#Beastly old woman....

[grokebaby]

Here admire Spider's design a little closer

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Choosing the Beast: Modern Folklore Heroines Embrace the Animal Husband

“I choose the bear.” The refrain rang out across the web, with many a woman nodding in agreement or at least understanding, and certain men huffing with indignant outrage. Just a meme, really, but did it speak to a deeper truth? Is it merely age-old mistrust of patriarchy talking, or a true desire for the beastly, the wild, the untame?

I’m no sociologist, of course, but I have noticed an emerging trend in fem-gaze media that seems to reflect this view. In movies like I Am Dragon (2015) and recent shows like My Lady Jane and The Acolyte, the heroine chooses the beast, loving her animal husband in his wild form rather than requiring him to transform back into a mundane man to earn her affection. This is such a departure from the typical folktale pattern that it’s difficult to even find an historic example where this occurs.

Commonly thought to reveal the desire to tame a dangerous mate in a patriarchal society, most animal husband tales (ATU 425a) feature a hero who ultimately transforms permanently into a human. This is viewed not only as freeing him from the maddening effect of his wild form, but also saving his bride from committing the sin of bestiality. In these tales, the animal mate’s transformation is necessary for the salvation of both.

Is the modern heroine then damned by choosing her husband’s beastly form? Or does she actually free them both from the yoke of patriarchal expectations?

Bathing: Discovering the Wild Masculine

The first motif that stands out in these modern screen examples is bathing. In animal spouse tales, there is often a dynamic of the hunter and the hunted, and thus a moment when the hunter comes upon their would-be lover unawares. Perhaps they find the animal spouse sleeping, or they cast a light on them unexpectedly, see them without their animal skin or disguise, and so on. And of course, they often come upon the lover at their bath.

There is an implied eroticism in this discovery, finding one’s quarry not only undressed, but also in the most private of activities. Water of course symbolizes fertility, but bathing is also purifying, symbolically washing away all that might make a mate undesirable. And this, perhaps, is the reason that historically this motif is used almost exclusively for animal brides, not animal husbands.

For the animal husband, he either actively chooses to reveal himself to the bride (perhaps on their wedding night), or she violently strips away his disguise, often armed with “flame and steel” like Psyche and her many avatars. Animal brides on the other hand are nearly always discovered at a body of water, bathing. The hunter will then capture her either by stealing her animal skin or cloak, or by placing his own clothing on her. What does it mean, then, when it is the husband who is discovered bathing in a body of water, held as an erotic object in the feminine gaze?

In The Acolyte, Osha follows Qimir to a pool where he slowly undresses, in full knowledge that she is watching. On the shore, she steals his lightsaber, just like the hunter who steals the animal skin, symbolically claiming him. When he emerges, Qimir dons new clothes, as if acknowledging that he is a different person than before he entered the water, almost purified in a way. Osha is forced to confront that there is more to the murderer in the mask than she realized.

Similarly, in My Lady Jane, our heroine goes looking for Guildford just before sunrise on their ill-fated wedding night, only to discover him bathing in the stables. The scene is gratuitously filmed from Jane’s (very horny) perspective, flipping the script on the countless scenes in screen history shot with the masculine gaze. Immediately after she discovers and confronts him, Guildford transforms against his will into a horse, and Jane realizes that he is an Ethian, a creature she has been taught is demonic and unnatural.

And in I Am Dragon, Mira makes several discoveries in quick succession: first, she deduces that Arman is actually the dragon. In the next moment, she slips from the island’s peak and falls, saved only when Arman transforms at the last moment and breaks her fall with his dragon form. The water begins to wash over his unconscious body, and at first Mira thinks that she will allow him to drown. But the sight of Arman in his human form after he rescued her, worried over by his animal familiar, stirs her to pity and she wraps him in a sail and drags him to safety. In this way, she clothes him, claiming him as her own.

Each of these heroines discovered a new aspect of her husband at the bath, finding him unexpectedly alluring, and ultimately choosing to begrudgingly claim him. Each animal husband tried to wash away his beastly form, to separate himself from the wild masculine. These men feel a sense of disassociation from a part of themselves, but now that their brides have discovered it, there will be no more hiding. Further, the bride now holds the power in the relationship, evidenced by how her husband needs her: Qimir needs Osha to be his apprentice, Guildford needs Jane to help him “break the curse,” and Arman needs Mira to heal him from his wounds.

Playing House: The Half-Husband

The second feature of these stories is a period of domesticity for the couple. For a brief time after the husband’s beastly nature is revealed, the lovers “play house” like children. While sexual tension is present, they typically do not consummate their union during this time, but instead cook, eat, rest, and care for one another. What’s more, they ignore or even attempt to actively destroy the husband’s animal form. They deny that this is part of him and therefore part of their relationship.

In I Am Dragon, Mira heals Arman, and wakes the next morning to find he has left food for her (dragonfruit, appropriately). Together they begin building a home out of shipwreck debris they find scattered around the island. A cheery montage shows them decorating a living space, choosing clothes, playing music, and dancing. But the specter of Arman’s monstrous form lurks on the edge of their idyllic life. Mira has nightmares, and tells Arman how much she fears “the dragon,” notably not referring to them as the same person. And eventually, it emerges that Mira has been planning to escape, rejecting Arman’s dragon form entirely.

After he sheds the helmet and robes of The Stranger, Qimir turns his attention to caring for Osha: he heals her, lets her sleep in his bed, provides clothes, and cooks for her. In turn, after some lightsaber-wielding, Osha becomes more comfortable in his home and accepts the food he offers, eventually even trying on his helmet. Later, they bicker amiably on their way to Brendok, like an old married couple on a road trip. When not facing down Jedi, Qimir leaves his menacing persona behind and transforms into an empathetic, protective, and alluring partner.

Jane Grey, meanwhile, finds herself using her honeymoon sequestered away in a private cottage to try to cure Guildford of his Ethianism. With her knowledge of medicine, she concocts various potions and magical cures, but none of them succeed. Guildford often checks in on her after these disappointments, making sure she’s getting enough sleep and taking care of herself. It’s also clear that they’ve been regularly dining together when Jane suddenly dashes off to rescue her friend. Guildford follows her and the two protect one another, followed by an almost-tryst. Even when they move into the palace, their day-to-day (or rather night-to-night) life is one of comfortable domesticity, although they continue to deny Guildford’s horse form.

In each of these cases (although less so in The Acolyte without Season 2 to continue the story), playing house can only last for so long while the husband’s animal nature is denied. There is a part of him that is suppressed, rejected, and this leads to him being incomplete, a half-husband. Each hero is unable or unwilling to accept and celebrate his whole self with his bride. Eventually, it is that denial that leads to a rift between the couple, which can only be healed not with the transformation of the husband, but with the embrace of his animal form.

Enforcing Patriarchy: The Rival

Each of these relationships exists in direct opposition to the dominant culture in the story: Arman as the Dragon is the literal enemy of Mira’s people, Qimir as Sith is the enemy of Osha’s Jedi masters, and in My Lady Jane, intermarriage between humans and Ethians is punishable by death. By choosing to stay with their animal husbands, even for a brief time, our heroines are openly defying the patriarchal norms of their societies. But no oppressive society is about to take that transgression lying down. In each story, a rival emerges to enforce the patriarchal order, kill the beastly husband, and retrieve the bride.

In I Am Dragon, Mira’s betrothed and descendent of the dragon-slayer, Igor, journeys to rescue her from the dragon. Over the course of the story, it becomes clear that Igor cares nothing for Mira herself, and merely feels entitled to her as his bride. Dragon-slaying is his heritage, so he must find her, kill the dragon, and take his place as the hero of his people. Even the marriage ceremony illustrates his ownership of her: he takes hold of a rope tied to her boat and reels her in, thus binding her to the patriarchal order. Contrast that to Arman, who offers her the power of flight, a symbol for freedom.

In Osha’s case, Qimir’s rival for her loyalty is clearly Master Sol, who wants to keep his former pupil dependent on him and the Jedi. Sol takes patronizing fatherliness to an extreme, constantly rescuing Osha rather than letting her stand for herself, teaching her to deny her feelings and instincts, and lying to her to “protect” her. The Jedi refuse to allow that there might be any other way to access the Force than their own, thus invading the home of the Brendok witches and ultimately orphaning the twins. Sol continues to press this dominance to the end, challenging Qimir and insisting to Osha that his own lies were justified.

In My Lady Jane, there are two rivals, both women. Lady Frances attempts throughout the show to dominate her daughters and crush their wills, forcing them into unwanted marriages, applying political pressure, and even counseling Jane to abandon Guildford to save herself. The other rival is Mary Tudor, who is determined not only to emulate her father’s violent, oppressive, and misogynistic reign, but to crush anyone she considers “unnatural” or who poses a threat to her rule. These characters stand as clear examples of how women can enforce patriarchy, too.

In each story, there is a moment when the rival briefly recaptures or “rescues” the bride from her beastly husband, bringing her to a moment of decision: will she stay within the bounds of patriarchy like a good little girl? Or will she make an act of defiance to choose her own path?

Marriage: Choosing the Beast

The bride’s choice will ultimately decide not only her fate, but that of her mate as well. As an independent character, the wild masculine is deeply wounded, separated from himself and thus from his bride. He longs to transform not into a greater, more whole person, but into a lesser, half-person. Alone, without the embrace of his anima, he cannot see the value of his beastly form. Instead of healing, he faces annihilation.

As a part of the bride’s psyche, the beastly husband represents her innermost desires, the truth of her heart, and a spirit freed from the expectations of her society. He is her animus, her missing wild masculine. If she transforms him into a man, then she will tame his wild nature, bringing him to heel under the boot of the patriarchy. Choosing the human form and rejecting the beast means rejecting her own psychological needs. It would be just another form of psychic dismemberment.

Fortunately and unusually, each of these modern brides chooses her beastly husband without demanding he transform. When Osha finally agrees to become Qimir’s apprentice, she takes his hand under the willow tree, clasping the newly-bled lightsaber between them. A few scenes later, this wedding imagery is repeated when they hold hands over the saber again, this time looking into a sunrise/set. Notably, at the moment they “marry” under the willow tree, Qimir is wearing his beastly helmet with rows of menacing, wolfish teeth. He has not come to the light side or shed his Dark Side persona, but Osha has embraced him anyway without fear. And while they might not both be healed (yet), they are more whole together than they were apart.

When her efforts to cure Guildford of his Ethianism repeatedly fail, Jane begins to suspect that his “condition” cannot be cured at all. But listening to her Ethian friends Susanna and Archer finally convinces her that the truth is Guildford doesn’t NEED to be healed - being an Ethian is who he is, and it’s nothing to fear. Unfortunately, Guildford still associates his beastly form with his mother’s death, so he is unable to accept it as Jane encourages, and flees. After a near-death experience, he uses his equine speed to return to the castle just as Jane is deposed and captured. As our heroes battle toward the end, Guildford comes to learn that there are many other proud Ethians, and that his family loves and accepts him in any form.

Still, he’s unable to transform at will, and when Mary captures him and sentences both husband and wife to death, it seems their story may end in tragedy. But as Guildford has been struggling to accept himself, Jane too has been battling with her own conscience. Does she renounce Guildford to save herself? Use her wits to kill the guard and escape? Bend to her mother’s manipulation? Jane confronts each temptation, and ultimately chooses to face death rather than betray Guildford or herself. But when her Ethian friends (the wild instinct) appear to disrupt the execution, our heroine seizes the opportunity to rescue Guildford. Unable to free him from the burning pyre, she confesses her love for him, and they kiss amid the flames.

Fire is often a herald of transformation, burning away illusions to reveal the truth. And when Jane and Guildford exchange their vows in this symbolic marriage ceremony, Guildford’s fears and illusions are finally burned away. Now that his bride has accepted his beastly form, he can accept it too, and so he at last transforms at will into a horse so that they can escape. Their story ends with them married and whole before the sunrise.

Among our modern heroines, Mira is the boldest in her embrace of the beastly husband. Offered yet again as a bride to Igor, she realizes that this is not what she wants, and casts off the tether from her boat. She declares “I love the Dragon!” using the name of her husband’s animal form rather than his human name. Then, she sings the song that will call the dragon to her, and he appears to carry her away again.

But their story is not over yet! Earlier in the story, Arman told Mira of how he loses control when in dragon form, and that dragons are compelled to reproduce by burning maidens to death and retrieving their offspring from the ashes. Returning to the island with her a second time, the dragon drops her on the altar and prepares to spew fire, but Mira lunges up and kisses him. This act of love, even when he is a monster, stuns the beastly husband. Again, Mira declares her love and kneels before him, saying she does not wish to be parted. We might expect the animal husband to transform in this moment, but instead he lays his fearsome head in her lap as a lover. Their story ends with a child and a flight in the sky, silhouetted by the sun just like the other couples.

Each bride, when confronted with the option to return to the patriarchal limits of her childhood, chose instead an act of love and acceptance for her wild masculine. This embrace helped the beastly husband to accept his whole self, and he is healed without having to cut off the wild parts of himself.

What Does It Mean?

Again, this story is so rare in world folklore that it’s difficult to even find examples. On fleeting occasions that the woman chooses an untransformed beast, it is presented as a cautionary tale. These women are framed as a danger to the community for their bestial impulses and abandonment of the social order, much like witches who were said to consort with the devil. It was certainly never presented as a happy ending, insofar as we can tell from written accounts.

So what does the emergence of this tale mean for our culture? I would argue that this is just the latest step in our ongoing reckoning with historic gender roles, as well as renegotiating with other forms of systemic oppression. People of all genders are pressured to reject a part of ourselves, cutting us off from our own truth and desires that run counter to the enforced social order. We must not challenge patriarchy, must not embrace different gender expressions, must not blur established hierarchies of power, must not find joy and power in our identities, and so on.

This enforced denial does tremendous damage to everyone caught in the system, and so through story, we dream our way to escape. We dream of embracing the dark, wild parts of ourselves, of flying free on a spaceship or a dragon or enchanted horseback, and of being totally loved for who we are.

It’s clear patriarchy is still fighting back against this emancipation of the wild feminine and wild masculine, given that both The Acolyte and My Lady Jane were canceled not long after their release. In the case of The Acolyte in particular, there was a sustained campaign from its announcement to harass and silence the creators. Demoralizing as this phenomenon may be, it’s important to remember WHO ultimately owns these stories:

“Fanfiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.

-Henry Jenkins, NYT 1997

Ah, an oldie-but-goodie. But Dr. Jenkins is right. Corporations may greenlight, film, release, and then cancel these stories, but ultimately they belong to the people. We take from these tales what speaks to us, leave what does not, and then retell them ourselves in fanfiction, in art inspired by the stories, and in lessons we pass on to our friends and families. If the embrace of the wild masculine speaks to you, let the story take root in your own life. Do you know someone who needs to be embraced, just as they are? Do you need to accept the parts of yourself that society tells you to hate? Do you want to be free, healed, and whole?

If so, then let these stories show you how, and tell more like them. Embrace the beast, and find your joy.

Sources:

Beauty and the Beast Tales From Around the World by Heidi Anne Heiner

In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender by Barbara Fass Leavy

And a relevant song for you, as a treat:

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

[eccentricallygothic]

|| Wrong Turn ||

Pairing: Mountain Man Silver Fox Nomad!Steve Rogers | You. 

Trope: Neat and clean ‘civilized’ Princess-like young trophy wife X Filthy beast of a wild and scary man who only got her because he has the power. 

Description: In a desperate attempt to save your life from the wrath of the mountain people that your friends and you stumbled upon and accidentally killed on a hike gone wrong, you had to offer yourself up to their Leader to use as a ‘resource’. But little did your ‘husband’ know, you had been actively getting rid of his seed to avoid actually getting pregnant. Naturally, when he does find out, he is very unhappy… And also very determined to make sure you don't make it out of your punishment without a child, or two.

Warning(s): Dubcon, barbaric!Steve, breeding kink (gone wild), unprotected p-in-v, reverse cowgirl, doggy style, missionary, he has a wife bod kink (but it is inclusive), misogyny, smut with perhaps too much plot, fear kink, size kink, exhibitionism, possessiveness, jealousy, age gap, hair pulling, spanking, biting, allusions to painal and Steve being a teasing sicko about it but he doesn't actually penetrate, overstimulation, dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, boob play, squirting, Lloyd makes an appearance with his own young bride, dacryphilia (it's me), self degradation, Stevie is a perverted old meanie, infantilization, mind break.

Disclaimer: Very loosely based off of the movie that I do not own. You don't need to know it to read this piece but do note that it takes place in a fictional setting. Minors do not interact. 

Inspo-ish: This post.

Note: For someone who was on their period, I should not have been this horny. But I need this marriage, now. Ps, though this rotted in my drafts for a long time… in honor of Chris growing out his beard again, ig.

MASTERLIST

. . .

You have no idea how long it has been since that fateful twilight when everything changed in your life, leaving you to a lifestyle you could never have even imagined for yourself.  

“Eat up, woman” but as your barbarian of a husband commands you in his rough and animalistically deep voice, you cannot help but break out of your reverie and shudder at the sight of the barely cooked meat piled high on the platter in front of the two of you. “So you can bear me healthy children” although you're the one who was made to prepare his beastly dinner -that never fails to leave you aghast when it's gorged down- as you're his wife, you cannot help but gag under your breath and feel disgust for the loaves that sit before you in the company of a tall stone carved jug that brims full of the foul smelling mead that your husband is ardently fond of. 

You muster up your best coy smile. Keeping up the appearance of a happily mated pair is important. Or people stare. And then the old man becomes unpleasant. “I had quite a lot while I was cooking, dear” your lies sting your tongue out of the fear you feel of getting caught, but the mere hope of not doing so is better than eating this. “Y- You go ahead” you slowly turn in his muscle hardened lap, that you are always to sit on, to give him a small smile but your expression almost transforms into one of horror because of how wildly your heart jumps at the sight of his stern, predator-like face. You are quick to recover though, as it is a usual occurrence. 

“You need it. You work so hard—” there is just something about his rough looks that never fails to send a chill down your spine. You have never seen anything, let alone an actual human man like him before. 

A beard as thick as the very forest his people populate and as dark as the nights can get here in the absence of lanterns due to the heavy trees, age that streaks some of his gold locks with its silver has not marred the sternness of his jaw that remains firmly set under the heavy mane of his facial hair. His shoulders seem akin to the mountains that surround his village and his piercing dark eyes the mysterious waterfall that flows some way down south from the entrance of the settlement. The frightening mass of his shoulders is so toned that if the barely noticeable wrinkles that sometimes appear under the dark of his eyebrows and next to the crow-feather like lashes that frame his eyes, he can easily be mistaken for a man in his primeful late twenties and no older. His unrelenting strength and wolfish stamina would only further serve to bear testament to the misconception. 

