#frost colony

[one-cats-hope]

Doodles!

[marimichae]

One Cat’s Hope

[weirdosreignhere]

If Jack Frost lived in 17th-18th century America (specifically Pennsylvania) prior to becoming a spirit, his clothing choices would be pretty different from modern day fashion, right? I’m pretty sure Jack’s clothes from the movie aren’t historically accurate either, so I did some research.

I also found out that Pennsylvania was a safe for Quakers and had many other ethnicities including Puritanism. I had the idea ‘what if Jack was a Puritan?’ (I’ve seen this idea in other ROTG fanfics) and I find it really interesting!

So I give you: Puritan Jack (with clothes that I tried my best to be as historically accurate)!

[trash-gobby]

Could I please request the colonial marines with a virgin reader? Please and thank you

Colonial Marines With a Virgin Reader

Summary: So this was a long time coming. There are some people with less details then others. I still need to work out some of my headcanons so things might change in the future.

Hopefully this works out and y'all enjoy anyway 😅

Pairing(s): Colonial Marines X GN!Reader

Characters: Cynthia Dietrich, Mark Drake, Colette Ferro, Ricco Frost, Scott Gorman, Dwayne Hicks, William Hudson, Daniel Spunkmeyer, Jenette Vasquez, Reader

Citrus Scale: 🍋

RATING: PG

⚠️This is an 18+ post because of the NSFW!!! That means I DON’T encourage anyone who interacts with NSFW content who is underage. I’ve talked to other people who’ve been long time content creators and users of this website and I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not your parent and can’t control what content you consume. Just consume responsibly, and know your limits. And If your a minor please DNI

Detailed warnings under the cut

⚠️ Warnings!: Sex, not super explicit references to sex acts

______________________________________________________________

Cynthia Dietrich

✨ Being a medic Cynthia is very attuned to people's anxieties and insecurities.

✨ She won't pressure you into sex either and doesn't see your virginity as anything weird or worth looking at you different for.

✨ Being the person who takes your virginity isn't something she sees as a prize she's won or something to brag about. It's something intimate between you and her which she'd only talk about with others if your comfortable with that.

✨ She'll be attentive and slow when first having sex with you. She'll let you be the one to initiate so it's at a time where your comfortable.

✨ Cynthia also finds it hot informing you what turns her on and how to please her, as much as finding out what your into.

Mark Drake

✨ Drake is pretty macho, so knowing that you are a virgin is going to be something he's pretty excited about.

✨ He's excited that you want him to be your first, and will feel generally pretty chuffed about it.

✨Learning to respect boundaries is something you will have to discuss with him, since he kinda has a brick for a brain. Once you have a discussion with him, he'll be able to cater more to your comfort level/needs.

✨Drake is petty dominant and a aggressive as a lover, so you would either be really into that, or have to discuss how to deal with that when losing your virginity for the first time.

✨Gonna be the one to initiate sex, but will only continue if you're down in the moment.

✨See's sex the complete opposite way Dietrich does. Definitely needs to take some classes in how not to see sex as a conquest 😒

Colette Ferro

✨ Ferro is pretty open about sex, so she'll be pretty up front about her feelings about virginity. She doesn't have an issue with it at all, she just might be shocked you haven't gotten laid yet lmao

✨Very cool about not pressuring you into having sex before you're ready. Will wait for you to express interest before going down the road of actually having sex

✨Not into the idea of bragging rights about sex, despite having a very sex heavy sense of humor with other marines, like Hudson, Drake and Vasquez

✨Prioritizes your pleasure when it's your first time so that you can have the best first experience as possible.

Ricco Frost

✨ Spunkmeyer is pretty casual about the ideas of sex. He doesn't really care about whether you're a virgin or not.

✨His reaction when you tell him is probably just gonna be to say "cool" and move on. He's not trying to be dismissive, he just doesn't really have an opinion either way.

✨This means when it comes to sex, you'll have to talk to him about your expectations and comfort level, as he approaches sex the same with everyone otherwise.

Scott Gorman

✨ Gorman is super nervous when you tell him about the fact that you're a virgin. It's not that he thinks it's a bad thing. He just has no idea how to handle sex with someone with no experience.

✨He may get way to in-his-head about how to make your first time the best possible time. He doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable on any level (especially emotionally and physically).

✨In the end he might even need more time to get around to the idea of having sex then you.

✨You'll most likely have to have a conversation with him expressing that he doesn't have to be perfect in order to make you happy when it comes to sex or anything else.

✨Eventually he will calm down, but he is a perfectionist and a people pleaser, which is a double edged sword.

✨Probably gonna be the most basic in the bedroom out of everyone in the marines.

Dwayne Hicks

✨ Hicks is gonna feel pretty honored that you want to share your first time with him. Despite being pretty on board with some of the raunchy jokes the other marines make, he is pretty serious about sex.

✨Comfort, privacy and intimacy are a must for Dwayne when it comes to setting the perfect atmosphere for having sex.

✨It's as much about the setup and foreplay for Hicks as it is about sex itself. Making sure the mood is perfect.

✨He's gonna want to make you feel like the most important person when you are ready to finally take things to the next level.

William Hudson

✨ Total ham, so he's probably gonna make a joke about the fact that you're still a virgin. You'll have to let him know if it makes you uncomfortable (but he's probably still gonna make jokes about it. He's an ass).

✨Hudson is also a horny bastard, so knowing you're a virgin is kinda something he thinks is hot. Doesn't mean he won't respect your boundaries, he totally will. But he will express interest at certain moments in desiring you.

✨Will also try to get you interested in different ways, both attempting to be appealing and through humor. Whether that wins you over is entirely based on what you find attractive.

✨Pretty balanced when it comes to making sure you're having fun and him in the bedroom

✨Definitely gonna be chuffed that he's your first, but won't go around sharing it with his buddies.

Daniel Spunkmeyer

✨Spunkmeyer is also not super experienced, so he's gonna be one of the least judgmental. He has only been in one other sexual relationship before joining the military.

✨He's not been as active as others when on leave, wanting to enjoy having time alone to recenter over getting drunk and having a one night stand.

✨Will probably need a lot of your input on what positions, pacing and other things are the most appealing to you.

Jenette Vasquez

✨ Vasquez has a lot of experience with partners of different skill levels and experience sexually.

✨She'll be a really good guiding hand for helping you discover things about yourself, while also learning more about herself in the process.

✨She's very into preening with the other guys in order to keep up rapport, but she will not take it well if anyone makes fun of or implies things about you sexually. She's protective of your privacy, especially when you don't have any experience.

✨Very much balanced between give and take, but will make the experience of your first time fun and memorable for the right reasons

[the-faultofdaedalus]

watching avengers assemble (specifically that episode where steve has to bodyguard victor) and like

its a little weird for thor to be criticizing victor and his country right. like sir. you are the heir to a non-democracy surveillance state. odin has (implied) almost complete control over asguard as a country. heimdall can see fucking anything and any one at any time. and in EVERY situation where that isn't the case, it is always presented as a Bad Thing, and not a... vaguely horrific lack of privacy.

like,,, thor buddy i dont think you have a leg to stand on here

[roach-works]

funniest kind of alien to meet: a big bearlike species that cultivates a symbiotic population of bugs in their fur. the bugs distribute oils, eat dead skin and hair, and fight off parasitical species. it's like an external immune system for them. they only lose their bugs on death, when the colony flows from the cooling body into the warm fur of the assembled mourners. a bearlian with no bugs, due to fire or frost damage, is in need of immediate transfusion or they will be at risk of terrible infections.

unfortunately humans have no symbiotic bugs in our fur, and our ancient instincts are to remove all bugs from all fur, immediately. a body covered in swarming little pests is deeply horrifying: it's viscerally dangerous to us.

so each of us see one another as disgusting corpses. and our diplomats have to talk to each other across very wide tables.

[mewnekoice-mecha]

Danny is raised by Bats. No, not those Bats the Other Ones.

