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pulsar-the-northstar · 9 months ago

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Grief as concept in The Gazette's 'Dark Age' - Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Introduction

Grief, in its essence, encompasses a myriad of natural responses triggered by the loss of someone significant in our lives. However, grief isn't confined solely to the departure of a loved one; it extends to the loss of meaningful connections, dreams, aspirations, and even possessions. Whether it's the end of a friendship, leaving a job or home, parting with a beloved pet, or the destruction of a cherished object, each instance of loss can evoke profound feelings of grief.

The notion of "grief work," originating from Freud's perspective, implies a process of detachment from the deceased. However, this concept may not always align with our personal experiences of grief (or with modern psychology’s approach). Similarly, traditional "stage theories" of grief tend to oversimplify the complex emotional journey by delineating distinct phases. Yet, grief is inherently subjective, and our experiences of it can vary widely, making it more apt to discuss the components rather than stages of grief.

Understanding the components of grief is essential, recognizing that they are descriptive rather than prescriptive. These components may coexist simultaneously, and some may be absent altogether. Grieving is not a linear process, there is no predetermined timeline dictating when one should progress from denial to anger, for example. However, the value of stage theories lies in emphasizing that grief is indeed a journey, and every emotion experienced along the way is valid and indicative of progress towards acceptance.

The album Dogma, released in 2015, stands out as The GazettE's most intense and meaningful work to date. Its powerful visuals, deep musical arrangements, and poignant lyrics evoke strong emotions and touch on a range of topics. After the release of Dogma, the band added two singles, Ugly and Undying, to round out the album's theme. Together, these three works, along with their accompanying Dogmatic tours, are often referred to as the Dark Age. Dark Age consists of several stages (like grief itself), and this dark period ends with the Dogmatic Tour Final, symbolically titled as 漆黒 (shikkoku, "the blackest black").

Just as Shikkoku represents the darkest and most profound phase of Dark Age, the Dogma-triptych represents the pinnacle of The GazettE's exploration into darkness. The songs and overall concept of Dark Age are intricate, yet this complexity allows for personal interpretation and reflection. Dark Age acts as a mirror - a dark mirror indeed - where listeners can continually uncover new layers of meaning. Beyond its surface themes, the songs of Dark Age also delve into the complexities of grief.

In the following sections, I'll take you through the songs of the Dogma album, as well as the singles Ugly and Undying, in the same order they were performed during the Shikkoku live. We'll explore how these songs relate to theories of grief and how they navigate themes of death and loss.

Part 1

The opening track of Dogma, titled NIHIL, derives from the Latin word meaning "nothing." This term symbolizes the initial phase of grief when a sense of emptiness and emotional numbness emerges. Sometimes, we may not fully grasp the gravity of the situation, leading to a feeling of detachment from reality. This aspect of grief, characterized by emotional detachment and shock, is identified by British psychiatrist John Bowlby as the first stage of the grieving process based on attachment theory.

The album's second track and title song is DOGMA, which in both its musicality and lyrics raises a very strong theme. The ominous, mournful sound of the harpsichord reminiscent of Bach is accompanied by heartfelt singing and a deep, slow chant: “I deny everything / I deny all of it", which introduces the concept of denial. “Dogma" is a Greek-origin word and can be translated as "what has been proven right". In today's sense, we use this word for a principle of a religion or ideology that is unquestionable – and what could be more unquestionable from a spiritual point of view than death? Although our minds are aware that death is a final state, we still protest against it.

Denial, along with the shock described in NIHIL, constitutes the initial stage of the "five stages of grief”, a widely recognized theory associated with Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Originally developed for understanding the process of dying, as she was working in hospice care with terminally ill patients, this model may not fully capture the experiences of people who lost a significant person in their lives. Dr. H. Norman Wright later expanded the Kübler-Ross model into a seven-stage framework, refining its phases while preserving its fundamental structure.

DOGMA showcases a wide range of grief components: alongside the theme of denial, it also includes anger towards the stupidity of others, arguing with God, and mentions the funeral as a separating transitional rite (闇を纏い孤高は儀に向かう – "cloaked in darkness, I must face the ceremony alone"). However, the most beautiful expression of the true essence of grief may be found in the last three lines in English: "I will blacken out this world / Darkness in the world / Starts tonight" – because grief almost envelops the mourning person in darkness, marking the beginning of a new era – the Dark Age.

The third song on Dogma, titled RAGE, already alludes to the second stage of the Kübler-Ross model and the third stage of the Wright model: anger. The key question of this phase is "why did this happen to me?" (This question later recurs almost literally in BLEMISH, emphasizing that in the grieving process, the stages may repeat.) Anger during grief can manifest in various ways: towards the fact of death ("We cannot change this fact, it is done"), towards the "dumb" masses (as DOGMA also suggests) who are unable to understand what we are going through; it can be directed towards someone we consider guilty of the loss we suffered, towards the deceased who left us alne, and also - towards ourselves. In RAGE, Ruki uses vulgar expressions to express anger ("shithead", "dickhead", "shitty looser"), while outwardly addressing his words to a single person, who is none other than the "sad old geezer" (God?), who can no longer save us ("Too late / this asshole cannot be saved"), who betrayed us ("How do you use us?") and left us stranded, both as individuals and as a community ("The generation is our last one"). Addressing God is also part of the bargaining according to the Kübler-Ross and Wright modelsas spirituality frequently becomes a factor in grief, involving the higher power capable of granting and ending life.

As we move forward to the next track, DAWN, we encounter a subtle yet significant shift in tone. The very title of the song suggests the promise of emerging from darkness into light, evoking a sense of hope and renewal. However, despite this optimistic connotation, the essence of the composition remains entrenched in the depths of despair and uncertainty.

The song begins with a reminiscence, pulling us back into NIHIL (愛し果てた過去抉り出し歌う /空白の底に - "I sing, digging up the memories of the beloved past", "An evil spell my life"). However, hope is best symbolized by the imagery of 惑乱の時を越え /あぶくを立てる感情を ("beyond the momentary confusion / emotions come to surface"), since grief requires the full spectrum of emotions for its expression.

DEPRAVITY again evokes the state of hopelessness after DAWN (どこまでも深く闇は俺を離さない - "darkness completely engulfs me and won't let go", 眠れぬ夜と生きた – "I lived through sleepless nights"), and also states that the emotions that surfaced no longer support the grief process (涙も枯れてしまった – "my tears have dried up"). However, the setback is only apparent: modern grief theories no longer think in such linear processes, but rather in a system where the griever oscillates between emotions. A "normal" grief (i.e., not "complicated" grief) follows a natural pendulum movement: sometimes focusing on experiencing the loss, sometimes shifting focus to the intention of restoration, and back. This theory of grief processing is called the associated with Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut, and could be illustrated with the following diagram:

DEPRAVITY introduces the theme of seeking meaning with its interrogation of God (執念の塊がぶちまけた暴力を / 罪と呼ばず神と讃えれるか？- "how can you praise a god who unleashes violence without calling it sin?"), questioning what kind of god allows suffering and the death of the people created in his image. In grief and loss, seeking meaning is a natural human reaction: we create mental models of the world in which fundamental truths (DOGMA) operate ("This cannot happen to me"), and when unexpected loss occurs, it shatters our previous worldview. In the process of rebuilding, it's not just the lost person that needs to be mourned, but also the trust in life itself – because if this horror can happen, which shouldn't have happened, then basically anything can happen. This distrust, or uncertainty, is what brings the need for seeking (and finding) meaning (Dr. Robert Neimeyer's meaning reconstruction theory): it necessitates the creation of new narratives, bridging the gap between past and future, transcending the experience of loss.

DEPRAVITY brings up realizations from the depths (真実の裏はいつだってそうさ – "there's always something behind the truth"), which we were not aware of before experiencing loss: how important the lost person was to us (繋いだ心が/ 通わせ合った願いが – "connected hearts / and shared hopes"), and with them, not only did we lose the other half, but also the future we had dreamed of, where the deceased had a place, and where the void formed (望まぬ終わりに何を失う？ - "what is lost with the unexpected end?").

PARALYSIS continues along the same train of thought, but much more prominently. Ruki stated about this song that it draws from a personal experience, a specific story, and is about his own weakness, vulnerability. Personally, I find it beautiful how Ruki integrates English idioms into Japanese lyrics because it gives a sense as if he's singing words highlighted in bold and italics: everything has emphasis, and it points back to the fact that despite seeking truth, secrets remain forever hidden from us ("Lies are stacking up", "Past... Buried... Forever"). Although the title of the song means "numbness," it rather refers to a numbness of action than emotional numbness, as emotions – especially pain – come back with renewed vigor (本能のまま絡まり出した感情が / わからないくらい痛い, "these instinctively tangled emotions / hurt more than I thought"), and cannot be suppressed (寂寞に埋まる私の生命 / 吐き出せばまた孤独に還ってしま, "my life is buried in loneliness / no matter how hard I try to vomit it out, loneliness always returns"). It's significant that he wants to vomit out loneliness (吐き出す, hakidasu – "to spit out, to vomit"), as continuous nausea, seemingly independent of any bodily cause, often appears among the physical symptoms of grief. (Other commonly occurring physical symptoms include: insomnia or hypersomnia, increased appetite or loss of appetite, headaches or other bodily pains.)

BIZARRE provides a momentary glimpse into the grief process, considering that here Ruki wrote the lyrics about a specific phenomenon, juvenile crime, yet this song also contains numerous references to violence and death, as if suggesting: hell itself is the terrible place we live in, where innocent people die.

Continue to part 2

#the gazette #dogma #dark age #grief work #grief

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ckret2 · 2 years ago

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Would Bill like

1. ABBA

2. Grateful dead

3. Mitski

4. Vocaloid (things like Kikou, Echo by Creeper-p, and Again also by Creeper-p

5. Kate Bush

Idk these were things I thought he'd like

For those of y'all just getting here, I'm using this list here as my guidelines for What Music I Believe Bill Cipher Would Like, Loosely Based On Canon.

1. Yeah I think he'd like ABBA (or, y'know, BABBA, as the case may be). He likes party music and that's like, party music of the 70s—though I imagine he lost interest in them as they stopped being contemporary.

But more importantly, it gives me the mental image of Dipper singing Disco Girl and Bill Fucking Cipher joins in like "I LOVE THIS SONG!" He'd be mortified.

Now I'm just thinking of parody song titles for BABBA. "Hand Me! Hand Me! Hand Me! (A Guy Late At Night)." "Mommy Mama." "The Loser Takes Nothing." "Dollars, Dollars, Dollars." "Superb Soldier."

2. Now, I've said I think Bill is all over well-known psychedelic music, so you'd think Grateful Dead would be top of the list; but when I sit and listen to their top hits, it makes me think less In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida or Jefferson Airplane, and more John Denver, so thus far I've passed over them. But digging a bit deeper I'm finding more stuff that gives me Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds vibes, so this is probably just a sign that I need to finally fill in the Grateful Dead-shaped hole in my mental musical library like I've been meaning to do for years. I'm gonna tentatively say "yes" just due to the fact that it's the Grateful Dead, but I haven't listened to them enough to say WHAT he'd enjoy.

3. I will grant that it's very funny to imagine Bill laying on a bed staring at the ceiling while "NOBODY, NOBODY, NOBODY—" blasts at top volume. However I think the main reason it's funny is because it's jarringly incongruous. Most of Mitski's music is dreamy-sounding, deeply introspective, and carried not by simple pop-friendly melodies but by the the complexity & poetry of the lyrics—and I think all of those are things Bill tends to steer away from. "Can you take psychedelics to it in the back of a van with tie-dye tapestries on the wall?" or "Can you rave to it?" covers most of his casual music listening.

(However, I do think he's got an ex girlfriend who did beat poetry that sounds kinda like Mitski lyrics as performed by a screaming death metal band. Someday I'll get around to drawing some of his exes.)

4. I say this as somebody who loves "Again" and "Echo"—I think he'd hate them, & probably most of Kikuo's music. There's a vast breadth of Vocaloid music—it's not really a genre so much as it is an instrument—and while I don't necessarily think he'd outright reject anything made with Vocaloid, I do think he'd steer away from the lyrically darker music. Like I said, I don't think he likes deeply introspective music. This triangle hasn't acknowledged or explored a negative emotion in a bajillion years and he's not about to start now. I mean, come on:

Cause I am on fire; a crying, burning liar; seeing nothing, nothing, but myself; and I'm the one with the lighter!

Is that about Bill? Sure, that's about Bill!!! You could insert it into the middle of the axolotl poem and hardly even notice.

(Making this was a mistake, in my head I started singing "if he wants to shirk the blame, he'll have to invoke my name" to the tune of "Again". Unplanned new headcanon voice for the Axolotl.)

However, "this describes Bill well" doesn't mean "Bill would like this." In fact, I think "this describes Bill well" almost guarantees that Bill would dislike a particular song. The fact that "Again" has such an apt description of him is exactly why he'd despise it. If you try to play this in his hearing, he's blowing up the speaker, burning down the house, turning your head into an ice cream cone and biting it off, and then telling his stunned silent friends that he got tired of this whiny boring music now let's go destroy something fun. Assuming he doesn't simply show no reaction to it at all so that he can avoid showing weakness.

Just about any songs about doubt, remorse, or bad feelings are gonna get the same reaction out of him. He doesn't wanna touch them with a ten foot pole. Music is for partying, music is for escapism. I can see him enjoying a darker song if it's framed in a way that invites the listener to derive voyeuristic schadenfreude from the singer's suffering—but if it's meant to confront you or discomfort you, or if listeners are expected in any way to personally identify with the lyrics, he's not touching it.

I could potentially see him listening to some of Kikuo's music if he can engage it STRICTLY as a party song. For instance, Gomenne Gomenne has sections that make it a solid dubstep song—with frenetic wordless singing on top, I think that'd appeal to Bill—so he might could put it on at a party... as long as the party is loud enough that he doesn't have to pay any attention to the lyrics about horrific child abuse and the resultant trauma. Maybe find a remix that leaves out all the lyrics about low self-esteem, brokenness, and worthlessness—but leave in the bits about rib soup, he thinks that part's funny once the context is removed. Violence is great, he just doesn't wanna be expected to pity someone.

It's a big stretch, though. If I had to pick Vocaloid songs for him, I'd look for either party-ready EDM with relatively bland lyrics or the really experimental pieces that do ear-hurting insane discordant things by pushing the Vocaloid program to the limits of the sounds it can generate; but I probably wouldn't pick Vocaloid for him at all.

5. I don't have anything special to say about Kate Bush, I just don't think anything about her music would intrigue him but there's nothing about it that would specifically deeply rub him the wrong way. Since I assume he's passingly familiar with most notable popular/mainstream artists, I'm sure he's heard her hits, he could probably sarcastically bang out a few bars of "Running Up That Hill" on the piano if he ever somehow found himself in a situation where sarcastic "Running Up That Hill" would be fitting; but the same could be said of any other chart-topping musician.

#anonymous #ask #music #bill cipher

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thebreakfastgenie · 5 months ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/gaphic/760528757258862592

Think it also doesn't help that a lot of these chucklefucks are just lazy assholes who keep on expecting things to instantly change or not interfere with their normal lives while they protest.

A lot of the truly meaningful protests I've read about were frequently made by people who were willing to make difficult decisions and make the necessary sacrifices for the sake of what they believed in, even if it meant the risk of them dying, being imprisoned, or heavily inconvenienced on a personal level, because the thing they fought for was THAT important to them. And they made sure that what they did counted and was aimed specifically at what was actually the source of their problems and used their tools as effectively as they could.

By contrast, the people I've seen doing these "protests" now are just not serious people. Way too many of them are honestly just egotistical privileged dipshits who think they can just be loud and annoying or only copied the movements without understanding the nuances of WHY they were originally done. They often also refuse to ever go after meaningful targets and instead punch down on random people or locations that have NOTHING to do with their cause, and then expect to just head back home for supper and Netflix afterwards and whine and cry either when it turns out they fucked up badly.

I think you make solid points, if a tad undiplomatically, so I'm going to post this.

There's definitely a failure to understand that a core part of civil disobedience is accepting the consequences. And it's scary! Taking that kind of risk is really scary and hard, which is why the people who do it are so impressive, but a lot of people probably aren't willing to admit they're personally afraid to take that risk or make that sacrifice. I think there's also a bit of being raised on powerful images, photographs of historic marches and so forth, and being inspired by the imagery without really understanding the work behind it. You're absolutely right that there is a contingent that thinks they can clock into a protest and then go home and watch Netflix and I think "these are not serious people" is the most apt description.

The issue of targeting is very real, too. You need a protest to be impactful, but you need it to be impactful in a way that matters. Blocking a random highway isn't necessarily effective and can easily backfire. A missing part of the calculus is that a lot of Americans (I'm speaking from an American perspective because I'm American but this applies in other countries too) are going to respond by protestors for X cause interfering with their lives not by saying "someone should do something about X cause" but by saying "someone should do something about these protestors." You don't want to accidentally build public support for the government rounding up demonstrators. Filling up all the seats at a lunch counter when you're specifically protesting the lunch counter policy disrupts normal function in a way that is very clearly connected to your cause.

I think there's an idea that we have a moral duty to protest, but this idea is popular with a lot of people who aren't prepared to make the significant sacrifices involved in protesting seriously, and that's where you get the people who go through the motions but want to go home afterwards. This is a whole other thorny question, but all I'll say for the moment is I'm not convinced framing protest as a moral duty is productive, and I find that a more relevant question than whether it's correct.

There is such a thing as civil disobedience training. There are people that teach you how to protest effectively. I'm not in the loop enough to know of any particular resources, but if anyone knows anything please feel free to share!

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deliverred · 6 months ago

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oh dang, wait, is that...?

fogado peeks his head into one of the other rooms to get a lay of it once again ( because not once nor twice nor thrice-overs are enough for this guy---he's got to be able to use echolocation in these rooms if he wants to feel safe ) and suddenly lays eyes on a rather curious figure.

yes, for it is the very same redhead in full armor who had wiped out on the sandy beach smacking that beach ball! the legend of little movement! the man who is having NO motion in THAT ocean. it's really him!! on the same team!!

" hey, holy cow, i know you! " fogado blurts suddenly from his place half-behind the door. " you're armor dude! say, armor dude, why'd you come in armor to a beach? won't you get hot in that thing?

" oh yeah, i'm fogado, by the way. i'm in the room down the hall. nice to meet'cha! "

It had been fairly quiet in the house that was to serve as Team Weasel's base of operations, most everyone exploring outside once they'd gotten their things put away. Until somebody spoke up from the doorway -- blurted, really, as if they'd had no control over what came out of their mouth at the time.

Lukas blinks in subdued surprise, then adjusts his expression into vague pleasantry.

"Lukas, if you please. Though armor dude is...an apt description." He sounds amused by the impromptu nickname. "Well, someone has to be the stick in the mud, no? I like to come prepared, that is all. I'm sure I'll have to take it off eventually, if not for the heat than for convenience's sake, but for now it remains in case need demands it."

It was a stark difference considering Fogado's outfit. Lukas wasn't aware you could make something so sheer that it was see-through...

"Fogado, a pleasure to meet you as well. You must be all settled in already if you're poking around in other rooms."

#toahappyland2024 #[FOGE BUDDY PAL]#[glad lukas made such an impression jhkjgh]

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meanderingstar · 2 years ago

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Hi, I was wondering what you thought of Priory of the Orange Tree and if you're planning on reading the upcoming prequel?

I gave it 2.5-rounded-to-3 stars

honestly, I think the book was very mediocre. It took me a while to acknowledge that to myself because I wanted to like it very badly and was caught up in my own anticipation and hype, but I was very dissatisfied during my reread months ago. Please keep in mind, though, that these are purely my opinions; if I criticize something and someone else is able to overlook/enjoy it, it's fine.

Ultimately, I think the crux of my issue with the book is that a collection of interesting (albeit staple) ideas and in-depth research does not automatically translate to good storytelling.

Its pacing was abysmal - it was too long, it started too slowly and ended too fast, and it's genuinely bizarre that in a book with multiple kingdoms and a looming draconic apocalypse, we spend more than half the story following a single nation's daily court life + political intrigues that ultimately has no literal or thematic connection to the overarching plot and felt very disjointed and aimless as a result. It also wastes too much time on incessant filler descriptions about irrelevant details + scenarios that don't matter. When the grand finale against the Nameless One finally arrives, it lasts for less than a chapter and is resolved with embarrassing ease; I recently saw an ask that compared it to the final battle of Blood of Olympus, and that's a hilariously apt comparison. The book could and should have been trimmed down, because it could have been easily concluded in just half the page length.

