#vicious fence

[frogspawned]

pet peeve is when a story tells us something is aberrant, but it seems to matter more about who does the behavior than the behavior itself. rorschach in snyder's watchmen isn't going too far; we watch nite owl and silk spectre ii snap necks and arms with gleeful, loving abandon, in slow motion no less, while they lecture the audience about rorschach's violence. heroes frequently torture the plot contrivance out of a villain and then moralize to the camera when the villains do the same. indominus rex's killing spree doesn't shock or appall me; all the jurassic world dinosaurs act like mindless killing machines, and the camera lingers, rapturous, on their cruelty. it's not an outlier. there's nothing interesting about it beyond as a set piece.

in a better script, the indominus rex would have had pathos; a chimera made for entertainment, for profit, stitched together with no regard for itself and placed in a lonely box. a freak among freaks. of course it would be mad. but the film wasn't interested in it as an animal, or a character, only as a moving piece of scenery for people to scream at or breathe tensely while it can clearly smell and reach them but doesn't, because it isn't a character and doesn't have motivations.

it's just sort of boring, i suppose. it tries like all other empty drab things do to cover it with bombast and roaring and soaring brassy scores but it's just sort of dull. a sprawl of nothing.

conversely peele's nope is a transcendent monster movie, imo, because it thinks about the the whys and hows, how jean jacket perceives the world, how the world perceives her, and lets that shape the narrative as much as jupe or emerald or gordy. they consulted biologists and behaviorists, digging into the meat of it. the creature as a camera as an animal as a device. nope has layers. it takes its own insane premise seriously, and has something to say, and is a goddamn good movie. i forgot where i was going with this.

[shyshitter]

Interesting how Johnny depp donated his money to sick kid and environment charities instead of women’s rights charities like. Yea those things need funding too but buddy. Do you understand what you were on trial for?? Violence against women. You’re not gonna idk. Maybe try to amend that? Even for your image? biting scratching

[merl-out]

Man I really just picked up a random fantasy series and stumbled into a whole civil war within a fandom without knowing it but like,,,

I'm seeing the lines drawn in the sand and I don't think I fully agree with any of you. The characterizations are so hot and cold in different books, I can see how people get to a certain point with characters, but then it feels like spite and fan wars have people throwing judgements out further and further and can I just say as a veteran of old Tumblr, someone who made a name for themselves writing fanfiction and engaging in fan culture, someone who has allowed that part of my media engagement to die off because of how heated people get over shit that's literally made up...

This is very entertaining for me. Please keep fighting.

[little-klng]

Contradicting identities absolutely bangs btw. Sexual, romantic, and gender identities all bang in every combination even when they're contradicting. I think it's supremely cool when someone has a sexual and romantic identity that are opposites and a gender that doesn't match and then different pronouns on top of that. Shout out to conflicting queers and queers using their own slurs as identities

[yeyinde]

(sighs dreamily) i loooove the way you write fucked up and gross simon. the size kink and somno drabbles have been living rent free in my mind for almost two weeks now. the recent stalker piece was also so deliciously terrifying, i actually had a dream/nightmare today that was a mixture of stalker!ghost and not-dog!soap 😭

are you planning on writing any more for either of those?

ahhh thank you!!!! this had me wondering how i could maybe blend the two and this happened.

stalking. HEAVILY implied noncon somno. size difference.

Simon decides your dog, your baby, needs a man in the house. and since you like to call yourself his 'mama,’ then it’s only right that he becomes the daddy both of you need.

Your dog does not like strangers.

He's a rescue and the sort of life he lived until now, until you, is mostly a mystery. You found him on a rainy day, panting under your awning - a gnarled mess of matted fur glued to bone. Too skinny to survive another winter. You took him in right away and gained his trust. His love. But whatever he had left to spare (lots, it seems) is strictly reserved for you. Everyone else is a threat, a worry. Even the vets he's known since you found him all those years ago still get the same wary glances, the same growls then they lean in too close to whisper something in your ear.

He's just—special. The sweetest thing ever when it's just you. Your baby. People joke—slightly nervous—that he treats you like his mother. Following you closely with his big, glossy eyes tilted up to stare at you. Loving. Cuddly. Rests his big head on your lap at night with a great, big sigh. Tired from a long, hard day of protecting his house from squirrels and the stray delivery driver.

But when it comes to others—anyone, really—he’s aggressive. Territorial. All the vets and trainers say that it's his breed. That he just needs to be trained. Exposure therapy. Behavioural. And it works for all of two weeks before he's back to his stubborn self. Snapping at anyone who gets too close to you.

You post warnings on your fence. Your front door. Take precautions when you walk him. Warn anyone who gets close that he doesn't like anyone. Full stop. No exceptions. And it works. Helps ease the stress. He still goes to therapy. To training lessons. But he's smart enough to trick them into thinking he's learning.

And it's fine. People can't get too close to you. To his house. His territory.

Or so you thought.

But he's been acting strange lately.

You caught him barking at something through the fence a few months ago; spittle flying from his muzzle as his lips peeled back, snarling and vicious. If the fence wasn't reinforced, you think he would have broken it down to get at whatever was behind it.

It continued like this for a few days. Each time you went to check and see what was there, all you find is littered cigarettes. The teenage son of your neighbour, you think. He likes to hide in the dense woods so his parents can't find him. You'll talk to him about it later. Ask if he can do it a little further away from the fence so he isn’t disturbing Baby. 

As the days grow, his growls and snarls diminish before stopping outright. In the interim, your unease grows.

It's small—at first. 

He wants to be outside more. Always whining at the back door, scratching at it with his paw. When you let him out, he runs right to that spot by the fence. Sits down, and just stares. When you go out to look, there's nothing there. Just a dark, sprawling coppice. Cigarettes on the ground. But something catches his attention. Keeps it. Holds it.

He leads you to that spot sometimes, too. Nudges you with his big, furry head to your thighs. Shepherding you to the fence, and then sits back, clearly preening. Proud.

"You're mama’s silly boy, aren't you?" you coo, scratching his ears. It must be the neighbour. Maybe a stray deer wandered by. You catch a flash through the tree line. Twin puddles of black peering through the tangled weeds. Your dog perks up, looking towards it. A deer, you think. A stray buck. You huff, patting his head. "Made a new friend, huh?"

But you can't shake the feeling that something else is out there. That something is staring at you.

Nothing, you tell yourself, fighting off a shiver. It's fine. Fine. He sneaks off at night sometimes. You hear him playing in the hallway. Wandering around the house. The tack-tack-tack of his nails against the hardwood as he walks back to your bedroom lulls you back to sleep. You feel the bed dip. Something warm against your back. You sigh, melting into the sheets—

There's nothing to worry about.

He'll protect you.

But the next morning, you find him locked outside. The patio door shut. The deck is dried from the sun, but his fur is wet. It rained last night. You drifted in and out to the patter of it on your window. The soothing weight of his body curling around you—

He must have gotten out in the morning. Rolled around in the grass. But when you put him in the tub later to scrub the rainwater off of his cost, his belly is dry.

It's nothing. He was in bed with you last night. It's fine. Fine. Everything is easy to explain away as coincidence. Nothing usual. The feeling of being watched. The missing food from your fridge. The creaks of the old house at night. Things shifting around—keys missing only to turn up somewhere else. Rodents chewing through your landline. 

The panties you shed, tossing into a corner before getting into the shower going missing—

They’re just—lost in the wash. You must have thrown the leftover food away when you cleaned earlier and forgot. The lingering scent of cigarettes. Smoke in your bed. The cloying scent of loam, humus. Fresh dirt. The stains on your bed. The strange smear in the gusset of your panties when you peel them apart.

Something thick, firm between your thighs—

Fine. You tell yourself. Everything is fine. At best, it's a gas leak. At worst—well.

Baby will protect you. 

Always. 

But the next day, he brings his favourite toy to the back door, asking to be let out, and this isn't—

It's not normal.

He's possessive over his toys. Keeps them on his daybed and refuses to let anyone touch them. Only you. He doesn't bring the. Outside, either.

