#rue beastly

[tommysversion]

Beastly: Raider Era Joel Miller x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: you live in a small commune protected by a strong force of raiders. Every season, your people pay tribute for their protection. After lapsing in payment, your abusive father offers you as a human sacrifice. What you don't expect is for the leader of the gang, Joel, to not be as much of a beastly man as first thought.

A Raider Era Joel fic, loosely inspired by Beauty & The Beast.

CWs: references to abuse (physical), implied fear of SA, canon typical violence, implied age gap, sexual references, coarse language, smut for later chapters. (List will update with chapters)

Chapter Word Count: 3k

Thanks to @gab-thelamb-onthemoon & @joelsgirl for being beta readers & allowing me to infodump about this idea, ILY

Index: Part 2

It’s amazing, how long it took society to peak, in comparison to how easily it fell apart. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it sure burned in one. In a short fifteen years, since Cordyceps first spread globally, society has all but collapsed. 

Oh, sure, there are the QZs, where FEDRA rules with an iron fist. There are smaller settlements where people try to strive for a semblance of ‘normality’. 

But mostly? The world outside the military strict QZs has become lawless. It’s kill or be killed, serve or rule, protect or intimidate. 

Whereas some people have banded together for the greater good of humanity, for the continued survival of the species? Others have taken advantage of the new order of things, are only out for themselves and those they hold dear. 

Joel Miller falls into the latter category. 

Maybe once, before the outbreak, he had been a good man. Had had a strong moral compass, a good ethic. He’d been a family man, loved his daughter and his brother more than anything or anyone in the world. 

Then the world had gone to hell, taken his daughter from him, and something inside him had broken. It was as though a light had gone out inside him, turning his humanity off. 

Gone was the man who had made jokes and smiled easily. In his place was a man scarred and traumatised, who was capable of enormous acts of violence and brutality, who would survive at any and all cost, not for his sake, not really, but for his brother. The only family he had left. 

Joel had always been a natural leader, if somewhat reluctant. It had come easily to him, before the outbreak. He was always the damn union rep on site. Always the one people came to for advice, looked to for leadership. Not just Tommy, or colleagues he’d known for years either. He always ended up with an apprentice following him round like a chained puppy, asking questions, looking for guidance. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise at all that he had ended up the leader of this band of people, either. Some were misfits, those who were too anxious to try and venture to the nearest QZ and survive under FEDRA. Some were miscreants who preferred the more lawless lifestyle, who needed a leader so they didn’t venture into abject cruelty. Then there were those like him, who just wanted to survive. Keep going for whatever or whoever they had left. 

Joel didn’t necessarily want to live, but he was fucking good at it. 

Without his humanity, it made him a damn good leader. His group protected several small settlements, in exchange for supplies. Weapons. Whatever the fuck they wanted. 

It was a good deal… for his people. The infected didn’t venture this far out anymore, but the good people in those settlements didn’t need to know that, did they? Their living in fear was his bonus. It kept them in line, and it kept his people alive. 

Recently, one of the settlements fell to disease. Leaving just the one small community under his group’s thumb. The occupants aren’t particularly tough, or particularly smart, just ordinary people who have had the luck to survive behind moderately well constructed walls, the wits to bow to those stronger than them for protection. 

Only, their resources are running out, spread thin with the approaching winter…

Which is where you come in. 

--

You’re old enough to remember the world before. Maybe you hadn’t been an adult, so you hadn’t had to deal with things the older folks in your community grumble on occasion about missing - work, taxes (mostly something called a tax return), good liquor, supermarkets… 

But you do remember. 

You remember the world changing overnight. Remember years of struggling, clawing for survival, until this commune had finally put its walls up and hoped for the best. 

Then the infected had come, and you’d lost half your numbers. The raiders had taken advantage of the weakness in your people, taken out the infected… for a price. 

Now each quarter, your people paid ‘tribute’ to the group of men and women who kept the infected at bay. Really, it was a bribe to keep them from taking over your settlement. Every three months the same half dozen men would show up, fill their truck with supplies and weapons your people had gathered, desperately needed, and promise another three months protection for it. 

Nobody’s been attacked since the deal was struck. You guess that’s a good thing. Or there’s something they aren’t telling you. 

Your father is the closest thing to a mayor your community has. There aren’t enough of you to need a proper governing body beyond a handful of people, but somehow the task of leadership has fallen to him. Perhaps because nobody else wants to be labeled as the one who bows to the raiders. Or maybe it’s because the last mayor your town had was beaten to death by said raiders for non-compliance, and your father was the only one brave (stupid) enough to volunteer for the job after.

You aren’t stupid. You know a bribe for what it is. Only this quarter, you aren’t sure what the plan is. 

The crop yield has been relatively scarce this season. With winter approaching, the settlement doesn’t have much to offer. You’re not stupid, but you know it won’t be enough. 

Usually, you stay home when the raiders come for their tribute. Stay inside with the few children of the commune. 

This time is different. Your father is lacing his boots, throwing on his threadbare coat, when he springs it on you. 

“You’re coming too, this time. We need to show our numbers.” 

It doesn’t occur to you until you’re halfway to what passes as the town square that that’s the precise opposite of what your father usually says. That a show of strength is what got his predecessor killed. But you know better than to question him; he won’t shout at you, he’ll just be condescending, or more likely, won’t answer you at all.

You suppose your curiosity will have to wait, and hope he doesn’t get you all killed.

--

Joel usually sends half a dozen of his people to collect the tribute from the settlement they ‘protect’. It’s a thinly veiled intimidation, closer to extortion than anything else, but it keeps his people fed and lets them bully others, which some of his people need. 

But the last two seasons, their offerings have been slim at best, pissing the most restless of his people off. Joel has no issue with violence. No issue with killing people, or intimidation. But he also knows that starting a bloodbath in their supply settlement is a stupid idea, even if some of his men don’t. 

Which has led him to here. Two men sit in the truck, shoulder to shoulder. One sits in the tray, gripping the roof bar with one hand, a rifle dangling lazily from the other. 

Two others ride beside him, a little behind, in an arrow formation. It didn’t bother Owen to stay behind with the rest of the group. There’s better things he could be doing. If anyone was surprised at Joel deciding to go with them on this run? He hasn’t heard a word of it. 

If anything, they probably think it means he’s planning some sort of punishment for their friends in the settlement. Hell, if they don’t pay up? He’s not against it. 

It never ceases to amaze him just how pathetic these people are. He hasn’t visited the settlement personally in a year or so, but the occupants are still just as miserable. Just as downtrodden and fearful, hiding behind their shitty tin walls and the hope that his folks will protect them. It’s that fear that keeps his people fed, keeps these townspeople in line.

