by not even a goddamn inch of that fat unforgiving head. 

Michael surged forward, in triumph perhaps, or just in a hurry to get his cock stuffed deep into you as quickly as possible, but your traitorous cunt was wet enough that he slipped straight back out again, whole cock fucking upwards and jamming through your folds, gliding gloriously against your clit. You let out a loud moan and he stilled entirely except for the throb of his cock against you. You clapped your hands to your mouth and forced your eyes to the ceiling. You hadn’t meant to do that. You didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction. It was the last thing you could keep for yourself.

Michael was a fast learner, it seemed, because this time he inched a little more slowly inside you until a good inch of solid cock was spearing you open. You thought you might die, knees knocking against his hips helplessly as he forcibly stretched you obscenely around him. You will take me, I will make it fit.

Only when he was firm in you, and you were surely going to pass out from pressure alone, did he plunge his hips forward, his whole cock sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust. 

The pain, fuck the pain was indescribable, burning, aching, stuffed full, stuffed beyond full - he didn’t care - he didn’t care that he’d probably just ripped you in half, stretched you so full you were more cock than you were yourself anymore. He didn’t care you were crying, shivering, he cared that you were an open, wet heat to warm his cock in. 

Those blood-stained, murderous hands gripped your hips and an ache blossomed in your bones, your skin beneath his skin turned white to red to near-black with bloodied pressure-bruises as he gripped you hard enough you fully believed he intended to shatter bone. He could, you knew he could. It was enough to lose yourself to, you were going to pass out, you were going to die from the stress and agony forced upon your weak and small body. This was how he was going to kill you.

He moved, shifted his heavy length inside you, nudging spots of your flesh where a cock was not meant to be. He pulled out incrementally, shoved back in and oh - oh .

Your thighs shook again, trembled, as spiralling pleasure mixed with pain and your pussy clenched around his cock, contracting around it as he thrust in again, as if traitorously and deliriously pulling him in to you, to where that thick and hot pressure felt the best. He thrust in again, harder than before, faster than before, immediately picking up an athletic, robotic pace as if he were half-way through a marathon fuck, thrumming with energy. You had no time to adjust, no time to build-up - you were there immediately, clenching uncontrollably on Michael Myer’s mercilessly hard cock, your cunt fluttering and clenching on every brutal, animalistic intrusion, until you couldn’t take it anymore. There was no edge, there was just falling.

You yelped, back arching up even more than it already was, legs squeezing the small of Michael’s back as your poor cunt spasmed, coming hot and hard until you felt your own slick dribbling down the backs of your thighs. Michael didn’t stop for a second, he didn’t even slow, you nearly choked on your own spit.

He was utterly devoid of anything, breathing heavy and focused, no movement except the piston of his hips as he fucked you deep and unforgiving until you were sure his thick crown was kissing at your cervix. 

Your head was hazy, eyes unfocused, you had absolutely no control over your overworked cunt anymore, whining pitifully as you came around him again, lathering his cock in your traitorous spend, praying every time that he’d slow, but he didn’t, and you felt that molten lava in your core building again until you were covered in a sheen of your own sweat, spent, exhausted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t done yet, he wanted more. He took it.

He angled his hips up, chasing a sensation, you weren’t prepared for it. He hammered into you until his hip bones were slamming against your inner thighs with enough force to shake your entire body. His cock against your sweet spot was like a punch to the gut and you screamed. Pain, pleasure, you didn’t know anymore as your hips convulsed and jerked, clamping down on him hard enough that if he were a normal man, he wouldn’t have been able to move.

But Michael was no normal man. 

He held your hips down, taking your clenching orgasm for himself as he slammed into you. Being fucked into your leg-shaking release was like being volted off of this ethereal plane and into another, your eyes whitened, your brain slowed to juddering holt as dizzying, mind-numbing ohmyfuckinggodthisfeelssogood short-circuited your entire being.

Michael slammed into you one final time, unable to withstand the vice-like grip of your velvet walls any longer before he was stilling completely, his cock an erupting volcano inside of you that spurted hot white heat against your walls, filling you utterly.

Your mouth opened in shock, or exhaustion, as your whole body trembled, jerking uncontrollably in the aftershocks.

He didn’t linger. His hands left your hips first, the bruises behind ached immediately, black and devastating to your skin where even taking a breath in bothered them. Then he snapped his hips back, swollen cock slipping free of your drenched heat, sopping with white. He let it hang there, between his legs, a stark contrast against his boiler suit, and you trembled with undignified arousal. Your cunt felt wrecked, stretched wide, forced open to accommodate him, and yet your body still somehow ached for more. No, you were terrified, fighting for your life, this wasn’t real. None of it was.

He stood, using core strength alone, leaving your legs to fall heavily to the floor. They ached where the muscles had been stretched, kicking the pain in your back and your hips into eleventh gear. You’d been twisted like a pretzel for too long. You frowned. How long had he been fucking you? It felt like no time at all, it felt like days.

You pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, scrambling your legs together despite the way they twinged. You could feel him squelching between your thighs and your untouched clit twinged pitifully.

When you gathered the courage to look up at him, you saw that he’d tucked himself away and zipped himself back up. He stood tall and menacing over you, gargantuan in your living room, his head near-touching the ceiling. He was peering down at you, that devoid mask giving nothing. The utter silence was as terrifying and deafening as any death cry.

He cocked his head ever so slightly and you winced, fight or flight response, before he was turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen.

Terror rocked through you, vomit-inducing, head-spinning terror, and you were on your feet in a heartbeat. Your mauled insides and your ruined hips complained at you but you ignored it. They would mean nothing if you were dead. Which you were about to be. He was going for a knife, surely he was. He -

The creak of the kitchen door caught you by surprise, but it took a few long minutes for your heart to stop thudding loud enough for you to realise that he wasn’t coming back in. After a few breaths, your curiosity got the better of you and you crept into the kitchen. The back door was shut, except for the hole gaped in the glass by his fist, of course, and the kitchen was empty.

You were careful with your bare feet to avoid the shards of glass on the floor, not that it would make massive amounts of difference to your ruined body, before you shakily peered through what remained of your door.

The motion detector light was on, the street was empty.

Confusion and shame rocked through you with enough force to make you tumble and you had to grip the countertop to keep yourself upright.

How on earth were you still alive? For a second time? What did the most infamous serial killer in the country get from keeping you alive?

A hot, wet hole to come in.

You could feel the ache between your legs like Michael was still there, it was a glorious, horrible burn, trembling pleasure, irrefutable depravity - the best fuck of your life.

What did that make you?

Everything was eerily quiet. Your water bottle still sat on the side. If it weren’t for the broken door and the shards of glass, it would be easy to imagine that Michael hadn't been there at all.

Except for the warm come dribbling down your thighs where he’d marked his territory inside you. You swallowed. Whether you were his next victim or his fucktoy - you couldn’t escape that you were his. And you knew, even now, with terrifying certainty, that Michael Myers was not going to let you go.

link to chapter 3

[gardenofnoah]

turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

.

..

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

.

..

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

.

..

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

.

..

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

.

..

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

.

..

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

.

..

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

.

..

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

[pocket-deer-boy]

If your fursona is a mythical creature, folkloric beast, or otherwise fictitious (gryphons, dragons, mothman, etc) then that knowledge also counts! Who knows, maybe there’s some deep protogen lore I didn’t know about. And do tell me all about your creature in the tags i would LOVE to hear about it

[dark-frosted-heart]

Aphrodisiac Event - Roger Barel (part 1)

As usual can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

Roger: Wanna be my test subject for this (aphrodisiac)?

Kate: ...Excuse me?

While helping Roger organize his materials, I did a double take at his outrageous suggestion.

Roger: Remember how a few days ago, El and I took down a crime syndicate that was using aphrodisiacs to do some bad stuff?

Kate: Yes, of course I do. I wasn't with you, but I understand what happened. The organization responsible for manufacturing the aphrodisiac was destroyed and the crime was put to a stop, right?

Roger: Yeah, and this aphrodisiac was confiscated.

Roger placed a pretty vial on the examination table.

(At first glance, it looked like perfume or something)

Roger: Aphrodisiacs claim to enhance libido, but the active ingredient hasn’t been medically proven.

Kate: So aphrodisiacs are fictitious?

Roger: Yeah, if something called an aphrodisiac existed… Something that acts directly on the medial preoptic area of the hypothalamus*… It’d be a drug that stimulates the release of sex hormones. So I looked into this aphrodisiac and found an interesting component.

Of course Roger, whose life’s work is researching curses, would capitalize on the “interesting component”.

Kate: You didn’t…

Roger: I already gathered data on the curse by having Liam drink it.

Kate: I knew it! Just because Liam’s too nice, you used him as your guinea pig again!

Roger: That guy was happy to satisfy his curiosity so I consider it a win-win.

Kate: Um, so… You want me to take the aphrodisiac because you don’t have enough “human” samples?

Roger: You're quick on the uptake. Good, you're a fast learner.

Kate: I don't appreciate the compliment...