But when you peer outside a few minutes later, the toy is lying by that spot near the fence. He's sitting down, tail wagging. Happy. Excited. It continues like this for the next few days. He brings his toys to the fence, coming in later, licking his lips. When you brush his teeth at night, you smell something gamey on his breath. Meaty. 

Getting out of bed a few hours later and playing in the hallway. Going to sleep with you at night, but somehow getting out in the early hours of the morning, waiting for you on the patio when you remember the huff of his breath over your neck less than an hour ago—

No. You're just—

Getting the time wrong. It's fine. He'll protect you. He doesn't like anyone but you.

You hear footsteps in the hallway at night next to the click-clack of his nails. When you jump out of bed to check, it's just him. Sitting by the back door, head craned over his shoulder when he heard you coming. His favourite toy is sitting on the ground in front of him. You fight a shiver. The feeling of eyes burning into you churns your stomach.

"I'm going crazy, sweetheart," you coo, but feel the threads of your sanity begin to snap one by one. "But you'll keep me safe, right?"

His tail wags. You pretend not to notice the gap in the patio door. Opened just a crack. You shut it, forcibly telling yourself to remember to close it next time and fight the memories of locking it before settling on the couch to watch old re-runs. You drag him back to bed, burrowing your head into his fur, listening to the thud-thud-thud of his heart in your ear. 

When you dream that night, it's of a big, scarred hand making its way between your thighs. A rasping, masculine voice in your ear commanding you to be good—

You wake up with your thighs sticky, wet. Your cunt pulsing. There's an ache there; a sting. It twinges when you move, tapering into a sore throb as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, woken up by the strange dream—fingers between your thighs, a head resting on your belly, calling you a good girl—and a noise.

A low murmur comes from the living room. You wince with the first several steps, forcing yourself to ignore the uncomfortable feeling between your thighs. The wetness that drips down your leg, some of it already dried, sticking to your skin. It’s fine. You just had a—

A wet dream.

—everything is fine. Fine. Your heart lurches. Lodges in your throat. Each beat feels like a fist against your tissue trying to break down the prison of your flesh to flee. 

You slowly inch toward the hallway, the sound, making excuses for the fear that curdles in your belly. The itch in the back of your head that calls you stupid. Demands you go back to bed. To sleep. You’ll wake up in the morning to Baby slobbering over your chest, drooling as the time ticks away in a slow crawl towards his usual breakfast. 

It’s tempting. The sleep congealing in the corners of your eyes, weighing heavy—molasses-thick—over your sense of awareness: cobwebbed in that strange, uncanny realm of sleep and wakefulness; hypnagogia turning shadows on the walls into human shapes. The whisper of wind into the brassy drawl of a voice. 

Through it all, the prickle rears. Says something isn't right. Hasn't been right for a while now. It's fine. Everything is—

It doesn't make sense at first. Your brain tries to wrap around the images your eyes feed it. Untangling the dizzying sense of confusion that runs along your hindbrain like a jagged knife; grazing tissue, scraping over nerves. The picture comes together quickly. There's no misinterpreting the shapes.

A man is lounging on your couch. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. The remote is held in one hand as he lazily flicks through the channels on your television screen. The picture of ease. So relaxed, so comfortable in your space, that you begin to feel a little bit like an intruder. A voyeur peering between the curtains.

This feeling is reinforced when you peel your eyes away from the horrifying mask on the man's face—a black balaclava—and find your dog lounging beside him. Resting with his head over this stranger's thick thighs. His head perks up when you approach, tail wagging, but he doesn't get up from his spot. Content to bask in the half-hearted attention the man doles, a hand buried in his fur. Dragging over his ears. Down his back. Monotonous flicks of his thick wrist, nearly the same width as the barrel of a baseball bat.

And that just trembles down your spine in the worst way.

He's the same height as you are sitting down. Takes up two cushions on the couch with his absurd bulk. Massive, you think. And then it all rushes through you. The knife slips into your cognisance.

There's a man in your house. Petting your dog,

your dog who tries to bite the same vet he's had for years. Who trusts, who likes, no one but you—

You make a noise. Something strangled in the back of your throat. Muffed, unable to escape through the clot of your heart getting there first. It tangles around your pericardium and is too late to take back. To swallow down. 

It doesn’t matter, though. 

The man has been watching from the beginning. 

Dark eyes (a dark, black flash between the leaves—) drill into you. Staring. That familiar, unease feeling is back again, creeping up your spine. It's been him the whole time, you know. The thing behind the fence. Must be. The same brand of cigarettes you found on the opposite side is sitting on your coffee table, right beside his feet.

His chest expands with his inhale. You smell stale smoke. Something wild. The scent of the forest after a summer's rain shower.

"Finally up, are you? Thought you were gonna sleep all day." His voice is deep. Brassy. The growling roll of an approaching thundercloud. You shiver. Jerk back, but—

Baby growls.

He's never done that before. Never barked. Never snarled. Never nipped.

But right now, his teeth peel back, muzzle wrinkling as he lifts his lips. And you know it's playful. Seen this look on his face when you throw the ball across the yard. It's just him being his silly self. He won't attack you. Won't maul you. 

The man lifts his hand and your dog limbers up. Shakes. He jumps off the couch and trots toward you. Nothing is threatening in the way he moves. It's the same lumbering gait, the same happy wag to his tail, but he moves himself around you. Stands between you and the only escape.

"Baby—?"

"Taught 'im a few tricks," the man drawls conversationally—like he wasn't a stranger in your house. "Got a good boy on your 'ands. Jus' needed a bit o'trainin'—”

He snaps his fingers and Baby moves. Bumps his head into the back of your thighs. Pushing you. Nudging you toward the man. It’s so horrifying familiar that you find yourself moving without a thought. Following along. 

"He jus' needed a man in the house, didn't he? A father figure—" 

You're going to be sick. Think you would have been already if your heart wasn't lodged tight in your throat, keeping everything down. 

The man lifts his hand. Curls his fingers. 

"C'mon, mommy," he taunts, voice a derisive roll. "Come sit on Daddy's lap. It's movie night tonight."

Baby pushes you forward happily, tail wagging, wagging—

Happier than you’ve ever seen him as this stranger reaches out, grabbing your waist and hauling you onto his lap. You think about fighting immediately, struggling to get out of his hold, but he moves back and the unmistakable, blunt press of a gun sends shivers rolling down your spine. You still instantly. Back drawing tight. Fear is a wet, hot pulse behind your ribs. 

“Don’t fight it, birdie—” You feel the warm, damp press of his mask against the shell of your ear. The ridges of his lips move beneath the fabric as he speaks. 

You hear him inhale, drawing in the scent of your shampoo—your fear: an oily thick miasma pooling behind your ears, against your nape—and feel tears pool against your lashline when a surge of familiarity wells up at the solid, firm weight of his chest against your spine. His thigh slips between yours, spreading them wide over the arch of his muscle. Limp, dizzy, you fall back into his chest when he pulls you in, slotting a burly arm over your ribcage. Locked in tight. A shackle. 

“Ain’t go’ nothin’ t’worry about,” he continues, hips shifting. Moving. And—

It’s a not gun. You know it isn’t. When you whimper, it throbs—

There’s the echo of a groan in his voice when he huffs, lips pursing into a kiss. “Nothin’ at all. C’mon, Baby—” 

And Baby obeys eagerly, jumping up on the couch beside him. His snout is warm, wet, when he presses it to your arm, sniffing. Please, you think, staring into his eyes as tears swell, pooling down your cheeks. Please—

But the man lifts his arm, and Baby circles the cushion before falling against his side with a deep, content sigh. Hope is snuffed out of your chest in an instant. The man’s hand falls to his head, rubbing his skull affectionately. 

“Good boy.” Baby perks. His happiness is a palpable thing that swells around you as he melts, eyes slipping closed. “Gonna be a good boy while mum an’ dad spend some time together, ain't you, boy?”

His arm tightens around your waist. Chin notches over your shoulder as he shifts back, legs kicking out to spread your thighs further apart.

