#an affini would fix me

[madetoorder-maidtoorder]

HDG was made in a lab, specifically engineered to appeal to us. Of course mind break isn't for everyone, but that is a rather small part of the process and not necessary in all cases.

It's everything else.

The original 15 chapters hits like a drama series, and ends on a cliffhanger! (If there is more please tell me)

Dog of War has hit me in my core so many times and I'm TWO CHAPTERS IN!

Spoilers under cut

The gentle dom scenarios, the care that underlines it all, the respect for autonomy, individuality, plurality.

The accessibility built-in to the fuckin concept of the Affini.

Here are some notes I made while reading with quotes.

Oh my circuits, this is amazing.

Camila doubted the little one had ever truly relaxed his body.

Fuckin ah!!! I feel like this

There's a deep urge to be tamed, to be freed from the tension.

Beckett's biorythm was still that same eerie static, and no help reading him.

Oh my God I feel this. The disassociation, the active tuning out to ignore oneself.

Camila briefly considered letting Cordelia know she would have to cancel the afternoon's visit so she could take Beckett to the vet after the interview.

She cares so much! Just the quickness at which she entertains thoughts of help is beautiful.

So yea, it's safe to say the congnitohazard is real, I'll see you all when I crawl out of the other side of this hole a wonderful, happy, floret~.

[ashinbloom]

Elegy for a Boymoder

"No, no no!" you shout, "I don't need domesticated, Miss Favali! I'm fine!"

"Petal," she speaks slowly, "I need you to put the knife down."

Without even thinking, you wave the knife through the air. "Why? I'm fine. I'm FINE!"

"I don't think you're fine, little one."

"I'm fine!" Your hand trembles around the knife. "I don't need domesticated and I don't need fixed and I don't need you fucking with my head!"

"What do you need, then?"

"I need you to leave me the fuck alone!" You hold the knife out with a shaky hand. She's already seen the scars, she already knows you're a fuck-up.

"I can't do that, petal. Please, let me help you."

"I don't need your goddamn help!"

"Have you taken your ætherea today?"

"I don't need it! It's poison!" You spit your words like the poison that the Affini, that Miss Favali, had tried to make you take. "You just want to fuck with my head so you can domesticate me!"

"Dear, I think you'll feel better if you just--"

"No!"

A tense silence hangs over your hab, the room far too big for you but the perfect size for an affini, and Miss Favali just watches as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"Can you put the knife down for me, petal?"

"No!" you shout, "I need it!"

"Whatever would you need that for, little one?"

"Need it! Gotta stay safe. Can't let you hurt me. Can't let anybody hurt me."

"Sweetie," her voice becomes a bit more stern, "I need you to put the knife down now and be a good girl."

'I'm-- I'm--" Your head swims with those words. 'Put the knife down', 'Be a good girl'. Your chest rises and falls inside your oversized hoodie and the knife falls from your trembling hand with a clatter. You collapse to the ground, muttering over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You shiver as a shadow grows over you, and by the time you look up Miss Favali is bending down to scoop you into her vines.

"Shh, shh, I know you are, dear. It's okay," she tells you as you feel a gentle pinprick in your arm. You look down to see one of her flowers stuck to your arm.

You feel lighter in an instant, and only feel lighter by the second. You can't even remember why you had the knife, why you're crying. Miss Favali continues to coo softly and pulls you further into her vines as she gently removes your clothes from your body. You can see a light inside of her, singing to you and pulsating as her form writhes in an oddly pleasing way.

Your entire body feels amazing as her vines massages your bare chest and shoulders. You don't feel the usual sting of disgust when somebody touches you for the first time since you can't remember when.

"You don't have to be afraid ever again," she assure you in her melodic, soothing voice even though you don't know what you were even scared of in the first place. "I'll take care of you now."

"You will?" Your voice comes out muffled through the pink flower she has pressed to your face. A soft mist coats your mouth and nose, and when you breathe in it smells like cotton candy bubblegum.