Your strict husband bluntly catches your shaky hand that you extend in his direction to feed him some of the meat, the force that he uses coupled with the coarseness of his skin making you jump. You bite back a yelp and whimper when you look up at his dark blue eyes from where you were watching his bearded mouth to carefully place the food in.

“I don't care” Steve does not care much for being polite -unless it is you who disregards it in your behavior-, especially when it comes to you denying or diverting his ‘care’ for you. “You eat more” you bite back the scowl that threatens to break onto your face from how he turns your hand around in your direction instead. “Wives always need to eat more. They do so much at home for husband and children” he probably feels proud of these ‘values’ that have been transmitted to him by his elders. But all they make you want to do is to crack him across the jaw for being a misogynistic and backward shithead. Especially with you. 

Your ‘husband’ believes that everyone has a role to play; a contribution to make to their people and home. That is how this archaic village of theirs has survived in these mountains hidden away from the rest of the world for so long. 

The greasy piece of a disturbing excuse of a rare steak touches your lips and you've been here long enough to know better than to argue or worse yet, fight. So you smile and lean into his arm that cases your form against his through the embrace he holds you in from behind, his fingers playing with one of the many flowered braids your attending ladies had put in your hair a bit before his arrival at ‘home’. 

“O- Of course” you reluctantly open your open and grip your flowy dressing gown for a semblance of support for your sanity, taking the smallest bite you can -which is still a lot as the man pushes nearly the whole piece into your mouth the moment you open up- as you keep your eyes trained on his to avoid looking down. Your mind always becomes more aware of the taste when you look. “Thank you, dear” you focus on swallowing it without gagging and feel your smile split in places because of how uncomfortable you are.

He probably notices it because he slightly raises one eyebrow and snorts before hugging your smaller form -that is tiny compared to his- closer and puts the rest of the piece in his own mouth. If there is one thing you have learnt in your time with him, it's that you can never fool him. Not really. No matter how well you may think you have lied or pretended, he always sees through it. 

Sometimes you suspect he even enjoys it.

Steve finally begins to eat himself, silently offering you another piece that you politely reject by shaking your head and then quickly pressing an apologetic kiss to his scruffy cheek to lighten the blow. Apparently, a wife can never be polite enough to her husband. And though the change in his expression begins with an unhappy frown, your show of ‘affection’ seems to suffice him and he relaxes in satisfaction, now looking down the long table and at his clansmen and maidens that sit enjoying their dinner, their chatter and laughter a dull roar in the large eating hall of the Leader's dwelling. You pick up the heavy jug of mead with both your hands and obediently hold it to his lips to sip from. Steve looks away from what one of his main men are saying and gulps down a mouthful, rubbing your back as a gesture for thanks before moving his hand quickly down to squeeze your ass to heighten the effect of his expression of gratitude. 

His form shakes in mirth when you yelp and blush. He knows how embarrassing you find being openly ‘affectionate’ in front of people and that is one of the reasons why he enjoys it so much besides showing off that a thing of such beauty and youth like you is all his. You rest the jug between your boobs that he has fucked and squeezed into increasing in size and use your other hand to gently finger and stroke his golden locks that he keeps pushed away from his face outside the bedroom. Though he says nothing, you feel his usually vigilant and always firm stature slowly soften and you cannot help but smile, though what he says next quickly deflates it.

“Do you feel any change in you, wife?” You know what it means and now it's you who becomes tense. He only uses that name for you when he speaks to you as a husband inquiring about your marital matters. “Has my seed attached to your womb yet? Does it grow there?” You gulp and feign shyness, moving closer to his hair and nuzzling yourself in him. “Hm?” He closes his hugging arm around you and reaches for your stomach, fingers groping your covered skin as gently as he can -which isn't much- to feel it. “Answer me” he demands when you refuse to speak. 

“I… I don't know, husband” you always promise yourself that you'll demand more rights for yourself; ask him to treat you like the other husbands treat their wives, only to fail the minute he enters your vicinity. 

“What does that mean?” His tone turns blunt and you whimper at the tightness that snaps back in place between his shoulders. 

You get it.

That was the deal, after all. 

Healthy children in exchange for your life that was required by their judicial laws for bearing false witness to your friend accidentally killing one of their people in mistaken defense. Steve had promised you before accepting you as a citizen that if you failed to fulfill your task you'd walk the darkness in the dungeons. He had shown you how it would be before declaring you a member of their tribe and the sight you had seen was something that had given you nightmares for days. 

But that did not mean you actually wanted to have your old captor's children.

You doubted it would ever be something you'd look forward to.

“I- I mean” regret shoots up your spine in the form of fear and you lose your speech to it momentarily. But then two of your main attending ladies -by that you mean Steve's top agents when it comes to you- enter the horizon of your sight and you hurriedly blubber out the first thing that comes to your mind. “I've n- never been pregnant before, s-o I d- don't know how to…” Your husband turns to look at you, his handsome features twisting into a rogue scowl but before he can scold you, one of the two ladies, Kaira, speaks in their language to Steve. 

Not everyone here can speak English and those who do speak it do so a rather odd version of it. Naturally, you don't speak their language and so they give you the full experience of an outsider when they need to discuss the business they want to keep private from you. The thought makes you want to laugh, like you'd be able to do something with whatever informations they withhold.

But it doesn't really bother you, because you don't care.

You've also learnt that ignorance is bliss here. 

Especially for someone like you.

Better to be the doe eyed trophy wife of an angel who can't tell her head from her ass.

“Is that so?” Your heart jumps when Steve chooses to speak English. That means that this definitely concerns you. You place the mead down and wrap one arm around his broad shoulders before nervously combing his thick beard with your other hand. Since you have no interest in or desire to learn their language, the only word you manage to pick up on when you focus really hard is ‘baby’ and that is solely because of the annoying amount of times it comes up for you. 

“Is not this strange?” He speaks once the women step back after finally ending the nerve wracking conversation that seems to go on forever. “Do you hear what they say about you, little one?” Fuck, you're definitely in trouble. 

He is reminding you of your place. 

You put on your best charming smile but you're painfully aware that your nervousness gives it away. You can feel it. “W- What do they say, dear?” They were such bitches. They knew how to speak English, that's why they were your attendants, but yet they chose not to. And now they were glaring at you like you weren't above them— oh no, not these thoughts again. You will never become like them! No, no! 

Steve pushes his plate away now. Your head spins from the realization. It's only half finished. Your husband never wastes his food. It is a near sin for them to do so. “They tell me the most odd things” oh just fucking tell me! You mentally scream but outwardly tilt your head to the side in confusion, your chest vibrating with the rising beats of your heart. “And now that I think about it myself…” His fingers wrap around the mead before he raises it to his lips. “I see the—”

“What did they say, Steve?” Your mouth works faster than your better sense and he pauses mid sip, dark blue eyes flickering up from the stone jug to look at you. Your face flushes a noticeable hot and your ears get sweaty from the awareness. 

Fuck. 

“They say you've been getting rid of my seed” he feels played and thus angry at the both of you. Perhaps more so towards himself than you; his silly little child-wife. How could he let a thing as tender and small as you fool him so? “... Do you?” It is obvious you are guilty. Besides, he is confident that his people would never lie to him unlike one young and beautiful girl that he had found kneeling in front of him in his court while bawling her eyes out one fateful night, fear stricken as his people surrounded him like a doe trapped. 

And of course, your expressions and reactions don't help your case, as always. “W- What? No…” Your mind becomes erratic.

“No?” He himself knows not what kind of a chance he offers you with that. But typical to your nature, you make it easy for him by refusing it.

“N- No! Of course not! W- Why would I ever do such a thing to m- my husb- hubby and my b- babies?!” Steve has to clench down his scoff. 

“You wouldn't, would you?” Your naivete never fails to amuse him.

“No! I- I don't know why they accuse me so—” you mend your speech from the archaic form that tries to leech to it everyday. “I don't know why they would accuse me of that but they must be mistaken! This is a misunderstanding!” 

He hums. “I see…” His scarred fingers begin to toy with your braids again. “So you remain devoted to me and faithful to our family, don't you?”

“Of course!” You nuzzle closer to him, your heart thundering into his chest. “I don't know why they still treat me like an outsider” you purr as you nervously stroke his hair, playing a card of your own and making an absolute fool of yourself by doing so. “I try my best… like I promised.” 

“Yes, your promise” his distant eyes -they get like that when you disappoint him and you hate the sight because it never fares well for you- travel down to your empty stomach. His gaze makes it wrench. Your fear skyrockets at the same rate as your anger. If only there was a way for you to get back at those bitches without having to give birth!

“I- It takes time sometimes, dear…” You hug his shoulders with one arm. “But it will happen. I know it…” Your other hand reaches for his fingers that rest on your abdomen now. 

“Oh?” Steve raises one dark eyebrow at you. His hair is the most fascinating combination of blonde and dark brown. “Is that what your modern day sciences say?” His people were not always like this, he had told you. They did not originate from here. Rather, some families had abandoned ‘civilization’ when it was going to hell -in his words- by killing each other for meaningless constructs such as caste, creed and color differences and migrated up here to establish a system of their own; one free from such nonsense. 

Apparently.

You take a deep breath. “Stevie—” you only call him that when you find yourself dangerously close to the dungeons.

“If that is what you believe in, wife,” he never cuts you off. Usually, that is. His age that streaks his blonde strands with its silver ones has granted him enough patience. Normally, he waits for the other person -who is most often you- to mess up themselves. But whatever the ladies have told him seems to agitate him into rebelling against his own nature today. “I'll do it your way. After all, happy wife happy life, is that not what you tell me often?” Okay, you might have said that during a particularly cocky moment in bed once. 

But the intention behind that had not been nearly whatever he is moving towards now. 

“Y- You don't have to, l- love…” You nervously giggle. “You're perfect the way you are” you run your nails that he insists you keep trimmed for hygienic -as if- and practical purposes through his silver-blonde hair.

“Oh no…” Now he pushes his food farther away. “I will indulge you, little one” he moves your other leg over his laps so now you face the people down the table with both of your legs on either sides of his, ass to his… fuck. “Time conspires against us, and so we must make haste.”

Your eyes widen and your heart leaps up in your throat. “M- My love?!” 

Steve moves your flowy gown out of his way, keeping a firm hold on one of your thighs even though he doesn't really have to. Your fear of him would never let you attempt an escape. “Yes, my stars” the name is so full of sarcasm it nearly pierces you open. “Let us leave time to its devices, and us ours” your husband is usually a very possessive and private man when it comes to you, but his ire seems to get the better of him today. You hear the buckle of his own clothes come undone. The table goes silent and heads turn in your direction once they realize what's going on. Oh no… Your stomach drops. Not in front of everyone. Not when Steve makes you so vulnerable in that condition. Not in front of these lowlifes!

“Husb—” blood bubbles hot under your cheeks as you feel him align himself against you. 

Holy shit.

You feel one of his coarse hands wrap around your throat and he pulls you closer to his mouth so he can whisper in your ear. “You will contribute, my stubborn little wife,” you whimper from the menace his words hold, your well trained cunt obediently squelching open against his thick hard tip as he lowers you on his cock with the hold he has on your thigh. “Whether you like it, or not” sometimes, deep down, you fear that the dungeons are not an option anymore. 

He keeps you in the horizons of his sight too much for them to be. 

It appears as though the sentence has changed. 

It is now Steve, or Steve.

You cry out from the strain his log-like girth puts on the narrow band of your entrance. God. You will never get used to his size regardless of how many times and ways he tames your pussy in. Yes, it does not refuse him or rip around him now as it used to in the beginning -and it did that for a long time- but the size to which his cock makes it expand is like a mini-birth. Feels like it, looks like it. Only, it feels way too good. And that's why you don't mind it—

No. You don't know what that was or meant. But you don't take responsibility for that thought!

“Oh!” The balmy velvet of your cavern grazes down the bulging veins and hard skin of the brute's cock until your petals squish against his heavy and very eager balls. Your head spins when you feel his tip tickle your cervix. It never takes his dick long to find it.  

His hands are pushing you back up almost instantly so he can slide you back down. You look anywhere but at the tens of faces in front of you, instead choosing to look at the wall on the opposite side of the table. You never thought these people were capable of being this quiet until now when your pussy makes an embarrassingly loud squelching noise as Steve tugs you back to his leaking tip and then allows gravity to suck you back down. You desperately bite your lips and try to focus on ignoring the way your insides are beginning to thrum with the excitement and stimulation; to show these brutes that you're better than them and aren't some animal of nature. But to no avail. His slimy precum mixes too well with yours, the rough skin of his hands digs into your thighs too well and the manner in which your petals rub against his cock when he lifts you yet again -now forming a momentum- before letting you slide in again is too much for you mask with nonchalance. 

Indifference has never been among your strong suits.

“Tell me, my pretty” Steve begins again, his dark eyes now finding the young and hormonal pack of unsuspecting boys who clearly do not know better. “Have you ever had a cock like mine?” He says it in their own language so the foolish miscreants see, understand and learn the fact that you’re only his. You belong to him and he will go to war for you, not that a pack of rug rats will ever be a cause of worry for him. “Has anyone ever fucked you as good as I do?” He switches back to the language you understand, roughly fumbling for your jaw before he grabs it and bounces his hips into yours at the same time. 

Your traitorous legs have begun to do what they always do; fuck yourself against him -if he hasn’t bound you, which he hasn’t- in whatever position he has you. You only realize that your breathing has become heavier when you open your mouth to answer. “Only you, my husband! Only you!” Your brain is running too fast for reason or reflection to catch up so you leave wondering why you answer him with the only words he has been able to teach you in his language to later. Your words are muffled as his fingers that grip the lower half of your face nearly slip in your mouth from the disordered urgency of the both of your actions. 

“That's right” your mouth falls open and you begin to softly pant in that animalistic way that you detest when he makes you watch yourself in a mirror while fucking you sometimes. In your defense, it is always unintentional on your part; you barely even notice it while taking his fucking. And yet, it is inevitable due to the force he does it with. “Look at you; dutifully fucking yourself up and down your husband's cock like a bitch in heat” a twinge forms in your knuckles from how your fingers hold the edges of the table to aid the gliding of your fuck hole that now slams up and down his cock in a rhythm you're all too familiar with, the smacks of your bare ass slapping against his naked abdomen making appalling noises that you're too worked up to dread over right now. “And you're a bitch in heat for me, aren't you?” His fingers move down from your jaw to your throat. “Wanting to be bred over and over again until you're so full of my children that your little belly is round and heavy to the brim, hm?” In these moments, you tell him anything and everything that he wants to hear.

Steve knows it all too well.

And he loves it.

“Yes!” Your voice disappears midway from how he squeezes your windpipe. His hips meet yours midway now, the wetness of your cunt and the force of his thrusts causing for his balls to try and push past the tight boundary of your sexual cavern. “Yes! Yes! I am! Please!” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when his free hand finds your petals to play with. “Ohhh!”

“You want to be bred, don't you?” He rubs your drenched pussy lips while his hard cock pistons in and out of your sopping cunt. “Want to contribute…?” He chokes you once more and this time his fingers pinch one of your pussy lips punishingly at the same time and you cry out. “Provide your husband with a house full of heirs?” The oxygen in your mind depletes and your eyes flutter as a result, cheeks turning red and nerves becoming prominent on your glistening temples. Your horny yet defensive pussy finally relaxes around him a bit so it doesn't hurt his dick and he savours the moment by holding you by the curve between your legs and fucking into your form that gets limp by the moment to push you towards your first orgasm. 

It always gets better after that. 

For him, at least. 

You don't choke him out so much then.

“Y- Yes!” When Steve finally lets go of your throat to let you breathe, you blubber out an an answer obediently once the light returns to your eyes. Your walls stiffen around him once more. But by then he has already worked himself closer to your womb. “Yes! Yes!” It is all your mind can muster.

“Good” he makes a point of taking both of your boobs in his hands and thoroughly massaging them to show off his ownership over you. “Now ask me to breed you” the fence of heat that has formed around your loins becomes tighter when his hands that previously fondled your clothed breasts slip under your gown -for Steve is too possessive to actually expose you to the eyes of others- and he softly rubs your tense sides a couple times before his fingers form pinches around your hard nubs. 

“Please breed me!” Your voice is so loud and strained that its quality is nearly blood curdling. “Please breed me and s- stuff me full your children!” Your hands fly to grip his from over the dress as you throw your head back and slip from the edge of your anticipation, parrotting all the words he has taught you over the course of your marriage. “Oh GOD! Please!” Your back arches from the coming undone of the hot belt of expectation and scorching gratification spills from it, seeping down your legs in the form of a nearly unbearable electric feeling that transforms into a subzero energy when it reaches your toes that curl, causing them to feel as though they are freezing. “I need your b- babies so bad, hubby!” 

Steve's own ears blush from the heat that courses through them in the form of adrenaline as he snorts, some of his blonde strands coming loose from the push and tug that he plays with your cunt. “Tell them” his balls ache from the strength it takes him not to fill you up right then. “Tell everyone that you want me to fill you up with my babies” since your sensitive body tries to curl and move away from the overstimulation, the older man wraps both of his hands around your thighs to keep you going. “Say it!” And he makes you say the words that he desires in the language of your spectators that look embarrassed for the first time since you got here. 

Save for your husband's best men who look equal parts aroused and proud. 

You want to cringe and be disgusted but your sensitive pussy is being pounded too hard for you to attempt a conjuring up of any dignity. 

“Need hubby babies bad!” You cry out again from memory when Steve's thick seed begins to fill you up at last. “Oh, my God!” The feeling of his hot cum filling you up and painting every inch of your sensitive walls penetrates your already hazy mind and the warmth that steams out of the pearly liquid steams its way up to your womb, making you shudder at the feeling. Your opening tightens around him in protest of the overstimulation and it instead causes for a barrage of bitter-sweet electric sparks to explode through your abdomen in the form of a half post-climax orgasm. Your body grows tired.

But your insatiable is far from done.

“Flattering, but no” Steve pushes you against the table before standing up when he is done fucking his orgasm as deep as he can reach into you. “The father of your children will suffice” your eyebrows furrow at his words but the older man does not give you a chance to ponder over them because now he is hooking his hands under your thighs that your rapid and messy fucking has covered in both of your juices. 