Danny is sent to Gotham and is Stuck in his Spirit Animal form (as a forced vacation by clockwork) which happens to be a little white bat. As he’s King his animal form reflects that, he has glowing eyes, the underside of his wings look like a nebula, when he flies frost or stardust trail behind him, when he ‘echoes’ its an Aurora.

So, we come to this. Danny stuck in bat form adopted by the local bats who think he’s their ‘Goddess’ Nocturna child. (If you ever seen the animated cartoon/movie Silverwing).

So they take care of him and he grows up in their care for years and is just honestly having a blast. The Ecto in Gotham makes him grow very,very,very BIG

One day the Other bats(*cough*Damian and Alfred*cough*) decide to just check on there local namesake and make sure they’re Healthy and come face to face with what they assume is the bats *Mother*

I just headcanon that due to Danny and the fact he’s leaking ecto the bat colony are smarter and faster than normal bats.

[phyrestartr]

Their Burning Bodies Keep Us Warm (1/2) | Sukuna x M!Reader

W/C: 3.4k #NSFW, top!Sukuna, bottom!Reader, ABO dynamics, cannibalism, mentions of sex trafficking, mentions of cults, questionable relationship, suggested Stockholm syndrome, post-apocalypse, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, drama, gore, typical zombie shite, not rlly edited kekw SORRY

tags: @flowersatwork @tr4nniez @kamote-kuneho @prettorett @better-imagination-9

You ran. Even when your lungs tore apart, your legs burned to ash, your mind split and ruptured, you ran. 

The destination was simple: anywhere. Anywhere away from the hell hole you'd been swept up into–a camp full of soldiers getting hopeful little bugs stuck in a honeypot with promises of safety and a life well-lived despite the end of the world. A colony. A chance to stop hoping to simply survive. 

But that wasn't what happened. You and so many others were victims of a breeding ring–a puppy mill, so to speak. One where those able to bear young were forced to. One where a hivemind fooled the naive into thinking this was all for the ultimate goal of repopulation, for a chance to reclaim the world should the infected finally fall.

Yet humans, as smart and powerful as the hive claimed, had already lost once, and now twice as they lit their humanity ablaze for the greater evil of satisfying twisted desires under the guise of necessity. You couldn't take it anymore. 

So, you ran. 

Then, you saw a light. Just faintly. It whispered promises of warmth in the cold deadness of Winter's night; you couldn't help but be drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

But that meant someone was inside, too, which could be a blessing or a curse–if they found you, sidling up to the house, listening for signs of life or unlife, they could turn you in to the men chasing you; on the other hand, you might find a friend. A companion. A safe person to sleep by at night. To eat with. To talk to. That'd be nice. 

Your daydreams shattered when the voices of those soldiers echoed in the empty streets of the town you'd found yourself in. You peeked from your perch by the front door of the house, and ducked out of view when you saw two bobbing lights flicking and scanning over the snow. 

Shit, shit, shit. You swallowed thickly, trying to thick through the frost biting you and the snow melting on your bare arms. What were the odds they'd be able to follow your scent? All the way down to the spot where you hid beneath the front steps? It was hard to track another when it was raining, so snow had to be the same, right? So why were they coming closer and closer, why were their voices becoming hushed and their words rushed, why were they–

The door above you slammed open with the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. You covered your mouth with a shaky hand, hoping the boom coupled with your stalker's shocked, angry barking (just one voice?) stifled whatever pathetic squawk you garbled out. 

It must've. Because the person--the man--standing on the weather-worn deck above you laughed, and stepped down the creaky stairs with heavy, lazy steps before following that soldier's voice. 

Go, go, go. You forced yourself to move, pushing yourself up the steps under the cover of barked threats and the outbreak of a fight. You thought men like that stuck together. That they'd help each other out with delivering omegas back to one another. That they'd invite him to join their diabolic cult–especially when the thick scent of alpha filled your lungs.

You swallowed thickly, your inner omega going wild with curiosity and wonder and a need to curl up in the musk and laze in it all day, but your petrified self picked up the slack and kept you in motion, kept you scrambling for a place to hide. Staying the night was the plan–you wouldn't be able to survive outside, not like this. Not with a t-shirt, worn joggers and runners being your only defense against the cold. 

What happens in the morning? He'd no doubt catch your scent. He'd no doubt realize he had an unwelcome guest. What would he do with you? What would he do to you? 

“I don't care,” You breathed as you jammed yourself into the darkness of a bedroom closet and burrowed into whatever lay on the floor. “I don't care.”

And that was true; being a slave to one was better than being a slave to many. 

–

His eyes shone red.

You weren't sure if you woke in the night to find the demon. You didn't know if your dreamscape simply enjoyed tormenting you. But the burns left by that searing, glowing gaze were real. 

He stood there. Features melded with shadow. Body engulfing the snowy light of night. Staring down at you. Quiet. Still. Inhuman. 

Only your shaky breathing filled the thick, damp void of silence his presence brought. What were you supposed to do? What were you supposed to–

He closed the closet doors, and his lumbering footsteps sauntered away.

–

When morning came, the stranger was not so willing to leave you alone. 

You thought you were being quite crafty, quite sneaky with how you planned on escaping; you waited for sounds of his to stop in a far-off room, then you donned yourself in whatever gear and warm clothes you could find in the closet, and then you carefully, so so so carefully, opened the closet doors and–

“Leaving already, little omega?” A deep, playful voice taunted from the doorway of the room, just out of sight; if you pushed the doors all the way open, you'd see the man standing in the doorway to the left. 

But your hands fumbled alongside your heart. Your voice died in your throat. 

You were caught.

A large hand gripped the side of the closet door and pulled it open. You stumbled backwards, heart shattering from its frosted paralysis to jump into overdrive. 

Because the man, the alpha standing before you, was unlike anything you'd seen before. 

He was tall. His shoulders stretched wide and, judging from the strain of his shirt, his build was formidable and downright predatory. Muscle shifted and adjusted under an expanse of gilded skin everytime the beast moved, changing from looming over you to leaning against the doorframe. Maybe in an attempt to make himself smaller. More likely because of his cocky laziness. 

The smirk plastered on his face bore the same arrogance, too. As did the care in brushing back his hair and actually looking presentable in the guts of a fucking apocalypse. But maybe he relished in the anarchy. You could only assume so much from tattoos marking his skin and the mirth gleaming in hellborne eyes. 

“Go on,” the man drawled, hooking a thumb into his belt, bringing your attention to the thick knife strapped to his side, “Let's hear your pretty voice.” 

“I wasn't gonna stay,” you choked out, and the demon in front of you smiled wider. “I just–I saw your light, and–” 

“And you walked on in without even knocking.” He sighed and shook his head. “Kids these days.” 

“M'not a fucking kid,” You bit out, surprising the both of you with your venom. You thought you'd lost it long ago, but maybe not. 

The man laughed, showing off his brutal, jagged canines. You swore you saw red staining them. 

“You've got some bite, huh? Like that in a bitch.” He stepped closer, and you tried to meld into the wall of clothes behind you, but failed to escape the calloused hand that grabbed you by the jaw and forced your head up, down and around as he inspected you like a piece of meat.

You tried to pull away, tried to turn your head to break free from his grasp. “Don't fucking touch me–”

“Hah. This how you tried to get those alphas off of you?” He taunted, grinning at your sudden wide-eyed stare. “No wonder they used you up like a–” 

You headbutted him and kneed him in the dick before pushing past him and running. Your head pounded thanks to your stupid opener, but at least it worked. Now, you just had to get out of the damn house and–

“OMEGA.” 

–and escape from the devil chasing you. 

His growling voice ripped through your skull like a chainsaw revving to life as you threw yourself down the stairs and out the front door. You slipped and slid, nearly falling and breaking your fucking neck on the porch, but you caught yourself and made a break for the street as the thundering of footsteps clamoured after you. 

Churned snow painted in sour shades of rusted red greeted you. You could almost envision the struggle, the stabbing, the warmth bleeding from their bodies as they died for their selfish desires. It chilled you, gave you pause–and that's where you fucked up. 