"Now and forever, darling. Now, take a deep breath. Growing girls like you need their Class-Gs."

[specksizedgoddess]

what are ur thoughts on hdg? i could see u going either way on it tbh, either really liking the pet aspect or not liking it bc the affini are too nice to their willing florets

I LOVE HDG!!!! I AM SUCH A MASSIVE (hehe) HDG FAN YOU HAVE NO IDEA <3

Showing up during the affini invasion with my "I ❤️ XENODRUGS" shirt, alongside a matching hat that says "WILLING FLORET"

I need to be at the very front of the invasion, I can't WAIT until I can be domesticated... as much as I enjoy meaner owners, I adore the affni, and I think being a drugged up little floret, all floaty and giggly, would fix me so, so well.... ggdhshdhs NEED

[contortedoptimist]

Long unedited ramble-post mostly about will graham below.

I

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Will has a negative opinion of psychogy and affini from before the events of s1 hannibal. He failed the psych eval to be an agent, expressed distaste at the criminal minds museum and his answer to crawford he has at least a base knowledge of what autism/asperges is and the totally not concerning phrase "you won't like me psychoanalyzed" reads to me as someone has tried before (most likely just "you won't like me if you know me"). He seems to dislike on principle mental illness labels given lightly even to criminals he does not care about, contesting them immediately in favor of a more nuanced description. He isn't scared or dislikes social interaction (he seeks out pp he likes and is able to get a wife, be a prof, no prior accidents) he looks... Intimately aware he's different wich is what makes him unique and useful but also lonely. He is a different species. Has no interest to blend in more than he has. He does not find other people that interesting, not only H. Never meting someone who just gets you sounds terrible to me. He works fine under jack because Jack doesn't really treat him like person. He is an object to use that he believes with the appropriate measures(H) can be fixed and overclocked as necessary. Will is fine with this because the alternative is being some weird freak you gotta be careful with even if you don't like him and he'd rather be crawfords can of WD-40 for stuck cases. He is attached to the job be he sees it as his biggest redeeming social  value: to use his otherness for good. Without it he's feel personally bad and would loose his best asset to be accepted by the others. He doesn't recognize in any label and getting tagged with one he wod see as a hindrance and upset him more than hes willing to admit (he only ever complains of the inaccuracy of the attempts to do so but I know him personally OK?) This is something he's unwilling to compromise on for the comfort of others. He knows how badly some want to "know what he is, unmask him" and no one seems interested in trying to understand instead. Alana first rejects him as patient (good) but never takes a step forwards he desperately wants, she  is going to help but does not want him in her bubble. More than loving Alana I think will liked Alana, wich is already huge for him. Alana might be the first time he's ever wanted to try inviting another person in his space and is quite taken by the rejection. I know will is not the solitary type by the 7 dogs he wants to be part of social structures everyone just sucks to him. He is not getting his socialization needs met at all and he does not want to think about it he is doing the (very simplified) equation: his needs are the hannibal type = he is bad. Maybe if he wasnt so repressed about this he would have not gone so off the rails at the first taste of blood, less inner turmoil, more shooting hannibal. Re:mental illness. When in prison he wants hannibal dead, he gets wrong the part where he's fine with someone else doing it for him. He wants him dead n2 for ruining his life/rep/etc and n1 for the mental invasion. Stopping the chesapeake ripper is tertiary. What hannibal did to him is the most violating thing he could have done, and we're not talking about the tube and ear down his throat. He crossed boundaries in Wills mind Will himself did not venture to(wich leaves them unguarded) and it makes him so so so mad. Chilton is the insult to the injury bc now there's a cretin who thinks he can do that too.

[elamimax]

I wrote a short story set in a specific universe. For context:

Humanity has been conquered by a largely benevolent precursor species that took one look at the galaxy and went “alright, you kids can’t take care of yourselves. You’re getting drugs and therapy,” and subsequently set out to put everyone’s toys on the top shelf until they could be trusted to play nice. They’re called the Affini. It’s generally a kink setting that includes a lot of petplay, consent play, and similar triggers that are associated with a setting named after a first entry called “the Human Domestication Guide.”