They don’t need to know that there are so few infected out here now, that Joel and his group are probably the biggest - if not only – threat remaining to them. Fear keeps them in line, and if they step out of line? Well, he and his gang aren’t above beating a reminder into them. It’s happened before.

The truck rolls to a stop behind him as they make their way to the centre of the settlement. He dismounts his horse, steps forward to greet the leader of the place. He’s met this man once before, the season after he took out the old mayor for trying to defy him. Beating a man to death isn’t pleasant to witness, but Joel had no problem with committing the act.

His replacement is a small, round man who always wears the same threadbare overcoat, the same twitchy air of nervousness around him, the same oily obedience.

How a man like that became what passes for mayor, Joel has no idea. He’s just as spineless as the rest, just as cowardly, eager to snivel and beg for protection, offering up whatever it takes to save his own skin. It’s a way to live, Joel supposes, but he would never stoop so low.

“Morris.” Joel greets the other man with a cold nod of his head, reaches out a gloved hand for him to shake. All formality. All pleasantries. As if the six men he’s brought with him aren’t capable of gunning down this entire settlement, if he so chooses. Hell, he could probably do it by himself. 

“I’m surprised to see you.” Morris admits as he steps forward from the small group of townsfolk. Joel’s gaze sweeps over them all; a few new faces, his eyes boring into each unfamiliar one. One bears a resemblance to the mayor. Interesting.

His gaze leaves the crowd, returns to the man in front of him.

“We need to have a little chat.”

--

“You don’t say a word. Nobody will benefit from your attempts at being a diplomat.” Your father cautions you as you reach the centre of town. It’s not a long walk. The settlement is barely big enough to call a commune, but still.

You don’t dignify him with an answer, just nod. There’s no point in trying to argue with him, try and prove that you’re an asset. He’s too set in his ways, too firm in the belief that women – especially young ones- should be seen and not heard.

So instead you keep your mouth shut, take your place. Watch the convoy come in. It’s different, being out on the street rather than peeking out a window when they roll in.

The usual truck, two men in the cab, one in the tray, slapping the roof to signal to stop. You’re not familiar enough with their faces, but you assume they’re the same men who come every quarter. Two men on horses, flanking a third.

It’s the third man who interests you, only slightly. Mostly because of the way your father tenses, the way some of the others shift nervously. You vaguely recognise this man; the leader of the group of raiders. The one who had no problem with violence, with getting rid of the old mayor when he didn’t want to play ball.

He’s older, maybe late forties, broad shouldered and has a sort of deadened glint to his dark eyes. Vaguely, you catch yourself wondering what he did, or what happened to him, to put that look in his gaze.

Those cold dark eyes take stock of the place, sweep across each member of your community. His gaze pauses on you, very briefly, flickers to your father then back, recognition. Then he looks away, back to your father.

“We need to have a little chat,” the unknown man says, “your quota has been low, Morris.”

Even in the cold, you can see your father start to sweat. He’s no great hero; his leadership perches precariously on his willingness to bow to whatever this gang of raiders wants. There’s no way of fighting them, and quite frankly? There are worse things out there.

“We’ve had a hard few seasons… Maybe we can make it up in spring?” Your father suggests, trying to sound complacent, apologetic. Mostly, it just sounds desperate.

You wonder if the leader of the gang thinks so, too.

“Now, Morris, you’re already short. Have been for the last two seasons. Maybe if we’d had this little chat earlier, I’d be more inclined to accept the request, but, well… winter’s on its way. It’s hard out there, and these walls you have are so flimsy… anything could happen.”

Your father’s face blanches, clearly aware he’s stepping on toes that shouldn’t be stepped on.

“We have… some supplies in reserve. You can take from there.”

It shouldn’t even surprise you, that he offers up the town’s emergency stockpile to save his own skin, probably thinking of his predecessor. It bothers you, though, makes your skin crawl to see the men from the gang open the barn where the supplies are kept, start hauling them into the back of the truck. Those supplies are for emergencies. For the children, the elderly, the sick. Maybe that’s why you open your mouth.

“Those supplies are for our elderly. Our children.”

The look your father gives you is piercing, promising violence, a sharp retribution later, but you don’t care.

“Excuse my daughter, Joel. She doesn’t understand the way things work, likes to talk when the men are talking.”

You expect the gang leader – Joel – to agree, to ignore you. Instead, he turns that depthless gaze onto you.

“What would you have me do, hm? We have a deal, you know that.” It’s unspoken what he’s implying – he has people relying on him, too.

You’re smart enough to know that it’s a rhetorical question.

“Besides.” Joel turns his attention to the truck, shakes his head. “Even with your stockpile, you’re short. Considerably so. Maybe we should stick around. See why your productivity is so low.”

The threat is implicit. Maybe it’s the threat. Maybe it’s anger at you for speaking out. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that your father is a piece of shit. Still, you don’t expect what happens next.

--

Joel doesn’t want to stick around this small town, with its cowed population and snivelling misogynist of a mayor. He’d rather take what they are owed and go, but they’re up short once again. Not by much, but it’s the principle of the matter. Of making sure Morris knows his place, knows that he and Joel are in no way equals.

He projects the very image of an alpha male, broad and cocky, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. Casually threatening, and he knows Morris is thinking of the idiot before him. Maybe he should just shoot him, see whether someone smarter replaces him. Smarter and less irritating.

Maybe the other man can see how easily he’s contemplating his death.

“Wait. Wait. I have another offer.”

Joel raises an eyebrow.

“And what could you possibly have, Morris? As you’ve said, you’ve had a difficult harvest, you’ve had to break into your emergency supplies. What do you possibly have to trade to save your own skin?” He makes zero effort to hide his disgust.

“Her.” Morris jerks a shaky thumb to the younger woman beside him, the one who’s clearly his daughter, the one who spoke up.

Joel is so startled by the suggestion that he almost outright refuses.

“What?” It comes out blunter than he planned, as if he’s misheard. Because there’s no way that this idiot is offering up his own daughter as some sort of human sacrifice.

“Take her. I don’t care what you do with her, she’s a complete disappointment. Maybe you can teach her some manners, beat her into submission, God knows I’ve tried. Take her and give us immunity until next fall. Let us rebuild our crops.”

Joel looks past Morris to you, small and nondescript. Then again, everyone is small to him. You look like someone’s just pulled the ground out from under you. Shocked. Horrified. He knows then what you’re thinking, what you’re assuming will happen to you. But he also knows now what happens to you if he leaves you here.

Joel Miller may have lost his humanity, but he was a father once. And he can’t imagine ever, ever offering his own child up as a human sacrifice to save his own skin.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter about making a quota. What matters is getting you as far away from this place as possible. Away from sharp words and balled fists. Because somewhere, somewhere, buried deep down, a portion of the man he once was is stirring.

