#(and not expanding the remark any further)

[musictooth]

Quick question before I throw myself from the balcony:

In episode 11, does Pete use the word มวยเข่า / muay khao as in 'knee boxer' when he refers to his father's career? If that's the case, can somebody please make an proper analysis of the fighting choreography between Pete and Porsche in episode 10 in order to determine whether Pete followed his father's training regime or not.

[mangocityithjhg]

https://mangocityit.com/service/buy-zomato-reviews/

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Stormlit Promises

Summary - A passionate night takes an unexpected turn when their storm-scared children seek refuge in their beds. This playful interruption sparks talk of expanding their family, all while reigniting their fiery connection.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2350

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"I'm just pointing out that Aegon the Conqueror had two wives," Daemon remarked with a smirk, his laughter mingling with mine as we both shed our clothes with a sense of shared urgency.

"Do enlighten me," I said, a playful edge to my voice as I arched an eyebrow. "Who else might be interested in you?"

Daemon chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You, for one," he replied, his lips brushing against my neck as he spoke.

I let out a soft, teasing hum. "Well, they do say I'm a bit mad," I quipped, feeling his kisses descend lower, sending shivers of anticipation across my skin.

"Do you think anyone else would be crazy enough to put up with you?" I asked, my voice a teasing murmur as Daemon's lips continued their tantalizing journey across my skin.

Daemon paused, lifting his head slightly to look into my eyes with a grin. "Maybe not," he admitted with a chuckle, "but that's perfectly fine. I've got you, and that's all that matters."

I smiled, my heart fluttering at his words, as his lips found mine once again. His hands roamed with a familiar reverence, and I responded with equal fervour, our laughter and whispers blending into the rhythm of our closeness.

As he positioned himself, a question escaped my lips, breathy and teasing. 

"How could you possibly satisfy two wives?" I gasped, feeling a shiver of anticipation as he entered me. A low, satisfied hum rumbled from his chest, evidence of the pleasure he was drawing

With a fervent, almost desperate rhythm, Daemon began to move, each motion driven by a consuming need. The intensity of his touch, combined with the depth of our shared passion, created a whirlwind of sensation that left us both breathless and craving more.

Daemon's lips curved into a satisfied smile against my neck, and he murmured, "Well, I suppose I'm just very skilled at making each moment count." His tone was teasing, but there was a genuine warmth in his voice as he moved inside me, his rhythm steady and intense.

I let out a soft moan, feeling every movement of him deep inside me. "And what if one of us is just too much to handle?" I teased breathlessly, my voice catching with each gasping breath.

Daemon's hands gripped me tighter, his voice low and filled with determination. 

"I've never shied away from a challenge. Besides, I always have room for more." His words were accompanied by a particularly deep thrust, drawing a shudder of pleasure from me that made my toes curl.

"You really think you can keep up with all that?" I asked, my voice playful yet trembling, as I matched his rhythm, moving in sync with him.

Daemon's gaze locked with mine, his eyes filled with a mix of passion and confidence. 

"I don't think, I know. Every moment with you makes it all worthwhile." He punctuated his statement with a deeper, more urgent movement, his body pressing against mine with a need that matched my own.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I whispered, my voice trembling with the intensity of the moment. "But you'd better make sure you live up to it."

Daemon's lips were back on mine, his kiss fierce and possessive. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he murmured against my mouth, his hands guiding us both into a frenzied, desperate rhythm. "You're worth every bit of effort."

As our bodies moved together, every whispered taunt and teasing comment fueled our passion further. 

"Oh really?" I gasped between kisses. "And what if I'm too much for you to handle?"

Daemon's eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Then I suppose I'll just have to rise to the occasion. You know how much I enjoy a good battle."

I laughed breathlessly, the sound mingling with the soft moans escaping my lips. "Is that so? I'm not making it easy for you."

"Good," Daemon growled with a playful edge, driving deeper with each thrust. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

As the intensity reached its peak, our bodies tensed and then unravelled in a wave of shared ecstasy. We both climaxed, the release overwhelming us with a powerful surge of pleasure. 

The room was filled with the mingled sounds of our cries and gasps, each of us consumed by the moment.

When the storm of our passion finally subsided, we lay together, spent and entwined. Our breaths came in slow, ragged waves, the intensity of the experience giving way to a tender, exhausted calm. 

I rested my head against Daemon's shoulder, my body relaxing into the soothing warmth of his embrace.

Daemon's arms wrapped around me with a gentle, possessive hold, his fingers tracing soft, soothing patterns on my skin. 

"You were incredible," he murmured against my ear, his voice hushed and filled with genuine admiration.

I nestled closer to him, a satisfied sigh escaping my lips. "So were you," I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I wouldn't have it any other way either."

The peaceful moment was abruptly interrupted by the soft creaking of the door. I sat up quickly, pulling the sheets around me as a small, familiar voice called out, "Mommy?"

In an instant, I was out of bed, hurriedly pulling my dress back on as I moved toward the source of the voice. My heart melted as I scooped up our daughter, lifting her into my arms. 

Her little face was a mix of fear and sleepiness, her eyes wide as she pointed toward the window, where the storm outside raged on with a fury that matched the intensity of the night.

"Hi, my sweet girl," I cooed, holding her close and brushing a few stray locks of hair away from her face. "What happened?"

"I'm scared," Aerea whispered, her voice trembling as she glanced back toward the window where lightning flashed and thunder rumbled ominously.

Before I could respond, our two older sons came tumbling into the room, their faces flushed with excitement and a hint of fear. The storm had roused them too, and it was clear that their nursemaids had failed to keep them in bed.

"And where are your nursemaids?" I asked, my tone gentle but firm as I looked at the trio of children. 

They exchanged sheepish glances and shrugged in unison, clearly more interested in seeking comfort from us than returning to their rooms.

I turned back toward Daemon, who was watching the scene unfold with a warm, indulgent smile. His eyes softened as he took in the sight of our children gathered around us, their small figures bathed in the dim light of the storm-lashed room.

"Well, how about," I began, pausing to gather them all closer, "you stay here with us tonight?" I glanced at Daemon for approval, and he gave a slight nod, his smile widening as he sat up and made room for our impromptu gathering.

The children's faces lit up at the suggestion, and they eagerly clambered onto the bed, nestling between us as the storm continued to rage outside.

Daemon, ever the one to stir things up, suddenly looked at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes before turning his attention to our children. 

"How would you three feel about another little brother or sister?" he asked, his tone casual but carrying a weight that made my heart skip a beat.

My eyes snapped to him in shock, but before I could say anything, the children erupted into cheers, their excitement filling the room. Daemon simply laughed, clearly delighted by their enthusiastic response.

"You heard them," he said with a playful shrug, leaning back into the pillows as if the matter had been settled.

Vaegon, ever the one with big ideas, piped up with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. 

"What about two? No, three! No, four new babes!" he suggested, his gaze darting between Daemon and me as if he had just thought of the most brilliant plan in the world.

I nearly fell off the bed at the suggestion, my eyes widening in disbelief as I shot Daemon a warning glance but he was already laughing, a deep, hearty laugh that filled the room and made it impossible not to smile along with him.

"That sounds even better," Daemon teased, clearly enjoying the situation far too much.

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to suppress my own smile. "If you're going to birth these children, then I'm sure it's a great idea," I murmured, my voice dripping with mock seriousness.

Daemon's laughter only grew louder, his eyes twinkling with delight.

"Oh, I'm sure we can figure something out," he said, his tone suggestive and playful as he pulled me closer, clearly not deterred by my teasing.

The children, oblivious to the undercurrents of our conversation, continued to chatter excitedly about the prospect of new siblings, their innocent enthusiasm a contrast to the lighthearted banter between Daemon and me. 

Just as the children began to drift off to sleep, their small bodies nestled between us, the door creaked open again, and the nursemaids came rushing in, their faces pale with worry and apologies tumbling from their lips. 

They had clearly been searching frantically for the little ones, probably battling the storm's fury themselves to reach us.

"My deepest apologies," one of them stammered, her eyes wide with concern as she took in the sight of the children peacefully tucked into our bed. "They slipped away in the chaos of the storm... we only just noticed they were gone."

I waved off her apologies with a gentle smile, understanding the difficulty of managing three spirited children on a night like this. 

"It's quite alright," I assured her softly, not wanting to disturb the serene atmosphere. "They found their way to us, and that's what matters."

The nursemaids moved quietly, each one taking care to lift a sleepy child from the bed. Aerea whimpered softly as she was gathered into the arms of her nursemaid, but a gentle murmur of comfort quickly soothed her. 

The boys, Vaegon and Baelon, were already deep in slumber, their little faces peaceful as they were carried out of the room.

As the last of our children were gently lifted from the bed, the nursemaid looked back at us with a grateful nod. 

"We'll take them back to their rooms now," she said softly before retreating from the room, the door closing with a quiet click behind her.

The room was suddenly still, the only sound the steady patter of rain against the windows.

Before I could even process the shift in atmosphere, Daemon's strong arms were around me, pulling me close with a swift, possessive movement. 

His breath was warm against my ear as he whispered, "Now that the bed is free, shall we get on with making that fourth babe?"

His words sent a shiver down my spine, a mix of amusement and something deeper stirring within me. I turned my head to meet his gaze, and the mischief in his eyes was unmistakable, though it was softened by the warmth of his affection.

"Are you ever not thinking about that?" I teased, though my voice came out more breathless than I intended.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich as he nuzzled my neck, his lips brushing lightly against my skin. 

"Not when it comes to you," he murmured, his tone suddenly serious, filled with a kind of longing that made my heart skip a beat.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face as I turned in his arms, pressing closer until our bodies were flush against each other. 

"You're insatiable," I whispered, my fingers tracing the strong lines of his jaw.

"And you love me for it," Daemon replied, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through me. 

His hands began to roam, slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world to explore every inch of me.

"Well," I began, my voice laced with teasing, "you aren't getting four babes tonight, no matter how hard you try."

Daemon's grin widened, a playful challenge sparking in his gaze. 

"Oh, is that so?" he murmured, his voice deep and smooth as he trailed a finger down my spine. "You doubt my abilities, my love?"

I met his gaze with a knowing smile, shaking my head slightly. 

"No, it's not that," I replied my tone light but pointed. "I know all too well what you're capable of, but," I added, my voice dropping to a whisper as I leaned in closer, "you'll regret it when I'm the one giving birth to all those little terrors."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he pressed a kiss to my forehead. 

"Ah, but think of all the joy they'll bring," he countered, his fingers brushing through my hair as he pulled me closer. "Besides, you're the strongest woman I know. You could handle anything."