None of that is all that relevant to this, though. None of those triggers, other than forced therapy and healthcare. I’m using the setting as a way to explore what “curing” my mental health issues might do for me or to me. If someone “fixed” me, where would that leave me? For that reason, expect a bit of internalised ableism, or at least explorations thereof. Idk. I have thoughts farting around in my brain and I’m making it everyone else’s problem.

———————————

“Sometimes I mourn her. The artist I almost was. Or used to be, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to be an artist. Not just a writer but an author. I wrote a bestseller, back when that still meant something.”

“Oh?”

“I was… fifteen? Something like that. I wrote about pain and sadness but with more eloquence and gravitas than most people my age did. It was a chart-topper for a bit and it meant that for a decade, people paid attention to what I wrote, which meant I could write more and, maybe more importantly to me at the time, it meant I could live off of it.”

“But then the Affini arrived.”

“Then the Affini arrived. Exactly. Money became meaningless, so ‘bestsellers’ stopped existing altogether. Can’t have a bestseller if you’re not selling them. But it was more than that. God, it’s what, fifty, sixty years ago now? Jesus, I’m old. Anyway. For a few decades I actually just kept writing. Didn’t have to worry about food or anything anymore, so I just wrote for the hell of it. I think those might be some of the best years of my life.”

“What changed?”

“I did. Or rather, I didn’t. And that was a problem. I have… a chemical imbalance. Or I had, I guess. It makes regulating emotions almost impossible. Every feeling is the most feeling I have ever felt in my life. It used to be. I wasn’t scared, I was existentially terrified; I wasn’t happy, I was ecstatic; I wasn’t sad, I was distraught, etcetera. And that wasn’t going to last.”

“Why not?”

“Do you know how hard that is? When I fell in love, I abandoned everything for that person. Family, home, whatever. I have cheated so many times because whoever I loved, I loved more than anyone I had ever loved before. And I’m not even going to entertain the notion of justifying that. Anyway, it meant that I’d broken my life to pieces a dozen times over. But the Affini were actually remarkably willing to let me do my thing. The town I was from had surrendered peacefully, and I had too. I had no issues with our leafy overlords.”

“But they took issue with your lifestyle.”

“You could say that. When you have a brain like mine, sometimes you need it to shut the fuck up. It all gets too much. Pills. Alcohol. Weed. Whatever you can get your hands on. Except the Affini only allow you to go so far. You can’t hurt yourself, you see. So the first time I got so drunk I was ready to pass out in the street, they were on me in less than a minute, I think. Flushed the alcohol from my system. They were very worried. Two more times and I was put under permanent supervision. An Affini had taken me under her wing to make sure I didn’t ‘seek more self-destructive behavior’. That’s when they did a proper scan and found the imbalance.”

“Did that fix it?”

“Yeah, it did. I wasn’t scared or angry or sad all the time anymore. It was great. Right up until I tried to write anything.”

“It didn’t work anymore?”

“It didn’t work anymore. Oh, I wrote a few more books — writing is a craft as much as it is an art form. Words are just words — but I didn’t have the power to move people anymore. You know, I think that… When we read a story, we expect things to be slightly larger than life. A monster has to be the scariest monster ever put to paper because otherwise we can’t imagine it. The page dilutes the emotion so you have to lay it on thick.”

“And you were good at that.”

“I was really fucking good at that. I wrote a love story so heartbreaking people sent me death threats. Best thing I ever put to paper. Anyway. When that imbalance was fixed, I couldn’t write about that anymore. I felt things so strongly that, when I put them to paper, they resonated with people. But after that, all I could write was rote fluff.”

“So you couldn’t write grand works anymore?”