“The end of next fall. A year.” Joel agrees, tries not to watch the way Morris shoves you forward to what could well be your doom.

You’re shaking. Can’t even form a protest, for all the good it would do.

Sacrifice. Tribute. Offering. As if you’re no more than another object to be traded. Your father doesn’t even flinch as Joel seizes your wrist, pulls you towards his horse.

“Get on.” His voice is low, but not menacing. If anything he sounds almost sorry. It has to be some sort of trap; you’re certain that when you’re back at their base camp, he’ll have no problem with cruelty, with putting his hands on you. Forcing you, if the mood takes him. Maybe it’s better to just do as he demands.

Shakily, you climb up onto the horse, sit awkward and uncomfortable, tensing when he swings himself up behind you, broad arms keeping you in place as he seizes the reins, gives a nod to his men, who finish loading up and pile back into the truck, onto their own horses.

He throws a final derisive look to your father. The man who sold you.

“One year, Morris. Better get your shit together.” Then he nudges the horse, and rides you both out of the only home you’ve known for years.

[ninthhousesteel]

my favorite thing to do in our d&d server is lie about my character to freak the other members out

[omniahumanummihialienum]

I liked Rue before and all but I am 1000% more insane about them now that they are an owlbear

[primsycoldbottles]

btw yall should start biting people for drawing rues true form as small or skinny . thats a fat fuckin owlbear !!! why are you drawing them the owlbear equivalent of thin !!!!!

[lemonluvgirl]

The Effect

She stood in the dark at the rough-hewn mixing table, dutifully grinding the herbs her mother had taught her about when she turned fourteen.

2 tablespoons of dried and ground Rue-for its strong odor, capable of masking a variety of scents

A teaspoon of Snow Mountain Garlic-to subdue beastly urges

A pinch of Dried Mistletoe-to keep her heart beating at a subdued and normal pace

Three chopped raw green Wolf Peaches- with half a cup of finely chopped leaves and stems added to weaken and dull any heightened abilities

Two pinches of Cayenne- to disguise the commanding tones of her voice

And finally

One third a cup of Monkshood- to suppress the dominant nature of a natural born leader

She knew the measurements and mixture by heart. Such knowledge was essential to keeping her true nature hidden if she wanted to maintain her image.

The house was quiet at this time of night, and Katniss could not risk lighting a candle to aid her in her work.

But she didn't need one. Her eyes were supremely adjusted to the shadows and her nose could detect the different herbs and ingredients with ease. Her hands were practiced with grinding out the ingredients steadily, almost noiseless.

She was after all her father's daughter in all things. She had his superior senses, and knew how to be quiet in the woods and out of them. She had his capacity for survival, and his devotion to caring for her family. All things that helped her maintain her cover of normalcy. Just as he had, until his death in a mining accident five years prior.

Jonas Everdeen went to his grave, just another tired, beaten down miner swallowed by the earth when the mineshaft he and his partner were working on collapsed.

Their neighbors and those who knew him would never have guessed that Jonas had been the subject that all the Capitol propaganda warned the people of the Districts of Panem about.

An unregistered Alpha.

Someone living a lie, a double life.

Someone to be feared and turned in to the authorities at the earliest opportunity.

If asked, those same neighbors would have sworn on the original Treaty of Treason that Jonas had never been aggressive, forceful, or unmanageable a single day in his life.

He had been a genial man, honorable and hard working. Liked in both Town and Seam, despite the scandal he caused in his youth when he tempted away a beautiful merchant girl, the Apothecary's daughter, to be his bride.

His fruitful hunts, and his ability to find rare wild herbs and spices were probably most of the reason people from Town forgave him so quickly. He made their lives easier by providing cheat, fresh meat for their dinners, and a variety of fresh fruits, vegetables, and spices to supplement their filling but bland diets.

That and his voice of course.

He had a beautiful speaking voice, low and gentle, authoritative but not harsh. The kind of voice that made you want to listen to whatever he said. And he never said a harsh word to anyone, or about anyone, that could ever be remembered.

A very poor picture of a dangerous and uncontrollable Alpha. One who didn't fit the mold that all the pamphlets warned about.

Katniss had inherited his voice. Though few people knew that, since she talked so sparingly. But when she did speak, she had the effect of drawing every eye in the room, and capturing people's complete attention, just like her father used to.

Along with getting his voice, she also got the extra gene that he passed down to her. The one that was not dormant as it was in her little sister.

The Alpha gene.

Katniss mixed the herbs together in a little bowl and poured water over the whole thing, letting it steep for a minute.

Even though she had just taken the mixture last night, and it often didn't wear off for forty-eight hours, she was dutiful to take it again.

Tomorrow was The Reaping after all.

She couldn't afford any mistakes.

Because if anyone found out she was an unregistered Alpha, who had been hiding her status for two years, she would be going into the Arena, no matter whose name they pulled out of the bowl.

[pinkwhalepjs]

Class Conflict in ACoFaF (& Wuuvy)

I doubt this narrative will actually go anywhere in ACoFaF but interestingly, just like the Austin novels the season is based around, there is a larger conflict than just the injustice of the Court system at play here and that is the injustice of classism. However the Court system is vilified because it stands as an Obstacle to our Heroes desires for expression and romances, whereas the class system is taken for granted and played for laughs. This is not a critique of Aabria or the season just as an interesting thing that is mirrored from the original genre and I think really shows in how the audience comes to see Wuuvy.

Some Courts hoarding power in the form of Magic is the evil meant to be defeated at the end of the story. It clearly hurts our Heroes by cutting them off from loved ones and eliminating the members of Binx’s court. It also stands as a mirror to the hoarding of Love that all of the heroes struggle with. That their respective Courts or families withhold love based on preconditions of behavior or achievement or assimilation (Binx being the exception of course).

But the actual unfairness of the system they exist in goes largely unaddressed. From the salt goblins who are expected to live their whole tiny lives in service to their superiors and die on command, to the servants Lord Airavis polymorphs and maims for laughs, to Gobble begging for his life while forced to dance, even to Andhera’s dog who is sentient, all (with the notable exception of Binx who goes out of her way to respect servants from Andhera’s dog to Lady Featherfowl’s penguin messenger) enjoy their time at the expense of those below them. This includes Rue, who uses a Command spell on Wuuvy who up to that point happily obeyed their commands and never truly apologizes or addressed the gulf between them. This is a defining moment for Wuuvy. She was happy to serve as a friend and equal and although she continues her devotion to Rue, from that point on she must understand that Rue does not see her as quite such an equal.