Roger: So, how ‘bout it?

Kate: Please don’t just offer an aphrodisiac like you would booze.

Roger: It’s nothing that serious. You’ll be quarantined so Crown won’t touch you. And if you need to be taken care of, I can help?

Roger patted my head as if while saying that as if it was nothing.

Though it was a casual gesture, it was enough for my body to recall the lustful heat.

Of the times when Roger kissed me forcefully and touched my body.

And how easy it was for me to feel good.

(Hey, don’t get caught up in it)

Kate: I can’t just say “okay, sure.” I respectfully decline.

Roger: Hmm, how cold. Guess I’ll just have to find someone else :(

Kate: Someone else…?

Roger: Once you’ve made up your mind, you gotta act, right? Let’s go.

Kate: H-hold on, Roger!

~~

I desperately tried to catch up to Roger’s casually long strides.

Kate: What do you mean by “find someone else”?

Roger: I’m looking for a woman whose biologically “human”.

Kate: No one would do such a thing.

Roger: Not if you got the money. There’s more self-sacrificing people in the world than you think.

Kate: But to have a person drink it…

Roger: What happens when they get excited? Like I said, I’ll deal with it.

Kate: T-that…

Alfons: I can hear Roger’s deep voice echoing in my sleep-deprived head. Can you be a little quieter?

Kate: Alfons…

Roger: You’re still sleepy at this hour? Your circadian rhythm’s broken.

Alfons: You would like for me to bask in the morning sun and sleep at night? I refuse. So what is it that you two are arguing so intimately about? Did Roger finally lay his hands on you?

Kate: Um, no.

Alfons: Then, what is it? I haven’t the slightest idea.

Roger: Kate won’t take the aphrodisiac.

Alfons: Really! Stingy Miss Kate.

Roger: Right? I told her I’d help when she got too horny.

Alfons: Ah! Perhaps you would like a threesome? Though I’d rather not with Roger involved.

(I can’t be the straight man…)

Alfons: When you suggested that she test the aphrodisiac, Kate declined. So now she’s desperately chasing after Roger the beast as he looks for other test subjects.

Kate: You know.

Alfons: I’m a clever man. Ah, yes. Let me give you something nice, something interesting.

Alfons holds out an invitation card.

Roger: Which high society mansion?

Alfons: It belongs to the Weasley family, who owns large plots of land. A place to bring their daughters and men together, I’m told. The father’s quite the strange fellow. “It’s best to experience a variety of men before finally choosing one,” he said. 

Roger: Oh? There’s some strange ideas these days. And it’s tonight?

Alfons: I don’t plan on making an appearance so feel free to hunt as you like.

Alfons returns to his room with a yawn.

(Roger’s going to find a test subject in high society, isn’t he?)

(I…)

Roger: Kate. Wanna come along as the “fairy tale writer”?

It’s obvious this isn’t a mission for Crown or anything.

Roger’s aware and he’s testing me.

(Something like “Follow me if you’re interested. I’ve got an excuse ready for you, okay?”)

I reflexively responded to his provocative gaze.

Kate: I’ll join you as the fairy tale writer to make sure you don’t misbehave.

Roger: Alright. Then-

Roger’s hand grasped mine tightly.

Roger: Let’s hold hands and be on our merry way.

Kate: Please let me go.

Roger: Nope.

*Here he says “the area libido is centered in the hypothalmus” but I had to do this

Part 2

[eldritch-spouse]

If I’m good enough will Nebul or Patches/stitches indulge in my breeding kink with me? (Even though both of us are well aware it wouldn’t do anything)

Definitely.

While Patches can get into the fantasy of putting a baby in you, he's a bit clumsy about it and immediately adopts a baby trapping type of dirty talk, stammered in between shameless thrusting while he "apologizes" for not being able to pull out in time. If you were to reverse this scenario and get on top of him with the fictitious intent of forcing him to impregnate you, the dullahan would also drool himself into a second grave.

Nebul is more inclined to make you beg for a family from him. It's a humorous concept for the undead. To the very moment he's nearing orgasm, Nebul will make you get creative with your pleas to have him finish inside. And then he'll mock you for your desperation. So pathetic that you'd cry for a wraith's spawn? That's just sad, you're like some hopeless beast.

[divine-misfortune]

* busts through your walls with a banana gun*

You know exactly why I'm here.

Mountain fucking rain with his tail, rain is so whiny and needy and he just wants more, make it sloppy, make it gross, make it oh so wet boy Wednesday.

*pats drywall dust off your shoulders * oh and uuuhh, sorry about yur wall.

*backs away slowly disappearing into the darkness*

I write you mean mountain and what do you give me? Property damage? You cruel beast.

Also I know it's not Wednesday, I just took too long to write this.

The cool embrace of the tile against his burning skin was the only relief Rain could find like this. It was the kindest thing he could ask for, and he knew better than to try to ask for more. The fact he had even a fraction of Mountain’s attention could be considered charity. Even if he was almost entirely occupied by the book balanced on his knee, he still had Rain absolutely unraveled. 

Taking him apart wasn’t hard. Rain was haphazardly woven together. He had been since he’d blinked into consciousness that morning, wracked by a fictitious inferno in his gut. Every part of his body cried out for reprieve from the heat rippling beneath his skin. The remaining smell of honeysuckle and pine on his sheets fuel to a growing fire. Mountain’s presence lingered on the fabrics that surrounded him. Every shallow breath only served to further drink him in. 

And Rain was weak. 

He'd sought Mountain out, body trembling, tears welling, and the earth ghoul had barely looked up from his book. He'd licked his thumb and turned the page with a noncommittal sound. Mountain peered down at him when he dropped to his knees, nuzzling his face against his inner thigh as he tugged at Mountain's belt. His hands were swatted away with a sneer. 

All it had taken was one word and Rain felt his cock kick, trapped in his boxers now entirely soaked and clinging to his body. 

Clothes. 

It was all Mountain needed to say before Rain was shamefully shimmying his sweatpants down to mid thigh. Color burned in his cheeks as he had to practically peel his underwear off. So wet already. He'd fumbled over himself to position onto his hands and knees, the way he knew Mountain liked to have him and held his breath. Rain waited to hear Mountain’s book snap shut, to hear the jingle of his belt buckle being undone, but the only sound he could hear was another page being turned.

And now his arms were barely supporting him, shaking and threatening to give as the spade of Mountain’s tail dragged along his ass. The copious amount of slick leaking out of him started to drip with the motion. His tail withdrew for a moment before snapping against Rain’s thighs like a whip. It sounded sharp in his ears. Rain yelped and his elbows buckled, upper body sagging against the floor, hips arching further. 

“You’re too stupid to even undress yourself properly,” Mountain sighed, “you’re no better than an animal when you’re like this.”

A whimper bubbled out of Rain as Mountain forcibly pulled his pants the rest of the way off. He nudged at the water ghoul’s knee with the toe of his boot and Rain buried his face in his arms as he spread his legs further apart. He was fully presenting himself now, truly no better than a dog. 

The spade of Mountain’s tail returned to nudge against his waiting hole and without looking he could feel precum beginning to bead at the head of his dick. He was already clenching around nothing, still worked open from his time twisted up in the sweet musk haunting his bed. The earth ghoul clicked his tongue and Rain felt the weight of his eyes rake slowly over his body with a cold indifference. 

Feeling the tapered tip of his tail push into him punched a full body sob from Rain. It almost immediately zeroed in on the spot inside him that made his eyes go cross, rubbing mercilessly into it. Mountain’s tail couldn’t carve out a place inside of him like his cock could have but his cock also couldn’t abuse his prostate like this. 

There were spots at the edges of his vision. He would’ve moaned unabashedly if he could catch his breath enough to do so, instead left gasping out little raspy whines.

Rain felt that little bead drip from his cock and if he picked himself up off the floor, he’d have looked between his thighs. Rain didn’t need to look to know there was absolutely a small pool of his pre growing between his knees, added to by the slick spilling over his rim as Mountain’s tail digs itself further - pressure against his prostate only growing. Rain’s own lubrication dribbled out of him, down his balls, and was only an added stimulation along the length of his neglected cock. 

“Mount, Mountain, f…fuck-” His voice came out strained and reedy, trying feebly to push himself off the tile. 

Mountain didn’t let him get far. The weight of his boot, cold leather and all, settled on his back. Easily pushing his chest back to the tile with another sigh that almost seemed to trail into a growl.

“You’re too loud, it’s distracting me.” 

“But,”

“Shut up,” he dug his heel into his back in warning and Rain winced, skin burning hotter at the sudden irritation. He instinctively began to apologize but thought to clamp a hand over his mouth before the words could tumble out. 

There was a tugging feeling deep in his gut and Rain felt tears pricking in his eyes. Relief was so close, he was so close. His head fell forward against his forearm, panting through his short strained sounds. Drool trickled off his tongue. It took far too much restraint not to reduce himself to shameless begging. 

He wanted to hear Mountain’s voice, praise or degradation, anything. Mountain could have started reading his herbology book aloud and Rain wouldn’t have been able to last. 

