#singular and informal singular and informal

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Seven

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, angst

Word Count: 4.5k

You meet with Commander Graves. Ghost becomes your guardian. The reality of your situation comes down on your head.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“Have a seat.”

Commander Graves gives you a warm smile but there’s something off about it, like milk that’s about to go sour.

“Thank you,” you reply stiffly, staring just past him so you don’t have to look him in the face.

On the wall behind Commander Graves is a massive map of the world framed by file cabinets, shelving, and informational posters about “staying vigilant to suspicious activity.” On the map, there are no labeled countries. Only the continents and bodies of water are named. Amongst the land masses are different colored stars, roughly eight variations in total. There’s a singular gold one on the map where you currently are. The rest might be other safe zones.

Placing a hand on the back of his chair, Graves waits until you’re completely seated before sitting down himself. A plain file folder sits on Commander Graves’ desk. On the tab is your name. You feign indifference, retaining a neutral expression as Graves settles and opens the folder.

Commander Graves runs his tongue over his teeth, lips pursing slightly as he reads whatever is on the page in front of him. Another stranger—one that Ghost expressed disdain for last night yet refused to elaborate on.

“Medical came back clear,” he states, breaking the silence. “No parasites or diseases. Blood work is normal.”

No small talk then. Right to business.

Graves glances up from the file folder. “Won’t have to deworm you,” he chuckles.

Fucking gross.

Only a few words and you already dislike him.

The paper is turned, and Graves continues to read aloud. “Administered vaccines. Good.” He flips another page. “Psych eval came back not crazy.”

Arrogance. It’s weaved through Commander Graves’ tone, dampened only by his southern drawl. If this were Ghost, you’d have a snarky remark ready to fire off. But you know better than to set a man like Commander Graves off. This is someone with authority—much more than Lieutenant Riley.

Flipping through the remaining pages, Graves returns to a previous one, his gaze narrowing slightly as he takes a closer look. “Mild dehydration. Malnutrition. That’s common.” He pauses. “Have all your teeth. Not as common.”

It’s a checklist.

You might not be a science experiment but you’re not a human being either. More like cattle. A farm animal. A number on a sheet. Results on a page.

Flipping the paper over, Graves scans the page. He whistles, lips twitching with a hint of an amused smirk. “And fertile. The family planner will love you.”

Like a car without oil, your thoughts grind to a halt. Neurons tumble over themselves—stuttering for purchase as they try to process his words.

You voice goes high, cracking at the end. “I’m sorry? The family planner?”

Graves leans back in his chair, taking the results with him. “You’re of childbearing age. Healthy.” He shrugs. “One of the pillars of the mandate is repopulation.” The words fall from his lips casually, almost without motive and simply a statement of fact.

Your mouth hangs open, and you’re unable to formulate anything coherent. It is a waterfall inside your head or a tumultuous river that breaks its banks. Flooding. You are flooding. Drowning. Sinking below where there is no hope of oxygen.

Lieutenant Riley must have known. How could he not? Just a few days ago he pulled you from the Humvee and told Captain Price you were there because of the mandate. Did he bring you here knowing this? Was this his intent all along?

You’d look so pretty full of me.

Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.

Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.

A growing sickness blooms in your gut, twisting and coiling until you’re numb everywhere.

Graves is still talking, moving along as if you’re not ramrod straight and silent, likely staring off into space.

“Too fast and we’ll run out of resources,” he drones. “Things become…unstable. Too slow and we don’t keep up.” Commander Graves waves his hand dismissively. “We have doctors and scientists who handle that.”

There is only one thing on your mind. “And the family planner?”

Graves answers with an assertiveness that’s almost insidious. “You’ll talk with them.”

No maybe. No choice. A simple statement but it is entombment. Nothing to him but a cage to you. That’s how all men are because they don’t have to care. They sow their seed wherever they want and don’t think about what happens after.

You shake your head as if that is enough of a protest—as if that will change anything about your situation. “And if I don’t want kids?” you ask. “What happens then?” Panic creeps in, whispering about how you’ll be nothing more than a brood mare.

Graves appears unperturbed by your question, like he’s heard it all before. Many times. “They’ll be pushy,” he confirms. There is no elaboration, and that only stokes the panic to an inferno.

“But will I have to?”

This is what you need answered. Not that someone will suggest you do or that someone may or may not talk to you about potentially having a baby for the sake of humanity’s survival.

Not only that, but who will be the father? Is that a choice? Or will they make that decision for you?

Commander Graves snorts like the idea is absurd. “We’re not animals. You have rights.”

The panic does not extinguish. You had rights before the world went to shit, and yet some women didn’t have the option to choose whether they wanted to start a family. Having rights means nothing if personal autonomy has restrictions.