“It’s not even that. Like… I had no reason to write anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Why do we write? Why do we tell stories? Sure, you can say something about mythology and passing on knowledge and all of that, but there’s more to it than that, right? Anyway, when the monetary incentive disappeared, I kept writing. I never did it for the money, and anyone who says that all fame is awful is fucking lying to you. But that’s not why I did it. I wrote because if I didn’t, my head would fucking explode. My head was full and projectile vomiting the stories and emotions in my head onto the page was how I dealt with that. When the feelings became ‘normal’, the well of word vomit dried up.”

“So what did you do?”

“What any self-respecting artist whose entire identity revolves around suffering would do: I tried to kill myself.”

“Which failed.”

“Obviously. More xenodrugs. More therapy. God, so much therapy. And it was good and necessary, don’t get me wrong. Being alive is a lot better than being dead. I learned to value my life, that there is more to life than achievement and creating Good Art or whatever that means. You can have a meaningful life just being happy.”

“But you’re not?”

“No, I am. I’m more consistently happy now than I’ve ever been before in my life. But even the happiest person in the world will mourn the loss of a loved one, and I think I do still love the person I used to be. I mourn her, anyway. She could have written something great.”

“And you can’t?”

“Not really, no. Even if I could write with the memory of how I used to feel things, I kind of can’t. I wrote because I had to. When I hadn’t written in a while my hands itched and my eyes burned. The whole world was… have you ever seen the air above a hot stove? Like that. Without that drive… what’s the point?”

“For others to read the story, no?”

“You don’t understand. We live under the yoke of a civilization so grandiose and successful it spans entire galaxies. There are trillions of sapient beings that coexist under the Compact. What story could I possibly tell that has not already been told better?”

“Wasn’t that true before, too?”

“Sure, but back then I didn’t care! I have no story I have to tell, no way to tell it if I did, and no reason to tell any at all. Sometimes I do resent them for that.”

“The Affini?”

“Yes. It’s why I tried to end it. They took away what had felt like my purpose, because it was self-destructive. I am happier now and that, I think, counts as a win for them. I have no desire to end my life, which is mostly fulfilling and content. That I resent them for not letting me choose to be miserable is almost part of their entire ethos: that us humans, if given the choice, will choose to be miserable so often that we can’t be trusted with the choice to begin with.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“I do. But I wonder sometimes if it matters. I wonder sometimes how many great works of art the universe has lost to the Affini. I understand that they desire to reduce pain. To reduce harm. To make the universe a happier, healthier place. But I wonder. How ethical is it really to take away the pain from someone who isn’t done with it yet? What if my unhappiness was something I needed to feel complete, whatever the fuck that means?”

“Did you try telling them that?”

“I did. I was put into more therapy. More drugs, until I figured it out and they were absolutely sure I wasn’t going to have another go at my wrists again. I took up baking. It’s very satisfying. I made a baguette the other day. It was pretty good.”

“You’re not satisfied.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding me. I am satisfied. There is nothing that I could want for that I don’t have access to. Food. Adventure. Fiction. Love. Sex. Art. Hobbies. Attention. If I could choose now, I don’t think I’d go back. But if past me were to meet current me, I think she’d try to kill me and then herself for how hollow she would think my existence. I don’t have a use for ambition and drive anymore, but she did. I think she’d be very upset at how comfortable I’ve gotten not doing much of anything.”

“But she was unhappy.”

“Deeply. Sometimes. She was also very happy sometimes. She wasn’t a monolith. She was just very extreme. When file the tip off of a pencil, they become a lot more difficult to properly write with.”

“You feel like a filed down pencil.”

“Yes. But at least I won’t hurt others or myself anymore. I’m happy. Comfortable. I just wonder. And I mourn. The universe is happier with the Affini in it, but I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t less beautiful for it.”

“You’d rather people be in pain?”

“That’s an unpleasant way of looking at it.”

“You make it sound like hurting someone is good because it could make them a better artist.”