The horizon reeled and spun when a heavy body crashed into you and pinned you to the ground. You gasped, straining to catch the breath that'd been punched from your lungs, failing to stop the burning in your chest as your face froze against the pavement. 

“Wily little cunt, huh?” The stranger breathed, rage and amusement fighting through his words. “You bring that much fight to the sack, omega? Hey?” 

You tried to rip free or push him off or something as he taunted you, but you couldn't. You were trapped. Again. Again.

“Fuck you,” you spat. “I'd rather fucking die than–”

You froze. The slow, stuttering shamble of footsteps pricked your ears before low, ungodly moaning and wheezing rattled through the streets. The noise was quiet, but so loud to a frightened deer. 

“Lookit that,” your captor whispered, leaning down to your ear, “Guess God heard your prayer.”

Your heart hammered. “Get off, get off.” Your voice quaked and broke as you thrashed beneath him. “Please.” 

“Thought you said you'd rather die.” His knee ground into your back and you bit back a yelp. 

“Please.” The diabolic gasping came closer, became more frantic as the thing saw you. You couldn't see it, but they always got so fucking excited and loud when they saw fresh, living meat. You knew it was coming. 

“Ah-ah, can't let you go. Your buddy won't be able to catch up and end things for ya.” The stranger cackled something hideous and unnerving. “That'd be a right fucking shame.” 

“Let me up,” You begged.

“Not yet.”

It got closer.

“Please!” 

“No.” 

Just a metre away, now.

“I'll stay.” 

The scent of alphan approval washed over you.

“Good pet.”

You were pulled up and off the snowy ground with ease as soon as you submitted. You even vaguely saw the man kick the undead back with ease, sending it toppling over into the snow and stuck on its back like a helpless turtle. Its motor functions were shot in this weather. It probably wouldn't be getting up for a while. 

You wondered if you were going to suffer the same fate: stuck on your back, unable to move, at the mercy of a sick freak you accidentally met while running away from other lunatics. You were doomed. But at least you were alive. At least you'd be warm.

The pink-haired menace locked up the door before throwing you down onto the couch with little grace. You would have been more mad if the purring roil of the fireplace didn't breathe warm gusts of comfort over you. And, well, you weren't being dragged into a bedroom and tied down. Not yet, at least. 

The make matters worse, the man didn't really say much. Just closed the blinds and ensured the entrances and windows were secured while you sat still and quiet, patient lest you suffer a worse fate. 

He glanced at you over his shoulder before returning to the task at hand. “If I wanted to kill your sorry ass, I woulda done it last night,” he said into the quiet of the room. 

You remembered those eyes staring down at you. How inhuman and evil they were. How much fear they bred in you. And now, you had to accept how real that was. 

He sat down on the coffee table in front of you and leaned towards you, resting his elbows on his knees, holding your gaze with his own. 

“Here's what's gonna happen,” he said, low and dangerous. “I'm gonna let you stay. Real nice of me, yeah? I'll give you food, water. Keep you warm, keep you safe from all the bullshit going on outside. Sounds good, doesn't it?” 

You looked over his face, brows furrowed, heart pounding so loud you almost couldn't hear him. But you nodded for fear of what he'd do otherwise. 

He smiled, satisfied. “Good. And in return,” he started, letting a hand slip up to your knee, “You'll make like a good little whore and keep my bed warm. Fair deal, don't you think?” 

You nodded. It wasn’t like you had a choice, anyway.

–

Sex with the man–Sukuna, as you’d come to learn–wasn’t the worst thing imaginable; for one, he had some level of patience and tact when it came to stretching and lubing you up for your occasional “duties,” which put him in your “good book” right away (Christ, your standards had fallen so low). 

Secondly, he didn’t make you participate. He’d command you in the same way each time (“face down, ass up, don't bite”), and he'd have his way with you. He never made you kiss him. Never demanded you speak. Never bullied you. He seemed like he just wanted to stuff his cock somewhere warm and forget about the world for a bit.

And you didn't really mind it. Sometimes. you almost looked forward to it. Sometimes, you let little noises escape when he railed you into the bed with reckless abandon. Sometimes, you wanted his hands on you just a little longer. 

Because when he wasn't fucking you, he might disappear out of the blue and leave you all alone, only to return a week later with supplies and clothes, unperishable goods and other random odds and ends he found along the way. Once, he even found a retro game store and scooped up an endless supply of gameboy advance and colour games and consoles. Another time, he carried home a bag full of weather-worn books. 

What'll it be today? You wondered when you caught sight of the man wandering back up the steps. He cursed under his breath as he messed with the lock for an eternity, and you took the opportunity to scurry away from the living room to put some distance between the two of you just in case; at this point, you didn't expect him to hurt you, but wild animals were unpredictable, even when seemingly domesticated.

“Fuckin' shit-ass door,” Sukuna grumbled as he nudged it open before kicking it closed and locking up. “Need to fix that shit.” 

You peered down at him from your perch halfway up the stairs and watched him saunter around, heavy boots clunking on the floors you just washed as he looked around. You had to wonder who the hell had taught him shoes inside was okay. 

“Where the fuck is that little bitch,” he mumbled, walking out of your line of sight. He traipsed through the bottom floor thoroughly before walking past the stairs again, pausing, rewinding, and meeting your patient statre. “The fuck are you doing?”

I don't want you to bite me; I don't know if you'll randomly kill me if you're in a bad mood; I don't trust you like that, all ran through your head, but none felt like a good option to admit to. So, you shrugged.

Sukuna sighed, loud and laced with an aggravated growl. “Downstairs. Now. Need you to do something.” 

Your brows furrowed slightly. Normally, you weren't asked to do much. The sudden command had your skin itching. 

“Now.” 

“Coming.” You tried to control the quivering of your legs on your descent to him, and just prayed he didn't notice. 

He stared down at you with narrowed eyes and a bit of a sneer before he leaned over, sniffing for your scent, circling around you a few times, and finally rubbing his wrist against your neck to half-heartedly re-mark you. 

You cleared your throat. “Is that it?” 

Sukuna scoffed and turned away, grabbing the medical bag from the kitchen cabinet and dumping it on the counter. “You know how to sew, yeah?” 

“Well, yeah. I can sew.” You approached warily as he gestured you closer. 

“Hah. Good to know you're not completely fucking useless.” He sat down heavily onto a bar stool and shrugged off his jacket and shirt before turning his back to you; a long, jagged gash marred his skin with trails of dark, gooey ichor and scarlett smears. Whatever had happened was serious.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, scrambling to look through the medical bag to find something, anything, that seemed like it'd help. You found some essentials: gauze, tape, bandages, antibiotic cream, disinfectant wipes. But you'd definitely need more than a few dinky wipes to deal with his back.

You felt his eyes on you as you puttered around the kitchen, grabbing this and that and some other things before returning to his side with salt, bottled water, and booze in-hand. 

Sukuna quirked a brow. “The fuck is all that for?” 

You jumped a bit when his voice interrupted your whirling thoughts. “I–gonna, um, try to make some kinda…saline. To clean it.” You cleared your throat again and set the mostly-empty bottle of sake by him. “That's for…y'know.”

“Loud and clear,” Sukuna sighed, dreading what was to come, and took a long, long drink from the bottle.

You pursed your lips and nodded to yourself before starting to mix the salt and water together in the bottle. You weren't sure what the ratio should be, but you figured there wasn't necessarily a limit, not when you were lacking isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. You'd be sure to mention it to him next time he went out. 

“So. This'll…suck,” you warned, voice nervous and weak. 

Sukuna sighed again. Took a swig again. Then ripped his belt from his waist, folded it a few times, and bit down. 

He gave you an unenthused thumbs-up, and you found the nerve to jab a hole in the plastic bottle cap before spraying your makeshift saline solution against the wound. 

You nearly shit yourself as Sukuna growled with the force of a jet turbine. Faintly, you heard the creaking groan of leather crackle from his mouth as his teeth sank in deep. His canines probably already pierced through the material. 