You recede slightly as the hope you still held melts away. “Will you go over those rights?” you ask, sinking into the chair, attempting to make yourself appear small.

It’s the first time you’ve been bold enough to ask a question without being startled into it. Anxiety is biting at your heels, but your anger and frustration are quickly rising. What you want is to lash out at Lieutenant Riley, to berate him for putting you in this situation. But you’re also upset with yourself for not trying harder, for not drawing more blood and seeking freedom.

This is his fault.

It is yours.

With a heavy sigh, Commander Graves leans toward the bottom of the desk, opening the lower drawer. Rummaging around for a bit, he eventually withdraws a slim brochure. Straightening, he holds it out to you. You tentatively take it, placing it in your lap.

The cover is light blue with white font. In the middle is the emblem of the United Nations. You open it. Promptly shut it. Mandate information. The “pillars.” It’s too much to process and you won’t lose your composure while you’re here with Commander Graves.

You glance up at the small American flag hanging near the ceiling. It’s on Commander Graves’ uniform too just below the flag of the United Nations. All black. No color whatsoever. It’s the one true consistency across all the soldiers’ uniforms.

“So, it didn’t collapse?” you ask, shifting your focus back to the man behind the desk.

Commander Graves pauses and looks up from the open file folder. “What didn’t collapse?”

You hold up the pamphlet. “The United Nations.”

Graves snorts. “Lots of things collapsed, sweetheart.” He nods toward the pamphlet. “Even that.”

“I don’t understand.”

Graves adjusts in his chair. “Whenever there’s a power struggle, something always gives. Creates a vacuum. Sometimes the structures in place can’t sustain themselves when that happens. They collapse. Fracture. They might rebuild or…” He snaps his fingers. “Cease to exist.”

Boldness fuels your next words, the need for answers driving you forward even as another urge tells you to hush. “Are there still countries?”

Graves demeanor changes, his mouth turning toward into a frown. “When people outside the safe zones are brought in, they usually know the answer to that question.”

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I was isolated for many years. I don’t recall much of what happened.”

Commander Graves inclines his head, appeased. “I’ll inform your advisor. Maybe we can get you up to date,” he smiles, offering pleasantness.

“And the advisor is different from the family planner?”

Graves clears his throat. Sniffs. “They’ll handle your transition.”

“Is that not what this is?”

“No,” he chuckles. “Think of me as…crowd control.” Commander Graves rests his elbows on the desk, hands spread as he talks. “I make sure the right people enter.”

You don’t like his implication.

“And I’m the right sort of people?”

“When Bravo team found you, they were on the hunt, tracking down a group that needed to be brought to justice.”

“That’s the sort you don’t want?”

“Exactly,” he grins, and there is nothing sweet in that smile. There is venom in it—a bit of bloodlust.

Closing the file, Commander Graves retrieves a yellow notepad and a ball-point pen from the top drawer of his desk. Placing it on top of the file folder, he flips to a fresh page, uncapping the pen lid.

“We need to discuss where you’ll fit,” says Graves, reclining in his chair, poised to begin filling in the lined paper. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

There is no reason to give him any extra effort. You remain quiet for the sole purpose of Graves to lead this conversation. If he wants anything from you, he’ll have to ask. To dig.

“Let’s talk about what you did before the world went to shit.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Was it my language?” he laughs as if you’ll somehow find that funny. When you remain aloof, he coughs. “What did you do for a living?” he responds dryly.

As little as possible. Minimal effort. That’s all. You can do this.

“I was a library assistant at a school,” you reply, adjusting in your seat. “Spent a lot of time around books.”

Commander Graves’ pen moves across the yellow notepad. “And after?”

A flicker of melancholy blooms in your chest. Thinking about the community you’ve known for nearly five years is a dark spot—a hole in which you won’t crawl out of. To mention them might bring potential harm to the people you care about most. You need to tread carefully.

“I was taken in by a small community. Built up their library. Restored and transcribed books. Worked with the children on their letters.”

There’s the briefest rise of his eyebrows before he quickly extinguished his surprise. “You were a teacher?”

“Sometimes,” you admit but not elaborating further.

“This is good,” nods Commander Graves. “We can use this.”

Not a person. An animal. A machine. They’re expecting contribution in womb and intellect. Your tolerance is quickly slipping, melting away like ice cubes in the sun.

Begging Lieutenant Riley to return you to your home proved fruitless, and you haven’t attempted to ask anyone else. Commander Graves isn’t a pleasant individual, but he has authority, and might agree to release you if you can convince him.

“I’m so sorry to ask this, Commander,” you begin, forcing yourself to appear small and vulnerable. Men like Graves like to feel the hero. “Lieutenant Riley didn’t give me the option to come to the safe zone. When I asked to be taken home, he ignored me.”