But we are not especially meant to feel sympathy for the lower class characters. They are either set pieces or worse, Obstacles and Antagonists for our Heroes to overcome. Wuuvy not delivering the letter to Hob is naturally seen in a villainous light because the story is about the Romance between our Heroes. However isn’t it incredibly fair for Wuuvy to lash out in the only ways that she is able. The line between her and Hob is incredible thin. Both are military leaders of lower station who see Rue’s hidden conflict and admire them ardently. They are both beastly and duty bound. Yet Rue is enamored with Hob after meeting him once and sees Wuuvy only as a friend (or servant) despite (or because of) knowing her for decades. Wuuvy demands satisfaction and does not deliver the letter not because she thinks it will make Rue change their mind or fall in love with her instead, but she has simply had too much indignity to bear. She will not deliver up her own hopes and dreams to another with a smile on her face. That is a step too far. Yet in the end it is Rue’s feeling of betrayal that the story will follow and not Wuuvy’s revelation that she could spend her life knowing every little detail about a person and they could still not understand the most important truths about her.

Again this is not a criticism of the show, and it would be phenomenal if in fact this did arise as an canonical plotline/issue, it just fascinates me that the same phenomenon I find in Austen novels replicates itself here. Characters may actively talk about the oppression of their own station (Elizabeth in P&P or Hob in the show) and yet still happily take part in enforcing the class system. They will be allowed to rise above their own station for the sake of Romance but the stations themselves will remain.

[riinkun-art-stuff]

Been messing around w my health hazard (affectionate) of an OC, Rue, a lot these past couple of months! Here are a few doodles I did thanks to that :] Messing around with their design and evolution a lot which is why they look a bit more beastly and fucked up in a couple of these.

90% of my art looks like this which is why I don't drop it around too often XD

[elerondo]

@gildinbainas   /   continued

ELROND WANTS TO BE A WOLF . Was he not the most beastly among the fine lords and ladies of Lindon ? When night shrouds their journey in darkness, signaling a time of rest and recovery, it only serves to amplify the voice of his fathers.   « Do you know how a wolf pack travels ? »   Maedhros recounted one day,   « I will teach you, Elrond, so that one day you can be a greater leader than I. »   To do what the Fëanorians could not. Slay Evil. Take revenge.

The soundlessness of his breaths was a meditation on words long ago. His greatsword lócënehtar leaned idle at the head of the bed, the humming of inscribed runes heard only by himself. It was a weapon suited for a great many uses; Shielding, healing, killing — much like its Master. His hands are in front of his chest, ready to wield it and command his runes at any moment’s notice.

❝ If we were wolves, I would be the Alpha pack leader, ❞ and if he moved even slightly, Thranduil would hear the clank of chainmail beneath leather and cloth, so he doesn’t. ❝ Being the strongest, I am at the front of the pack, the vanguard. I will keep the watch, to strike first and kill all our enemies. ❞ The ease in which he announced it was like an instruction in the universe, quiet and deadly.

The gods have blessed Elrond with many gifts, as though to make up for everything they had taken away from him. His body was a study in traumatic childhood loss. Dissect him and one will find all the pits that his loved ones have left behind. Greatness was an expanse of a sanctuary to be carved into, gradually, painfully, always, and forever. Was this not the choice of immortality ? That fateful day, he had given himself up as a machine of the gods, whether he consented or not. Was this what it meant ❛ To rue the day you were born ❜ ?

But, must he ? Was there no fighting back against destiny ?

❝ I will protect you, Thranduil, ❞ he does not wish to lose another dear to his heart.

[returntomytilene]

‘We stayed a few weeks in Paris. Sometimes Mrs. Shillito would go shopping in the Rue de la Paix, or to her dress-maker’s, and would take us along in her ample open carriage. We would wait for her as she dallied in the peculiarly leisurely ways of ladies a generation ago, and we scanned the faces of the men and women who passed and talked about them and their “kinds.” Almost all the men Mary and Violet sized up rapidly as cochon, petit cochon, grand cochon, and really they did seem so to our taste, fed as we were upon the delicate heroes of 1830. They were terribly disgusting creatures. The men in the Rue de la Paix or any street in Paris of the early nineties were beastly-looking in our fastidious eyes. We were great spiritual snobs at that time.’

— Mabel Dodge Luhan, Intimate Memories, Vol. I: Background, 1933

[tommysversion]

Beastly: Raider Era Joel Miller x Reader (Part 2)

Summary: you live in a small commune protected by a strong force of raiders. Every season, your people pay tribute for their protection. After lapsing in payment, your abusive father offers you as a human sacrifice. What you don't expect is for the leader of the gang, Joel, to not be as much of a beastly man as first thought.

A Raider Era Joel fic, loosely inspired by Beauty & The Beast.

CWs: references to abuse (physical), implied fear of SA, canon typical violence, implied age gap, sexual references, coarse language, smut for later chapters. (List will update with chapters)

Chapter Word Count: 3.3k

Tag List: @serenaxpedro @miller--trash @joelsgirl @gab-thelamb-onthemoon @mydailyhyperfixations @dreamingofdaddydin @luvrking @msecho19 @koshkaj-blog @hufflepuffriver @yunonaneko ( & anyone I've missed)

Index: Part 1 /

It’s not a terribly long ride back to the raider commune, another small town that barely counts as a town that’s been repurposed. 

Trenches surround it. A few men and women with rifles on makeshift guard towers. Honestly it’s not much different to home. Your heart jumps when you remember this is your home now. For as long as Joel decides to keep you alive. 

You still can’t get a read on him. The entire four hour ride was spent mostly in silence, but when he did speak, it was to ask your name. Ask a few questions. You wonder if he’s trying to remind himself that you’re a human being, rather than just an animal, a sacrifice. 

“Quiet as a mouse, aren’t you?” He’d said finally, then laughed softly and muttered something about that suiting you more than your actual name. 

Joel doesn’t like using your name. The idea makes you more human to him, and he already feels stupid for accepting a goddamn human sacrifice to pay the debt your home owed. Mouse it is. It gives him the sense of ownership, of control, that he needs in all manner of things. 

He’d been almost polite in helping you down off the horse before turning you over to a man who vaguely resembled him. 

“My brother, Tommy.” He’d said by way of introduction, then sloped off to oversee the unloading of the truck, leaving you standing next to the younger man with no idea what the hell to do next. 

Luckily, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with you, either, so you just stand there awkwardly together until Joel seems to notice you again, comes over. 

“Christ, Tommy, let her freeze to death? You take over the unloading, I’ll take her.” 

You follow him automatically, towards one of the houses, wondering vaguely if he means to take your fathers advice and beat you into submission. Or worse. 

Somehow, you don’t think so. He’s been cold, sure, the entire ride back, but you don’t get the feeling that he’s planning on doing anything sinister to you, which is strange. Raiders have a reputation, after all, but he doesn’t give off the violent rapist vibe that some have. 