"Now," he drawls, hand sliding down to the mess between your thighs. You shiver against him, toying with the idea of running, fleeing—but he must know. Senses it, maybe. He lifts his hips, pressing the gun into your spine. A threat. A warning. But with the way he swallows you up—broad chest closing in on you, trapping you on all sides—you know it's futile.

He has you.

Your submission makes him purr.

"Baby's sleepin', so now let daddy take care'o mommy—"

[thief-of-eggs]

I think, given his… erm, past, that Alastor would view murder as an appropriate form of showing affection.

He does it for all the hotel inhabitants. Everyone who starts to grow on him, who’s wellbeing he begins to care about, despite himself.

It happens with Charlie first. A sinner out on the streets talks a little too poorly about her and her hotel, her dreams, her ideas. She hears and it brings her down for only a moment (she always was one to recover quickly) but the short moment is enough for Alastor.

They find the sinner’s body impaled on the wrought iron fence the next morning. No one fully understands why Alastor seems particularly giddy about it.

The next time, it’s Angel. A client sees him outside of work, and seems to forget that he isn’t owed time he doesn’t pay for. Alastor’s shadow grows behind him, and after steering Angel and the others away, Alaator guides the man down a darkened alley.

He eats the man whole, enlarging his head to do so. He returns to the others with the man’s shiny golden tooth, which he’d spit out after devouring him, and he drops onto Angel’s hand without an explanation.

For Lucifer, it’s a bit more subtle, or at least harder to detect. Because Lucifer didn’t even know that the bodies he’s constantly finding outside his room belonged to individuals who’d once mocked his name. He hadn’t known that they’d belittled him, called him weak, called him a coward.

Alastor knew. Which is why, one by one, he picks them off. His memory is carved from stone, and he remembers each and every greatest offender.

And what better place to leave his kill than at Lucifer’s door? Like a cat presenting his master with a caught mouse, he brings his trophies back to Lucifer, depositing them where he is sure to find them and be proud.

Eventually, everyone figures it out- Alastor was never hiding it, but the others didn’t know to look for it either. They piece together that all it takes is an insult in front of Alastor, and suddenly the offender is missing, or perhaps they come across their body shortly after. Death is so common in Hell, that it takes them a while to get it.

When confronted he’ll shrug and hum, offering a half hearted wave of his hand. “I’m just doing my civic duty as patron of this hotel” he says, casually examining his claws.

No one really knows what to say. They are not used to love that is so vicious, so violent. So damning. Red paints not only Alastor’s heart but also his hands, staining him further with every act of affection.

It’s all he knows. The only way he understands to express his indebtedness to the others, the only way to carve out a bit of himself and present itself to the others for them to adore.

It’s unconventional, but so is everything that Alastor ever does.

And for the others… Well. In a place like Hell-? It’s not exactly a bad way to receive love, so long as it keeps them all safe.

[notebooks-and-laptops]

I've seen a few posts going around about how it's bad writing and unfair that Varric still considers himself a friend of Solas, but had such vicious hate of Anders in Inquisiton.

And these posts are right to an extent; it is very clear the writers of inquisition had no intention of portraying Anders in a positive light. Even a Hawke who romanced Anders and approved of his actions in the chantry sounds kinda on the fence when you actually talk to them about Anders, and implies that Anders constantly needs watching now which. Okay.

But I actually think the whole Varric thing makes a kind of sense to me. And I don't actually necessarily think it's down to 'growth'.

Solas is fundamentally responsible for a whole swath of awful things and far more death than Anders. The explosion of the divine conclave, for example which killed far more people than the chantry explosion in Kirkwall. And then arguably every rift that came after that and all the death associated, as well as the planned death of millions across thedas when he tears down the veil.

But there's a difference between Solas and Anders to Varric. And I think that line is very much how close they are.

Solas and Varric are obviously friends if you listen to their banter, but they're not friends like Varric was friends with the Kirkwall Crew. Varric was at the heart of a friendship group in Kirkwall who were a true found family for SEVEN YEARS. Not only that, but Varric is the reason those people came together to a large extent, especially the reason Anders and Hawke and himself came together for the deep roads expedition.

Varric knew solas for a year in which solas kept himself purposefully distant (not coming to wicked grace night for example) at a time when varric was ALSO keeping himself purposefully distant from making bonds like he had in Kirkwall.

Solas also did a lot of destruction, sure but it's almost...abstracted. it's easier to blame the whole thing on someone else, on Corphyeus. And it's not KIRKWALL. Maybe there are rifts in Kirkwall but we never go there, we never see it. And Kirkwall is the beating heart of Varric Tethras.

Anders, for Varric, destroyed not only the chantry that killed a bunch of people but also their found family, and the city of Kirkwall itself. After Anders act nothing could go back to the way it was before, not even the city itself and that's...that's kinda unforgivable to varric. It's personal and twisted and so so bitter it hurts. He was way more invested and emotionally caught up in the whole thing. Add a sprinkle of self-blame to the entire narrative with Anders that doesn't exist with Solas and of course Varric is way more likely to 'forgive' and try and redeem solas than he was Anders. Of course he is.

[klaasfoto]

Boop.

Fear is the best scent #1.

The only boop series I made from behind a fence. And happy about that. Just look at that vicious little face. You never know with sheep.

[txttletale]

Hi! Do you think you could link me to some resources about the problems/ evils of the EU? Would love to find some but it's hard to know what's reliable when I have no base knowledge in this area + you seem very well informed :)

sure. let's start with what the EU does to its own member states--in 2009, the EU bailed the greek government out of severe debt on the condition that they establish brutal austerity measures, cutting public spending and welfare. these measures served to immiserate and destroy the lives of thousands of greek people:

Greek mortality has worsened significantly since the beginning of the century. In 2000, the death rate per 100,000 people was 944.5. By 2016, it had risen to 1174.9, with most of the increase taking place from 2010 onwards.

[forbes]

Since the implementation of the austerity programme, Greece has reduced its ratio of health-care expenditure to GDP to one of the lowest within the EU, with 50% less public hospital funding in 2015 than in 2009. This reduction has left hospitals with a deficit in basic supplies, while consumers are challenged by transient drug shortages.

[the lancet]

The homeless population is thought to have grown by 25 per cent since 2009, now numbering 20,000 people.

[oxfam]

the most brutal treatment, however, the EU of course reserves for migrants from the global south. the EU sets strict migration quotas and uses its member states as weapons against desperate people fleeing across the mediterranean. boats are prevented from landing, migrants that do make it to land are repelled with brutal violence, and refugees are deported back to countries where their lives are in lethal danger. these policies have led to many, many deaths--and the refugees and migrants who do survive are treating fucking inhumanely.

After a perilous journey across the desert, Abdulaziz was locked up in Triq al-Sikka, a grim prison in Tripoli, Libya. Why? Because the EU pays Libyan militias millions of euros to detain anyone deemed a possible migrant to Europe [...] A leaked EU internal memorandum in 2020 acknowledged that capturing migrants was now “a profitable business model” [...] in Triq al-Sikka and other detention centres, “acts of murder, enslavement, torture, rape and other inhumane acts are committed against migrants”, observed a damning UN report.

[the guardian]

Volunteers have logged more than 27,000 deaths by drowning since 1993, often hundreds at a time when large ships capsize. These account for nearly 80% of all the entries.

[the guardian]

Refugees and asylum seekers were punched, slapped, beaten with truncheons, weapons, sticks or branches, by police or border guards who often removed their ID tags or badges, the committee said in its annual report. People on the move were subject to pushbacks, expulsion from European states, either by land or sea, without having asylum claims heard. Victims were also subject to “inhuman and degrading treatment”, such as having bullets fired close to their bodies while they lay on the ground, being pushed into rivers, sometimes with hands tied, or being forced to walk barefoot or even naked across a border.

[the guardian]

In September, Greece opened a refugee camp on the island of Samos that has been described as prison-like. The €38m (£32m) facility for 3,000 asylum seekers has military-grade fencing and CCTV to track people’s movements. Access is controlled by fingerprint, turnstiles and X-rays. A private security company and 50 uniformed officers monitor the camp. It is the first of five that Greece has planned; two more opened in November.