Rain bit his cheek and screwed his eyes shut, barely stifling his pleas but introducing the taste of blood into his mouth. His balls felt heavy despite the alarmingly large puddle beneath his hips. He’d only make the mess worse when he finally came. Part of him wanted to reach for his cock, to fuck into his fist with a wild abandon, but his body wouldn’t budge. Too heavy all over, too much static between his ears. 

The sound that’s torn out of Rain is embarrassingly pitched and feminine, loud and slutty enough you could hear it across the entire west wing of the abbey. The small spots that had formed initially at the edges of his vision grew to obscure it almost entirely. His cock pulsed angrily as his orgasm crashed into him, hips stuttering forward in time as ropes of cum just seemed to keep leaking and spilling out of him. 

Mountain’s tail didn’t falter throughout the water ghoul’s climax and only seemed to slow when his spent body began to slump entirely onto the floor. He collapsed and grimaced at both the feeling of his softening dick trapped between his hips and the floor as well as the still warm pool of his own cum. 

His break in pace lasted all of a minute and Rain mewls pitifully when Mountain nudges against his prostate again. At least this time his movement started slow. 

“Hh…” Rain couldn’t even move to retreat from the stimulation causing his pleasure to bleed into something far more overwhelming. “Mountain-”

“I’m not done” the earth ghoul said, irritated, and Rain heard another page turn. “I’ve still got two more chapters. You’re not done.” 

“Can’t, c-can’t,” he whined. He could feel his pulse behind his eyes. “‘S too much,” Rain slurred. His cock was already starting to fill out again despite his protest. 

“You cum your brains out and forget how to listen, raincloud? I said I’m not done so shut up, and be grateful I’m giving you what you wanted in the first place.” 

[mariacallous]

As an ex-Soviet myself, I am baffled by the renewed global fascination with autocracy. According to Freedom House, 8 out of 10 people now live in a partly free or not free country. In the United States, surveys show that a substantial number of people would support authoritarian rule and do not consider the decline of democratic institutions a mortal threat. In China, Russia, and elsewhere, the winds of change seem to be blowing in the wrong direction.

Given this shift, HBO’s miniseries The Regime, whose finale aired on April 7, could not have been timelier. With Emmy Award-winning Kate Winslet and Succession’s Will Tracy at the helm, along with all the trappings of prestige television, The Regime was poised to explore some of the 21st century’s heftiest political questions: the allure of demagogues, the slide into unfreedom and tribalism, and the mechanisms a society can employ to reverse this slide.

Instead, The Regime provides only vague winks to the tendencies of the world’s strongmen that fail to rise to the level of serious critique or analysis, deployed with a naivete that feels distinctly American.

Winslet stars as Elena Vernham, a middle-aged chancellor of an unnamed fictitious country in Central Europe who is obsessed with the black mold she believes is invading her palace. To fight it, she summons Herbert Zubak (Matthias Schoenaerts), a hunky army corporal from a province that grows sugar beets. Prior to his arrival at the palace, Herbert was thrust into the national limelight for his role in gunning down 12 protesters at one of the country’s cobalt mines, earning him a gruesome nickname: “The Butcher.”

Elena and Herbert quickly develop a Beauty and the Beast kind of attraction (postmodern, of course, with no clarity about who is the beast—capricious and delusional Elena or self-loathing, bullied-turned-bully Herbert). After a brief falling out, resolved by Herbert saving Elena from an assassin, the two begin to rule the palace through a Rasputin-style combination of hysterics and nativism.

For the next five episodes, we follow Herbert’s zigzagging ascent through Elena’s wobbling realm, from a walking humidity monitor to a trusted political advisor and lover. Herbert witnesses, engages in, or directs various antics that, according to the show’s description, depict a “modern authoritarian regime as it unravels.” Scenes include cabinet meetings that Elena conducts from an ice-filled tub and bizarre conversations with her dead father, preserved in a glass coffin in the palace’s basement. Herbert, a man of rural origins, caters to Elena’s paranoia by cleansing the palace’s supposedly poisonous air with the steam from boiled potatoes (a folk remedy popular in my Soviet childhood).

Of course, no leader can outrun geopolitics. The country’s rich cobalt reserves attract international interest, and after chasing out a deal that would have given the United States mining rights on the cheap, Elena cozies up to China, promising it a free trade deal and a cut of the mining profits. Together, Elena and Herbert then navigate their way through the illegal annexation of a sovereign neighbor, a half-baked flirtation with nationalization and land reform, and the sting of Western economic sanctions.

All this chaotic politicking unfolds against Elena’s droning on about love, which she constantly either bestows on or demands from her people. Ever the shrewd economist, Elena proclaims, “The American beast and its client states try to strangle us, but petty sanctions will always fail because our love cannot be sanctioned.” Having shipped her subservient, poetry-loving French husband, Nicky (Guillaume Gallienne), to Swiss exile, Elena, who has regained her sex drive, passionately makes up for lost time with Herbert—and fails to notice the unrest growing among her populace over the country’s economic downturn and crude handling of protests.

By the final episode—spoilers ahead—it seems that Elena’s ruling model is no match for revolution. She is chased out of the palace and must run for her life through a land it’s clear she knows nothing about, despite the “special connection” she often claims to have with its people. For once, someone in this world other than Herbert has managed to outmaneuver her delusions. But soon enough, Elena bends the knee to the very oligarchs she once vilified. A would-be coup is undone with the snap of a U.S.-backed finger.

“What was that all about?” Nicky asks his wife at the end of the show. He is offered no conclusive answer—and neither is the audience.

Tracy, who created the show, has compared The Regime to a dark fairy tale, which may explain Elena’s look—a cross between an aging Sleeping Beauty and Madonna’s Evita—and the glass coffin. One could also see it as a love story, in which two broken individuals find a semblance of happiness by tormenting each other in their own make-believe reality. It may even be a dark comedy, as HBO describes it, if one can have comedy without a single funny joke. (Her cabinet member’s quip, “His profits are fucked like a spring donkey,” is certainly rude, but rudeness isn’t necessarily funny.)

One thing the show isn’t is satire. For that to be true, it would actually have to satirize something. Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels derided the rigid mores of 18th-century England. Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin poked fun at the brutality and hypocrisy of Joseph Stalin’s flunkies in the postwar Soviet Union. Making Elena’s regime a pastiche of autocracies was a fatal choice because those regimes are products of their unique, often brutal environments. Because the show nods to a little bit of everything, it takes aim at nothing.

Instead of real people, The Regime offers us walking cliches: a delusional woman with hot flashes and daddy issues; cowering and corrupt ministers; greedy Americans pining for other nations’ resources; the dull, kerchiefed masses who look like props recycled from last century’s movie sets. It’s not that we can’t care for bad people. We did for the Roys in Succession because they were nuanced characters, at once tragic and funny, with clear agendas that drove the plot. But The Regime’s characters feel generic, simply dropped into the set, stirring no feelings from the viewer, sympathetic or otherwise. The only character with an identifiable interest is the U.S. senator, Judith Holt (Martha Plimpton), who just wants the country’s cobalt. The rest merely float through the episodes, as though searching for a good scene to act out but coming up blank.

This is a shame because the show has no lack of talent. Winslet does her best with the material she is given, but there isn’t much she can do with lines such as, “I like a bit of spice. Spice is nice,” in reference to Herbert’s “spicy” dreams. She has no real antagonists, no articulated desires, and no emotions. Viewers are left to blink at the screen, admiring her outfits and waiting for something substantive to happen.

Schoenaerts, who plays Herbert, is more plausible, if cliched: a tortured warrior prepared to kill—and die—for love. Andrea Riseborough, playing Agnes, the palace manager, is less lucky. Having shined as Stalin’s daughter in The Death of Stalin, here she is reduced to a brittle, peacoat-wearing loyalist who has an unexplained co-parenting arrangement with Elena and yields her maternal rights the moment Elena demands it. Her epileptic son doesn’t seem to mind, as long as he gets new toys. Hugh Grant as Edward Keplinger, the country’s imprisoned opposition leader, is charming, but his cameo feels like a checkmark on the celebrity cast list. With his carpeted cell, steady supply of sausages, and access to the prison’s keys, Grant’s performance lacks the gravitas that the suffering of real imprisoned political figures, including the late Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny, deserves.

And then there is Mr. Laskin (Danny Webb), the head of Elena’s security service. In real dictatorships, the requirements of this job are gruesome and attract rather monstrous personalities—think Lavrentiy Beria of the Soviet Union or Heinrich Himmler of Nazi Germany, both of whom orchestrated horrendous mass murders. Yet in The Regime, Laskin speaks politely about his duty to his country and that he “believes in a principle, the legal transition of power.” Unlike in a real dictatorial regime, we see no blood on his hands. There’s a difference between a temporary suspension of disbelief, which viewers will happily grant, and constantly being asked to accept improbable things.