He unlocks the door, leads you up the stairs to a small bedroom. It has a bathroom attached. Pleasant. Nondescript, though it has the air of not being lived in. 

“Make yourself at home,” Joel is aware of how monumentally stupid the sentence is, but he says it anyway. 

“Am I confined to this room?” You ask, still not daring to look at him, in case it makes him snap or something. You’re used to that sort of thing. 

“No, the entire house - minus my room, or Tommy’s, of course - is free game. I wouldn’t leave the house without one of us, for your own safety. You’re welcome to explore the house. One of us will come and get you when it’s dinner time.” 

Then he turns around and walks out, leaving you standing there feeling confused. You’d been bracing yourself for violence of some sort, and now it hasn’t come? You’re not sure what to make of it. 

You can hear his heavy boots on the stairs, the front door slam behind him, the bolt locking into place behind him. You’re not stupid enough to consider trying to make a run for it; a four hour ride is even longer on foot, and in this weather? It’s a death sentence. Besides. The retribution for trying to escape would probably not be pleasant, and while you’re not exactly eager to go back to your father, you don’t want the other people from your settlement to be punished because of you. 

So fine. You’re stuck here. 

You may as well explore your new cage. 

The bedroom isn’t too bad, actually. Double bed, the mattress not uncomfortable. Thick blanket, even if the pattern isn’t what you’d choose for yourself, the main thing is you won’t freeze to death. 

You hope there might be a change of clothes somewhere, something in the drawers of the dresser that might fit, but the drawers are empty. You hope Joel won’t make you wear the same clothes you have on down to rags, but you’re not counting on it. 

The carpet is old, but not uncomfortable under your feet. 

Then there’s the bathroom. Small, compact, but still functional. You know there’s still plenty of house to explore, but you’re also aware you’re going to be locked in here for an indefinite amount of time. Exploring can wait. You’re exhausted, and the bed is comfortable. A nap won’t hurt, surely. 

If he was going to hurt you, he’d have done so by now. It’s not very comforting, but it’s all you have, and it’s enough to lull you into an uneasy sleep. 

—

“Jesus fucking Christ, Joel, what the fuck?” 

Tommy is never usually this vocal with his older brother, and it surprises them both. Still, it’s a fair question. 

“The man’s a misogynistic piece of shit, I couldn’t just leave her there. Chances are if I’d refused, I’d go back next season and he’d have beaten her to death. Made it her fault.” 

“Oh, so we’re saving people now?” Tommy raises an eyebrow. It’s a cheap dig; he knows why Joel does what he does, why he is the way he is. 

Maybe it’s not fair to be a sarcastic bastard, but then again, he hadn’t expected Joel to come back with a human sacrifice, for fuck’s sake. 

Joel sighs. Pops open a beer. The kind one of their men makes in a keg in his garage. It’s still fucking good, because beer is beer, even after the end of the world. 

“Look, she’s harmless. I’m not gonna lay a hand on her, and neither is anyone else in this little community.” Joel says it firmly, with enough authority that Tommy believes him. 

Pretty much anything goes in their group. Violence is to be expected. But any sort of violence against women, especially sexual, is punished by death. 

“Maybe she can make something of herself here.” He continues, before he stands and checks on the food that’s cooking on the stovetop. “In the meantime, do me a favour? Try not to scare the shit out of her.”

Tommy snorts in spite of himself. 

“You’re the scary one, big brother.” 

There’s no bite to it, but there doesn’t need to be. Joel understands. Knows there’s a part of his younger brother that’s afraid of him. Maybe that’s another sacrifice he’s had to make. 

“Yeah. Well. I’m gonna go tell our new house guest that food’s done.” 

It’s his way of avoiding the conversation. Better to just leave, walk away, than open that can of worms. 

Instead he heads upstairs, towards what’s probably a completely different can of worms but still unpleasant. When he gets to the door that’s now yours, he hesitates. Should he knock? In reality, you’re his prisoner, disguised as a guest. No matter how polite he is to you, Joel is aware that you’ll probably always hate and resent him. 

Still, he isn’t sure what you’re doing in there, and there’s a part of him that’s still somewhat of a gentleman, so he knocks first. No answer. Well, he tried. 

He opens the bedroom door, finds you half asleep; the sight of him jolts you awake, and you startle, sit bolt upright. He can practically smell how afraid you are, almost hates himself for it. He has no intention of hurting you. No more than he already has by taking you from your home. 

“Dinner’s ready. Come and eat.” It’s not a request. He retreats again, stomps back down the stairs, pissed and unsure why. Maybe it’s the way you look at him. Maybe it’s the understanding of why you’re so fearful to begin with. Or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s feeling anything at all, after so long. 

—

You have two options. One, you follow the direction given and go downstairs to eat. That’s probably the smarter choice. You’re hungry, and you can smell hot food. You doubt he’ll poison you. 

The second option is you stay right here, make an attempt at defiance. That doesn’t appeal to you; you know that Joel has a temper. Has the ability to be incredibly violent at the drop of a pin. Tommy is a wild card, but you don’t like the idea of making enemies of the men you’re stuck in this house with. 

Still, you’re reluctant to drag yourself downstairs, having wanted more time to wallow in your own misery and misfortune. Unfortunately, the lure of a hot meal wins out, and you find yourself in a small dining room, seated at a plain wooden table with a few knife scrapes in the top, a bowl of stew in front of you. 

You’re almost surprised. You might have thought raiders, especially ones like him, would eat better. Steak or something. But this is simple. Carrots and potatoes and onions in gravy, with rough cut bread on the side. 

Tommy clocks your thoughts almost immediately. 

“What, you thought we ate like kings or something?” 

“I-“ you aren’t sure how to answer him; he’s a raider, sure, but there’s something about the way he avoids his older brother’s gaze that makes you warm to him a little faster. 

Maybe it’d be good to have… not a friend, but an ally? In this place. 

“It’s not poisoned. We have to eat too, you know.” Joel comments, without looking at you. 

You don’t argue, just poke at your food with your spoon until Tommy speaks again. 

“We’re just people. Even Joel, though he likes to pretend otherwise.” 

You decide to go right ahead and like Tommy, even if it’s against your better judgment. The casual way he says it is almost reassuring. Like you can breathe, your suspicions that Joel isn’t going to turn into a monster and lay hands on you reassured by the casual way Tommy banters with him. 

It’s like a small weight lifts off your chest, enough for you to stop poking at your food and actually eat it. 

Joel drinks, barely speaks the entire meal. When you’re done, Tommy collects the dishes, throws a sideways glance at Joel, who’s refilled his beer once again. 

“Go back to your cage, little mouse. I’m tired of you jumping whenever I move.” There’s a bite to his voice that wasn’t there before, fuelled by drink and whatever demons plague him. 