[the guardian]

i could go on. i could cite dozens more similarly brutal news stories about horrific mistreatment, or any of the dozens of people who have killed themselves in the custody of border police under horrific conditions. the EU is a murderous institution that does not care about the lives of refugees and migrants or about the lives of the citizens of any member state that is not pursuing a vicious enough neoliberal political program

[tinkizzig]

Humans have always had their finger on the trigger, they are always ready to strike, and yet they relax and are calm whenever you see them. This bi-polar like response is terrifying to many in the universe and most seem to see the humans as always ruthless and bloodthirsty, which they really are. 

Morgranff: I can’t believe how ruthless a fighter that human was, did you see how it bent itself in the air to avoid that strike from the Horned Goliath?

Stencillon: Yeah, I saw it, it cost me my whole night's bets.

Morgranff: You bet against a human?

Stencillon: The Goliath was twice his size, that human didn’t stand a chance if you looked at the physics of the fight.

Morgranff: Yeah, they are often overlooked when it comes to the ridiculous agility and chaos that goes with every human. 

Stencillon: Well, I also never thought that a human leg was capable of slicing through the thick neck of a Horned Goliath especially when its horns interlock over the neck and act as natural armor. That fight clearly showed how vicious and deadly a human truly is. 

Morgranff: Of course, I haven’t stopped betting on the humans ever since I had made that very mistake, that being said, can I buy you a drink?

Stencillon: Yes, I would love to celebrate your winnings with you.

The two start walking down the bustling corridor of the “Fight Palace”, and both freeze at the sight of the, now clean of Goliath blood, human fighter they had just watched dispatch the Goliath.

Stencillon: Why do they let humans walk around freely like this? Shouldn’t they keep such a vicious predator in a cage?

Margranff: You know I have never understood it either. Humans are far too unpredictable and I have never felt safe around them unless I am on the other side of the barrier fence at a fight. 

Stencillon: Should we go around the other way?

Margranff: Yes, but what is the human doing? 

Stencillon: I don’t know but it is approaching that child over there, I am going to call security.

The human crouched down next to the clearly homeless Maldovian child. The child’s blue skin ruffled as the human carefully spoke in hushed tones.

Margranff: What is he after with that kid?

The human pulls out a roll of dollar bills from his pocket and separates a few offering them to the child. The child reluctantly takes the money and stands up by taking the hand of the human that had just been offered up following the cash. They slowly walk together to a food cart and talk to the Purveyor of meat kabobs. The child selects its food and the human steps up to pay for the food.

Margranff (whispering to himself): Is he going to eat the child?

Stencillon (on a communications device): yes, the human is doing something with a homeless Maldovian child…. I don’t know his intention, he is a human!... I won’t interfere, that is why I am calling you…. Yes, I feel like I am in danger, the fight winning human is walking around doing unpredictable things.

The human and the child sit together against the wall in the corridor and chat while an amplified voice from the stadium calls out a new fight in the ring. The child is really just stuffing his face and nodding as the human goes on and on about something that is important to him but definitely not important to the child.

Stencillon: the security officer is on his way. 

Margranff: Good thing too, there is definitely something up with what this human is doing, even though I can’t put my finger on it. 

A security guard comes running up and slows to a stop at the sight of the human. The guard turns his head to one side contorting his face in total confusion as he tries to take in the scene. The guard stops analyzing everything and starts psyching himself up to go talk to the human. The guard sort of stretches and sort of hops around trying to get up the courage when he suddenly freezes.

Margranff: Did the security guard just scare himself or something? 

Stencillon: No, look, there are two other humans that just showed up. 

The two newly arrived humans walk straight over to the first one who is still talking to the child who has already finished eating the food he had. They interrupt what the first human is saying and the first human gets up on his feet and bares his teeth at the two interlopers before they stand against each other and start squeezing each other.

Stencillon: are they beginning to wrestle?

Margranff: If they are fighting, what do you bet the first one loses to the other two?

The security guard had been nervously calling for backup this whole time and is still in disbelief that this already dangerous call had tripled in danger before he had even started. The guard feeling defenseless pulls out his weapon aiming at the humans who had now switched the wrestling to the first and third human. 

Stencillon: this is going to end badly, if that guard shoots one of them the other two will rip him to shreds. 

Margranff: At least this situation will end with the child being rescued.

The humans start pointing to the child after unlocking their arms from the wrestling lock they were in. the three of them begin raising their voices at each other.

Human #3: COME ON….ANOTHER….CHILD….EAT!

Human #2: YOU DO THIS ALL THE TIME.

The third human walks over to the kabob cart and starts talking to the vendor.

Margranff: Are they going to eat the child? 

Stencillon: That’s what I just heard, they must be checking with the food cart guy to see if he will cook the child for them.

The large burly Maldovian Head of security shows up walking casually to the security guard, lowering the nervously held weapon, tells him to stand down. 

Stencillon: head of security is here, I am going to get closer and see what happens.

Margranff: I’ll come with you. 

The third human turns around from the cart holding a lot of food. He walks over and hands the child one before handing one to each of the other humans. The Head of security steps over to them just as Stencillon and Margranff get close enough to observe while still remaining at a relatively safe distance.

Head of security: Steeeeve? 

The first human deflates knowing he was in for a lecture and some disappointment. 

Head of security: How many times have I told you, you can’t adopt the children that hangout around here.

Steve: But Orri, the kid is homeless.

Orri (head of security): No, this kid’s name is BahOni, he lives down the street from here, he lives with his brother, sisters and both his parents, he cannot be adopted. He probably heard from a friend about a prize winning fighter who buys lonely kids food and gives them money. 

Steve: I know, I know, but I…

Orri: NO!

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Man's Best Friend - Daryl Dixon X Fem Reader

Title: Man's Best Friend

Daryl Dixon X Fem Reader

Additional Characters: Dog

Requested By: Anon!

WC: 1,700

Warnings: Mentions of walkers/zombies, Reader is afraid of dogs, teasing, banter, flirting, nicknames, soft Daryl, soft Dog lol, very brief mentions of anxiety attacks, mini angst, and fluff

Ever since you were a young child, way before the apocalypse broke out, you had always been afraid of dogs. Big or small, they all scared you. You didn't know exactly why you were afraid of them, maybe because you weren't really used to being near them as a kid, or even as an adult. Or maybe it was because a large Golden Retriever had once jumped up into your stroller when you were little, or at least, that was what your mother had told you had happened. You had no memory of it, nor when you started actually fearing man's best friend. 

Now, being afraid of them didn't technically mean that you hated them. Quite the contrary, you adored all animals, dogs included. You liked looking at them, petting them if you dared to do so and trusted or knew the owner. It all depended on the situation and, or course, the dog.

But it was difficult growing up. All around your neighborhood, a lot of people owned dogs. And though they were behind large fences most of the time, that didn't stop you from flinching every time they ran up to the fence, jumped, or barked - anything they did really, scared and stressed you out. 

You wished that you could not be afraid of them. You wished that you could be like others and see a dog without feeling the overwhelming and searing anxiety that coursed through your viens; chilling you to the bone as your eyes widened and your throat tightened - your whole body becoming frozen in fear.

Now, in the apocalypse, there weren't many animals, but you knew you'd eventually have a run-in with a dog at some point. They were smart and resilient creatures, that could easily outrun a walker or two. And you did. After traveling with Daryl for years, switching from group to group, losing loved ones and friends… You met Dog. Such a fitting name...

Dog was very cute, you'd give him that. He was a big, fluffy, soft-looking dog. He was seemingly friendly around the people he liked and was pretty vicious when attacking those trying to hurt the group or Daryl for that matter. 

For the months that Daryl had Dog, you had never pet him, or much if anything. You tried to stay as far away from him as possible when you could. But it was kind of hard when he was so close to Daryl. Thankfully, Daryl being the sweetest boyfriend in the world - and not wanting dog hair in the bed - wouldn't let Dog sleep in your shared bed. So that was nice. 