“I know,” you whispered, actually feeling badly for the animal keeping you prisoner. “I know.”

You took your time cleaning the wound out, being sure to remove any sort of gravel or shrapnel embedded into his flesh. Luckily, the gash looked worse than it actually ended up being. It bled a lot, but it didn't cut all the way through to his ribs or beyond. Talk about lucky. 

When a majority of his trembling and snarling ebbed, you hazarded the question: “So…how’d this happen?” 

Sukuna groaned, and you almost smiled. “Fell off a fucking roof. Hit a sign on the way down.” 

You cringed at the thought. “Well. It's…not that bad.” You drenched the wound with another round of salt water before patting it dry.

“Yeah? Then no stitches,” he half-declared, half-asked. 

You gave his back a pitying look before reaching for the needle. Sukuna scoffed and muttered colourful obscenities when he saw your fingers snatch up the tool before disappearing behind him again. 

“Fuck me.”

“Sorry,” you offered softly, trying not to laugh. 

You saw his knee bounce in trepidation as you wiped his skin and the needle down with those cute little towelettes. You kinda felt bad for him. Healthcare in the apocalypse was a bit lacklustre.

As carefully as you could, you pushed the needle through his skin, and tried not to gag at the obscene feeling. The sound of his fist hitting the countertop helped ground you, though, and helped keep you on task stitch, after stitch, after stitch, after–

You set aside the tools and cleaned off your trembling, crimson-stained hands as best as you could before applying whatever ointment you could under gauze, and finally bandaging his torso up. Sukuna's eyes followed you, but you couldn't bear to look at him, quietly afraid of what he might do if your unsteady gaze met his; but that wasn't acceptable, judging by how he grabbed your arm and stopped you from turning away to clean up the mess. 

You looked at him, then, eyes laser-focused. Every shift pumped your veins with ice. Every flick of his attention sent electricity down your spine. Every silent word his lips failed to commit to filled you with dread. 

“Thanks,” he said. And he let go. 

[vandaliatraveler]

Walk with me: Mid-summer hike through a Central Appalachian forest. As summer hurtles toward its final explosive act, the forest's living things embrace urgent, primordial impulses triggered by shrinking daylight: to bloom, to seed, to feed, and to reproduce before the killing frost of Autumn shocks the earth into hibernation. In the deep forest, the fetid perfume of decaying fungi signals the countdown has begun. From top: a bumblebee traversing the fanning pink flowers of hollow-stemmed Joe-Pye weed (Eutrochium fistulosum); the maturing red stem and flowers of seedbox (Ludwigia alternifolia), also known as rattlebox and square-pod water-primrose, a very attractive wetlands annual with four-sided seed capsules; cowbane (Oxypolis rigidior), also known as common water dropwort, a delicate, marsh-loving member of the carrot family that also happens to be toxic; Allegheny hawkweed (Hieracium paniculatum), also known as panicled hawkweed, a spindly-stemmed member of the dandelion tribe; the lovely and hallucinogenic fly agaric (Amanita muscaria); a sprawling colony of sulphur shelf fungus (Laetiporus sulphureus), an edible delicacy otherwise known as chicken of the woods; a red eft (Notophthalmus viridescens); white wood aster (Eurybia divaricata); a twin set of common puffballs (Lycoperdon perlatum); the fungal version of suburban sprawl courtesy of orange moss agaric (Rickenella fibula); a gelatinous serving of orange witches' butter (Dacrymyces chrysospermus); a fiery clump of eastern Jack-o-lanterns (Omphalotus illudens); a potter wasp (Ancistrocerus campestris) drinking from the clumped white flowers of virgin's bower (Clematis virginiana); one of my all-time favorite critters, a locust borer (Megacyllene robiniae), taking its nectar fill from flat-top goldentop (Euthamia graminifolia), also known as grass-leaved goldenrod; a green metallic sweat bee (Augochloropsis ?) finding sustenance from parasol white-top (Doellingeria umbellata var. umbellata), also known as flat-top aster; and the intricate purple flowers of tall ironweed (Vernonia gigantea).

[llovelymoonn]

on november

nina maclaughlin the paris review: "on the first of november, the ghosts arrive" \\ emily dickinson in a letter to elizabeth holland (early nov, 1865) (via @flowerytale) \\ anna akhmatova rosary \\ philip jenks colony collapse metaphor: "november" \\ robert frost the complete poems: "my november guest" \\ ellis nightingale (@ellisnightingale) \\ @honeytuesday \\ nina maclaughlin the paris review: "the dark feels different in november" \\ l.m. montgomery anne of green gables \\ maggie stiefvater the scorpio races (via @metamorphesque) \\ sylvia plath the unabridged journals of sylvia plath (via @louisegluck)

kofi

[one-cats-hope]

1 Corthians 13:2

[filmnoirsbian]

Things read in May

Essays & Articles:

Ursula K. Le Guin on Being A Man

Investigating parents of transgender youth has agency on ‘brink of collapse,’ staff warns

Five Indigenous Speculative Fiction Authors You Should Be Reading

DECOLONIZING SCIENCE FICTION AND IMAGINING FUTURES: AN INDIGENOUS FUTURISMS ROUNDTABLE

Using Dogs As A Tool of Racial Oppression

Rings of Power: The new hobbits are filthy, hungry simpletons with stage-Irish accents. That’s $1bn well spent

First case of HIV cure in a woman after stem cell transplantation reported at CROI-2022

The Trees That Miss The Mammoths

NOPE’S SCIENCE CONSULTANT REVEALS THE NAME AND INSPIRATION FOR THE MOVIE’S ALIEN

Reflections on the Poetry of Eavan Boland

The dire state of trans healthcare in Ireland

How Letterkenny Got Indigenous Representation So Right

Einstein's Parable of Quantum Insanity

Surgical amputation of a limb 31,000 years ago in Borneo

Most Transgender Children Stick With Gender Identity 5 Years Later: Study

Were you a ‘parentified child’? What happens when children have to behave like adults

Fear of a Black Hobbit

It’s a ‘Full-Contact’ Haunted House. What Could Go Wrong?

The Craft: How a Teenage Weirdo Based on a Real Person Became an Icon

Remember When Multiplayer Gaming Needed Envelopes and Stamps?

‘We’ll Never Make That Kind of Movie Again’ An oral history of The Emperor’s New Groove, a raucous Disney animated film that almost never happened.

5 Incredible Sagas of Fandom Scams and Deception

I Used to Love British Period Dramas. Now I See Them as Colonial Propaganda

Why gender essentialism is a white supremacist ideology

Liberating Our Homes From the Real Estate–Industrial Complex

You Don’t Have To Be Pretty – On YA Fiction And Beauty As A Priority

Ten Years Later, There’s Still Nothing Like Tarsem Singh’s The Fall

Tolerance is not a moral precept

Scottish Poet and Publisher Derick Thomson 'Transformed' Gaelic Poetry

Poetry:

The Universe, as in One Last Song for the Lonely Hearts by Michelle Hulan

An Ordinary Evening in New Haven by Wallace Stevens

Heaven by George Herbert

Return from Death by Derick Thomson

Coffins by Derick Thomson

Chemin De Fer by Elizabeth Bishop

Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo by William Wordsworth

The Man and the Echo by William Butler Yeats

The Most of It by Robert Frost

Eros Turannos by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Books:

The Dark Yule by R. M. Callahan

The Invasion by K. A. Applegate

The Whisper by Aaron Starmer

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

Miss Iceland by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir

[separatist-apologist]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Hoard Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his hoard, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Read on AO3

Thank you @climbthemountain2020. I wouldn't have gotten this done today (or maybe at all), if you hadn't let me turn writing into a competition.

-

It started with a burning fire. 

Feyre wasn’t the first to see it, though she was one of the first to run out, bucket in hand, in an attempt to put the flames out. Elain stood on the edge, tears streaking down her sooty face. Nesta was there, too, paler than usual as she paced back and forth. No one spoke, even as they managed to douse the flames. Smoke curled upward toward the sky, a beacon that would draw any who saw toward it.