I rolled my eyes playfully, though I couldn't help but smile at his words. 

"Flattery might get you far," I admitted, my voice softening, "but I'd rather not put it to the test with four babes all at once."

Daemon smirked, his hands settling on my hips as he pulled me against him. 

"Fair enough," he conceded, his tone still teasing but with a hint of seriousness underneath. "But don't think that means I won't try."

I laughed, shaking my head at his persistence. 

"Just remember this conversation when I'm cursing your name during labour," I quipped, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Then I suppose I'll just have to make it worth your while," he said with a wink, his lips capturing mine once more in a kiss that made my heart race.

The intensity of the storm outside seemed to amplify the intimacy between us, the wild energy of the night feeding into the connection we shared. 

The bed, once filled with the innocent warmth of our children, now became a private sanctuary for just the two of us, a place where we could lose ourselves in each other, where the world outside didn't matter.

His words from earlier echoed in my mind, and I knew that, whether or not we ended up with a fourth babe, this night would be one to remember.

A/n - Another personal fav!

[ghoulsbounty]

hi i heavily request something where the reader and the ghoul(cooper) are travelling together and it’s night time, they’re outside trying to get some sleep. the reader is sleeping beside cooper but they get cold and they subconsciously move towards him and grab him, laying on his chest. HOW WOULD HE REACT? 🫶

Until Tomorrow

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Bounty!Reader 

Warnings: sliiiiight mentions of smut (18+), alluding to masturbation, a bit of angst, mentions of canon-typical violence/torture, control, small mention of barb if you squint, mention of sex work (not reader), Cooper is mean.

Word Count: 1.2K

A/N: This is just a little ficlet that I've left open ended in case anyone would like a part two. I didn't want to go full-guns blazing into a smut fic since you didn't specify, but I am more than willing to do so, Anon 🫡 I’d love to know what you all think to this, and feel free to send me more requests 💌

👉Read part two HERE👈

"What are you up to?" the Ghoul's voice pierced the eerie night, sharp and accusing. The darkness shrouded the makeshift camp, the bitter wind cutting through with relentless force. His eyes narrowed as he watched you approach, tension thick between you.

You dropped to your knees, wrists sore from the tight bindings he had reluctantly removed. The sand greeted you with a thud as you settled beside him, maintaining a cautious distance. You needed warmth, but you couldn't get complacent with your captor.

"It's freezing," you stated matter-of-factly, shifting against the sand to carve out a somewhat comfortable spot, however impossible. "You let the fire die."

The Ghoul glanced towards the extinguished campfire, a thin wisp of smoke rising lazily into the frigid night sky. The remnants of charred wood and ash lay scattered around it, the faint scent clinging to his clothes as he reclined against the dunes.

"I can start it up again," he offered, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "If you fancy being deathclaw chow."

Your gaze widened as you glanced into the expanding darkness, the absence of the fire amplifying the encroaching shadows. Terrifying howls and snarls reverberated from the depths, prompting a chilling question: were the creatures lurking out there truly more fearsome than the man holding you captive? The notion of a swift demise by claws and teeth seemed almost preferable to the prolonged torment of captivity. While the Ghoul might not be the one to end your life, delivering you to the cartel as he had pledged would render him just as culpable. In that sense, he might as well be the one to pull the trigger himself.

After your first escape attempt, the Ghoul's demeanour turned even harsher, though the dehydration was a greater torture than any physical aggression. He justified his restraint, explaining that he refrained from inflicting worse harm only because you were required in perfect condition, and he took pride in fulfilling his bounties meticulously. However, his rationale did little to mitigate his rough treatment. To him, a few small bruises and the sting of restraints were acceptable, especially considering your spirited defiance.

But in the span of a few weeks, that defiance began to wane, and resignation crept in. You felt like a sacrificial lamb, resigned to its fate, being led to the inevitable slaughter.

"I'll take that as a no," he remarked, snapping you out of your reverie as he shifted beside you. Even he seemed affected by the cold, evident from how he huddled in his duster, arms crossed tightly over his chest in an attempt to retain warmth. You couldn't help but envy his layers, wishing for more of your own as you wrapped you arms around your torso. 

You maintained silence, willing yourself to sleep as you turned away from him. Any further interaction felt uncomfortably intimate.

Cooper listened to the sound of your ragged breaths battling against the cold, your body trembling beside him. The wind was particularly brutal, the kind he would normally seek refuge from in an abandoned building. However, your sluggish pace throughout the day had resulted in him setting up camp in the exposed wasteland, devoid of shelter or respite from the elements. Your punishment, he had said, for dragging your feet.

He could endure it; he had endured it countless times before and would do so again. But for you, he wasn't so sure. Despite your initial bite, you had turned into a meek little thing in the palm of his hand. A small, niggling part of him wondered if he had been too harsh, but survival instincts dictated otherwise. When an animal showed its teeth, you put it down—figuratively speaking, of course, he couldn't risk losing his bounty caps. 

This new approach seemed to have worked with you, perhaps a bit too well.

As you shifted beside him, turning to face him with closed eyes, Cooper felt like prey ensnared in the hunter's grasp, awaiting the next move. An uneasy panic gripped him at the sudden feeling of helplessness, but he willed his breath to steady. You released a deep sigh as you pressed your body against his side, and he stiffened at the unexpected closeness. Your arm draped across his abdomen, and a leg hitched and hooked around his thigh.

Cooper was nearly ready to question your apparent lack of brains when he noticed your breathing, deep and steady. His words died in his throat as he felt your arm tighten around him, drawing him closer to you like an anchor. It wasn't a conscious decision to seek him out; rather, a subconscious response to the biting cold, he reasoned. Yet, it did little to ease his discomfort as the warmth from your thighs spread over him, seeping into his core and igniting a sensation he hadn't yet entertained with you.

He found himself mesmerized, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, his gaze drifting to your parted lips as you released another sigh. Your nose pressed against his shoulder, and he could swear he felt the warmth of your breath through the layers of fabric, igniting the burnt skin beneath.

This wasn't real, not to you, and certainly not to him. By morning, he would carefully remove himself from your embrace, restoring the intended distance your unconscious mind had breached. You would remain oblivious, and only Cooper would bear the weight of knowing how his muscles longed to reach out to you, to touch you without the shadows of anger and conflict looming over them. He cursed the memory from a distant life that surfaced in his mind—a loving touch beneath soft sheets, a foolish adoration for a lover turned stranger.

His fingers twitched, restrained by the firm crossing of his arms over his chest. If he could just maintain this position, he could endure the night. If he could ignore the sensation of your leg tightening around his thigh, your knee brushing against his growing arousal, he could make it through. He chastised himself inwardly for his weakness. He should push you away, keep you bound and isolated from him, be indifferent to whatever dangers might befall you because it would have been your own fault. But Cooper needed those caps. If he could just survive the remainder of this journey with you and keep his sanity intact, he promised himself a visit to the next inn, where he could seek solace in the comforting touch of those who were more than willing to accept a ghoul's money.

Still, he didn't expect anything to compare to the softness of your breasts pressed against his side. Something snapped within him at the sensation, a jolt of electricity coursing through his body. The wild thought crossed his mind that perhaps you were warming to him, not just seeking warmth for yourself. He had broken you, after all, hadn't he? Or at least, he was on his way to doing so. He couldn't help but wonder: if he woke you, would you pull away or press yourself closer?

A foolish thought, but one that haunted him nonetheless.

He lay in silence, listening to the rhythm of your breath as he stared up at the stars. Waking you wasn't an option; he wouldn't risk the inevitable panic and distress of you finding yourself half-straddling the monster who had stolen your freedom. He would let you sleep, indulging in the fantasy that you felt something other than contempt for him as he waited for the sun to rise. Until then, he justified to himself as his hand slipped from its restraint under his arm and found the buckle of his belt, it would be a shame for a solitary man not to indulge.

[crguang]

I realized you never write for Acheron. Could you please write any kind of fluff for Acheron x reader?

can you tell she’s my comfort character… this is soft as freak

Warm. Soft hands far gentler than the years have been burrow in her hair, carefully tangling around the long locks like each strand is precious; the sensation of their fingertips brushing the crown of her head lulls her into a state of lethargy she’s forgotten the feel of, where the most vulnerable parts of her are allowed to live. Buried into smooth skin, her nose inhales mandarin and nutmeg, scents with no previous meaning that she can now almost taste in the back of her throat fill her lungs and breathes into them a semblance of vitality she lost a long time ago. With her eyes shut to absorb the room’s tranquility she cannot see, yet she has never been so enlightened. Your body is steady and tangible under hers unlike the ephemeral souls she guides into the waking world, and there is no wailing in her ears, only your synchronized breathing, your beating heart beneath her lips. Her arms circle around your frame, her hands resting between the curve of your back and the clean sheets on the bed, and hold you infinitely closer because your presence starts to feel like a redemption she doesn’t deserve and she can’t part from it, not yet.

You’re so warm, so real, and she can feel it in her fingertips, this faint reminder of a time she no longer mourns but has never let fade into oblivion. Like sun rays across her face or sweet peach juice trickling down the corner of her mouth, she regains some color as she lies flushed against you, her face in your chest. Your tender touch wanders to her ear, brushing behind and over its cartilage in a way that soothes her further. She is putty and nearly whole at the same time, it is an unfamiliar feeling but no less comforting. Somewhere behind her eyelids; a pulsing red. That gaping void in the middle of her—that loneliness spreading to the ends of her ashen hair is chased away by the rhythm of your pulse, the warmth in your veins, the hues of your skin. You are alive and you remind her that she is, too.

Her head tilts when she feels your fingers on the back of her neck, idly drawing patterns into her nape. Her eyes flutter open and adjust to the low lighting after so long in the darkness. They take in the moonlight seeping through the half-open blinds of your room and how the silver turns you into a painting she should have no right to touch, and yet. You meet her gaze with a softness she won’t ever be used to.

“You look tired,” you murmur as to not disturb the quiet enveloping you, and your remark seems to expand beyond this moment.

“…I am,” she replies because it’s true and she finds that she has no desire to be anything but honest. Your lips begin to curve downward in worry and she continues, aiming to appease you. “But I’m okay. Especially at this moment.”

You move the bangs out of her eye. “What can I do?”

A small chuckle sounds past her closed lips. Before, she thought that the simple act of getting closer to you would infect you with the curse of the Nihility, as if she could sully your living body with a touch. But you’re still the caring soul she is drawn towards, and more than that, you regard her like she’s just as human as you are.

“What?”