You did care for the dog though. You thought he was cute when he stared up at Daryl with those puppy eyes, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, panting slightly. He was cute. 

You'd even talk to him sometimes, using a baby-like voice when doing so if you pleased. You loved how happy he seemed to get, wagging his tail. 

Daryl on the other hand, noticed your apparent discomfort around Dog a long while ago - though it had lessened a bit over the years. It was still a bit obvious. He'd see you flinch if Dog came running up to see you to greet you or when you heard Dog bark. 

So he did his best to help you, often going on supply runs with you on one side of him and Dog on the other; blocking you from each other. He'd distract Dog with food or a random toy - stick, rag, rope, etcetera - so he could spend a bit more time with you. And he'd lock Dog out of the bedroom, making sure to set up a bed for him somewhere else in the home, so that you could have a worry-free sleep. 

Though he knew of your fear of dogs, he wanted to make sure you knew that Dog would never harm you. 

Laying on the couch, Dog laid on top of Daryl as the man brushed his hand through his thick fur. Dog laid happily, content at the affection and attention, and so was Daryl, but he was missing you. 

And you were only a couple of feet away.

Sitting on a chair, you quietly read a book, legs up on the red, plush cushion as you usually did in the presence of Dog. Subconsciously, you always pulled your legs up in front of the animal, your brain worried that, even though you knew Dog wouldn't do such a thing, that Dog wouldn't attack or jump up on you. 

Daryl watched as you read, unable to break his gaze away from you. Your face looked peaceful as your fingers lightly traced the pages of the book as you read, a content smile playing on your lips as you did so. He felt something tug at his heart as he admired you, the light from the window behind you illuminating your face softly. His eyes followed your form as you shuffled in your seat in the armchair, gently pushing your hair back behind your ears with the movement.

You were still reading, oblivious to Daryl's gaze. As said before, he couldn't take his eyes off of you. You looked stunning in your simple band t-shirt and pj bottoms, your face clean of dirt and grime, freckles dusting your cheekbones as you licked your lips with the tip of your tongue. Your eyes were soft as they moved across the page, narrowing slightly when you turned to the next, brows furrowing as you continued. Must have been a good book, Daryl had thought.

"You're staring, D," Your voice interrupted his thoughts as you put your book down on your lap and shifted your position, stretching your arms above your head. Daryl averted his gaze, cheeks flushing a bit as you looked over at him. "What is it?"

Daryl grumbled slightly, turning his gaze to Dog, rubbing the dog's head, "Nothin', jus'... Ya look nice today." He answered softly, albeit a bit gruffly. 

Your smile grew, your cheeks warming, "Daryl..." You trailed off with a sigh, "You're too sweet." The hunter flushed again, ducking his head to hide his face with his hair. "You look handsome today too." You added, making Daryl huff, shaking his head. Biting your lip briefly, you moved your thumb in your book to mark your page as you closed it; giving the man all of your attention. "I mean it. You are."

Looking up, Daryl was surprised to find you gazing at him. You flushed lightly under his gaze and his breath caught in his throat as your eyes locked with his brown ones. You were gorgeous. He realized he was just staring, and quickly cleared his throat, "Uh… Thanks, Y/N." You smiled and nodded in response, though it faltered when your eyes glanced over at Dog. Daryl noticed this, seeing how your eyes softened, a certain longing in them as you watched him continue to pet Dog. “Do ya… Wanna pet him?” He then asked, making you blink rapidly.

You cleared your throat, looking back down at your book, “You know I do… I’m just-”

“Scared?” Daryl finished for you, watching as you shifted in your seat again, “He ain’t gonna hurt ya. Ya know that.”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip, “I know. Just nervous, cause well, he’s a big dog…”

Standing up, Daryl grunted slightly as he did so. Dog stayed put on the couch, watching as Daryl walked over to your chair. You looked up at him as he offered you his hand, which you glanced at briefly. “C’mon,” He said softly, a very, very small smile on his face. You gulped, taking his hand, your legs feeling a bit numb as he helped you stand. You felt your heart begin to race as he led you to the couch, your eyes unable to stray from Dog’s. “Yer fine,” You heard Daryl say, voice gruff at how low he was speaking, “Ya know him, he’s a good boy.” 

At that, you scoffed out a laugh, seeing Dog’s tail wagging with great speed as he looked up at you. “That’s gotta be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” 

Darly’s small grin widened slightly as he saw your shoulders drop, and your breathing normalized. Daryl stopped before Dog, an arm’s reach away, the dog in question staring up at you with those large puppy dog eyes.

“Alrigh’, reach yer hand out, let him sniff ya.” Daryl spoke, squeezing your hand as you hesitantly raised your free one. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

You held your breath, watching as Dog leaned forward and sniffed your hand, the warmth of his breath fanning over your hand. You quickly shut your eyes at the feeling, turning to nudge your face into Daryl’s shoulder. Your mind began to race with all sorts of different, terrible scenarios, your heart hammering in your chest; breath shallow. 

Until, you felt soft fur. 

You opened your eyes slowly, turning your head to watch as Dog rubbed his head under your hand, his tail wagging at high speeds. You blinked, pushing your head off of Daryl’s shoulder as you watched Dog. You felt a huge wave of relief flow over you, making you smile. With your own volition, you moved your hand, petting Dog’s head softly. He turned into your touch almost instantly, letting out a tiny sound as he pressed against your hand. He licked your fingers gently before licking your palm. 

Your heart ached at how happy this dog made you feel. You didn’t understand it yourself; it wasn’t something you experienced often. It was as if, in that moment, all the stress you were carrying disappeared. The fear and anxiety that had been plaguing you disappeared with him. You could barely breathe as your stomach fluttered.

Leaning your head back on Daryl's shoulder, you sighed as you continued to pet Dog. "Thank you, D." You muttered happily. 

He nodded his head, lightly squeezing your hand in his, "Knew ya could do it, sweetheart."

You smiled again. You could feel your cheeks growing warm, Dog whined softly from where he was now snuggled up against your hand; wanting more attention.

---

Main Masterlist | Misc. Masterlist

[veritas-scribblings]

heal - @jegulus-microfic - words: 1,191

Come October, Regulus is quiet. Closed in on himself. Almost non-existent. He won’t come out of the bedroom, James says. He’s been shut in there all day and he won’t look at James. 

Sometimes James thinks that Regulus is punishing him for everything that had happened between them. For all the time that was lost. For all the fights that were had. For all the betrayals that occurred on both sides.

James has no regrets. And James has all the regrets. 

James has no guilt. And James has all the guilt.

In October, Lily brings the baby around to visit. He’s not really a baby anymore, honestly. He’s walking (running, really) and speaking in two-to-three word sentences, and he has the funniest little shoes that Sirius bought him and drags a stuffed dragon wherever he goes.

James had been devastated to have missed when little Harry started to really run (or at least as well as a two-year-old can run); he often is when he misses the milestones. So, when Harry begins chasing Regulus’s cat, James doesn’t intervene. If anything, he encourages the behaviour. The cat is a nasty, spiteful little demon anyway. 

‘It’s hard for him,’ Lily says gently. ‘He went through a lot.’

‘We all went through a lot,’ James mutters, frowning. ‘It was war. That’s the definition of war. War is a lot.’

Lily rolls her eyes and takes a sip from her glass of wine. It is Regulus’s wine and he will have a fit when he finds out, but right before shutting down, they’d had a vicious fight and James is still reeling a little from it. ‘Stop being such a little bitch,’ Lily says, her expression entirely reproaching. ‘Callousness doesn’t suit you anymore. Regulus almost died. I think he’s allowed to be a bit torn up about it occasionally. Have you tried…talking to him?’

‘He just ignores me. That’s the problem!’ James groans, looking over to where Harry is trying to crawl under the coffee table to reach Regulus’s little demon cat. ‘Actually, right before the whole ignoring me problem, he told me to fuck off and find someone else to—and I quote—“cast as your trophy husband in your little perfect white-picket fence delusion”. I think he’s trying to break up with me, Lils!’ 