It had an incredibly uneven and unbalanced focus: The West is given immensely more attention and pagetime than the East, which results in the latter seeming reactive, unimportant and vague in comparison. Many people have commented that dragons, despite being used to hype up the book pre-release, were minimally present in the story. The Pri/ory of the Or/ange Tree, despite giving the book its name, also plays an extremely negligible role in the story and barely receives any pagetime; it's also extremely ridiculous that a society of magic-wielding women whose entire purpose resolves around the Nameless One doesn't even fight in the final battle against him. Ead (I'll get to her in a bit, I have a lot to say) is the only one who gets a role. This is explained from an in-universe perspective, yes, but from a writer's perspective, my question is: what's the point of glorifying the Priory, of emphasizing the truth of Cleolind's history, if her legacy doesn't even matter to the plot beyond the actions of one member? I don't know if this is a criticism or a skeptical observation; take your pick.

The book also felt very flat, which was the most irritating aspect to me personally because I'm drawn to books based on their sheerness and the emotions they invoke, and while the language of this story was descriptive, the tone was dry, lifeless and monotonous. It had no sense of stakes and failed to invoke plausible surprise, tension or dread - characters having arguments is written with the exact same intensity as a world-ending apocalyptic battle. The Nameless One is an utterly lackluster villain: despite being told that he is terrifying, we don't feel it because the pov character (Ead) has a negligible emotional reaction; and he's defeated in less than a chapter with barely any difficulty.

Everything also felt far too convenient. The plot is full of ridiculous coincidences where characters just happen to stumble upon objects they need to find or people they need to meet - and so there's no actual sense of anticipation or active engagement. To give you some examples: Loth has to infect himself with a life-threatening, lethal plague to escape? No worries, it's just temporary, there's an easy cure that a group of people have vigorously hidden for 1000 years but he's given explicit directions to find. This results in a global, terminal plague seeming like nothing more than an aesthetical backdrop with no direct relevance to the story. A legendary sword has been missing for centuries, has been hunted for several queens to no avail, and is crucial to defeating the big bad dragon? No matter, it's conveniently connected to two characters despite no prior indication of such a relation, its vague location is almost instantly predicted and its precise location is directly fed to another character via a riddle that took her about two seconds to crack. Multiple nations with rivalries, cold wars, and deadly feuds are meant to ally together for an apocalyptic threat with no concrete evidence except for a random letter written by a woman who is regarded as a myth in one continent and almost completely unknown in another? It hardly matters because all of nations - I kid you not, ALL OF THEM - agree to ally with barely any conflict and without the traditionally established (as per our world and their own) pact of marriage. It's fine if these things happen once or twice; coincidences can be fun. But the plot of Pri/ory is not just laden with them, it's dependent on them. It would crumble without them.

Oh, and hardly anyone dies. A lethal plague, feuding kingdoms, fire-breathing dragons, a (poorly written) grand battle on the sea, and hardly anyone dies except for a few negligible side characters. Lmao.

The characters are stiff and abstract with little to no emotional resonance, at least not for me, which is a symptom of her descriptive but dry, overly formal tone, but also because 1) the author relied too heavily on broader concepts, aesthetics and superficial personalities to define and differentiate them, and 2) wrote a book with an incredibly uneven chapter focus between her povs. Her characters also had very similar internal voices: the vocabulary used and the way scenes/scenarios are described, for instance, are exactly the same in all their povs except certain instances with Niclays, despite their vastly different backgrounds and backstories.

I was very bored/dissatisfied with the pov characters in particular. Loth and Niclays were barely relevant to the plot and could easily be scrapped with little to no change to the overall story. Tane had the most potential: the combination of relentless ambition and haunting fear, the brief moment of greatness before the inevitable fall, and the grieving climb back to the sky was fascinating as a concept, although the dryness of the book obstructed its resonance. But she's constantly given the short end of the stick: she's barely present in the middle of the book and her relationships with people from the East are barely explored (eg: Susa's death, despite its importance to Tane's story, was utterly unimpactful to me because we barely knew Susa at all beyond what we are told about her relation to Tane). Even worse, although she's supposed to be one of the two main characters as a wielder of a jewel, her connection to the overarching story feels purely coincidental and disjointed. She had no arc of discovering the threat on her own the way characters from the West were afforded; instead, it's only due to her link to them that she becomes involved in the main plot at all. Loth tells her about the Nameless One, she and her dragon are used to heal Ead, and Ead explains the full situation and decides their course of action during the final battle. It's a massively uneven balance of narrative attention and respect, especially considering she's our only Eastern pov. This is repeated in the final battle, where she loses the sword which is retrieved by Ead; where she's unable to bear the Nameless One's voice even though Ead somehow knows how to respond to him. Tane's only able to properly succeed with Ead by her side; she's allowed no discovery or victory on her own.

Ead is probably the most irritating to me because 1) blatant authorial favoritism drives me bonkers, and 2) despite dominating this book's pagetime and clearly intended to be its main protagonist, she has no concrete personality to show for it. I loved her chapters the most and her pov the least: she, more than anyone else, is primarily defined by an Aesthetic because her narrative voice is incredibly flat and her characterization is vague and all over the place. The events that occur in her chapters are interesting in theory (although the writing remains deeply dry and unengaging) and she's the only character who's given the chance to Do Things, but that is even more aggravating because 1) she's simply not resonant or characterized enough to stand on her own and is therefore subsumed by her own story, and 2) several other characters get sidelined and disregarded to enhance her importance. She also had an incredibly static arc, imo: while her situation has changed by the end of the story (she is Prioress, in love with Sabran, saved the world, etc), her individual character has changed very little. And that's because her motivations are entirely external rather than internal: she reacts to the plot, but she's never actually affected by it. She has no journey of discovery and risk like Truyde (who was framed very weirdly by the book), arc of acceptance like Loth, or story of ambition, downfall and reclamation like Tane. I'm not saying any of these were written well, but the concepts were there and they could work for Ead as well. But she was, ultimately, stagnant. There's very little introspection, internal conflict or overarching goal for her as an individual; it's always in relation to the current plot, which arranges itself to accommodate her (eg: the moment there's a spark of tension between her love for Sabran and loyalty to the Pri/ory, it's revealed that the current Prioress wants to send her to Ungulus and murdered her mother. There's no tension or actual choice: leaving the Pri/ory to aid Virtudom is her only option, and it's conveniently the only moral one with no room for complexity or ambiguity. The isolationist plotline was also very arbitrary - we do not see Ead actually contemplating this policy in Inys, so her disagreement with Mita falls entirely flat; we don't see her contemplating it after she leaves the Pri/ory either, and so her proposal that she'll be able to "shape the future of the Pri/ory" to "ensure the stability of the new world" feels utterly random. Similarly, Ead becoming the Prioress at the end had no satisfaction or catharsis because 1) the Pri/ory barely played a role in the story, and 2) we only learn that Ead has always wanted to become a Red Damsel 150+ pages into the book. Nor does she consider becoming the Prioress/conducting a coup against Kalyba to save the Pri/ory until the queen of Lasia explicitly tells her that she'll be offered the position after they win. Compare it to Tane's overarching goal of becoming a dragonrider that drives so much of her arc, despite how flatly it's written; Ead is extremely scattered and lacking in comparison). Since she has the most pagetime and is clearly meant to be the protagonist, my irritation with her is more than the others.

I liked Sabran, though! Rulers burdened by their weight of their crowns, legacies built on dust and lies, selfhood devoured and finally reclaimed. However, when her arc reaches its pinnacle and she has to confront the truth of her family and her name ... the book falls flat. It seems like Sabran is barely affected by the reveal beyond "it will take time for me to come to terms with this". She argues for a few lines, and that's it. We're told that she's grappling with it, but we're not actually shown anything and it seems like she just moves on. And at the end, her proposal regarding abdication and succession change came from literally nowhere - she surprises Ead by saying "I have something to tell you" and surprises the reader as well because the last I checked, she was still struggling to accept the lies of her ancestry, and she led her people into war as their queen. Abdicating and removing the monarchial structure altogether is a huge decision that requires a lot of internal conflict and development that we're simply not shown; instead, we're merely informed of it once she's already made up her mind. It also feels extremely uncomfortable that the overhaul of an entire political system is limited to Sabran's own personal experience rather than, yk, an external exploration of how it affects the people who are being ruled. I also think the book would have also benefitted from her pov, at least for some specific scenes/a few specific chapters. Ead's perspective and observation has its own merit, yes, but I think it does Sabran a disservice to view her from a purely outside perspective and it lessens the impact of her arc. God knows she's more relevant to the actual story than Loth and Niclays.

One of the most potentially interesting concepts of the book to me was the intersection of history and mythmaking. However, I personally think it was executed quite shabbily? There is no proper build up or gradual uncovering or startling revelation: we are matter-of-factly informed of the truth right alongside the myth within the first 50 pages of the story. From an in-universe perspective, as mentioned before, Sabran, the descendant of Galian who staunchly believed in this lie all her life, is barely affected by the reveal. Nor is this publicly revealed to the nation as a whole; all we have is Sabran's promise that she'll eventually do it once the story is finished, so there's no proper collective impact, either. And to be really honest, how does this origin myth actually matter? I don't dispute the injustice that was inflicted on Cleolind's legacy on a personal level (although her true story is remembered and revered in the South) but how does this traditional gender dichotomy actually shape and impact the Bereth/net dynasty and Inysh society? Because as far as I can tell, it does not. Inys is a matrilineal queendom with no concept of gendered roles or customs with Cleolind as the sole, inconsistent exception. And frankly, in a world where gender is largely irrelevant, where misogyny doesn't exist, how does Cleolind get cast into such a traditionally gendered role (a "swooping waif" as Ead calls her) in the first place? I think Sh/annon wanted to explore patriarchal reconstructions of myths but also wanted a patriarchy-free society, and imo, those two ideas are pretty contradictory. Or maybe they're not, and it simply wasn't executed very well here. Either way, it ultimately felt scattered and illogical.

Religion and its differences across cultures is another major theme in the story, but I found its portrayal very surface-level. I'm agnostic, so take this with a grain of salt, but again, it feels as though Sh/annon mainly relied on aesthetics rather than exploring how it shaped her characters? Two instances where this was prominent pertained to Ead and Sabran. Sabran, by all accounts, is an extremely devout follower of her Faith and a devoted believer in the myth of Galian and Cleolind. Yet, like I mentioned, when she's actually confronted with the haunting reality of the truth, that her entire religion was a lie ... apart from a few lines here and there, she accepts it and moves on with mind-boggling ease. Another instance was Ead and her feelings for Sabran. Because honestly ... Sabran isn't just a queen of Virtudom, she is Virtudom. She is the descendant and the embodiment of a lie which she subscribes to entirely and which is the direct antithesis of the Pri/ory. Ead had to convert to remain at her court, she has called Ead's people and her beloved mentor "heretics" to her face, she commanded Ead to stop recounting the southern version of the story in favor of the Inysh version instead. The fact that Ead, a passionate follower of the Mother who holds the Inysh myth in contempt, falls so quickly for Sabran is simply bizarre. I might be forgetting, but I don't remember any guilt or anguish or fear or crisis of faith. Her love for Sabran seems entirely disconnected from virtually everything she is and everything she believes in. It could be an interesting dynamic, but the book didn't really explore or emphasize that. Maybe it's a personal issue for me, though.

That being said, I'm definitely reading ADO/FN. Despite Pri/ory's many flaws and lack of engagement, it was readable with some interesting (if staple) ideas and some genuinely beautiful lines/paragraphs; and I'm aware that it was Sh/annon's first book in the series and the genre of high fantasy. I'm also very partial to prequels, and from what I've seen regarding the world and characters of this one, it seems a lot more interesting and fairly promising. At the very least, I enjoyed her worldbuilding posts. Let's see.

Ik you sent me this weeks ago, sorry for answering so late! I'm planning on starting ADO/FN soon (probably tomorrow), so I figured I should probably write down my thoughts before I begin. Again, these are just my personal opinions and nobody has to necessarily agree or disagree!

#ask #my post #When all's said and done though...I'm glad this book did so well. I'm sure it opened a lot of doors in the industry and that's #extremely commendable despite what i personally think about it lol #tpotot #samantha shanon #complicated books

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rahuratna · 3 months ago

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Jelly! I'm finally curled up and ready to peruse your fic!

Firstly, the way you begin is perfect for this story, a classic dive into the reader's memory. What I truly admire is the consistency with which you've captured mood, tone and the setting. It's atmospheric, romantic, sweeping and spine-chilling all at once, just that precise combination of factors that make this so wonderful.

I love, love your worldbuilding and the way you've spun this delicate web of sparkling detail around the life within the village, the harsh nature of their life and the kind of interpersonal relationships this engenders; the class differences, the gossip, the suspicion and the superstition.

Okay, let me just say right now that I LOVE the way you write Atsuya. There's a certain roughness and charm you bring to him that's incredibly alluring and ... I'm fanning myself. All right.

The way they meet is so organic and romantic, this connection that they form at such a young age. The thing star crossed lovers are made of.

The way Naoya is depicted here is such an apt adaption of his character. The cruel, handsome future head of prominent family is exactly the role for him.

"You have forgotten how to breathe, but this feeling of being breathless was not one you would come to regret. The heat in your face becoming very noticeable to you the longer you gazed at his beauty. This remarkable young man you didn't realize you were in love with until he had the courage to say it out loud." I love this paragraph. There's absolutely something this fic reminds me of, and I'll come to that later. Atsuya's heartfelt declaration and his desire to be her husband and make her happy 😭😭😭 These are happy tears.

Naoya needs to GO. In the worst way possible. But you have written him really well to get this visceral response from me, lol. Ah, wait. Yes. Kusa mauls him to shreds. Yes. Yes. This is very satisfactory indeed.

NO. I thought he died!! Lol, Jellyyyyy. Anyway, I think it's an apt punishment that Naoya still, on some level, knows that the werewolf avenger is still out there somewhere, waiting to take another chunk out of him. Permanently, this time.

"Those oakey brown eyes were just as deep as the day you met him. He stood there, rugged and tall. The years had weathered his appearance even more, but certainly not in a bad way. His hands were more calloused, gruff complexion more tanned with the evidence of working regularly in the sun and crafting his survival in the rough terrain, unshaven stubble along his square jaw. A man." THIS description of Kusakabe did some very interesting things to me. I love how you've made him wolf-like, both in mannerism and appearance. It's no wonder that she's masturbating in his bed. I would too, quite frankly.

I love how the conversation prior also showcases how they've both grown and changed as individuals. The idea of marriage being approached in such a transactional fashion is both heart-wrenching and a mark of how she puts other before herself.

Oh. OH. JELLY, that was one of the nastiest, smuttiest, most explicit monster fucking scene I've ever read and I loved every minute of it. When the knotting happened.... BOYYYYYY. I knew it was inevitable, but I was NOT prepared for that description. Monster fucking nation, loud and proud and you did it justice!!

I find it such a satisfying conclusion that she stayed in the cabin in the woods with him, having his babies and a lovely, quiet life while Naoya faces the ignominious end of being stabbed in the back by his own men. As he DESERVES.

Thank you, Jelly, for this fairy-tale read! It was beautiful, smutty, romantic and gripping, all at once. Now, coming back to what this reminds me of: the song "Everywhere" by Fleetwood Mac. The music video was an adaptation of the poem, "The Highwayman" and it has so much of a feel similar to this story!!

by the moon 🐺

Synopsis: the story of you, the daughter of a village baker and how you came to fall for the mysterious Atsuya Kusakabe who harbors a dark secret that plagues him every full moon. One problem: you're betrothed to Naoya Zenin who you do not love. 🌕

Banner/divider cred: @/saradika-graphics

Words: 9.3k (I can't believe it either tbh)

CW: x FEMALE! READER, MINORS DNI, SMUT, P IN V, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, MASTURBATION, CUNNILINGUS, SUI IDEATION MENTION, PET NAMES(PRINCESS, SWEETHEART, ETC) SOME HISTORICAL MISOGYNISTIC ATTITUDES, DARK CONTENT, DUB CON, POSSIBLE NON CON JUST IN CASE, IT'S NOT TOO CRAZY BUT PLSSSSS TAKE CARE IF YOU'RE SENSITIVE. INFIDELITY , BITING, WEREWOLF! KUSAKABE, KNOTTING, BREEDING, PREGNANCY, ROUGH SEX, SPIT, CUM, CREAMPIE, NAOYA SUCKS, ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP WITH NAOYA, CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR, NEAR DROWNING, VIOLENCE, GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOOD, DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, ANGST, FLUFF, NON GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF KILLING ANIMALS

A/N: for the amazing Monster Mash event hosted by the incredible @nanamiscocksleeve . Thank you sooooo much for having me!! 💕💕 HAPPY SPOOKY SEASON! 🎃👻 And ty to @actuallysaiyan for being my source of inspiration for my first go round writing werewolf smut. 💕😩

Snow in October was rare, yet the quiet beginnings of the unexpected snowfall began to dust the ground, the shimmery white blaring against the deep orange and green of the forest.

You tugged your blanket tighter around you as though you could sense the bitter chill directly through the frosted window of your new manor house, its unforgiving walls causing your mind to wander far off elsewhere during this same time of year, five years ago...

He was the first and only man you ever loved, and the way you met him was entirely by accident.

The riverside village you grew up in was quaint, surrounded by trees with the innumerable evergreens of the deep forest just on the outskirts.

Despite its charmed exterior, its inhabitants were gossipy, prone to mob mentality, and rather superstitious. One stray rumor quickly added kindling to the fire of another like a domino effect, leaving the poor victim scorched and shunned. And although you knew better, something about you always yearned for something greater outside the small minds of your town, the daughter of a mere baker.

Day after day, smoke and chatter filled the small streets as merchants hustled for a living. Farmers ushered livestock, fish were gutted, and business carried on as usual. Preparations were well underway for winter's timely arrival as the village made haste to meet this year's quota to avoid famine.

A large chunk would go to House Zenin, led by Naobito, the ruling Lord of the region who lived on the other side of the mountains. An early frost like this caused winter's kill to afflict the vast river and the population of fish, putting many livelihoods in jeopardy.

This unsettling pressure was tangible in your interactions with the locals, including your father who was more short tempered than usual as the orders for bread came in quicker than he could fulfill.

So, you did what you do best which is run away into the forest despite numerous warnings and disapproving nods from your neighbors not to wander off, especially during the heart of October when the full harvest moon's appearance would happen like clockwork. This would could give way for a completely new problem that plauged nightmares and local legends:

Lycanthropes.

This year in particular coincided with a blue moon.

The issue of a werewolf had not haunted the village in hundreds of years. Though, with this blue moon on the horizon, it only fanned the flames of unrest, villagers insisting the Gods must be angry due to this year's scarcity and were sending a werewolf as penance for their grievances.

However, some took this opportunity to indulge in the fascination behind the supernatural and trade old stories around the fire during the harvest festivities, hearty drunken laughs echoing from the bitter ale.

You supposed, as you thought to yourself as you sauntered through the expanse of the forest floor along the twig laden paths, that coming face to face with a werewolf wouldn't be all that terrifying.

Who's to say those beasts weren't capable of feelings or just as fearful of humans as they were of them? You thought it thrilling to run underneath the moon and be chased by such a creature. A creature that ran on two legs like a man with claws and sharp teeth, big and strong. Easily overpowering you. Something oddly alluring about the primality, the taboo behind the uncertainty of what he'd do to you when he caught you. You, his helpless prey he'd rip out every corner of the forest that concealed your sweet, sweet scent away from him...

But all of these things, you surmised, would land you directly in the village looney bin had anyone else accessed your thoughts.

As you wander, you don't realize you're being watched until your observer makes himself known.

"Village is that way, miss."

You whirl around, eyes widened when you're greeted with the stern gaze of a young man who was weathered and rugged like someone much older, eyes a shade of brown that competed with the intensity of the bark of trees that surrounded you. Bushy brows that almost met in the middle, dark spiky hair, and a sharp jawline that framed his handsome face.

"I'm sorry -I'm..." You hesitate. The first rule not to wander in the forest, already broken, soon to break the second of not speaking to strangers as well.

"I'm not looking for the village..."

Atsuya Kusakabe tilts his head. You were like a lost fawn. A dead one if your survival skills and sense of judgement were truly as poor as his prior observations of you led him to believe.

"Do I know you?" You prod, eyes searching his face attempting to jog your memory. "Wait, I think I know you..."