Not entirely a lie, but also not the truth. Ghost did answer you, many times, and it was always no.

Commander Graves’ nose crinkles in disgust. “You want to leave? Why would you want to do that?”

Shit. That is not the reaction you were after.

“It’s all I know,” you admit demurely. You even add a fluttering of your eyelashes.

It appears to work.

Commander Graves’ demeaner softens, that southern drawl of his thickening as he talks. “You have nothing to worry over. It’s clean here. Safe. Much better than where you came from.”

How the fuck would you know?

“But if there’s any way—”

The shift is instant. From pleasant southern gentleman to dangerous villain, Commander Graves loses all patience. “I think it’s best you forget about that place. This is your home now.”

Lieutenant Riley’s rejection was firm but gentle. He even showed you pity, surrendered to you when you were most vulnerable and offered his body. This is different. There is violence in it. Graves’ delivery is a promise that any continuation of this conversation will only result in harm coming to you.

You give a quick nod, drawing your gaze downward to avoid that menace. “Of course, Commander.”

Graves presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. The silence stretches, and you dare a quick glance. The intent of violence is fading from his face, replaced with a sternness of a parent ready to chastise their child.

“Education and literacy are important to those in charge,” he says slowly. “That includes the preservation of human history.”

“There’s an archive here?” you ask, some hope and lightness returning to your voice. This is what you know—what you understand.

Commander Graves nods. “All the safe zones do to some degree. Ours is one of the largest, but it’s understaffed. A bit messy.”

“And you think that would be a good fit for me?”

Graves only shrugs. “I’ll make a note in your file.”

You watch as he scribbles something out on the notepad. Tearing it from its home, he tucks it into the file, scratching at his neck as he sets it aside.

“Just because I’ve cleared doesn’t mean you’re free to roam.” Graves relaxes into a more casual recline. “There is a thirty-day probationary period once you leave my office. During that time someone will be assigned to you. Escorting you around.”

Think it’s more like keeping tabs.

“To keep me out of trouble?” you ask.

“Look at it however you want, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You want to smack that condescending smile off his fucking face.

“But they’re here to help you learn your way around. Ask them questions. The transition from the outside into society is difficult for some. We want to make sure it goes smoothly. That you have everything you need.”

“That someone isn’t you?”

Please say no.

“No,” he chuckles. “I’m just here to give the final stamp of approval before you go past the wall.”

Thank fuck. Commander Graves is only a hurdle. There are people higher than him that he answers to. If you meet the right one, you might be able to leave this nightmare.

Graves leans forward and picks out a toothpick from a little holder on his desk, popping it into his mouth. “Lieutenant Riley is the one that claimed you at processing. You’re his responsibility during the probationary period.”

A familiar face. An anchor.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

The end of the toothpick rocks back and forth as Graves reaches for a handheld walkie. “Send in Lieutenant Riley,” he says into it before promptly placing it back on his desk.

Commander Graves is suddenly uninterested in you, grabbing another file from a nearby stack and opening it up to look inside. You are nothing more than decoration. It’s all awkward silence as Graves continues to ignore you. When someone knocks on the door, you nearly jump out of the chair and make a run for it.

“Come in,” calls out Graves.

The door opens wide. You sigh with relief.

Lieutenant Riley steps through, a looming but welcome presence. When his gaze lands on you, his brow softens, that familiar affection seeping in. But it is a fleeting moment. Maybe he senses your distress, or perhaps you appear frazzled because Ghost’s softness hardens. That stare is cold. Bitter. Yet it’s not for you. It slides to Commander Graves.

“She’s ready to go,” says Graves, not even looking up from his paperwork.

You’re being dismissed. Pushed aside.

You bolt up from your chair so fast you nearly knock it over. Ghost takes a step forward, extending his arm, and you go right to him. Stepping into him, he drapes his arm across your shoulders, ushering you from the room. Leaning into him is comforting—soothing. Yet it is also sharped and laced with stipulations you don’t entirely understand.

“Lieutenant,” you sigh as the door shuts.

“Hush,” murmurs Ghost. “Not here.” Behind the balaclava, his gaze sweeps up and down the hall. “Follow me. Quietly.”

It is pure instinct that tells you to hold on to his hand, fingers intertwining as you cling to him. Lieutenant Riley draws you close, keeping you tucked into his side. There is a dangerous bite in his eye, as if he’s daring the world to come and snatch you from him.

Possessiveness. Repeating.

Two more hallways. A stairwell. All of it in silence. If someone crosses your path, they quickly turn around upon seeing Ghost. When the two of you finally make it outside, it’s a breath of fresh air.

You close your eyelids and turn your face toward the sun. “Oh, I missed you.”

A shadow blocks your sunlight.

“Did you?” croons Ghost.

You open one eyelid. “I was talking about the sun.”