Herein lies The Regime’s fundamental problem: It fumbles what seems to be the primary point of the show—the portrayal of autocracy. The issue with autocrats is not that they’re narcissists who force others to listen to their off-key singing, as Elena does at seemingly every banquet and celebration she can, but that they are ready to sacrifice millions of people to their delusions. Their subjects, including their inner circle, live in constant fear because the autocrat’s government and law enforcement apparatuses are weaponized and can be turned against them at any moment.

But there is no fear in Elena’s kingdom. Her out-of-grace oligarch is not dispossessed and jailed but simply ordered to clean up chairs at a press conference. Her ministers plot for her downfall in a downstairs bar before mockingly denying her a seat on the rescue helicopter. The rebels take the palace in a span of an episode. (If only real dictators were toppled that easily!) The Regime makes Elena look stupid and pathetic. We do not flee from her in terror; we shrug her off.

Despite her European aesthetics, the portrayal of Elena as a ruler reflects an undeniably American attitude toward autocracy. Even after four years of a Donald Trump presidency, many Americans still don’t take his threats seriously, unable to believe that his cartoonish personality and ineptitude could translate into a real assault on their democratic rights and liberties. With the memory of World War II fading away, others may simply underestimate the difference between living in a free society and living under tyranny.

At some level, plenty of Americans may even hanker for a strongman because he offers simple solutions to complex problems, blind to the fact that—like Elena—he is animated not by public service but by his own vanity, enrichment, and survival and occasionally those of his cronies.

As a creative project, The Regime is free to be whatever it wants to be—a fairy tale, a dark comedy, a saga of human vices. But any serious work of art must be about something, some pressing aspect of human existence, and should be evaluated on those terms. What, then, is The Regime’s message? That love is an exchange of perversions? That the United States is a colonizer propping up authoritarian regimes because it wants their assets? That nothing ever changes and we should resign ourselves to endless inevitable iterations of the narcissist-in-chief?

Cynicism doesn’t win battles—or make for very good television. Perhaps HBO’s next meditation on authoritarianism will give us substance on the topic rather than winks.

[kit-williams]

Try new things

Male Lead: Konrad Curze Female Lead: Gloria Curze Universe/AU: Warhammer 40k/D&D AU Canon Status: 100% Canon

Note: Listened to the Mind Electric while writing it to try and get into Konrad's kinda sporadic way of thinking and half insane way of thinking. Also I know this is another one that is kinda stretching the idea of the prompt but its Konrad Curze.

Konrad was forced to try new things since day one of his introduction to this new world. How to try and use his powers effectively... working in tandem with the angel of the daylight; Sanguinius. He worked with the red sorcerer to hone it further... he was forced to try new things like bond and be happy... happiness was something akin to a xeno for Konrad... unknowable and hard to understand from a human perspective.

He was forced to try new things... new foods along with the rest of his brothers... new tactics of fear... there were new ways to make him laugh genuinely... new companions... new species to learn how to make them scream... new monsters to slay... yet injustices were still the same even if it was in a different coat of paint. They walked across the globe and saw each thing they needed to see... who knows how much time passed for them... a year? A hundred years? It didn't matter to Konrad as the visions were different and he had to get use to it.

Sanguinius just grinned at him and gave a small laugh as he knew his beloved brother saw his own death for the longest time... and how he was handling it now being uncertain once again. Konrad clung to those words that he spoke... and he allowed himself to willingly try these new things. One of those things came in the form of a small mortal woman.

He was a beast... Konrad knew he was one since day one and once again like a beast being given an ounce of a pleasant feeling his jaws snapped shut around her throat. Yet she stayed with that warm and loving smile that spoke of pain that dug into her skin like hooks and pulled her skin back unable to move beyond that trauma or the skin so utterly warped by it she hasn't realized that the hook on the skin unlatched so long ago. But he embraced her tightly as he let go of her fictitious throat leaving a piece of him behind and she treasures it.

They were a broken pair and this was the hardest thing for him to embrace and try as none of his brothers... not even Corvus... knew what morsal he had latched his jaws around and she was oblivious of the predator that she had willingly entered the jaws of. But she could bite back... as the first thing he was introduced by her was such the sweetness that sex could hold... then the roughness... the way she taught him how to dig his claws into her without killing her. She held the leash at first till he understood what was going on.

She held him tightly as his teeth dug into her skin as old scars that made her eyes glaze over when he touched them were replaced with scars left behind by him in the midst of such dizzying moments of ecstasy. Blood brushed their tongues during these moments as for brief moments they were one and that frightened Konrad but he embraced such a new sensation more and more and learned to love the moments that they couldn't tell where she ended and he began until they were a laughing mess of limbs.

He learned to laugh more... he embraced the sensation of joy... the way he pulled her close as the two of them danced at the festival of the god eye... Konrad would smile more even had such a lighter personality whenever he would meet up with the rest of his brothers by this point Corvus meeting her... his Gloria.

He was thrust into the concept and idea of actually being a father to a son that was his by blood... by his own gamete mixed with her own gamete to from a zygote. Talos was his son by so much more then his geneseed as the black eyed child grinned up at him with so much love that Konrad had to learn to understand. But however it was easier for him to accept the unquestioned and unconditional love his small child held for him then a psychoaugmented soldier.

He watched Talos' turn from a awkward small blonde boy to a willowy black haired and black eyed assassin following in his footsteps as the madness of the eighth continued through his blood but he watched as his dearest Gloria temper the madness that ran through the Cruze bloodline ... as while Talos held the same madness as he did... Konrad knew it wouldn't overwhelm Talos like it did for him.

"Why did you name him Talos." Gloria asks looking up at him as her hair is still wildly out of place... breathlessly staring up at him with love and devotion in her eyes that she willingly gives him... he blinks as he was lost in the future as still Talos lays in his crib still unable to walk or talk but still smiled up at him with a toothless grin.

Konrad wiped the stubble on his chin as he warmly and abet wickedly at his dear wife. A bad habit he would learn to overcome eventually. "There was one of my gene sons that decided to peruse my killer after my death for vengeance... perhaps in a sense of love and devotion as well... but he would get it." Konrad says laying down next to her. "But... why I named our baby Talos... I originally wanted his name to either be Jago... or Sheng... but the glimpses of the future I foresaw... no what I saw when I called him Talos was there was blood but he was also genuinely happy. He could smile and laugh and... that's what I think you would want." He says rolling to the side grabbing her into his arms and just holding her tightly as black and blonde strands of hair mingled together.

"Well maybe the next child you can name after Jago or Sheng." She says with a smile as he just closes his eyes holding her close. There guilt broiled under his skin... this was something new he had been holding for so many years... he felt a guilt over what he had done during horus' uprising... mending that broken bridge with Vulkan... feeling the weighted guilt on his shoulders that he knew his legion was falling apart at this very moment or was already in shambles... he was a terrible father and no amount of Gloria soothing his fears... he had a legion's worth of children both living and dead who were the product of his awful parenting.

And this is where Gloria, once again in her radiance, soothed his withered soul... soothed his worries as he was willing to try something new... he was willing to try to be a good father to his son Talos.

Fluffuary Tag List: @bispecsual @the-californicationist @egrets-not-regrets @libraryshadow @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

[eating-the-inedible]

What book that you had to read for school have you hated the most?

lord of the flies

because i just. dislike that book

like

it's just. i really dislike it

Context:

I first determined i disliked the lord of the flies before i read it

I read a book called Humankind: A Hopeful History by Rutger Bregman and in that book he talks about how there was a real lord of the flies situation and it did not, in fact, end in chaos and death

I didn't want to say i disliked it without having actually read it, so i read the book

then, a month later i had to read it for school

fast forward a few more months, i am writing an argumentative essay for the same class and I decide to write it on why humans are actually usually good deep down (mainly as a way to convince myself later on when i was in doubt)

here is an excerpt from the lord of the flies part of my essay, in case you were wondering what i meant about there being a real situation:

....This provides evidence for the idea that humans are born with a preference for good. Some skeptics, upon hearing this, will immediately reference one story, saying, “Well, if kids are supposed to be showing how innocent people really are, then how about the invidious children in the Lord of the Flies? They were savages the second that they were rid of adults. Their belligerence shows the true bellicose way of mankind.” This is simply not true. First-- the Lord of the Flies is a fictional book written by a bitter, devout alcoholic, a man who considered the book to be “a joke,” (Carey), and second-- Lord of the Flies happened in the late 60s, and the outcome is nothing like what Golding had thought would happen. Lord of the Flies is a book about a group of British school-boys, at the beginning of a fictitious world war. The boys are stranded on a deserted island, with no adults, after their plane is shot down. The boys agree that they will survive, have fun, and keep a signal fire burning until they are rescued. Eventually, the boys split into two “tribes” after the fire goes out and there are differing priorities. Three boys are dead, two murdered, and the forest is set on fire, before a British naval officer spots the smoke and comes to rescue the boys. After the officer’s comment about expecting more from the boys, Ralph, the leader of the pack, breaks down and starts to sob. “...Ralph wept for the end of innocence, [and] the darkness of man's heart…” (Golding 202). Lord of the Flies is meant to show that, without society, humans are infantile, savage beasts who will immediately resort to violence and brutality the second they have the chance. This, though, is a fictional book. While many people believe Golding’s work accurately depicts human nature, it has been proven to be wrong. In 1966, a group of six Tongan boys were found and rescued from an uninhabited island. They had left their boarding school with an agenda of escaping to Fiji on a fishing boat, when a storm hit; their sail was in tatters, and their rudder broken. For eight days the boat drifted, and the boys’ food supply depleted. They used coconut shells to gather rainwater, then split it evenly.  When the boys finally saw land, it was the uninhabited, rocky island of ‘Ata. They were stranded there for just over a year. By the time they were rescued, by Australian ship captain, Peter Warner, they had set up “a small commune with food garden, hollowed-out tree trunks to store rainwater, a gymnasium with curious weights, a badminton court, chicken pens, and a permanent fire, all from handiwork, an old knife blade and much determination.” (Warner 19). In Lord of the Flies, the boys could not keep their fire going and that became the start of the conflict. On the island of ‘Ata, the six boys kept a fire going from three months after they were stranded, to the day they were rescued. Any conflict that they had was resolved by having the feuding pair go to two respective parts of the island, and come back to apologize when they calmed down. There were no battles or extreme arguments, and the only injury was when one boy fell off a cliff, breaking his leg. The boys used sticks to set his leg and it healed with no permanent damage, confounding doctors who would later examine them. This was a real life example of boys being left to fend for themselves with no adults on a deserted island, and they behaved perfectly. This is still not enough to convince the cynics of the world....

anyway

yeah.

lord of the flies

[besiegedhunter]

Sette Colli

Because I want to talk about it after reading somethings from various pages of Terra: A Journey, which this post will include spoilers for as well as the CN server in general and so I'll put them down beneath:

So, for anyone not up to speed or needing a refresher, Sette Colli is a city in Siracusa with a legend attached to it that was first mentioned in the "Rewinding Breeze" event's "Stories from the Sky" story:

It's a fairy tale from Siracusa and so likely very fictitious but as stated afterwards, this city does exist in modern times so that much is real:

This is the real only mention of the City in the game, while the She-Wolf does get a Play in Integrated Strategies - Phantom and the Crimson Solitaire, which is just referencing the story told and not really the City.

Now my intended purpose of this post is to discuss the City itself but because they're really intertwined, like if the She-Wolf ends up being important it'd have to be alongside Sette Colli and there's more context in game regarding her than there is Sette Colli.

There's also the context behind the city and the story's inspiration which is that of Rome, seeing how the She-Wolf is also what the wolf that suckles the founders of Rome in it's creation story. The Seven hills also references the seven hills that Rome was founded on.

As for the context around the story of the She-Wolf: in the poster of the play you can see the She-Wolf and her children depicted as actual wolves and the story doesn't clarify that they were Lupos, in fact the She-Wolf leaving to the moon implies that in the least she was a different type of entity and her children may follow in that logic.

Meaning you have a group of supernatural wolf siblings that once existed in Siracusa. This is an identical description of the Signore dei Lupi, Beast Lords who reside in Siracusa and whose relationship with each other is described as siblings:

What's more is that the Signore dei Lupi fight among each other:

So with the similarities between the two, it feels likely that they could be one in the same, with little changes here and there that didn't get into the fable and gives more legitimacy to the tale.

Now for Terra: a Journey, Sette Colli doesn't appear in the Siracusa section of the book, however it is mentioned in the Terran Technologies section.

There's a twist:

The Sette Colli city established by the She-Wolf's tribe does not exist. There's no historical evidence that it did and if there was, it is said to be outside of any known country. But as stated by Shamare: Sette Colli as a city does exist. And Terra: A Journey backs this up, just in an unexpected way.

See, there was a Seven Cities Federation that seemingly has no connection to the story of the She-Wolf, although I'll say that all of the origins of the name offered in the book are entirely speculated and with modern day Sette Colli existing in Siracusa and the book referencing the She-Wolf's story that, in my opinion, this federation likely at least took some inspiration from the tale.

Putting that to the side for now. This Seven Cities Federation would create the, let's say template, for mobile cities. The first mobile city the book calls it, however they didn't have the resources to fuel it, at least then, and so the Seven Cities Federation disbanded and to quote the book: "Now the only thing that holds that name is the place."

Confirming that this hasn't retconned Sette Colli out of the lore in it's entirety. I believe it just means that the Seven Cities name from the federation was attached to their mobile city, which assumedly wasn't retconned to have not been taken over by a mafia and hence: still in Siracusa.

I suspect that Sette Colli being chosen as the first mobile city might be because of the saying "Rome wasn't built in a day."

But to gloss over what this means:

The Seven Hills region that the She-Wolf's tribe settled is either purely fictitious, lies in the wastes outside of Siracusa's current borders or it is within Siracusa but possibly due to the terrain/changes in the geography from that time has yet to be discovered.

A new Sette Colli was built, being the first Mobile City to be created but of which the Seven Cities Federation did not have the resources to fuel themselves and so it was returned to Siracusa wherein a mafia family would absorb it into their territory.

I'll wrap back around to this in a bit with a curious theory, albeit one I'm confident in and for now return to the story of the original Sette Colli and the She-Wolf's story, because as much as this raises the question of it's legitimacy, I also think the Siracusa section adds some historical context.

See, the original She-Wolf's story takes place, sure in an possibly fictitious location, but likely not an actual time period in Siracusa's history, for Siracusa did have a time period of constant fighting among tribes due to famine:

And as shown, the Famine was caused by the presence of the Signore dei Lupi, a group fitting the description of the She-Wolf's children during the earliest days of Siracusa. I'm going to draw attention back to me saying that it's possible that the Sette Colli from this time period or at least the region the story was founded in, might've really existed, since everything else did.

The "Changed the name of their tribes to families" belying the origin of the mafia is also found in this time period and because of the Signore dei Lupi... in a way.

Really, the only thing of question is whether the She-Wolf existed and if she did, was she a Beast Lord like the Signore dei Lupi or maybe even a Feranmut. It's not too out of the question when Ya from Vernal Winds, another Feranmut, has some features more removed from the typical dragon and more Canine like in appearance.

There's also the Will of Sami's true form that also does not appear fully like a typical dragon:

And statistically speaking, Feranmut are often there when a country is founded or prominent enough. Take Sami here or Kjeragandr.

There's even a possibility that the relationship the She-Wolf has to her children is replicable with the She-Wolf and the Beast Lord Signore dei Lupi, thanks to the apparent treasure trove that is Sami:

Anma is the Beast Lord Amma that features in Skógrinn Svartr Vill Einn Draumr and Expeditioner's Jǫklumarkar. The timing between Sami's rest and the Ancestral Twins being born, with the Father of the Ancestral Spirits being attached to Sami making it possible for a Feranmut to create a Beast Lord, hence She-Wolf's children being Signore dei Lupi.

And maybe without the She-Wolf being there to balance the Signore dei Lupi, it resulted in the abnormal eco-system and famine.

Simply a theory.

Wrapping back to the city itself, there's one probably one more reference to it in game, though it's impressively annoying.

See it doesn't refer to Siracusa or really any other country that this 'Seven Cities' are a part of and casts an impressive amount of doubt on everything about itself because, well,

What I'm talking about is the "Seven Cities-Style Restaurant" dormitory theme:

"A room that reproduces the atmosphere of a Seven Cities restaurant. Is the food to your liking?"

How it draws doubt to itself is that it's the description of the "Upscale Menu Display" says the following:

"A detachable hanging price list. A Seven Cities-style restaurant opened by Victorians, in Columbia? How strange..."

Which goes further because it's a "Seven Cities-style Restaurant" opened by Victorians, in Columbia, further recreated by Rhodes. There's another line, being for the "Seven Cities Patterned Floorboards", that cast doubt on it:

"A commonly used floor style from the Seven Cities? The natives might disagree with that."

And besides a possible reference to: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind, where the setting is in Italy, in the description for the "Large Notice Board" there's nothing exactly linking it to Siracusa.

But to quote what Terra: A Journey, has to say about 'seven-cities': "The only thing with that name now is the place" and with it referencing the possibly fictitious Sette Colli from the story, it's likely that this Restaurant is supposed to be a recreation of a Sette Colli restaurant.

Maybe something propping this up is the description for the "Real Wooden Accent Wall.":

"Decorate wall laminate to be placed on the wall behind the front desk. After all, the soul of the Seven Cities resides in its wood."

How? Well, the Terra: A Journey's Siracusa section puts massive emphasis on wood cutting, mentioning it several times:

Axes led to Siracusa's civilization, woodcutters and a logging camp who would find an surprisingly important man and where he'd be kept, forestry is one of Siracusa's most considerable resources.

So to say that 'The soul of Sette Colli, a Siracusan city, is in it's wood' is genuinely very probable.

Now, here's where I bring up Projekt Red because I always have to:

In the story of Little Red Riding Hood, Red's inspiration, you have Red Riding Hood herself, Grandma, the Big Bad Wolf and the Huntsman/ Woodcutter.