Kusakabe looks away, trudging silently towards his cottage that was tucked further down the path, towing a wooden cart with fishing tools and you stumbling behind him.

"You're...are you....you're the Kusakabe boy?"

You had heard rumors of the scorned family, who, many years ago were banished after the mother was thought to be a witch. The fate of her young son remained unknown, until now.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of one particularly long scar that adorned his forearm. He takes notice and unfurls his sleeve down in response.

"Ya really shouldn't be out here. If ya turn back now, you'll be home before sunset." He shoots an annoyed look at you when he realizes he won't be rid of you so easily. "Seriously, you're not concerned about your safety at all?"

"I am, I just—"

"Jus' what?"

You shrug. "I like being in the forest. It's better in here than it is out there."

"Really, a girl who likes being in the woods?" Kusakabe's eyes narrow as you approach the small cottage together.

"Yeah. I mean it's not so far fetched. My dad's insufferable. The villagers are annoying. The girls my age want nothing to do with me and the boys my age are all painfully rude and arrogant. It's much better in here where I can be alone."

"Well, get used to it, princess. In here is no place for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Yes, you. You're delicate." His eyes briefly appraise you again.

"I'm not made of glass."

"Oh really?"

"Really."

Kusakabe scoffs. "You're one of those proper girls. Ya know the ones that spend all their time reading books? The pretty ones that always get married off to some rich bastard Lord an' have a bunch of babies."

You couldn't help but remain stuck on the fact that he called you pretty as he turned his back to you, stowing the cart in a shed adjacent to his cottage.

"Well, you're wrong about that. I'm not getting married to any Lord." You straighten up.

"Right, we'll see about that." Kusakabe leans boredly against the shed.

Silence persists for a moment and you try to think of a way to prolong this encounter.

"You're a fisherman?"

"Ya."

"Where do you fish? I've never seen you at the river." You lean on your hip, eyes trained on his.

"I don't go to that river." Kusakabe folds his arms.

"Why?"

He clears his throat, his family history flashing briefly in his mind. "For reasons..." The pause in his voice contains an indiscernible pain behind it. "I go to the lake on the other side of the forest."

"There's a lake?" Your curiosity is piqued.

"Ya? Ya never seen it?"

"Well, maybe you can show me one day?"

"Not a chance, miss." A smile tugs at his lips after thinking for a moment longer. "Okay.... Maybe. But I wouldn't be doing all this for free."

You think carefully. "How about some bread? And in exchange you show me the lake and the ins and outs of the forest I don't know about."

Kusakabe's stomach inevitably grumbles. It had been so long since he tasted bread, having been exiled from the village so long ago. Such things were a luxury to him. He can't help but agree.

"Deal." He notices the sun beginning to dip in the sky. "But seriously, get going, princess. Night's just gonna get darker." He reaches for a lantern that sits on the gate in front of the cottage. "I'll walk with ya."

You walk together, chatting the whole way while he silently listened, fighting to disguise the faint ghost of amusement on his face as you incessantly speak, recounting stories from your childhood, what you ate yesterday, your theories on how the universe came to exist while he escorts you to the forest's edge.

"Well, here ya are, miss. Have a g'night."

"Goodnight, Atsuya."

He smiles, his name was warm when it fell from your lips. His first pleasant interaction with someone his age for the first time in years. He can't shake you from his thoughts that night as he wanders away in silence.

And so, this became a routine. Every afternoon after your studies, you'd run off into the woods until sunset, winding and finding your way back to Kusakabe, greeting him cheerfully with a biscuit or roll. Talking for hours and hours about everything and anything, this blossoming friendship between you two. He couldn't place it, but something about the promise of you jovially running down the path to see him every day became his motivation to let his feet hit the floor in the mornings.

Your father begins to notice, becoming more cold and harsh than usual.

"I don't know what you're up to, but it needs to stop, missy, you hear me?" He scolds you one evening.

"Winter is coming and you're off galavanting in the woods like usual. If you put half as much effort into lazing off as you did making yourself more suitable for marriage, then perhaps we wouldn't find ourselves on the brink of bankruptcy."

You went to bed that night with tears in your eyes, relentlessly tossing and turning as sleep evaded you. Marriage wasn't for you. Or at least your father's idea of it. Loveless and transactional, selling you off to the highest bidder.

You got up in a rush and promptly put on your cloak, off to the woods once again to see Kusakabe despite your better judgement.

Unknown to you, your father hired a group of young men from the village watch guard to keep an eye on you. You despised them and their leader just so happened to be Naoya Zenin, son of the renowned Lord Naobito.

You heard rumors that you were one of the prime choices among the young ladies in the village to be his bethrothed, but everything about him made your skin crawl.

He was rich and handsome on the outside, but the ugly innards of his heart overrode those two things completely. Callous and cruel with a particular sadistic liking for torture, you vowed to stay as far away from him as distance would allow.

The feeling that Kusakabe gave you compared to him was night and day.

Naoya snickered from his tent as he watched your candle disappear into a clearing, nodding for two of his accomplices to follow.

"Let's see where the little brat is off to this time."

"If we're lucky, we'll get to watch her get eaten by something."

Naoya chuckled darkly, "Now, that's no way to talk about my future bride." A smirk painting his loathsome face as he watched you scurry into the night.

-----

"Kusa!"

Kusakabe jolts awake inside his small cottage, heart pounding in his chest when he sees a small flame outside his window, answering you with a wave of disbelief mixed with excitement.

"Hey! The hell're ya doing out here..?"

"I had to see you."

Kusakabe nods and immediately brings you inside, glancing cautiously in both directions. The darkened silence of the forest putting him at ease as he closed the door behind him.

"My father's driving me crazy..." You sigh as you strip your cloak off, landing in a heap beside the modest fireplace and planting yourself onto the rocking chair beside it.

Kusakabe realizes this is the first time the entirety of your beauty became revealed to him, the shadows from the fire painting an air about you that was rather bewitching. No sooner does the thought enter his mind than he banishes it completely.

"Tell me 'bout it."

"He wants me to get married." You tell him with a sigh. "He doesn't care if I'm happy or not. I feel like my whole life is being decided for me and it's so, so unfair..."

Your lip trembles and Kusakabe has to resist the urge to pull you into his arms. The surgence of his feelings he had been in denial about for some time making themselves apparent at last when he lays eyes on your precious tears.

"Hey..."

Your soul flares alight when he crouches down next to you, a supportive hand resting on your thigh. You twitch slightly and Kusakabe waits, thinking perhaps he was too forward, but then you do something that surprises him and you collapse into his chest entirely with a broken sob.

"Kusa...Kusa...hold me..."

Kusakabe raises his hands in surprise but then melts completely as he pulls you into his lap and into a protective carry against his chest.

It was only now that you realized how truly strong he was. He sets you gently down on his bed just on the other side of the room, rocking you back and forth, his brow furrowing as he squeezed you a little tighter.

"M'here, m'here.... m'holding you angel, I've got ya..s'okay....s'okay..."

Your quiet cries dissolve into hiccups as you stare over Kusakabe's shoulder, calmness starting to settle in, realizing being wrapped up in his arms was where you wanted to be all the time.

"Shh..." Kusakabe closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of holding you at last. Warmth traded between you both with every passing moment.

He pulls away for a moment, keeping both of his large hands on your arms, running them up and down slowly and searching your face before he brings a careful hand to your face. The right, followed by the left as he gently swipes at the wetness under your eyes.

A loud hiccup exits your chest and he can't help but smile at the adorable sound.

"Feel a little better now, sweetheart?"

"I *hic* ....sort of..." You sniffle.

"Hey, s'alright..." He murmurs. You notice his lips part a little bit as he takes in your features, an irresistible warmth that starts to creep up between you two that made the air undeniably foggy.

He whispers your name, "...tell me somethin'.."

"Yes?" You straighten your back. "Yes, Atsuya?"

He hesitates, then abruptly decides to take the leap. "You...ya like me, right?"

You give him a mildly confused look.."Of course I like you.."

"No, goddamn it, I mean..." He chuckles and looks at the floor in tired defeat. "Sorry, princess. Language. I mean..." He lifts his brown eyes with a sigh, boring into your own. The softest manner he has looked at you dead on the entire time you've known him.

"I mean..." He says gently. "I mean do ya like me, princess? Do ya feel somethin special f'me?"

You have forgotten how to breathe, but this feeling of being breathless was not one you would come to regret. The heat in your face becoming very noticeable to you the longer you gazed at his beauty. This remarkable young man you didn't realize you were in love with until he had the courage to say it out loud.

"If ya do...I mean, like I do for you, then...then you could stay here." He straightens up, the initial fear of confession over with and a fire lit under him as he continued. "I would take care of ya. I could be a good husband to ya, princess. Wouldn't let anything happen to ya.. keep ya safe..."

He brings his face even closer. "And I'd love you for all of my days..." He cups your cheeks. "I'd even ask your father's permission. So what if he hates me. Couldn't live knowin that I didn't at least try for ya."

"Atsuya..."

He sighs, closing his eyes as he gently kisses your forehead. "Please..." Before he carefully presses it against his own, bringing both of your clutched hands to his chest. "Please, tell me ya do, I—"

But he can't speak for the face of a goddess is staring back at him as you blindly lean forward and capture his parted lips in a delicate first kiss.

His hands automatically pull you even closer to him, clutching you against his chest like salvation as he kissed you tenderly in that small cottage in front of the cackling fire.

----

The group of men look nervously at Naoya beside them in the bushes outside, who's watching the whole thing and keeping eerily silent. But they don't have to guess to know he's absolutely seething.

"My...my Lord...." one of them steps cautiously closer before Nayoa snarls and knocks him aside, snatching the torch away from him and striding towards the cottage in a blackout fury, aiming it at the roof.

"My Lord, wait!!!" One of the guard's eyes goes wide when the moon outside begins to peek through the cloud cover.

Inside, Kusakabe's head jerks up in alarm, pulling you closer to his chest when he hears a yell outside his window, cursing when a flicker of moonlight begins to leak through the windows.

Oh no...

He gravely underestimated how soon the phases would arrive on the calendar. The sclera of his eyes begin to darken, before they become bloodshot, his eyes becoming intense and golden.

"Kusa...?" You look up at him in worry, horror painting your face as you see the distressing look on his face, his face twisting into something sinister.

"Princess, listen..." He fights to keep his voice gentle, it's still the one you know, the one that belongs to your darling beloved. You cling to him in worry.

"Atsuya, what is happening...?"

"Ya need to go—"

You yelp as he hastily sweeps you into his arms, running with you towards the back door, the smell of smoke telling you the cottage was on fire.

Suddenly, his whole body feels alarmingly hot, your eyes widening terror when purple and green veins begin to darken under his skin, the muscley sinew bulging, the sickening sound of flesh tightening and nauseating crackle of bones being broken. The veins in his neck throb as patches of thick hair begin to sprout all along his face and arms, his elongating claws pricking and drawing blood which you scream in pain as they knick your skin before he shoves you out into the harsh cold of the night.

"Run..." He chokes out. The last trace of the real Atsuya you fell in love with before he slams the door closed.

You stare in utter disbelief at the cottage, the burst of orange from the fire and shattering glass pulling you out of your state of shock.

"Kusa..." You murmur, darting towards the front of the cottage, utter dread settling over your entire body when you see Naoya and his group of men, throwing rocks and more lit torches on horseback, taunting and yelling in diabolical glee.

"NAOYA...STOP!! PLEASE!!"

You sprint towards where he's standing, laughing at the misfortune. "Don't hurt him!!!"

He sneers at the sight of you. "Get back, you whore. Toji, restrain her."

You yell in protest as the dark man's strong hands lock you against his chest as you kick and squeal to no avail, heart sinking and crying out in anguish when the roof of the cottage collapses, setting the surrounding trees on fire in uncontrolled blaze while the men cheered.

"Atsuya..." You feel a tangible pain of inconceivable heartbreak with a sear in your chest unlike anything you've ever experienced as you could only assume that poor boy was dead. All because of you.

"You...you FUCKING BASTARD!!!!" The grip Toji has on you has loosened just momentarily for you to barrel straight at Naoya, attacking his face, his arms, chest, torso, anywhere you could reach as you tore and ferociously clawed at him like a madwoman.

His anger turns on like a deadly switch as he growls loudly and seizes your arms while you cry out in a mixture of grief, fear, and pain as he overpowers you swiftly and knocks you to the ground, only before his assault began to worsen in a feral rage as he struck you repeatedly in the face.

Before he can strike you again, you shut your eyes as your consciousness teetered on the edge before a blood curdling scream rattles your bones. You open your foggy eyes, the group of men slowly backing away and turning to run away in fear. You weren't sure what you saw, but it could not be anything other than the largest wolf you've ever seen.

Only it wasn't quite a wolf. It stood on its two hind legs, towering ovover a shrieking Naoya as it mauled him relentlessly, the unmistakable squelch of breaking flesh and fleeting drips of blood staining the forest floor.

You hear the yells of men behind you rallying together, charging the beast. He turned his head, yellow eyes and teeth coated in foaming saliva and broken chunks of Naoya's flesh as he snarled wildly at them with the face of your deepest nightmare before you lost consciousness.

-----

That was five autumns ago. You felt tears brim with longing as you gazed out of the window of your lonely bedroom. The harsh bitter cold of outside seemed more compassionate than the firelit halls of your new home as you were slowly ripped out of your daydreams and faced the reality of being betrothed to a man you did not love.

"Woman, look at me when I am speaking to you."

You turn slowly, eyes sullen with defeat as you look up at the scowling face of Naoya, which was now deeply scarred from that fateful night you were just recollecting.

"Yes, my Lord."

"It's about time you addressed me with some respect." He tsks. "You were off in the woods again last night. If you come home at an unreasonable hour again, I will revoke your permission to ride in the evenings altogether. Have I made myself clear?"

Oh, last night.

You usually took your rides in the afternoons. But as the wedding drew near, the haunting of Kusakabe's memory became more unbearable. So, you started taking them at night, riding horseback to the forest's edge under that old tree you and him would lay under all those years ago just overlooking the vast lake, hoping that the moonlight would somehow bring him back to you.

This miserable existence as the forced betrothed to this disdainful man had caused you to check out entirely. Not caring if the hour was late and he found you out. Sometimes, you dared to think death would more kind if the Gods would not let you be with the man you truly loved.

Maybe that night he really did perish and you were chasing a ghost after all this time.

"Yes, my Lord."

He leans over you with gritted teeth. "You will do well to learn your place. We've only days until our wedding and you will honor me. Is that clear?"

When he sees that faraway expression in your eyes, he boils underneath with jealousy. The look of a woman whose heart lies somewhere else.

"That thing is dead. Do you not remember, foolish girl? I killed it this harvest. Its head now rots on a spike outside these very walls."

You did remember. How could you forget the revenge tour Naoya set out on as soon as he healed from the werewolf attack? Scouring the forest with his men and hunting packs of wolves to near extinction you were sure.

He would do everything within his power to make absolute certain that Atsuya wouldn't live to hurt him or steal what rightfully belonged to him ever again, dashing all of your deadened hopes that he would come back for you.

But, when Naoya paraded his last kill in the streets you felt in your heart that it was not really the head of your lost love.

Naoya would sooner switch places with the beast and put his own head on display before he would ever admit it, but, deep down, part of him trembled in fear that Kusakabe still lived and would come for revenge of his own.

Naoya brings you to his eye level. "That so-called love of yours is not coming back. He's dead."

You tremble and you feel your blood run cold as it seems he relishes in your fear and his dominance over you.

"You will give and submit yourself to me fully, whether you want to or not." Naoya's yellow eyes flicker away from you before one last warning. Tears finally spill out of yours with the deafening sound of the oak door slamming shut.

----

The ground breezes past you at the speed of light as you descend deeper and deeper into the forest, the wind biting your cheeks. Thoughts of Kusakabe fills your head as the salty tears blur your vision causing you to momentarily lose your balance, hands tightening the reins as you encourage your horse, faster and faster, akin to your boiling frustration that you knew wouldn't last much longer.

You tread even farther than you've gone before and chart your course to the other side of the vast lake, now putting yourself with more than a few hours journey away from the village. Not that you'd be returning.

When you arrive at the lake overlook, you bring your horse to a halt, breathing out slowly as the peaceful sight of the dark water grounded you. A distant rumble of thunder echoes throughout the valley and the winds pick up, gently sloshing the waves. Determined, you get down, shedding your cloak and boots, walking to the edge of the black sand, as you take in the oranges, reds, and greens of the autumn drenched forest around it and the ashen clouds hanging overhead painting the world almost a grey blue. How fitting to be surrounded by heaven one final time.

You rock back and forth on your toes lightly to settle your mind. You think of him, of Atsuya Kusakabe. Using his face and the distant memory of his rough voice to slowly guide you to fight off the piercing cold of the water around your ankles, then your shins, thighs, and torso.

Living together in your happy place away from where anyone could touch you as your frantic breaths stilled from the chill and you floated on your back on the mild current. Not giving a damn if he was a werewolf or not. Living freely without shame in love. Maybe raising up a family of your own. Belly swollen with his pups. Dreaming of their little faces that bore a mixture of you and him.

All of this, the fleeting enchantment of the forest, the biting murky tides pulling you further and further from the shore, and Atsuya Kusakabe's name uttered from your lips as you close your eyes, unaware of a looming wave before it swallowed you in one gulp.

----

The soothing heat radiating from a small cackling fireplace greets you as you slowly open your eyes. You're groggy, cold, fingers pruny, and damp hair. Your nose and throat feel on fire and your chest aches. A cough rattles from deep inside and you sit up quickly, heaving as you bend over, discovering you're clad in a long sleeved nightgown with several quilts wrapped around you. You feel dizzy and a numb pounding in your head makes itself known.

"Hey, careful. Don't move too quickly all at once, princess."

You whip your head at the voice which you surely thought was from the grave.

"Atsuya....?"

Those oakey brown eyes were just as deep as the day you met him. He stood there, rugged and tall. The years had weathered his appearance even more, but certainly not in a bad way. His hands were more calloused, gruff complexion more tanned with the evidence of working regularly in the sun and crafting his survival in the rough terrain, unshaven stubble along his square jaw. A man.

You stared at him as though he was made of glass. A facade of fog and smoke. You reached out to touch him and he brought his hand to meet your own. "Yeah, it's me..." The wrinkles by his eyes more apparent as he bestows you a caring smile, guiding a small wooden bowl into your palm. "Here, drink this. It'll help with any pain you're experiencing."

Your bewildered expression remained, still unsure if you were dreaming, dead, or somewhere in between. Finally, you look down at the soup with a reluctant approach.

"S'perfectly safe, princess." Kusakabe reassures. "It's chicken broth."

That pet name shudders through you and you recognize it really is him. You rise up quickly and throw your arms around him, almost spilling the broth.

"Jesus!" Atsuya tenses, sets down the bowl, then relaxes as he greets your hug with his own, one of his hands gently holding the back of your neck as he allowed his face to become buried in your hair.

"I thought you were dead..." You whisper as a tear leaks out of your eye followed quickly by another.

He grips you tighter in response. "I missed ya too, beautiful..."

"How...how did you come to live here? What happened that night? The last night that I saw you?" You pull away for a moment and look into his eyes, running your palms over his cheeks. "Why didn't you come back...?"

Atsuya sighs deeply, leaning into your touch and gently removing your hands from his cheeks, enveloping them in his own. "I wanted to..." He closes his eyes momentarily then opens them, his expression more serious. "But first of all, why'd ya come out here by yourself...? The hell were ya doin' on the lake during a storm like that?" His voice is stern but it trembles at his last question.

You take a step back, caught off guard by his question. "I..." You turn away from him completely. "It's..." You hesitate, trying to stop tears welling in your eyes. "I don't really know. I was upset and I just needed to get away..couldn't bear it anymore. Just wanted to feel something." You bring a shaky hand to your face to swipe at the increasing wetness. "Part of me thought you were dead. I was grieving that. But I don't understand why you didn't at least come back to say goodbye. Letting me think the worst when you were here this whole time."

His heart shatters, his guilt the consequence of his cowardice. But he knew he was only trying to watch out for you, as well as himself. He had no desire to worsen relations between him and the village that cast him out.

Even worse if they obtained knowledge of his true secret. One that he was hoping you didn't fully piece together that fateful night. He couldn't love you if he were a dead man after all.

"I heard 'bout the engagement." He said solemnly. Silence drags the moments between you until it's indiscernible how much as passed. He looks at you, trying to muster up a little more lightness to the conversation and change the subject slightly. "Decided ta be somebody's wife after all, huh princess?"