The way he says it unsettles you, your hands shaking slightly as you pass your empty bowl to Tommy. 

Joel is back to not looking at you, but as you leave the room, Tommy makes eye contact with you, and mouths for you to lock your door. 

—

Joel drinks. Heavily. He’s used to only having to deal with Tommy, who’s used to it by now. It doesn’t even occur to him that his intoxication, the way he’s sharper, colder in this state might scare you. 

Doesn’t even consider it until he hears you take the stairs two at a time, the sharp thud of your bedroom door closing. 

“That went well.” Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, surveying him. 

Joel doesn’t answer. He supposes he could go upstairs, unlock your bedroom door and try to apologise, but somehow he thinks breaching your privacy would make it worse. And besides. Why the hell does he care so much about scaring you? About apologies?

You’re nothing but a goddamn tribute. A human sacrifice handed over to him by a shitty excuse for a father. A mistake he shouldn’t have made, but now he has to live with the consequences. The consequences being your presence. 

—

You take Tommy’s advice and lock your door. Not because you think Joel will come upstairs and decide to hurt you, but because it makes you feel a little better. 

You can hear them arguing downstairs, at the very least, raised voices, but nobody comes up the stairs. Nobody breaks down your door. Eventually you can breathe a little easier, don’t have to consider locking yourself in the bathroom. 

Eventually you hear Joel’s heavy boots coming up the stairs, hold your breath again, but he goes right past your door, slams his own behind him. Shortly after, a softer tread that must be Tommy’s comes upstairs too, and another door closes behind him. 

Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not tonight, anyway. Nobody’s making you warm their bed, or using you as a punch bag. You’re alone, sure, but you’ve always been alone. 

At least this time you have a comfortable bed and a locked door. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to keep you from panicking, for now at least. 

— 

When you wake, winter sunlight is streaming through your window, creeping through the shutters without a singular care. 

Your clothes are a little mussed, but not dirty, so you suppose you’ll have to make do until one of the men notice and decide to find you a change. You hope to god they decide to. 

There’s no sign of either of them in the house; a few dishes in the sink, and a note on the table the only evidence that other people live here at all. 

Make yourself comfortable. Don’t try to leave the house. I will arrange new clothes for you today - J. 

“That’s friendly.” You mutter to yourself, then busy yourself for ten minutes washing the dishes. Joel might technically own you, but you still feel a bit guilty that he’s taking time out of his day to find you new clothes. The least you can do is wash some dishes. 

Hell, it won’t hurt to see what food is in the house, either, but you aren’t sure where to look, so you open pretty much every cabinet in the kitchen, taking inventory. 

There’s not much, which doesn’t surprise you. You assume whoever lived here originally left the place pristine or something, but it’s since been cleared out. The Miller brothers have done a decent job tidying the place, but it still doesn’t have that sense of being a permanent home. 

Maybe they planned on moving on at some point, but never got round to it?

You aren’t sure. Easier not to think about it, instead moving onto the next room. You can come back to the kitchen later, reheat the stew from last night. Maybe if you do little things like that, they’ll be kinder to you. 

It’s not that they’ve been cruel, or even really unkind. Joel is harsh, blunt, and seems cold and closed off, but he hasn’t been outright mean to you. Tommy’s been wary but friendly enough.

Perhaps it’s stupid, but you want them to be friendly to you. If you’re stuck with them for the foreseeable future, until you die or something… well, it’s not a crime to want to be friendly, right?

The next room holds a few more things of interest; a television, a stack of movies. Obviously there’s no live television anymore, but the Miller brothers have managed to salvage a handful of movies that you suppose they liked from before. 

Most of them are action movies, the occasional western that you presume is Tommy’s preference. Somehow it comforts you that there aren’t any slasher movies among the pile. Not that you’re naive enough to think that they aren’t killers. They’re raiders. You’ve seen Joel kill a man before. That they’re violent goes without saying, but somehow you think their brand of violence is purely to survive, not out of some psychopathic desire to inflict pain. 

At least. You hope so. 

Deciding not to dwell on that, you keep moving through the house, exploring room by room. The windows have all been reinforced, the place relatively secure. It’s surprising how easily you feel safe in this house, in spite of being a prisoner. Perhaps it’s because the house is big, compared to your old home. Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t have to jump whenever you turn a corner. 

You ignore the two bedrooms along the hallway with yours upstairs, as instructed. That’s not to say it isn’t tempting to peek; of course it is, but you’re a little afraid that they’d know somehow, and that it would make Joel angry. 

He hasn’t really given you many rules; don’t leave the house, don’t go in his room or Tommy’s room. Even if you are a prisoner, a possession, it feels rude to break those rules, so you stifle your curiosity and only open the other door. 

Bathroom. Boring. 

Heading back downstairs, you’re considering exploring the rest of the rooms off the downstairs hallway, but decide to save them for tomorrow. If you’re housebound, you may as well save yourself some excitement, or as close to it as you can get, for another day. 

—

Joel doesn’t really have anywhere to be. The group operates pretty well without him overseeing everything. If there’s a dispute, it either ends in a fight or they come to him. 

The spoils from yesterday are already being divided up, a few people out patrolling for more supplies, smaller weaker camps they can take out. 

Unpleasant, yes, but it’s survival of the fittest. 

His errand today has nothing to do with survival. Joel is well aware he’s brought you to the commune with nothing but the clothes on your back, and in spite of being, objectively, a terrible person, he feels bad for you. 

In retrospect, he should have let you at least pack a bag. But somehow, with the way your father offered you up like bait, Joel doesn’t think you probably had many possessions to begin with. 

The women in the commune are tough as nails, mostly. Survivors through and through, either by the skin on their knuckles or by giving themselves over to the men for protection. Joel doesn’t judge either way; he knows it takes a particular sort of grit to survive that way. 

While violence is rampant in the group, what with the testosterone and the high stakes of survival, nobody ever lays hands on the women. As a result, they’re kind, happy to help anyone new. 

It doesn’t take long to find clothes in roughly your size among the women. A few shirts, two new pairs of jeans. Newish boots. 

Impulsively, he trades a week’s extra firewood and a bag of jerky for a winter coat for you, too. It’s a deep purple, with a fake fur lined hood, long enough to reach your knees. 

He doesn’t know why, but it’s important to him that you’re not uncomfortable. At least, no more than to be expected. Besides, he’d rather you didn’t freeze to death. That would just be annoying to deal with. 

Or so he tells himself as he fills his pack with the clothes he’s found and traded for, before heading back towards the house. 

Usually, on trade days, he’d stop and grab a few bottles of beer, too, but he’s still a little embarrassed about how he behaved last night when intoxicated. 

It wouldn’t normally bother him, to be seen as scary and intimidating. Hell, it doesn’t. But there’s a small part of him that feels ashamed when he remembers how fast you bounded up the stairs and bolted the door. 