Lily snorts into her glass of wine. Because, of course she does. Regulus might have issues with her, but she’s still always appreciated him for his nasty acid tongue. In some ways, they really are one of a kind, and James occasionally wonders if he has a type.

‘He’s not wrong,’ she says. ‘You have always really loved playing house. Okay, okay, have you tried...just giving him space.’

‘There’s a continent of space between us!’ James exclaims. ‘That’s the problem!’

‘Alright, alright.’ Lily grabs Harry when he starts trying to grab the cat’s tail to yank it out from its hiding place beneath the glass coffee table. ‘Have you tried bitch slapping him, then?’

‘…thanks, you’re such a huge help, Lils.’

‘You can’t force someone to be okay if they’re not, James. You can just be there for them.’

Trapped in Lily’s arms, Harry shouts in protest and starts to squirm around like a fish out of water. He’s a spirited child (a tiny human, as Regulus puts it). Regulus has always loved that about him. That Harry is bold. Tenacious. At times he can be an absolute menace, a quality that Regulus nurtures in him. 

‘I’m just going to…’ James grabs Harry and tucks him under his arm. ‘Give me a moment.’

He races upstairs, Harry giggling and thrashing about excitedly. When he reaches the bedroom, he doesn’t knock; Regulus will not permit him entry if he does. Inside, Regulus sits on the bed staring blankly at a book that is open in his lap. The curtains are drawn, so it’s not like he’d even be able to see well enough to read anyway.

Even in the darkness of his own tiny, private world, Regulus is so beautiful. His hair has grown long recently, the weight pulling his curls looser. James used to love tucking the loose strands behind his ears so he can see Regulus’s silver-grey eyes, so he can see all of Regulus’s face before he kisses him.

And then he realised, after a while, that Regulus lets his hair grow out when he’s not in a good way.

Harry waves exaggeratedly and shouts, ‘Hi!’ because he has yet to work out volume control. He crawls across the bed towards Regulus and perches next to him, reaching up to pat Regulus’s cheek.

‘I’ve come to bribe you with a tiny human,’ James says with a smile. ‘He’s been asking for you, you know.’ 

Regulus sighs and sets the book aside. I’m not in the mood, his expression says. I want to be alone, his expression says. But he, himself, speaks none of this because he’s always so cautious about Harry. So wary of breaking him the way he had been broken as a child. He takes the stuffed dragon that Harry offers him and sits it on his lap.

And then, slowly, he looks up at James. ‘Why am I here?’ 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, James frowns. Because you lived, he wants to say. There is not a day that goes by that James does not thank every higher power in and out of existence that Regulus lived, because he would he would have died with Regulus otherwise. He would not have been able to survive such a loss. Not intact. Not whole. Regulus would have taken every vital part of James with him.

‘Why am I here?’ Regulus repeats.

James reaches over to stroke Harry’s hair. He wants so badly to run his fingers through Regulus’s hair, but he fears that Regulus will not accept touch right now.

‘Because I want you here,’ he whispers. ‘And I love you. And I hope you want to be here too.’ And I hope, he thinks, that you love me too.

‘Why?’ Regulus asks. 

And James knows what he’s asking: why do you love me? It’s just that James does not know how to answer this. He just does. He loves Regulus because he cannot imagine any other way of being. He loves how gentle Regulus is, how simultaneously fragile and strong. He loves how clever Regulus is. How good Regulus is, how good Regulus wants to be. How brazen and forthright, how Regulus always speaks his mind.  How fussy. How loyal. How intense. How proud. How Regulus’s feet always get cold. How Regulus loves cats because they’re independent and particular. How Regulus is slightly addicted to grapes. How he goes crazy if someone dog-ears his books.

James leans over and gently kisses Regulus’s forehead. The tip of his nose. His lips. A soft, chaste, closed-mouth kiss that he hopes says everything he cannot find the words to say right now and will hopefully be able to say one day. Soon.

He needs Regulus to know. To understand. To feel and believe it. That James wants him here. That James would not have it any other way.

[rheasonly1]

You were covered head to toe in walker blood after your run into the abandoned town a few miles from Alexandria. Your feet felt like they were about to fall off after repeatedly hitting the ground over and over again, until you stood outside the gates of your new found home. A big tired sigh escaped your throat after you lazily walked through.

As you entered the gates you saw people in every direction working hard to rebuild the walls of Alexandria after the whisperers’ vicious attack. You scanned the area until your gaze landed on the brunette archer who soon started walking over to you with a goofy smile on his face.

“Yer back.” He drawled sounding relieved. He embraced you into a warm hug caressing your back for a few moments before releasing you. You chuckled at his droopy smile and he grinned at you even more before grabbing your hand and walking you to the wagon he had been filling up with supplies for the next run.

“So soon?” You asked a bit disappointed.

He pressed his lips together firmly giving you a knowing look. You scrunched your nose not wanting to go back into the cold forest and having to trudge through the thick snow.

“it’s only for ‘few days, we’ll be back sooner than ya think.” He grumbled.

You nodded and gave him a faint smile. Holding his hands you realised how cold he was and only just noticed how much he was shivering. His nose was stained red along with his rosy cheeks and his skin was pale. You started rubbing your hands over his to try and warm him up. It was no use he was as cold as an icicle.

He sat down on a wooden fence huffing and kicking his feet at the ground before splaying out his legs like a petulant child. You stepped between his legs and started pulling out flakes of snow in his hair and flicking them on the ground. You looked at him as he lifted his head to look up at you with those bright blue eyes admiring you and yours right back at him.

The tips of his ears had turned red, you covered them with your hands cupping his head whilst stroking his hair with your thumbs. His hands traveled to the back of your thighs and he stroked them lovingly. Another huff escaped his throat and he dropped his head against your stomach humming to himself at the warmth coming from your body.

You started rubbing the tips of his ears between your fingers and massaging them warming them back up to circulate his blood flow. He nuzzled his head further into you rubbing himself against you like a cat he began purring. You let your fingers wonder to the top of his head giving him head scratches. He practically melted at your touch and that sent butterflies swarming in your stomach.

“I love ya.” He mumbled.

———————————————————————

Hiii I’m sorry I haven’t been writing anymore requests I’ve just felt unmotivated to write them at the moment (I was barely able to write this) and I don’t know if I will write them to be completely honest I’ve just been lurking on here reading other fics and stuff but still feel free to send requests

Also I thought this was a cute idea I don’t feel I executed it very well I feel someone else could’ve done way better 😭

[perpetuallyobsessed0613]

Fontaine Characters Headcanons/Theories

Some of this info is known cause the siblings info got released but still:

Focalors

Hedonist

Really only in it for entertainment (she’s just….kinda a loser 💀💀💀😭😭😭)

Hot-headed, a little childish, gives Neuvillette a hard time (yeeeah)

Would give up her Gnosis in a heartbeat if it was needed to place a bet

But would fight tooth and nail to get it back if she lost the bet

Hydro Archon (confirmed)

Hydro (confirmed, duh) /Sword (confirmed based on her Statue of the Seven)

Arlecchino

Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers

The Knave

Used to be an actress

Method actress, used methods so outlandish she was kicked from theater

From Fontaine originally (HAH I WAS RIGHT)

Used to be an orphan

Runs an orphanage called House of the Hearth, uses it to recruit Fatui agents (!!!!!)

Those aren't gloves on her hands, she bears a curse or she's been turned into a non human entity

Pyro vision/Sword (leaks confirm she’s a Polearm!)

Cryo Delusion

Neuvillette

Stone cold serious type (he’s literally the sweetest I love him????)

Huge proponent of justice (yup!)

Chief Justice of Fontaine

Puts up with Focalors’s attitude (Pretty much 😭)

Loyal to Archon (or is he)

Descended from mermaids (YALL YALL APPARENTLY HE'S THE HYDRO DRAGON SOVEREIGN???????!!!! WTF OMG)

Waiting for Wriothesley to slip up so he can put him in the slammer once and for all (political rival mayhaps idk)

His name deconstructed means "new city": mayhaps he's awaiting a moment to dethrone the archon and reconstruct Fontaine?