You huff out a little air. "Was hardly my choice." You cross the room back to the chair he sat you in, bringing the quilts back over you and cupping your hands around the warm broth. Kusakabe takes the stool in front of you. "Lord Naoya Zenin can choose any woman he wants for his bride. The wedding is in three days."

A bolt of jealousy courses through Atsuya followed shortly after with a seethe of silent anger at the mention of your fiance. Not realizing it was to him. "Oh..." He clears his throat, trying and failing to disguise his obvious disdain. "Didn't know that..." He looks at you. "Well, congrats, princess. Hope you're happy with him...."

You look at him with that obvious look of love that said the opposite, but you realize you'll have to fake it until you make it. "Thanks, Kusa."

He knows you well enough to know when you're putting on a facade, but right now, he just wants it to feel like old times again when you and him could speak for hours.

"Well, how's palace life, princess? Now that you're a real life princess?"

You giggle, looking down. "Hardly a princess. A Lady, if we're being technical. The beds are nice and the food is better but nobody warns you how boring the Lord's council meetings are."

"Oh?" Atsuya smirks and leans forward on his elbows, making himself more comfortable. His forearms and generous biceps you notice flex slightly as he props his chin on his fists. "Tell me all 'bout it."

And several hours have now escaped as you chatted away by the low fire. You updated him on life as a soon to be member of the ruling class, telling him all about your education, music, teaching him a few phrases in Latin and other local dialects you picked up from your time as a pupil. You discuss again your theories on everything and he soaks all of it up like water to a parched man.

Now it seems like the passage of five years has become irrelevant as this reconnection between you both made it feel like you never left. Darkness is now fully descended upon the forest. You look out the window, realizing Naoya surely would be on his way, scouring the forest when your horse wandered back to the manor without its rider. You could only imagine the the unforgiving consequences he would inflict on you this time for your defiance.

Atsuya senses the shift in your energy, like there was unrest in your soul that was troubling you. He hesitates but then asks quickly without thinking too deeply about it.

"Are ya really happy with him, princess?"

"Hmm? Oh I'm. Well I'm..." You clear your throat before taking a distracting sip of your broth.

"I spared my father and I from the streets. My happiness and personal satisfaction really come secondary to all of that."

Kusakabe's thick eyebrows raise at this new maturity and attitude in you, but he waited as you continued.

"...In addition our land will have a new Lady to rule alongside her Lord and provide him with successors. It is vital to the Zenin clan."

He looks at you, longing brimming in his expression. "But you're not in love with him?"

Alarmed he could apparently read your mind, your lips part. For a moment as you gaze at one another, the space between you feels very thin. Just like it did that night five years ago when you felt the warmth of his lips for the first time.

But, the fear of being branded a whore for dabbling with someone other than your betrothed before your wedding kept you silent.

"Is he good to ya?" Atsuya asks softly. "Does he make ya feel like I could?"

"He...takes care of me, yes."

"But he puts his hands on ya."

You blink rapidly in defense, resisting the urge to cry again. "M-many lords do when it comes to their lady. It's within their right."

"Yeah, but that don't make it right..." Kusakabe says a little irritably.

"Perhaps I should go."

"No." Kusakabe insists, a little harshly at first, then resumes his gentle tone. "S'well past dark now, princess. You're on the other side of the lake. Ya wouldn't reach home til an hour before dawn."

The knowledge he bears of the creatures of the night eats at the back of his mind. "Ya don't know what's lurking out there. Trust me, you're much safer here til the morning."

"No, Kusa please? I'll be alright..." Exhaustion from your near drowning has overwhelmed your body at this point, your eyelids fight to stay open but your fear of your fiance's wrath is still very present in your mind.

"Really, I don't want Naoya to come looking for me out here. I don't want him to hurt you again. I fear what he'll do if he finds out I came here..I can't put you in that kind of danger again, Kusa."

He scoffs. "Your stupid fiancee can't hurt me, princess. And he won't hurt ya. I won't let him, sweetheart."

"Kusa..."

Kusakabe pauses then trembles. His body on fire. He's sensing the changes that are taking place in the clouds in the night sky outside the window. He needs to get you asleep. Now. As soon as possible for your own safety.

He knows it's selfish to keep you here but he doesn't care. Fate brought you back to him and he'd be damned if he let it take you away from him again. Especially to someone as evil as Naoya. The slowly appearing moonlight outside is working against him and he must act quickly

"L-look, princess. Just sleep here til the morning alright? We'll figure somethin out." He looks anxiously at the window then back at you as he manages a coaxing look. "C'mon, let's get ya to bed."

Before you can say otherwise he brings you to his chest, the firmness and warmth of his body all the persuasion you needed to just let him take care of you.

He takes you into another room in his new cottage which is noticeably nicer than his old one, setting you on the bed with a gentle creak and bringing the covers under your chin. The exhaustion works itself quickly into your system and your eyelids become overpowered immediately.

"Kusa, you aren't gonna sleep too?"

Kusakabe smiles, leaning a hand on your forehead. "Course I will, princess. M'just makin sure you fall asleep first."

The moon juts from behind the clouds even more and he swallows nervously. "If ya wake up and notice I'm not here, I'm probably just out getting wood for the fire, okay? Don't panic and whatever ya do, just go back to sleep, alright sweetheart? Promise?"

"Mmmm... mhmmm....." But you're already in dreamland.

He eyes you tenderly one more time, standing up slowly and walking towards the bedroom door, shutting it gently before he crosses swiftly to the threshold. He almost sprints outside before he disappears into the bushes with a pained cry shortly followed by snarls and a haunting howl that rattled through the evergreens.

------

Hours later, a breeze from the wind in the dead of night brushes the cracked window in Kusakabe's bedroom open ever so slightly causing you to slowly rouse from your deep slumber.

The comfort of being where you longed to be for all these years at last rendered you particularly safe and content, so much that the faintest ember of desire began to tingle between your thighs.

You bit your lip, unable to resist the allure brought on by the lingering haze of sleep and the scent of Kusakabe that was everywhere in your surroundings, in his bed.

Your hand slowly snakes down your body, softly gripping your breasts and tweaking your nipples on the way down as you arch your back. You sigh and dig the crown of your head into his pillow, rolling your clit. The air is disturbed quietly by your little pants, your eyes prying open as the arousal gently leaks into a gradual flood. You notice your lover is gone, but remembering his words, you stay where you are. The way your aching pussy is begging for your attention more and more and the smell of him on the pillows immersing you like the real thing is too good not to follow through.

"Atsuya....oh, fuck....fuck me so good, Atsuya..."

You've done this many times, envisioning him so often fucking you for the first time. Only honorable young women kept their virginities intact, reserving them for their wedding nights. According to plan you'd be forced to give yours to Naoya, but you still dreamed of Kusakabe anyway.

Hopeful that one day Atsuya would be the one to make you cum with a shudder of his name. The first man to roam his eyes all over your naked body. Thinking about the sweet agonizing stretch of his cock that quickly bowed to sinful deliciousness while you moaned to make yourself all his.

His pretty drunk little cock slut who was just an innocent virgin before now underneath him in his bed, stretching herself all out on his thick cock who belonged to him and him only. His pussy to cum in and breed.

Your fingers could only take you so far. You moaned sweetly, gathering the pearly slick and working it into your clit, back in, and out.

"Kusa...mmmfuck I love your cock so much....so much, baby..."

You lock down that heavenly spot, shutting your eyes as you see his face so clear as day above you in your mind, his parted lips and sweaty face as he fucked you with everything he had. His heavy, sweaty cock so long and thick and veiny. Fuckkkkk, his hairy body and chest. Picturing him raising your legs and folding you up while his cock had you creaming all around the base as he hit that deep spot inside over and over with filthy precision before you finally snapped and cried out with your glossy juices permanently staining his sheets.

-----

The sweet, sweet honeyed scent of your pussy hits Kusakabe like a train. Immediate sex pollen as it winds its way into his enhanced nostrils and settles deep in his core, his aching werewolf cock and balls swelling with his seed.

Must breed. Must have you tonight. Make you pregnant by the morning so your piece of shit fiance can't have you. Ruin you permanently for anyone else because when a werewolf finds his mate, only death could stand in the way of what destiny declared to be all his.

The moonlight continued to flood the floor of the forest as he sped past the trees in a blacked out lustful haze. Your pussy: wet, silky and soaked in slick the forefront of his mind.

You scream as he bursts into the bedroom, gathering the sheets all around and clawing your way up the headboard at the sight of the nightmare with yellow eyes.

You tremble and shake as cold sweat pops up on your forehead, your poor heart about to give out as it absolutely pounds in your chest, echoing in your eardrums. Absolutely expecting this moment to be your last on Earth before Atsuya would come back to find your mangled bloody body and guts strewn all over his bed like a horror scene.

But, the beast is calm. He edges towards you slowly, a clawed hand reaching out as you felt his warm leathery palm lock around the meat of your calf as you softly whimper.

"P-please....please..."

In one fell swoop, he drags you to the edge of the bed, spreading you wide open, claws like scissors as they shred your nightgown completely. You yelp as the cold air hits your naked body, leaving your nipples pointed and bumpy. You squirm to get away only before he immediately dives into the glistening mess that was still sticky between your thighs. You cry out from the stimulation that hits you like a rock. His rough, hot breath against you, you hear him groan as his large oversized tongue flattens against your clit, recognizing the low tone of your sweet Atsuya.

"Kusa...?" You whisper.

He grunts almost to say yes, too drunk off the immediate taste of your free flowing nectar he had only dreamed and fucked his fist full of cum to for all those years.

"Ffuck...Kusa? Kusa.....ohhhh..." You stared down at him between your legs with wide eyes and jaw open in shock. God, this shouldn't feel that fucking good. This was hundreds of times better than your fingers.

But why, why was your brain firing up your arousal even so as this fearsome thing stared up at you?

He was so hairy and wolflike but his body bore resemblance to a man. Buff and strong and solid as a rock. It intrigued you, it enthralled you. It felt wrong but God the way he was eating your pussy like he had been long deprived, this feeling of utter euphoria felt so fucking right.

If this was what real sex felt like then you'd let him fuck you all the time.

You go slack and grind against the large meaty wet muscle in his mouth sighing breathlessly as he stroked you with it again and again.

"S'right, baby...give yourself to me..." He rasps in between generous licks.

"Atsuya..."

"Fuck, I dreamed of this....fucked my fist s'many goddamn times to this..." He grunts, his claws knicking the insides of your thighs, making you cry slightly in pain.

"S'okay, s'okay... you'll be strong f'me, won't ya, princess?" He lifts his head from your pussy and licks all along the tiny puncture marks, his wolfy drool oddly soothing as he relishes the sweet metallic taste of your blood. "Gonna breed you once you're ready f'me..."

"Atsuya....oh, God..." You run your fingers in his hair and hold on for dear life as he dives right back in. "Kusa...Kusa, r-right there...right there, baby please!!"

His low growls and thick poky hair on his chin tickle your inner thighs as he plunges his tongue even deeper, your tight little hole loosening up for him under all his heavenly treatment. His tongue could almost pass for three of your fingers on its own, gasping as you feel yourself bloom open around him, silky walls coaxing his tongue deeper as he fucked you with it, determined to wring out your second orgasm tonight and his first with you all into his insatiable mouth.

"Don't stop, please don't stop...Kusa, baby..." You tremble and gasp, thighs trembling around his wolfy ears. He pulls away, and you see his monstrous face in all his glory clearly through the moonlight for the first time, sharp canines and the fur around his chiseled chin all drenched and covered in your shiny slick.

"My Atsuya..."

"My beautiful mate..." He whispers, locking your legs around his waist. Between the v lines covered in dark brownish auburn fur, you see his pulsating cock and the biggest breeder balls you've ever seen, the size making you simultaneously tremble and drool. "You're ready to take me..."

"Kusa, please I've never done this..." Your lovely eyes meet his ravenous ones. A swell to his ego rises and his eyes darken, confirming his suspicion that no man had you before. And none ever would except him.

"Oh don't worry, you'll take me, darlin. Trust me, jus' relax..."

The bulbous, swollen tip rubs at your folds. You coo sweetly at this and he decides to tease it a little again, eager to stuff you but realizing he likes it when you get all whiny and desperate when you gush around his cock.

"Yeah? Feel good?" He mutters gruffly, drool dripping down his fangs as he glides his cock in between your loose dripping lips, his throbbing shaft now coated in a new shine of your dribbling juices as he moves and strokes it up and down, the veins of his girth softly nuzzling and prodding at your puffy wet clit with every careful swipe.

"So good...Kusa...so good, baby....mmmm I love it so much..." You moan as you begin to squeeze and knead your breasts.

You're getting greedy. He realizes he needs to do it now, needs to bury his cock deep inside you if he wants this to work and get you pregnant. Wafts of your evident ovulation and heat inhaling through his nose as he begins to push his cock against your entrance.

You mewl and whine as you feel him absolutely stretch you out to new limits. He draws his hips slowly back, letting the back and forth motion spread the built up slick around his cock to act as lube.

"Kusa, I c-can't...so big...you're too big..."

He brings the rough pad of his thumb to your clit, some sweet relief shooting up your spine like electricity and arching your back again allowing him to push his cock even farther inside your deep pussy.

He chuckles. "Haah, really, princess? Lookit how much of me's inside your pretty pussy already..."

He smirks wickedly as he brings a clawed hand to an emerging bulge in your belly, which you realize with eyes widening is the outline of his cock, a feeling of ecstasy sparking between your thighs again when he harshly presses on it, pressure going to your clit which makes you drip around him even more again.

"There..." He licks his lips as a wolfish grin slowly spreads across his face when his meaty cock is nice and fully sheathed inside your squishy cunt, an experimental thrust of his hips elicting breathy pleas from you.

He thrusts deeply, and picks a rapid pace. Every movement intentional, deliberate and intense. Not an inch of him spared from you as he really lets you feel him, stuffs you nice and full with every mouthwatering ridge, vein, dimple and curve of his wolfy cock.

"So warm n'tight.... Shit.... n' it's all f'me..." He growls possessively. "Tell me you're mine. M'the only one that's gonna fuck this pussy, breed ya with my pups n' these...." He cups your breasts, flicking your nipples, the sharp edge of his claws poking your perky buds ever so lightly. "These will be nice n full of milk, my milk...."

"Fuck, I'm all yours, sweetheart... Just wanna give you babies..." You sputter as you feel yourself go dumb on his cock. "Please fuck me, ruin me so nobody can have me, Atsuya..."

"Fuck..."

He snarls and his grip on your thighs is near bruising before he folds them up, now slamming ferally into you in mating press, his heavy balls smacking against your anus. The depth you found him inside you at this angle really put you to the test. But, you were determined to take him, determined to let him make you a mommy and breed you full so Naoya couldn't have you. Be his pretty little cum dump and fill you, fuck you and love you anytime he wanted.

God, you would let him do anything to you.

"M'gonna...m'gonna..." You feel like you're about to see heaven as he pummels into you even faster, shooting thick spurts of cum inside your virgin womb. He bites down on your shoulder and you scream then sigh as you feel his cock twitching madly inside you as his balls emptied. The volume of his cum was so excessive that it leaked out in gobs of creamy silver white, running down your pussy in filthy trails and staining both your pubes with the sticky substance.

Atsuya sloppily licks your shoulder where he bit as he jolts intermittently a few times, making sure what amount of his cum did land inside you went deep enough, his seed surely working quickly already to make you pregnant.

"Mine...mine, mine, mine mine....all fuckin' mine..." The mantra works him up, gets him excited as he begins to pump inside you again.

"Kusa..." You groan from the building ache, but bite your lip and lay your head back on the pillow when he brings his thumb right back to your clit, activating that tried and true spot he discovered earlier.

Something strange happens. You feel his cock harshly throb inside, pulsating against your walls in a way that almost felt like he was vibrating inside you.

"Baby....that-fuck..." You grit your teeth as the sensation spreads like a shockwave against your body. "Kusa...?"

He smirks, moving his long fingers up and down your ribs, sliding underneath your back and gripping the plush of your ass, using it to firmly shove you down on his cock, causing the lewd mixture of cum, saliva, slick, and blood to squelch out of you a little bit with a dirty wet plap.

You cry out and he captures your chin in his fingers, forcing you to look at him. The head of his cock swells immensely, making you feel impossibly full like you're going to be split open. Your eyes widen in horror as you claw at his arms. He nearly crushes you against his chest, grunting as he moves a little bit inside you to provide you with more friction to ease the ache.

"S'okay...s'okay, s'okay. Let it happen baby, fuck just let it happen, gonna make you mine for good, now. Fuck jus, jus, relax, baby, yeah?" He spits on your clit, the area where you're connected an almost unrecognizable sopping mess covered in both your fluids. He rubs your clit again, which works to loosen you up a bit again, however it's bordering on overstimulation.

Sensing your discomfort, he sucks on your breasts, giving you deep, slow thrusts into the practically ocean of cum inside you as the knot nears completion in its formation, doing what he can to distract you from the ache.

He was taking care of you, his beautiful new mate. This had to happen for the ritual to be complete. You were the first human he had ever knotted in, and he wanted to savor every moment since you would be his last.

You sob, nearly passing out from the overwhelming mixture of pleasure, pain, and elation unlike anything you've ever processed in your life. You go limp in his arms, and he runs a hand, bigger than your face over your cheek, smiling when you blink up at him in a daze through your lovely lashes.

"Did so good, my darlin', so good..." He kisses your sweat covered forehead and looks down, attempting to withdraw his cock from the cum plug he built up around your connected bodies, but it remained cemented in place, the knotting complete.

"Atsuya....my love..." You coo weakly.

Warmth floods him from the inside as he pulls you into a loving kiss.

"You're mine now for good, princess..."

----

Your horse was found wandering in distress in the woods the next morning. Naoya set his men out on a blind hunt in fury, determined to find you and drag you home where you would be whipped to unconsciousness, and then Atsuya made an example out of and executed publicly in the streets.

However, he never found such luck. Your soaked cloak and discarded boots were found floating in the lake and his discouraged men called off the search when they believed you were long buried in a watery grave.

----

Months later in the dead of winter, you hugged and stroked your swelling belly, calling your sweet Atsuya over to put a hand over yours where you could feel his two pups kicking inside you.

You looked at him with love stricken eyes as he prepared you some vegetable soup. This was bliss. Tucked in your little cottage deep in the woods far away where nobody could hurt you. Spending your days doing what you loved and taking care of your little dwelling, then being doted on and adored and loved and fucked in the evenings by your werewolf husband.

Rumors had reached you that Naoya never did take a bride, having been murdered in the streets by his own men when they became fed up with his self serving ways. Either way, it didn't matter, but this piece of knowledge that your abuser met his well deserved fate eased any remaining unrest in your soul.

This permitted you to continue in your sphere of eternity in those darkened woods with Atsuya Kusakabe by your side.

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musicforspaandearthquake · 8 months ago

Text

men and the sounds of grocery stores

In DFW's oft-cited Kenyon commencement speech, published later as This Is Water, there is an anecdote on the punishing mundanity of everyday life in which Muzak plays a cameo role:

"It’s the end of the work day and the traffic is apt to be: very bad. So getting to the store takes way longer than it should, and when you finally get there, the supermarket is very crowded, because of course it’s the time of day when all the other people with jobs also try to squeeze in some grocery shopping. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing muzak or corporate pop and it’s pretty much the last place you want to be but you can’t just get in and quickly out; you have to wander all over the huge, over-lit store’s confusing aisles to find the stuff you want and you have to manoeuvre your junky cart through all these other tired, hurried people with carts (et cetera, et cetera, cutting stuff out because this is a long ceremony) and eventually you get all your supper supplies, except now it turns out there aren’t enough check-out lanes open even though it’s the end-of-the-day rush. So the checkout line is incredibly long, which is stupid and infuriating..."

Here "soul-killing muzak or corporate pop" are just one of a number of elements (including "hideous" light, traffic, and crowds) which go to make up what constitutes the day to day misery of adult life, the elements, which in aggregate, make up the "water" of daily existence.

The title of Wallace's speech comes from a joke at the speech's beginning:

"There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes “What the hell is water?” "

As Wallace explains, "the point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about." Wallace's commencement speech is not that is, about water as a medium, the likeness of air to water as mediums which convey attractive forces, or the like. However, it's telling that in Wallace's attempt to direct the graduates' attention to the realities that are "most obvious" (ie right beneath everyone's noses), he evokes both the very medium in which the two allegorical fish swim through, as well as a seemingly tiny detail in his picture of the "day to day trenches of adult existence": grocery store music, background music, "muzak or corporate pop."

In Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, male protagonist Chip finds himself wandering the upper East Side trying to locate the materials to prepare a lunch for his parents, who have arrived on a visit. The search quickly turns into a satire; he eventually finds himself in a fictional grocery store called The Nightmare of Consumption in which the items are comically overpriced. He asks for a filet of Norwegian caught salmon, but misidentifies the price, and is handed a $78 filet, which he then decides to shoplift by placing it inside his shirt, where it then slides down into his groin (page 94). As he is managing the various feelings of the cold fish sliding around in his clothes, he is bombarded visually, aurally, and tactiley in the crowded, overstuff, overpriced grocery store, privy to "a little voice behind him" saying "Daddy, I want swordfish" as well as a "man in a Yankees cap who was shouting into his cell phone: "I said fuck him. Fuck him! Fuck that asshole! We never closed. There's no ink on the line. I'll take that asshole down another thirty, you watch me..."

Franzen's description of the grocery store includes no specific reference to the muzak or music playing overhead or in the store speakers, but highlights the dense, uncomfortable sonic space of the grocery store through the closeness of voices and unwanted conversational fragments which greet him everywhere he turns. Here, the claustrophobia and "noise" of the space is demonstrated not by the music above, but by the over-intimate closeness of the humans below.

Franzen expands on this sentiment in an essay written for MIT titled "I Just Called to Say I Love You": "Privacy, to me, is not about keeping my personal life hidden from other people. It’s about sparing me from the intrusion of other people’s personal lives."

The essay traces the loss of civility in public spaces, in particular through the rise of the use of cell phones in said public spaces. The essay was published in 2008 and predates the ubiquity of smartphones. It focuses primarily on the inattentiveness of shared spaces by users of cell phones, as well as the bleeding into public life of private conversations--in particular the use of the phrase "I Love You"--into the public sphere.

The social activity of the grocery store makes another appearance in this essay. Here the dynamic is between the cell phone user who refuses to get off the phone while checking out, and the ignored checkout clerk, often a person of color:

"One currently worsening national plague is the shopper who remains engrossed in a call throughout a transaction with a checkout clerk. The typical combination in my own neighborhood, in Manhattan, involves a young white woman, recently graduated from someplace expensive, and a local black or Hispanic woman of roughly the same age but fewer advantages. It is, of course, a liberal vanity to expect your checkout clerk to interact with you or to appreciate the scrupulousness of your determination to interact with her. Given the repetitive and low-paying nature of her job, she’s allowed to treat you with boredom or indifference; at worst, it’s unprofessional of her. But this does not relieve you of your own moral obligation to acknowledge her existence as a person. And while it’s true that some clerks don’t seem to mind being ignored, a notably large percentage do become visibly irritated or angered or saddened when a customer is unable to tear herself off her phone for even two seconds of direct interaction. Needless to say, the offender herself, like the chatty freeway driver, is blissfully unaware of pissing anybody off."

The description here hearkens back both to DFW's description of checking out in his Kenyon commencement address, as well as the sense of intrusion Chip feels while bumping around in the Nightmare of Consumption in The Corrections. In both DFW's speech, Franzen's fiction, and Franzen's essay, the grocery store is likened to a kind of hell or nightmare, in which the sounds the grocery store stand in for both the mundanity of daily adult existence as well as nightmarish, claustrophobic sensation of consumption, consumerism, capitalism, the grocery store.

In Don DeLillo's White Noise, the brunt of grocery store noise is neither the muzak or music overhead, nor the chatter and cell phone conversation of shopper's below, but instead the announcements issuing from the intercom system overhead as well as simply the plain, empty, ambient sound of the store itself.

In the 9th chapter, the protagonist Gladney and his family run into his colleague Murray at the grocery store once more, for the "fourth or fifth time." As the shop and banter:

"A voice on the loudspeaker said: Kleenex Softique, your truck's blocking the entrance."

A few lines later, Gladney reflects:

I realized the place was awash in noise. The toneless systems, the jangle and skid of carts, the loudspeaker and coffee-making machines, the cries of children. And over it all, or under it all, a dull and locatable roar, as of some form of swarming life just outside the range of human apprehension."

That the grocery store is the spiritual center of the novel, if not the occasion which generates the novel's central ideas of apocolypse, death, and the creep and creepiness of modernity, is suggested by the fact that the novel ends in a grocery store, along with a long-ish meditation on the phenomenological experience of grocery shopping:

There is a sense of wandering now, an aimless and haunted mood, sweet-tempered people taken to the edge. They scrutinize the small print on the packages, wary of a second level of betrayal...Smeared print, ghost images. In the altered shelves, the ambient roar, in the plain and heartless fact of their decline, they try to work their way through confusion...This is the language of waves and radiation, or how the dead speak to the living.

That this "ambient roar" is a central concern of the novel is made evident by the novels' title: White Noise. Allegedly, this was not the first chosen title for the book, but a secondary, makeshift one. DeLillo's first, chosen title was allegedly Panasonic, which, following the Greek prefixes, translates to "all sound" or, "all around sound." The Japanese electronics company Panasonic didn't approve a request for the book to be titled this, citing copyright. (As a side note, Panasonic was apparently conscious and intentional about the "all around sound" meaning inherent in their name. They published promotional literature on the "ambient sound" of their product). Panasonic would've been an especially fitting title as well insofar as the novel is replete with the names of househould products and brands, is about the poetry of exactly just such names. To have won the title Panasonic for his novel would've been to have land a score on many different levels of meaning in the exact register the novel natively operates in in, a kind of corporate punchline which simaltaneously as deep metaphysical registers. Another translation for the novel, following Panasonic, then, might simply have been "ambient sound."

Another subtitle of the novel: The American book of the dead. DeLillo's novel is the comedy of the clash between consumerism and spiritualism, between death and capitalism: the ironic meeting place between these two opposed forces, is the grocery store, which is spoken of, by Murray and throughout the novel, in the reverent hush usually reserved for spiritual sites, temples. The comedy is generated by the mutual incompatability of the literary and sonic registers between consumerism/capitalist and spirituality/death. As Murray says on page 38: "Waves and radiation. Look how well-lighted everything is. The place is sealed off, self-contained. It is timeless. Another reason why I think of Tibet. Dying is an art in Tibet. A priest walks in, sits down, tells the weeping relatives to get out and has the room sealed. Doors, windows sealed. He has serious business to see to. Chants, numerology, horoscopes, recitations. Here we don't die, we shop. But the difference is less marked than you think."

In passages such as these, the language of capitalism and the language of death are mixed up and mixed together, generating comedy, and not incidentally, some of the imagery of the tabloid (numerology, horoscopes), a sentiment which is echoed in the novel's final lines: "A slowly moving line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks. The tales of the supernatural and the extraterrestrial. The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity. The cults of the famous and the dead."

In the 6th book of Karl Ove Knausgaard's My Struggle Series, the first 100 hundred and some odd pages are sprinkled with Knausgaard's attention to matters of food preparation, child rearing, and shopping for dinner. Between ruminations on whether or not his Uncle Gunnar will take Knausgaard and his publisher to task for what he's written in the volume one of his series, Knausgaard attempts to write, to prepare for interviews related to his book's publication, to prepare food and meals for his three small children, to put them to sleep and bathe them, to pick them up from daycare, and to grocery shop. This passage of the My Struggle series reads as a tightly sequenced choreography in which reflections on qualities of literature and Knausgaard's dread of his Uncle Gunnar (and his attendant shame) are interrupted and broken up by the humdrum routines of childchare.

Interestingly, the sequence contains a reference to ambient noise, even, to Muzak, but these references don't come while Knausgaard is in the grocery store. Instead, while Knausgaard is shopping, it seems he is too preoccupied with various other levels of attention to notice what might or might not be playing overhead, or to notice any of the visual or aural noise of other shoppers. As he writes of being inside the supermarket:

"It was like somehow existing on different levels, all of which had suddenly become active at the same time. One that was absorbed in the letter from Gunnar and an almost savage feeling of despair. One that was thinking about what to have for dinner, and that steered the shopping cart around the store accordingly. One that regretted having treated Heidi the way I had before. One that was annoyed by Vanja's behavior. One that was sad to see her obey, because maybe it meant I was strangling her spirit. One that was pleased she did as she was told." (112)

Over the next short paragraph, Knaussgaard's attention is simaltaneously on his infant son John as he tries to climb away at the checkout, bagging his groceries, and keying in the PIN on his card. In the paragraph after, Knausgaard writes, "I bagged the groceries, lifted John onto my arm, and then we set off home"

Though Knausgaard's attention is on many "different levels" throughout this sequence, one level his attention is not on is the sonic or aural level, as though he is too preoccupied with the activities and moods of his three small children to have space to notice what is happening beyond this field of vision.

It is not as though Knausgaard is not attentive to the sonic level, though it seems this awareness surfaces primarily in the moments when he is trying to--but failing to--write. Just a few pages earlier for example (77). With only half an hour until he needs to pick up his three children from daycare, Knausgaard enters his bedroom to work, but instead checks his email, and then lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. it is here, that, in the liminal space between trying to work, and actually working, Knausgaard becomes attentive to sensory world of the environment around his apartment, in particular the sonic world:

"I got up and opened the door onto the balcony, then stretched out on the bed again. The sounds of the city trickled into the room. I heard footsteps in the hallway. They stopped and the bathroom door was opened and then closed. The old saxophone player whose spot was by a pillar only a few meters from the entrance to our building, where the flow of people crossing the square was greatest, began to play. He always played the same thing, a minute-long fragment of some tune, presumably on the assumption that his audience was always new. That a man seven floors up had to listen to every note, not just day after day, but month after month, was something that almost certainly didn't occur to him.

Dii di daaa da dididi daaaa.

Diii di daaa da dididi daaa.

Diii di daaa da dididi daaa." (77)

Just a few pages later, Knausgaard once again finds himself listening to sounds instead of writing. After waking up at four thirty, having a coffee and a cigarette on the balcony of his apartment, and "put[ting] off work for as long as possible" he then heads inside to work. In the following sentence, he establishes a sense of rhythm, routine, and perhaps, which sets up the expectation that he is about to sit at his desk to work and write, which is then--perhaps comically--broken, as in a punchilne, by his flipping through his CDs precisely where the sentence has set him up to get to work:

I...went inside to the study, switched on the computer, sat down, turned on the lamp attached to the bookshelf with a clamp, and flicked through the stack of CDs on the floor next to me, deciding on Giant Steps by the Boo Radleys, which instantly transported me back to the mood of Bergen in the early 90s...I sat for a while debating with myself as to whether to put something else on instead, at the same time opening the manuscript of the second book and scrolling through the document. No, it wouldn't do. i picked out Josh Rouse's 1972 instead, it was soft and pleasant, verging on Muzak, and would be a good start to the day. (90).

Comparison of muzak to hell in dfw and muzak as something that might be a 'good start to the day' in Knausgaard, which points precisely to ways in which muzak is thought of: as both soulless and soul crushing, as well as something innocuous, even vaguely pleasant and productive of work.

It's interesting to note that in the two fictional passages in which the shopping men in grocery stores are with children (DeLillo's White Noise and Knausgaard's 6th volume), there is less consternation with aural or visual noise of grocery store. DeLillo's character is far less preoccupied with his children in the shopping sequences than Knausgaard is, but he is not wholly inattentive ("Where's Wilder?" he asks comically at one point, having lost track of his son in the store). Instead DeLillo's character Gladeny, might be described as ironic, amused, and distant. He ironically observes his colleauge Murray's flatteries towards Gladney's wife Babette, ironically observes the disappearance of his son, ironically listens to Murray's soliloquoy on death, spirituality, and the supermarket as a mystically charged zone, and ironically hears the "ambient noise" of the shelves and the supermarket announcements overhead. By comparison, Knausgaard's attention in the grocery store passage is less ironic, and more myopic. He is focused on completing the shopping task at hand and keeping an eye on his three children, each of which occupies a separate channel of his attention (each needing a specific kind of attention or discipline, according to their character, age, and second to second mood). In this way Knausgaard's attention is both narrower, spatially and sonically, than DeLillo's Gladney, and yet also working at a higher capacity.

Either way it is Chip, in Franzen's The Corrections, who is childless, and yet also the most flummoxed by the sonic and informational overflow in the grocery store, as though without a child in his care to plug up his extra available attentive space, the grocery store (The Nightmare of Consumption) expands and swells to cartoonishly hellish proportions in which everything is too loud, too colorful, too close, too expensive. Even in this childless world, children are still present (it is a "little voice behind him" which speaks the oddly discomfiting words "Daddy! Swordfish!" as the cold, raw Norwegian salmon slides down Chip's shirt into his crotch; and just as Knausgaard attempts to shop and keep an eye on his children at the same time, the character on the phone in The Corrections, in addition to being an oblivious, loud intrusion, is also mostly oblivious to his daughter, who has opened "5 or 6" lids of very expensive yogurt.

And though the parable of adult daily life in DFW's commencement speech (an adult life which includes going grocery shopping) is not a fully fleshed out fiction, it is perhaps nevertheless possible to notice that in this small fantasy, in which the adult battles traffic after a challenging day at work and must fend off the horrible light and the "soul-killing muzak or corporate pop," there is no child present in this fantasy. And lacking a child to occupy one's attention, DFW's attention turns, like Franzen's in his piece on cell phone culture, to the figure of the checkout clerk.

John Berger and the economy of the dead.

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c-qcatwrites · 6 years ago

Text

The Monster

Hello, everyone.

It’s been a while.

Ready for a fun, sudden genre change?

(Also, big thanks to @wtnvwritings for giving my brain when I wrote this originally some goddamn AMAZING images to latch onto and cackle ominously about.)

(EDIT: BIG THANKS to @alicesfracturedmirror for giving me the pet name headcanon, I was very silly to not remember to do this earlier, but I’m bad at remembering things anyway.)

Recommended Song Pairings:

Papers (Hades Finds Out) - Anaïs Mitchell (Hadestown)

NFWMB - Hozier

Like Real People Do (Live In America) - Hozier

Frank Castle was a monster.

There was no doubt of that.

He couldn’t die, there were murmurs, that’s proof enough, right?

He got up from a shot in the head and ordered someone to bring him to the only thing that mattered—home.

And when he couldn’t find that anymore?

He unleashed hell everywhere in the city he could touch.

Everyone was certain he was on that boat when it went down, that he hauled himself from the river, freezing.

Either that, or that the river swept him out to sea, and from there his chaos could only spread.

The Punisher. He was a monster. A kill count in the double, maybe even triple digits.

He got up from being beat half to death, his lungs cut by his ribs, from being shot, stabbed, choking on his own blood, and he was still not about to stop, not anytime soon.

He was a monster.

And there were stories that told of the strange shapes his blood would make on the ground if enough of it left him.

There were stories of a shadow that would bite if his enemies tried to run from him.

There were stories.

Because Frank Castle, after all, everyone knew, was just a man.

So then where was the monster?

You could feel something was wrong that night the second the spark in the air hit.

Less like a thunderstorm.

More like a Faraday cage.

Like if you stepped out of where you were safe, you would get hit.

But you needed to step out, because you knew what was happening.

You got out the first aid kit. You got out the blankets. You got out glasses of water, got out alcohol, got out everything you could need.

Everything you knew you would need.

Because you knew what was happening.

And knew that it was only getting worse by the second.

You sighed.

You sat down on the kitchen floor.

You closed your eyes.

You grit your teeth.

And you waited.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, you began seeing what was going on.

An ambush. A trap not spotted, not seen coming—or maybe it was seen coming, just thought it could be bested. You weren’t sure with Frank anymore.

But he was still standing.

And his heart was racing, pumping adrenaline through him, more blood seeping onto the ground, spreading out across the floor, and the stain he was stuck standing in, no longer looked like a stain. No longer looked random, looked normal.

There were gaps. There were patterns.

And he was lucky no one there knew to look at the blood on the ground.

You could feel your heart racing.

You could feel his pulse, your pulse, the pulse of the magic coming up from miles away.

You were scared, you were, but some ancient part of you had that urge to scream his name and cry locked away.

Underneath your skin, some part of you was human.

Some part of you loved and cared and lived.

But that part of you was becoming more and more gone, the more they shot at him, spilled his blood.

And the second the last part of that stain-that-wasn’t-a-stain beaded itself up, rolled along the ground, and sunk into place?

You took a deep breath and held it, because the cold shadow you sunk into made it feel like you couldn’t breathe.

In a flash of energy, every light in the warehouse flickered off.

No one could see anything.

But you could see them.

The lights flickered back on, and you heard a chorus of “JESUS CHRIST” just before a round of gunfire in your direction just passed through you.

Frank Castle was a man.

But the monster?

They hadn’t seen anything yet.

With a roar like an animal, you were on the closest one, no longer smoke and shadow, but too many limbs, too many mouths, and teeth, biting into him, ripping him to shreds even more than the gunfire trying to track you did.

You couldn’t tell if Frank was shooting anymore.

You couldn’t feel the bullets his enemies were aiming at you now because they lost sight of the man.

You didn’t care.

You just took a chunk out of the throat of the next one and flew across the room to the next—no, you didn’t fly, that’s too silent of a word, wouldn’t account for the sounds of a pack of animals running, howling, screaming for the kill.

You were tearing into the place, into its men, chaos incarnate as you spotted—tasted, really—the intention of the last man standing.

Frank was down.

This man had a gun pointed to his head.

That little human part of you had more in them than everything else you were made of had ever thought possible.

Because when they screamed “NO!”, it felt like the sky was falling, and the man flinched, covering his ears.

And that’s when you slammed into him, knocking him back against the wall with a roar.

You weren’t sure if you stopped screaming at any point as you pummeled this man with too many limbs, too many hits possible, eyes burning like stars, and you could see the fear in his eyes.

All he was was blood, blood and too much life still left.

But it struck you all too slowly that this was an empty room.

And you didn’t care about him, anymore.

He couldn’t hurt you anymore.

So you stepped back and let him slump to the floor.

Didn’t care about mercy. Just to protect the person you came here for.

You tried to become less smoke as you began to walk over to where Frank lay, tried to give yourself more substance, more of a shape, but you flared apart on instinct the second you heard the man’s voice.

“They say dogs remind people of their owner,” he panted, blood dripping from his open mouth. “Suppose that was proof enough.”

Some part of you was tempted to ask if he knew who was the dog.

Not tempted enough.

You turned back to him, but just when you were about to raise your hand and snap his neck with a power you hadn’t even needed to touch to take out everyone Frank hadn’t, a wheezed out, “Stop,” distracted you.

You turned towards where Frank lay, in the center of the pool of blood forming your summoning circle, his breath forced, labored.

You didn’t know what was wrong, but you could help him.

So you stopped.

You lowered your hand and hurried over, a silent question in your eyes, silent only because you couldn’t be scared, not with your mind, your powers buzzing like this.

Slowly, you shifted back into your human body, but you knew your eyes still glowed.

“Can I pick you up?” you asked.

He laughed at that, how strangely callous it sounded, and though the act itself should have at least got you to smile, your heart broke at the sound of it.

“You can if you can, but I’d suggest helping me stand up instead.”

You swallowed and nodded, lifting him up into a sitting position with his help, and then, slowly, carefully, your hand grabbing onto his belt as you helped him onto his feet.

You hadn’t even noticed he still had a pistol in his hand until, on the way to the exit, you turned him in the direction of where that last victim sat pathetically, barely able to lift his head from the mix of blood loss and exhaustion.

When you heard the gunshot, you couldn’t help the way you fragmented into smoke and tangible shadow, wrapping around Frank, eyes two glowing dots and a multitude of snarling mouths. You heard him easing you out of it, quiet murmurs, “Hey, hey, shh shh shh, it’s okay,” and felt his hand passing through the less tangible portions of you, those that weren’t holding him up, but you didn’t relax until you saw the final headshot where it wasn’t before.

Then slowly, slowly you coalesced back into your human form, still leaking shadow, still glowing red from your eyes, and still keyed up from the power of the summoning sigil as you got Frank into the passenger seat of his car and drove home.

Cleaning him up was less a matter of getting him actually clean, as much as it was a matter of making it so you had to clean your couch less the minute that part of you woke up again.

Until it did, you were simply careful, quiet hands, and eyes fading quietly away from the glowing red with each stitch you put in him, each gentle swipe of a washcloth to clean away blood.