She turns her head to place a reverent kiss on the palm resting on her cheek. “You do more than you realize.”

“Mmh… Sometimes I don’t understand you,” you admit.

“That is a good thing.”

You softly shake your head. “I wish you weren’t so burdened by notions I can’t quite grasp. I would share some of them.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” Acheron pauses, searching into your eyes for a way to properly express herself. “I don’t feel the weight of those ‘burdens’, they are simply actions I have to take, no matter how meaningless at times. Here, with you, I’m reminded of what I’m holding on to, of a world so vibrant I see colors when I close my eyes.”

You don’t know what to say to that but she reads a thousand words in your stare, uttering them is unnecessary. The warmth of your gaze seeps into her as if to prove her statement. You cup her cheeks, and she can’t look away from the love you so readily give out, relaxing further between your palms. You lean closer and she meets you halfway, though you only drink in her mellow expression for a few minutes. She lets you, eyelids drooping with your proximity, and observes your features like she’s afraid she’ll forget them. She’s mentally tracing the shape of your lips when you speak again.

“You’re so beautiful…” Your breath fans over her lips with the whispered words.

Acheron blinks, eyes widening a touch as they flicker back up to yours. Sincerity shines in them, like you can see all that she lacks— all that she isn’t anymore— and still find worth in this mostly empty shell, and her tongue is suddenly heavy in her mouth. Her lungs expand with her next inhale then freeze, suspended in your honesty. Her lips part but nothing leaves her mouth, in the face of such earnestness she’s unsure what to say. She doesn’t feel the warmth that rushes to her cheeks, but you do.

Something close to a quiet giggle escapes you and you lean close enough to softly brush your lips with hers. “Warm red…”

Acheron kisses you back with a gentleness she didn’t think she still possessed.

[songoftrillium]

The release of Werewolf: the Apocalypse 5th Edition has evoked a sense of urgent inspiration in me. I found the news inspiring because it marks the launch of a new product that rings so close to the original game in which its new premises instantly evoke a lost-world setting perfect for new players to uncover through revelation. And with it, a sense of urgency that a large chunk of the game’s horror pathos and cultural representation will be lost in lieu of chronicles centered around direct action, high entertainment, and transactional resolution.

First and foremost, I applaud the efforts of anyone wanting to excise Werewolf: the Apocalypse, and it’s fandom, of it’s toxic player base that has festered far too long. Anyone taking that on isn’t blind to something that is both wonderful and incredibly problematic, and it requires a collaborative effort to address meaningfully. It means being willing to internalize hard and profoundly uncomfortable truths. 

When I look at the prior editions, I consider its inherent value and feel that the things that made the original editions of Werewolf so special to me don’t entirely align with a large portion of it’s old player base. This is not for those players. In some ways my aim with this is small, with the understanding my target audience is also small, and this space exists for them. 

Werewolf: the Essentials is a project culminating my 25 years of entertaining and horrifying players. This is a carefully curated gaming experience tailored to Queer tabletop audiences primarily, although I am confident it will resonate with many others as well. This started as something I was working on alone but quickly has grown to include a pack of other avid Players and Storytellers who have felt left behind by the current direction of the gameline. I am laying out every little trick, twist, and ounce of Storytelling experience I have acquired over the years. In many ways, this is the quintessence of my inclusive World of Darkness, and a passion project that I hope those who read this may too come to appreciate.

In the first and second editions of the various splats published across the World of Darkness, the Storytellers Handbook gave Storytellers the raw narrative tools to convey the world to their troupe of players. As time has progressed, the sourcebooks to follow have greatly expanded to include Garou society, their relationship to Gaia, and to each other. As the editions expanded what they made available to Storytellers and Players, some of the original content of earlier editions was left out. By the time the 20th Anniversary Edition was being written, many of the edits were made to cut back a bit on the roughage and “get to the meat and potatoes” of mechanics crunch. In that way, the edits were a complete success, but something important was lost.

The earlier ST guides laid out explicitly that the World of Darkness is first and foremost a horror game. Essays within their pages provide advice on using textural descriptions and different modes of storytelling to lure in players and make the hairs on the backs of their necks stand on end. These remarkable essays are now lost to those who don’t possess the older editions. They serve as a toolset that could be applied across any RPG, and not just Werewolf alone.

W20 fell short of delivering a fully serviceable RPG to it’s Storytellers, however well-intentioned. It had all of the main bones of the setting and stats but no guidance on how to turn it into a game for one’s players. Taking it a step further, some of the writing in this new edition only managed to alienate modern audiences. 

The use of in-character narration to express setting information in prior editions seems an attempt to convey the horror and pathos of the world that would be difficult to get across in stats alone. The information contained in that first-person text is among the most important parts of the setting, but it often fails to convey the true horror of the world of Garou. In many ways the World of Darkness was intended by those who created it to be a place of genuine terror and horror, and not merely “savagery” for its own sake. Horror is a very complex basal guttural emotion that sits in the ganglia, ready to tug the emergency brakes on your body in the presence of what it believes to be a tangible threat. There are many complex higher emotions, but when it comes to the lizard brain, it takes considerable effort to trick it into getting spooked. Invoking a sense of horror in a horror chronicle is a complex enough endeavor that, by and large, these efforts fell short of delivering that experience. 

Werewolf: the Essentials is to serve as a masterclass in using those old tools to introduce new players not just to Werewolf and the World of Darkness on the whole. It gives these important storytelling tools to new and future storytellers in any game, that they might continue genuinely terrifying their players for many more years to come. The passages found in this series can add narrative value to not just Werewolf, or even Vampire and other World of Darkness tables, but also horror writing on the whole. Furthermore, this project aims to streamline the availability of that information and provide guidelines for Storytellers wishing to conduct research using the labyrinthian older editions.

Every sourcebook in this series will grow with your tables, providing increasingly more powerful stats, guidelines for making more powerful NPCs and PCs, and serve as a continuation of the legacy games’ metaplot. Some elements you’ll be reading will, for older players, be surprising at times. Some historical events are shifted further in the past, and others eliminated entirely. This project aims to make the presentation of the game a little more timeless, so it’ll hold relevance to tables now, as much as it will 20 or 40 years from now.  The World of Darkness is now something far too large for any one person to fully comprehend while providing enough tools for one to explore deep lore that holds the most relevance to their tables.

Werewolf: the Apocalypse has a long history of problematic and exclusionary elements, both in it’s fandom and, sadly, often in it’s published work. Despite this, I see more value in this game than the literature would have you believe at face value. This project is an attempt to increase the inclusivity in this game I love while also helping introduce new players and Storytellers to this world. This is a glimpse of something absolutely beautiful, horrifying, and unique, contributed to by a group of equally passionate artists and writers. Even if the best time to plant a tree was ten years ago, the next best time is today. If you can listen critically, and take the lessons between these pages, then maybe you too can come to find the Glory, Honor, and Wisdom within the depths of our darkest fears.

Book 1: Cliath launches October 31st, 2024 on Storyteller's Vault

[wonderingsoftly]

what she sees

i just wanted to write something soft...softly admiring a big, beautiful, fat body, and who better to do this than with theo and charlotte?

---

Charlotte watched quietly, contently as Theo’s breathing slowed and his eyelids drooped closed.

She had fed him a hefty dinner from his favorite barbecue place, warm pulled pork smothered in sauce, creamy macaroni and cheese, soft mashed potatoes, and several other sides Charlotte could not recall–having been too enamored with the sight of his feasting–leaving his huge belly bloated even larger than normal.

They were both seated on the couch, Charlotte resting her head on Theo’s large, soft arm. He had started rubbing slow circles on his tight, packed belly–Charlotte had pulled his shirt up to reveal the globe-like majesty of his full stomach, and took over when Theo’s movements inevitably slowed.

It was remarkable, watching him eat and then settle into himself, head propped up by his fat neck and shoulders. He began to drowse to whatever they had put on the television, a pleased smile creeping across his fat face.

His belly hung out and down between his wide legs, pale, fading stretch marks scattered across his skin. Charlotte remembered seeing the stretch marks appear when he started gaining weight and growing so quickly, almost shockingly red. She fondly recalled diligently rubbing lotion all over his expanding belly, hoping to soothe his straining skin.

Years had passed since then, and the stretch marks had settled into his skin like a natural part of the landscape of his belly and thighs. They were almost unnoticeable unless you were looking for them, but Charlotte was intimately familiar with every curve and slope of his big, fat body.

And he was beautiful.

Theo had always been warm and soft, both literally and metaphorically. But as Theo allowed himself to indulge and overstuff himself regularly, and to be overstuffed by Charlotte, he embodied it more and more.

Charlotte chuckled as she remembered how stressed he used to get sometimes, little things bothering him immensely and letting himself spiral–but now he was almost endlessly patient, gentle, and in good spirits.

She rubbed a large, slow circle over his warm, tight flesh. A sleepy, content moan drew Charlotte’s attention to Theo’s face.

Still smiling, eyes closed, as if he was floating aimlessly through the clouds. His short, curly blond hair was a little like a halo, Charlotte thought, and cherubic was her favorite way to describe him.

Her breath caught in her throat as she admired him, her hand still drawing circles on his belly.

Beautiful. Soothing.

A near-indescribable feeling of contentment welled up in Charlotte's chest. It was warm and filling, but she wanted it to inhabit every inch of her insides.

His peaceful smile and radiant warmth made everything feel right in the world. She gently nuzzled her cheek against Theo’s belly, flattening her palm across his soft skin.

Her hand was so small, and he was so big. She couldn't help but press a slow kiss on his belly, enjoying the sensation of his warmth and softness against her lips.

A surprisingly loud gurgle rumbled near Charlotte’s ear and made her giggle. She pressed herself further into Theo’s belly and wrapped her arms around his huge, soft middle as best she could.

He was softer and more pleasant than any stuffed animal she had ever cuddled with, and her heart was full of adoration for the enormous man she loved. She felt safe, loved, and warm in his presence.

As Charlotte got lost in her admiration of her big, fat, husband, she felt a wide, warm hand gently rest on the top of her head.

Butterflies flooded her stomach and lungs as her personal moment of delight had been discovered by the very object of her affections. She looked up at Theo, a serene, angelic smile on his face. His eyes were full of affection, cheeks warm and pink.

Their eyes rested on each other, comfortable and adoring. Charlotte slowly draped herself over Theo’s belly and chest, amused at how far out his stomach protruded to give her a lovely place to recline.

“Everything okay?” Theo asked gently as he softly, lovingly thumbed at her temple.

