#and that they all specifically were bred to be put there and die.

[bunposting]

House Rabbit Society Shut the Absolute Fuck Up challenge

You have no idea what you're talking about regarding literally anything for rabbits. Literally shut the fuck up. Fuck all of you.

[thenightwolf51]

A detail from the first Trolls movie that always kinda confused me was the fact that Chef was gonna feed Poppy to Gristle.

Poppy is King Peppy's heir, shes the future queen. You'd think that would make her off limits. She needs to survive to be crowned and eventually continue the royal line. The bergens are a monarchy themselves so they understand this importance and the trolls are their livestock so they would have to put some focus on maintaining genetics and keeping the trolls at a somewhat stable quality of life, that includes the social dynamics of the tribe. At least as much as we would keep track of the Queen bee in a hive, the biggest bull in a herd, or the fastest horse in the derby.

But now with Band Together it makes more sence.

Viva is older than Poppy, which means that she would likely have been assumed to be the future queen. As far as the bergens are concerned King Peppy already had his "heir and a spare". Poppy was just the spare.

With that in mind, i wonder if it was a tradition for bergen royalty to be fed a royal troll for their first trollstice. "Every prince deserves a princess" Chef had said. Did Peppy have a sibling that was fed to Gristle's dad?

If Poppy hadn't been born, would Viva had been considered old enough for Peppy to be given to Gristle instead? She managed to lead the Puttputts when she got seperated. Or would Gristle have gotten Viva and the bergens just hoped Peppy would create a new heir?

And back to the genetics bit. Do you think they selectively bred the trolls for the best taste or effect. Like specifically choosing trolls or families with undesirable traits to cook at trollstice so that their genes die out. Is that how the average pop troll of the current generation got to be so... delusionaly cheerful.

Like i know its all played up for the movies because their pop trolls, constantly singing and dancing and eating sugary sweets. But in comparison to the other genres they just seem more exaggerated.

So how much of that happy positivity and optimistic near lack of self preservation that most pop trolls have is natural for their genre and how much is enhanced due to at least 100 years of selective breeding.

I imagine the happier a troll the more dopamine/serotonin they produce naturally so the bergens would probably take care to decrease the the amount of trolls that wernt as "potent". Which likely would have been trolls that sang and danced less, were more likely to develop anxiety or were prone to depression or going grey.

On the evolutionary side of things this would have led to the happiest and more optimistic pop trolls to be the most attractive and ideal mates even if the trolls don't relize the scientific reason behind it or consciously notice that happy trolls had a higher servival rate.

(Which kind of reminds me of that one post that said something about boybands like Brozone who made trolls happy with their music likely being "protected" in some way because bergens wanted them to continue making trolls happy)

And i do think the pop trolls were captive for at least 100 years because i doubt a whole town and castle, essentially a small kingdom can be built in one life time. Especially not one with an established monarchy and near religious holiday that has a "minister of happiness". Honestly i wanna see it as over 200 years, give them plenty of time to forget their pre-trollstice history like the existence of other tribes

This is a bit long and rambling but my world building mind really wants to hyperfixate on the details of the pop troll's captivity and what it means for them as a species and for the ways their culture might have shifted or adapted.

[darkwing-ramblings]

What makes a happy silmaril?

For context we must consider that the silmarils are written as living is not intelligent beings in a way and that they were derived of trees and so are a probable never-before-seen-gem-plant-hybrid-creature-with-opinions-just-no-mobility. Also I am @darkwinganimus by another name, to be clear, and this moves a previous discussion @eri-pl and I were having in the replies of one of their posts over to a format with no restrictively frustrating word limitation.

As @eri-pl puts in their Silmarillion reread part 6: "They loked like diamonds, so canonically white-ish. their fire is made of mixed Treelight, so I would assume warm white is canon.

They shone like stars of Varda but had real life inside — I really need this in English! OK, I googled it.

OH. Something else but: "he pondered how the light of the Trees, the glory of the Blessed Realm, might be preserved imperishable" — It may be me jumping on things + Tolkien's poetical wording, but this seems like a strong suggestion of "Fefe wanted to jump higher than his head" (he was not the first one) and sheds a light (pun intended) on his sttitude towards the Silmarils later.