It was only when you realized while pushing a glass of water into his hands, sitting on the floor by the couch, asking him to drink, that you were crying—only then did you feel like you had come back.

You shuddered, and swallowed back a sob threatening to tear itself up from your throat.

He took a small sip, at least, and set it down on the floor, wanting that hand, that one good hand, free so he could wipe away your tears, murmuring something quiet, something not quite intelligible from some mix of pure exhaustion and how much blood he had lost, but sounded suspiciously like, “Welcome back, bluebird.”

And that was enough to break you, to get your shaking hand grabbing onto his as you tried, somehow, to will that dulled part of you back, at least until he was okay, until he was asleep.

You hated this.

You couldn’t handle this, this wasn’t okay.

You needed to be able to help him, but he was the one trying to help you, trying to soothe your tears away, gentle hushing as, in spite of everything, you tried to push yourself closer to him.

This was what happened, every time he needed your help.

He would summon you, and you couldn’t feel a thing until the blood spilled from his veins had lost its form.

And then everything would hit you at once, like a freight train.

And you wished he didn’t feel like he had to help you through it.

Because here he was, only just safe of dying on your couch, and he was the one wanting to help you stop crying like a wreck.

But another sobbing breath forced itself out of your lungs, and it felt like the only thing that was keeping you from melting away into smoke was grabbing onto his forearm, letting him rub away tears from the one side of your face he could between laying down and being without the painless use of his other arm.

“You’re okay, bluebird. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

You couldn’t do much to listen to those assurances, just tried to breathe yourself through it.

He looked so tired, so sleepy. Bone deep and pond-surface thin, he needed sleep. He needed rest. You wanted to give it to him, even when you couldn’t breathe for too long without some spare tear slipping out.

But at least you looked better enough that some little curve hit the corner of his lips.

“There we go,” he muttered. “There we go.”

It wasn’t too long before you had your own voice back, too.

“You need to sleep, Frank. Are you in pain?”

“Not too bad. You need to rest, too, you—��

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

He always looked taken by surprise when you say something like that after one of these bouts.

He blinked, dark eyes gentle, watching, but finally gave in.

“My arm is worst.”

“Can I fix it?”

“You need to sleep, you used enough of your energy just tonight.”

“I need to fix it,” you replied, firm, ignoring the tears threatening to spill from your eyes and the waver in your voice. “Please.”

He swallowed. “You need to sleep as part of the deal. You need to rest.”

“I know, just…,” you hesitated. “Let me stay with you.”

He nodded, after a moment.

And you leaned in and kissed him.

He woke up for a brief spell the next morning under the warmth of one of the blankets you had on the end of the couch, and with the pain in his arm was gone—in fact it was entirely fixed.

And you had moved the armchair closer and had bundled up in the rest of the blankets on it close enough to touch.

The deal was fulfilled.

And he felt okay enough to go back to sleep.

#reader insert #Frank Castle #The Punisher #Frank Castle x reader #HEY GUYS GUESS WHO TURNED OUT TO HAVE A HUGE ENJOYMENT OF WRITING SCENES WHERE THE READER JUST. DESTROYS EVERYTHING.#Also a really big fan of the following dynamic:#Man who thinks himself the biggest monster in the world finding out he isn't. But that the bigger monster chose him.#And will keep choosing him.#Not the most. Apt description but I'll take it.#ANYWAY enjoy my enjoyment of monsters. Or technically demons in this case but like.#You think demon and you think contract yes but you also think smarmy bastard who dresses nice and refuses to get their hands literally dirty #This is a my kinda demon. The hellhound kind. The kind that no one knows what it looks like because it doesn't stop changing. The monster.#If you have any questions please let me know.#Also can you tell I like Hozier?#So many of my writing playlists have at least one Hozier song.#Hozier and Lord Huron are great for writing playlists FYI.#I only rarely can do one around a theme and they're both routinely on them.#HMU for my demon!AU Spotify playlist

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nightswithkookmin · 2 years ago

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The only person I trust to spit facts unapologetically besides myself is my ex best friend. Are you her?

I have nothing to say to this other than FACTS.

Spot on.

APT DESCRIPTION OF THE SITUATION

My exact sentiment

He likes to stir the spot, and add some shit

He's basically me on Crack honestly

He trolls, he taunts, he antagonises, he will pull your leg till you fall and then keep pulling🤧

And if you understand this about him then you can't take him seriously at all😩😩😩

I don't think he takes himself seriously he's so goofy😫

When it comes to him ,JM and their "obsession" with Kook it can get a bit 🥴🥴🥴🥴

I always say they both often come across as wanting and seeking validation from JK. Which I'm sure they are both aware of but don't care.

If you are a JK solo Stan then you might have a problem with both of them bcos of this. Especially when all that seemly unwanted attention makes Jk appear more closed off than he actually is.

Most people i know who hate Jungkook say they hate him because they see him as often being rude towards Jimin or Tae or whomever.

People want him to be more open and receptive towards their biases and that creates problems for him when he's subjected to such intense and sometimes unwanted attention.

I'm not a fan of either Jimin or Tae imposing themselves on Jungkook. They might think they doing it out of love, to show their affection or to stroke Jk's ego or whatever but it doesn't make Jk look good out here. Matter fact, it cast him in a bad light and amplifies his "negative" traits. Not cute.

Personally, I like to think it's their own way of showing love and support for Jungkook. Its the only way I can rationalize it. If you've ever been the quiet one among a trio, you recognize some of these friendship behavioral patterns:

The louder outgoing ones are constantly egging the quiets one on, encouraging them to be active, to participate in things, losen up, relax, have fun etc.

And that's just the problem with extroverts. They always think they're helping 😐

One time I let this person bulldoze me into thinking I could belt at church- I cried in front of everybody and became a meme. To this day I don't go talking to that person.

Sometimes when a person tell you they can't do shit believe them. Don't go playing Barbara the builder trying to get them out their comfort zone and making them a fool in front of everybody😐

When you listen to Tae talk about his dynamic with JK it's obvious that's how he sees Jungkook. Which is why he pushes his boundaries often- pushing him to take off his pants to shower together, posting their Tae Kook selca when JK cropped himself out. He thinks he's helping but SIRE BOUNDARIES!

Jimin is like that too as you rightfully said.

The difference is Jimin seems to know and understand the limits and if he recognizes he's pushing too far he stops. In my opinion of course. I could be wrong and Jungkook may not see him in that way at all.

Frankly, I cringe at their earlier dynamic too 😬

Jokers like to romanticize it but damn is it hard to watch. I have selective amnesia when it comes to that part of their history 😓

And I understand, it's important to take Jungkook's perspective into consideration when discussing these topics.

We might be rallying up to free him from Vmin but for all we know HE LIKES THAT SHIT💀

He comes across as the type who would let shit fly as long as he's enjoying it. The moment he doesn't enjoy it he puts up a stop sign.

I think this is what Tae probably doesn't or didn't seem to understand about JK. He takes his no for a yes and go a little bit extra each time thinking he likes it.

But it's not everyone who feels comfortable insisting on boundaries. Some people hesitate to say no out of politeness, some wanna let you down easy- I've learned the hard way. These days I'll kick you in the throat and narruto run into your guts if you fail to register a no.

Jimin goes: I feel awkward I need to film with Jk

Tae goes, well I'm feeling awkward too lemme get JK.

Speaking from a delulu standpoint point, I like to think some times these are just ploys and tactics they use as excuse to film content with Jungkook. Which raises the question, who in hybe is preventing them from freely filming content with eachother and why do they feel a need to monitor them while they film live?

Tinfoil hats people. Tinfoil hats.

Out of all BTS members Tae could have had issues with, he names Jungkook and decides they have dirty laundry to air out in Soop.

Then Jimin is given an opportunity to ask any member in BTS a question and he chooses the most obvious pick- JK.

See this is why I don't get shippers who like Jikook but can't stand Tuktuk or vice versa😩

If you like Jimin it should be very easy to like Tae and if you like Jikook then liking Tuktuk is easy 💀💀💀

They both have JK in common

It goes without saying then that if you like JK then liking Vmin should be so easy too🥴

Is the friend of my friend principle.

Yet tuktukkers can't stand Jikook because then they have to face the reality that what Tuktuk have is not so special afterall😫😫😫😫😫😫

I can say same for Jikook but we both know there's that silently loud question mark around Jikook that no one seem to want to answer or can answer- not even them 💀

I like to remind people Jikook is just a ship like Tuktuk- that's until you clock the difference then jikook is right about alting that ship💀

So I like your honesty. If the Fandom thinks Jimin clinging to Kook is cringe then it's only fair to say Tae is cringe too if he does the same. Real discrimination is when we think it's cute when Jimin does it but it's a problem if Tae does it and vice versa.

And for sure, there's a marketing element to this. Ships are highly commercialized. I keep saying jikook is a brand. The rhetorics around their ship is positive. They are not the chaotic duo that team up for mischief. Or the always fighting duo of the group. They are more or less a love story in the literal sense. They have numbers and engagement and purchasing power to sell out almost anything because people like their friendship.

Then there's the concept of feeding ships.

I think by now they all know what constitutes feeding ships. Tae saw a run episode and pointed out "I think Army would love this." And it was a moment of him kissing Jin👁👄👁

Do I think when he name drops Jk like this he is doing it to feed a ship?????????

I don't know... cos then I would have to assume when he name drops Jimin he is feeding a ship and that just conflicts with my Vmin lesbian agenda 🤧

And I must confess, I've been feeling kinda salty he is not posting about Jin like Jimin😒

(Putting this in the universe because the last time I complained about him not posting Jimin he went and posted a vmin IG. Universe hear my prayer and quench my taejin thirst🕯)

No. Seriously, Jimin is the only person showing Jin love since he left😒

I'm snitching on every single one of them when Jin comes back. It's the kajafeluv for me.

I don't know. I think it's healthy for them to be engaging eachother on social media as organically as possible. And although I wish he was name dropping certain people more or as equally as or along side Jungkook, I also don't think they should interact with all just to interact with one.

Whether we like it or not tuktukkers are his primary fan base. Just as jokers are Jimins. In wake of their solo careers, it's only reasonable they establish these fanbases firmly.

I mean.....

it's not as if jokers are lining up to support him🤷🏾

Let's be fucking for real😩

He shares a fan base more with Jk than Jimin or any other member. Although they all have Army in common too. But he's a smart guy. Surely he knows what's up with the Fandom.

He made that clear from the get-go. Since their solo was announced he's been aligning himself more with Jk and tuktukkers. It's cool tho. I'm still gone ship him with Jimin with my full chest and occasionally Jin after I snitch on him and Jin kicks his ass for me🙂

At the end of the day all he has is his tuktukkers and solos better treat them right, build them a fools paradise and watch them build conjure castles in the air like a supervillian.

Tuktukkers can read whatever meaning they want into this mi nuh care. THEIR SHIP AIN'T REAL🤣

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alienzil · 1 year ago

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You know, I would pay good money to watch a Batman origin film entirely from Alfred's perspective with the dryest, most sarcastic narrator (perhaps voiced by an older Alfred remembering the past?) chiming in as a counter point. Not just for part of the movie. I want the entire movie to be Alfred. Just... :

****

Alfred (sitting down to remake the first bat costume for the third time because Bruce sent it back again) : "" I need to inspire fear Alfred" . Well perhaps you might begin with a more apt description of what exactly inspires fear beyond small nocturnal flying mammals?"

Alfred sighs and looks towards a parenting book (one of many he owns) sitting next to the sewing machine. "Be supportive of your children's interests no matter how strange. Allow them the freedom to express themselves."

Narrator: "Dressing up as a Bat to fight crime is perhaps one of the more extreme examples of self expression. Most children might choose something a bit more tame such as becoming a goth or taking up skydiving or writing truly awful poetry.... On second thought, perhaps crime fighting wasn't the worst decision."

****

Alfred in the cave watching Bruce via a camera feed from his suit trying to stay calm as he watches him fight a group of three men, all with guns and his heart stopping as a shot is heard through the speakers right as the camera feed cuts out.

There's complete silence in the cave for what feels like the longest 2 minutes of Alfred's life until Bruce's voice comes over the speaker telling him the criminals are taken care of but he had to switch to the backup communicator because the primary was damaged and they might need to consider changing the design again.

Alfred still feels like he can't breath picturing Bruce dead in a dark alley and replies mostly automatically and formally : "Of course sir. I'll make a note of it."

Alfred cuts the microphone on his end with a trembling hand and his head drops to his hands as he shakes trying to keep it together.

Narrator (quietly) : "You would think a person would get used to it eventually, seeing your child put their life in danger, but you never really do. You do, of course, get better at hiding your reaction over time."

****

As the movie is ending with the usual sort of Batman origin ending with the city being saved (or at least safer for the moment) and Alfred having realized this isn't just a phase and he's in this for the long haul the ending scene shows Alfred bringing the morning paper to a slightly battered Bruce.

The front page prominently shows a picture of Superman in his first public appearance.

Alfred: "It would seem you aren't the only one who decided to take a somewhat non traditional approach to public safety sir."

Bruce focuses on the paper and starts intently reading the article.

Alfred: "I do wonder if his parents made his costume as well?"

Alfred walks away and mutters quietly to himself, "Perhaps we could start some sort of support group?"

Narrator: "They did in fact help that young man make his first costume and we did eventually meet and help to support one another. It's a hard thing to watch your children put their lives in danger to help others. One so few can understand."

The camera changes to show various scenes of Batman, then Superman then briefly other heroes saving people.

The camera changes to show a scene of a younger Alfred holding the hand of a child Bruce then to Batman looking over the city while Alfred watches on the camera feed from the cave.

Narrator: "But it's worth it"

Imagine being Alfred during Batman Begins when Bruce leaves to “find himself.” Alfred is worried, but reminds himself that all rich men do this and he’s probably just going to come back as a worldly, obnoxious vegetarian. Then Bruce shows up several years later buff as hell and it’s like no, he’s a ninja. he’s a ninja and he wants to terrorize Gotham in a bat costume.

#Dc #Alfred pennyworth #Batman #Bruce Wayne

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pvarker · 3 years ago

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one way or another [prolouge]

masterlist • about me • general guidelines

series summary: peter parker and y/n stark: chemistry partners, superhero team, and avid rivals. but as oscorp rises, there's no choice but to work with each other. watch as they collide, and react with each other and find out if the neutralize or combust.

[prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

tags: enemies to lovers/rivals to lovers, stark!reader, slow burn, college!peter x college!reader, they both hate each other [or do they?], fluff, sexual tension, light angst, no blip (aka everyone lives), no nwh/written pre-nwh

word count: 777 words

a/n: hello, and welcome to my very first fic on this blog :) ive been wanting to write for peter parker for a long while, and i love rivals to lovers trope so why not combine both, and write this instead of studying for my midterms. i'll be writing longer and longer sections to this. if you see this, please let me know if this something you would like to see more of!

"As always, make sure to always wear your gloves and goggles at all times. Final reminder that all parts of the nylon preparation must be done under the fume hood," your chemistry TA concluded his pre-lab lecture, switching the slide to a timer. The class erupted into movement, the students itching to complete their lab as soon and accurately as possible.

The shuffling of feet filled the room, as teams split, each person going to grab their glassware for their group. The clinking of glass against each other and the sounds of opening drawers echoed through the lab, as you opened your laptop to your lab notes and procedures.

You were still a second year at MIT, your heart soaring at the thought of finally delving into chemical engineering, but somehow the general chemistry lab was what you dreaded all week. While most students dreaded it for the length of the class, where people barely get enough time to breathe, but you dreaded it for an entirely different reason.

You look over to the figure at the other edge of the table, your lab partner hunched over his laptop, pulling up the procedure. Well, calling him your partner is quite generous. Lab Rival, is a much more apt description of the boy that you're perpetually stuck with.

Peter Parker.

Spiderman.

Your partner and rival all wrapped into one.

He's been the menace in your life, ever since your father Tony Stark invited him to a "Stark Internship." You were only 15 when he stumbled into your life, quite literally, as he knocked into you his first day at the Stark Tower.

"Watch it," you sneered at him, the anger evident on your face, as your prototype almost stumbled out of your hands. You gripped the piece closer to your chest as you looked up at the boy, his doe-eyes wide and concerned. "You should really be more careful," you stated, glaring at him.

"Let me help you with that," the boy outstretched his arms, grasping at the sides of the prototype, and yanked. For a boy so lanky and shy, his grip was strong, almost crushing... and CRACK! the polycarbonate frame cracked in half.

And, thus, the burning flame of hatred began in your young heart, seeing all those hours of work, shattered into pieces at your feet. You assumed him to be a temporary fixture in your life. Obviously, your father would take him under his wing for a while and as soon as he came into her life, the lanky boy would fade out.

Oh how you wished for that to be true, for he was everywhere you looked now. Soon, he was at the Stark tower all the time, hovering over your father as he worked on different designs. He then started attending your high school, Midtown High, a high school meant for gifted and talented students in STEM.

The only solace for you was your role in the Avengers, your ability to manipulate physical objects and psychokinesis setting you apart from everyone else. At least, that was until Spiderboy joined the team, and your father paired you two together for every. single. mission.

Then, he popped up every morning at the tower, your father soon informing you that he's moved in. Before you really recognized it happening, your lives were too intertwined to untangle.

Now, despite having spent close to 4 years working together, the fire between the two of your burns as hot as ever, and at 20, you two still bring out the worst in each other.

You shifted your gaze to the lab procedure before you, trying to ignore his presence, counting the glassware you had grabbed out of your shared cabinet. 100 mL beaker, 250 mL beaker, 600 mL beaker, Forceps... You scrunch your eyebrows, as your eyes scanned around the table. Where was the 50 mL graduated cylinder... I swear I got it out a moment ago...

"Watch it, Y/N," Parker muttered, as his hand stretched out to capture the graduated cylinder your arm almost knocked over, not even looking up from his laptop. He put it back onto the countertop, his gaze slowly shifting to meet yours. "You should really be more careful," he said, his eyes boring into yours.

Stupid Spidey sense. Stupid Peter Parker.

This was all his fault, really. If he hadn't been so desperate to take your place in your father's heart, you supposed you wouldn't hate him this much. It was too late, though, your whole relationship was founded on an endless competition.

One that you intended to win, one way or another.

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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 3 years ago

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Cornucopia | I — Tenebrae | Father Paul x Fem!Reader | English

SUMMARY | AO3 | MY MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: Miriam arrives at Crockett Island and gets caught in a Storm. She looks for sanctuary in the church and meets an unusually handsome priest, by whom she immediately feels attracted. He takes her to Erin's house, but what they find in the way there is at least but shocking.

Chapter Title: Tenebrae (/ˈtɛnəbreɪ/; latin): darkness, obscurity; dark place; prison.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Blood, Body Horror (Slight), Mention of Animal Death, Mentions of Past Religious Trauma, Mentions of Past Child Aggression, Slow Burn.

Word Count: 9.1K

Note: Skin, hair and body descriptions has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

Again, English isn’t my mother language, so I’m sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find.

A/N: I know I've promised to post this by afternoon, but some problems just dropped in my lap, and here it is.

So, it took a bit longer than I predicted to finish this, and, also this chapter is actually much longer that I've planned, I mean, I've written this about a whole month ago. I'm sorry for that. I don't know when the chapter two is coming out, it's already half-written, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish it this month yet. Oh! Reader, dear, this is a slow burn, I mean, FOR REAL, be aware that will take a bit long to things get… spicy.

Please, enjoy! My asks are always open to you all, make yourself comfortable to send me anything!

THE MOON rose sullenly through the dark clouds of the cold dawn. Miriam felt the icy, salty breeze against her face, the salt air forced tears into the waterline of her eyes.

She had no relatives on Crockett Island. In fact, until a month ago, she didn't even know of the existence of such a place. However, despite the isolation, the island needed someone to handle the finances, especially after the City Council met to deal with the huge consequences of an oil spill that had occurred just a few years ago. That small fishing community had suffered a lot, mainly due to the bad administration of Beverly Keane, the woman — not easy, they told her — who would be her joint.

There was a lot of discussion, after all, Ms. Keane was almost absolutely against anyone outside the island, especially when it came to an intruder who would come to do her job. After some deliberation the City Council, which for the most part, agreed that she required help after that disaster. So, Mayor Scarborough decided to go to the mainland to find someone apt, patient and trustworthy, but above all, someone who could handle the woman's strong genius.

Miriam was the obvious choice. A serene, moderate and experienced young woman. The man didn't have to fight to convince her, in fact, she ended up considering the proposal almost like a paid holiday. After all, what could be so complex on such a small island 50 km from the mainland? It would be easy!