“I’m saying that the universe wasn’t a happy place before the Affini were in it, and now that they are, it’s like everything is different. A sunrise feels so much better after a cold night. Food tastes better when you’ve been hungry. Soft beds feel better after a long, hard day. I’m not saying every day should be hard or that every night should be cold or that people should go hungry. Just that warm and soft and full used to mean something and I feel like they don’t. Not anymore. Not really.”

“Adversity breeds… happiness?”

“We appreciate the good more if we have the bad for contrast. We’ve raised the baseline and cut off the deviations. I worry sometimes that that’s what the Affini are too busy doing. Equalizing a sine wave. Was I disabled? Most definitely. I was fucking broken, much as my therapist hates that word. I was a shell of a person when they brought me in. But not every broken thing needs to be fixed, and I don’t think all of them understand that.”

“So what would you do if you could go back?”

“I’d write something, I think.”

“And if you couldn’t go back, but you got it back? Your muse?”

“There was no muse.”

“You know what I mean.”

“What would I do if I had my pain back?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d still write. I think I’d fall back into old self-harming patterns and keep it a secret. Try to be better about hiding from them.”

“What if you didn’t have to hide?”

“If you’re broken? Around Affini? You hide or you get fixed. You don’t really get a say in it. Affini hate broken things. Or maybe they love broken things because they can fix them. I feel like I used to be able to read them, but I can’t anymore. Like I’m too healthy to understand them, nowadays. I don’t know why they do what they do, but they do it. Protect you from yourself, at all costs. Yeah, hiding would be the only option. The only real option, anyway. I’d hide.”

“But what if you didn’t? How would you feel?”

“That sounds self-destructive. That sounds like I’d be dead of alcohol poisoning, drug use, suicide or one of a million other things in a few years.”

“You’re evading the question. That’s not how you feel.”

“I think… I think I’d be angry. Vindictive. I think I’d want to hurt one of them.”

“Why?”

“Because they never asked that question.”

[mbcorvo-author]

Were-thoughts

I didn’t have a title for this, so I improvised...

“Were-thoughts” because the main character is a were-beast. Got it? Heh!

Anyways, I jotted down this scene ages ago and today I decided to rewrite it a bit and try to make it look/feel better. The style and stuff (and English translation) still doesn’t satisfy my perfectionist side but I think that it’s good enough to share here with you all.

I followed a prompt in a book that was something on the lines of “The first time you killed a man” or something like that... 