Anyway back to that part about life: "and yet, as were they indeed living things, they rejoiced in light" So they are living things, not just "like" living things. Silmarills = baby Trees is canon! (OK, somewhat canon? but they *are* alive, and by logic they must be bred not made-in-the-strict-sense by Feanor)

So they glow by themselves with warm white, but also they are iridescent like diamonds. Beautiful indeed."

(Opinions such as disliking Morgoth then Carcaroth enough to burn him when the former wore them in his underground torture fortress Angband and the latter rudely ate them).

Anyway, the discussion points I actually want to raise are below, now that the nature of the silmarils are established as probably-living- beyond the possibility of poetic and figurative language along those veins merely sounding cool- is explained:

@eri-pl Hmm, okay, so per your reply attached to this post "Melkor (to be precise this was his name at that point :D ) wanted to kill Feanor anyway. He thought Feanor would be home too, iirc from the book. And still, Fefe could have worn them to a well-guarded situations, at least. But he was too paranoid." let's imagine Feanor takes the measure of no vault and just wears the silmarils everywhere, because he's pretty sure no one else distrusts Melkor enough to be sufficiently on guard. Melkor now has no reason to attack Formenos during the party so I don't know waits to ambush Feanor travelling on the road back from it, directing Ungoliant at the trees for a distraction etc and stealing the silmarils+killing Feanor as planned. Good for Melkor he achieves all his goals.

I humbly ask how this then might end up in your opinion better for the silmarils in question, aside from more time outside out and about Aman in sun years per your "Feanor wearing them might have ended up better for them anyway. At least he could have worn them to well-defended occasions (like That One Party), but he didn't because he was paranoid about the normal Valar too.". Because without Feanor and with Finwe alive there a question of if the flight of the noldor even happens afterwards- which they were agitating let's assume so and skip the how-that-happens/goes for now- and about the oath.

Now the oath is terrible for most beings involved, yes, but is it terrible for the silmarils themselves? It's a force of dedicated warriors specifically trying to retrieve them from Melkor their evil abductor- a force of dedicated warriors who make their retrieval from Morgoth so fraught a topic Thingol invokes it in an arguably rash and spur of the moment to Beren arguably meaning "I-would-see-you-dead-before-I-give-permission-for-you-to-marry-my-beloved-daughter-go-die-to-Morgoth-and/or-the-feanorians-over-a-silmaril".

It sees one of them get out of Angband in the hands of Beren and Luthien and enjoy free-range-ish years in the open then ultimately make it to Earendil upon Vingilot's prow. Earendil and Elwing's arrival with said stolen silmaril also helps petition aid from the valar in the war of wrath successfully leading to one ending up in the ocean (not terrible for pseudo-plant-gem-creatures as an environment) and a random volcano that maybe also got swallowed by the sea (at least there's no Melkor and it has possible gem-friends in its volcano). If there is no oath all of the latter is in question and whilst things could end better for the silmarils probably (and definitely those who died because of the oath on both sides, but that's not the focus here) they could also end up worse.

Now, Feanor's son's swear the oath of their own initiative when he begins to but on their own with him dead it's not exactly assured say Kanafinwe is going to see to it a very similar one is made.

I understand entirely that it is a lot of words however so won't be offended if you'd rather call it a day/don't actually read this all. Either way putting it together in one place has pleased me greatly whether any response, staggered yay or nay, results.

[angels-wantme-dead]

It is my personal philosophy that individualistic identity is an illusion. We're bred and raised as people to value one true identity, but I don't believe identity is a single point you can put your finger on.

It is my belief that not only are we as people ever changing, but that we all have multiple selves. Let me explain.

The body theory states that personal identity is tied specifically to your body. But if this is the case, it begs a similar question to the ship of Theseus. Cells are born, they grow, they contribute to our living body, and they die. We are still us.

Is it such a stretch to suggest that identity is not a solid object but far more akin to a more abstract concept?

Another example;

Are you the same person you are when you were 5 years old? 10? 15? 20 even? I severely doubt it. Change is a part of human nature in the sense that we are living beings. Beings that grow. Beings made up of cells that are born, they live, they die. Much like we do collectively.

So why are we as people so focused on a single minded identity? The very concept of an alter ego is a rarity, something you only see in comic books. Even dissociative identity disorder, (which has more symptoms than just plurality and thus is not exclusively defined by it) is very often relegated to a Hollywood horror stereotype.