We see in Red's story how she is Red Riding Hood and her relationship with the Signore dei Lupi called Grandma is inspired by the Grandma and Big Bad Wolf of the Red Riding Hood story.

And while Red herself is also the Huntsman who slays the Big Bad Wolf or "Wolves" for Red, there's room for the Woodcutter variation of the story.

And with the historical context behind the She-Wolf of Sette Colli and the almost undeniable proof that the Signore dei Lupi are the basis for the She-Wolf's children, and that HG would bring Sette Colli up again in Terra: A Journey in such an important role as the first Mobile City,

Well I think Sette Colli deserves to be the setting for a Limited Event and that Red would be the perfect candidate for it with her ties to the Signore dei Lupi, themes of family and possible forestry.

But regardless, Sette Colli is an interesting place.

(Projekt Red for 5.5)

[forgottenghosty]

Dang I miss Immortal/Undead Male Whump with possible wholesome romance as tv shows...

I just got done rewatching FOREVER (2014) and Moonlight (2008) and want to watch more shows and even movies of the similar tastes and it’s hard to find.

(Forever 2014)

(Moonlight 2008) (Fun facts, the character Joseph from the show voices Terra in the Kingdom Hearts games. A book was published years after the show that inspired the series called “Angel of Vengeance” by  Trevor O’ Munson. The show went on hiatus due to the writers strikes and received 4 new episodes before ending, being cancelled, and not being picked up again.) 

I miss seeing shows where the male lead has to keep the secret or deal with someone knowing their secret and trying to live with it. All of it based more in a realistic reality of the actual world, while still be fictitious enough to have things that could never happen in reality as well.

I know there are some show or movies out there similar, but they don’t fit my tastes or I did watch them for a time and then stopped cause they started getting crazy or boring for me.

I’m not one for watching something with sex in it, nor a lot of demonic things in it either. Some exceptions have been Angel and Buffy, but those are more supernatural fiction. I tried watch Vampire Diaries and did enjoy it for a time, same with the Teen Wolf series, but they both got to a point I couldn’t stand them and just stopped watching and couldn’t get myself to watch them again. I’ve tried with Teen Wolf, but just got bored.

I did try watching some of True Blood to see what it was like and only came out enjoying the theme song and left that quick. I don’t think I made it past the first episode.

Tried watching Penny Dreadful and same thing happened. The Sabrina remake as well. One ep and then I ditched it. I hated the the demonic stuff and just dipped. Made me miss the 90s show I grew up all the more.

I used to watch Forever Knight as a kid, She Wolf, and Beauty and the Beast as well, but not really into watching the super older shows of late 80s early 90s right now.

Also sucks how I can’t get season 2 of Invisible Man (2000) in the US. UK is lucky and got the second season of Invisible Man, we only got Season 1, which I bought up so fast. Though based more in science, Invisible Man was another good one. Poor guy couldn’t catch a break. Miss it so much.

(The Invisible Man (2000) (Thankfully, though only 2 seasons, the series got to end with an actually ending.)

Thankful we keep getting Psych movies every few years or so, though movie 2 and 3 haven’t been available to buy yet, which is frustrating since they only show it on peacock, though 2 was on USA recently and 4 is in the works.

(Psych (2006-2014, Movies ongoing)

Enjoyed watching Dracula, the NBC, not the BBC one. That one I hated. I enjoyed Jekyll and Sherlock, but Dracula was horrible.

Dracula NBC ended too soon.

(Dracula (2013))

One I didn’t see until after it aired, that for a time was free to watch on old Hulu, was The Crow: Stairway to Heaven. Very 90′s, but enjoyable all the same.

(The Crow: Stairway to Heaven (1998) and yes that is��Mark Dacascos probably known by many as The Chairman of Iron Cheif.)

Which I recently found out they finally have made a remake of the 90′s movie with Bill Skarsgard that I hope will be good. Just leaves adding any vfx and so on they need to before release.

Many will know him more as Pennywise the Clown and leads into why I sat through watching all of Hemlock Grove.

Only good reason to watch that show on Netflix. 

It has Vampires and Werewolves and more, but man, it isn’t worth it in the end with the plot they give.

So, yeah, really wish we got more immortal / undead whump with possible wholesome romances.

[paisley-print]

Rating: 18+

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Reader X Ezra

This is a sequel to the MIDNIGHT Series

Rated TV MA. 

Heavy trigger warning. Infidelity, pregnancy, nausea, feeding tube. 

Not: This is 17 pages besties. It is a beast of a chapter. Please reblog and or comment! I really appreciate it! IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE TAGGED PLEASE FILL OUT MY TAG SHEET. Tag List Google Form

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Jack was sitting in his office, staring out the window at the mountains in the distance with an expressionless gaze. He had just gotten back from an extended Statesman trip that had left him bruised in several places and shaken from the time change. His right shoulder felt like a tentacled creature had taken hold of it and snaked its way around his back, its arms reaching to encompass his neck and squeeze a tight band around his forehead. His eyes felt like they could simply pop out of his skull at any moment. 

He was getting too old to do trips like this, too slow in his draw, too oblivious to subtle sounds and sights. Why not leave it to the new recruits? They seemed more than eager to reenact their James Bond fantasies, traipsing across the globe with shiny guns and fancy suits. Jack was tired, and the near constant threat of death worried him more now than ever. The baby had made him reassess his values as of late, plus he had just gotten Emily back… he wasn’t about to leave her in this new world completely alone. 

As if summoned by some telepathic force, Emily’s voice floated down from upstairs. The main bedroom was positioned over his office. The water of the shower had been running just moments before. Jack set aside the file he was holding and made his way up the stairs to the main bedroom of the house. 

Emily was standing at the sink, the fog from her shower clinging to the mirrors and creating a cloud of steam that floated lazily out and into the rest of the room. Jack sat on the bed, watching his wife lean over the side of the counter in order to apply mascara with an expert-like precision. She had one towel wrapped around her torso and the other done up in her long brown hair. 

The glow of the lights made him feel like gagging. He turned his head, looking down at the grey Persian carpet. 

“I was wondering if you could help me zip this up?” Emily asked, bounding into the closet. When she emerged again, she had on a pair of whitewashed jeans and was holding a corset crop top up against her breasts. 

She turned her back to him so he could pull the zipper of the garment. 

“Where are you off to?” He asked, the sound of his own voice coming down on his head with the force of a well-swung baseball bat. 

“Going out dancing with Anna and Ashley,” Emily responded. 

His two nieces. She was the same age as they were. “I’m glad you are going out but-”  

“But what?” Emily asked.

“I just got back. I thought we would spend a little time together, is all.” 

“All I do is spend time in this fucking house, Jack, spend time with you. God forbid I try to live a little.” Emily said.

Jack drew in a slow breath, bringing a hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose. He did not feel physically well enough to engage in a debate he knew he would never win. 

“I need cash. Everything is super expensive nowadays.”

Jack sighed, reaching into the interior of his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet and hand it over to her. She pulled out various bills. He didn’t know how much, folded them, placed them in her own pocket and tossed the wallet on the bed.

“When will you be back?” Jack asked, pulling off his suit jacket with some effort.

“Whenever I get back,” Emily said, shrugging.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you, sweetheart?”

“I’ve said everything I’ve needed to say Jack, you’re just choosing not to listen.”

“I am doing everything in my power to help you. I don’t know what more you want from me.” 

Jack knew what Emily was feeling, and he empathized with her to a certain point. Losing everything in the blink of an eye was a feeling he knew all too well, and he had to do it alone. Emily at least had family around, loved ones that could soften the blow. Still, she wasn’t happy. Every time Jack mentioned you or the baby, Emily would get visibly angry and take jabs at both you and him. She felt shut out of such an intimate part of his life and jealous because that was supposed to be her.

Jack had to put his foot down when it came to converting the spare bedroom into a nursery. If Emily had had it her way, it would stay a guest bedroom, and they would allot full custody to you so she would never have to see the bastard child at all. Jack understood that it felt like a betrayal.

To her, this situation stung with the same severity it would have had cheated and had his own love child. Ironically, that was how Jack had felt too at times. He did not regret what the two of you had, yet he did not want to disappoint her.

Still, he disappointed her every day in ways entirely out of his control. He could not go back in time and erase all the flings had clung onto for years as his only source of intimacy. All the women he had slept in a fruitless attempt to feel less alone. Even if spent most of those encounters pretending he was in the throes of passion with her, rather than some nameless hook up he had met at a bar. 

 He could not fix the ways in which time had impacted his body. The look of disgust that passed Emily’s face whenever she noticed a new flaw never ceased to dismantle every ounce of confidence he had. He knew that she hated his greying hair, facial wrinkles, and less than toned midsection. 

The times they had attempted any sort of intimacy mostly ended in awkward disappointment. Jack would become too nervous to perform, doubting both his looks and her pleasure in the activity at all. Plus, he was too self-conscious to keep the pills he used to use around the house, in fear she could find them. 