He’s not used to having anyone beside Tommy in the house, and frankly he doesn’t give a shit whether he scares his brother or not. Tommy knows everything he does is to keep them safe, to keep them alive. He doesn’t have to like it, just accept it. 

Having you react the way you did has brought him back to earth a little, and he doesn’t like it. The last thing he wants is a reminder that he’s human. So fine. He’ll give you the clothes, but that’ll be the first and last favour he does for you. 

Or so he tells himself. 

[drfaustus]

the way that titus andronicus is full of pleas for pity that always go unanswered. tamora pleas for titus to "rue the tears [she sheds]—/ a mother's tears in passion for her son" in act one, only to have him killed anyway in a perverse sort of religious piety. then in a moment of complete reversal titus begs for saturninus to "be pitiful to [his] condemned sons" in act three, only to be deceived into cutting off his hand for their safe return and then still being brought their heads. the play even closes with the comment on tamora that "her life was beastly and devoid of pity, / and, being dead, let the birds on her take pity." like those are literally the final lines of the play. everyone is begging for pity and no one ever gets it.

[olivia-calidamn]

Olivia AND Jacquelyn for the character ask game!!!!!! I need to hear from the authority on such matters 🖤💕

My Jacquelyn breakdown is in Vera’s ask!! Thank you so much Kit ily!!!

(btw talkin bout Netflix!Olivia here tho i also absolutely love Book!Olivia)

how i feel about this character

as everyone is aware i am truly and somewhat deeply in love with Olivia and i’m honoured to be like, known as an Olivia-centric blog and an Olivia-centric person (!!), like, to be heralded as Olivia!!! Hanna @olivia-caliban and i are really out here!! Olivia Cali-Stans!!

i love Olivia a lot. so much. Maybe too much. i love her for her adorkable charm, the very subtle and sadly barely-there grey morality netflix gave her, her entire aesthetic both at the Prufrock Library and Caligari Carnival… i love. 

all the people i ship romantically with this character

as i mentioned in my Jacquelyn answer!! my favourite ship is Olivia x Jacquelyn x Esmé. Squaleszkaban, if you will. as i said i have a lot of feelings about them i feel like they would be hilarious but also adorable but also hot together 

and some honourable mentions!!:

- Olivia x Jacquelyn on their own and yes i wanna cry again - Olivia x Esmé which yes would have a lot of Tension as well but theycould also be cute!! a little like, idk Beauty and the Also Beauty But Beastly? if that makes sense. taming the lion. charming the snake. interesting potential.- also thanks to you Kit i also love!! Olivia x Georgina!! - i also do enjoy reading a good Olivia x Jacques fic if they have the vibe of Joyride by Roxette or You May Be Right by Billy Joel or You Better, You Bet by The Who. like, Jacques being an Idiot and Olivia being irritated but also thinking “that’s my idiot”                                                           

my non-romantic OTP for this character

- again Olivia and Jacques. since the books imply they might be cousins i would love to read some cousinly shenanigans with them!!- i feel like Olivia and Larry would be good friends too!! There would definitely be a lot of Larry wingmanning for Jacquelyn in that dynamic lmao- Kit and Olivia would be good friends as well i feel!! especially if they learned they’re cousins- Olivia and Justice Strauss would be cute!!!

Basically Olivia is a Mom Friend and would be friends with as many of the SBG as she can bc she’s just like that

my unpopular opinion about this character

Idk if this is unpopular as such but if she has a neurodivergence it is ADHD. i am Olivia and i have Spoken. on my own travels as of late i’ve been wondering about this wrt myself (i ain’t neurotypical lmao) so like. she has ADHD tell your friends!

one thing i wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

as much as i adore adorkable Netflix!Olivia who is a lot like Sara Rue’s recent characters eg. Claude from Less Than Perfect, Dora from Impastor and now Nell from The Rookie (where Nathan Fillion’s the protagonist) i would’ve liked to see what the books implied. a kind of bitchy but definitely more conflicted and upset and unsure Olivia. Sara can definitely do bitter and bitchy and conflicted, watch Gypsy 83; Netflix could’ve kept Olivia’s adorkableness but added a little more bitchiness. like, we see it with Nero and definitely with Carmelita and sometimes she’s unimpressed with Jacques during TEE and the beginning of TVV but like. a little more. other than that i absolutely love Olivia and this is one of your Olivia Cali-Stans signing off

[cravingwitandwisdom]

Tag game!

I fucking live for ships! Big thanks for tagging me @definegodliness  ♡

Rules: Tag 9 people you’d like to get to know better!

Top 3 ships:

First: WolfStart, always. Meaning: Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Their fanfic is so heartwrenching and they seem to fit together so well. Sirius being the cool rebellious one and Remus was suave and kind af. Remus is really the only one who can see Sirius to reason, the one who whispers to the madness within. After 12 years in Azkaban Sirius is still hauted with nightmares. He doens’t like to admit it but Remus knows. So every night Remus makes sure that Sirius slumbers before he does and every night he prepares Sleeping Draught. Padfoot is so loving and kind and loyal to Moony. Remus is without doubt in Sirious’ love for him despite his lycantrophy. Padfoot even has Moony so far he even starts to care for his monthly cycle. His boggart isn’t a full moon anymore. He likes being beastly with Padfoot. What I love about wolfstar is that they so easily give eacht other the love that they deserve. When they are together they are the home they always wanted. 

Second: RULES! a.k.a. Rue Bennet and Jules Vaughn from Euphoria, my new favorite obsession. I ship them hard tho I think they aren’t really good for each other. Rue needs to learn how to cope with her addiction for herself instead of others and Jules needs to figure out what the fuck she wants and then act. 

Third: Lizzy Saltzman and Sebastian The Merciless. From The CW show Legacies, which is a spin-off from The Originals, a spin-off from The Vampire Diaries. He’s a vampire, she’s a witch. A tale as old as time. They belong together and that’s that.

Last movie:

At theater: Frozen 2  

At home: To All the Boy’s p.s. I Still Love You - Wish I could tell you something cooler but when i’m hangover I just need some simple highschool sappy drama. 

Reading: The Bear and the Nightingale & Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. 

What food are you craving for right now: Always sushi. Oysters but my friends don’t like oysters so i never really get to eat them :(

I am tagging: @yunghuilie @goddess-particle @trashpanda499 @royalwildflowers @lodeizen @sadclownbadfriday @the-same-but-different @be-i-ng @efflorest

[lilyginnyblackv2]

Some of my favorite takes on the Beauty and the Beast Trope:

1. Fruits Basket - Kyo and Tohru

The reason I love this take on the trope is two-fold. Usually, with this kind of trope, the focus is placed on accepting or loving the monster and the beast - being able to see the human underneath it all. But in the case of Tohru with Kyo, she actually doesn’t accept the “monster” that he turns into to. It scares her and frightens her. And this is important because, up until now, Tohru has always reached out to others with acceptance. But Kyo didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be accepted, because that way of loving someone just reminded him far too much of his mother. He just wanted all parts of himself to be acknowledged and for him to be loved despite that acknowledgement, which is what Tohru does.