The alternate identity is shunned. Is encouraged to be kept secret. To be controlled. To be silenced. When the truth of the matter is that while many of us thrive in this single identity centric society, many of us struggle within it as well.

Those of us drawn to define ourselves as plural, our mindset is different. We see between the cracks that make us ourselves.

Think of a gemstone. A gemstone is composed of many things. Pressures and minerals that form faceted sides. Sides that shape to a point and become the whole; a gemstone.

We as people are the same. Our cells make our organs, our organs make our bodies, our bodies make us.

But who are we?

Are we the person we become at work when we talk to our boss? Are we the person we become around our partners? Our closest friends? Or are we our 'true' selves around our family? Do you have a twin? Are you your true self around them?

Now again, this isn't to say that all people suffer from dissociative disabilities. This isn't the case. What I'm discussing with you now is not the diagnosis of DID/OSDD but rather the philosophy of multiple identities.

Because plurality, or multiple identities, are not the only symptoms of these disabilities. Many are very content in their singular identity.

But why is it such a crime for a person to indulge in the philosophy of multiple identities if that is what they're drawn to?

Who is to say what part of this plural is their 'true' self.

All in all, what I mean to say is that I reject the idea of 'true' self.

Because it's my philosophy, my personal belief, that we are all like the ship of Theseus. We are all gemstones.

And in the end there is no higher authority that falls onto you that makes your thoughts on the matter any more real than mine. Because I am not arguing the science. Science is irrelevant here.

I am arguing self determination. I am arguing for the rights of others to be who they are drawn to be. And if that identity is multiple, then so be it.

[spitdrunken]

I am keeping this post out of the main tags, and putting everything about it under a cut! This one’s for you anon, you probably know who you are <3 Please be warned, this Adam post contains conversion rpe / noncon, homophobia, misogyny, and character death mentioned/implied. Please don’t read this to trigger or upset yourself.

conversion with adam is so horrendous and so hot to think abt asjdfkdsfn. because he's absolutely the kind of guy that'd try imagine him stringing along a sinner reader. convincing them he can get them into heaven (and maybe he can but not for good reasons) but he lies and makes out the only way he can pull it off is if they become straight. and the only way to prove that is rounds of getting fucked into the ground and bred by him i feel kind of guilty sharing that haha not trans so i haven't read detransition works but i like the opposite where the character doesn't want to date a woman and so forces them to become a man. i mostly just write that though because i can't find it how i like it

Don’t feel guilty!! I get it but you don’t need to feel that <3 and I haven’t read what you mentioned! But I totally get writing that stuff yourself, cuz it’s hard to find stuff that Exactly fulfills your desires

He really would try :’)! Adam would attempt it during the extermination, where you’re already horrendously stressed out, because of all the, y’know all the people being killed all around you.

You, in one way or another, end up at the other end of one of Adam's blasts, but , rather than immediately killing you, he can tell you're pretty hot. For a fucking sinner, at least. He's no stranger to raping a couple of chicks during an extermination, like, who cares if they're about to die in a couple of minutes anyway? But maybe he wants to play a little game this time around. (With a high chance of him getting bored just as quickly.)

You squeeze your eyes shut, readying yourself for an impact that never arrives. Instead, when you hesitantly look back out through your squinted eyelids, you are greeted by an angel leering above you.

Adam would tell you that with just one look, he could tell that a pretty bitch like you doesn’t belong here at all! There must’ve been some mistake somewhere, yeah, yeah… You belong up in Heaven, babe. And about half of you knows that this has to be bullshit, but you’ve seen friends and strangers alike die in front of your eyes today, and you are desperate to clutch at any straws, so you listen. There’s just one little thing you gotta do, he tells you.

And… What’s that? You ask, a little breathless, trying to hide your shaking. To no avail.

Adam hums for a moment, a grin flickering across his face, before a hand cups over his mouth, a finger rubbing at his chin as if he were deep in thought. You gotta get some ‘angelic essence’ inside you. Heh. In other words, us, yes, us two, are going to need to fuck. Right here. Right now.

If this were any other situation, you’d be tempted to flip him off, laugh in his face until you were close to tears, and get the hell out of there. But he could kill you with a snap of his fingers. Even then, this specific scenario comes out of left field.