“W- What?!” Your vision is hazy and your mind dazed as you incoherently tap about. “What's— oh!” You wince from how much easier it is for him to move inside your worked open and much lubricated but torturously overstimulated walls now. “Oh! Oh…” Your hands blindly feel behind you to try and get him to stop. “Oh, no! No, please!” You cry out weakly, your upper body hanging low in the opposite direction from the exhaustion. 

“No?” The older man darkly chuckles, paying no mind to your flailing. “You think you can say that to me?” One of his hands desert their post on your thighs to roughly grab at your hair. He hasn't forgotten what started all this. “You think you have the same rights as everyone else around here, wife?”

But you're scowling from the burning pain in your walls, mind hazy and unwise. “Stop! Stop!” Your puffy folds ache from how his stiff skin rubs against them as he moves in and out of you at a normal pace… for now. “It hurts, stop!” 

“That is the part and parcel of having children” your body curves outwards as he pulls you further back and closer to himself by your hair. “And is that not why you're here?” His cocky tone along with the hungry and wondering eyes of the wildlings make you angry. “What you were spared for in the first place?” A twinkle in the eye of a man pisses you off and…

“It hurts, you old bastard!” Your young blood gets the better of you and your mouth runs before sense can catch up. “Stop, stop, stop it!” Since your hair holds you closer to him you manage to land a few smacks to his rock hard arms before you try to snake your fingers under his to pry off the hand that he coils around your thigh in a weak attempt to move away. 

Steve only chuckles, clearly unfazed by your fighting as he bounces your smaller form up in the air with each thrust. “Did your mother not teach you anything, wife?” He lets go of your hair only to restrain both your arms on the small of your back. “Good girls never tell their husbands no” your body flops forward again and you've no choice but to face the long table full of people. “They lay down pretty with their legs spread and let their husbands fill them with their children and then they express their gratitude for being granted a family.” Though your mind is confused and rather disoriented from the influx of sensation, you can make out new additions to the crowd of your humiliation from the corners of your vision. 

“Ugh!” You grunt from the rapid jabs he gives to your sore pussy, his firm hold nearly searing into your wrists. “I don't wanna have your stupid blonde babies!” Steve breathlessly lets out a real laugh at that. “Let go!” 

“There” he can swear he will never tired of you breaking the little character of the obedient wife that you so naively think you have mastered only to break it when he has you all riled up like this. “Right there, easy now” his other hand leaves your lap and he pushes your head down and against the table in the most condescending manner imaginable. Steve has got you to expose yourself for the brat you are, no need for play anymore. “Now I make a bunny out of you” his dark eyes now meet with those of the boys sitting at the other end of the table and his use of their language is a silent message. The Leader knows how his wife is desired. And he doesn't appreciate it in the least. The young males all panic and look away, gulping to themselves and praying for their lives. 

You try to struggle again, your lip curling in disdain and protest as you feel him fuck his cum right up your cervix. The bitter pleasure you get from it makes your head spin and your fingers and toes flex defensively. “Ooof!” Your cheek rubs against the table and you puff out your face to express how tense you feel down there. 

“Brat” Steve shakes in silent mirth as he reaches for your ass with the hand that he was holding your face down with. “Don't you move a muscle.” You're too busy rocking over the table and being held down to try. 

“Hubby, please!” You whine when one of his veins twitch deep up your walls and your knees shiver from the sensation. “Please!” Maybe if his cock wasn't so comically huge, it would have been easier to move past the rough friction of your raw, orgasm worn skins. But it is and so you are ready to abandon the dam that begins to form in your abdomen again if it means to avoid this pain. “Owwwiee!”

“Aw” Steve cooes as he now moves to a pace that falters your vision and causes for the great table to shake with each thrust that he gives you. “So small and sore, aren't we?” The spank he lands on your unsuspecting ass right after is the stark opposite of his tone. “Maybe we shouldn't act out so much when we are so weak and pathetic, huh, wife?”

“Oooof!” One of the shyer ladies get up before she carries her young son who stood next to the group of the young ones away and the realization of the fact that your spectators are all real people who see you everyday and will continue to do after this drips down your limbs like ice cold water. Your hips cannot help but clench from the embarrassment that you dully feel in some part of your mind way far at the back. “Hubby, please!” The spanks increase with each snap of his hips and though the turmoil between your legs takes up most of your sensory powers, your cheeks now begin to noticeably sting from the pain that builds from how the swings of his hand against your poor ass increase with each thrust. 

“Please?” Steve muses like he isn't balls deep into you and fucking the literal daylights out of you like a crazed heathen. “Oh, but I thought I was a mean old bastard” of course, your pleas always only mean that you want more, according to the brute you are married to. They cannot mean anything else, apparently. “And you didn't want my stupid blonde babies” you grunt from the frustration and land a helpless fist on the table. You are in an uncomfortable tug of war between the mutilation of your sensory glands and the tall barrage of tight hot anticipation that cannot help but form in the base of your stomach again because of how hard and rough he fucks you. 

Your husband's main man, Lloyd, laughs in a comically daft voice to tease you and be the insufferable asshole that he is. “You've got yourself a feisty little pup there, Steve” he is the only one who can refer to the blonde haired man by his name. Or maybe, he doesn't care to use the honorific and his usefulness backs him up. You wouldn't be surprised if the latter really is the case. “Don't you agree, my sweet?” He side hugs his own young bride who ironically is one of the sweetest and perhaps the only nice person in this entire village and Lloyd grins down at the girl whom you now notice is blushing furiously. 

Before you can let the humiliation swallow you whole, Steve spreads your burning cheeks and chuckles at the sight he finds glistening and blinking up at him, the madenned hammering of his cock unceasing. “Look at this adorable little button of yours, darling” you are not personally familiar with any of the faces that witness you trying to pathetically crawl away when your devil of a husband begins to tickle your pucker so you realize it was actually not quite hitting you as bad as it does now when you become hyperaware of Rainie's gaze. If it weren't for how your eyes roll because of Steve's hot seed shooting deep up your cavern again and nearly searing into your very flesh this time around from the brutality of it all, you reckon you would have tried to hide. But now all you do is let out choked blubbers as your wide eyes sting from tears due to the sensory overload. “I think it's time we deflowered it, what do you think?”  

Oh, no. 

His cock is not something that you can handle in your ass without splitting all over the place!

“No answer? No?” It feels as though you are the one who is cumming and not Steve because of how good he is at wearing the mask of nonchalance. “Hm,” he roughly pulls you backwards by your hair before hooking an arm around your waist to keep you from trying to get away from how he toys with your trembling pucker. “Maybe we should let sweet Rainie decide for you, hm—?”

“OH, GOD!” You cannot help but scream over him. 

He is too much.

Steve ignores your exclamation, thrusts delayed -more jab like- but so strong that his tip spears into your cervix with each thrust, thus causing for your head to spin from how he chooses to fuck out his orgasm. “She's your friend, isn't she?” Steve's beard gently stings the sweaty and teary skin of your jaw from how his mouth presses into your ear. “Aren't you, Rainie dear?” 

Yep, you are never looking her in the eye ever again. 

“Answer him, sunshine” Lloyd eggs his wife on and you notice through your cloudy vision that he is making her palm his own bulge. You nearly cringe back into Steve's chest from the obscenity of it all. 

The girl, a new bride herself, is shy and small next to her own flesh boulder of a husband as she meekly peeks up at you through her lashes. “Y- Yes, sir. We are friends” her voice is barely audible and both your husbands chuckle. 

If it weren't from how a dull orgasm rips itself apart somewhere deep between your loins, you would have felt angry.

It is like the assholes know that you're friends, and they're having their fun with it.

No wonder they are best mates.

“Good, good” you can feel Steve's cum splattering your thighs with each brutal jab, the sound and sprays of his shaft making a mess of your juices underneath your dress ample in its audibility. “So, do you think it's time your girlfriend's dirty little button was opened up, hm?” He keeps one hand on your pucker and reaches for your boob to grope with the other.

Rainie blushes again and furiously lowers her head the moment her eyes connect with yours. Though you don't know it, her own has been deflowered not too long ago and she isn't sure what response would be favourable by you, so that and the embarrassment of the Leader questioning her for something like that about his wife when she is on amiable terms with the girl makes her choose silence for as long as allowed. And her own husband cockily leaning into her and mansplaining into her ear how it would work for you by comparing it with what he did to her pretty ass only makes her curl further. 

“Shy little thing, isn't she, my precious?” So your husband turns his unwelcome attention back to you, bending the both of your bodies forwards so he can smack your asshole with the back of his hand easier, the impact making you rock violently forward. “Maybe you should learn some manners from her, huh?” The howls you let out from getting your pucker pinched and hit is something you would rather not narrate. All you choose to disclose of that ordeal is that sobs echo in the hall, another orgasm rips out of you and you are sure your body releases more liquid than normal for an average orgasm. “Look at how polite and nice she is, hm? While all you want to do is to curse your husband and be an ungrateful little sloth” it sounds as though a newfound annoyance causes him to grit his teeth towards the end and the tip of his fingers finds recourse in seeking for itself a passage past the tight barrier of your unwilling button as a result. 

And so your mouth begins to run in the desperate way he loves. “N- No, no, no hubby! No!” You vehemently shake your head as you feel your knees start to buckle from the exhaustion. “I- I didn't mean it!” The bearded corners of his mouth pull into a deep smirk. He knows its coming, and he loves it. 

“You didn't?” How can he not when he is the one who trained you to it and taught you the words to say during. 

“No! No!” Your voice comes out child-like from your mind's succumbing to its defeat. For the day, at least. “I d- didn't!” 

Steve is a jackhammer in how he fucks his children into you and works towards giving you more. “Oh, I see” now he speaks to you like an elder speaking to a young one, like you are no older than five winters. “Then, will you tell me why you said such naughty words to your husband who does so much for you?” He knows you're small now and so he chooses his words accordingly.

After all, it is Steve's meticulous tailoring of your mind and body which brings you to act out this specific sequence. 

Nothing less, nothing more.

Just this. 

A shrew tamed into a compliant wife equipped with the mind of a babe. 

He may never admit it outright simply because it goes against his very code of life but Steve knows in his heart of hearts that it is this very push and pull you put up in your own passive little way that keeps him alert and your marriage interesting. 

Addictive.

“Is ’cause— hnnng, cause—!” He pulls both of your bodies back up with the intention of turning you to face him but he chooses not to do it just yet. He wants you, those silly boys and everyone else who suspects that his judgement grows soft because of his fancy for your youthful beauty and adorable personality, to hear it. Steve can always pull you right back down if wants. Your reins will always be in a hand's reach to him. Just because he lets you sneak in your foolish ways sometimes doesn't mean you've conquered his nature-gifted better sense.

“Because, what?” Everything in life calls for balance and so each time your misbehavior that you think you hide so well from him begins to rise above a level he deems no longer amusing, he is there to hammer it down. 

Quite literally. 

“Because I am j- just an i- impudent,” Steve grunts and moans, feeling his cock twitch from how you always mispronounce imprudent when you are in this state. He taught you that word and true to your little baby self and mind, you can never get yourself to say it right. “Little wife and I am a d- dumby—”

“Fuck…” Steve feels a drop of cold sweat trickle down his back from your little vocabulary. He feels himself pant from how hard he fucks you, his windpipe alight from the friction caused by the air he heaves in with each desperate inhale.

You are a proper trouble; something he has never had before, and he loves it.

“— D- Dumby sloth who dunno any real worries besides e- eating and b- being spoilt b- by my lovu hubbsy—” your tongue is kinetic jelly between your teeth and Steve has begun to moan from how fucked stupid you sound. “So I get shtoopid and u- ungateful” Steve cannot contain it anymore. In a fevered and desperate confusion of how to express the thunderstorm you cause in his head, he slaps your hair away, causing for some of the flowers to go flying about, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, growling so deep into your skin that you feel the vibrations cause ripples in your blood. Perhaps that is what Steve yearns to taste. “B- But husby always fixes” your head goes limp against his as he sucks your skin like a crazed animal for you lose a track of how long. Your vision and hearing bolts away from your comprehensive faculties like a bullet train and your body gets sucked into the vacuum of your husband's beastly grip. You are just a lifeless doll rocking in whichever direction and manner he pleases.

Next time your brain catches on with your reality, your body has been placed under his with your back against the table. You faintly notice when your dress begins to get wet that splashes of mead cover it due to your brutish husband's depraved madness. 

“Look at me, hey” he pats your incoherent face until your wandering gaze settles on him, teary eyes distant. “This is the face that you will see in those of your children, and children you shall have until this residence cannot contain any more” his promise echoes in your buzzing ears like the bestowing of an ultimate truth upon you by some powerful deity. “This is the face you will look up at as you spread your legs,” his tip is so swollen, raw and hot against your worn skin that you can feel it even in this state. Your features scrunch from the discomfort. “This is the face you will kiss and cherish” his fingers find your throat again and your eyes roll to the back of your head when he puts pressure on your windpipe. “And this is the face that you will look at until you breathe your last” he holds you until you are on the verge of losing consciousness, though letting go only to stifle the gasp you let out to resume your breathing with a hot sealing kiss.

Your muscles twitch and your body spasms in the position he has you in. Laxness washes over your limbs and you begin to violently shake from the dull and yet stinging quakes of sensation that bloom through your whole form. 

For some dark, twisted and depraved reason, you cum from the helplessness of your situation and it is present in Steve's amused and proud smirk that the knowledge is not lost on him. Swiping an arm around you from behind with an air of satisfaction, he collects your limp body closer to his and walks off to your chambers with your drenched sexes still connected, leaving a crowd of embarrassed, curious, satisfied as well as tamed spectators in his wake. 

You surrender yourself to him and close your eyes as your body collapses on top of his. Your mind barely works but you know one thing— fact as clear as day; you are not making it out of this without at least one child on the way. 

And there isn't a single thing you can do about it.

. . .

[hotheadedhero]

Like 'em Big

AN: I have so many stories to write but I had to do this. Blaming being sick, m'kay? Fever has got me bad and these meds got me loopy. Thinking we need some good, silly fun in our lives, right? Plus, now that I've watched Rise, I'm hungry for some big Raph appreciation. I know I ain't the only one

Part 2

All characters are aged up

Raphael x Reader

Warnings: near peril, easily smitten, possible errors due to fever (what kind of fever is up for deliberation🥴)

Cutting right to the chase. You like big dudes. That doesn't necessarily mean muscles, either. You just love you a big man - someone with a bit of something-something to them. More to love, you know? Given your track record with the greater world, it shouldn't be all that much of a mystery. Cats? Get yourself a tiger that you can cuddle into. Jumpers? Comfort central, baby. Beds? If you can't spread eagle then you see no point. The old-age saying does declare that the bigger the better, so who are you to disagree? How true that is may be up for debate but it’s merely as simple as understanding what your preferences are.

However, this makes dating a difficult ballpark to play in. No matter how tall, jacked, or voluptuous someone is, it never feels like enough. Human biology and genetics can only go so far in the conceivably possible sense. You just want to be absolutely engulfed when you get a hug. Is that such a crime? Apparently, it is. Unfortunately, you also seem to come across the worst jerks when you attempt to date within this set of criteria. One might argue it's your karmic justice for being so superficial and picky but a woman has needs. Not those kinds of needs, either. Get your head out of the gutter.

All hope seems lost and after yet again, another failed date, you decide to call it in for the evening and make your way home. A fresh failure and another wonderful outfit gone to waste. By no means is it anything flashy but you put a lot of work into it: pencil skirt, turtle neck sweater, and a nice pair of boots to compliment the look. The whole shebang! All of that effort for nothing. This is the last time you spend three hours doing your hair and makeup. Block after block, your feet grow heavier with every step. What you would give to come across a mountain-like man you can climb who is also a kindred spirit. Perhaps this dream guy will forever be that - a dream. Men like that don't just fall out of the sky.

"Look out!!"

The sudden shout almost scares you into tripping over and you look behind yourself, wishing you hadn’t. Two very large, very dangerous-looking figures entangled in battle, those of which are approaching your helpless little self. You quickly duck as the giants hurdle over you. One falls on its side whilst the other claws and skids against the ground, regaining its balance. It shakes its head and locks onto you, a guttural snarl rumbling past its jowls. Such a creature is surely from the stuff of nightmares. An indescribable nightmare whose sights are set on you. The smart option would be running away but it's as though your shoes have melted into the pavement. Pawing into the tarmac, the beastly thing growls and lunges for you. Great. This is how you die: torn limb from limb by a demon dog. Well, assuming your clothes join you, at least you’ll look like a total babe in the afterlife.

"Oh no ya’ don't," the other one yells from behind the predator, grabbing it by its tail. “Pretty ladies are not food!”

With a mighty tug, he pulls it back and swings it as far away from you as possible. You release a shaky breath, legs trembling beneath you. That was far too close for comfort. The fight isn’t quite over, however. Just as it approaches him, the green goliath swivels on his feet, full 180, and whacks the creature's jaw with a closed fist. His speed alone has you in awe but the force is astounding, practically earth-shattering. It completely knocks the air around you and pushes you onto your backside.

When the dust clears, the first thing you see is your saviour panting, his spiky shell(?) pointed towards you. Just past him in the distance, you notice three more figures in blue, purple, and orange taking a closer look at the unconscious tyrant. You swear one of them pokes at it with a stick. Witnessing strange beings such as this isn't entirely new. Anyone who's watched Chateau Pretenche knows about the celebrity chef turning into a grotesque pigman. To describe it in one word? Horrifying. It's just whether people choose to believe it genuinely happened or if these bizarre entities exist. Being up close and personally observing it now puts your scepticism in check.

As the humanoid turtle calms, he turns to face you, recapturing your attention. A red mask sits over his eyes and there’s a noticeable snaggle tooth poking past his upper lip. Typically, the prerogative is keeping out of sight but it’s much too late for that. He gradually advances towards you. You watch him warily and he keeps his movements slow for that very reason. It wouldn’t be a shock if you were to try and make an escape. He wouldn’t blame you. Currently, all he wants to do is make sure you weren’t hurt during that fiasco provided you don’t suddenly come out of your bewilderment and run off. You have good reason to but he just saved you. Either that or he’s as ravenous as that beast and wants you all to himself. The irrational conclusion remains as such - irrational - when he descends to one knee and outstretches a hand. There’s an irrefutable kindness in his eyes; a caring nature that can’t be replicated in the face of savage brutes.

"You okay?" he asks.

You continue to gawk without a word but, bit by bit, you reach out for his offer. Your fingers lightly trace the centre of his palm before comfortably trusting the proposal. His hand engulfs yours completely and Raph hopes to mercy that you don’t realise how sweaty he’s getting. He can feel his heart beating like crazy. He wonders how much of that is the adrenaline from the fight and how much of it is being in the presence of such a beautiful gal. As he helps you to your feet, he rises to his own. Someone of his stature shouldn’t be capable of being this delicate but he is. It has you running through a loop and you unintentionally stare at the remarkable behemoth.