“Course you were, love.”

With a groan, you turn away from him. You make it about ninety degrees before Lieutenant Riley’s hand grasps your throat, forcing you back in his direction.

“I’m not in the mood to fight with you,” you murmur.

That whiskey-brown gaze glows with flirty intent. “But you love to hate me.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” you retort.

Lieutenant Riley’s gaze drops to your lips, lingering like he’s considering your mouth. It stirs a heat low in your belly. You’re forced back to that morning when you were beneath him and he stared at your body with adoration.

Ghost’s thumb brushes along your jaw. “Was he a bit of a wanker?”

“Graves?” you ask, and Lieutenant Riley hums in answer. “That’s an understatement. Can see why you hate him.”

“I’m sorry it was him.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “I’m a big girl. Can handle myself.”

Ghost’s grip eases, dropping away. “He���s a todger. Only cares about himself.”

Aren’t you the very same, Lieutenant?

You glance over Ghost’s shoulder at the looming wall. “He said you’re my minder.”

He shrugs. “For a bit.”

“Am I—” You pause, steadying your racing thoughts. “Am I staying with you?”

That flirty gleam returns. “You can.”

“No,” you say firmly, holding up a hand. “Just—just take me…” You trail off, unable to call this place home.

“Take you where you’re staying?” finishes Ghost.

“Yes,” you sigh, your relief palpable. “Please.”

The two of you weave between buildings and rows of frame tents that soldiers pop in and out off. Some glance your way, but no one approaches. It’s like before when you were taken to base. So many eyes on you but they all keep their distance. You stare ahead, not daring to make eye contact. Ghost remains at your side, the silent sentinel and guide.

Each step brings you closer and closer to the wall. Ghost navigates around a cluster of shipping containers, only for the two of you to step out into open ground. Between you and the wall is an electrified fence with barbed wire at the top. He comes to a stop at a set of heavy gates. You’re buzzed through, then escorted down a narrow opening before approaching another gate. You remain utterly silent as Ghost interacts with the guards. While they appear stern, they greet Lieutenant Riley with respect, not questioning why you’re with him.

An exchanging of words. Flashes of credentials.

“Welcome home, Lieutenant.”

You pass through the gate and beneath the wall. There’s daylight from the other opening, illuminating the short tunnel. Your heartbeat becomes thunderous, pounding so loudly it’s all you can hear. If Ghost is talking to you, you wouldn’t be able to tell. You’re on the verge of fainting—or fucking vomiting.

A few steps.

A few more.

Sunlight emerges, and you exit, finding—a city. At least, part of a city. It’s clear that the street you’re on was once a downtown area based on the building sizes alone. They’re all multi-level, jutting toward the sky. But they are only that: buildings. Plain. Simple. The architecture boring and modern.

Several military jeeps roll by, but there are no other vehicles.

Is this the safe zone? Is this all there is?

“Where are we going?” you ask tentatively.

“That building,” points Ghost, indicating a gray multistoried building with windows at even intervals. “Not far.”

“I don’t get a tour?”

“Not today, dove,” replies Ghost, moving ahead.

The only other people on the street are those in uniform. Some are by themselves. Others in pairs or groups. At street level, all the buildings have store fronts. There are bars, a couple of dining establishments, several barber shops, and what might be a pharmacy.

“Where are we?” you inquire, looking around at all the men in uniforms.

“Military housing,” answers Ghost.

“So I am staying with you?”

“No. You’re not staying with me.”

You increase your pace in order to keep up with his long strides. “Then why are we here? I’m not military.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re a civilian.”

“Then why am I not staying with the civilians?”

Lieutenant Riley glances at you. “Probation.”

“You have to be fucking joking,” you mutter.

“I’m not.”

“That was rhetorical,” you snap sharply as you approach the building you’re staying in.

Ghost punches a code into the keypad of the exterior door. It buzzes loudly, the handle giving easily under Ghost’s touch. He steps to the side to allow you to pass through.

You peer up at the winding stairwell. “No elevator?”

“If there was do you think we’d be taking the stairs?” he replies dryly.

“Asshole,” you whisper, following behind him.

It’s only six flights before Ghost yanks open the landing door, revealing a warmly lit hallway with carpeted floors. The doors are numbered but they don’t mean anything to you. You simply echo Lieutenant Riley’s footsteps. At the end of the hall, he takes a left, only to stop at a door that says “317.”

Withdrawing a key, he slides it into the deadbolt lock. A turn. A click. The door gives. Ghost pushes it wide and backs up, extending his arm in invitation. You lean forward, peering in.

“Go on,” he urges.