Hydro/Sword (apparently he's a Catalyst user,,,,missed the opportunity to give him a fencing sword as a weapon but whatever ig)

Clordine

Assistant to Neuvillette

Bodyguard (yeeeah)

Prosecutor of Fontiane

Detail oriented, nothing gets past her

Vicious and Merciless (literally kinda the opposite but kinda not)

Eventually goes up against Arlecchino

Navia is her arch nemesis, seems as though Goldilocks is the only one having fun with their game of cat & mouse (the way I was off)

Electro (confirmed) /new weapon: Gun (Sword!)

Lyney

Super protective of Lynette (rightfully so holy shit) 

Loves the chase

Cunning (eeeeh)

Very street smart (I mean kinda yeah)

You can’t tell whether he’s putting up a front, actually enjoys his web of lies, or a little bit of both

This man's gonna get used while thinking he's using the person that's using him at some point (oh Arlecchino I swear to god you better not)

Pyro (confirmed)/Bow (confirmed)

Lynette

Something has happened to her in the past (…..well that was dark)

She’s not temperamental at all (yup)

She doesn’t smile too easily (mhm)

Strongest bond with Lyney (they twins lesgo)

Perceptive and agile (very!)

Lynette escapes her brother’s net of safety to save the traveler at some point (not so likely)

Anemo (confirmed) /Sword (confirmed)

Freminet

Youngest sibling (yup)

introverted/enjoys personal space and quiet (lmfao I knew it)

Love for the water

Renowned Diver of the Court of Fontaine (confirmed)

Silent protector of both his older siblings (idrk)

Highkey that smartest book-wise out of the siblings (again idk)

Cryo (confirmed) /Claymore (confirmed)

Sigewinne

Healer

Alchemist

Provides treatment for Wriothesley’s visual impairment

If not treatment, then she prefers sweet tasting drinks and Wriothesley prefers bitter but she still tries to get him on her new concoctions

Sibling dynamic/found family w/ Wriothesley

Hydro/Catalyst

Wriothesley

May or may not be somewhat visually impaired

If so, not particularly compliant with treatment

If not treatment, then he prefers bitter tasting drinks and sometimes humors Sigewinne by trying her new concoctions, mostly just pretends he’s converted to sweet and then goes for coffee or tea anyways

Likes to tease Sigewinne

Sibling dynamic/found family w/ Sigewinne

Investigator for Fontaine justice system (woeful news, he's a police officer. like not even a detective dude?)

Seems pretty chilled out, strategic, could be leading the organized crime w/Navia in secret

if he is secretly running robinhood-esque crimes with navia, then...Neuvillette sniffs something suspicious but never has the evidence to back it oop

Pyro/Claymore (He’s a Cryo Catalyst but his fists go boom boom like Heizou)

Navia

Gives off Focalors vibes (was very wrong)

Playful (yeah I mean yeah)

Career Thief OR

Notorious organized criminal in Fontaine (literally what was I on)

Robin Hood of the sewers (I mean I was kinda sorta a tiny bit right)

Crafty, craftsman (ummm I guess her mind is?)

Super sweet, wonderful character (loved her so yes)

Loves messing with Clordine by making her think she's got her but escaping right in the nick of time (….needless to say I was way off)

Geo (confirmed)/Catalyst (claymore actually)

[rjzimmerman]

Frontier myth vilified the California grizzly. Science tells a new story. (Washington Post)

The grizzly, a subspecies of brown bear, has long held a place in mainstream American myth as a dangerous, even bloodthirsty creature. Its scientific name, Ursus arctos horribilis, means “the horrible bear.” But that image is being challenged by a new set of studies that combine modern biochemical analysis, historical research and Indigenous knowledge to bring the story of the California grizzly from fiction to fact.

In January, a team of experts led by University of California at Santa Barbara ecologist Alexis Mychajliw published a paper in the Proceedings of the Royal Society B about the diet of the California grizzly bear and how that influenced its extinction. The results challenge virtually every aspect of the bear’s established story.

“Pretty much everything that I thought I knew about these animals turned out to be wrong,” said Peter Alagona, an ecologist and historian at UCSB and co-author of the study.

Much of the grizzly bear’s long-standing narrative comes from stories, artwork and early photographs depicting California grizzlies as huge in size and aggressive in nature. Many of these reports, which found wide readership in newspapers elsewhere in the West and in the cities back East, were written by what Alagona calls the Californian influencers of their time.

“They were trying to get rich and famous by marketing themselves as these icons of the fading frontier,” Alagona said. “A lot of the historical sources that we have about grizzlies are actually not about grizzlies. They’re about this weird Victorian 19th-century celebrity culture.”

The team of ecologists, historians and archivists compared the image of California grizzlies from these frontier reports to harder data in the form of bear bones from museum collections all over the state.

The frontier myth had painted the California bears as larger than grizzlies elsewhere in the country, but the bone analysis revealed that they were the same size and weight, about 6 feet long and 440 pounds for the average adult.

In an even larger blow to the popular story of the vicious grizzly, the bones showed that before 1542, when the first Europeans arrived, the bears were only getting about 10 percent of their diet from preying on land animals. They were primarily herbivores, surviving on a varied diet of acorns, roots, berries, fish and occasionally larger prey such as deer.

As European-style farming and ranching began to dominate the landscape, grizzlies became more like the stories those frontier influencers were telling about them. The percentage of meat in their diet rose to about 25 percent, probably in large part because of the relative ease of catching a fenced-in cow or sheep compared to a wild elk.

Colonialism forced so many changes on the California landscape so quickly, affecting every species that the bears ate and interacted with, that the exact cause of this change will be difficult to ever fully understand.

Still, grizzlies were never as vicious or purely predatory as the stories made them out to be. The narrative of the huge killer bear instead fed a larger settler story of a landscape — and a people — that could not coexist with the settlers themselves. And that story became a disaster for more than just bears.

Although we will never have exact numbers, experts agree that hundreds of thousands of Indigenous people were living in what is now California before White settlers arrived. One frequently cited estimate puts the population at 340,000.

By 1900, that number had been slashed by more than 95 percent to around 16,000 surviving tribal members throughout the state. Eliminating the bear and the vast majority of California’s Indigenous people can be seen as parts of the same concerted effort to replace one landscape — and one set of stories — with another.

“The annihilation of the California grizzly bear was part of a much larger campaign of annihilation,” Alagona said. “I think it’s clear that what happened in California meets the legal definition of a genocide. But in a way, it was even more than that, because these were not just attempts to eliminate groups of people. These were attempts to destroy an entire world.”

[deluxewhump]

bahkauv

cw: nonhuman whumpee, hunters of nonhumans, torture, burning as torture, fire-induced temporary blindness, mentioned digit crushing, self healing whumpee, it as a pronoun, restraints, muzzle, purchased for research

note: I've taken great liberties with this little german mythological creature. As you will see, its physical appearance is about ninety percent human in this story.

one: hunter's camp

The creature was in the worst shape Arthur had ever seen anything alive in. The fact that it looked so unnervingly human, especially from a distance, unsettled him even more.

Once they heard what it allegedly was, Stephan said it should have big paws and the short golden fur of a lion. Francis said that wasn’t right at all— it should have a human head and torso, legs like a calf with cloven hooves, and soft brown, white or black ears like a calf too… Stephan eventually elbowed Francis into silence as they approached a muddy paddock where the ill-fated things were corralled after being caught. 

It was mostly vampires in the hunter’s camp. Vampires were such a problem in the region that Arthur himself had been nearly recruited as a hunter this spring past. He’d been intrigued by the commission bonuses, the idea of travel and sleeping under the stars. He’d eyed the weapons and tools the hunters wore at their belts and tucked in their boots with admiration and envy. But he’d lost his stomach for it after seeing what he would have to do to the vampires he caught.

The Bahkauv was no exception, it seemed, despite being a rarer and much more regional phenomenon, not at all the infamous menace vampires had become. In fact, it seemed to Arthur that the thing was human as it cowered in the mud, eyes tracking the hunter that circled it. 