She never initiated, but rather begrudgingly obliged and laid underneath him, as still and emotionless as a doll. He would walk away from those encounters feeling entirely disgusted with himself. He never initiated anymore and the two of them had only successfully slept together just once, that first night, months ago. 

Jack didn’t mind not having sex as long as it meant that Emily was happy. All he wanted, all he ever wanted, was for her to be happy. Lack of intimacy was a small price to pay for her satisfaction. 

“It’s like you have this whole other life without me,” Emily confessed. “Like I am some concubine shut up in this house, whose only function in your life is to be your companion.”

Jack stayed silent, listening. “How do you suppose I fix this situation then?”

Emily turned to him, pausing. “I want a baby shower.”

Jack’s brown knit in confusion. He was not expecting that response.

Upon seeing his confused face, Emily continued. “So I can feel like I have a purpose in this family. It’s not just going to be your baby, it’s going to be our baby when it’s here with us.”

Jack was speechless. Emily’s newfound interest in caring for the baby pleased him, but he was unsure of how you would react. Emily was right… the child would technically have three parents as soon as it was born...

“We can invite your friends and family -” Emily began.

“But sugar,” Jack said, trending carefully. “I’m not sure ‘y/n’ would - I mean - I could ask her, but I doubt she would want to come to somethin’ like that.”

Emily visibly soured at your name. “It’s not necessary to invite her. It’s better we don’t.”

Jack reached up, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand in an attempt to soothe the tension. “Sugar I don’t-”

“She can throw her own baby shower if she’d like. I wouldn’t expect her to invite me, and I would certainly not be offended. It’s as if we had a surrogate. We wouldn’t invite them, would we?”

Jack felt a momentary rise of anger well within him, but it fizzled out as fast as it had sparked. He could see where she was coming from, but you were not a simple surrogate. He knew when he entered into this that navigating the marriage and the pregnancy would require a less than traditional approach. What was right and wrong were often clouded in grey… this was one of those times. 

He wanted to afford his grieving wife a chance to feel a part of his family, her family, and yet he did not want to banish you to the sidelines anymore than he already had. It was an impossible situation - not helped along by the headache that made his brain feel stuffed with cotton.

“Fine,” Jack said, “we can talk about planning something soon.”

A smile grew on Emily’s face. She took up her purse from the bathroom counter, bound over to him, and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thank you, I love you,” she smiled. 

“I love you too, darlin’” Jack said, returning the smile.

-

-

-

You sat in the exam room of the OBGYN, checking your phone for the sixth time. Jack had to miss the last appointment because he was on one of his frequent work trips, and now he was nearing ten minutes late for this one. When you first started dating Jack, you enjoyed the mystery that surrounded his employment and the demands of the job… you had found it rather exciting. But now, almost four years on, Statesman had become the very bane of your existence. It would be so easy for you to go to the media and spill everything you knew, or be bought by a foreign government and give them intel as a spy… that thought was a rather nice one in fact, as it would be a giant fuck you to both Statesman and Jack. However, you knew you wouldn’t be able to, not without monumental repercussions.

 You wouldn't be surprised if the NDA you signed held a clause that stated something along the lines of “if you hand over any of your knowledge of Statesman to the public, you will be terminated via a colt revolver welding sharpshooter in a cowboy hat.” 

Plus, any dealing with foreign government would just make you and the baby a potential target. You didn’t feel like getting your toenails ripped out by some opposing secret agency, no matter how much you wanted to see Statesmen go down.

The door to the exam room burst open. Jack was wearing his usual work attire, wonderfully tailored suit, cowboy hat and glasses. Statesman did do one thing right at least, and that was uniforms. 

“Hey” Jack said, slightly out of breath.

“You gonna take those things off or you plan on taking a meeting while you're here,” you half joked.

“Shit - sorry” Jack said under his breath, taking the glasses off, putting them in his right breast pocket, then going into his left and putting another pair on. 

You raised your eyebrows at him. 

Jack, seeing your face, responded “these are prescription.” 

You laughed. “Since when does Jack Daniels wear glasses?”

Jack cleared his throat and re-centered his tie. "Since I got barred from flying and carrying until I agreed to wear these fuckin’ things.”

 Your demeanor softened. You had nagged him about getting glasses very early on in your relationship but he never did, saying ‘everybody already thinks I’m your daddy, let’s not give em any more reason too.’ 

 “They look good on you,” you said. "They make you look distinguished, like you could be running things down there.”

Jack huffed and shook his head, never one to be graceful when accepting compliments. Though, you could make out the corner of his lips pulling into the most subtle of smiles. 

There was a knock on the door, then the ultrasound technician popped her head in. “Is dad here?” she asked.

You nodded your head towards Jack. 

The tech peeked further around the door frame to see him and smiled once she did. “Wonderful!”

You knew the drill. You rolled up your t-shirt as the technician turned the ultrasound machine on, spread the freezing gel over your stomach then turned off the lights to the room. As soon as she touched the probe to your stomach the machine whirled to life, displaying black and white images of your womb. 

You never quite got used to it. At a very base level, it was horrifying…. but also entertaining. It took a moment, but the tech was able to get a clear picture of the baby. Its round head and small nose were clearly visible on the screen. 

You felt a fluttering in your stomach that was matched by the baby kicking up its legs, then arms in quick succession. 

The tech laughed. “Someone is awake.”

You laughed as well. “Yeah, I felt that one. She’s been moving around a lot today, actually.”

Jack leaned forward in his chair. “That’s normal, right?” 

The tech nodded. “Yep, that’s very normal. All the wiggling around means the baby is getting stronger. In the later weeks you can actually see the baby pushing around in your belly if you're sitting or laying down.”

“Like the movie Alien,” you laughed. 

The tech snorted, “yeah, a lot of moms say that.”

You took a glance at Jack, who was on the literal edge of his seat, eyes fixed solely on the monitor like there was not a single other thing on earth. The tech took some images, measured the baby, then turned on the lights and exited the room to show the doctor the results. 

She had handed you a box of wipes to clean the gel off your stomach. Jack had the sonogram in his hand, smiling at it. You watched as he took the cellphone out of his pocket and snapped a picture. It dawned on you then that Jack had probably never had the opportunity to feel his other two children kick. They would have been too little. 

“Jackson” you said. 

He looked up. 

“Here, come here,” you said, sitting up a little on the exam table. As he approached, you held out your hand. “Gimme”

Confused, he went to hand you the pictures; you swatted them away. 

“No, your hand.”

He switched the sonogram to his other hand and offered the one closest to you. You took hold of his wrist, guiding it down to place it on the side of your stomach, then placed your hand atop of his. You thought the shock of his touch would stir something anxious in you, but it didn’t. In fact, his large, calloused hands felt familiar. 

“You might not be able to feel it yet,” you said. 

You waited a moment in silence, that familiar fluttering spreading in your body. 

His brows knit. 

“You felt it?” 

“You sure that was the baby?” he asked. 

“What else would it be?” 

He shrugged. “Your supper?”

“Jackson Henry,” you said, amused. "That is your kid.”

He smiled. “Listen, all I’m sayin’ is that this feels exactly how my stomach used to feel after eating that pasta sauce you make.”

Your lips quirked into a smile. “It’s not my cooking that’s causing that, you’re lactose intolerant and refuse to admit it.”

“Who puts milk in pasta sauce, anyway?” Jack asked 

“It's called vodka-” You shook your head smiling “you're a fuckin’ idiot.”

Jack looked up in mock surprise. "The baby just heard you call me an idiot.”

“The baby just heard you call her indigestion,” you shot back. 

The baby has heard me call you worse things; you thought.

It was times like these that made you loathe the idea of keeping in contact with him… because it was times like these that made you miss him, and hate him all over again for what he did. Sure, you could play into the little back and forth between you like old times, but nothing would change the fact that when you looked down, the ring on his finger was no longer gold you had picked out with him, but a silver completely alien to you. 

Jack must have sensed your change in demeanor, for he withdrew his and looked away awkwardly. “Yes, well, thank you for that. I appreciate it.” 

You hummed, pulling your shirt over your belly and throwing the tissues in the garbage can beside you. “Maybe in a few weeks you will be able to feel it more.”

The word ‘maybe’ hung uncomfortably in the air. Whether you doubted the existence of Jack or the baby… you did not know. Perhaps both. If the last three years had taught you anything, it was that nothing in life was ever guaranteed and you needed to be skeptical to the very end. 

-

-

-

Jack had come over that next Sunday, as he always did, to drop off groceries at your house. 

Jack had a lot of anxiety around certain things, and with the baby coming it kicked up tenfold, and you had learned that it was best to let him do the things that would make him feel at ease, within reason of course. This meant, allowing him to pick up some items for you during his weekly shopping trip and lug them up the steep stairs to your apartment - lest you fall while trying to do it yourself. 

On Sundays when he was out for work he would have the groceries dropped off. You wondered why you never saw Emily with him. Maybe she didn’t want to see you, maybe she didn’t care to help him with the chore…or maybe Jack wouldn’t let her tag along. If that was the case, you couldn't blame him. 