She was never so, so, wrong.

The rumbling of the waves clouded by dawn was comforting, and the chill of the sea breeze enveloped her in an oddly pleasant embrace. The wet healthiness clung to her skin like a thin layer of glue. It didn't take long to dock at the island's harbour, and she could already see a few lights gleaming in that expanse of pure pitch bathed in the hazy moonlight.

A man's slurred voice calling her last name made her turn from where she was leaning on the railing.

“Yes?”, asked the woman with a half smile, her hair blowing against her face.

The man who had called her had a thick, shaggy beard, a large red nose in the middle of his face, and flushed cheeks. A good, stocky sailor, just like in the stories, she thought. He held a lantern at the height of his head, the sudden beam of light bothering the woman's eyes. The man, — Sturge, as she recalled —, was much taller than her. It wasn't that she looked like a goblin next to him, no, but it was a notable difference, at least a head or two.

“Will not take any longer to we dock, miss. I think you better gather your things. The boat leaves very early tomorrow, it's good to make sure nothing's missing.”, Sturge gave a gentle smile, and she nodded, pressing her lips into a thin line.

“Okay, thanks.”, Patiently, she stared at the battered torch he handed her. Turning it on, the flash of light darted forward like a spotlight, Miriam wandered across the deck boards toward the covered corner where she'd left her suitcases.

The young woman didn't have much. She had just moved from New England when she received the offer to work on Crockett Island. Her mother had passed away months ago, and the invitation of one of her dearest cousins had been tempting enough to drag her from Burlington, Vermont to Boston without a second thought. He had relocated her well, helped her find a semi-stable job as an archivist. They got along very well, and it was a slightly sad farewell when he learned that his dear cousin would be spending some time on that forgotten island. He made her promise to call whenever possible.

She found her suitcase where she had left it, and now, with the help of the torch, she noticed, as she moved her things, a large rectangular mark staining the floor in dark scarlet, there was also earth, a thick, lumpy sand. The drawing was completely symmetrical, almost as if someone had drawn a perfect rectangle on the floorboards with red crayons. However, despite the strangeness, she remembered that the boat also carried a load of fresh fish to the mainland. The mark could have been just some fish blood that had leaked from a storage chest. As for the dark sand, for it, the woman could not find an explanation.

Dragging her large suitcase with her and slinging the strap of her shoulder bag over her shoulder, she changed her hand torch and headed back to the deck after checking that everything was in its proper place.

This time, when she looked out into the night, she could clearly see the flickering lights of the harbour posts. The sailor was no longer there, but the woman could still feel his eyes on her from somewhere on the boat.

Without delay and with a slight jolt, the boat came to a stop, the low noise of the engine being replaced by the low puff of cicadas on the island and the crashing of waves on the shore. Docking and placing a catwalk, so they could dock, Sturge helped her alight by lighting her way with his torch.

“You know,”, he began in his husky voice, “it's great to see new faces around here, it means there are those who remember this place.”, The man's booming, but contained voice, echoed in the silence. “Welcome to Crockett Island, miss. I think you'll like it here a lot, it's very peaceful.”, he said, making a wide gesture to the island while tying the rope to anchor Belle.

“I hope so, Mr. Sturge. I hope so,” she muttered back to the man, her voice patient and whispery.

Taking a deep breath of the night air, Miriam infiltrated a hand into the pocket of her plum coat and reached for her cell phone, checking to see if there were any messages from either her cousin or her employer. The signal was considerable, for an island at least. A Loud thunder startled her enough for her to look away at the unusually overcast sky which, less than an hour ago, had been consistently cloudy.

“Jesus!”, said Sturge, approaching her after making sure the boat was securely on the dock. “This storm will be ugly.”, the mention of such a storm made the woman's eyes turn wide from the sky towards the man.

“S-storm?”, she stammered. Miriam had seen storms before, on the mainland, but a storm on an island? Surrounded by an angry sea? This was definitely not her idea of a 'holiday'.

“Yes. They hit the island from time to time at this time of year, in fact, it's quite common. Didn't the mayor tell you about them?”, Sturge asked, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched to protect himself from the ever-increasing onslaught of the wind.

Nodding, the woman grabbed her things and looked around, wondering how long it would take her to get to where she was supposed to be.

“My God, he must have forgotten. Do not worry. We are used to them around here. Come on, we have to take shelter before the rain starts to fall.”, he gestured to accompany him with his hands still in his pockets.

Wrapping herself tightly in the thick olive wool coat and jumper she wore, Miriam nodded. Quickening their pace, they wandered away from the wharf, across the dirt and gravel road that was beginning to muddy with the light drizzle that began.

Mayor Scarborough had said a lot, more than enough, she dare say. The man loved to talk. However, at no point in his long monologues had he mentioned a storm. Strangely, that didn't surprise her. She had met him on three separate occasions, two of them, at the same café she had come to frequent after her move.

On all three occasions, Wade, — as he insisted on being called each time even though she continued to say she didn't feel intimate for it —, had forgotten something. His coat on the first time, the second it had been his half cup of coffee. Ironically, the third time around, he forgot where they would be, due to an information conflict. Enter, although this has been fixed.

The man had the uncanny ability to talk so much and say absolutely nothing. His monologues boiled down to detours around information that would only really be revealed correctly if she chose her words well.

He had told her about the Spill, about the starlings that fell all at once onto Crockett Beach in 2002, about Bev, about his daughter and Joe Collie's accident, about the new Sheriff and Monsignor Pruitt — the old man lord responsible for the parish and for the island. He had also told about his faith and how everyone on Crockett Island loved St. Patrick's little church. Spoke of how proud they were of the centre they built and what a close-knit community they were.

Miriam listened carefully. Every word spoken, every name mentioned, and she didn't remember the good mayor ever mentioning a damn bloody storm!

The black linen pants she was wearing were gradually being soaked through as she protected the laptop in her shoulder bag with her coat and body. The wind was strong, and sometimes the woman believed that she could be lifted off the ground by force. The fine rain thickened into a torrent of heavy drops.

“We're close to the church, we can go there and wait until the rain settles down again, or would you rather try your luck and continue on to Ms. Greene?”, Sturge asked, pulling the brim of his cap to shield his eyes from the icy drops that fell on them both.

Erin Greene. Mayor Scarborough had told her about the young lady, and that she lived in a comfortable house with two bedrooms, one where Miriam could stay for as long as she spent on the island. Provided, of course, that she paid a small rental fee, just to help with the extra energy expenses. She didn't mind, it was cheap and Erin seemed like a good person from what she was told.

“How much farther to Erin's house?”, the woman yelled over a rumble of thunder. She could already feel slightly afflicted by that scream.

The look Sturge gave her said it wasn't as close as she thought. The raindrops beat icy against her warm body. Her hair was drenched in the icy torrent and running down her neck like she was in a shower. Miriam had her hair plastered to her face, framing her face.

She was already starting to regret it. Why think that for once in her life she would be just a bit lucky?

“Let's go to church, so it doesn't seem wise to continue if it's that far away. My coat won't be enough to protect my gear for much longer.”, Her voice boomed out, cutting through the deafening gale. There was no longer the luminosity of moonlight, what illuminated their paths were the constant lightning and the dim torch of the fisherman.

Sturge nodded and began to run toward the whitish building a few feet from where they were. Her dark booted feet sank into the mud and for a second she lost her balance as she ran after the man with the suitcase in one hand and the laptop bag in the other. By a miracle, she didn't fall to the muddy ground. With as much speed as she could, — after all, the suitcase was huge, heavy, and definitely not drag-able on this ground —, Miriam ran.

She stumbled to the side of Sturge, who was waiting for her, holding the church door open to allow her entrance. Panting, she climbed the stairs to the tall doors, the floorboards complaining at the sudden change in weight, her body nearly collapsing to her knees in the effort to cover the short distance.

“Thank you… Mr. Stur-…ge.”, calming her laboured breathing, she thanked him.

With a nod of his head, the man closed the door and stepped into the pitch-black of St. Patrick's shrine and, turning on his torch to brighten the surroundings, he began to wander down the nave of the church.

“Bloody hell! I wasn't ready for that.”, she says with an air of laughter, despite finding it absurd that she hadn't been informed of the island's weather conditions at least in advance. That's why you shouldn't make impulsive decisions, not with your damn luck, imbecile!

Miriam sat down on one of the benches with a sigh and checked the state of her laptop and other things in her bag. Everything looked in order. Looking up, she watched the man scan the church with his torch, looking for something. The fat drops of water hit the window panes like in a war scenario, she took a deep breath.

“You didn't answer me”, Miriam said, turning her gaze to other less dark spots in the church, her eyes getting used to the dim light.

“Hmm?”, mused the man as he approached a spot on the wall behind the altar.

“When I asked how far it was to Erin Greene's house. You didn't answer me”, she elaborated, hearing a low crackle that rang twice amidst the noise of the rain. “Well, not with words.”, trying to get the excess water out of herself, she waited for an answer, staring into the dark in silence.

“There was still about 20 minutes to walk there, I'm sorry to say.”, A sound of disappointment escaped the man. “We're out of power, but I'll take a look at the station when the rain stops.”, He spoke almost as if to himself.

She snorted at the new information. God help me. I need to give this job a chance, haven’t I? It can't get any worse, can it?

Miriam got to her feet, scanning the world falling to the water outside. Her eyes tried to get used to the chaos of the storm; lightning, thunder, flashing and heavy downpour. Through the window, she saw a tall, slender figure on the porch of the parsonage. It wore a hat and a long coat. Strange for such an old man to stand on the porch in the middle of such a storm.

Opening her mouth to question the stocky fisherman at the church altar, her heart leapt as a pair of glowing white eyes looked at her and in the next instant, with a flash of lightning, it was gone. The woman almost screamed, almost. A dark shiver gathered at the base of her spine, and she could feel every hair on the back of her neck rise in alert. Rubbing her eyes, she looked out the window once more.

There was nothing but the empty porch.

Maybe she was seeing things, hours of sleep lost buried in paperwork and files. Asserting the view through the fogged glass and the darkness outside, she saw nothing else. Just the white wood of the house being machine-gunned by the heavy rain, no sign that anyone or anything had ever been there.

Realizing she would be there for a while, — and to calm the unbalanced pounding in her chest —, Miriam sat back down on one of the benches. Wet clothes, heavy and cold against her body.

Feeling the bench, she fumbled for her laptop bag. Drying her hands as much of the remaining moisture as she could on her driest robes, she opened her bag and carefully withdrew the old equipment. If she was going to spend even a few hours waiting for the storm to calm down, the woman had decided that she would use that time to work. The screen's low glare caught Sturge's attention from across the church. He turned to face her, the torch's aggressive beam blinding her for a moment, raising a hand to shield her eyes, she noticed him lower the torch.

“I'll work a little if you don't mind.”, the woman says, her voice cracking slightly and being accompanied by a dry, weak cough.

“No problem. It should take a while, it's good to have something to occupy yourself.”, the man agreed.

There was some peaceful silence for a few minutes, just the sound of rain and her nimble fingers dancing over the plastic keyboard, — bright eyes flashing in her mind —, before the man's voice carried through the building once more.

“You know”, he began, coming back from the place behind the altar he was standing on and taking a seat on one of the pews to her right. “You should come to one of the masses. Not wanting to be disrespectful to Monsignor Pruitt, but it's been a while since we've had a Mass as refreshing as the new priest.”, the woman averted her tired eyes from the luminescent screen where she typed in some notes about the island and its workings, she looked at the man curiously.

“New priest?”, she asked, stopping typing to pay attention to what she was being told. The mayor is actually more airy than I thought.

“Yes, Monsignor Pruitt is very ill, and the diocese has sent Father Paul to replace him while he is recovering on the mainland. Monsignor was not doing so well before travelling, we knew of the possibility of him getting worse, but the effort of Ms. Keane to take him to the Holy Land had already worked. I think maybe the pilgrimage to Jerusalem was too much for him”, Sturge explained, anxiously rubbing his chubby hands on the knees of his pants.

Now that they were in a confined space, Miriam could smell the musky scent of a worker's sweat and the ochre odour of fish. That bothered her nose, but she went on.

The two talked for what seemed to be at least an hour or two, the woman finding out things about the island that Mayor Scarborough hadn't told her, specific things that it would be helpful to know about; the boat schedules, the punctual moments when there would be a power outage, what were the procedures for stormy moments, and among countless others.

After this time pass, Sturge began to yawn a few times during his monologues, and Miriam felt her eyes grow heavy. Politely, the woman asked the man if he minded if she finished what she was doing and then got some sleep. He said no and shut up, she worked some more. Not long after, Miriam began to hear his hoarse, loud snoring. He had ended up sleeping in a sitting position, hands clasped over his chest as if in prayer. Shaking her head at the slightly comical scene, she zipped the laptop back into her bag and lay back against the cool wood of the bench, taking a deep breath, eyes fixed on the pitch ahead, getting used to the darkness.

What the hell was that?, Miriam found herself thinking. The glowing orbs stared at her in the dark of night with an air almost mischievous, like those of a predator about to feast on its prey. A shiver ran down the woman's spine. She forced herself to push the thought to the back of her mind, thinking about it wouldn't help her calm down, and she was already stressed enough. Her eyelids grew heavy. At some point that she didn't realize, Miriam fell asleep, her consciousness sinking into a dreamless sleep.

A rumble of thunder in the distance nearly knocked her off the bench where she was curled up. The world outside was quieter, slightly lighter. How long did I sleep?, she pondered.

“Good morning”, a deep, smoky voice uttered from somewhere in the church, the timbre echoing through the nave.

Rising to sit upright, it took Miriam a few seconds to adjust her eyes to the new lighting. Then, gradually, she caught sight of the owner of such a melodious voice. He was a tall man, his skin white but coppery, as if it had been soaked in bronze. The hairs that grew all the way to the back of his neck curled into waves as dark as charcoal. His eyes were big, brown, and kind. The clerical collar denounced who was he.

Another beautiful specimen lost to the cassock, Miriam concluded after a few seconds of an almost uncomfortable silence. The man patiently waited for her to come to her senses. He was wearing the typical black button-down blouse with the collar, a black cardigan that hugged his slightly stooped form, and dark jeans — a little tight, she couldn't help noticing.

“What are you doing here at this hour?”, he asked, only now did she notice that he was carrying a small candlestick in one hand, the flickering light of the half-used candle was lost in the conflicting lighting coming from outside.

“We, hum, we got caught in the storm…”, the woman looks around with tired eyes. Her voice comes out a hoarse scratch, her nose is stuffed up and her back complains about the hours lying on the hard wood. Miriam covers her eyes with her hands, rubbing them against sleep. Sighing, she digs her fingers through her damp hair, combing it back, removing the strands that have stuck to her face.

“There's no one here but you, dear”, he informs, taking a few steps towards her. “Dear”, she absorbed the nickname for a second, unusual for a priest. Once again, the woman ran her eyes over him, studying. He kept his head bowed and held the candlestick at a height of at least a hand over his shoulder. Miriam followed his gaze, only then paying attention to the benches to the right.

Empty. She got confused.

“What? N-No, there was, um, a man with me… Stark? Sturge!”, both pronounce the name in unison. He's smiling in understanding, it's almost sweet.

“I understand. See, I believe he must have left for the power station up by the hill, just when the rain stopped. It must have been some time ago, because when I walked in, there was only you”, he informed her, looking away from her for the first time in a while and gesturing to what the woman thought was the direction of the power station. His voice was soothing, comforting even. Miriam concluded to be a particular skill of his. He turned the dark pools of his eyes back to her patiently. The woman felt slightly small under his attentions.

“I-I was supposed to be at Erin Greene's house, but I obviously failed to get there before the storm caught me. I'm sorry for breaking into the church, Father”, she expresses in a low, whispered voice, almost like an embarrassed schoolgirl, he laughs very subtly.

“I assume the collar gave me away”, he begins, looking at his robes for a second. “Don't be sorry, the doors of a church must always be open, just as the gates of heaven always are.”, the priest says with a perceptive tone. Miriam feels her face warm as she nods, content. “I just arrived at Crockett Island, so I may be wrong, but I didn't see you at Mass yesterday morning…in fact, now that I see the baggage…”, he said gesturing to the suitcase and purse that rested beside the female form in the bank. “… allow me to assume that you’re not a local.”, the priest deduces in his perfect diction, approaching a few more steps, towering over her.

He was really tall.

“No, I wasn't aware of this little island until recently.”, She declares, finally getting up from her seat with a rather abrupt movement. Some of her vertebrae protest the action. “But where are my manners, I didn't even ask your name, Father.”, Her voice trembled with anxiety, even though she knew his name, the woman couldn't help but ask him. Extending her hand in greeting, she hopes he doesn't notice the anxious tremor. He blows out the candlestick and places it on the bench beside it. The smell of paraffin invades the woman's nostrils.

“Father Paul Hill”, he says with a kind smile. Miriam's breath hitched slightly as the heat radiated from his hand, larger than her own, he covered hers with both of his heartily. “Good God!”, the priest exclaims, patting the female hands in his. “You're so cold, are you alright?”, he asks tilting his head slightly, he still smiles.

Miriam nods, pulling at his hand, almost as if it burns. She thanked God or Odin or whoever was listening to her that it was still quite dark, so he couldn't notice the red in her cheeks. Clearing her throat and nodding at him, the woman puts her hands in her damp coat pockets and looks away at the floor for a moment.

“W-would you mind pointing out to me the direction of Ms. Greene’s house?”, The question escapes the woman's lips too quickly, so she has time to consider what she asked. Father Paul looks at her with slight confusion, almost as if he's facing a frightened animal.

“I can take you there. If I remember the way-”, he is interrupted by a loud sneeze coming from her.

A beat of silence passes, his piercing ebony eyes stare at her, when the woman is about to speak again he continues.

“I'll take you. It's some hiking time in that direction”, he pointed with a genuinely interested look at the woman in front of him, dark brows joined to the dark puddles piercing her soul.

“Oh, uh, right.”, She nodded, looking down at her own boots covered with a brush of dry earth, arms crossed for warmth. An icy breeze blew through the church, shaking the woman's body in a noticeable shiver. The tremble did not escape the priest's shrewd eyes, and a simple suggestion came to his mind.

“Look, why don't you go down to the parsonage and change these wet clothes. You know, it's windy, it won't do you any good to walk from here to there with your clothes soaked like that, y-you could get sick. It's a bit far.”, The comforting tone suggested, stammering the words slightly as he himself crossed his arms against his own body.

Miriam stared at him for a moment, considering the gentle awkwardness of the request. After all, he didn't even know her and found himself worried about her well-being, well, apparently worried. It seemed like the kind of attitude, suspiciously gentle, the kind that could have a malicious layer underneath, Miriam hadn't had good experiences with strangers being gratuitously kind to her. The world hadn't been kind to her up to that point, it had taught her that kindness came at a price.

However, she remembered what Sturge had said about the good father; since he was loved and respected by old Monsignor Pruitt and was growing up in the hearts of the islanders, Sturge had emphasized that. Seeming to sense the strangeness of his request due to the long consideration and the confusion painted on the woman's face, the priest stammered for a moment.

“Th-that, of course, if you want, if not, fine…”, he shrugged slightly. Averting his dark eyes to a corner of the church that had suddenly become interesting.

She stopped him with a sloppy movement of her hand, she realized how much she made him uncomfortable with the silence she made. Miriam shook her head hesitantly. Her tense shoulders bouncing slightly.

“No, ah, it is alright. Y-you're right. The storm wasn't very polite to me last night, and I think I'm already feeling the effects of a bad night's sleep in the cold, church pews aren't exactly my ideal idea of a bed.”, A weak laugh escaped both their lips, the previous embarrassment losing intensity. Miriam wiggled her neck as she smoothed the back of her neck, actually sleeping on that bench wasn't such a great idea.

Watching him as he pressed his lips together in a thin line, almost embarrassed, she watched him walk down the aisle between the benches with long, measured strides. With a deep sigh of weariness, she picked up her suitcase and shoulder bag, following the man through the back exit of the church toward the rectory, a distance of at least three feet between them.

Paul began to consider what he had said, — and how he had said it —, even if it was innocent, — and more of an attempt to help than anything else —, he realized how suspicious and strange it sounded. Feeling his own face heat at the malicious notion behind his words, he quickened his stride. He knew he had unintentionally given her the wrong idea.