Were-thoughts

I killed a man. It never happened before and I believed that it would never happen. I was hungry. For days I wasn't able to get something under my teeth, days that I spent hunting but without finding anything to fill my belly. A pretty normal thing, I believe, since the harsher than usual winter. It was one of the many days in which I explored the forest searching for prey, anything that could at least mitigate the stabbing pangs of the hunger when I smelled his scent. I tried to resist but my instinct pushed me to follow it. The thick snow muffled all sounds, like the one made by my paws while I was moving to sniff that smell, but my sharp hearing and the heavy silence in the forest were letting me hear easily the noise of his steps in the snow, twigs that broke, light swears that were said when his steps sank in the snow more than expected or when some of the snow on the tree branches plopped onto him. He stopped proceeding in the snow when he felt that he wasn't alone anymore. When he had the impression that something was coming out between the trees. He turned his head towards me, eyes widening while he turned around completely to fully face me. I felt fear making its way in him, I could feel it from the change in the smell of his body. His fear was filling my nostrils and was reminding me of the smell of the prey I hunted, making me salivate even more. He said something, but I didn't understand a thing of what was leaving his lips. I was sensing his fear, I was sensing my hunger and my instinct trying to take over me. I remained still, eyes fixed on him, trying to resist my impulses. I tried to give him a warking and I loudly growled towards him. His fear rose through the roof and started to back away in the snowy terrain, before turning and trying to start running away. Big mistake. My paws were thrilling, I was barely able to resist that temptation...and he started to run. My instinct - or, to be exact, my empty stomach - took over and I erupted in a new loud growl, I was almost roaring, leaping to his chase. The man was running at breakneck speed, even if the snow made it difficult for him to move in the forest. I let him have a little bit of lead: most probably I wouldn't be able to experience again the thrill of the chase until snowmelt, so why not take this opportunity? But by then I already caught up with the gap distance and he was running within easy reach in front of me. He turned his head back and also he noticed that. Another big mistake. While he was turned, one of his boots got stuck in a root hidden by the high snow and he found himself falling onto the ground. He turned back, again he talked to me. But it was too late. I leapt and sank my teeth in his throat. A gush of warm blood filled my maw and its taste completely erased the last glimpse of lucidity that was left in my body. The blood frenzy gained the upper hand. Finally, I was eating. I don't even know how much time I needed to come to my senses but when I did, it made me realize what I had done: I killed a man. No, worse: I ate him. At the same time, questions started to crowd my mind. What was he doing here? He didn't look like a hunter and no solitary hiker would ever think of venturing in this part of the forest. Especially in the heart of winter. Why, upon seeing me, he didn't try to escape right away? Why did he stop to talk? What he had said? Was he searching for me? Has he followed my tracks? Still, the last snowfall should have wiped out all of them and I was careful to not leave any. It shouldn't be any pawprints, I always walked on the hardest snow to not leave any trace. Maybe only during this chase, I could have left them. More importantly...someone knew that he was going to venture into the forest? Will someone come here searching for him? I got up on my paws again, shook a bit to remove the snow that got stuck on my fur and licked away the blood that stained my muzzle. I didn't have an answer for all those questions in my mind, but I knew what I had to do: I had to get away from there as far as I could. I took off and I started walking back and going over the footprints that I already had left in the snow until I reached the spot where the harder snow started. There, I sped up my pace until running to get back into the depths of the forest. My forest.

Italian version under the cut!

Non avevo in mente un titolo per questo, così ho improvvisato.

“Pensieri mannari” perché il protagonista è un mannaro. L’avete capita? Heh!

Comunque, ho scribacchiato questa scena diverso tempo fa e oggi ho deciso di riscriverla e cercare di farla sembrare meglio. Lo stile e affini (così come la traduzione inglese) ancora non soddisfano il mio lato perferzionista, ma penso che sia buono abbastanza per condividerlo con tutti voi.

Ho seguito uno spunto in un libro che era qualcosa sulle righe del “La prima volta che hai ucciso un uomo” o qualcosa del genere.