You take a step inside onto wood floors. A few more and Ghost enters, the door shutting behind him. It’s an apartment. And it’s barren. Plain. In the living room is a worn sofa and brown side table underneath a set of windows. There is nothing in the kitchen expect a white fridge and a stove that looks like it’s from the eighties. Nothing hangs on the walls. No art. No pictures. No character. You don’t dare go into the bedroom.

“There’s nothing here,” you state.

“Course not. You don’t own anything.”

A suppressing stuffiness settles in, forcing the air from your lungs until you feel lightheaded.

“There aren’t any books. Not even paper. What am I supposed to do in here?”

“Like I said, you don’t own anything.”

“And I just…stay here?” you ask, some of the shock leaking into your tone.

“Yes.”

You turn on Lieutenant Riley. “I’m a prisoner.”

“That’s not true.”

“But I can’t fucking leave.”

Ghost’s tone is neutral. “Not without me.”

You extend your arms outward. “But you won’t always be here. With me.”

“I can be,” he purrs.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Ghost shrugs. “It’s temporary. When the thirty days are over, you’ll move to the civilian area.”

“This isn’t my home.”

“It’s temporary,” repeats Ghost.

“This isn’t my home!”

Lieutenant Riley stares at you, unmoving. Fuck, you want to punch him, or maybe scream if that’ll make him understand. You think you’ll break—look away. But he does, walking away from you and into the kitchen.

“Probably didn’t stalk the pantry,” he grumbles as he starts opening cabinets.

You’re not thinking about food. You’re not thinking about anything except the fact that this barren fucking apartment isn’t yours.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” you ask, voice breaking as your eyes begin to water. “Do you know what you’ve taken from me?”

Lieutenant Riley ignores you. “There’s nothing in the bloody fridge either.”

“Are you listening to me?” Ghost shuts the refrigerator door but his hand remains on the handle. “Look at me, Lieutenant.”

It’s a slow shift. A slight turn.

“I had a home.” You gesture to the empty space around you. “This isn’t a home.”

“I told you it’s temporary.”

You step forward, a twisting fire growing in your chest. “I had a home,” you repeat. “A house. Not…this.”

Ghost remains silent.

“It had a porch with a hammock. The walls were covered in floral peel-and-stick wallpaper that Zac scavenged from a hardware store on one of his many runs. My bedroom window looked out over our community garden.” Grief comes rushing back, slamming into you. “I spent my days surrounded by books. Surrounded by people that love me.”

Ghost’s is still. Unmoving.

“This isn’t a home, Lieutenant.”

He finally drops his hand—finally moves. “I told you I couldn’t take you back.”

“You didn’t even try!”

Ghost strides forward, each step purposeful and slow like a predator approaching prey. “You don’t understand yet. But you will.”

You shake your head, the tears becoming real, stinging your cheeks.

“Get out,” you whisper.

“Dove—”

“Get the fuck out!”

When Ghost remains where he is, you cry out in frustration. If he won’t leave, you’ll separate yourself from him. Every pounding step is cathartic. Slamming the bedroom door feels even better. And there’s a goddamn lock.

Ghost does not come to the bedroom door. He does not attempt to open it. There is only silence on the other side, and your violent sobs.

You don’t remember when you drift off. You only remember waking and that the sun has dipped below the wall, darkening the room. Hesitation clings to your muscles, keeping you in bed a bit longer until you find the courage to peel yourself off the duvet. With shaking breath, you disengage the lock, opening the door just enough to peek out.

Lieutenant Riley is gone. The apartment is empty.

And yet that only worsens your mood.

Your feet drag as you emerge from the bedroom, unsure of what you’re supposed to do now. Sit around? Sulk? It’s not like you can distract yourself. For all you know there isn’t even cleaning supplies, and Ghost insinuated that there isn’t any food. You literally have nothing.

The decision to return to bed is instant.

Rubbing at your eyes, you turn back toward the bedroom door. A glint catches your eye from over by the window. Frowning, you move forward, and then come to a dead stop.

The previously empty side table is no longer empty.

There are books. An entire series if you’re reading the spines correctly. Beside it is a small handheld radio with a slot for a cassette tape along with a few musical options from the late eighties and early nineties. Next to that are two gently worn wordsearch workbooks and a couple of sharpened pencils, tiny sharpener included.

Tears come yet again, and you hate that they do. You hate that you wipe at your eyes, knowing that you’re not angry at all in this moment even though you wish that you were.

You asked Ghost to listen.

And he did.

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[queenwille]

and that’s that on..