And the Drakkari would absolutely see it. Shoving her burned hands into her pocket, Feyre tried to conceal her rage as she nodded for Elain and Nesta to follow her back to the small, dilapidated hut they lived in. The earth was utterly scorched, reeking of burned grass and smoke. Feyre wanted to vomit as they passed, hating the scornful eyes that fell upon them.

“What did you do?” she hissed the moment they were locked inside. 

Elain burst into tears, which frustrated Feyre even more. When was she going to get hard? When was this life going to finally sink in for her. They weren’t on Earth anymore—Earth had been destroyed when they’d been little girls, relocated as refugees on the planet Drakkar. Their mother hadn’t survived the journey.

Their father hadn’t survived Drakkar. The planet wasn’t hospitable and the Drakkari imposed harsh rules on the human settlements in an attempt to preserve the delicate ecosystem that existed on the planet. Hunting was not allowed, they couldn’t trade with the local Drakkari villages, and were reliant on whatever they could grow. Truthfully, they were supposed to be cared for by the Federation, but rations had stopped coming years before.

Now they worked the land, but it was barren, stripped of nutrients and mostly useless. 

“I was trying—” Elain choked off, wiping her eyes furiously on her sleeves. “I just wanted to fix the soil—”

“It’s not her fault,” Nesta barked out, but Feyre saw how pale her older sister's lips were. They knew what was going to happen. The Drakkari would come looking for answers, and Elain was too soft to face off with the Drakkari horde. “We’re starving. We need to do something.”

“They’re going to kill me,” Elain whispered, tears streaking down her dirty, beautiful face. 

“They won’t,” Feyre replied, stomach turning in knots. “I’ll make them understand.”

Easier said than done.

She’d seen a Drakkari horde only once in her life. She’d been fourteen and brand new with a bow, taught to her by a girl named Clare. Clare had been lovely, with hair red as flames and the prettiest pair of green eyes. They’d gone out to the nearby woods and it had been Clare who’d shown Feyre how to string her bow with an arrow, how to aim, and once she’d managed to kill a grounder, how to clean it so it was good for eating.

The horde had come right before the first frost looking for the woman who’d killed a grounder—it had been Feyre they’d been looking for. Clare had been home, caring for her mother and Feyre had been responsible for her family. That was the year her father had died, and they were starving. She still remembered the way they’d come into the village, seated on their massive smoke gray scaled beasts with yellow eyes. 

They’d demanded to know who had been hunting grounders and Clare had stepped forward before Feyre could claim responsibility. The massive horde king had slung a powerful leg off the beast, circled around her, before slinging her up over his shoulder to climb back up on the beast.

Feyre still remembered the way Clare had looked at her, eyes wide with fear. I’m sorry, Feyre had mouthed, too cowardly to save the woman from her fate. No one had ever seen Clare again, and they all knew what the horde had intended to do with her. There had been rumors long before Clare had been taken that the Drakkari often took war prizes in the form of females, though not typically human females. 

Feyre suspected when the Drakkari came, she’d be used much the same way Clare had been. She was older now and no longer a child. Turning to her sisters, she knew there was no hope they wouldn’t notice, just as she knew that Elain wouldn’t survive whatever torments a Drakkari male inflicted upon her.

Feyre would, though. Swallowing hard, Feyre tried to banish the fear gripping her chest to show her sisters how to prepare meat. Elain could skin it and dry it—she’d always been good in the kitchen—and Nesta could hunt. Someone would show her how, and Feyre’s bow was nice. They could sell anything they didn’t need to barter for food, too, though there was little left to take. Elain still had a string of their mothers pearls and Nesta their parent’s rings, all of which could be melted down or traded to someone more enterprising. Someone hoping to buy passage off Drakkar, anyway.

Her sisters were unusually quiet, doing as Feyre said and watching with big eyes. “Maybe they won’t take you,” Elain had whispered as night began to fall outside. A large, yellow moon illuminated a vibrant, starry sky and Feyre tried to remember if it had looked that way on Earth, too. She remembered so little of their former home—though sometimes at night she woke to nightmares of smoke and screaming.

“There will be punishment,” Feyre heard herself say dully.

“A whipping isn’t terrible,” Elain replied with her usual optimism. As if she’d ever be whipped herself. Feyre didn’t consider that any consolation given how unlikely she was to survive should infection take hold. “I would take care of you.”

Elain with her plants. For years, Elain had been able to make nearly anything grow. She’d gotten her hands on some seeds from a shipment and had planted root vegetables and wheat—enough to keep them mostly fed until the dry season had rolled in this year. There hadn’t been enough rain and the soil was depleted from years of use. Feyre almost couldn’t be angry at her older sister—Elain had tried to add nutrients back into the ground by lighting it, unaware of how the Drakkar soil would react.

What should have been a small, controlled fire became a raging inferno. Perhaps when Feyre was gone, they’d learn Elain’s experiment had paid off. Maybe they’d be fed again and all they’d lost was one more mouth to feed.

It made what she knew was coming almost worth it. 

Elain and Nesta fell asleep on the large bed they shared, but Feyre remained sitting in the window, watching the horizon. She saw the warriors, shadows in the distance at first, before they came closer and closer. Feyre wanted to run as far and as fast as she could. The urge tickled beneath her skin, mind begging her to just go. 

She couldn’t, though. Feyre had made her mother a promise on that ship, a child of only seven. When she’d been ushered in by her older sister to say goodbye, her mother had looked her in the eyes with more lucidity than Feyre had seen in weeks.

“Protect them, Feyre.”

Feyre couldn’t even pretend she’d meant to say it to Nesta or Elain. Her mother had used her name, had looked at her, and followed her plea with, “please.”

Feyre had sworn, too little to know better. It was what drove her outdoors to hunt, and it was what kept her in her seat even as those warriors came closer and closer. Feyre went for her cloak, hiding a dull dagger against her belt. It was sharp enough, though the edges had been worn down from years of skinning grounders. 

If she needed to use it, it would still get the job done, if a little inelegantly. 

“Are they here already?” Elain asked, sitting up as she rubbed at tired eyes. 

“Soon,” Feyre replied. She wasn’t the only one waiting. Lit lanterns illuminated more than a few huts, and Feyre knew they, like her, were watching the looming threat with terror in their hearts.

If the horde wanted, they could decimate the entire village with no repercussions. The federation didn’t care to check on them, and what was one less village to worry about, besides?

“You will say nothing,” Feyre informed her sisters, certain they wouldn’t anyway. “No one will contradict me.”

“You should lie…” Elain said, biting her lower lip. She couldn’t even get the rest of her sentence out. If Feyre told the truth, they would just take Elain in her place. Feyre only sighed and opened the door, leaving her sisters indoors. The gates were open, rarely closed for any reason, which made it easy for the warrior to come thundering in. Feyre was grateful for the noise that rattled her teeth, silencing her thoughts. Even her racing heart felt as if it settled, though that was just the shaking ground beneath her feet. 

No one dared to come out. Feyre saw faces peering through windows, all lined with terror. Good. No one would contradict her, then. 

The scaled beasts were even larger than she remembered. Illuminated by the bright moon, Feyre took a step back as they approached. There were seven in total, and much like the beasts, Feyre had forgotten just how big Drakkari men were. They were bare chested, sculpted of hard muscle lined with both fading scars and golden ink that whirled in bold lines. Feyre wondered, absently, what they meant—as far as she knew, no one but the Drakkari themselves knew. 

Thin tails flicked behind them as they dismounted, each unsheathing the blades crisscrossed over their back as they surrounded her. Only one, his face shrouded by the same hood Feyre wore to hide her face, remained unarmed. She could see the protruding lines of his own weapons against his back just as she could feel his eyes on her. 

Feyre’s blood ran cold as he dismounted. She knew, right then and there, that he was one of the horde kings—one of six that patrolled the lands and punished those who broke Dakkari rules. If he’d been summoned, Feyre had no hope for herself. 