Quite pathetically, you nod, unable to verbally respond to his question. How can you? You are effectively starstruck. Once you gloss over the turtle-y features, all you see is the sheer size of him as he towers over you. Height, width, the magnitude of those arms! All of it is glorious. You can hear the universe asking, “You want a big man, huh? How about one who isn’t human?” to which you answer, “Who gives a damn?”. If the only way a man can be this big is not to be human, so be it.

Amidst a whisper, your mouth moves on its own, "You're beautiful."

"What?"

"Huh?" Blinking out of your trance, you realise what you’ve said and giggle sheepishly, "I mean, you're be... ba... booming! Totally awesome with the whole- uh... saving thing." Nailed it. 

He blinks right back down at you. This is certainly a first. He can feel his face heating up and he withdraws his hand lest you endure the wrath of his bashfulness, opting to hold the back of his head. At this moment, he seems to look anywhere but you.

"Heh. Gee, thanks." His humility is adorable and you’re glad he doesn’t question your initial statement. He turns to you once more, regaining some composure. "You sure you're okay, though? That thing was pretty scary looking."

It’s clear that you haven’t sustained any physical injuries but even bearing witness to something so unsightly can have lasting effects on one's mind. His brows furrow gently in concern down at you and it occurs to you that there’s a soft heart under all of that shell and muscle. Bonus points. This makes you smile for the first time in front of him and Raphael is sure that the streetlights got brighter.

You laugh fondly, “Yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.” Twiddling your fingers, your lips purse up in his direction.  “Is there any way I can repay you?”

He places his hands on his hips and chuckles cutely, “Just doing my duty, ma’am.”

He may be indulging in his alter ego - the Red Angel of Preventing Harm - but it’s not every day he gets paid thanks when he saves someone. It’s also not every day he gets to save such a pretty woman, either. You, however, can’t just leave it at that. There must be some way in which you can properly thank him. Ulterior motives include getting to know this already loveable lug better but shh. It feels like the odds are finally turning in your favour and you won’t let this slip away from your grasp. That’s when it hits you.

Muttering under your breath, you erratically search through the confines of your little handbag. You are certain that you had one in here somewhere. In the spare pocket maybe? Ah! Found it. Fumbling to take the lid off of your pen, you hold out your hand, gesturing for his. He slowly complies, to which you jot down a series of digits on his palm accompanied by your name and a tiny 'x'. 

"Gimme a text sometime," is the last thing he hears before you disappear around a corner.

Oh? Oh. Ohhh. Wow. Getting your number is the last thing he expected. Did he get hit on the head during that scuffle or something? Was everything from the last few minutes a dream? He bores holes into the writing on his skin, scanning it over and over, scared that it’ll disappear if he so much as blinks. A dumb, wobbly smile not so gracefully decorates his lips as he trudges back to the turtle tank. He takes his seat but it’s obvious that he isn’t all there. Being so caught up in his rose-tinted bubble, he doesn’t register his brothers' voices. In an effort to gain his attention, Michelangelo jumps onto his shoulder, partly intrigued by what their leader is so absorbed by.

"Oh me gosh!” the young brother screams in shrill excitement, “Raph's in love!"

Careful not to smudge the neat ink, he’s quick to hide his hand against his chest. "That's crazy talk!”

Donatello sniffs the air and mockingly covers his nose. "The overwhelming manifestation of your nervous stink indicates otherwise, dear brother."

"I got a girl’s number!” he continues to defend, feeling his face go all kinds of red. “'Course, I'm nervous but that don’t mean I’m in love."

Lies and slander. It was practically love at first sight. He just doesn’t like the idea of his brothers knowing that. It’s easy pickings to be made fun of.

"Don't worry, Big Red. Lucky for you, you got a guy who knows all about the charm." Leonardo points both thumbs at himself as he falls back into his seat and props his legs up on the dashboard. "First, you just need to..."

The "helpful" advice drowns out as the large snapper opens and gazes at his palm again. He just can't comprehend how a gorgeous individual such as yourself could take one look at him and give him your number. It's puzzling but he supposes there’s a first for everything? That also doesn't mean he won't text you. The only thing getting in the way of that is fear. Raphael thinks he’d rather go toe-to-toe with that mutant dog again than have to face the risk of embarrassing himself. To anyone who knows him, it’s no surprise that he caves under pressure. No. He will do it! A chance like this is one in a million.

Oh boy. What could possibly go wrong?

[brattyfics]

Summary: Set against the eerie backdrop of the Florida swamps in the 1980s, this supernatural tale follows Adla Bennett, a woman navigating life after the loss of her father. When she discovers a wounded creature resembling a wolf on her porch, she takes it in for the night, only to find out the creature is a shapeshifter named Terry Richmond. He asks Adla for her help in locating his missing cousin, Mike, intertwining their fates in a way she never expected.

A/N: Divider by firefly-graphics. This is the beginning of my Swampbound story for Scary Terry Night (October 30) featuring Werewolf!Terry Richmond with my fave @uzumaki-rebellion! If you haven’t already, check out her Tattoos and Bloodsucker Blues preview. I struggled to choose an excerpt, so I’m sharing the entire first part. This story features supernatural elements and some mild gore, so please keep that in mind. Happy Reading!

Adla had spent all of her life in Florida, yet the strange things that washed ashore after storms still startled her. Destruction was to be expected—broken tree limbs, uprooted plants, even splintered pieces of homes carried away by the wind.

Tangled in seaweed, turtle hatchlings, along with frogs and crabs scurried frantically, struggling to reclaim their place in the chaos. Sometimes she'd find the occasional oddity: a tattered shirt, a weathered cloth bag, knotted fishing line.

But she'd never come across anything like this—a mangled, bloody deer carcass strewn across the tall grass, torn flesh and fur mingling with pieces of shredded cloth. 

Her instincts screamed at her to back, but curiosity got the better of her.

She knelt down, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Something violent had happened here. She scanned the scene, trying to make sense of it. 

A gator? No, they usually dragged their prey back into the water. 

Maybe a hawk? But even with its sharp talons, a bird of prey wouldn’t make this kind of mess. 

Possibly a bobcat? They prowled the swamps, their hunting disturbed by storms, always opportunistic. 

But no, the tracks didn’t match.

These footprints were too big—far too big. The prints were wolf-like but larger, deeper, as though the creature was far heavier than any wolf she'd ever heard of. 

Four prints ran parallel, perfectly spaced in the mud, until they faded into something stranger—two flatter, elongated impressions. 

Like feet. 

Human feet.

The footprints appeared far too big to be her own, and there shouldn’t have been anyone else wandering around the property.

A chill ran down her back even though the sun was shining. The mangrove seemed way too quiet, like the world was holding its breath. The usual racket of gulls and cicadas had vanished—like even they knew the storm had left more than just broken branches behind. One of the first lessons her father had drilled into her as a girl was to never run; not from a person nor an animal. 

Running makes you prey.

Adla pulled her hunting knife from her waistband, steadying her wrist as her eyes swept over the wide, open space around her. She was ready to defend herself if it came down to it, but there was nothing– no one hiding in the brush, no animal stalking her. Just thick humidity, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. 

She figured it was time to head back. 

With caution, she began her trek home, her footsteps muffled by the spongy ground, all while keeping a watchful eye on her surroundings. This land held secrets—some of which she had come to accept, and others she feared. 

The old myths— of beastly protectors with vengeful spirits, born of the swamp’s dark magic during the era of slavery— often lingered like shadows in the back of her mind, but today, the possibility felt much closer. The swamp was alive; gnarled roots of mangroves twisted out of the water like skeletal fingers and casted dark shadows on the surface of the water. 

Adla focused on the worn path ahead, until the low rumble of an engine made her pause.

She wasn’t expecting anybody—she never did. As a child, she had hated the isolation of living out here, but now? It kept the outside world at arm’s length, just as she wanted.

She hurried up the muddy incline, her boots kicking loose clumps of wet earth. At the porch of the old Cracker house, she leaned against the weathered wood, squinting down the overgrown path. A boxy, faded green Jeep Cherokee from the late '70s bounced along the uneven track, its tires struggling for traction in the soft ground. With an exasperated breath, she lowered the knife to her side.

It was none other than Jesse Hampton. She should’ve known.

The vehicle pulled to a stop, and Jesse stepped out, scanning the trees before his eyes settled on her. His mahogany skin glistened under the humid late-afternoon sun, and his damp t-shirt clung to his chest. His cap sat low, shadowing his normally neat hair, now curling wildly in the moisture. A few days' stubble covered his jaw—unusual for him but understandable after the chaos of the storm.

Even so, he was as handsome as ever.

"Adla," he called, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "You shouldn't be out here alone." His gaze darted behind her, as if sensing unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. "I get that it feels peaceful, but it's still dangerous."

The last thing she wanted was to give him more reason to worry or lecture her, so she swallowed the uneasiness she’d just felt moments before.

"You sound like my father, Jesse." She rolled her eyes, dismissing his caution. But Jesse's expression tightened, a hint of something unspoken hovering between them. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Adla, just... promise me you'll watch yourself. You've got a light in you that attracts attention, and sometimes that attention ain't the kind you want."

The weight of his words hung in the space between them. She could feel the worry lacing his words and caught an uncharacteristic flicker of fear in his eyes that was hard to overlook. “Quit that. I’m fine,” she shot back, the nagging feeling returning to her chest. She hated when he used that tone– like he knew something she didn't. 

She couldn’t understand the source of Jesse's recent worries. They had grown up playing in the wild jungle that was her backyard, always safe. The worst they ever faced was a snake that sent them running to her father for protection. Wild boars and gators lurked about, but they didn't bother anyone who didn’t bother them. 

“Live and let live” had always served her well.

“What you doing out here?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly.

“Do I gotta have a reason now?” Jesse countered, flashing a charming smile. She wrinkled her nose, picking up on the mischief in his tone. “You always have a reason when you show up at my place unannounced. So, what’s the story this time?”

Jesse owned a bustling convenience store in town, but most of his income came from various side hustles. He was the go-to guy for anything anyone needed, always finding a way to get things done, no matter the cost. 

“Just checking in on you, that’s all. Wanted to see how you were holding up after the storm. But if I’m not welcome…” He paused, a mock-serious expression crossing his face. “I can turn right back around.”

Adla scoffed, turning her back on him as she ascended the steps of the screened-in porch. “You say that every time, but you always end up following me inside.” He fell into step behind her, his boots thudding against the weathered floorboards. “You don’t even bother asking if you can come in anymore,” she teased, shooting him a sidelong glance.

“After all the times I’ve been here, why would I bother? Especially when you’ve welcomed me in plenty of times.” He leaned against the doorframe with an easy grace, arms crossed and a playful glint in his eye. “Sometimes at night, if I’m not mistaken.”

Adla shook her head as she headed to the kitchen. “Come on, Jess, that ain’t the same, and you know it.” 

She opened the fridge and retrieved a pitcher of cold water, then grabbed one of the glass cups from the cupboard. After she poured, she handed it over to him, her hands wrinkled from long hours spent clearing debris in the yard. When he took the cup, their fingers brushed against each other, stirring the subtle tension that always rested just below the surface between them.

“Now, why you gotta put it like that?” Jesse asked, a pouty frown appearing on his face as he took a sip.

“'Cause I need you to get this,” Adla paused, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t like folks showing up here without a heads-up, and that goes for you too.” She hoped her sweet smile softened the message. Before anything, he was her closest friend, and she never wanted to hurt him. 

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter beside her. She considered asking if he’d been snooping around her property without her knowing— Jesse was sneaky like that— but figured it’d raise too many questions if he said no.

He set his glass down, inching closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought I was special, though.” 

She arched an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Now, where’d you get an idea like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tugged a curl loose from her messy ponytail, the spiral bouncing back like a rubber band. “I figured if I did that thing you like enough times, it might earn me a few privileges around here.”

She fought a smile. “What kind of privileges are we talking about?” 

“The kind that lets me show up whenever I feel like it.” He leaned in, his intentions clear as he tried to kiss her, wanting more than just a friendly chat. Adla pressed her palm against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

Jesse was undeniably handsome, and she enjoyed having him around, but she wasn’t about to let anyone—no matter how charming—think they had a claim on her. She was in charge of her life, and she liked it that way. Getting serious with Jesse, no matter how often he hinted at it, simply wasn’t part of her plans. Especially knowing other women were enjoying that thing she liked too.

“No, sir,” she replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she shook her head, trying to lighten the mood. “You thought wrong. But since you’re already here, you might as well lend me a hand with something.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned in, steadily pressing closer, an eyebrow raised as his interest deepened. “And what would that be?”

“You can come help me set these traps and see what else washed up after the storm,” she said, avoiding his lips to steal a drink from his cup. She hoped to score some fat crabs and a few fish to stock the freezer for the next few days. Her generator had held up well during the storm, keeping the food fresh, but it was always smart to restock. Hurricane season wasn’t over yet and she felt a bit uneasy about heading back into the woods by herself. 

“Aww, man,” Jesse groaned dramatically. “I should’ve known that coming over here meant I was gonna have to work. You’re a real slave driver, girl, you know that?”

They spent the next couple of hours working side by side, enjoying a comfortable rhythm of silence mixed with casual conversation.

First, they checked her garden for storm damage while Jesse caught her up on the latest town gossip—apparently, Mrs. Flowers had been caught with Mr. Jenkins in Mr. Flowers' house. The mustard greens were ruined, uprooted and twisted by the wind, so she pulled them up. Thankfully, the okra and sweet potatoes had weathered the storm just fine; she just hoped the excess moisture wouldn’t lead to any rot.

Next, they moved on to setting her fishing nets and traps, but instead stumbled upon another surprise.

Like the mangled bird she'd spotted earlier, several fish heads littered the bank where she usually set her traps, alongside crab skeletons missing their claws and backs, stripped bare. This wasn’t the typical gator damage—no, this was something far worse, disturbingly messy and strange for the area’s usual predators.

She scanned the ground for any more footprints but saw nothing. No paw prints or torn cloth either.

“What in the world?” Adla muttered, staring at the destruction. “What you think did this? A gator?”

Jesse leaned down, his brow furrowed. “A gator wouldn’t leave pieces like this.”

“Something else did this,” She finished his sentence. Adla’s skin prickled and suddenly, hiding her unsettling feelings from earlier felt foolish. She described the strange prints and the shredded bird she’d found to Jesse as he listened intently. He ran his hands over her shoulders, trying to soothe her.

“You shouldn’t stay out here alone tonight, Addy. Why don’t you spend the night at my place?”

Adla couldn’t shake the feeling of unease about what the darkness might bring, but she couldn’t take Jesse up on his offer, even if his grandmother’s old house was just a few miles up the road.

The old woman had adored her, having been the one to deliver her. Still, it just didn’t feel right to spend the night in another woman’s house, even if that woman was no longer alive.

Plus, sneaking around with Jesse where others could see was out of the question. 

She wasn’t about to give anyone a reason to stir up drama or question her independence. Lord knows she couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Mrs. Flowers, her good name dragged through the mud to anyone willing to listen.

“No one—and nothing—is gonna run me out of my house,” she replied, her stubbornness rising to the surface. This place was her sanctuary, the fruit of her labor and her ancestors' struggles. They’d fought hard for what they had, and she felt a fierce pride in maintaining the one thing that truly belonged to her. 

Out here in the swamps, peace was something you earned, not given. She would defend her home if it came to that.

“You don’t even know who or what it is, and you want to stay out here alone? That doesn’t make a lick of sense, baby doll,” Jesse insisted, his persistence typical but unusually intense.

“I’m not your ‘baby doll,’” she shot back, irritation rising. He seemed to be making a habit of testing her clearly established boundaries more recently. 

“I already told you—I’m staying here. You should head out before it gets dark.”

“Come on, don’t be like that—” Jesse began, his voice smooth like molasses. He might’ve been charming, but today, she wasn’t about to let those sweet words sway her.

“Go,” she pressed, stepping forward to cut him off. “I’ll handle the cleanup and make sure everything’s locked up tight, but I want you to leave—now, please.” 

Jesse held her gaze for a long moment, recognizing that determined look in her eye. He knew better than to push too far when she was set on something. “Alright, I’ll go,” he finally relented. “But I need you to promise me you won’t leave the house tonight. Whatever you do, don’t cross that threshold, okay?”

Her face contorted at his strange choice of words.

“Why would I be outside? I’m not foolish enough to wander around out here at night. What’s got you so riled up today, anyway?” She reached out and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

“Just trust me on this,” he urged, his tone serious as he finally locked eyes with her. She’d never seen him look so grim before—what was he hiding? 

“You’ll be safe if you stay inside tonight.” He repeated carefully. 

Last she checked, danger didn’t give a damn about doors, but it was clear he wasn’t leaving until he knew she’d listen to his advice. 

“Alright,” she said, dragging the word out as her confusion showed. “I’ll stay inside tonight. Not like I was planning on wandering around anyway.”

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering there as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I’ll call you tonight, and you better answer. If you don’t, I’ll be back out here, with or without your blessing.”

As he turned to leave, Adla couldn’t help but smile after him. Jesse could be a handful, but beneath that cool exterior, she knew he cared for her as fiercely as she did for him. 

In the wilderness of the swamps, that bond meant everything.

He lingered in her driveway while she hurried to gather the crab shells, tossing them into her compost bin—no sense letting them go to waste. He didn’t start his engine and pull away until she was safely inside with the door closed, waving his goodbye from the street as she watched him from the window.

After locking up, she sank into a well-deserved bubble bath, a simple yet sweet reward for a day’s hard work. The clawfoot tub, older than she was but still in impeccable shape, had become a beloved fixture in her home. 

The bathroom, filled with the soothing scents of incense and candles, wrapped around her like a comforting hug. After her father’s passing, her top priority had been to breathe life back into the old house and make it feel like home again.

Every now and then, she spotted reminders of her past, like the doorframe where her father had marked her height on the first day of school every year or the cast-iron pans he used to whip up their dinners each night. But mostly, she had truly claimed the space as her own—weathered yet undeniably new in some ways– hers. 

Her short time in the city had been a far cry from the peace she now enjoyed in the country. Balancing multiple jobs just to get by, she constantly dealt with nosy neighbors prying into her life, questioning why a young woman like her was living on her own. The men she met often couldn’t take “no” for an answer, turning her daily life into a constant struggle against unwanted advances.