1. privilege

/ˈprɪvlɪʤ/

noun

plural privileges

[count] : a right or benefit that is given to some people and not to others

[singular] : a special opportunity to do something that makes you proud

[noncount] somewhat formal : the advantage that wealthy and powerful people have over other people in a society

[noncount] : the right to keep important information private

[noncount] British : the right to say or do something without being punished for it

2. privilege

/ˈprɪvlɪʤ/

verb

privileges; privileged; privileging

[+ object] formal

: to give an advantage that others do not have to (someone or something)

source

people here in the USA are complaining about some HRT being made in israel?? like holy shit get over yourself. theres people here being forced off HRT, and youre privileged enough to still access it yet complain that its made in a country you dont like? also given the amount of medical and scientific research israel does its not at all surprising that they manufacture HRT. guessing these people want hamas to make HRT between their terrorist attacks, though. some people need to count their fucking blessings.

[spacestation-l7]

I have no idea if Brian is very important to the plot of the Zootles, but what would he look like?

"The Beastars Making Prince of Pop"

I've had this Zootles!Brian wip for awhile now but I can finally finish it! (He's a Maned Wolf!). Brian's pretty important to The Zootles story actually

More stuff below as usual :)

One show in Hamburg was all it took for Brian to be convinced of the potential of these rugged teenagers from Liverpool and it took even less for them to switch over management to the young adult whose only experience with managing was running his parents' record store. He managed to wrangle these wild beasts into one singular well-oiled machine. He put them together, brought Ringo in, and finally became a whole herd.

Brian was a mystery to most and Zootlemania made him almost invisible as all attention was pushed towards his boys instead, which worked well for the closeted man. During the times when Homosexuality was outlawed, a Homosexual Carnivore was considered even more dangerous and (though it was later proven to be a fearmongering hoax) their instincts were even more uncontrollable. The spotlight wasn't on him and Brian relished in the fact that nobody saw him and was even more deligthed to know that his boys were the ones who were getting the cheering.

Brian was a known homosexual only to the people under his wing and his staff, and neither seemed to mind it as much. In fact, they're very protective of the man. There were constant jokes over this made by his boys but when someone outside of their group tried to butt in, they best be sure they'd be met with a claw to the face by the world's most unstable rabbit. There were rumors circulating that John had a connection with him, especially since their joint trip to Barcelona, but John denied the existance of any connection. Besides, a Herbivore and a Carnivore in a homosexual encounter seemed more likely to be an act of predation to the public eyes.

When The Zootles were chosen to represent the United Kingdom during the first live global link, there were talks of turning them into the next generation of Beastars. Some argued it should be Lennon, some McCartney, until it came to the conclusion that the four of them should become the first collective Beastars. There were discussions and agreements made with Epstein, who had told his boys this new information. They've taken it in stride, believing that they could be the ones actually doing something for Peace instead of just writing love songs. They could actually make a difference.

3 months later, Brian was found dead in his home. The cause were accidental overdose. And it was believed this was the breaking point for The Zootles as they rejected their coronation as Beastars to go on a musical retreat to India instead.

Had Brian still been alive, the world would've had the first collective Beastars. Perhaps, the world would've been much different, perhaps The Zootles would've continued on.

[kharla-k]

It's interesting how Stronghold Protocol, despite nominally being a dinky side event and you would expect would have a similarly dinky story justification for a new autobattler mode-

Had a pretty ominous introduction. Great way to introduce the event!

The Doctor notices this, and Kal'tsit shares this information after isolating the two of you even from Amiya and Closure, after discussing that the command chain needs to be more robust and not all work under the same umbrella.

What is she trying to plan for that requires having a defense mechanism, for Rhodes Island, that can work from internal sabotage, but work outside the existing command chain? And why does she have to whisper it in the dark?

I think that it alludes to the fact that any singular person, even the Doctor (Babel) and Closure (Talulah's escape), can be points of failure in the system defense, but past that I'm not aware of what it could mean. We know it's in the present by virtue of Amiya's outfit, but not much more.

[dilfstarr]

It wasn’t the first time he got interrogated by the police and it damn sure wouldn’t be the last. It annoyed the fuck out of him though. He could be at home doing anything else but he’s sitting in this small ass chair that can barely hold his weight. The tiny room was being illuminated by a singular light bulb that spotlighted solely on his interlocked fingers that sat on cold table. One man sat across from him. He assumed he was the “nice cop”— he talked to Toji and not at him, unlike the one that stood over him with his fingers wrapped around his gun.

“M’gonna ask one more time. Where were you the night of October 31st?” The question was laced with so much annoyance.

They have been repeating that damn question for the past hour only receiving a shrug from his shoulders. His favorite thing to do was toy with the officers so Toji replied in his native language. He knew that they didn’t understand what he was saying and it humored him when the standing officer scolded him.

“In english motherfucker!”

He chuckled before answering, “I had my son that night. Took him trick or treatin’.”

“Bull-fucking-shit. We talked to your ex-wife and she had your kid cause’ you had something ‘important’ to do. So what were you doing Zenin?”

He sighed heavily in defeat, bringing his hands to run through his dark hair. This action caused the standing officer to jump slightly, gripping his gun tighter.