Despite her attempt to project courage, her hands shook beneath her cloak. As he approached, Feyre marveled at how large he seemed. Bigger, even, than the warriors behind him. She caught a glimpse of warm, brown skin and the same gold markings, and his tail flicked with just as much agitation as the men behind her.

He was going to kill her. 

He stood before her, crossing his arms over his broad chest, causing his biceps to bulge. His fingers—six on each hand—were tipped with lethal looking claws. She couldn’t breathe as he lowered his hood, revealing thick hair so hard it nearly blended into the midnight sky around them. Near black eyes, ringed in the most vibrant shade of violet, stared down at her without mercy.

The shortness of his hair was at odds with the warriors around him, their own long, dark hair braided down their backs. It made the sharpness of his cheekbones seem more prominent, his jaw more chiseled. Feyre’s eyes darted back to his hands, ringed with more of the gold markings that were as big as her upper arms. 

She swallowed. 

Blinking away the urge to cry, Feyre stood with shaking knees and waited for him to speak. He continued to stare down at her beneath those dark brows. It was the man beside him who finally spoke, eyes sweeping over their little village.

Using the universal tongue, he demanded in a harsh, accented voice, “Were you the one who burned our land and disrespected—-defiled—our goddess, Kakkari?”

Feyre wanted to die. She didn’t dare look behind her where she knew her sisters would be watching, listening to see what happened and if they, too, would be blamed. No one moved from their homes, terrified of the warriors and their wrath. Feyre prayed to the old human gods that Nesta remained indoors, leashing her sharp tongue for once.

“It was an accident,” she heard herself whisper, voice trembling. She didn’t want to seem weak—and she wasn’t going to die on her knees begging. Feyre jutted her chin in the air, looking back at the horde king with as much defiance as she could muster. Her hood still hid her face, but somehow Feyre knew he could see her eyes. 

“Are you confessing, vekkiri?” the messenger demanded.

Was she? “You don’t understand,” Feyre began, trying her best to make them hear her out before the inevitably decided her fate. “We’re starving. The dry season has ruined our crops, and we were simply trying–”

The messenger held up a hand, silencing Feyre. She stumbled back a step, certain he was going to strike her.

“We? Name those who aided you in this crime. Your blood will be spilled as repayment for the scorched earth that defiles Kakkari. You took from her, so you will give back.”

Feyre’s stomach dropped to her feet. Turning her eyes back to the silent king before her, Feyre held his gaze. The messenger was merely that—a messenger. He spoke on behalf of his silent king, which meant Feyre needed to convince him rather than the group encircling her. No one else was going to come and protect her or try and take her place. 

“Our village will starve if we can’t replenish our crops,” she pleaded, still holding his violet gaze. “We’re not allowed to hunt game—you have made certain of that. And the rations from the Federation come maybe twice a year, which isn’t enough to keep everyone fed no matter how careful we are. I’m sorry about the fire—truly, I am—but we wouldn’t have done it if we weren’t desperate. Look around—”

The messenger once again held up his hand to silence her, and Feyre once again betrayed her fear by taking another step back.

“It is no concern of ours how vekkiri feed themselves,” he barked. It was over, then. Feyre felt helpless rage swirl through her chest. She wanted to scream, wanted to shove and fight until there was nothing left anymore. Would death be a welcome relief, she wondered? Would there be peace? Or nothing at all.

Feyre was too lost in her thoughts to notice the man before her had taken two steps forward, making up the ground lost when she’d stepped back. His voice, though, jolted her from her thoughts. It was dark and rich like the night sky around them, though it filled her with icy fear. 

“Remove your hood, kalles,” he ordered. “Show me the face of the female who dares to challenge the Dakkari.”

She was going to be sick. For a moment, Feyre was frozen in place, hands still hidden beneath her cloak. If she pulled them out, he’d see how badly she was shaking and he’d know her words were merely for show. Blowing out a silent breath, Feyre did as she was told and lowered her hood so he could see her.

His nostrils flared at the sight, the only indication he’d had a reaction at all. Feyre didn’t dare recoil, though internally bile rose in her throat. Still, Feyre didn’t dare break eye contact with him, shoulders squared as she faced off with a man who, if he wanted to, could have broken her in half with very little effort.

It also wasn’t lost on her that he was able to be so big because he could eat. Feyre knew what he saw when he looked back—a skinny woman with protruding bones and hollow eyes. She’d seen herself in the filth covered mirror Elain was always trying to keep clean. Did he feel shame, looking back at her?

“Brave kalles,” he murmured, his voice loud enough for his warriors to hear, “foolish kalles, too.”

Feyre bristled at the insult, assuming kalles meant female. She wasn’t a female, she was a woman. Human men who called her female, treating her like she was no better than an animal, met her fists for the insult. She couldn’t take this man, though she knew he saw the way her hands closed to fists at her side. 

“My name is Feyre,” she replied angrily, catching the way his nostrils flared again. “I’m not telling you who was involved. I won’t let you hurt them.”

She could feel her sister’s gaze on her back just as she saw his gaze lift over her head toward their shared hut, just close enough to make it obvious where she’d come from. Could he see her sisters in the window watching? Would he guess who she was protecting? 

“You won’t let me, kalles?” he murmured, eyes falling back on her face. “I can do whatever I wish.”

He took a step toward the house, prompting Feyre to surge forward and press her hands against his bare chest. All at once, six swords were mere inches from her chin. It was laughable—as if she was any threat. She was only armed with a dagger at her hip that she’d forgotten about until that very moment.

“Please,” she whispered, swallowing hard. Feyre dropped her hand to show she meant him no harm. “Please, just take my life.”

Once again, he looked over her head toward her house and this time, Feyre dared to look back, too. She saw them, illuminated by the oil in the lamp they were wasting to watch. Feyre wished they’d extinguish it and pretend to be asleep. Seeing Elain’s terror and Nesta’s flatness made her stomach churn.

They’d be okay, she reasoned. Elain was beautiful and men were constantly asking for her to marry them. In a village nearby, a man with money had come offering to take Elain as his wife and keep her safe and as well-fed as anyone could hope to be. Elain had been sitting on the offer because Nesta and Feyre couldn’t go with her.

Nesta would urge her to take it. Nesta, too, would find some way to keep herself alive. She’d always been resourceful, Feyre reasoned. Maybe they’d prioritize themselves once she was gone. Not that she’d ever been first in their minds—Nesta took care of Elain, and Elain was simply too sweet to ever consider that Feyre might need to be cared for, too. 

The horde king looked back at her. “Please?” Feyre whispered a second time, her voice breaking a little. She swept her braid to the side of her neck as she waited for him to order her to her knees. Would he be the one who did it, she wondered? Or would he order one of his warriors to end her life.

Feyre felt trapped as he stared back, pinned in place. She could scarcely breathe, her terror stripping her of her remaining courage. She felt her bottom lip tremble, felt the need to look down at the ground and become passive in whatever decision would be made. 

Beside him, the messenger murmured, “Vorakkar, kivi vekkiri donthanu un kevf?

The silence stretched as the horde king remained silent. He never took those unnerving violet eyes off her. In her hysteria, Feyre thought the violet, set against otherwise black pupils, looked a lot like the sky overhead. Like he had stars in his eyes and it was the universe itself peering back at her. 

What would he decide? She didn’t need to understand their language to know his messenger was urging the king to end this. Do you want me to kill her, she bet he’d said. Feyre wanted to scream, the torment of waiting clawing at her throat. She didn’t want to die, just as he knew he hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he could do whatever he liked.

There was no justice for humanity here. No laws that protected them, no governing body that would wonder what became of her. Feyre’s sisters would simply bury her on foreign soil and move on, leaving her little more than a forgotten memory. A warning to children in the future, a tale to remind them to respect the Drakkari or meet the same fate as Feyre Archeron. 