Charlotte smiled and nodded slowly. “I was just admiring…thinking about how far we've come…” she trailed off, leaning her cheek on his skin again. “I love the way you feel.”

Theo hummed thoughtfully. He slowly traced his finger along Charlotte’s hairline from her forehead to her ear, then brushed his thumb over her flushed cheek.

“I love the way you feel, too. I love seeing you resting on me…” He chuckled pleasantly, the sound delectably warming her from the inside out.

Theo let out a yawn, making Charlotte rise and fall on his big, round belly. She laughed, feeling like she was riding a wave on the ocean.

“You wanna go to bed?” His arm began lazily trailing down her arm, his pudgy, warm fingers giving her bicep a squeeze.

Charlotte was surprised by a yawn of her own eagerly escaping her mouth. She guessed Theo’s soothing warmth and softness was quietly calming her–much like it always did, she had to admit to herself.

She nodded, taking an extra moment to relish Theo’s body against hers before getting to her feet. Theo chuckled, recognizing Charlotte’s thoughts, and gave the top of her head a gentle pat.

Charlotte, now standing, held her hands out to Theo. He smiled, placing his plump hands in hers and gently curled his fingers around them.

Theo let out a sudden moan, making Charlotte think he just remembered how full he was. She bit her lip and gave him an apologetic smile.

A resigned laugh made Theo’s belly bounce, giving Charlotte’s hands a squeeze. “You do good work, little lady,” he mused, letting out a preparatory sigh. A few determined wiggles of his hips, Theo planted his feet firm on the floor and moved to stand.

Charlotte pulled with a grunt, and Theo made it to standing. His belly rolled down, jutting out and hanging low. He flashed Charlotte a knowing look, making her pull her lips into a tight smile to hold back a giggle.

“Come on, big boy,” Charlotte cooed, releasing Theo’s hands to grab handfuls of his belly, soft fat spreading through her fingers.

Theo looked back at her, pleased, as he placed a hand on hers.

Charlotte let out a happy noise, admiring his huge body one more time before leading him to their bedroom, where she would continue to enjoy him.

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail. 

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin. 

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity. 

Stay awake.  

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”  Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground. 

Stay alive.  

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw.  Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut. 

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet. 

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1 

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.  

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin. 

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve. 

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon. 

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street. 

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much. 

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her. 

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all.  These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought. 

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask. 

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else. 

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown. 

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose. 

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row. 

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small. 

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you. 

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think. 

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face. 

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon. 

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy.  Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge. 

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake. 

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future.  With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to. 

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that. 

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in. 

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more. 

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts. 

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue. 

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust. 

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space. 

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes. 

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.  

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below.  “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm.  Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed. 

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them. 

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed. 

“I can handle it,” you assure him. 

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath. 

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him. 

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes. 

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you. 

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room. 

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection. 

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away. 

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage. 

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed. 

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper. 

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment. 

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.  

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes. 

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house. 

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.  

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it. 

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears. 

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response. 

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety. 

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper. 

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength.  Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long. 

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound. 

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention.��

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash. 

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze. 

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it,  though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve. 

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head. 

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you. 

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight. 

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company.  Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty. 

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone. 

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free. 

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment. 

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait. 

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears. 

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed. 

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears. 

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete! 

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

[mariacallous]

For Bezalel Smotrich, the head of Israel’s far-right Religious Zionism party, these are heady times. While the rest of Israel is preoccupied with the fighting in Gaza, the fate of the hostages held by Hamas, and Hezbollah’s pummeling of the country’s north, Smotrich has been realizing his dream of creating the conditions that will bring about Israel’s annexation of the West Bank. Indeed, the war has in many ways facilitated his plans.

The word “annexation” is rarely, if ever, uttered by Smotrich—who serves as a senior member of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s cabinet. Without a shred of doubt about the Jews’ God-given right to the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea, he regards the West Bank not as territory to be added to the State of Israel but as an inheritance that need only be claimed. As he told the Haaretz newspaper in an interview over seven years ago, a Palestinian state would be tantamount to partitioning Israel; absorbing the West Bank into Israel is “unification.” To talk about Israel annexing the West Bank would be like telling the North it was annexing the South after the Civil War in the United States.

In any case, the legal formalities involved in annexation are less important to Smotrich than creating the conditions that will bring it about. To do that, he is employing a two-pronged strategy that on the one side involves changing laws and creating a settler-friendly bureaucracy and on the other helping to foment violence and anarchy in the West Bank. As Smotrich has indicated many times, the signal event in the process of “unification” will be the collapse of the Palestinian Authority (PA), leaving Israel with no choice but to fill the vacuum and reassert control over the entire West Bank.

Smotrich’s main job in the government is finance minister, a powerful post that he has used to implement his policies. But he has a second and, for his purposes, far more important post as minister in the defense ministry, a job he was promised by Netanyahu when the current government was formed at the end of 2022. Smotrich is in effect minister of settlements with powers that extend, to a degree, over the lives of West Bank Palestinians as well.

Since it captured the territory in 1967, Israel has exerted control of the West Bank through a military occupation. The Israel Defense Forces (IDF), through its Civil Administration, has been responsible for the administration of justice and other civilian matters in the 60 percent of the West Bank not under the jurisdiction of the PA. The Civil Administration has long favored settler interests over Palestinians, but officially it remained a part of the military and made at least some effort to consider Palestinian needs. All that changed in February 2023, when a new Settlements Administration was formed with broad powers—including the authority to expropriate Palestinian land, to approve housing construction in settlements, to condemn Palestinian construction as illegal, and to retroactively authorize settlements that were built without government approval, popularly known as “outposts.”

As a civilian body, the Settlements Administration’s job is to promote the interests of Israeli citizens—which means the settlers. And the chief interest of the settlers is speeding up the pace of building and expanding settlements. More than that, the transfer of authority from the military to civilians amounts to a quiet and creeping de facto annexation. “It will be easier to swallow in the international and legal context so that they won’t say that we are doing annexation here,” Smotrich said in leaked remarks from a June 9 meeting with supporters, first published in the New York Times.

In recent weeks, Smotrich has cemented his control further, having Hillel Roth, a resident of the extremist settlement Yitzhar, made deputy head of the Civil Administration with authority over a grab bag of areas ranging from building regulations and water infrastructure to parks and outdoor public bathing locations.

Control over public bathing may seem like a minor business on par with dog catching. But it is not: A big part of the contest for the future of the West Bank is about demographics—increasing the settler population—and control of land. The Settlements Administration is meant to give the settlers the tools to do that more effectively. The natural springs that dot the West Bank serve Palestinian farmers as well as Israeli bathers and constitute one of many battlegrounds for control of the land and its resources.

But Smotrich’s campaign isn’t limited to the niceties of accelerated planning approvals: He has also used his powers to turn a blind eye to construction by settlers. A document obtained by the New York Times summarizing a March meeting of the IDF’s Central Command, which is responsible for the West Bank, warned that enforcement of construction regulations for settlers had all but disappeared since the establishment of the Settlements Administration; even court orders are ignored. Less than one-tenth of the 395 recorded cases of illegal construction last year resulted in a building being taken down, and nearly all of those involved a single case at an illegal outpost, the memo said. And that probably understates the extent of the problem. Because so many inspectors have been called up for reserve duty due to the war in Gaza, suspected violations are not even being investigated. Violators, the memo said, feel free to act knowing that there is no accountability.

The lawlessness among settlers in the West Bank has not been confined to illegal building. The most extreme of the settlers have taken advantage of a government dominated by the far right and the military’s preoccupation with fighting in Gaza to engage in unprecedented vigilantism. The U.N. Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) counted 968 attacks on Palestinians involving serious vandalism and injury in the months since the war began on Oct. 7, 2023. There have been only 10 confirmed cases of Palestinians killed in these incidents (compared with more than 500 in clashes with the military), but the pace if far faster than at any time since OCHA began keeping records in 2008—and the real number is likely higher.

While some of the settler violence has been about vengeance following Palestinian attacks, much of it has been about land. Especially in the Jordan Valley and in the area south of the city of Hebron, extremist settlers have seized control of large swaths of Palestinian pasture land by setting up roadblocks, erecting fences, and harassing shepherds. In many cases, whole communities of Palestinian herders have been forced to abandon their homes.

To be sure, Smotrich is not responsible for policing settler violence. The responsibility for that is shared by his far-right colleague, Itamar Ben-Gvir, who as minister of national security oversees the police—and by the military.

The police have never made much of an effort to investigate settler violence, but under Ben-Gvir all pretense of enforcement has been dropped. Ben-Gvir has been seeking, with a large degree of success, to politicize the Israel Police, pressing it to crack down on anti-government protesters while demanding that it stand aside when right-wing extremists attack trucks carrying aid to Gaza. In the West Bank, Ben-Gvir’s policies have given violent settlers carte blanche. A recent investigation by the New York Times found that of the three dozen cases it had looked into since Oct. 7 involving crimes ranging from theft of livestock to assault, not a single one had led to a suspect being charged.

As for the military, soldiers have been busy fighting in Gaza and on the northern border, as well as cracking down on Palestinian violence in the West Bank. The military says it doesn’t have the manpower to stop vigilante settlers. But the truth is, many of the commanders and soldiers in the regular and reserve military units stationed in the West Bank are sympathetic to the settlers; often they are settlers themselves. Moreover, after the Hamas attacks of Oct. 7, some 5,500 settlers were called up for reserve duty to protect their own communities. Many have taken advantage of the arms and uniforms they were issued to go beyond their official duties to set up roadblocks and attack Palestinians.

An incident near the Palestinian town of Aqraba in April captures the current state of lawlessness. Following the killing of a 14-year-old Israeli by Palestinians, settlers rampaged through the town and surrounding area, killing two residents (two more were killed later). The military initially said there were no soldiers present, although a Haaretz investigation said troops were there and didn’t intervene. Defense Minister Yoav Gallant later issued warrants putting five settlers into administrative detention—prison without trial—for periods ranging from three to six months. In response, Ben-Gvir railed against “Gallant’s persecution against the settlers.” The police have arrested no one.

For Smotrich, however, the collapse of the PA is his biggest priority. Here, his job as finance minister comes into play because the strategy is to strangle the authority financially. Smotrich has the power to do that because approximately 60 percent of the revenues the PA relies on to pay salaries and provide services come from customs and other taxes Israel collects in the PA’s name, transferring the money to Ramallah every month.