“Jus’ tell us.” The sitting officer pleaded.

Well here it goes. He slouched in the seat causing it to creak under his weight.

“I had a date.”

“A date?” The sitting officer starts jotting down the information.

“Mhm”

“With whom?”

“My woman?” He replied as it was the most obvious answer in the world. The standing cop hums at the new knowledge.

“So she was in it with you too? Little Bonnie and Clyde role play? Hm?”

The cop now leaned over the table now in Toji’s personal space.

“Nope.” He announced popping the p in the word.

“So what happened Zenin?”

“We had a dinner then we fucked. We fucked alllll night. I have the scratches to prove it wanna see?”

He proceeded to tug at his shirt before the sitting officer interrupted.“That’s not going to be necessary Mr.Zeni-”

“No, look.” He stands from his seat, showcasing the markings that you left behind. Red markings that reached from the back of his neck to his waist decorated his olive skin.

“Nice right? I have a video too but it’s on my website.”

He walked out of the police station without a top, turning heads of oncoming bystanders. They were definitely going to see him next week.

[rbrooksdesign]

∑FEETc: Divisor Matrix Table (DMT) 8, digital painting, May 8, 2025, Reginald Brooks

∑FEETc

*Fractal

*Entanglement

*Entropy

Time

Consciousness

~~~

*In strictly numbers form, fractal entanglement increases as the DMT expands, and, as more and more connections are revealed. Colors, shapes, tones, lights and shadows, B&W -- and similar graphic means -- stand in for the same. Seems our programming is not to see the numbers, rather to see some manifestation of those numbers and their often stealthy connections. And, of course, this is not limited to the visual realm --music, sound design, dance, movement, word, poetry, literature, ... design in every possible media and form of expression is who we are. The entropy that follows ...