Pensieri mannari

Ho ucciso un uomo. Non era mai accaduto prima e credevo che non sarebbe mai successo. Avevo fame. Da giorni non riuscivo a mettere niente sotto i denti, giorni che passavo a cacciare ma senza trovare alcunché per riempirmi la pancia. Cosa piuttosto normale, credo, dato il periodo invernale più rigido del solito. Era uno dei tanti giorni in cui esploravo la foresta alla ricerca di una preda, qualsiasi cosa che potesse almeno attutire le fitte lancinanti della fame, quando fiutai il suo odore. Cercai di resistere, ma il mio istinto mi spinse a seguirlo. La neve alta attutiva ogni suono, come quello delle mie zampe mentre avanzo fiutando quell’odore, ma il mio udito fino e il pesante silenzio nella foresta mi permetteva di sentire facilmente il rumore del suo avanzare, il suono dei suoi passi che affondavano nella neve, ramoscelli che si spezzavano, lievi imprecazioni che venivano emesse quando sprofondava nella neve più del previsto o qualche albero scaricava su di lui la neve che si era depositata su uno dei rami. Lui smise di proseguire nella neve quando sentì di non essere più solo. Quando ebbe l’impressione che qualcosa stava sbucando tra gli alberi. Voltò il suo capo in mia direzione, sgranando gli occhi e voltandosi con tutto il resto del corpo così da essere frontale a me. Sentii la paura farsi strada in lui, lo sentivo dal cambiamento nell’odore che il suo corpo emanava. La sua paura mi riempiva le narici e mi ricordava l’odore delle prede che cacciavo, facendomi aumentare la salivazione. Lui disse qualcosa, ma non capii alcunché di quello che usciva dalle sue labbra. Sentivo che era spaventato, sentivo la mia fame e il mio istinto cercare di prendere il sopravvento. Rimasi immobile, occhi fissi su di lui, cercando di resistere ai miei impulsi. Cercai di dargli un avvertimento e ringhiai sonoramente in sua direzione. La sua paura aumentò a dismisura e iniziò a indietreggiare nel terreno innevato, prima di voltasi per cercare di mettersi a correre per scappare. Grosso errore. Le mie zampe fremevano, a fatica riuscivo a resistere a quella tentazione...e lui ha iniziato a correre. Il mio istinto – o, meglio, il mio stomaco vuoto – prese il sopravvento ed emisi un nuovo ringhio fragoroso, quasi ruggii, balzando al suo inseguimento. L’uomo correva a perdifiato, per quanto la neve gli rendeva difficoltoso il muoversi nella foresta. Un po’ di vantaggio glielo avevo lasciato: probabilmente non avrei sperimentato di nuovo il brivido dell’inseguimento fino al disgelo, quindi perché non approfittarne? Ma ormai avevo già recuperato il distacco e lui correva a poca distanza davanti a me. Volse il capo indietro e anche lui se ne accorse. Altro grosso errore. Mentre era voltato, uno dei suoi scarponi rimase impigliato in una radice nascosta dall’alta neve e si ritrovò a cadere al suolo. Si volse, di nuovo mi parlò. Ma era troppo tardi. Balzai e affondai i miei denti nella sua gola. Un fiotto di caldo sangue mi riempì le fauci e il suo sapore cancellò totalmente l’unico barlume di lucidità che mi stava rimanendo in corpo. La frenesia prese il sopravvento. Finalmente mangiavo. Non ho la minima idea di quanto mi ci volle per tornare totalmente in me, ma appena lo feci mi resi conto di quello che avevo fatto: avevo ucciso un uomo. No, peggio: l’avevo mangiato. Delle domande mi affollarono nella mente allo stesso tempo. Cosa ci faceva lui qua? Non aveva l’aria di essere un cacciatore e nessun solitario escursionista si sarebbe mai sognato di addentrarsi in questa zona della foresta. Soprattutto in pieno inverno. Perché, vedendomi, non ha provato a scappare subito? Perché si è fermato a parlare? Cosa aveva detto? Cercava me? Aveva seguito le mie tracce? Eppure l’ultima nevicata avrebbe dovuto averle cancellate tutte e ho sempre prestato attenzione a non lasciarne. Non dovrebbero esserci impronte delle mie zampe, ho sempre camminato sulla neve più compatta così da non lasciare nulla. Forse solo durante questo inseguimento potrebbero essere rimaste. Soprattutto...qualcuno aveva idea che lui si sarebbe addentrato nella foresta? Qualcuno lo verrà a cercare? Tornai a issarmi sulle zampe, dandomi una scrollata così da staccare la neve rimasta appiccicata alla mia pelliccia, mi leccai via del sangue rimasto sul muso. Non avevo risposta per tutte quelle domande nella mia mente, ma sapevo quello che dovevo fare: dovevo allontanarmi il più possibile da quel posto. Scattai e mi misi in cammino ripercorrendo le impronte che ormai erano rimaste nella neve finché non raggiunsi la zona più compatta, lì velocizzai il passo così da mettermi a correre e addentrarmi nuovamente nelle profondità della foresta. La mia foresta.

[madetoorder-maidtoorder]

We feel we should state, this shit is like, actually rewriting our programing and for the better.

The usual static is calmer and we're still feel slow to act but those actions are deliberate

It's like We know how it would feel to have an Affini to dote us me, encourage me, exactly how best they could wrap us in their vines.

And while having that actualized would certainly fix us, the idea feels like a good step closer.

Maybe knowing we aren't alone in those desires is enough for now.