For some time, Israel had been deducting from these “clearance revenue” transfers the money that the PA spent supporting families of Palestinians held in Israeli prisons. Shortly after the war in Gaza began, Smotrich tripled the monthly deductions to as much as 600 million shekels—about 60 percent of the overall monthly transfer. In protest, the PA refused to accept any money, forcing it to cut civil servants��� wages by as much as 70 percent.

In late February, a face-saving formula was found under which Norway agreed to put the withheld funds in an escrow account, thereby giving the PA an excuse to take the money still available. Last month, however, Smotrich renewed his pressure campaign, calling on Netanyahu to stop all transfers and demanding that Norway return the escrow funds to Israel. More recently, he demanded steps be taken against the PA leaders, including expelling those found not to be living legally in the West Bank, restricting the movements of others and preventing them from traveling abroad—and charging some with incitement or support of terrorism.

Smotrich is no less determined to exacerbate the troubles of an already depressed Palestinian economy. That not only further pressures the PA financially but also may have the added benefit of coaxing Palestinians to emigrate. To that end, he and Ben-Gvir have also been able to block efforts to allow the approximately 150,000 West Bank Palestinians who had been working inside Israel before Oct. 7 to return to their jobs. By Palestinian standards, those jobs pay well, so their sudden disappearance has an outsized effect on household incomes and the economy.

Smotrich is now threatening to deal another blow to the Palestinian economy by halting the issuing of what until now were routine letters of indemnity to Israeli banks. The letters provide a legal shield to Israeli financial institutions working with their Palestinian counterparts in case some money ends up in the hands of terrorist groups. This correspondent banking relationship is critical to the Palestinian economy, enabling the annual flow of $10 billion of Palestinian exports and imports, all of which go through Israel. If Smotrich acts, it will bring the West Bank economy to its knees.

The defense establishment is opposed to most of Smotrich’s measures, worrying he is fanning the flames of another intifada, or Palestinian uprising. But it is largely helpless to prevent them so long as the political echelon doesn’t act. Even if Netanyahu wanted to stop Smotrich, he needs his ongoing support to keep his governing coalition intact. Smotrich’s party accounts for seven seats in the 120-member parliament. If he withdraws from the coalition, Netanyahu’s government would no longer have a majority.

Smotrich thus has a relatively free hand from his boss.

What he doesn’t have is a public mandate to pursue his program. His main annexation constituency is the settler population, which makes up no more than 10 percent of Israel’s total, and even its support for his annexation project is hardly wall to wall. Much of the settler population is made up of people who moved to the West Bank for economic reasons, including many thousands of ultra-Orthodox Jews. They are not thought to be wedded to the idea of Greater Israel. Among the overall population, support for annexation is far from overwhelming: A recent survey by Tel Aviv University found only about 38 percent of Jewish Israelis supported the idea (and only 14 percent very strongly); a majority opposed it.

Even far-right voters are seen to be unimpressed by Smotrich—preferring Ben-Gvir’s loud-mouthed thuggery over Smotrich’s careful (and often behind-the-scenes) calculations. If elections were held today, according to the most recent polls, Ben-Gvir’s Otzma Yehudit party would win nine seats in Israel’s 120-member parliament; Smotrich’s Religious Zionism wouldn’t receive enough votes to enter the Knesset at all. But then again, for him, the only vote that counts is cast in heaven, and Smotrich is confident he has it.

[blackbat05]

A New Feeling

Fred Weasley x F!Reader

Plot: An accidental trip to the newest department at the Ministry leaves Fred Weasley with a new feeling and wanting for more.

Genre: PG-13

A/N: Felt like writing something on a whim. Here's to new beginnings and fresh starts! Hope you enjoyed and thanks for the support!

"Why are we even here George?" Fred bemoans as he unwillingly drags his feet behind his twin.

"Hey, I don't like this any more than you do." George stares at him accusingly. "But we have to submit these permits on time if we want to expand the shop." George sighs. "It's the sacrifice of spreading joy."

They squeeze themselves into the elevator with the other Ministry employees, the metal box taking them down to the lobby.

George throws a hand forward to block his twin as Fred is about to step out.

"What gives?"

"I don't think you need to meet Monty. Especially not when you purposely gave him a fire breathing candy that nearly burned half his insides. We need this permit."

"That's because he's a git." Fred rolls his eyes as he sees the mentioned employee entering the office. "He was harassing the witches at the shop! What was I supposed to do?"

"Fine! Just be somewhere else. I'll let you know when I'm done." George coaxes him before leaving to persuade Monty to expand Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. Perhaps it was for the best. George was always better at business talk with important wizards and witches.

Making himself sparse, Fred ambles down the hallways that were bustling with Ministry employees from various departments. He finds himself at the end of the many rooms and sees a lone ancient door tucked near the emergency staircase. That's strange. Fred's been here a couple of times but he has never seen that door, or what was behind him.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Fred takes long strides to the mystery door and finally gets a clue of what is behind it. In bold, it read: Ministry of Magic Library and Archives.

Fred turns the knob and the door disappears momentarily, allowing him to step inside.

It felt like he had entered a different realm. Bookcases towered over him as he walked deeper into the library. The number of books was a never ending maze. The smell of old pages demanded patrons to show respect to the sacred place.

"Hello!"

Fred jumps slightly and bumps into an employee who stares at him curiously.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." The employee chuckles. Fred can't help but to not notice the scent of strawberry wafting through the air. "How can I help you?"

Fred is rooted to the ground and for the first time, speechless. Her smile was infectious and the sunflower yellow robes seemed to magnify her beauty by miles.

"Well... I'm just... uh... waiting for my brother. I decided to explore the level." Fred explains. "This is new." He waves a hand around the library.

"You're sharp." She remarks and Fred feels oddly proud. "The library and archive room just opened six months ago. After the war, the Ministry felt that it was important to preserve the history and remember what everyone fought for." She leads Fred further in and his footsteps no longer feel heavy. "We have books on different subjects and from all over the world. Minister Shacklebolt felt it was important to learn from our counterparts."

They stop at the fifth shelve and with a wave of her wand, a book floats down.

"And by all subjects, we mean everything." She passes Fred a book titled 'Potions and Pranks by Momo Kohuro'. "Mahoutokoro certainly had a knack for producing students extremely proficient in potions. I think you would have liked it there."

"You know me?" Fred says dumbly.

"Of course." She smiles. "I just thought you have enough attention for the day- entire lifetime actually. I didn't want to freak you out." She refers to the wizards and witches who are unabashedly staring at their conversation.

"You and your family were very brave."

Fred's pride had grown exponentially and he had no idea how he should continue without looking like a fool.

"Um, do you think you could show me around the rest of the library? And maybe help me check out this book?"

She nods and leads him around the library and archive room until closing time.

"Thanks. I really enjoyed it."

"I hope I didn't bore you with my incessant talking. I just really like working here. Thanks for being such an amazing guest." She beams and his heart skips a beat.

"Come back anytime."

Fred leaves the library and heads back to the lobby where George is impatiently waiting for him.

"There you are! I thought you fell down the toilet. What took you so long?"

"Just got lost." Fred says simply, his brother's veiled insult flying over his head. George doesn't question Fred's odd behavior.

"We got the permit! But Monty wants us to both sign the papers even though I clearly know my signature would suffice." George purses his lips. "Maybe you were right about Monty being a stuffy old git."

"Uh huh." Fred says absentmindedly.

"Okay, that does it. What have you done with my brother?"

"Nothing! We can come down tomorrow right?" Fred asks.

"Tomorrow is a Saturday." George deadpans. "Tell me what the hell happened while I was away!"

Fred speed walks to the exit with his twin determined and hot on his heels. "Come on, we need to get back for stock taking."

"Not until you tell me what happened!"

The scent of strawberry still clouds his mind. Fred makes a mental note to get her name when he drops by the library tomorrow.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to the Lone Flame's Chapter 215

TL;DR - Gashan can't use his shaman powers too. Story about how dragons became gods. Village chief does not know someone named CJG. Subjugation force will arrive in 3 days.

More Power Restrictions Mana and aura were not the only powers that were restricted. Gashan confirmed that he could not use his shaman powers/power of nature. So this brings us to the question: What about Cale's ancient powers? Unfortunately, the author did not mention anything about the ancient powers for the past chapters.

Dragons as Gods We got more world-building today, so I'll summarize it all in a story format:

This tale begins at the time when the weather drastically changed, and powers like mana and aura became unusable. These drastic changes brought about chaos to the world, and was thus referred to as the period of cataclysm.

There existed a place called the Free City of Gonia, which was rumored to be founded by people with dragon blood, the so-called half-blood dragons. During the cataclysm, the free city asked help from their dragon protectors for a solution.

The dragons responded to their pleas, and roamed around the world, helping in stabilizing the chaos. They repaired places where mana and aura became unusable, and stopped the beastkin who had fallen into madness. Their powers and attributes also helped alleviate the drastic weather changes.

Hence, people all over the world began to praise and worship the dragons. Their faith in the gods wavered, for the temples were rife with corruption, and the gods seemingly did not listen to their cries for help.

The Free City of Gonia renamed themselves as the Holy City, expanding its territory and openly declaring the worship of dragons as gods. However, the last emperor of the Har Empire vehemently opposed it.

The last emperor of the Har Empire and the last Archduke Snow secretly believed that it was actually the dragons who caused the cataclysm in their desire to become gods. But the world thought the Har Empire's opposition was because they were afraid to lose its status as a powerful nation, and the prestige of their first emperor, who was a dragon slayer, from falling.

War took place. The dragons abstained from joining the war, and only the ones said to be half-blood dragons participated. And in that war, the last emperor and the last Archduke Snow passed away.

The Har Empire was demoted to a kingdom, and fled to the north. The Holy City seized control of the Har Empire's territory, once again renaming themselves as the Holy Empire.

The Holy Empire declared to its neighbor countries that they would maintain friendly relations as long as they accepted the worship of dragons in their countries. They even offered their assistance in solving the chaos brought about by the cataclysm.

Thus, no country opposed the Holy Empire. And true to their word, the Holy Empire did assist other countries that asked for help, sending out dragons to resolve their problems. Dragon worship further spread to the world.

Other Answers to Cale's Questions As for Cale's other questions, CJG seemed to have disguised himself here, so the village chief did not know anyone of that name. But the village chief did keep a record of strangers who entered their village, so they would have to check that for any CJG clues.