Worse yet, she had attracted the attention of a stalker—someone she’d never even seen who kept slipping threatening handwritten notes under her apartment door, claiming they knew who she was and had been watching her. It was both terrifying and emotionally draining, but she hadn’t tucked her tail and run home until her father died. 

Whenever thoughts of him lingered too long, the guilt of not being there when it mattered most consumed her, so she kept herself busy. 

Her part-time job at the new bed-and-breakfast in town helped her pay the bills and left her enough time to create. On weekends, she sold her art—pieces made from found objects collected in the woods—at the flea market a couple of towns over. Any spare moment was spent bringing something to life, whether sculpting or tending to her flowers. She loved working on the coastal hibiscus that grew in her yard, their bright blooms a small splash of beauty against the swampy backdrop. Her life wasn’t glamorous, but the peace she found in it was worth far more than anything else.

“When You're Young and in Love” by The Marvelettes played softly on the record player. It had been one of her mother’s cherished favorites, or so her father often reminisced. To Adla, the song captured the slow, simple peace she felt only at home. While she couldn’t completely understand the carefree idea of being swept away by a fleeting romance, it still forged a bond with the mother she never got the chance to know.

Her father had only a handful of pictures, but from those, she could see the resemblance. She had inherited her father’s height and perhaps his temperament, but everything else came from her mother—her rich skin tone, flat nose, and wide, expressive eyes. Those features made her feel close to a woman whose memory was etched in her heart but absent from her life.

With a soft sigh, Adla rose from the now-cool bathwater, wrapping a towel snugly around her waist. Taking a moment for herself, she slathered on a generous layer of cocoa butter lotion, the rich, nutty scent enveloping her like a comforting embrace from home. Her earlier worries faded into the background. Satisfied, she slipped into an oversized cotton nightgown, covered in bright floral patterns that mirrored the blooms in her garden. 

She went through her nighttime routine, carefully checking that everything was turned off and every door was locked tight. As she switched off the last light in her cozy home, the old wooden floors creaked softly beneath her feet—a comforting sound that added to the charm of the place.

Just as she was about to settle into bed, faint sounds echoed from outside—rhythmic, insistent scraping and thumping carried to her ears by the wind. Strange noises weren’t uncommon out in the boonies, but something about this one sent a shiver down her spine, drawing her into the hallway.

Adla glanced toward the door, a strange compulsion tugging at her, urging her to step outside despite Jesse's warnings. It felt as if something—or someone—was calling her, and the pull was too strong to ignore. She hesitated, biting her lip, fighting the overwhelming temptation.

Something clattered loose as she unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. Through the screen, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Adla squinted, trying to make sense of the dimness outside. There, bathed in the cold glow of the moonlight, lay a massive creature. Its shadow loomed so large that it seemed to stretch across the entire porch.

A knot twisted in her stomach. What in the world? This wasn’t no bobcat. This creature was more like a coyote, but much larger. It resembled a wolf, though she knew they didn’t roam these parts of Florida. Its amber eyes glowed like lanterns in the dark of the night, locking onto her with an intensity that sent chills racing down her spine. Jesse’s warnings echoed in the back of her mind. What if this creature was more than it seemed? 

I know this fool ain’t lookin’ at me like I’m dinner. 

Adla squared her shoulders, drawing on every ounce of strength she had. “You don’t belong here,” she called out, her voice steady and commanding. “Now, git!”

The wolf let out a low growl, a deep rumble that reverberated through the still night air, commanding her silence. It took a slow step forward, large paws thudding against the wooden floor, and she noticed it was limping. 

A deep gash ran from its back down to one of its hind legs, blood dripping from the wound and staining the old wood beneath it. The sight of its injury stirred something deep within her—a mix of concern and fascination that left her momentarily spellbound. It was odd but something kept her feet rooted in place, drawn to the creature and its imposing presence for reasons she couldn’t quite understand.

“Don’t you come any closer,” she warned, her heart racing as she reached for the shotgun she kept above the door, her gaze fixed on the beast. Adla tightened her grip on the cold metal, the weight of the gun both comforting and alarming as she aimed it at the creature through the screen.

The wolf paused right in front of her, as if held back by something she couldn’t see or understand. She glanced down at the door’s threshold, recalling Jesse’s cryptic words.

This was her moment—a choice between life or death. But Adla found herself frozen, her finger hovering over the trigger, unable to pull it. 

The large, beautiful creature let out a mournful whine before collapsing in a heap on her porch, nearly at her feet, its strength finally giving out as if it had resigned itself to whatever fate awaited it.

Despite its pain, something flickered in its amber gaze—a silent plea, asking not to be seen as a threat. The creature’s body shook, not with aggression, but with a desperate need to protect itself rather than harm her. The sight of that defeated animal struck a chord deep within her, stirring up memories of her own struggles not so long ago—exhausted by the burdens of life, yet somehow still pushing forward. 

A lesson her father had once shared echoed in her mind: “Listen, baby girl, we only take what we need from this world, and we don’t kick folks when they’re already down. Respect the creatures out here, just like you respect yourself. Life's tough enough without us makin’ it harder on each other.” She could almost hear his voice, the warmth of his wisdom wrapping around her like a protective blanket. 

Adla let out a deep sigh, lowering the shotgun. She hoped the wolf had enough sense to slip off her porch and find its way back through that little doggy door, the one that had been shredded and left with a gaping hole. Sure, it was already intruding on her space, but it showed no signs of being able to bust down her doors with its weakened strength.

The blood staining the porch was already beginning to dry, and she knew she’d have to scrub it down in the morning. If the wolf didn’t make it through the night and died on her porch, she could always call Animal Control to handle it— it wouldn’t cost her a dime to let the creature have one more night of life. 

That thought offered a flicker of comfort as she triple-checked that both the screen door and the sturdy wooden door were locked tight for the night.

Adla placed the shotgun within arm’s reach and settled into bed, her mind lingering on the wolf outside. She couldn’t shake the strange pull she felt. Yet, there was a quiet resolve in her heart—she would let the creature be. 

Maybe it wasn’t just a wolf. Maybe it was something more—a mirror reflecting her own struggles and wounds, a sign sent from her father to teach her something. The night was thick with uncertainty, but she felt no fear, only calm curiosity. She’d done all she could for now. 

As sleep tugged at her, she hoped that the wolf, with its heavy wounds and haunted eyes, would make it through the night. Tomorrow, she’d face whatever came next, but for now, she surrendered to the stillness, trusting that both she and the wolf would both survive until morning.

I’m open to any feedback, especially since this is my first time finishing and publishing something of this length. Does this preview raise engaging questions that make you want to know more, or is something unclear or missing? Did it draw you in or did it drag on? Please let me know your thoughts. Any insight would be invaluable to me as I continue to develop the story. (Send an anonymous ask if necessary).

[astrea16]

Piers and Pirates

So I've never watched One Piece before the live action, and I was curious about the anime but wasn’t sure I’d be into it so I started with Skypiea right away. The interesting thing I’ve noted about the structure of the story is that it reads a lot like a DnD campaign: one big journey divided into story arcs with their own atmospheres and challenges, and of course the iconic “you want to go now?” that turns into a ten-episode prep before the sky islands. I’ve briefly mentioned them before, but some of the encounters are so creative. I’m thinking for example of the Swamp Priest with the body control of a toddler who can’t cross his arms on his chest and forgets to say things out loud; or the old lady at sky customs who will let you pass because she can’t do anything to stop you but then sends an entire squadron after you. It’s a shame the anime is so poorly paced because the worldbuilding is genuinely phenomenal—but then again, it’s like watching a really long DnD campaign.

You can tell that Oda put a lot of research into his manga because every piece of information feels believable, whether it be Robin’s knowledge on ancient civilizations—the fact that Skypiea itself was inspired by the Mysterious Cities of Gold makes so much sense—or Nami’s navigation skills. It feels like you could sail in any direction and find an island with incredibly rich lore and characters. I’m just in awe of how unique each of them feels. Character creation is HARD, and yet no two are the same in Oda’s world. I could only achieve this level of depth with consistent roleplay, and he did it with all of his characters. They speak for decades of reading stories and consuming art blooming into one personal mindscape.

But the most remarkable one is Luffy. As opposed to the typical hero on a journey, Luffy doesn’t stand out because of a major personal growth or anything of the kind. toraheart put it perfectly in their analysis by calling him a catalyst: the story isn’t about Luffy, it’s about how he changes the world around him. How he inspires people to break free from their chains, how he stands for an ideology. More than an actor, Luffy is a symbol. And you can see that as clear as day in One Piece Fan Letter (2024) where he receives less than a minute of screen time, yet his presence resonates throughout the entire episode. The Marine who was inspired to save his brother in a moment of crisis, finding his strength in the boy whose own brother had died before his very eyes. The little girl looking up to Nami as a beacon of hope and rebellion, the same woman who found the courage to ask for help so that she could free herself from a decade of child exploitation at last. The teenager who works at the bookstore, listening to Brook’s music to get through her day. All of these were informed in some ways by the unstoppable force that is Monkey D. Luffy. He quite literally jumped out of a fire in that episode, and we know that epic imagery is one of the most evocative means of inspiration. If the boy wasn’t an anarchist, he’d be the face of revolutionary propaganda.

Speaking of anarchy, some people have called him a terrorist and I think I can stand with that. Luffy is kind, yes, but he is also selfish and stubborn. Despite his desire to help people achieve their dreams, he is entirely unconcerned with casualties when he’s fighting. He has only one goal in mind and will do anything to see it to the end. What compels me isn’t his beastly strength or his extraordinary abilities, it’s the fact that he wants everyone to do the same. To find their one piece, and to add it to the puzzle. It may not fit the first time around, but there will be people riding the same wave as you. And if someone stands in your way, well then screw that! Why do you think Luffy was so happy to have his face on a wanted poster? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not because it confirms his power. It’s because he knows that the world finally sees him. Luffy doesn’t really care about the treasure, he wants to become King of the Pirates so that he can have a place in a world that doesn’t want him.

To finish up on Fan Letter because it’s a masterpiece and I need everyone to acknowledge it, you really get this sense of carelessness from the Strawhats making their escape out of Sabaody. Yeah, everybody knows what they’re up to and they’re not exactly subtle about it (see: Luffy), but since when do they give a damn? The whole world is watching and they’re not even looking back, they’re just feeling the wind in their backs and staring straight ahead. Doesn’t that make you want to go on a grand adventure yourself?

By the way, if you liked the feel of the animation I highly recommend checking out the Gobelins channel on YouTube. It features several shorts by aspiring filmmakers in art school and they’re all a freaking delight to watch.

[katerinaaqu]

Odysseus: Monster or Man? (a small analysis based on a description at 22nd Rhapsody/Book of Odyssey)

The homeric hero, Odysseus definitely has sparked much controversy ever since his first inrtoduction by Hmeric poems in 8th century BC. Many writers after Homer portrayed him a hero others portrayed him as anti-hero and many as a monster; someone who wouldn't stop at anything to achieve his goals, someone who didn't care to be the monster...to perform monsterous acts. However was that the original goal of Homer when he wrote his protagonist? Was it really the relentless killer that we often perceive from post-homeric till modern adaptations?

I believe the answer is partially given to us by a small portion of the poem itself. In the 22nd Rhapsody, the scene that follows after the brutal murder of the suitors, Euryclea is called to the hall and this is how she finds Odysseus:

"And then she found Odysseus among the slain corpses, showered in blood and covered in gore like a lion, who comes after he had easily eaten the oxen that dwell outside at the fields; for his chest and both his cheeks were covered in blood, and he seemed terrifying to look at. Thus was Odysseus covered (here: in blood) even feet and hands above"

(Translation by me)

As one can see his description is absolutely speaking as "monster" as it can, given that even the comparison with a lion seems to be adding to that beastly appearance. Odysseus is standing tall among the dead bodies, covered in blood and gore, terrifying to look at. One can say he feels like home among the slain! He doesn't seel to care. Someone could say that this is the proof that he has no feelings of compassion at all. That he doesn't care he has just slain over 100 men so young and full of life. However, in my opinion the next passage shows exactly how much Odysseus values life despite the violence of the scene before;

"However when she saw the dead and perceived the unspeakable blood, she immediately wished to cry out of joy, once she saw this great deed. However Odysseus held her back, stopping all her eagerness and to her he spoke with winged words: in your heart, old woman, rejoice and hold yourself and do not cry out in joy: because it is unholy to wish to kill/slay people. These here the gods have overpowered for their evil deeds because they didn't care (lit: didn't honor) for any person upon this earth; good or bad that came among them (here: asking for help/mercy). And so because of their wickedness they befell in this dishonorable death"

(Translation by me)

Despite the fact we have had a total mayhem in the hall before (and quite frankly we have even more to come for he yet is to punish the slaves that betrayed him and his family) in here we see his other side; He doesn't take pleasure in killing. Even if he considers this justice (thus he said "the gods have striken here") and even if he doesn't seem to regret his actions per se, he doesn't take pleasure from it and he advises his old nurse not to cry out in joy.

He knows the deed is not happy; it is sad. He has more or less severed an entire generation of charismatic and very young men who had started to live their lives; men that were not much older than his son at that point. He also probably already knows there are consequences for that as well given that all of them have been lords and princes at their own accord. Odysseus had spent his previous days as humble as a beggar; testing their fortidude and heart. He had asked for mercy to see if they would help. He advised them to change their ways he even half-begs Melantho to change her own ways so he wouldn't have to kill them

When they did not heed his advice, mistreating him for his old appearance and ragged clothes; showing no mercy and daresay discriminating against him because he had the form of an old beggar in their eyes, led Odysseus know he had no choice according to the laws of the gods. And these men had conspired to kill his son on his way back as well. He never wished to performed that crime if he could avoid it. But at the end he knew he didn't by Athena's orders.

Conclusions:

Odysseus knew he had performed a mass murder (thus requesting to cleanse himself and the palace from the crime afterwards). Of course that is to be said he was not unwilling to perform the task. We do not mean to think that Odysseus was the classic goodie guy who would be begging the gods not to do the deed. He was above all a survivor of million tragedies and a war veteran (daresay a war criminal at that point). He was not unfamiliar to violence nor someone unwilling to perform it if needed

However it seems to me clear as day that he is not the type to seek violence where he can avoid it and he was always trying to be as just as possible, thus testing the people at his halls, asking them or warning them to leave. The fact that he was not unfamiliar to violence shows exactly why he didn't wish to perform it without thought.

Even after a monstrous act such as the mass murder of 108 people, the afterwards execution of 12 and the mutilation of yet another one, Homer is telling us that Odysseus was never supposed to be a monster that occasionally does human acts but a human that occasionally had to by the circumstances perform monstrous acts and also fully aware that they are wrong. Odysseus didn't claim death and wishing death is honorable. He says the opposite. Exactly because he knows first hand that it isn't.

[sevikas-biceps]

Vander's always looking down in his new form. Perhaps it's the size. Maybe his neck muscles are just fucked, or it's simply the animal anatomy that the mad chemist forced onto him.

He can at least look people in the eyes—but he simply doesn't choose to, not unless it's necessary.

He's always hunched-over, always gazing downwards when idle or in a state of relaxation; only ever bothering to direct his vision up when it comes to the sisters, or when he's attacking someone. Some part of him is ashamed of what he's become—half-man but not quite so, ever-teetering on the edge of his beastly nature. A hound. It's also guilt, weighing down on him; for what he'd put Vi and Powder through when he 'died', for memories of Silco on that night at the warehouse, for the blood he's spilled when he lost control at Stillwater.

He hears this voice, sometimes; the one of that mage, scientist, healer—or whatever the hell he is. Viktor. The one Powder called a Machine Herald. Vander thinks he can sense him, whenever he was inside his head, with a woman by his side; flashes of bright light that don't seem to fade no matter how much the Beast tries to shut them out.

They linger by him, even when he's curled in on himself; always whispering, always forming one conclusion after the other.

It's not Viktor's ability that brings him back, though, not really.

It's the fact that the two of them remind him so much of Powder.

Powder, who'd clamour around with Ekko as they tinkered with their gadgets. Powder, who'd proudly display all her latest inventions to him and her siblings. Powder, who'd loiter at the bar every day after sundown and yap about what's new. Pow-Pow, skinny and pale and erratic. Pow-Pow, reaching for things to take apart. Pow-Pow, bright and curious and delighted. Pow-Pow, pulling at strings and steel.

He sees her in Viktor and Sky; in the way they thought they were subtle about their findings, in the way they circled and prodded at him, in the way they would lean against him in comfort when it seems as if a hypothesis was wrong. It's fascinating, to be honest. They had the look of Piltovans about them—but their mannerisms, their empathy, their precision, their persistence; it had the bearing of Undercity children.

It's why he keeps his head down. He can't bear to look at them in the eyes—and then see Powder, and Powder only. And when he fully returns, when he's completely lucid and able to communicate without any violence, he can't quite bear to gaze at the sisters or talk. Just a few words. Maybe a glance. But never more than that.

It's not just that he's ashamed of what he's become. It's because he doesn't know what to do in this new reality. Viktor and Sky made memories of Powder resurface. And through her, Vi.

But he'd been gone for so long, and there's not much more he could teach his girls at this point. Besides...he's something to be put down, now.

It's a truth he'd come to accept in that fucking tangle of stars and sound.

It's easier to look down. It's easier to submit. There didn't have to be any more violence, not after last time. Not after that last night with Silco. There's no need for Vander, not anymore, not really. Not when the Loose Cannon and the Machine Herald were there to support Zaun in their own ways. The Hound of the Underground is a thing of the past. The idea's old. Exhausted. He's tired of fighting, too. Silco said he'd 'show him what he really was'. Which was...what? A man done with this shit?

And when those red-clad fuckers swamped them in the middle of the commune? It isn't him that fights back. It's the Beast. For Vander, it's easier to cry—because there's nothing he can do to stop it. And all of a sudden, Viktor and Sky aren't there. No more traces of Powder in his ear.

The man has returned, only to watch as the animal takes over.

He can look people in the eyes—but it's not him who's gazing at them. It's the monster inside him, the same one Silco said he'd bring out.

It's easier to look down.

He can see all the blood surrounding him. All the bodies pooling by his feet.

Mangled by the same hands that once thirsted for violence.

A mindless mess.

The beast rages, and the man keeps his head bowed.

(Now, everyone else is staring back up at him—the same way, once upon a time, everyone had looked up to him.)

[spirit-lanterns]

*bangs against the glass of my enclosure* YOU COOKED FULL COURSE MEAL WITH THIS. MADAM COCOLIA. I'M FERAL FOR HER. THANK YOU.