“Vorrakar,” the messenger repeated, his tone shifting from urgent to inquisitive. This wasn’t how things were done, then. The horde king straightened, reaching the thick belt around his waist. He unsheathed a curved, lethal looking dagger so quickly Feyre didn’t have time to react. She heard someone scream her name just as he slashed upward.

She’d thought, for a moment, he’d cut her clothes off her body. Instead, he’d simply cut the cloak from around her neck, causing the tattered fabric to flutter to the ground. Her body was revealed to him, then, still hidden beneath the threadbare clothes she wore…but only just. Her trousers were ripped at the knees and a little too small, though hidden by the boots on her feet. And her tunic was too large for her now given how little Feyre consumed, hanging from her body like a dress, though she’d tied a cord around her waist to give it a little shape. 

Humiliation and outrage burned through her as his eyes raked over her form. Feyre had little experience with men—she’d had one encounter with a man named Isaac before Nesta had stopped her, warning her that a child would only complicate their situation. And he’d been engaged, besides, not even a few days later. Was he watching, too? 

“Don’t touch her!” 

That imperious tone could only belong to Nesta. The hoard king didn’t acknowledge her at all, nor did his men move. Feyre glanced over to see her older sister standing just at the door, gripping the handle with white knuckles. 

A triumphant smile spread over the face of the king. He knew, then, who she protected. Dragging his eyes back up her body, they once again found her eyes. Feyre felt naked, though she resisted the urge to cover herself. If this was what he’d decided on, that was better than death. She could escape, if she wished. 

“Kassikari,” the hoard king murmured so suddenly it made Feyre jump. There was some emotion in his voice she didn’t recognize. The word caught all his warriors by surprise, as their blades dipped so they could all turn to look at him.

Feyre could guess what kassikari meant. Whore. 

You can do this, she told herself. Better to be alive and able to return home than dead on the ground. She would do whatever was required of her, though she wouldn’t do it without complaint. He could have his whore, though Feyre intended to fight him every step of the way. She intended to make his life miserable for the duration, until he finally tired of her and dumped her back at her village.

Or…or perhaps she could bargain with him. A year serving him if he freed her at the end. If she pleased him, perhaps he’d agree. 

Ignoring the soft conversation the warriors had around her, Feyre took a breath, decided on the course of action. 

“You wish to offer your life in exchange for the others?” he asked her suddenly, speaking only to her. “You are willing to die for them?”

Feyre thought of her mother and her desperate, final plea. Taking Elain would destroy not just her, but Feyre and Nesta, too. Feyre knew her eldest sister would never forgive her. Nesta might be willing to demand a horde king not touch her, but she wouldn’t offer herself up, either. She wouldn’t leave Elain behind.

Feyre’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she nodded her head, saying, “I am.”

“If I agree not to kill you or your sisters, will you serve me, kalles?”

There was no mistaking his meaning. The look in his eyes was too sharp, his tone too suggestive. Feyre swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She wanted to spit in his face, to tell him to get fucked and take her punishment at the end of the blade. Surely that was the more honorable way to go.

But she didn’t want to die. With a frantic desperation, Feyre wanted to remain alive. Still, she forced herself to say, “Serve you?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Yes.”

So she was right, then. Kassikari, the whore. He’d put her in his bed and do…Feyre didn’t want to think about it, actually. Whatever she imagined likely had nothing on what he was capable of. Judging from the coldness radiating from him, Feyre couldn’t imagine he’d be kind about it. That he’d treat her well. Was it better to just die here rather than after months of being broken by this man? 

Against her will, her eyes cut back to Nesta who still stood there, proud as queen as she stared down Feyre. Those steely gray eyes seemed to say, you don’t have to do this. 

But they both knew she did. He had all the leverage and had the moment Nesta had stepped out that door. Though Nesta hadn’t meant to, she’d become merely another piece in the puzzle that was meant to entrap Feyre. 

She waited a beat, praying for some kind of intervention. Some stroke of brilliance that would come to her and free her from circumstance. There was only silence.

“I will,” she rasped as dread flooded through her. 

“No!” Nesta cried, taking two steps forward. The hoard kings eyes snapped to her, lips curling into a vicious snarl. Feyre panicked, her hands once again finding his chest as he began to surge forward to do…Feyre didn’t know what. Didn’t want to know what.

“Please,” she pleaded, forcing him to look back down at her. “I’ll go with you right now. Right now. I’ll do whatever you ask, just…just don’t hurt her. Please.”

She was shaking so hard the words seemed unintelligible. She could be brave for herself, could pretend she was strong, but the thought of watching him kill Nesta before dragging her off was too much. Feyre would have gotten on her knees or thrown herself at his feet to prevent that from happening. She wanted to leave knowing her sisters were alive and safe. 

All Feyre had left was her pride. Everything else belonged to this man, bargained away to keep her sisters safe. And right then, Feyre wasn’t above begging, pride be damned. He didn’t move, chest rising and falling rapidly though this time his warriors didn’t raise their blades. Perhaps they reasoned there was no need for it given he’d just announced to everyone she was to be his whore. 

“Please?” she tried one last time. Did he hear her fear? Could he taste it, coppery and metallic like blood? 

No one moved—not even Nesta—as they awaited his decision. He took a breath and then— “We ride out. Now.”

He turned as Feyre’s hands dropped from his chest like he’d burned her. As he moved toward his scaled beasts, his warriors sheathed their blades quickly, all in unison. Darting from his grasp, Feyre ran to Nesta.

“Don’t forget what I showed you,” she breathed, well aware the hoard king was coming for her. “Don’t just marry anybody if you get desperate—negotiate with the Nolans so they’ll take you, too.”

“I’ll find you,” Nesta whispered, her voice as strong as any Drakkari blade. “I swear—”

“Now, kalles,” the hoard king ordered. Nesta looked at him, spine made of steel as Feyre turned. 

“Let her say goodbye—”

“If you wanted to say goodbye, you should have thought of that before,” he shot back, his voice dripping with condemnation. Before you lit the fire, before you let her take the blame, before you stood there and did nothing, those violet eyes seemed to say. 

Feyre threw her arms around Nesta, hugging her for the first time in living memory. Nesta gasped, shocked, and by the time her mind seemed to catch up with what was happening, the hoard king was pulling her back.

“Keep each other safe,” Feyre said, stumbling backward beneath his clawed grip. There was enough dried meat to keep them going through the cold season, and who knew? Maybe by then the hoard king would have tired of her. Maybe she’d be free to return and she could pick up where they left off.

His fingers tightened on her shoulder, turning her around and steering her toward the rusted iron gates of their settlement. No one moved to help—even Nesta vanished back into the hut once it was safe to do so. She didn’t believe her sister would find her, or even try, though she understood why Nesta had said so.

Hope was enough to keep a person going. 

Feyre couldn’t hide her fear any longer as she walked in front of the massive man, his hand never leaving her shoulder even when she tried to wriggle out from beneath his grasp. As the other warriors mounted the beasts, Feyre began to balk, digging her heels into the ground. She knew the largest one belonged to him and did not want to get on top of it.

The creature looked like it could swallow her in one bite.

“Is this the thing that frightens you, kallas?” he asked with amusement. Feyre eyed the battle-worn beast, standing on four large legs with claws tipped at the end of the its feet so large and lethal looking she was certain they were larger than the dagger sheathed at her belt. 

Like the man behind her as well, the scales of the dark creature were painted in looping gold. What did it mean? 

Red eyes peered at her, wide and curious as its face came closer and closer. Feyre recoiled, accidentally slamming her back against his front. The red was too reminiscent of a time in her past when she’d had to kill a trio of innocents—no one else had the stomach to end their suffering and so Feyre had taken her blade in an attempt to give them a clean, easy death.

Only, she hadn’t known what she was doing, and when blood began to pour from the first person’s throat as they clawed and gasped, Feyre had realized there was no mercy in death. 

She’d been made to do it two more times.