The subjugation force was expected to arrive in 3 days, and Eruhaben expressed his worry about the enemies finding out about them. But Cale even welcomed it, saying that because they lacked information, they could just capture the subjugation force and interrogate them. Yes, typical Cale. 😂

Ending Remarks Nothing exciting happened again today. It's just info dump and more name reveals. The wolf beastkin among the villagers was called Koukan, and the village's name was Wins Village. Frankly, it feels weird? Back in the murim arc, we would have gotten lots of named characters already, but this time, only one person had been named. Village chief is still called village chief or elder, though it was revealed that he was a descendant from the butler family that served Archduke Snow.

Anyway, next chapter is either the villagers meeting Lock, or Cale's group capturing the subjugation force. And hopefully, we get an answer if Cale can use his ancient powers here.

[growingstories]

Taste of his own medicine

Once upon a time in the bustling city of San Francisco, there lived a handsome and privileged young doctor named Dr Jeremy Dinah. With his muscular body and chiseled features, he had always been the "golden boy" of his wealthy family. However, his upbringing had made him quite the spoiled brat, carrying a sense of entitlement that extended even into his professional life.

After completing medical school, Dr. Dinah decided to join a prestigious private hospital. Unbeknownst to his colleagues and patients, he was a health freak. His locker filled was with protein powders, creatine, and an array of supplements. He meticulously prepped his meals and never ate in the hospital restaurant, deeming the food unworthy of his refined taste.

Dr. Dinah had a particular disdain for overweight individuals, and he never let an opportunity pass to remind fat patients and even his colleagues about their weight issues. His harsh and condescending remarks would leave lasting wounds on the self-esteem of those on the receiving end.

Two nurses, Lucy and Sarah, had borne the brunt of his fat-shaming remarks one too many times. Determined to put an end to his toxic behavior, they devised a plan. They decided to start throwing away his prepped meals so that he had no choice but to eat at the hospital restaurant.

At first, Dr. Dinah complained about the quality of the food, but people around him stayed silent, pretending not to notice. Too busy with his professional commitments, he couldn't find the time to investigate further. He begrudgingly started consuming the hospital food, which was far from his meticulously crafted meals.

Weeks passed, and Dr. Dinah’s strict diet began to fall apart. Craving a change, he gradually started adding French fries to his meals, relaxing his formerly stringent eating habits. As a result, his weight began to climb up. He started complaining about his love handles, puzzled as to how they had appeared despite his efforts in the gym.

Dr. Dinah’s gym routine became more frequent, desperately attempting to work off the stubborn fat. However, his colleagues, restricted by their professional uniforms, couldn't discern any significant change in his appearance.

Lucy and Sarah saw the opportunity to strike again. They swapped Dr. Dinah's protein powder with a mass gainer that went unnoticed by his unrefined taste buds. As the weeks went by, a visible bulge started forming in Dr. Dinah's belly, which protruded even through his uniform.

Confronted by his growing belly, Dr. Dinah realized that his sit-ups were becoming increasingly challenging. It dawned on him that something was amiss. However, the once arrogant and rude doctor had evolved into a friendlier and more approachable person after the change in his eating habits. The plan had worked, as he was no longer "hangry" all the time, making it much more pleasant to work with him.

The last phase of the plan involved changing Dr. Dinah's schedule. With the help of a woman from HR, who had also experienced fat-shaming incidents with him, they made his days longer and more filled with on-call duties. This meant less time for him to spend at the gym on his free days. Initially, he despised the change, but the newfound leisure time allowed him to reconnect with friends and family, whom he had neglected in favor of his fitness obsession.

People began to notice Dr. Dinah's expanding belly, and playfully poked at it whenever they saw him. Surprisingly, he didn't seem to mind it anymore. Rather, he relished in the attention, finding joy in the fact that he was now seen more positively by those around him.

Completely giving up on his meticulously prepped meals, Dr. Dinah grew fond of the hospital restaurant. He even developed a friendly relationship with the staff. Furthermore, the girls informed the restaurant's boss of their plan, who then started providing Dr. Dinah with bigger personalized portions during night shifts. The once health-conscious doctor unknowingly indulged in the abundance of food, growing bigger and bigger.

Unexpectedly, his increased size brought about positive changes in his life. His weight had plateaued, and he now had more time for dating. Dr. Dinah's newfound openness and humor made him more attractive to others.

In the end, Dr. Dinah realized the error of his ways. He had learned a valuable lesson about the consequences of fat-shaming and the importance of treating others with kindness and respect. And so, Dr. Jeremy Dinah embraced his new shape with newfound confidence and humility. He became a more compassionate and understanding doctor, forever changed by the lessons he had learned through his own self-inflicted transformation.

[maverick-werewolf]

Folklore Fact - Wyverns

Another month, another folklore fact! Wyverns handily won the poll over on my Patreon this month (be sure to take a look if you'd like to vote in the next one or even suggest all new subjects!)...

(nearly all modern dragon designs seen in visual media, especially film and television but now quite often also video games, count as the traditional British heraldic classification of wyverns, really; see my post here for a discussion of that, although I could expand that post today and discuss things like Monster Hunter, etc, which I didn't really know much about at the time, and even further discuss some of the subjects already therein... Anyway, maybe I'll revise that sometime in the future and improve it)

Wyverns are often described as a dragon with two hind legs, two wings, no forelegs, and a barbed tail. There are varieties, of course; some say the wyvern has the head of a dragon, the legs of an eagle, and a barbed "serpent tail" or simply a long tail with no barb. There are many varieties. Traditionally, at least if you ask English heraldry, the requirement to be a wyvern is that it has no forelegs - unlike the dragon, which has four legs in addition to wings. However, this is a technicality that was obviously not always applied elsewhere, including the European mainland. More on that shortly.

The word "wyvern" is not in itself all that old; it originated around 1600, derived from "wyver" from 1300, so the term is not ancient. Like dragon, it essentially means "snake," though in this case it is derived from "viper." As mentioned, "dragon" itself is derived from "drakon" meaning serpent (and/or "giant seafish") [source: again, one of my favorite sites].

Stamp of Clifford, Anne, Countess of Dorset (1590 - 1676) [source], depicting a wyvern.

There was apparently some discussion around the rise of the heraldic wyvern in England, Scotland, and Ireland regarding what exactly classified a wyvern as opposed to a dragon. In 1610, the writings of John Guillim described a wyvern (then "wiverne") thus: "partake[ing] of a Fowle in the Wings and Legs … and doth resemble a Serpent in the Taile," and in 1682, John Gibbon agrees that a wyvern specifically has "but" two legs. It is noteworthy that both men in question were officers of heraldry, and these remarks are quotations from book on coats of arms, and thus it was specifically heraldry they discussed.

"Wyverns" as per monsters of myth and folklore were, for most intents and purposes of their time period, referred to as "dragons" and not thought of as their own sort of beast rather than just a variation of dragon for heraldry specifically or even exclusively. Were there any legends about something called a "wyvern?" I haven't found any in all my extensive research on dragon legends, and most all academic sources agree that a "wyvern" is a heraldic creature rather than something you'd find in a bestiary and/or folktale.

As mentioned, depictions of what we today might think of as "wyverns" were not always called "wyverns," of course, especially throughout a lot of Europe (as opposed to Great Britain). Here we see a depiction of what we would now think of as a "wyvern" referred to as a dragon ("drago"), from a work dated 1691, so during the same time period that heraldic wyverns were already being classified as such.

There are also bestiaries and other things that depict two-legged dragons as "dragons" rather than ever referring to them as "wyverns" specifically, and the creatures depicted therein were in fact meant to simply be "dragons." Older eras lacked the picky categorization that exists more recently, particularly myth and folklore. This is why there are no "categories" of werewolf legends, either, for instance, or different "types" of werewolves - except as put on them retroactively by modern scholars.

A "wyvern" from 1380 in the Chester Cathedral in England; given its hooves and head of a man, it isn't exactly a "standard" wyvern.

So, again, the idea of the wyvern as a unique creature as opposed to another sort of dragon likely stemmed from heraldry - which in itself has a lot of unique creatures and specifics, such as the enfield and bagwyn - and specifically heraldry from Great Britain and Ireland, which meant that such defined notions of a wyvern came about in later centuries. There are certainly depictions of dragons and dragon-like creatures without forelegs from other centuries, such as the 1300s, but these are not explicitly as sourced "wyverns" during their own time period. Rather, they are described as such now by people retroactively applying the wyvern concept onto them. Such a concept became common starting around the 1600s, as mentioned earlier with the heraldic writings of Guillim and Gibbon. There are plenty of examples of "dragons" with two legs and, sometimes, even "wyverns" with four legs floating around out there.

But since modernity also thrives on technicality, categories, and specifics, things like D&D for a while there often referred to a "wyvern" as a two-legged dragon (which I personally find preferable, despite my usual aversion to categorization of mythological things) - at least, until a lot of media is today started changing that ever since Reign of Fire in 2003. These days, outside of a handful of fantasy things, like D&D with their older established rules and a few other fantasy games that originated before this sweeping design change occurred, dragons very often have two legs instead of four. I could say a lot more about that, but I won't get into it...

And that covers a general overview on wyverns! Until next time. For June, expect to see a brand new werewolf fact.

( If you like my blog, be sure to follow me here and sign up for my free newsletter for more folklore and fiction, including books! And plenty of werewolf things.

Free Newsletter - maverickwerewolf.com (info + book shop)  — Patreon — Wulfgard — Werewolf Fact Masterlist — Twitter — Vampire Fact Masterlist — Amazon Author page )

[therimmerexperience]

Smegtober- Day 7 (Sacrifice)

“I need to go home,” Ace, Rimmer, told Wildfire, his voice nasal and whiny; he was ready to be himself again. 

“As you wish,” replied the disembodied voice from the cockpit, her tone, as always, indifferent and cold. She scanned her dimensional records with a beep. 

Rimmer's eyes widened in disbelief as he laughed bitterly, “it was that easy? You could have taken the others home at any time too?” 

“Yes, Arnold,” she replied, still indifferent. 

“Why?” He tore the wig from his head, tossing it to the arm of his chair and missing. He left it on the ground.

“Why what?” 

“Why did you never take any of the others back?” He glowered at Wildfire's control panel as if she could see him, as if she had the capacity to care. If he had known, if any of them had known, that they could have just asked to go home, the Ace Rimmer grave planet would be a ring system short of a war memorial. 

“They never asked,” she, once again, answered plainly.

Rimmer shook his head, opening his mouth though the strained feeling in the back of his throat prevented anything from escaping. Eventually, he gave up. Lecturing an unemotional machine on human decency seemed redundant. He felt foolish for even getting upset at her. 

“Just take me home.” He finally relented. 