Also Yukong 🤤🤤😩❤️‍🔥 oh to be a young little woman who beds this milf 🥺💐❤️

The whole fic was actually made because I wanted to write something for Cocolia! I feel like she’s too sexy and old not to fawn over, so the MILF fic was made solely because of her. Everyone thank Cocolia! 😌

Also, Yukong is very hot. A beastly hag who goes feral when she smells your sweet youth and how fertile you are 🤤 absolutely loses her mind over breeding you.

[villainsimpqueen]

Eternal Bloodlines

Adriana tepes/ Alucard x Male Dhampire reader

This fanfic is for 18+ Audience's due to it containing gorey themes and later on smut.

Also available on A03

chapter 12

Blood dripped down the man's back, the stinging slap of thorny metal enwrapped in leather clashing on own back wasn't a sound he had expected. 

The last meeting was a shit show, while his younger companion he made during these so called war conciles was able to get one of the human generals to turn head towards her plans, this one had seemed diligent at staying loyal to the old man. Something he would have done willingly if the Old man had not declared death on his only son, one the woman he even bothered to create a war for tried so dedicatedly to give him after years of wrong borns much like his own little mother baring him a son like you. 

He attempted to approach the other human general to ease him into working with Camillas approach, He struck a nerve he hadn't seen being more vulnerable than the others, and as the thorny metal leather strap was ripping through his own flesh around his neck, Godbrand could feel every single moment of it. 

Red splattering away from him like a fountain he had once seen before long ago in a dinning hall, with a silhouette of his little mother dying in front of their son's eyes. 

He could feel a soft gentle hand on his chest making his eyes cast down to the silhouette, even in death her body was warm.

Her hand moved up his chest to his decapitating head as if lifting it and turning to make him see what she had seen at the moment of your conception. 

Blazing E/c eyes boring through the darkest shadows of the tower. Ever consuming the Red that sprayed from him.

Not a man.

Not a vampire.

but a beastly thing conjured up from hell, Escaped it, long before Dracula's little pets army. 

“I will give a son, and he will be stronger than any man of your bloodline.” 

A statement that he took as some promising threat that he now realized was a deadly curse that left his little mothers lips, before she begged him to conjure a spawn of death like you. 

He was correct in picking his name for you, even if he had little doubts about it before, seeing the visions the ghost of your mother was showing him was proof enough. 

He could hear the human, Issac grunting as he tore the leather strapping through his neck, as he was fixated over the very red fountain pouring from his neck, his gurgling starting to cease as laughter started to leave his dying lips.

“Why do you laugh?” The human man spoke, human, the thing that would kill him was a human, the irony of it all as he felt the ghostly hands of your mother on his breastplate. 

Mother killed by a vampire.

Father slain by a human. 

“You'll die in a room filled with blood.” He laughed as he focused in more of the silhouette of your mothers figure,

“What makes you so sure?” Ah the tone of slight arrogance, he knew it well, the strap only tighten snapping through bone

“He was reborn in blood.” 

“Who?”

“Antiphonus.” 

His head went rolling, his body fading soon after leaving nothing but clothing behind to be discarded. 

Yet A small delicate hand in his own pulling him away, He did not question what or where the ghost of your mother was leading him. 

He owed it to her to follow, and shall she take him in vengeance as a pet then she had earned that right and yet she took him to you.

slumbering the day hours away on horseback. Chatter of two humans, and the mad king's son in a mere carriage away. 

He only watched as he felt his and her soul fade away. A final goodbye to the child they both brought into the world, and the curse of  monsters, The Man they leave behind. 

The meeting went well, all according to her plans and by the help of her surprising companion. The humans pushed for Braila, The waterfronts will be taken by her advantage with the help of the Viking General himself…and Yet..While she won this small victory it came with its already forming problems and questions. 

The first one was simple: Where the bloody hell was Godbrand? 

Camilla had searched the castle's walls, even the courtyards, and yet while all his men seemed to be counted for, He was missing. 

An alley missing only led to a foe who believes themselves to be threatening. 

Carmellia would not give one such satisfaction of her concern about the missing General. She knew well to save her face under anyone's eyes, and yet as soon as daybreak appeared and the only two beings that dared walked it was the humans who busied themselves to their so called great works for the king, she broke her sleep cycle to search the missing comrade room, finding nothing and yet everything. 

She could tell by the borrowed rooms affairs that Godbrand had not packed and left, as his weapons lay by his bed amongst other things that she would deem important enough to the man to want to grab before leaving. Yet the room seemed moved around as if someone themselves came to disarray the room. 

A window messily thrown open to give an appearace of a suicide, had one not known him. 

To give the appearance of a coward's way out. 

And he was nothing of that sort. 

She shut the door before the piercing light of death dared touch her own unbeating flesh. 

Later surrounded in deep pools of the midnight moon she took a stroll through the forest that surrounded the mad man's castle. It's gloaming light being the only other thing the Queen of ice could trust, as the moon was nothing but a woman shining down on her with welcoming arms. 

And like all women, her moonlit shadows loved to gossip as any other, a small flash of dull glittering brought the queen of ices steps to a halt in the first layers of fallen snow, failing to hide what the moon was so eager to whisper about. 

Carmella bent, grabbing the frozen metal into her hand as she stared at the golden carved medallion that bit at her fingers as she wrapped them tightly around it. 

Her surprising companion permanently Silenced. 

How their past conversations plague her mind as she turns following the trail of her footsteps back to the castle. 

The promise she made burned on the tip of her tongue and scorched the scowl of her lips. How she had celebrated the meeting too earnestly.

“A discussion that I think even Godbrand would be happy with.” 

She sneered as she slashed her claws against the bark of a tree. 

Breathing harshly as she mourned her scream that she would now have to revise to her advantage, her placement. 

And mourn a  friend who had proven to be a damn good alley Amongst all the old fuckers that sat around merely talking with no bite behind their words. 

Her gleaming eyes staring at the medallion freezing her already frozen hand.

By the time she step up the castle steps, her composer was perfect, face collected and mind seemingly at ease as she moved through the castle walls, the eyes of the old fucks upon her, surely plotting in their own ways disinterest her as she climb stairs up to a tower. 

The human mutt that seemed such an easy play thing pounding away at a corpse. 

And yet her scheming mind played out her plans in front of her as she moved towards him letting sweet nothings fall from her lips as she toyed with the mongrel's mind. 

“Just this once, send one of them for me?”

“What's the harm if one night creature did something a little different?” 

A gentle cunning caress here, a bat of her lashes there and a venomously sweet pull of her lips there had the mad king's dog listening to her false honey commands. 

Her eyes watching the dead crow fly in the moonlit sky away from the tower, a letter tied to its leg and a medallion secured tightly in its beak, flying seaming nowhere to find a half breed. 

No.

She shook the thoughts away as she turned descending down steps to her chambers.

To her friend's  son

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

(Beauty and the Beast AU)

*Lucifer stepped out of the cottage he lived in with his sister and made way to the village, people would stop and whisper about the strange young man who preferred reading over more accepted masculine pastimes and his eccentric inventor sister*

Lucifer internally: Just ignore their gossip, I wish that there was more than the provincial life.

*thankfully he made it to the book store and found his favorite book about far off places, magic spells, daring sword fights, and Prince in disguise, he thought that he would make it out without having to talk to someone but Lilith and her crony Alastor stood in front of him*

Lilith: Hello Lucifer.

Lucifer: Bonjour Lilith.

*Lucifer hoped that his tone of voice conveyed how much he didn’t want to talk to the arrogant woman, but Lilith just grabbed the book from him*

Lucifer: Lilith, may I have my book please.

Lilith: How can you read this, there are no pictures.

Lucifer: Well some people use their imaginations

Lilith: It’s about time you got your head out of those books and started thinking of more important things, like me. The whole town is talking about you and your obsession, it’s not right for someone to have his nose in a book at all times, it’s not very manly.

Lucifer: You are positively primeval.

Lilith: Why don’t we go to the tavern and look at my hunting trophies.

*it wasn’t lost on Lucifer that he wasn’t allowed to act in a way that was seen as unmanly, but Lilith could hunt all day and be the town hero*

Lucifer: Not today, I need to help my sister.

Alastor: Crazy old Charlotte nerds all the help she can get.

Lucifer: Don’t talk about my sister that way.

Lilith: Yeah, don’t talk about his crazy sister that way.

Lucifer: My sister isn’t crazy, she is a genius.

*Lucifer grabbed his book from Lilith and ran back home, in a castle close by Adam dug his claws into the painting of him as a human and tore it to shreds*

Adam internally: You make one fucking mistake and you get a curse placed on you.

*Adam looked down sadly at his his fur covered arm, he then put his hands on his head feeling disgust at the large black and gold horns on his head, everything about his beastly body made his feel so disgusting, he had until the last petal on the enchanted rose fell to find love and break the curse on him or else he would be a beast forever, Adam curled up in a ball on his bed*

Adam internally: Who could ever love a beast.

*sobs shook Adam’s body until he fell asleep*

Lucifer could see smoke coming from the windows of their home, he ran to be sure his sister was okay.

Lucifer: Charlie? You okay in here?

Charlie: All good! Just blew a fuse in the machine but Lu, I tell ya this is the one. The one that will work and get us out of this little town.

Lucifer admired his sister so much, ever since their parents died she has taken care of the pair of them. She's been inventing in the hopes that someone will buy one and they can move away.

Charlie: I just have to fix this one thing.

Lucifer: Char, do you think I'm weird?

Charlie: What? No of course not. You're the kindest person I know Lu. Don't listen to those people in town, they don't know anything.

Charlie fixed her machine and loaded onto the back of their wagon.

Charlie: Okay, I'm going to the city for a few days. This is the one I can feel it!!

Lucifer smiled: Good luck sis.

They hugged and Charlie took off. After a while it got dark and she feared she was lost.

Charlie: Oh no......

Wolves spooked her horse who bucked her off and ran away.

Charlie: Shit!

Charlie ran as fast as she could until she came across what looked like an abandoned castle. Fearing for her life and being very cold she entered the palace.

She had no idea the beast that was inside.

-

Lucifer heard his sisters horse running back. He went outside but didn't see Charlie. He feared the worst and unhooked the horse and took off to look for her.

Lucifer: Come on girl, take me to Charlie.

[poisonf0rest]

𝐖𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭

In an attempt to uncover the truth, I must posit the questions of which are in dire need of answering to even begin to understand what exactly has befallen Yharnam:

What is the source of the Ashen Blood? What is the source of the Beastly Scourge? How, if, are these two illnesses of the body and mind related? Why, if blood ministration is the cure, has the Healing Church not acted sooner and treated all the Yharnamites?

Unless, they do not have a cure. 

Unless, they are the origin of the curse. 

Unless, this was simply the inevitable progression of mankind, and we were always doomed to revert back to the beasts we once thought ourselves so far above. An arrogance paralleled only to that of the Gods. 

And look where it got them… 

A week had passed until you finally summoned the Hunter, having exhausted all your other options. Any meager samples of beast blood or swatches of flesh you managed to forage from rotting carcasses on Yharnam’s deserted streets have long since been used up, and between inconclusive findings and a sheer lack of understanding of what was truly happening to these transforming humans, you’ve found yourself at yet another a dead end. 

You needed to begin from scratch, and that meant you needed knowledge. Forbidden knowledge, preferably.  

Tucking your satchel under your coat, you snuck out when the bell tower rang ten and two, slipping past the sentinels of the Church as you darted up the streets of Yharnam, waiting behind the gates of the Cathedral. The Church had only recently imposed a curfew for all citizens outside of Hunters, and yet the empty streets and distant howls of beasts reminded you of the nightmare your city is descending into. Now look at what you’ve been reduced to, sneaking around your own home. It’s pathetic. Infuriating. 

Crouched behind a ruined pillar, you eye the deserted plaza before you, following the cobblestone path leading up to the Healing Church’s grand gated entrance. Up, up, up as they ascend stairs until they breach those twin iron doors that loom over the city with their carvings of fallen angels and old gods. Little more than five years ago and you never would have never believed you’d one day voluntarily walk through those doors again. And yet here you are. 

Perhaps once you’d have begged God to forgive you for the trespass you’re about to commit, but it seems you and the rest of the Yharnam fell from Her grace long ago. 

“Glad to see my parting words of ‘stay away from the Church’ were dutifully followed.”

A yelp of surprise escapes you as you whirl around, falling gracelessly onto your ass as you curse, rubbing your injured tailbone. The Hunter crosses his arms, towering above you, only those suffocating red eyes visible from behind his black mask and hat. It makes your skin burn. 

“A simple, how are you, I’ve been well thank you, would have sufficed.” You grumble, standing whilst brushing mud and bramble from your clothes. “But I suppose you Hunters are never one for subtly, are you?”

“I am subtle.”

“You are dense, my dear Hunter. There is a difference.”

You can almost make out a frown from behind that mask of his. Regardless, you carry on. “The night grows no younger. I hope you came prepared, for your very first task is getting us inside the Cathedral without being spotted.” 

“And I’m to assume this is something you couldn’t accomplish by simply walking in and asking?”

“Not unless you want them to burn me for witchcraft. Imagine the look on the Vicar and the priests' faces if a woman- Saints fucking forbid- were to barge in and ask to read ancient books of medicine and history.” A scoff.  ”The fact I’m literate at all would probably cause a nun to faint.”

Diluc hums in vague amusement. “If not that then your foul tongue ought to do the trick.”

“Bastard.”

“Doctor.”

Not to mention, if anyone managed to recognize you, you’d be burnt at the stake. 

You shake away the thought, pushing past the Hunter as you point to the top of the cathedral, up at the marble spires and bell tower that disappear into the fog. Even the darkness fails to hide the imposing shadow it casts over the city.  “Up Hunter, take me up there.” 

You hardly finish your demand before Diluc grabs you, hoisting your body across his shoulder as though you were little more than a sack of wheat, scaling the iron gates and hauling the two of you up the side of the cathedral with one arm. 

It all happens so fast that you can only cling to him for dear life, screwing your eyes shut as your jaw hangs open in a silent scream. Gods, you were practically flying.  “You imbécile! Tête de nœud!” Ten thousand more curses race out from you, and yet they are lost to the howl of the wind. 

The higher the two of you climb, the louder the wails, drowning out the all-too-frequent heaves and strained grunts coming from the Hunter beneath you. Your hands clench harder into his coat as you desperately try to clear your mind. Happy thoughts. Damn it all, happy thoughts. 

“You may retract your talons from my back now.” 

Forcing an eye open, you find that the two of you made it to the top of the cathedral, standing upon a platform amid a triad of spires. 

You choke out a laugh, “Ah, many thanks, dear Hunter.” Patting his bicep, he lets you down hesitantly. Refusing to acknowledge just how far from the ground you are, you force your gaze upwards and cling to the stones framing one of the many glass windows at your back. Saints, did the clouds look closer or are you going insane? 

Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look around for some sort of ladder or balcony.  “Now, if I mapped it out correctly, there should be a set of entrances scattered around the main belfry…” 

As though on cue, the bells begin to toll, a hollow, haunted sound that reverberates in your skulls as you both turn to see the main tower with the trio of bells. Their slow song continues, tolling nine times, a number once thought to ward off evil and to call for listeners to pray for the departing souls. 

But for whom the bell tolls, you never knew. Maybe it was for the city itself. 

“There,” you point. True to your word, nestled on the West wall of the belfry was a door, a ladder leading up to it on the cluster of spires right next to the one the two of you were currently perched on. 

The only remaining problem was the narrow rooftop connecting your tower to the main bell tower. And the several hundred feet between you and the ground should you choose to slip. 

The Hunter’s footsteps are silent as always, but you feel his warmth before you see him, radiating against your back as his hand grabs yours. A horrible moment for introspection, you know, but you can’t help but gawk at how far he towers over you, figure nearly blocking out the light of the moon with those arms the size of your head. A man bred and raised on destruction. 

“Are you paying attention?”

You jolt up, nodding. Diluc scoffs, grip tightening around your wrist as he drags the two of you toward the roof’s edge. “Then follow my lead, and do try not to fall. You’re not quite as light as you look.” 

There’s no time for a snarky comeback, as the Hunter drops down onto the roof scaffolding, tugging you along with him. The wind beats at your side as you place one trembling foot in front of another, desperately trying to match his pace without being blown right off the ledge. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Step by step, the two of you inch closer and closer to the main belfry, and once the ladder is within grasp, Diluc’s hand moves to grip your waist, hauling you towards him and perching you atop the ladder’s bottom rung. Climbing up, you heave as you pull yourself onto the tower platform, greeted with the sight of the oak door. Your way in. 

Rattling the doorknob, you push and pull against it, but the hinge doesn’t so much as budge. “Locked.” 

From the looks of it, surely the wood was rotten and soft, nothing a good kick couldn’t get through. You step back. Inhaling sharply, you thrust your boot into the door, only for your leg to recoil with a pained hiss, the wood letting out a low groan as though laughing at the attempt.  

Watching you curse out the poor door, Diluc smiles in faint amusement before nudging you aside. Then, he repeats the action, this time causing it to splinter on impact, his leg flying through the door frame as you flinch to avoid the fragments.

“After you, Doctor.”

Brute.

Reaching over, you lean into the yawning crevice, finding the hollow space to be something of an attic, littered with broken fragments of statues long forgotten and paintings woven in cobwebs. Oh, and at least two dozen crucifixes strewed about the room.

Further in, you cross a pile of folded black and white robes, that accursed Cosmic Eye Watcher Badge sitting on top, staring right back at you. A shiver seizes you by the ribs and you wrench your gaze away. 

Ducking beneath spiderwebs, you finally catch the iron gleam of what seems to be a trapdoor tucked away in the far corner. A looming shadow over you is the only indicator that the Hunter has followed, his footsteps near silent as he leans over you, pulling on the latch as the trapdoor heaves open, exposing the darkness below. 

Diluc goes first, lowering himself down before dropping into the gaping abyss. A second passes, then another, and only then do you finally hear the thud of his landing. Saints, the fall must be more than a dozen meters. 

Your heart lurches in your throat, and you’re in the midst of calculating your chances of making it out with both your kneecaps still intact when the Hunter’s voice calls up to you from the darkness. 

“Jump, I’ll be sure to catch you.” 

A curt laugh. “I’m hardly doubting your prowess, Hunter, but I’d imagine it would be quite difficult to catch something you can’t see.”

“Vileblood, remember. I see you perfectly.” You swallow. “Jump.”

Despite every morsel of rationale left in your body, you listen. Who knows, perhaps if you doubted him again he’d simply scale the wall and drag you down with him this time. Maybe the Vilebloods could fly? Turn into a bat? Note to test that theory later. 