 This goes against the grain of how Tohru usually functions as a character (and thus coinciding with her being selfish here instead of her usual more selfless self) and it goes against the grain of how the Beauty and the Beast narrative often goes. There is usually this divorce between the monster/beast and the human “underneath,” and the resolution comes from being able to see the human “within” despite the monster/beastly outward appearance. But with Kyo, he wanted the packaged deal. In a way, his mother was taking the usual approach to this sort of trope (just through familial love, rather than romantic love, of course) and it failed. Tohru did something different - what Kyo always truly wanted - and it worked.

(Image Source)

2. Princess Tutu - Mytho and Rue

This is such a great take on the usual Beauty and the Beast type trope because it doesn’t involve the protagonist character, but rather the antagonist. It is through the actions of the antagonist, Rue, that she ends up corrupting and turning her beloved - Mytho - into a monster/beast. Mytho isn’t the usual “beast” type character - in the sense that he isn’t haughty or mean or cruel or “beast-like” in personality in some way. Instead, he is a literally blank slate of a character, who’s personality is highly influenced not only by the heart shards (aka feelings) that get returned to him, but also by actions and influences of those around him. Rue is the “dark magical girl” to Ahiru’s/Duck’s “light magical girl.” Rue’s love for Mytho is pure, but she only has toxic ways of expressing/showing/giving her love, due to the toxic/abusive ways in which she, herself, was shown love by her father, that she actually causes Mytho to become manipulative and mean and cruel. Mytho ends up so corrupted that he turns into a “beast” (literally a giant raven). 

Her love for him originally started out extremely innocent, wonderful, and beautiful, but as the years passed and as she became more and more entrenched into her Kraehe persona and her own father’s abusive way of showing love - her love became dark, hurtful, and possessive. When Mytho, in the form of a giant raven asks “You love me, don’t you?” Rue’s response is that her love has doing nothing but make him into this form he is in now. She feels like she isn’t worthy enough to love him, even in this corrupted form he has taken. 

She dances with him, cries for him and the past love that she once had for him - which had been healthy and pure. During her dance with him, she reflects on love. We see the way she was taught to love by her father vs. the way she truly loved and felt. As she dances, she is personally working through these memories and feelings and struggling with her own sense of identity. The trope is used in this series as way to solely develop the female character and, specifically, the character who wasn’t turned into a monster or beast in anyway. Rather, it focuses more on the one that helped make him that way.

Mytho doesn’t return to his human form after this dance with Rue, though. He only returns to his human form after three things happen: 1. he gets more heart shards (emotions) returned to him), 2. Rue denounces her abuser (father) and his form of “love,” and 3. after she confesses that she loves him and has always loved him. Princess Tutu’s take on this trope is so wonderfully layered and complex! The focus ends up getting placed on feelings in general and the ways in which people express love (ways that are healthy vs. ways that unhealthy). There’s likely even more that could be said about this take on the trope, but I’ll leave it off here.

(Image Source) 3. The 10th Kingdom - Wolf and Virginia 

This is a mini-series that I will always love. The characters and relationships are messy, but by the end of the series, everyone ends up in far healthier mindsets than when the series started. This is especially true for Wolf and Virginia. In this “Beauty and the Beast” trope example, the “beast” here, Wolf, was actually born half human and half wolf. So his character is always shown being of two minds - two sets of instincts constantly clashing with each other and he takes on a more werewolf like existence (transforming involuntarily and such).

The relationship between Wolf and Virginia starts off in a very unhealthy and toxic place. Wolf literally tries to eat her grandmother and the wolf side of him is far more pronounced. After seeing Virginia he is immediately taken with her and tries to pursue her, but she denies these advances. Usually, this sort of relationship dynamic is handled very, very poorly and reinforces unhealthy ways of approaching relationships. 

Where The 10th Kingdom gets it right, however, is the fact that Wolf actually experiences some therapy. The scene is mostly played for laughs, but Wolf’s brief experience with a psychologist and him actually getting and reading all of the books his therapist recommended for him to read is something you usually don’t see. Throughout the series Wolf is shown taking his self-improvement very seriously and while it does start from a place of “trying to improve myself so that Virginia will go out with me/approve of me” it eventually spreads to him just trying to make himself a better person for himself and others (even Anthony, Virginia’s father, and Prince). At one point in the series we do see Virginia believe in him. She believes that he is actually a good human and wolf beneath it all. She ends up acknowledging and accepting that aspect of him. But there is never a “love confession that turns him human” type of moment. Wolf is part wolf and always will be. That part disgusts Virginia a bit, but she doesn’t turn away from it either. However, the change that Wolf ends up having in how he expresses himself, his love, and his passion in general (not only for Virginia) only comes about due to his own effort. He tried hard to improve himself and make himself better, and while he has some pitfalls here and there along the way, he ultimately proves himself in the end.

(Image Source)

I had no plans of writing this tonight. It was just a thought that I had that just popped into my head and then wouldn’t go away. So I decided to write it up while all my thoughts were still fresh in my head. :)

[blogdemocratesjr]

‘Last Supper’ Rat Poison

There is no other remedy but rat poison. I shall ask her to buy me some packets of ‘Last Supper’ rat poisoning. It is the most virulent and they die almost at once. … “Not that I want to interrupt,” said Georgina poking her head around the jasmine bush, “but I haven’t seen a mouse or rat since I arrived here ten years ago.” ... “I hope you are right about there being no rats here,” I replied, “I have always been afraid of rats and mice, although I believe I am fond of most animals.”     Georgina suddenly stared curiously at my crochet scarft, “Talking of animals, is that a jerkin for a grass snake you are knitting?” Georgina could hardly be expected to guess it was a scarf. Still it was obvious that I was doing crochet work, not knitting.     “No,” I said slightly nettled. “It is not.”     “Where did you get such nauseatingly green wool? It makes my dentures chatter.” … Georgina got up and threw her cigarette end into the bee pond, it fizzled unpleasantly.     “Where are you going?” I asked, as I always enjoyed Georgina’s conversation.     “I am going to read a novel so you can go on knitting your beastly sock.” She stalked off with a certain creaking elegance, leaving a faint scent behind her which reminded me of rue de la Paix.

—Leonora Carrington, The Hearing Trumpet, p.78 (For those with a particular interest, it’s worth reading the whole passage.)