Wildfire buzzed, a swell of blue expanding in the ink before them and swallowing them whole, spitting them back out in a similar blotchy scene, speckled with stars, only with one major difference; a large spacecraft hung in the sky to the right of Wildfire, dusty rouge and just as tasteless and magnificent as he remembered it. It was home. 

Boarding the dwarf, stepping, for the first time in decades, onto the landing bay, he was greeted by Kryten first, the rest of the crew behind him, his head wider and his body a brighter shade of silver than before. He had aged. Could mechanoids age? Rimmer pushed away the thought. It made him feel old. 

“Mr Ace!” he gushed, a veil of perplexion shrouding his features while his eyes scanned the wig pressed curls on Rimmer’s head. A smug, knowing smile tugged at Lister’s cheeks, the creases around his mouth deeper than Rimmer remembered, his eyes lined, crows feet forming in the corners. He pulled him into a tight hug, much like when he had first left though Lister definitely felt softer.  Rimmer supposed time had done the same to him too.

Red Dwarf itself had changed. Rimmer had noted all of the small differences mentally while on his way to Lister’s room: hallways seemingly stretched further, the ceilings panels no longer resembled styrofoam and he could have sworn there never used to be that many elevators. He wondered if the diesel desks had changed. His next spontaneous getaway the next time someone fell ill would surely be more interesting than the time Lister contracted space mumps- for one, he had an actual body now. 

 Looking around, Rimmer felt like he was in a funhouse, the room distorted compared to the one in his memory; he was still trying to wrap his head around the nanobot resurrection, let alone the changes the resurrection had caused; since when were bunkrooms that big?  It was remarkable how pleasantly sized beds were supposed to be before the JMC budget cuts. He shrugged off his hideous silver flight jacket, throwing it out into the middle of the room and watching it dissolve into light before it hit the floor. 

“So,” he turned to Lister, who was slumped in a chair by the table, “Where did the other me go? The one who was resurrected.”

“He’s hiding,” The scouser chucked, “down in the cargo decks. I think he’s scared you're here to replace him.”

Rimmer settled in the chair opposite Lister’s, resting his hands lackadaisically on the surface in front of him and shooting him a playfully suspicious glance, “and why would he think that?”

“Because that's what I told him,” He grinned idiotically, much like he used to back in his twenties, “It’s not my fault he believed me.”

Rimmer couldn't help but smile in return, “I was never that much of a tremendous coward, was I?”

“Well, he is only human.”

They stewed in silence for a moment. Considering his next words carefully before he let them tumble from his tongue, Rimmer pressed his mouth into a straight line, his brow creasing. He watched his former crewmate tap anxiously on the metal tabletop expectantly for a while. 

“He won't want to take Wildfire,” Lister beat him to it, still tapping, “I think he's worse than you were.”

Rimmer nodded; he knew exactly what he had meant by ‘worse’; he was less adjusted, more cowardly, meaner and so much more bitter- all of the things that made Rimmer 'worse’ than most other people. A hand slid over the top of one of Rimmer's, brushing its thumb over his reassuringly and squeezing it lightly. Lister’s eyes met his, unchanged, still the same shade of brown they always had been: a sickly sweet hue of honey.

“I don’t want to leave,” the hologram admitted sheepishly, withdrawing his hands, “I’ve been Ace too long, Listy. Longer than any other Rimmer.”

“I’m sure I can convince him to give it a go,” he winked, “I’ve done it before.”

—-

Rimmer climbed into the cockpit of Wildfire, gaudy, senset blonde wig askew and flight jacket rubbing the wrong way on his skin; he wasn't ready. He waved to the man who looked just like him, who saluted in return, the H on his forehead shimmering in the light of the landing bay. Lister smiled thankfully, a semblance of guilt on the curl of his lips. How could Rimmer have said no? It wasn't as though he truly belonged here. He was merely a spare part.

“Come on, old love,” Nano-Rimmer prompted Wildfire in an Ace impersonation, still yet to be perfected, “We better be off.”

[azznyra]

Hi! My name is Nyra and this is my very first post ever! i’ve been a reader for years but i’ve never had the courage to write or post anything ever. i’m very scared to post this, but i’ll hope some people will come across this and like it. any and every feedback is highly appreciated. please be kind! also know that english isn’t my first language so forgive me for any mistakes! i hope you enjoy :))

Drunken night routine

here is my Azriel x reader fluff fic. TW : small mentions of anxiety but that’s it.

includes reader being drunk af with nesta and az being a fluffball with her as he gets her ready for bed!

You were trying your best to just concentrate long enough to winnow inside. Nesta blowing you ear off was not helping and you made sure to tell her "just keep quiet for a second and maybe we’ll get there". You had had the shittiest day and were just looking to unwind with one of your closest friend. You had both gone to this sweet little restaurant down the Sidra, enjoying each other’s company and a humongous amount of food. It started with a bottle of red wine, just to fuel yourselves for your gossiping session and now it promised you the biggest hungover for tomorrow.

After what seemed like a century, you managed to get you both up to the balcony attached to the big dining area. The floor-to-ceiling windows were opened, the curtains softly moving with the wind and all you could hear was Cassian’s deep chuckle.

You and Nesta were still holding onto each other when you looked up and saw the General approaching you, reaching his hand out for Nesta to take. He led you both inside and turned to you, taking you in "Rough night, y/n ?" your answering scowl was immediate "fuck off you’re just jealous Nesta likes me more". To take it even further, you leaned closer to your best friend and kissed her on the cheek, multiple times, while she was only grinning, her smile getting bigger and bigger by the second.

Cassian was halfway through with his comeback when your gaze landed on the second male in the room. Azriel was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, legs deliciously spread, nursing a glass of liquor in his left hand, his piercing gaze already set on you. He was dressed in casual clothes tonight, which didn’t fail to surprise you. In all the years you had known him, you didn’t think you had seen him like this more than four times. He looked so relaxed like this, you thought his lap looked inviting, it was almost beckoning you to sit there, perch yourself on his thigh. Hoping his arm would wrap around your waist, maybe tug your back against his chest. If you were lucky, maybe he’d even — you stopped your thoughts when you realized where your mind had wandered to. You let go of Nesta and took quick but wobbly steps towards the shadowsinger, calling out his name in the sweetest way you could manage.

He quickly put down his glass and got up to meet you half way, smirking. You knew a witty remark was already on its way but you could not care less. You were so intoxicated that you didn’t think twice about what you were doing and just launched yourself at him. Your arms went around his waist, tugging him closer to your body. You not only heard but felt him take in a sharp breath, his ribcage expanding beneath your arms.

You’d never dared to get this close to him while being sober. You knew he liked his privacy and was not always confortable with physical affection. You could see it behind his eyes, see his self-hatred eating him out, telling him that he wasn’t worthy of love. Every time it happened, you felt your own heart breaking, cleaving in two. For he was worth so much more that what he allowed himself, he was worth everything. If only he could see himself the way you saw him.

Azriel’s arms finally landed around your shoulders and you got a whiff of his smell. You could not help but inhale it once more, on purpose. You then looked up to him and said "You smell so heavenly right now, Az". You only grinned up at him, secretly relishing in the red that took over the apple of his cheeks. It was concerning how proud you were of making his usually stoic face blush so easily from only one compliment.

Az felt like he was dying. Maybe he was and that’s why he was imagining you clinging to him right now, looking up at him with the most delicious smile adorning your lips and a cunning gleam in your eyes. You looked so beautiful that his mind was blank for a minute, filled with nothing but thoughts of your perfect face. He took in your long, shiny brown hair, which was curled tonight. His favorite. He longed to run his finger through the silky strands, maybe wrap his fist around it if you’d let him. You had never gotten this close to him before and he was in such deep shit. You were so drunk out of your mind though, that’s why you were burying your face in his chest. He looked up and met Cassian’s eyes, his brother winking at him, while holding onto his mate, ready to take her to bed.

Right, your bed. He just had to make sure you arrived in one piece to your bed and then you’d sleep and he’d be freed of his desire for you. At least for tonight. "Alright, your night’s over, let’s go to bed, y/n"

You shook your head, you didn’t want to go to bed, your night had just gotten interesting now that you had Az all to yourself. He insisted, and, well, you couldn’t really deny him anything. So you agreed "Only if you help me though, I don’t think I can walk straight, Az".

Azriel smiled, and you realized he had let go of your shoulders, silently offering you his elbow to hold onto. He always did this, offered anything but his hands. You knew how he felt about them, could understand where he was coming from. However, you couldn’t stand to enable his thoughts by not touching his hands on purpose. Not tonight. You graciously ignored his elbow and slid your palm against his. Your hand was so cold, having spent the whole evening outside on a terrasse, while Azriel’s hand was so warm you wanted him to warm your whole body with it. You looked straight into his eyes, gauging his reaction. You could tell he was overthinking this, wondering if he was somehow tainting you with his scarred flesh. You had to reassure him that this was okay, that you didn’t mind and never would. Your brain was too fuzzy so you just asked him "Is this okay? I hope it is, I’ve always wanted to do this, actually". Azriel was still frozen, staring at you like he’d never seen you before, another bright blush taking place on his cheeks. He ended up nodding, so slightly you almost missed it. So you gave his hand a squeeze and he led you towards the big stairs.

He was quite literally dragging you by the hand at this point, taking such long strides that you almost couldn’t keep up. You both stoped in front of the stairs, and Az gave you a funny look and you just knew he was about to tease you before he even opened his mouth. "Sure you can take this, y/n ? I wouldn’t want you to fall on your face" He said, smirking as he talked. He looked so proud of himself, thinking he could tease you like this. So you answered him with the same malice in your voice "Well, maybe you should carry me, then. If you’re so worried about my face".

He didn’t even look taken aback, he looked proud, you thought. That must be the wine though, you tried to convince yourself. Then, all of a sudden, in a fraction of a second, his hand let go of yours, one arm went under yours knees while the other was around your waist. And here you were, nestled against Azriel’s chest, so comfortable in his arms. You tried not to give too much thought in how good this felt, how right. You felt like you were exactly right where you were supposed to be. You were feeling so courageous tonight, so much that, if anything went wrong, you’d blame it on the alcohol. That’s what pushed you to bring your face closer to his neck and brush your nose against his skin. Just once. Just to know what he smelled like so close, and it was so good that you did it again. Then you heard him let out a soft exhale, and another, a little more rugged this time, it seemed. And he whispered, voice so low you had to strain your Fae ears to hear, "you’re tickling me, y/n".

You were about to apologize, when you realized he had stopped walking and was standing in front of your bedroom door. You reached your hand out and turned the doorknob, allowing the male to enter your room. You were about to thank him for taking you here, when your brain registered that he had already walked farther than your bed and seemed to be heading towards your bathroom. He silently asked you to open this door as well, and then set you down on the counter on the left, right next to where all your beauty products were neatly organized.