Regardless, you brace yourself, dangling your legs through the trapdoor and forcing out another exhale. Your hands are shaking. 

Jump. 

Pushing off the floor, a cold gust of air beats against your limbs as you flail against nothing. Moments of horrid silence rush past you, jaw clamped shut as the abyss swallows you with each impossible second you fall further and further and further still. 

You swear a hellish eternity passes before you’re swiped from midair, crashing against something before a set of arms wrap around your torso, pulling you tight as you both land on solid ground. The force of the landing ricochets through your skull, and your head snaps back, teeth catching your unsuspecting tongue between them. A yelp, one hand un-fisting from the Hunter’s coat to cover your mouth. 

“Well done, I half expected you to come down cursing.”

A glare is all you settle for since your tongue is still throbbing. 

With a swat at his shoulder, Diluc promptly sets you down. He’s uncharacteristically gentle with it, first lowering your legs and bracing you against his chest as you recall how to properly use your joints, waiting for you to regain some semblance of balance before releasing you completely.

With your wits recollected and eyesight adjusted to the darkness, you take in the balcony layout, spotting the faint glow of melting candles and chandeliers on floors beneath you. Stone railings, rows and rows of stained glass windows, and a spiral set of stairs. 

You glance at the Hunter, but he seems to already have gotten the message, nodding as he takes the lead, beginning your descent into the Healing Church, and soon the catacombs below. 

Even whispering here would be foolish, for the arched stone ceilings of the cathedral carry every bit of sound up as though it were prayer, echoing as it goes. If only you could walk as quietly as the Hunter, his stealth allowing him to venture yards in front of you as he scours every corner and hallway the two of you creep through. The church was eerily empty, only the distant hymn of the choir and the screaming of beasts in the village reverberating through every hall as though in song. 

You know what the Hunters are. People from far and wide come to Yharnam for the miracle blood ministration, the promise of being cured of any ailment enough to persuade them into signing their very right to death away– cursed for eternity to Hunt. To die again and again until they turned into the very beasts they hunted. 

Your Vileblood Hunter, you wonder how long he’s been cursed to this undying death? 

Perhaps it’s your innate curiosity, perhaps it's your innate fear. Either way, something beyond your comprehension keeps luring you back to him, and perhaps that in and of itself should have been the first warning sign.

But you were blind to it, and only in the end would your true eyes open. 

By then, only ashes will remain.

The two of you descend five floors- if you’ve been keeping count correctly- turning into yet another hallway when the heavy thud of armored footsteps begin approaching. The shadow of a knight emerges just beyond the next corner. You freeze.

Frantic, you scan the desolate church halls, catching the Hunter’s wrist before shoving the two of you into a crevice behind a sculpture of a Saint. The stubborn fool resists for a moment, but you hiss some curses under your breath, shoving his all-too-large figure behind the statue as you crawl between the marble and his body, panting from effort and sheer terror. 

You’ve seen what the Church does to the sinners— they rot, nailed to crosses for days. You can’t imagine what they’d do to a traitor. 

You slap a hand over your mouth, bracing against Diluc’s taller form before covering his mouth as well, watching as the glow from the lantern gets brighter. Your heart screams against your ears as you watch the guard walk right past. 

Gods old and new be blessed, he fails to notice the two of you pressed against the marble and continues down the hall. 

But, you must admit, getting out would prove much harder than getting in, as you’ve thoroughly lodged yourselves between the wall and the numerous corners of the statue, nearly immobile as you relinquish your grip over Diluc’s mouth, still entirely pressed up against him. 

Every breath seizing your chest forces the two of you closer, an undistinguishable tangle of limbs blocking you as you try and escape, only to stumble over the Hunter’s boot, flailing as you lurch forward. This time it’s Diluc’s hand that grabs your face, stopping you mere inches from bashing into the side of the statue, a sound that would have undoubtedly been enough to alert the guard. And give you a concussion. 

Pulling you back against his chest, the Hunter’s breath fans your neck for a heartbeat, only for him to promptly lift you onto the arm of the sculpture, allowing you to climb over the marble and down the other side.

He’s warm. So unnaturally warm you still feel his breath against your skin, you still feel his touch through the rough leather of his gloves, lingering even though he has already begun walking down the next flight of stairs. You shiver.

“I didn’t plan on being so far in your debt, Hunter.”

The man doesn’t respond, silent as he descends. Then a pause. “There is no debt between us, Doctor. We made a vow.”

“Vow?” 

Running to catch up, you hum in consideration, remembering your first fateful encounter at the clinic. “Then I suppose you’d want more of my blood after this?” He flinches, and you scoff. “Oh please, I have plenty to go around. If that is all it takes for me to keep such a valuable assistant to myself then I’d say I’m getting the good end of the deal.” 

The Hunter refuses to acknowledge your quip with a response and continues down the stairs. You follow with a huff.

Ultimately, the library was easy to find, for a grand set of stairs lined with half-melted candles and the statues of the Saints led the two of you up to a set of heavy copper doors, each carved with the original scribe and inventor of language herself, Saint Enoch. 

Placing your hands upon the doors, you lean in, nearly kissing the copper with your lips as you whisper a hymn, ancient latin coaxing the lock open as it clicks and turns with your voice. If the Hunter hears you, he says nothing. 

With the last verse the doors unlock, and you push into the Healing Church’s Grand Library.

The room was a spiraling chamber, rising for what appeared to be an eternity as shelves of books ascended every wall of the spire. Silver fixtures glow in the candlelight, illuminating the murals that adorn every pillar scattered across the library, strewn about like a stone forest. 

Walking deeper, you pass under staircases and ladders both, eyes trailing across the marbled floor, stone cracked with gold and silver as it too gleams in the low light. Etched in the cracks spanned the map of the entire kingdom, from Yharnam, to Paris, to Liyue and beyond. What a powerful feeling, to have the city’s knowledge at your fingertips and the world itself beneath your feet. 

The further you venture, the stranger the contents of the library get: shelves turning from stacks of books to exhibits, lined with jarred specimens of every beast and bone, tarnished armor of knights long-forgotten, and even collections of skulls from things both of this world and not. 

Skimming your hand along a shelf, you thumb at the endless row of books, pulling one out before tucking it under your arm, adding to your already growing stack. 

Without looking back, you call out to the Hunter, “If you notice books on medicine, blood, or the Beastly Scourge do bring them to me. I’ll begin on the left and you can take the right, that way we can cover more ground. Although, truthfully we’ll likely need several nights to look through it all.” 

You pull out another book, and another, equally impressed and disgusted at the sheer amount of literature and knowledge preserved in these halls, just rotting away.  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Silence. 

Snapping the book in your hands shut, you crane your neck backward. “Do you hear me, Hunter?” 

More silence. 

Stepping out of your current row, you easily spot the flame-colored hue of his hair in the far corner of the library, standing before an enormous glass case. A display, filled with the skulls of Vilebloods.

“Yes, rather charming to know the Healing Church’s infatuation with my kind goes back for so many generations.” He scoffs, shrugging his claymore higher onto his shoulders before lumbering off. 

And yet your gaze lingers, taking in the carnage so proudly set on display before you. Saints, some of those skulls looked like they couldn’t have been more than four years of age when they died. 

Killed— you remind yourself— the Cainhurst Vileblood lineage was executed at the command of the Church a little over a century ago.

It was taught to be a righteous campaign, a tale of valor and victory told every Sunday morning before lessons on the sword and the alphabet. The Crusade was a holy cleansing to rid the world of the blasphemy that was the creation of the Vileblood— daemon, devil, Vampyr. Born from a sinner’s betrayal and the revered Old Blood, it was an accepted truth that the Vilebloods threatened the purity of the Healing Church and their mission to cleanse Yharnam. 

You still remember the vows word for word, each letter tasting of copper and fire against your tongue: “Those who kill in the name of god shall have their sins absolved and thus immune to the scourge of beasts. Seek the Old Blood.”

And yet, that’s the funny thing about truth, it depends entirely on the power of the man who wields it. And fear is always at its most powerful when disguised as devotion.

Time seemed to slip by as you drowned yourself in readings, undisturbed until the bell tower rang for zero and three. Dawn was approaching, and the church would awaken soon. 

Stretching, you stand from the oak chair with a low groan. The Hunter sat on the far end of the long table, nearly hidden from view behind your ever-accumulating stack of books. 

Waltzing closer, you peer over his shoulder. "Find anything?"

"Quite a bit of nonsense," Diluc drones, closing the book he'd been skimming. You noticed how fast he flipped through it, processing the information as the pages fluttered by at an inhumane pace. "You say this library holds the knowledge you need for your experiments, and yet all I’ve read so far are fairytales about glorified martyrs and gods."

Unfortunately, you're inclined to agree. 

Originally you hypothesized that perhaps the personal journals of past Maesters and Vicars would guide you towards uncovering some of the knowledge the Healing Church has been hiding, but instead all you got were fanatic moondrunk rantings and all-too-personal facts about old men. 

You sigh. “Perhaps the true reason this collection is forbidden in the first place is out of the profound embarrassment that someone was stupid enough to collect it in the first place.”

Diluc offers something of a laugh then, the sound low and rough.  "Lovely reading, I’m sure."

"Oui, well, lovely as it might be, it’s useless." Another sigh and you thumb through the finished stack of books.  "The only piece that might lead us somewhere is the mention of someone named Laurence. This particular journal goes on and on about the Archbishop, but it does mention a sort of deviation that this Laurence initiated, causing a sort of split long before the formation of the Healing Church itself.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrow, and he walks towards you, glancing at the page. “Laurence. The First Vicar.”

“You knew him?”

Diluc stiffens. “I knew of him. Anyone whose history wasn’t falsified by the Healing Church knows of the Hellfire Beast. But if it’s the knowledge of the First Vicar you’re searching for then chances are you need to locate Byrgenwerth College. All of what you call sacred in Yharnam traces back to those dregs of society.” 

“Byrgenwerth has been sealed off for a century.”

If the Hunter notices how quickly you cut him off, he doesn’t comment on it. “Forgive me, I didn’t particularly take you as one to follow the Church’s boundaries. After all, you are the one who dragged us here.” 

“Yes, well…” 

You don’t have an argument. You just know you’d rather claw your own eyes out than step one foot back into those accused halls. 

Plucking the journal from the Hunter’s grasp, you stuff it into your satchel alongside two other books that mention Lawrence The First Vicar and the Beastly Scourge. The two of you work in silence to place the books back onto the shelves, and when you’re certain the Vampyr isn’t looking, you manage to pack a few books on the Cainhurst Vilebloods into your bag too. 

The Hunter is very much still an enigma to you, and if you’re to work with him and find the cure to Yharnam’s plague, then you’d want to make sure you knew everything you could about his kind. Especially if anything were to go wrong. 

You’re still in the midst of re-stacking some books in ancient Greek in the left wing of the library when the Hunter’s voice interrupts your subconscious murmuring. 

“I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet.”

You jump, spewing curses as he— yet again— makes it a habit to appear behind you out of thin air. 

“I hadn't realized you needed it,” you say, lifting onto your toes as you struggle to reach a high shelf. The Hunter takes the book from your gasp and slots it back into place, figure now looming over your own as hands grip the wooden shelf above your head. Intimidation, you realize. And it’s working. 

“It’s only polite to address a lady by their namesake.” You scoff, but he continues. ”So then you have no intention of learning my name either?”

“I’ve grown to rather like calling you my dear Hunter. Unless you’d prefer a new nickname? Something more extravagant? Mon petit monstre? Mon chéri?”

His grip tightens, and you hear the wood splinter. “I never quite understood how a Doctor such as yourself came to know French, either.”

“Oh, all the better to sing hymns with, I assure you. The Church enforces French, Latin, and even Greek if you’re unlucky enough.” 

This finally stops him entirely. You can feel the heat of his blood-red gaze bearing into you before he speaks. “You were raised by the Church?”

You’re quiet, unnaturally still under his stare. Flipping through a book, you wave a hand, eyes glued to the pages as you respond half-heartedly. “Partially. My guardians were, ah, somewhat of a devout group.” 

This would never work— a partnership truly doomed from the start. Like a sick sort of epilogue only found at the beginning of a Greek or Shakespeare tragedy to herald in an inevitable demise. And yet, you were quickly growing addicted to this waltz composed of lies and half-truths, stuck dancing to a tune that could only be sung for self-indulgence and sin. 

“Diluc.” 

You look up, voice escaping you. “What?”

“Diluc Ragnvindr, of the Noble Cainhurst.”

The two of you simply stare for a heartbeat, then a heartbeat more. Finally, you say your name, each syllable heavy and rotted like a corpse unearthed. Hesitantly, you add, “of the Choir.” 

And for the first time, you see the Hunter smile. Your name suits you. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Within the next week, you finally show Diluc to your lab, mainly because you required his supernatural strength and coordination to carry in your new stack of stolen books from the Healing Church’s library. 

As he finishes organizing the journals as you instructed, you place a pot over a small fire to begin brewing some tea, allowing Diluc to wander around the lab as he takes in the bustling room. 

It smelled of dried herbs, sulfur, and something stronger, something bolder that smelled of yearning, every inhale like stepping into the sunlight when the day is still on the cusp of winter and spring, a promise of new beginnings while remembering the pain of the winter. It races down Diluc’s spine and makes his gums prick with every inhale— it’s the same scent that clings to you. 

“What is all of this?” Diluc asks, not daring to touch any of the bubbling concoctions or the variety of steaming tubes or vials. He even holds his breath, careful not to inhale too deeply. 

It looked more like a little forest than anything else, an ecosystem of chemicals and blood and life and death itself encased in glass and steel and fire and mystery. Science.

Innovation, you called it. 

“It’s the best this rotting city has to offer,” you say, sweeping aside a pile of books to make space among the clutter for yet another journal. Flipping through pages, you read off sections in Greek, Latin, French, and English, flickering past diagrams of limbs, hearts, and humans. “The greatest minds in Europe think the answers to our universe lie in dead gods or dying gods, helpless in the face of disease or disaster. But long ago mankind could understand the root of infections like the Scourge, execute surgeries to restore eyesight, and perform miracles that now could only be described as alchemy or witchcraft. All of these inventions lost to time and ignorance.” 

“Will it bring you the answers?”

You freeze, looking at your life’s work.

 “I don’t know.” 

The kettle hisses, breaking the silence with its scream. 

Diluc moves first, lifting the pot off the fire and pouring it over two cups, one a dainty teacup, plastered with chipped paint and the other a misshapen mug with a crack down its side, watching the water swirl and brown with the tea leaves. 

Holding out both cups, he gives a curt nod. “Very well. If you believe the answer to the scourge lies in my blood, take what you desire.”

He looks so serious, standing there, that you can't help the wry smile cracking across your lips. “You ought to be more wary of your words,” you purr, “my dear Hunter.”

Taking the mug from his grip, you let your hands lace around his, tugging him towards you as he turns as stiff as the claymore still strapped to his back. “What I need and what I desire may well be two very different things.” 

Despite your best attempts, your eyes fall to his lips. 

They often do. Much too often recently. 

You never really noticed before, mainly because his Hunter attire covers the majority of his face, but the man before you is so unfairly pretty. His untamed mane curls around all the hard angles of his face, like flames licking at a marble statue, the same blood-red hue of his hair burning in his eyes. As he leans in closer, you catch flickers of gold in them as well. Even with the Vampyr healing abilities, Diluc's skin is littered with scars your eyes could send an eternity tracing, one cutting across his permanently creased brows, another at his lips, and a crook in his nose where you're certain he's broken it more than a dozen times. It never occurred to you how badly you wished to touch him.

Vampyr beauty is different from mortal beauty. It is arresting, frightening. A visage that demands a sort of painful devotion, the perfect face to lure mortals willingly into their embrace and weep for more. Diluc is no exception. 

Even with the mars across his skin, he looks like a being worthy of praying to. 

A shaky inhale and you jolt up, only to find Diluc in a similar paradox. Transfixed, it is almost as if he doesn’t realize the intensity he’s lost himself in, the furrow between his brows and the slight frown of his pursed lips almost cute if it wasn’t for the burning sensation it seized you with. 

He leans forward, hesitating. Slowly, as though any movement would startle him, you take the cups from his grasp, placing them down without ever letting his fingers unlace from yours. He might slip from your grasp if you do. But he doesn’t, not this time. 

It shouldn’t mean much, really, the brush of rough knuckles and the slow slide of your fingers as they find their home between his, and yet you swear there is something cathartic in the way they fit together; a touch that served no purpose but to connect in a world so hellbent on destruction. 

One hand leaves his, lifting to cup his face as you thumb along his cheekbone, your fingertips burning as they catch on every ridge and scar. Diluc leans into your touch, body pressing into yours as the two of you stumble backward. The back of your knees buckle against a table just as he seizes you by the small of your back, pulling you against him before you can completely topple over. Diluc’s other hand rests against the table, caging you against him as your fingers remain intertwined. 

You’re burning. His flame-kissed gaze refuses to leave yours, and you’re burning at the edges with every second you lie under it. 

“Diluc,” you say. You don’t know why. He shudders. 

“Diluc,” you shift, leaning closer as your neck cranes up, lips brushing the bottom of his chin, the faint stubble there rough and tasting like smoke. He cranes his neck in response, granting you further access as your lips eagerly follow the pale expanse of skin. Entranced, you press harder, and with the gentle scrape of your teeth, he makes a low noise deep in his throat, like an animal in pain. You dare say his name again. 

“Diluc—”

The door to the lab swings open. 

The laughter of the two twins tumbles into the room as they burst through the doorway, only to be cut short when they notice the two of you stunned in the far corner of the room. 

“Timmy! Eileen! What have I told you both about running around the clinic?” 

Diluc practically launches himself away from you, vanishing as he reappears on the opposite side of the room, but not before Alison charges in after the children, eyes wide as she already connected the dots the younger two were still processing.  “Saints, I am so—” In a blink she slaps her hands over the eyes of the twins, dragging them out of the lab while stuttering over a thousand apologies, shutting the door behind her with a slam. 

You love your children, you really do. But Saints, did you want to strangle them right now. 

Looking around the lab, your fears are proven correct as you fail to find Diluc, the Hunter has already vanished into the night as he so often does. A sigh and you stand, a noticeable chill now infecting the lab as it bubbles on in silence. 

You should chide him for always running away. You would, if only it wouldn’t make you an even bigger hypocrite. 

And so you accept the cold, lingering in the silence.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Neither of you really notices when Diluc begins visiting regularly, making a habit of swinging in through the clinic’s window, covered in Beast blood. It has become something of a routine: you snapping at him for tracking in filth, him completely disregarding your words, a moment of bickering mostly on your end before he drops a sample of his recent hunt on your table as a peace offering. 