Usually, he would only stay for a few minutes, as he had to get his groceries home before they thawed, but today the two of you had plans to discuss the nursery. Once the baby was old enough, she would be spending large amounts of time at both houses. You and Jack decided that it was best to make the rooms look identical to one another. That way she could have some consistency with her surroundings 

Although the baby wasn’t coming for another few months, and she wouldn’t be able to stay overnight at Jack's house for an even longer amount of time…Rose had assigned this task to you both. She said it would be a great exercise in compromise and will allow you two to start getting excited about the prospect of having a baby. 

Jack had brought with him a  folder containing paint swatches, changing table adverts, and other miscellaneous decor items. You had your own ready as well. 

“Your obsession with mahogany is weird,” you said, leaning against the kitchen counter and waiting for your peppermint tea to steep. 

Jack sat at the kitchen table “it’s earthy.”

“It’s dark and depressing,” you said, “What about a sage green?”

“What hell is sage green?”

“Jackson, “ you said,  taking your cup of tea with you to the table. You took the paint swatch out of your folder and handed it to him. 

He tilted his head “hmm, yeah that's pretty.”

“And then I found this nursery set at Costco for one thousand five hundred. It has a changing table dresser, a crib that converts into a toddler bed, and then a full-sized later on. You don’t still have the old one right?”

Jack shook his head and sifted through some papers in his file, pulled one out then handed it to you. “I was thinking something more along the lines of this.”

He had printed out the specs of a top-of-the-line smart crib completely with a baby video monitor, heart monitor, sound machine,  and three different movement features. The price tag was a whopping six thousand dollars.

“It’s really expensive,” you said, setting the page down on the table.

He shrugged “it’s safe”

“I mean yeah, if money was no object of course I would want that crib but… I can’t afford that Jackson. If we go with the other option I won't have to buy new furniture for a few years at least.”

“What if it was a gift from the company?” He asked. 

You gave him an uneasy look.

“Ginger had asked me to ask you what you needed. It would be a gift from the whole agency, and a drop in the bucket from where finances are concerned.”

“It’s a pity gift, isn't it? They're not just handing out twelve thousand dollar baby gifts to other random employees, are they?” you asked. 

Jack looked down and cleared his throat “people at the agency feel…upset the way things turned out and they want to…show that they appreciated your involvement and friendship-”

“No. No, they can go fuck themselves” you could feel yourself start to get heated. It wasn’t completely the agency's fault of course, but you had grown to consider his coworkers' friends after seeing them at many company functions. The way they all conspired in secret and nobody gave you the heads up really made you feel betrayed. 

“Y/N,” Jack said softly.

“I don’t even wanna fucking do this anymore. You're making me fucking upset” you said, walking back into the kitchen and taking your tea with you.

“Look, all I’m trying to do is-” Jack started. 

A knock on the door made the two of you turn. You set your cup down on the counter and moved to the door. You figured it was the downstairs neighbors who needed Jack to move his truck, however, when you opened the door you were greeted with a sight that stopped you dead in your tracks. 

“Ezra?”

He smiled as he addressed you, “little bird.”

Jack stood and walked over to see what was going on. Ezra’s face flattened only for a moment but soon returned to his cheery smile. “My apologies if I'm interpreting,”

“No Jackson was just leaving,” you said.

There was a tense silence that followed, you looked behind you to see your ex-husband staring at the man, his jaw clenched tight. 

“May I come in?” Ezra asked. 

You nodded, pulling the door open for him to step through. You turned to Jack who was still looking as angry as ever and eyed him in a way that said ‘get your shit and leave.’ Jack obliged, grabbing his hat and keys from the table and walking to the landing font. He then stopped and turned as if he wanted to speak with you. 

You gave Ezra a quick smile then shut the door behind you to speak with Jack privately. 

“What?” you asked.

“He just shows up at your house? And you think that's all well and dandy?” Jack asked. 

“I gave him my address,” you said. 

“When?” 

“The other night when I drove to his house,” you said. 

“You drove to his house at night?” 

You held a hand up to stop him “need I remind you, Jackson, we are no longer married, meaning what I do and when I do it is none of your concern.”

“It is my concern because that's my baby in there too and I have a right to make sure she’s not put in any danger.”

You rolled your eyes “you’re so fucking dramatic all the time.”

“You don’t see how that's a little fuckin’ creepy?” Jack asked. “Are you sleeping with him?”

You opened the door again and stepped through it” Why don’t you go back home to your dead wife Jack? I’m sure she misses you.”

With that, you shut the door in his face. Ezra was admiring the pictures in the two files you and Jack had strewn about the table. 

“Nursery planning,” you said “can I get you anything? Water? Tea?” 

Ezra shook his head “no thank you, I’m fine.”

You nodded.

“I thought we should speak about what happened Tuesday evening. You did catch me quite off guard” Ezra said. 

You felt a warm heat move to encompass your entire face. “I’m sorry if I surprised you and if my phone number and address on the box seemed a bit…forward. I just wanted to let you know where you could find me.”

“It’s not often somebody has the ability to render me speechless,” he said, his lips quirking into a slight smile “but you seem to do it often, little bird. I appreciated the gift and the apology for that matter.”

You smiled awkwardly “good, yeah. That's all I was trying to do. I felt bad the way things happened, and I still feel bad.”

“Think nothing of it, little bird. At my age, it is best to let bygones be bygones.”

“I’m glad, thank you.” 

“How are you fairing?” Ezra asked.

“Oh um, fine. Still getting back on my feet, as you can see” you motioned to the mostly empty house. “But I’m good. The medicine is working well so hopefully, I can stop wearing the tube soon.”

“And the child?” Ezra asked. 

“Oh,” you said, putting a hand on your belly “she's good. Super healthy so I’m glad.”

His eyebrow quirked up “you’re having a girl? Congratulations, that is wonderful. Have you thought of a name yet?” 

“Thank you, um, and no not yet…what about you? How are things at the library?”

“Busy,” he said “for the life of me, I will never understand why children push off their summer reading until the very last two weeks of August.”

“That sounds like it sucks, things should start slowing down soon though… what, um, what does your girlfriend do?”

Ezra paused “girlfriend?”

“Yeah, the woman in your… you know on second thought that question might have been too forward I apologize-”

“She is not my girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“She is a coworker, her and her girlfriend are living with me until their new rental leasing period begins. I apologize if that was not clear the other night.”

“No” you laughed “no it was not… so you came here to tell me that then?”

He nodded “and to give you this.”

Ezra reached into the pocket of his Jacket and produced a folded-up paper. “It’s the submission information for the North American Emerging Writers contest. There is a category for cookbooks, if chosen as a winner the company will sign with you, then take care of marketing, printing, and distribution.”

You frowned your brows at the paper “ I haven't kept up writing…and I don’t think I’ll have enough time once the baby comes.”

“The baby won't arrive for another few months, it seems to me you have more than enough time to pull something together. When is she due?”

“December.”

“It works out then, submissions are due by January first.”

“Yeah but I don’t know if it will be good enough-” you started. 

“It doesn't have to be good enough, it simply has to be finished. We can agree on how many pages you will send me a week, I will edit and revise then we can go from there. I would prefer at least two drafts to be completed before submission.”

You laughed “Ezra that's… would you even have enough time for something like that?”

“Surely I can make time.”

“Yeah but Ezra, I can barely cook myself or eat the food I cook, even just the smell of it is…” you trailed off, feeling queasy already. 

“Then you can give me the instructions, I can write down my thoughts on the recipe, and then we’ll reevaluate at a later time. The important test of a cookbook is instructing others on how to do it.” He said. 

 “Why are you so keen on helping me?”

“Because you harbor a talent I wish to foster and I think you have a very good chance at winning if you just apply yourself to the work. People around here rarely wish to become anything more than average- I don’t wish to see you fade into rural obscurity.”

You laughed, “it's just a cookbook Ezra.”

“It is your dream no matter how small, if you were to achieve it, it would set you above the rest of the population by a large margin. Now, I have some thoughts about the order of the recipes….go fetch your laptop.”

[spiribia]

dinosaur fans and dragon fans are kind of like hares and rabbits to me where they look fundamentally similar to the extent you would not be faulted for thinking them interchangeable but when you gaze into the eyes the dissimilarity reflects alien back at you. you can still be both btw. it's my theory and has zero scientific rigor and is probably untrue due to the genuine overlap but having been in dinosaur enthusiast communities & having been in dragon enthusiast communities the distance between the lizards in perceived as truth-seeking faithfulness-seeking scientific understanding at heart & in blatantly known fantasy at heart rings. and of course then again you have bleedover like some dragon people who get super persnickety about randomly generated dragon taxonomies that dont even factually exist in ways that have the capacity to be widely known of or agreed on, & there are perpetual spaces in our understanding of dinosaurs that we must fill with a kind of fantasy if we are to have the shape of an animal at all, and so a dinosaur is in parts a class of fictitious beast of its own

[witchyfashion]

Discover the mysteries within ancient maps - Where exploration and mythology meet

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