The wind blew cold against the trembling female body, chilling her to the bone. Walking the short distance from the church to the small cabin, they were both silent, only the scrape of their shoes against the damp gravel to fill. The priest climbed the porch steps first, a soft creak from the wooden planks as he paused momentarily to pull the bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket. He opened the door of the house to the woman shrunken from the cold and let her in, he didn't enter.

“I, hm, I'll wait out here, I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable than I already have…”, he uttered without meeting her eyes, just gesturing minimally into the cabin. The man stared at the wooden floor, almost as if he expected the thing to answer him back.

“You didn't let me uncomf-”, she tried, feeling bad for letting him see her temporary discomfort. The deep voice chided her almost sweetly.

“Not need to lie. I can see it in your eyes.”, And by the way he stared at her, so deeply, she had no doubt that at that moment he could see right through her. Miriam just nodded and he closed the wooden door.

It wasn't dark in the cabin. Everything was lit by the flickering light of several half-consumed candles. The woman looked around curiously, but not wasting much time studying the cabin's furniture. She placed her suitcase on the bluish sofa and grabbed a black turtleneck jumper and khaki tartan pants from the inside of the luggage. Taking off her plum coloured coat, which was already half-dry, and placing it on the arm of the sofa, Miriam felt the crochet jumper she was wearing, it was soaked, and consequently so had her bra. With an irritated huff, she removed them with trembling hands. Quickly swapping the wet garments for the dry ones, the woman mentally thanked her for the warmth provided by the clothes to her chilled skin.

Carefully, she tucked the damp clothes into a compartment in her suitcase and zipped it shut, pulling her coat over her tense shoulders once more. In her peripheral vision, Miriam caught a framed newspaper clipping hanging on the wall to her right.

It appeared to be an article about rebuilding St. Patrick's, which both Mayor Scarborough and Sturge had mentioned. Miriam fixed her eyes on the face of what appeared to be Father Paul. He didn't look much younger than he did now. Odd, the article dated back decades. The woman's curious eyes dropped to the caption on the photo.

Father John Pruitt in front of St. Patrick's Catholic Church.

“John Pruitt…”, she whispered so low she almost didn't hear her own voice. A muted knock against the wood of the door distracted her attention from the old framed article.

“Are you decent?”, the priest's muffled voice asked from the other side of the door. The woman chuckled at his peculiar choice of words. 'Decent'. How old-fashioned!, taking one last look at the photo, Miriam replied.

“Yes, Father Paul. You can come in, after all it's your house…”, the woman's jovial and husky tone sounded a little bold for what was common to her. Clearing her throat, she shoved her hands in her pockets once more. Keep your tongue to yourself, that's what mummy said…

He entered hesitantly, brown eyes on the worn wooden floor. He raised his watchful orbs to her slowly. A brief, contained smile grew at the curve of his lips as he realized that she was indeed composed. A tense silence followed. Now in the candlelight he could see the pink colour that covered the woman's cheeks.

“I-I wouldn't like to rush you, but I must begin preparations for morning mass soon and-”, His calm, restrained tone was cut off by a quickened and slightly anxious response from the smaller figure standing in the middle of his room.

“Of course! I don't want to take up too much of your time.”, He nodded at the abrupt interruption and walked back outside, the door open this time. Miriam gathered her luggage and, glancing at the framed article once more, she contained her curiosity by biting the inside of her cheek, then leaving the cabin.

Paul can feel his heart skip a nervous beat as he sees her looking at the article on the wall and then at him, so quickly it wouldn't be noticeable if he wasn't paying attention. With a smile, he gives her room to pass, her stride long as if she's in a hurry. He wondered if she would notice the resemblance. Of course, she'll notice, she's not blind, a voice of insecurity rummaged in the back of his mind. With a shake of his head, he pushed the thought away.

The good father closed the door with a dull thud and faced the woman with a jovial smile on his features, his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers.

“Come, it's this way”, the priest gestured with one hand, walking ahead of her along the gravel path that led past the church.

The height difference between them became clear when they both started walking side by side. He was little more than a head taller than Miriam, she would dare say he was even taller than Sturge, but he looked less so due to his slightly hunched-shouldered stride.

The first few minutes of their walk were filled with a comfortable silence. The feeling of awkwardness having disappeared as they walked. Just the chaste sound of the wind and the crackle of damp sand mixed with the gravel underfoot. The light from the sun was rising ever so slightly in the skies, lighting the way and decorating the sky with a golden hue, the dots of stars gradually fading as the sun shone through. The woman's gaze wandered over the scenery, the wooden houses all so alike, decorated with fishing gear on their porches, all without exception. Miriam didn't see any cars. Noticing that made a strange feeling cover her chest, as if there was something hidden in this place.

That thought led her back to the framed newspaper article on the parsonage wall. Miriam wondered if Monsignor Pruitt and Father Paul were somehow related, it seemed her only logical explanation for the ridiculous resemblance. Perhaps the Monsignor wasn't much given to celibacy, she mused, the thought painting a slight smile on her face. She focused her eyes on the priest's profile for some time. The resemblance was genuinely absurd, they could be twins. He had the serene, patient features of a true man of God.

Paul could barely breathe with the pair of curious eyes on him.

“You stare a lot, should I be worried?”, he turned to face her, his smile didn't reach his eyes, she didn’t notice. His tone was amusing, as if the woman's apparent curiosity entertained him.

Her curiosity terrified him.

“No, it's just that… Actually, never mind.”, she turned to look straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the dirt path. Another moment of silence followed until the priest's deep voice reached the woman's ears once more.

“So, what brings you to the little Crockpot?”, he asks with a simple look, his hands still in his pockets just like hers. Miriam has her eyes downcast to the golden horizon, she laughs.

“Lovely nickname”, she notes, his warm tone relaxing her tense shoulders for a moment, the priest smiles waiting for her to continue. “Mayor Scarborough has hired me to help run the island, you know, finances”, Miriam watches him nod, dark eyes glaring, watching every move intently. She decides she can't look him in the eye without feeling exposed, stared. She walks forward with her eyes fixed. Clearing her throat, she continues. “My job basically is to make sure the locals have everything they need, I'm almost like a regulatory organ, anything that involves spending for the island must go through me first. I'll work with Miss Keane…”, Miriam widens her eyes at the laugh that sounds at her side, the woman looks away at him. “What?”, she asks, humour decorating her own voice, relaxed for the first time.

“I'm sorry, I-”, He clears his throat to contain a second laugh that catches in his throat. “It's nothing, really, just…good luck, Bev can be…a bit hard to deal with”, he suggests, the corner of his dark eyes landing on the woman's profile.

“Yes, um, I was informed of her, how can I say? Strong genius.”, A hint of the woman's typical acidity sprinkles into her words. They both fall into comfortable silence, the shadow of a smile on their faces.

The priest studies her intently once more. There were dark circles under her orbs, and despite her flushed cheeks she looked tired, exhausted actually. The purplish-red colour of her coat brought out her hair. A gleaming glow at the height of the collarbone made him notice the white rosary with the silver cross that rested on the woman's breasts.

“Are you Catholic?”, he asked, removing one hand from his pants pocket and subtly pointing to the rosary around her neck.

“Oh.”, Instinctively, she runs her fingers through the pale threads of the rosary. “No, I keep it with me out of mere emotional attachment, it was my grandmother's…”, she explains hugging her body with a sudden cold breeze. “I hope you don't take offence, Father, but it's not, exactly for me, all this dogma.”, laughing nervously, she lets go of the rosary. “But if there's one thing she taught me it's that God doesn't stop loving you even if you don't believe in Him, He loves everyone equally, even drunks, murderers, and prostitutes…”, she finishes, her voice muted. The face burning. She goes back to stuffing her hands in her coat pockets.

“It's a really lovely thought”, he says after a few seconds of silence. She nodded, taking a deep breath and kicking a boulder that had got in her way.

“You must think I'm a hypocrite, talking about how God loves us and all and in the end following none of his teachings, you know, none of the rituals.”, A nervous laugh leaves Miriam's lips. Her shoulder slapped lightly against his arm, the closeness burning.

“Not at all.”, the priest takes a deep breath, his hands still hidden in his pants pockets. Another silence sets in before he asks. “Are you… going to morning mass? It would be nice to have a new face there…”, he says almost without thinking about how it would sound, after all, in theory, he had just arrived in Crockett, so everyone was new. Luckily, she didn't seem to notice.

“I think it's been years since I went to Mass. It was never, uh, something I would take as a comfort, I don't know, I wouldn't feel welcome.”, a noise of understanding comes from the woman's side. Despite the cosy breeze, she was having difficulty breathing, but she was no longer sure if it was the rain she had taken or the company.

“See, it's okay to go to church without believing. He knows we all have doubts, and sometimes we just need to hear a word of comfort. Someone to say 'keep calm, things will get better'. I guarantee you will always be welcome in St. Patrick’s. However, feel free to deny the invitation.”, his smoky voice enunciates, a gentle but almost imperceptibly eager cadence in his tone.

“I have nothing against masses, really.”, she says, taking a long breath. The tension in her shoulders ached in her neck, snapping it, she continued. “Let's do this”, the priest looks up from the dirt road to her, one dark brow arched in curiosity. “If I've settled down by the time of mass, I promise to give the air of grace.”, Father Paul laughs subtly with the dry tone, almost acid, that runs from Miriam's lips.

She didn't seem to notice the slight twinge of sarcasm in her own words, he liked noting that, it seemed intrinsic to her personality.

“You know, you're the first truly kind priest I've known in years.”, the first person, in fact, she completes the reasoning for herself. The compliment escaped her lips faster than she was able to filter it. The woman doesn't understand how he’s able to do this, it's as if she's compelled to speak her mind raw.

A tense silence ensues.

Paul felt the heat of shyness on his face, the shadow of a smile painting his features. It had been a while since he'd received a really sincere compliment. For some reason, the praise coming from this stranger warmed his chest.

“I guess I shouldn't have said that, you were uncomfortable, sorry-”, she started, noticing the awkward silence she had caused. The priest laughed, he found the woman's honesty lovely.

“No, no, I… I'm glad that you feel that way, in a certain way, means I'm doing my job right.”, he says, his voice warm. Shrugging his shoulders slightly, he gave her a chaste smile. “Haven't met many priests, have you?”, the man questioned her, dark eyes staring, eager for an answer. A sad seriousness passed in her eyes for a moment.

“Actually, I did. I was raised most of my childhood and adolescence in a Catholic boarding school in Burlington… I think those are bad memories. The only thing those priests and nuns knew was the punishment…”, memories of that dark time invaded the woman's turbulent mind. Every rude word, every harsh punishment meted out to the child she was, mostly for petty reasons, she still had the marks. Inhaling, unshed tears burned at the corners of her eyes. “Excuse the melancholy, Father. Let's just say it's not a time I intend to revisit.”, looking up at him, she noticed the sadness behind the dark orbs and maybe something else.

“Everyone deserves to have their fears heard. Everyone deserves a word of comfort, I believe that. God is always taking care of us, He bleeds when we bleed. He's always willing to listen… I'm sorry you went through this.”, That same comforting tone echoes inside her, warming her core. The priest looks at her with unhappy eyes.

“In deed, I feel sorry too…”, the answer comes naturally.

Miriam was truly sorry that her mother, — at least a decade younger than she was now —, had been forced by her family to leave her, her preciousness, in her grandmother's care. Mathilde was a good woman, very much a believer, but she had no idea of the harm she had inflicted by putting her granddaughter in that boarding school. She was just thinking about the best for Miriam and for her own daughter, — who wasn't even out of college. She died not knowing what she had done to her granddaughter for fifteen years of her life. Miriam didn't blame her, how could she know?

“You know”, the priest began, he would try his best to distract her from her sorrow. “You know my name, but I don't know yours, I find myself at a terrible disadvantage.”, he hoped that the slight smile that the woman had sketched was a sign that he had managed to push her away of her own restless mind.

“Oh, you're going to laugh, Father.”, The woman sighed deeply with a weak smile as she looked at the curiosity painted in the darkness of the man's eyes. “Miriam. Harper, if you prefer to call me by my last name.”, the woman added, moistening her lips dry from the sea air. She heard a noise of understanding escape the good father. “Oh no, don’t you dare…”, she laughed, she knew what comes next.

“And Miriam sang to them thus: sing to the Lord because he has won a glorious victory; he threw the horses and riders into the sea.”, Father Paul recited the words with a wide smile, enjoying the disgusted moan that the woman accompanying him humorously released.

“Exodus 15:21.”, Miriam uttered, drawing a slightly surprised look from the priest. “Don't look so shocked, Father, I had to learn every word of Scripture for my own good.”, she said, dark memories flooding her mind in an incessant torrent.

“Miriam did great things in the bible. She had an important part in the great plan of God.”, he mentioned, trying to make her feel better. The dark-haired man was uncomfortable returning to the painful subject, but he couldn't have known. She continued when she noticed his smile fade slightly.

“Honestly, a lovely name for a child, especially if its most common meaning is 'sea of bitterness'. Thanks, Mom.”, she laughs with a slight harshness. Her sour mood eroded the tension in her forehead lines.

The sound of waves breaking in the distance is the white noise that fills the silence.

“Oh!”, The man's noise of alarmed comprehension, pulled her from the dark place she'd crawled into. “There it is. Erin Greene's house, as promised.”, He smiles, taking his hands out of his pockets, he subtly points to the dark wood building.

Both of them hurried to the porch of the house. The sun was already up, the gradation of pastel oranges had dissipated into a shimmering hue of azure blue. A few clouds painted the clear plane, the croaking of hundreds of seagulls reverberating through the air as they neared shore.

Her feet made the porch boards creak. Standing with their feet planted on the ground, they stared at each other for what felt like long minutes, however, as they both prepared to say goodbye to each other's company, their ears caught a shrill child's scream. Abruptly, they turned their heads toward the sound. Miriam left her things on the porch and moved out of the house area.

Another scream ripped through the peace.

Without a second thought, Miriam ran toward the child's scream. Paul followed with almost the same haste. They ran, their long strides taking them to the shoreline. Miriam froze on the ground, her eyes widening at the scene ahead. Her ears caught the steady footsteps of the approaching priest. The man's dark eyes focused on the small figure crouched on the damp sand floor.

A boy, no older than seven, was on his knees, a dark brown stain spreading in front of his knees. Approaching cautiously, the woman noted the reason for the child's toil. There was a tabby cat, the body stiff with postmortem stiffness, a wide wound at the neck, the tendons, and flesh already half-rot, exposed in a strange red colour. Calmly, she lowered herself to the child's height. A trembling hand stroking the child's small shoulder. The boy raised red, watery eyes to her in confused pleading.

“Hey, are you okay?”, Her voice was low and whispery as usual, her timbre restrained to convey the sense of comfort as she always did. Serenely she squeezed where her hand rested on the boy, she saw the fresh tear marks that glistened on the boy's face.

“Mina…she”, a sob cut off his choked speech, he pointed with his eyes to the eviscerated cat. “Mina, she's not moving, I think she's hurt.”, The child's voice, congested with crying, tightened in the woman's chest. For someone so young, a child, to face death so early, even the death of a pet, was bitter and left an uncomfortable weight inside her, she knew well how these experiences could affect a child's pure mind.

Taking the boy by the wrist, she gently lifted him. Where's your mummy, little one?, she pondered to herself as she looked around for an adult. The woman's reasoning was interrupted with a sudden movement of the child, he grabbed her by the leg in a desperate hug. His childish voice murmured 'help her, please' over and over against the fabric of her pants. Miriam took a few seconds to assimilate the touch, stroking the boy's red hair, she looked with pleading eyes at the priest, he had a worried crease in his forehead and a sad frown marked the curve of his lips.

“Hey, it's okay, you'll be fine.”, she stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him down. The priest approached the two patiently. Lowering himself to the child's height, he began.

"Hey," he patted the boy's rosy, freckled cheek. “Don’t be sad. All creatures have their time.”, the freckled child stopped his crying with a sob and paid attention to the priest's words. “She's in a good place, I'm sure. Our Lord loves all creatures infinitely.”, the boy looked at him with big, tearful eyes.

"Even the cats?" the child sobbed, his breathing calm. With his fingertips, he stroked the boy's messy hair, his long fingers lightly brushing Miriam's.

“The cats, the birds, everyone, without exception. Mina is fine, I guarantee it. God wants us to be strong. Have faith, my boy. Now, why don't you go to your mother? After all, she needs to know that she has a strong and brave son, capable of taking care of her, doesn't she? What do you think?”, the priest's deep and melodic voice quieted the boy, he had his sobbing breath, but he seemed strangely resigned. Sniffling, the child nodded, disentangled himself from the woman, and began to walk away from the two of them, glancing at the dead cat one last time before continuing on his way.

The priest rose up next to the woman, the backs of their hands brushing the slightest bit, that mere contact being enough to send a shock wave through both of their arms.

“What's going on?”, the confused woman said. Her eyes scowled, horrified, at the nearly endless corpses of hundreds of cats that stretched across the shore.

“I'm not sure…”, the priest's deep, smoky tone seemed to resonate within her bones due to their closeness.

In her peripheral vision, Miriam saw a couple approaching. The woman had wavy black hair that cascaded over her shoulders, her brightly coloured clothes contrasting with the paleness of her skin. Her pale eyes focused first on the priest and then on Miriam. She started to approach, accompanied by a man about the same height as her, his hair cut close to his skin. He had deep circles under his eyes and an unshaven beard. His steps were melancholy and measured, almost like Miriam's, he walked with his head down, as if in constant penance.

“Good morning, Father”, the woman said as she studied the woman beside the priest, slightly curious about her.

“Good morning, Erin. Riley.”, greeted Father Paul, with a simple nod of his head, his dark orbs not straying from the corpses for a second. His forehead furrow still present. The name ‘Erin’ caused Miriam's eyes to turn more intently to the woman. “Do you know what's going on?”, the priest asked, gesturing to the hundreds of cats ahead, an expression of disgust painting his warm features.

“I'm not sure Father, they talked about some kind of epidemic, I don't know, maybe the storm flooded the Uppards…”, she explained turning to where, in the distance, there was a small commotion of people. Erin turned to Miriam with a knowing smile. “I see a new face. I'm Erin Greene, you must be the new manager, I imagine. I expected you yesterday.”, she said, extending her hand to greet the woman.

“Yes, uh, I'm Miriam. I beg your pardon, but, did you say epidemic?”, Miriam shook her hand quickly and returned the scowl on her face in confusion to the cats.

Adjusting the shoulder bag that rested over her shoulder, she gazed intently at the remains on the beach, dozens of seagulls flying from all directions and feeding on the cats' carnage.

The squawks were giving her a headache.

“I don't know, I think the sheriff should have news later, Riley told me they want to burn them.”, she pointed slightly at the man, — Riley. They were side by side with Miriam and the priest. The quartet stared silently at the commotion for a moment.

A breeze blew hard on the shore, and the smell of decaying corpses invaded her nostrils, making the woman's face twist in disgust and her stomach to churn.

“My God… I need to speak to Mayor Scarborough. Do you know where he is?”, Miriam questioned, the tension returning to her shoulders and tightening her posture, she tried not to breathe through her mouth so as not to taste the putrid odour.

“Yeah, he's up ahead with Sheriff Hassan…”, she pointed to the huddle that had gathered around something in the distance. “I'm going home now, want to come along? I can settle you down before I take Riley to the port.”, Erin asked, her hair flying chaotically around her head in the incessant gale.

“Sure, I'll catch up with you.”, Miriam says, her voice anxious, her mind working dozens of different ways to explain what had happened to the Uppards' apparent feline population.

Erin and Riley nodded to Miriam and the priest, beginning to distance themselves from the two of them, walking as they talked to each other, following where both of those who stayed had come. A heavy, weary sigh escaped the woman.

“Fuck’s sake…”, she ran her hands through her still-damp hair with a disgusted moan. My goodness, this is going to give me such a headache, the thought, and the feeling of regret passed through her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. Then, the warmth of a body back beside hers reminded Miriam of who was with her. “Um… I'm sorry, Father Paul-”, she trailed off as he held up a hand with a contained laugh. There was something behind those deep brown eyes that she couldn't identify due to the whirlwind of thoughts that plagued her brain. Under the man's watchful eye, once again, she felt herself blush.

“It's all right. We all have our… moments.”, the charcoal-haired man smiled smugly at her. “Well… I don't think I'll see you at Mass, am I?”, There was a note of disappointment in his deep voice, but he kept his gaze gentle and slightly apprehensive. She nodded, pressing her lips into a tense line. There was a lot of work to be done, of that there was no doubt.

“Yeah, I don't think so.”

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