It was overwhelming, his caring attitude, the fact that he was in your bathroom right now, looking so at ease amongst your things. It seemed so effortless, so natural for him to be there.

He turned back to look at you, and you wanted to ask him what this feeling was, why he was confusing your heart even more, but you only asked "what are you doing ?"

"Running you a hot bath", he simply answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world, as if he would ever do anything else. Then he added "get in and wash yourself, I’ll go get you some water while you’re in there".

So you did just that, trying very hard to concentrate on using the right soap, then you wet your hair and washed it as well. You had a whole routine to do tonight, but it was already so much effort just to wash it right now that you gave up. You’d regret this tomorrow but you were way too intoxicated to care.

Azriel was going mad. He was sure of it. He must be sick, there was no other explanation as to why he’d ever put himself in such a situation. All he had to do was put you on your bed and leave the damn room. Instead, he had selfishly wanted to hold you longer. He remembered it was the day you always washed your hair. You had been unable to do it once and then you’d been grumpy all day, so sensitive to everything you’d ended up crying when Cassian had eaten the last cookie from Elain’s batch. Nothing had been able to console you, even when the Seer had offered you to make another batch just for you. The shadowsinger remembered you telling him it was because your whole routine had been changed and you were so anxious.

So that’s what he told himself as he ran you the bath, it was so you wouldn’t miss your whole hair routing thing and be anxious tomorrow. Nothing to do with you way you were clinging to him, brushing your nose against his neck, pretending not to breathe him in. Multiple times.

Anyway, this would end soon because he was simply going to bring you a glass of water and leave you. He’d go to his room, lock the damn door and try to sleep this off. So this is what he did, he picked up the glass and headed upstairs again.

You had just finished rinsing your hair when you heard a knock. You allowed Azriel to step inside and saw him heading towards the counter, then pick up your towel and hold it in front of you. He wanted you to get out of the bath, you realized. His head was turned back, his eyes shut tight. He was behaving like the gentleman he was and your heart soared at the sight. He was so respectful and thoughtful but he never gave himself any credit for anything. It was painful, really.

You stepped out, willing your legs not to wobble and took the towel from his hands, wrapping it around yourself. You told him he could open his eyes now, and thanked him, for what felt like the millionth time tonight. It was then that he said words you’d have never thought would leave his mouth, "I’m surprised you’ve finished your whole hair routine so fast in your current state".

You stared at him, mouth open, probably gaping like a fish out of water.

"What?"

You must have misheard him because there was no way in hell he knew about this. It was not a secret that you were very particular about your hair, but it wasn’t something you talked about with Azriel, or Cassian or any of the males for that matter.

"Yeah, it’s today, right? I’m impressed really. If I remember well, it’s a pretty long process". He was smiling like a fool, somehow seeming proud of knowing this about you. Why would he be proud? This was so strange, you were starting to think you were dreaming up all of this.

"How do you even know about this ?"

"You’ve told me once. I’ve always wondered how your hair looked so nice and you spent almost thirty minutes explaining all of the steps and how long you had to wait in-between". Now you were sure he looked proud. And you were sure you still looked like a fish out of water. Your mind was so blank. "I haven’t done it actually", you blabbered.

"Well, I can help you if you want. I know you get cranky when you miss your routine".

He looked so eager, and he was right, you did get cranky when you missed something in your routine. It also wouldn’t hurt to feel him run his fingers through your hair, and massage your scalp. So he did, so gently, as if he was afraid to hurt you. It was so relaxing that you wanted to fall asleep to this every night. It took him a bit longer than you normally would, but he was thorough in his ministrations you could never tease him. You closed your eyes halfway, only opening them again when he nudged your shoulder with his, hazel eyes softly looking into yours through the mirror.

"There, all done.".

"Thank you so much, Az. You’re so precious"

He smiled, and it was so breathtaking you almost fell to yours knees before him. "You should go to bed now, you’re all ready", he added after a moment. You turned around, so close that your chests were almost brushing. So close that you could reach out your hand and touch his raven black hair with the tips of your fingers. So close that you could stand on the tip of your toes and kiss his lips. You nodded, remembering he had said something, and he took a step back, allowing you to step back into your bedroom. Right, your bed. He must have told you to sleep. This was what he was here for, after all.

You were about to fall in your bed, yes fall, when you heard the beautiful male behind you chuckle. "You’re going to suffer tomorrow, drink some tea for hungover before you arrive to training"

You sat on the bed, facing him and looked up to his handsome face. You were so busy studying his features that you almost forgot to answer him. "Just take it easy on me tomorrow and I’ll be fine, yes?"

Another deep laugh came out of him. He was so carefree tonight you felt blessed to be able to witness him like this. The mighty Spymaster of the Night Court, so casually laughing in your bedroom. "No, I will not, you and Nesta need to learn the hard way that you do not get drunk the night before training"

Your answering whine made him crack another smile, "But we train every morning, Az"

"I don’t see how that’s my problem". He had the audacity to look smug. The male was taking such pleasure in your misery it would have been insulting were it anyone else.

"I hate you" you said. You could not have uttered a bigger lie. There was nothing but pure adoration for him in your heart, but you could not tell him that. Would never find the courage. You could barely stand this half sort of flirting, let alone pour out your feelings to him while he cringes and lets down gently.

"We both know you love me" He was taking this too far right now, but he didn’t find it in himself to care. He knew nothing about your feelings, only hoped. Yes, sometimes he would catch you looking at him at training, or looking for him whenever you stepped in a room. He would sometimes hear his shadows say that you were staring at him, a longing look in your eyes, but he never let himself believe them. They liked you too much, always trying to be close to you. They were not objective at all.

You blushed, hoping this conversation would not go somewhere you couldn’t handle. You surely couldn’t handle this right now. So you kept this little verbal sparring you two had going on and said "you wish".

Az’s face dimmed a little, it was so subtle you could have imagined it. Probably had, honestly, with your inebriated state right now. You could swear, however, that you heard him agree. It was such a small murmur but you could’ve sworn you heard him say yes.

Azriel bid you goodnight, so sweetly and left you to sleep.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @justafandomfollower - cheers, m'dears!

Posting a lil sneak peek of my fic for day one of Painland Week! It's gonna undergo some re-writing/editing before the whole thing's ready to post but this is 600 rough words of a uhhhhh 4k-ish fic. No idea if I'm gonna manage fics for every day since I'm having a big pain flare-up right now but I can at least polish up the three drafts I have so far! So here you go, some sweet nonsexual dom/sub therapy for Charles for day one, love languages💛

I'm gonna tag @kieren-fucking-walker, @firstaudrina, @coloursflyaway and @theflirtmeister, plus anyone else who feels like sharing some WIP sneak peeks, consider yourself tagged!

~~

“Charles,” said Edwin again, softer this time. It was important not to go on the offensive; in his current condition, Charles was liable to take any careless word as keenly as a knife in the back. “Please tell me what’s on your mind.” After a moment’s consideration, he added: “I promise I won’t be angry.”

It felt like utter nonsense to say out loud, a patronising placation as one might give to a child. But Charles, in Edwin’s experience, responded well to directness. His panic thrived in the mires of ambiguity. 

Releasing a ragged breath, Charles rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Just… dunno what to do sometimes. When you two go off at each other.” He peered at Edwin with his uncovered eye, and tried for a smirk. It fell decidedly short of the carefree, playful expression it was aiming for. “Dunno what side to pick, do I?”

He voiced it like a joke, but Edwin was listening carefully and he knew an incomplete sentence when he heard it. He stepped closer and, slowly, giving him time to step back, took Charles’ free hand and squeezed the fingers. 

Charles closed his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. “Can’t keep you both happy,” he admitted on a low mumble, like it was a shameful secret. 

Guilt sank sour and heavy in Edwin’s stomach, but he carefully kept it from his face. Any indication that Charles had made him feel bad was liable to make him shut down further. “It should not be your duty to keep the peace,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I will speak to Crystal later, clear the air.”

Charles nodded, but he still stood propped against the desk and hunched unhappily in on himself. Edwin could see his brain turning itself over and over in miserable little spirals — wondering if he should have stepped in earlier, said something else, wondering what he could have done differently to make everything better. To make everyone happy. 

Edwin swallowed tightly, and placed his hand upon Charles’ shoulder. “Charles. Look at me, please.”

He did so, without question or hesitation. Responding as easily to the polite command as if it had come from his own consciousness. 

Edwin, with great care, hooked a finger through the gold chain aroudn Charles' neck, and tugged.

The effect was instantaneous. Charles’ wide, hunted eyes softened, slackened, his lined eyelids drooping. His lips parted around a quiet sigh, smoother than his last ragged exhalation, and his shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been dropped from them.

Charles was an ever-unfolding and expanding area of study; but to Edwin’s expert eye, on occasion, his needs were remarkably simple to interpret.

Meeting his now somewhat unfocused gaze, Edwin leaned in. “Put Crystal out of your mind for now,” he said, quietly commanding. “In fact, put everything out of your mind.”

“She’s upset,” Charles mumbled in protest.

“Yes — and she will continue to be so for a while longer, regardless of what you or I could say.” Edwin smoothed the collar of Charles’ polo. “When the dust has settled I will find her and smooth things over. I promise. For the time being, you’ll do none of us any good with your overthinking.”

Charles snorted. “Overthinking? Me?” he joked.

With another gentle, recriminating tug of the chain, Charles gasped and quieted.

Edwin sighed and leaned close, ‘til his nose grazed across Charles’ cheekbone. “Granted, your tendency to underthink before making dangerous choices borders on the pathological,” he teased. “But I strongly suspect you're thinking a lot of very unkind thoughts about yourself right now, and I'd like for you to stop. Please.”

Breath shuddering, Charles’ hands lifted, fisting in the front of Edwin's shirt. 

“That what you want?” He asked, his voice a small and broken thing. For all his strength of body and character, he felt as vulnerable in Edwin's hands as a baby bird.

“How about I tell you exactly what I want for a while,” Edwin offered, breathing it across the shell of Charles’ ear. “And then all you have to do is listen." He delivered a swift, dry kiss to Charles' cheekbone. "No detective work required."

~~

Full fic coming to a blog near you on August 5th! Go check out the Painland Week blog and also lmk if you wanna collab on anything, assuming I get pain flareups under control I'm hoping to write lots and lots! Already got a little collab lined up for day 2 which I'm soooo excited about 💛