“How do they know it's a Bahkauv?” he asked aloud, not expecting his friends to have a response he didn't have himself. 

Meanwhile, the hunter sloshed a bucket of thick, oily substance onto the cowering creature and struck a match. 

“Oh good God,” Francis breathed beside him. All three of them were frozen in place, waiting to see if the hunter would toss the match.

He did. 

The substance now covering the Bahkauv was clearly some sort of accelerant. Pitch, maybe. Immediately, the fire spread over it and leaped three feet high so the creature appeared as a burning ball, invisible inside a wall of orange flame. Though they could not see it very well, they could hear it. Its shrieks of terror turned to screams of pain— agonized and gut wrenching. Francis was gripping Arthur’s forearm without realizing he’d done so, as if to say do you see this?His mouth was open in shock at the scene before them. Arthur glanced about. Some of the people, hunters and civilians alike, had stopped to see what this particular commotion was about, but they went back to their own business once they realized. This was not out of the ordinary. 

“We use the sun on the vamps,” said a hunter who had come up to the fence to watch. “Easy and extremely effective. But that thing doesn’t burn with the sun. They find drunken soldiers and latch onto them until they’re weak enough for them to attack. Vicious, thieving little creatures. And since there’s a lack of drunken soldiers wandering around alone here lately, who do you think we found this one leeching on?”

“A hunter?”

The hunter nodded.  “Unwise little thing, no? Sunlight doesn’t really bother it, but we found it a similar experience…” he nodded at the twisting and writhing flame in the paddock.  Whatever the substance was was finally burning off. The flames dwindled in the wet mud until they could see the creature beneath, now naked and terribly burned, but clearly alive. The screams tapered off to loud, alarming moans, separated by thin breaths drawn with great difficulty. 

“Why?” asked Arthur with an incredulity he later realized must have sounded terribly naive to a hunter. 

The hunter looked at him, deciding how to answer. In the end he just laughed, and clapped Arthur on the shoulder before wandering away toward the north side of the encampment.  

The one in the ring, dressed identically to the one Arthur had just spoken to, approached the Bahkauv. Arthur was now convinced it was not human after all, or it would not have survived that sustained heat for so long, with no oxygen to breathe. Right? Surely.

The hunter watched the thing struggling to breathe for a moment, tilted his head and toed it in the ribs with his boot. It shrieked in pain, eyes blind and white, blood and saliva dripping from its open mouth, its burned lips. The hunter seemed to consider the condition of the skin, which looked from a distance as though it was already changing from charred to red, from red to pink. 

“Is it healing?” Stephan asked in a low voice. He was not sure he wanted to know. 

“So quickly,” Francis muttered, his forehead deeply creased in distress. Even so, Francis could not help but watch. Arthur knew he was sharply observing, forming questions. His curious mind would not allow him to look away. 

Arthur, by no means a scientist or a scholar, wondered why it was he couldn’t stop looking. The hunter splashed more of the pitch-like substance onto the creature, who howled and threw up its hands protectively, uselessly, against the second lit match that was coming. 

“No,” Stephan exhaled in disbelief. “So soon?”

The flames flew to the accelerant faster than their eyes could follow, and the screams began in earnest again, filling the paddock. Arthur winced and looked away. 

“I need it,” Francis said, nodding emphatically. “Not a vampire. I need to take that to the University. Why study what everyone else is studying? Sure they’re rare, but that means my research would be rare, too. Possibly unique.”

“You don’t know what it’s capable of,” Stephan cautioned. 

“It likes to eat drunken soldiers, for God's sake," Francis argued to the backdrop of horrific wailing. “It will be tied up and muzzled, if we have to. And it's so... pathetic. Look at it."

Arthur and Stephan did. The flames had burned off again. The unfortunate creature was attempting to crawl away from the hunter, who was following it slowly. 

“It’s probably less dangerous than a vampire anyway. And it can move in the sunlight without being carried or making a scene.” Francis looked to them for support. Nearby, a shrieking vampire was being dragged into the sunlight. 

“This place is making me a bit ill,” Stephan said.

"I did warn you both." Arthur turned to Francis. “If you really think it’s a good idea, I’ll bargain for you. You’re too excited about it. They’ll realize they can rip you off.”

—

The Bahkauv was badly burned. This was nothing new, but each time was its own unending Hell. Every inch was agony as it crawled, blindly, across the paddock. The cool mud might have been a relief but for the way it sucked at the skin of its hands and knees, taking much of the ruined flesh with it as it made each slow inch of progress. It didn’t know where it was going. It only knew that staying put would mean more pain, and it could not tolerate any more pain. It was stripped to its barest instincts, and its instinct was to get away.

Dimly, it remembered the hunters didn’t like when it tried to get away from them, even just a few feet to curl up in a corner or against a fence. They’d stake it in place with one of their sharp vampire-sticks, through its hand or the tendons of its foot, grounding it in place to torment until it was mindless, incoherent and screeching like an animal.

Its melted sight began to come back, and it could see the blurry outline of men’s legs standing in front of it. It stopped crawling, paralyzed in fear. It could do nothing but lie on the ground and pant, throat and lungs burned from inhaling fire, but unable to die, just like the vampires in the sun.

A heavy collar was fitted around its neck like a yoke, and someone was yanking it roughly to a standing position. The Bahkauv shook so badly from the recent pain of burning that it collapsed once, twice. It cringed deeply as the hunter who held the leash backhanded its burnt cheek. “Up,” he hissed. “Do you want another round as a parting gift?”

“It’s fine,” said a new man's voice. “Enough. Enough. Here.”

Through slowly improving vision, it saw its leash change hands. It was not prepared to look anyone in the eye, even once it could see well enough to distinguish faces again.

It kept its eyes down, trembling violently as ropes were wrapped around its wrists and then looped through the collar so its hands had to stay crossed near its chest. A leather and iron muzzle was fitted over its head and tightened around the back of its neck. The sharp bit went to right the back of its throat, almost far enough to make it gag. The sides bit into the burnt flesh of its face. Once, it would have been ashamed of how it drooled pinkish foam in front of all these humans. Now it neither knew or remembered shame when the threat of more pain was present, which was always.

A man was picking it up. It hurt terribly, but all the Bahkauv dared to do was whimper through frantically grit teeth. Another pair of hands went under its armpits and hauled it higher, up and into the saddle of a chestnut horse. Each point of contact from the saddle was fresh pain, burnt skin and nightmarish friction. It tried to sit up on its own for as long as it could, but lacked the strength. Once the horse began walking in the direction of the road, it had no choice but to slump weakly against the chest of the man sitting directly behind it and holding the reins. 

It received no punishment, except for the way the man's rough clothes touched its skin. As the Bahkauv's sight returned to normal, it looked about to see two more men on horses of their own. Its healing skin itched and burned, but all it could do was twitch helplessly and watch the horse’s bobbing mane in front of it, or the leafy spring forest pass on either side. It shivered intermittently.

"Give it a blanket, Francis," one of the men said.

"Won't that hurt it? Its skin still shines like a burn."

"Remarkable how minor a burn it looks already though," said the man behind it in the saddle. "Considering."

The human voice, so close it could feel the vibration from it in its back, set it to trembling again.

Exhaustion from the days torture soon set in, and it fell into bouts of unconsciousness that only resembled sleep. It woke from one such period of dreamlessness with a startled flinch, unsure where it was or what was happening. The man he was riding with had his arm around its waist, anchoring it so it did not slump to either side and fall from the horse.

Dread and fear pooled in the Bahkauv’s stomach at the human contact, a large gloved hand splayed across its naked belly. Humans were cunning and cruel. They loved fire and tools, like the metal ones they used to crush its fingers and toes in the evenings when the sun was down and the screams of the vampires had quieted. 

It felt one of the others’ gaze on it and turned its foolish head, accidentally locking eyes with one of the men it was now traveling with. He was young, dressed in a jacket of dark green wool. He reminded the Bahkauv of the new recruits the hunters would bring in now and then, to see what they had the stomach for. Heart pounding, it looked away, and did not dare lift its eyes again until nightfall prompted the men to stop and make camp.