Recently, however, the Hunter has been bringing an assortment of other items as well. From an entire deer or a bundle of rabbits, to newly forged bullets for your rifle, to toys for some of the younger children. 

Speaking of which, it’s unfair how quickly the children warmed up to Diluc. They practically worship the Hunter. 

Like tonight, you’re busy preparing supper with Edwin and half-hearted help from Alison when you hear the tell-tale knock reverberate from the attic above the clinic. 

Setting down the kitchen knife, you wipe the chicken guts coating your hands on your apron, about to open the door accessing the stairs when a mini mob beats you to it. Overlapping shrieks and calls from the four youngest children echo down the hall as they jump to greet the Hunter currently ducking through the doorframe, then promptly tackled by the swarm. 

“How many did you kill tonight?”

“Take me on a Hunt! I’ll be the best Hunter you’ve ever seen, I’ve been working on my swing, look!” The red-head boy lunges with a stick, about to smack his brother on the head when he dodges. Another swing quickly leads to a fight, the two tussling before Diluc until the Hunter pries them apart by the collars, procuring two wooden figures from his coat. 

Lucian, the redhead, gasps, “You remembered!”

“Of course I did. How could I forget the request of my favorite warriors?” The boys smile up at Diluc, half-toothed and ecstatic, before they run off to play with the wooden soldiers.

The Hunter lets out a low sigh of exhaustion at the mere show of their energy, but he should have known better than to let his guard down so soon. He had only just begun to rise when the twins made their attack, tugging against his coat lapels and at his elbow, laughing all the while. 

“Let us see your claymore again, please, please, pretty please!”

A smile cracks your lips as you watch the scene unfold. “The almighty Hunter, felled by a swarm of children. What ever would the Church think?”

“I think,” Diluc grunts, falling to one knee as the twins leap onto his back, cheering. “They ought to enlist these ones as Hunters. Far more terrifying than I am.” 

A hum, “I’m inclined to agree.”

Yes, he’s becoming a regular part of all of your lives, and the thought of that scares you more than you’d like to admit. 

[thejollywriter]

GOOD MORNING! my name is Jolly, and I'm a novelist. Today, I introduce you to your new favorite main character: DELILAH JONES!

She's a freelancer, and her entire job is fighting the bastards that ordinary folks can't. Corporate fascists, crooked cops, and more. She lives in the cyberpunk future, in a city in Northern California named REDWOOD.

The first anthology featuring her stories is coming soon, by the end of July, and it's called:

THE REDWOOD FILES.

She's a six-foot-one beastly queer trans woman who carries a revolver and a bowie knife. She grew up in Seattle, but was chased out of the city at 19, and she wound up riding a freight train south. She'd intended to go to LA, but the Railroad Marshal put her off in Redwood.

She found her way, transitioned, and found a niche hand-delivering consequences to people who never, ever find them.

In this anthology, she'll fight a corporation trying to hijack the soft RAM in our skulls to turn us into unwilling assassins, she hunts for a kidnapped lover and tries to unravel someone's attempt to start a gang-war in Redwood, she helps an old Jew get reparations against a nazi-sympathizer who ruined the old man's life, and more.

You can read all the individual stories early, as well as get your name added to the supporter credits, by visiting the link and signing up for a dollar!

Everyone who subscribes automatically gets a copy of the e-book when I publish it next month. So click the link, and support a queer novelist writing queer genre fiction!

thank you for your time <3

[royalsunshinehotel]

The Cut (Jay x Bridgerton!Reader)

You were prepared, in every sense of the word. 

Years of training and observing, as the young ward of the Bridgerton house, had led you to this day, and it had all turned out rather beastly. 

Violet, your mother, had brought the same ferocity and dedication with her love to your upbringing, as she had with her many other children. You may have been a ‘ward’, but your mother stuck a giant feather on your head and brought you out as her own. Only for you to be smirked and gawked at, looked down upon. And you had months of this to look forward to? To find a husband? 

At the very least, you made an impression, the Queen herself could not deny. And in the corner of the ballroom, your brother Gregory’s friend Jay, knew this. 

Taking a sip of his champagne, he muses on the day, while keeping his eyes on you. 

The past two weeks had been ghastly for him as well. His estranged father had finally passed away, and had decided to formally claim Sanjay as his own - despite a messy, sordid history with his parents, he came back to London- to do his duty. 

He had tenants to worry about, people on staff who would be out of work if he didn’t. Catching up with his good friends at Bridgerton House would just be a side benefit. But he just missed them, all assembled to see you off. He made up his mind to call tomorrow, if not only to set up a meeting between his mother and Violet. 

No other reason at all! 

He wasn’t sitting in the corner of the ballroom for you. He didn’t see you leaving the house, dressed like an angel, and he didn’t spend the rest of the day pondering the passage of time. Weren’t you supposed to be on the shelf by now? What fool would allow that to happen? Why were you just ‘coming out’ now?

So, he had decided to attend the Danbury Ball, to the shock of his mother. If he didn’t have his eyes on you and your mother, he would have regretted it immensely. 

It was glittering, well-lit, and all together much too loud. It would only be worth if it he could approach you, and the wall of Bachelors trying to figure him out blocked his way. 

Ridiculous. 

From the other side of the room, you scowl. Hours into your first year on the marriage mart, it truly hits you how different things were going to be. Your eldest brother Anthony, had stepped away to fetch you and your mother some lemonade, and you felt a pang of guilt. Daphne, Franscesca, Eloise, Hyacinth, had all put Anthony through the ringer when it came to suitors. He had years to hone his skills of chasing off suitors, clout-chasers, and fortune-hunters. You didn’t need to worry about that last part, and the Bachelors of the ton knew that. 

You’d been approached twice, by two separate men. Two times. You were a handsome enough woman, and you had the Bridgerton name, but it wasn’t enough, was it? You weren’t even that old. Kate was six-and-twenty when she married your brother, same as you are now!

You were distracted by your shoes, eyes to the floor, when your mother gave Anthony a look, and your brother all but evaporated. 

“Dearest, are you well?” Your mother’s soft, musical tone soothes you for a moment. You slowly bring your eyes up from the floor, and ask what had been weighing on your mind. 

“Mother, why is this the year?” 

“What do you mean?” She asks, coy as ever. 

“I’m on the shelf, I thought I would stay and take care of you! Instead I’m here, in a crush of people, being inspected like a new horse.” Violet chuckles lightly. 

“You flatter me, but I’m not in my dotage just yet.” 

“So tell me why I’m here!”

“Anthony’s finished the papers. We’ve been able to allocate some funds for your dowry. You’re here because you deserve to be here.” She takes your arm in his and the two of you step closer to the exotic plants that always seemed to be in bloom. 

“Your age, and parentage do not exclude you from society, and any man worth having will see that. We’re here to find you a match, dearest.” 

“There’s not a man worth having in this whole lot!” Violet nearly laughs at you, “There’s at least one.” She pointedly looks across the room, at the man who looks like a boy she used to have over for tea. 

“You schemer! Lord Menha?” You gasp, and Violet could roll her eyes. Jay had been staring at the two of you in his typical serious manner, which gave Violet confidence that maybe time hadn’t changed too much about him. 

“Sanjay looks quite handsome, does he not?” You nod, wishing you were still in the corner looking at your shoes, “Remember when he was a young man, sitting in the corner of the room. You had to coax him out like a stray cat.” It was such a vivid picture in your mind. Where had all that time gone? 

The man your mother pointed out was handsome, in a way that made your corset suddenly feel too tight. 

“That seems such a long time ago…” You try to shrug it off. Your mother knew you were scared of the ‘season’, and everything that came with it. But you wouldn’t admit it to yourself. 

“Not that long perhaps. He looks as if he could stand to be rescued.” Violet takes a long drink from her champagne glass, noting how utterly miserable Sanjay looked, blocked in my three to five of the ton’s most eligible bachelors…from five years ago. 

You notice too, Jay didn’t like crowds. Why was he here? 

“Mother, I do think you’re right.” What was left of the boy you knew? Perhaps it would be good to find out. 

“Of course, dearest.” She gives your gloved hand a squeeze as the hostess calls her over, across the floor. 

You square your shoulders, crossing the immaculate tiled floors. 

As you get closer, your stomach begins to twist. He was well and truly pinned down by men who should have married years ago. 

“Sanjay Menha, you absolute devil!” 

“Still have that stutter, old boy?” 

“Get plenty of tail abroad, did you?” 

Jay simply stares at you. It was unnerving to see him this close. He’d gotten taller, shoulders more broad. That dark, curly hair that had been so unmanageable in his youth was shiny, pushed away from a handsome face, now sporting a beard, that gave you, for some reason, the urge to run your hands through. 

“Pardon me sirs-” You try but are cut off by Lord Wabash. 

“Miss Bridgerton, no need for formalities.” You don’t take your eyes off your Jay. 

“Pardon me, Dickon, Lord Menha and I were about to take to the floor.” You bat your eyes the same way your sister Franscesca does, hoping he won’t take offense. It didn’t matter if he did, you were too old, after all. 

You wouldn’t look at any of the other men, you really didn’t need to. 

“Lord Menha and I were about to take to the floor.” Jay stares at you, dark eyes just the same as the day he left town. 

You want to do everything you can to keep Jay looking at you. No one else would come close. 

Had this been on the promenade, such lack of attention to manners would have been a “cut”. But you’re parents weren’t titled, you were an orphan, and you were too old to be here. You’d simply have to take your chances. 

“We are.” Jay agrees, handing his glass to one of his social captors, and letting you take his arm. You take a step down together, together, and the cluster scatters. 

“Lord Menha, if I remember right, you love a good waltz,” you smile, as you direct Jay to the floor. He blinks at you, and your stomach does an embarrassing flip. 

“You remember it just right.” He thinks about practicing with you at the Bridgerton house, you moving so gracefully, and him falling over his feet to keep up. 

“Quite the swashbuckler, Miss Bridgerton?” He asks, thinking of a time that you played Pirates with Gregory and Hyacinth. 

“Only when I see something I want.” Your face heats up at the forward implications of your words. It was just Jay, your Sanjay, friends with your brothers, you tried to calm yourself. 

“I heard you were prone to travel, and an eligible bachelor, but I never saw you as a wallflower, my Lord.” 

“I’m just glad to have caught your attention.” At that moment, it was remarkably difficult to resist the urge to swoon. 

The music starts, and words fade. 

Against the glass windows, Anthony stands by your Mother, trying to hide his awe. It was too neatly packaged for there not to have been some meddling. He was well aware of her friendship with Lady Menha, and he’d have to ask after her health. 

The waltz ends, and Anthony sees Jay’s hand’s shake from the middle of the floor. This bodes well, doesn’t it? 

You both walk together, Jay escorting you in the direction of your Mother and brother, “May I call on you tomorrow, Miss Bridgerton?” 

“You may, Lord Menha.”

[gothfoxgirlboy]

The demon stood at a monstrous 15 feet tall, more beastly than most with a bull like physique . Wielding an axe that was heavier than your average person with ease the minotaur led the battle against the angels. The Deadwoods were rife with combat.

The minotaur looked around, defeated angels all around him, and sighed at the lack of challenge. Then, the sound of a woman's laughter could be heard. Not the unsettling laughter of a psychopath, nor the smug chuckles of arrogance, it was a pure and gentle thing.

A young angel skips out of the forest into the clearing the minotaur was resting in. She couldn't have been much more than 5 feet tall and she smiled happily.

The minotaur quickly buries his axe where her head is... Or was, as she cartwheels out from the blindspot made by the axe.

"That wasn't very nice." She whines "we should at least greet each other first. I'm Joy what's your name?"

She flies up to the minotaur without fear. Pure white wings as opposed to the metallic wings most angels have, the incense her tail releases smells more floral than most. Her halo is a brilliant and blinding rainbow of colors.

The demon attempts to swat her away but she easily evades and hugs his chest.

"wow you're like totally soft."she says before letting go just in time to dodge another axe swing. She freefalls down to the ground, landing in a roll and hopping up to her feet right over the next axe swing.

The minotaur swings faster and faster, finally, a worthy foe. Except Joy never attacks. She simply dodges each swing, dancing around the axe that streaks through the air like lightning.

She cartwheels circles around the minotaur, laughing as though they were old friends. She cartwheels through his legs, under his loincloth, and gets a good look at a lot of the minotaur including his large sheath and massive balls.

She can't help but to reach out and touch it. As soon as she does the minotaur stops for a moment as intense pleasure floods his body. His equine cock starts to flare its head. It's already throbbing as the angel, who is mid handstand, rubs her foot along his half revealed cock.

Before his cock is fully erect it starts spurting out cum, the minotaur drops his axe from the unexpected pleasure. As the angel finishes her flourish just in time to get her face covered in cum.

She licks her cum covered lips before joking "that's a better greeting than the axe".

The minotaur's loincloth can't even hide his erect cock. It's bigger than her arm by a longshot, still dripping cum from the tip. He tries to grab the small angel but she easily evades his grasp, closing the distance between them.

"so soft and inviting." Joy states as she ducks under the demon's loincloth and buries her face in his balls. Her touch causes the minotaur to fall to his knees as another orgasm shakes his body. "It seems like you've never experienced this kinda joy you cute little moomoo. So sensitive that you're spurting everywhere."

The angel looks to the minotaur with a wide smile.

"should I give you true joy?" She says to the demon who's mind is fuzzy from the overwhelming pleasure. He nods gently, his hand fondling his balls.

She flies up to his face and kisses his forehead.

"now I know what to do" she exclaims. She hugs the demon's chest again. Her hands explore his furry chest before finding something cold and metallic. "Here they are"

Joy pulls on the two metal rings. The minotaur moans loudly as his cock throbs. It seems like muscle and height are changing to fat as the minotaur's shape softens up, their powerful pecs become soft tits. The thick fur becomes fluffy and smooth. She spurts out cum from an incredible pleasure, far greater than anything she's ever felt.

Milk drips from her large breasts as the angel suckles on her nipples.

"This is what you were meant to be." Joy says as she pets the cowgirl.

The thick heavy horns that weighed down her head fall to the ground. So many expectations, so much violence, so much sin. It all disappeared with this previously unimaginable joy. A warm golden light appears over the minotaur, a comfortable halo.

If you enjoy my stories please look into my Patreon. There's free stories if you don't have money and if you do choose to subscribe you get a 1k word story minimum plus access to all other premium stories.

[neverlearnedtoread]

Uprooted

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐; my favourite kind of fantasy - classic fairytale with a side of 'dont worry about the details' and 'you gotta believe in the heart of the cards!'

Oh?? 👌😉😏

a really sharp, quick-witted, and willful female protagonist going 'fuck it!' every few chapters or so and doing something crazy (crazy fun) to drive the plot forward, off a new exciting cliff

a soft magic system that really shows off in the best light what makes soft magic systems so valid. its all about the metaphors!! you have to measure the chocolate chips with your heart!!!

nature is so magical and beautiful and deadly. specifically if you treat trees bad they will form a sentient vengeful forest to raze your civilization to the ground and salt the earth with your bodies

kasia. i love an atomic blonde unkillable bad bitch with the strongest queerplatonic vibes with her best friend from birth

a CLASSIC grumpy 'beastly' male love interest. he seals himself away in a lonely tower, makes girls hang out with him for 10 years at a time, and unironically calls himself 'the Dragon'. he even has the audacity to be offended that everyone thinks he's creepy!!!!!!

No.. ❌🤢🤮

if you like having explanations for how magic works and any semblance of a hard magic system in your fantasy, put this book back. 'round here we operate on Vibes Only, babey!!

similarly, if your love language is words of affirmation and/or you think that fanfic-style romance plotlines should stay in fanfic, this romance is Not For You. this is not a judgment, only a warning

Summary: Agnieszka loves her home in her little village in the valley - you know, except for the evil forest simply known as the Wood that's been around as long as there have been people in the valley, with terrible creatures and sentient walking trees. And the century-old wizard known only as 'the Dragon' living in the tower overlooking their land, who takes a young woman every ten years to serve him. But what Agnieszka dreads the most is that her best friend, Kasia, will be chosen next, and that Agnieszka is helpless to save her. Until the day of the choosing, when the Dragon picks Agnieszka instead.

Concept: 💭💭💭💭 I've never gotten along that well with a book blurb, but this one does its damn job - gives me enough plot premise to get me interested without giving it all away, and doesn't make me feel like I've been lied to once I start the book! some stories really don't do what they say on the tin, or take ages to get there at all, but Uprooted starts off exactly at the spot the blurb said it would - with a girl, in a valley, scared of a terrible wizard, about to be whisked away to a tower.

Execution: 💥💥💥💥💥 This story is EXACTLY what it says it wants to be, down to the cadence of the prose - a Polish folklore-inspired fairytale. The rhythm of Novik's narration even fits right - one day I'll get the audiobook for this and get to hear it the way I read it in my head, like a grandmother's bedtime story with twists and eddies and crescendos at the all the right bits. I was in love with the aesthetic of every character, they fit perfectly into the backdrop of what this story was.

Personal Enjoyment: ❤❤❤❤❤ This book aligns to my tastes much the same way An Enchantment of Ravens does, and shares of lot of the same elements without ever feeling derivative - smart girl meets magic boy, causes all kinds of irreversible political upheaval, and lives happily ever after being just as they are - a Girl with The Audacity. its a tale as old as time, and i'll hear it told just as often

Favourite Moment: you know its a good book when you really can't choose a favourite moment - one that comes to mind is agniezska choosing to save sarkan from being grafted onto the heart-tree in the Wood instead of setting fire to it. the 'fuck it!' energy agniezska brings to her moments of crisis is SO good, plus the motif of her always reaching out to sarkan to cast magic together - 'hey real quick, cast a spell with me while you're being pulled into an evil magic tree trying to twist your magic and life force against us. couldn't hurt, eh?' and then it WORKS

Favourite Character: now yall know i love a sarkan-esque character - pathetic wet cat men who are so offended by their own squishy feelings are a great time! and kasia is SO bad bitch extraordinaire, her and agnieszka's love for each other literally makes the plot go - every time, every time without hesitation she puts herself as the last thing standing between agnieszka and the Wood. but agniezska herself is really Something. the way she uses magic, her connection with nature and her refusal to be anything else than what she is - a grubby young woman who wields kindness as her weapon against the world, who holds onto her humanity with both hands and teeth - she shapes this fairytale to be the story she wants it to be, one of connection and empathy. and im still thinking about her introducing the lord of the whole valley to her mother 🤣 power move!!