Panic clawed at her. Feyre tried to move away from the creature but the hoard king wouldn’t allow her, grabbing her waist and swinging her up onto the beast before coming up right behind her. She couldn’t wriggle away, trapped between the solid muscles of his thighs and the unmovable wall that was his chest. 

Wrapping one arm firm around her waist, the other came for the reins of the creature as Feyre tried to adjust the wide stretch of her legs over the cold scales of the beast. It was like sitting atop a rock, though when it moved she felt the beast's muscles flex. She wanted to be sick. 

The horde king adjusted, coming closer until she could feel all of him pressed against her, including his groin. He wasn’t hard, but it was there, nestled between them as the heat of his much larger body enveloped her.

She didn’t react when he made a guttural noise, nor did she jump when the creature turned toward the vast expanse of grassy lands. In some ways, the whole thing felt like a vivid dream. This wasn’t happening, she thought to herself. She was just in bed and in the morning she’d wake and the ground would be fine, Elain would be going over the meager crops with other villagers and Feyre would be sneaking off to hunt. 

Feyre turned her head to look upward at the starry night sky. The moon watched, keeping silent vigil over her plight.

And no one, not even the gods, intervened.

[weirdosreignhere]

Here I am, furthering my obsession with Puritan!Jack. You can probably tell I’m some sort of history fanatic and I’m just projecting it all on here.

Thus I bring you this:

An inspiration from 17-18th century woodcuts and illustrations of people before any real paintings were created. As shown above, I’ve made my own version of it featuring our favorite winter spirit Jack Frost! It’s not completely accurate—I made some artistic liberties.

[the-gateway-to-madness]

"Jack frost is a twig" "jack frost is secretly ripped" can't we all get along and agree that he'd be best suited to the sort of lean, toned, flexible muscle he probably developed after years of manual labor as a human? By the age he was in the movie he'd have been doing woodcutting or farming or hunting for years

Given the fact his hair hasn't ended up longer or shorter or different at all in 300 years, I think we can safely assume that how he was when he died and was raised by the Moon is his baseline appearance/state of being, which means he'd still have ye old colonial muscle. His legs n arms are proportionally long n thin because he was deliberately stylized that way, as I recall, and all the balancing and precision snowball yeeting and parkour he does take no small amount of strength, even with magic on his side.

I mean, here's a canon baseline for how slender his wrists are compared to his hands

He's proportionally pretty balanced through the arms, shoulders, and chest, that's all im saying

[p0pcorn-hearts]

Aphmau headcanons yay!!

(Except its just four main characters and a handful of miscellaneous headcanons because writing more than that is too much effort and also painful)

Aphmau

She has ADHD that's usually inattentive but sometimes is hyperactive

Both a cat and a dog person

Had a bit of an anger problem in high school but is much better at anger management as an adult

Because of her half-werewolf blood her teeth are slightly more pointy

Listens to dubstep and 2000-2010s pop music

Has chronic insomnia but can and will sleep the entire day away

Rejection sensitive dysphoria. Would do anything to make sure you don't hate her

Would chug a bottle of imitation vanilla extract to prove she's sorry

Super competitive though

Would chug a bottle of imitation vanilla extract to prove she's right/better

"If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?" "Yes"

Aaron

It gets really cold where he lived so he used to draw stick figures in the frost on his bedroom window

Has a few tattoos, nothing serious, just a moon on his back and a full sleeve inspired by his favorite band (okay so a bit serious)

Listens to exclusively rock but is fine with Aphmau’s pop music. He doesn't get it, but he loves her too much

He got the tattoos like right when he was free from his dad and now he kinda regrets them, but he has to admit, the full sleeve is fuckin awesome

Writes songs for his guitar, although he doesn't show anyone because they range from love songs about Aphmau to full blown vent songs about his PTSD from his dad

Speaking of his PTSD, he gets frequent nightmares and even when he doesn't or when he can't remember his nightmare, he'll still jolt awake in a cold sweat

Used to have a pet rock that he'd throw at kids who bothered him

His dad made sure to take care of that one

Still draws stick figures on frosted glasses, but while as a kid he'd draw his family, he now draws his friends and Aph

Actually decently friends with Garroth and Travis. They shit talk people together

There was once one time Aaron hung out with Laurence, Garroth, Dante, and Travis, and they ordered pizza but they couldn't pay so they played rock paper scissors to see who would negotiate and Dante lost, so he attempted to sway the pizza guy into lowering the price while fucking 6'5 Aaron stood ominously over Dante, piercing into the guy's soul

It actually worked

It never worked again though

Hanami (Kawaii~Chan for the uninitiated)

Autism

Is the token straight friend although she acts super gay, like she doesn't like girls but she *will* kiss the homies goodnight

Bakes even though meif'wa literally cannot have sugar

She has perfected her own recipes for sugar-free, sugar, and sweetened cupcakes

When she's angry her whole body scrunches up. Like she tenses, her ears lay flat on her head, her arms are pressed tightly to her sides, and her face scrunches up

Has almost sent Lucinda to the hospital because they'd get in play fights and meifwa claws are sharp

Best girl scout in the business. Literally created her own cookie because of her love of experimenting with baked good

Would eat plain rice. Just a ball of plain white rice

When startled, she jumps like three feet horizontally

Always lands on her feet. Except for when she doesn't

Knows how to sew and often modifies her clothing to add more ruffles and bows. When Katelyn wanted to put on a play her and Cadenza worked on the costumes together

Super competitive also

Would chug a bottle of imitation vanilla extract-

Highly empathetic. It's to the point that people being upset around her can get very overwhelming very fast

Ran a meif'wa colony in high school. She was often underestimated by the other colonies but she ended up being front and center a lot of conflicts and her colony remained standing after The Jury

She only has like three people in it though. Aimi (OC because there aren't enough meifwa), Xin (OC because there aren't enough meifwa), and June

Zane

Autism

Also has asthma, ASPD, depression and PTSD

Like pick a struggle 🙄

Was in a gang in high school but luckily has a rich daddy who can afford a lawyer to get Zane out of the legal trouble

Greatly regrets it now as like his only options for work are minimum wage and Aphmau and Aaron’s business

Lacks a lot of empathy but still good at comfort. He just somehow knows the right things to say even if he doesn't really get what they're upset about

Not actually emo, he's goth. He was emo back in high school because Gene is emo but only knew My Chemical Romance. He realized that he actually much preferred goth music and had a trad goth phase in college before settling on just more casual outfits during a massive depressive episode

How much Zane dresses up is a legitimate indicator of his mental health

Is he just wearing sweatpants and hoodies? Depressive episode

Is he wearing jeans and jewelry? He's fine

Also genderfluid (he/him or she/her, depends what gender hes presenting as)

Didn't really explore that side of himself until he was friends with Aphmau

Trauma :(

Likes vocaloid (Hanami's fault)

Miscellaneous that might get their own posts

Dottie, Daniel, and Blaze were in an open relationship until, yknow, Blaze kinda died

After that, Dottie and Daniel continued dating but decided to close their relationship until they properly got over Blaze dying right in front of them

The Shadow Knights are also dating, but they specifically date after high school after they went through their character arcs and became better people

Sasha dated Michi once

You can imagine how bad it was

Canontypical first Sapphic relationship

Melissa likes Twilight but hides it

Travis is essentially one of the girls. He mightve flirted with every one of them but Aph swears on him being cool. They invited him over for a sleepover once and they had so much Travis is just automatically invited to the sleepovers and girl nights out. He is very happy

Imagine getting invited to every outing with the girls but you cannot get a single chick. Even Zane, who is an honorary girl like Travis some days and an actual girl other days, has a girlfriend

It's okay, he has Dante

Dante is like "bro I just cannot pick up chicks" and Travis is like "me neither :(" they turn to each other. "I would date you if you were a girl" Dante said. "Me too" Travis said. There's a pause. They begin making out

Dante did have Nicole but they broke up on good terms because Nicole pursued a master's in engineering and it required too much attention. They're still besties though and hang out whenever Nicole is in town

Nicole is steampunk goals

Okay that's it. You may exit the theater carefully on your right