~~~

*Before we get from the order of fractal entanglement to the relative "disorder" of entropy, let's briefly talk about -- bias-prejudice-point of view-perspective. In some mathematical respects they are irrelevant. Yet we know of gravity. Certainly it has a favored side of the curve. Why would it matter if your experience, your sensory input, your internal processing, or even your own personal, relevant math, were subject to a "favored" view? Again, in the pure math realm it doesn't and yet it does. How so? It is the very same connections and interconnections. Gravity being a great big, elephant in the room, example. "Certainly it has a favored side of the curve." because there is no singular, isolated spacetime (ST). [Unless one considers -- and not without merit -- a.k.a. the Conservation of ST -- the entire Universe(s)/Multiverse as a singular unit.]. All ST units -- each informed by the math of the DMT -- is affected by its neighboring densities of the other ST units. Deep, deep subject, but only touched upon here...

~~~

[notbecauseofvictories]

I swear I tried so hard to listen to a standard, talking heads podcast while I was working on my latest project---but it is just not my medium. I can do fiction! If it's an audiobook with some production values? A play staged by my imagination? Great, amazing. I love a soundscape.

But anytime they venture even slightly from that, I want to murder them and their tinny laughter.

[meirimerens]

oh? can you please tell me more about what line has the You>you slip up english only having a formal pronoun really fuck with some dynamics sometimes and im so curious now cause i cant read russian

yessiREE okay so in the russian version, at some point, conversation goes like this :

Бакалавр … чудовищные смеси из толчёных таблеток, да! Они их называют «порошочки». [...] Да… я слышал. Более того… я проверял. Так что и вы не смейтесь надо мной, коллега. Как вас там… эрдэм. >Ты проверял?.. То есть… вы проверяли? >Я не эрдэм. Эмшен скорей -- но так не слишком скромно. Хирурга у нас называют «яргачин», как мясника.

this exchange, if you choose the first option, is followed by Dankovsky's:

Можно и на ты. Да, проверял. [...]

or, translated (through deepl, because, well. i don't read russian either Thumbs up emoji) as it stands, is:

Bachelor : …monstrous mixtures of crushed pills, yes! They call them "[shmowders]". [...] Yes… I've heard that. In fact... I've tested it. So don't make fun of me either, colleague. What's your name... Erdem. >You(informal, singular form) checked?.. I mean, uh... You(formal, singular form) checked? >I'm not an Erdem. Emshen rather - - but that's not too modest. We call a surgeon "yargachin", like a butcher.

and followed by Dankovsky's:

You can use you(informal form). Yes, I checked.

In the english translation this sentence of Burakh's & Dankovsky's response go as follow:

B: Holy shit… Sorry, excuse my language. So you've checked, then? D: You don't have to watch your tongue with me. Yes, I've checked. [...]

as you can see, in the original version, Burakh slipped INTO the informal, friendlier, and maybe less respectful "ты" FROM the more formal, respectful "вы". Since the english language has no distinction between a formal and an informal singular you/You, the translator had to go around it, and make it about cursing instead of the pronoun switching. on one hand, #respect because translation is a hard annoying hair-pulling job. on the other hand, i feel like this strippppsssss the scene of its...... tension. slipping from вы to ты is a way to show that burakh started considering himself real buddy-buddy with dankovsky. or maybe lost some of the (potentially convention-mandated) respect in speech he held for dankovsky. it's a hint that he had started to, subconsciously, see dankovsky as less Above him, keeping the formality by convention. AND, dankovsky telling HIM he can use the informal form, and doesn't have to keep using the formal one, is a way to recontextualize, and to reshape their relationship. he's shedding the distance of respect and and formality that was between them, he's actively telling burakh to forgo it.

in the english translation, i feel like this shedding of distance and formality is more accomplished in dankovsky's response alone: You don't have to watch your tongue with me. It's an authorization to curse, on this one, yes, but also to more openly discuss painful, annoying things, even if you gotta slip a fuck(THE CURSE WORD) in there.

i'll always be so so sad about the lack of english's formal/informal singular you distinction. makes for a very neutered language. the inherent closeness of accidentally calling someone ты/toi instead of вы/vous and not being called out on it............

[hulubitsa]

seeing people bicker online over the validity of autism self diagnosis is funny asf to me, you are living in the first world. in romania not only do you get 0 accommodations for autism as an adult you also cannot legally be autistic as an adult, only minors can be diagnosed/recognized officially. when an autistic minor turns 18 and they want to keep receiving accommodations their diagnosis will automatically be changed to schizophrenia. even more insane is that in order to keep receiving any accommodations or disability aid for schizophrenia you are legally required to be in the psych ward at least once a year. For schizophrenia. With medicine for it. meanwhile there are estimated hundreds of thousands of undiagnosed autistic adults here

absolute state of romanian mental heathcare

[aimlesspost]

i think my favorite new bit of lore from the dlc is that malenia apparently forgot that she's supposed to speak with psuedo-archaic english

guess radahn wasn't the only one whose brain was rotted in the battle of aeonia

[indigo-brainspark]

minami slowly worming her way deeper into the dr stone x apothecary diaries crossover.

She's just so CONVENIENT. asagiri gen needs to be depetrified? Minami. Spies need to be placed around on the downlow? Minami. Photography has to be reintroduced as a stunning new art form? Minami.

she hates capitalism and she hates this new-but-still-similar society but at the end of the day she really isn't some paragon girlboss. she's a "just a girl" woman, taking the path of least resistance. Bc as long as she's telling them where to find specific statues, she gets special treatment.

(maybe she becomes a consort? certainly has all the requirements. except her background. does being a statue come to life grant you political significance? But it would certainly make it harder for her to do the work she needs. Unless I use that as a way to flex her networking skills-)

[zytes]

••• 🚬🙏😮‍💨

[dreamlightgallery]

Prune Juice's plight fits right into Cookie Run Kingdom's overarching theme of what it means to live/exist despite him not being a relevant character to the main plot, send post.

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

In hindsight, perhaps it would’ve been better to specify a group of invertebrates that sturgeons eat. “I like mollusks/worms/crustaceans, because they have no bones!” certainly does not leave much for interpretation, as it is quite obvious that sturgeons are not a secret group of one of the above. My worst fear is that people’s takeaway from my video is that sturgeons are invertebrates “because they have no bones” TToTT

[inhales-agressively]

"he has been tortured"

I LEAPT OFF THE COUCH

HE WHAT

HE WHAT

HE FUCKING WHAT

W H A T

[deityoftherain]

If you struggle to use singular they/them pronouns or know someone who does, look at slash send them one of the sites below to help you/them practice.

It took me far too long to find what I was looking for (the links above), so I figured I would share with the greater tumblr community just in case you would benefit from such a resource.

In addition, I have compiled a short list for you/them to learn about singular they/them personal pronouns on your/their own time.

Information on the singular "they":

https://www.teachingoutsidethebinary.com/blog/quick-guide-to-singular-they

https://www.pridetraining.org.au/pages/pronoun-page?srsltid=AfmBOopNOWQlg6AixF5bKSLqbX0VSQAoSjuPX7gtnSA0rr3EY6MqBxWM

https://lgbt.foundation/help/understanding-pronouns/

Interactive sites to practice using they/them:

https://www.practicewithpronouns.com/#/?pronouns%5Bsubject%5D=they&pronouns%5Bobject%5D=them&pronouns%5Bpossessive_adjective%5D=their&pronouns%5Bpossessive_pronoun%5D=theirs&pronouns%5Breflexive%5D=themself%2Fthemselves&numericity=plural&_k=mts4m7

https://www.minus18.org.au/pronouns/