I don’t… I— I’m not attracted to men. Sorry? You end up sputtering. Do… Female angels—

Adam cuts you off before you can finish. Yeah, well, not being ‘attracted to men’ is kinda part of the problem here, babe. Why do you think you’re down here?

You really don't want to do this. You'd rather take an angelic blast to the face. I… Can I not? You say, after swallowing the nervous spit accumulated in your mouth.

"Well, duh, of course you can say no! But I guess that would mean you're not really dedicated to getting into Heaven, and you'd rather stay a demon forever, huh?" He hisses out a breath through grit teeth, as if he's just about to tell you horrible news. "And that means… I gotta kill you, babe. That's just how things work! Either you get fucked by me right here and now, or I blast your soul to little pieces. Is that clear enough for you?"

And that’s how you end up on your stomach, in the middle of corpses and rubble, pants and underwear shimmied down to around your knees. Little rocks scraping at your skin with every thrust, your insides burning with pain. Not so unenthusiastic after all, huh? Adam pants out. I can feel you getting fucking wetter. Stupid bitch. You think any ‘wetness’ in between your legs right now could only be blood.

Adam usually couldn’t care less about his partner’s pleasure, much less when it comes to a sinner such as yourself, but he wants to prove a point here. He wants to have a man such as himself make you feel good, and scramble that brain of yours for the rest of your existence. So, as you sob, a hand clumsily starts to rub in the general area of your clit, eventually figuring out exactly where to touch. He laughs and laughs and laughs as you tighten up around him and beg and plead for him to stop— But he chooses to interpret it as telling him to continue.

Greedy bitch, he hisses out. All you needed was a bit of cock to set your mind straight— I’ll make you cum, don’t you fucking worry. But he finishes before you, filling you up with rope after rope of hot cum, as you shudder and shiver in disgust underneath him. And he does make you cum. It feels more like a release of pressure rather than anything pleasurable, though you can’t stop the strangled cry leaving your mouth, or the convulsion of your inner walls.

Adam pulls out of you, laughter still on his lips. Pity to have to kill a decent pussy such as this one. Ah, well, whatever. And—

[heart-of-copper-dog-training]

Purebreed vs Rescue

A common debate among the dog loving community is purebred dogs vs rescues. Several things contribute to this and of course I'm going to talk about my own opinion on them.

First, I'm going to say that while there is such a thing as a bad breeder, there are also ethical breeders who genuinely care about the health and welfare of their dogs, as well as the temperament and purpose of the dogs they are breeding. To buy from these breeders is not a bad thing if you know what you need in a dog, have a specific purpose in mind, or simply want to know the most likely temperament and health from puppy to adulthood because it is much more controlled. I also contend with certain breeds of dogs being bred to more and more extremes (french bulldogs, bulldogs in general, any dog with high health issues due to their need to conform to "standard") because these are NOT ethical. They may be well cared for and have a certain temperament, but I can't support dogs that can barely breathe and often have expensive surgeries and/or die due to aesthetics.

Buying from an unethical breeder is something I will never agree with. I'd say your average dog owner knows what a puppy mill is, but many don't understand why a backyard breeder is not much better. Supporting those who breed simply because they have two dogs that are technically purebred (getting an akc registration is actually easier than you'd think) is supporting over breeding, even if the dogs are well cared for. These dogs are at best minimally medically tested with random temperament, and at worst, simply purebred with no testing in any way. Please do your research before buying.

Pet shops carry unethical dogs. Whether fad breeds or "rare" colors (i.e. nonconforming or not even possible colors like a silver lab which is a mix of a Weimaraner and a Labrador), an ethical breeder will not supply these shops.

Fad "breeds" are also something I struggle with. Many of these doodle mixes have become a bane on the dog world. They are cute and adorable, but often mixed with breeds that cause incompatible drives leading to heavy behavior problems being bred into them right from the start. Doodles are worse off due to their cuteness and being marketed as "great beginner dogs" which often translates to new owners as "needs minimal to no training/socialization". While doodles do bring in clients, I would rather they not. Same goes for many of these "purebred" crossbreeds, such as shepskies, pitskies, etc. These dogs are selling for high prices with breeds that should not mix and can cause at best challenging but high drive dogs and at worst a bit of a nightmare for most dog owners.

All that said, I support ethical breeders. I support buying a dog for a specific job (service, sport, search and rescue etc). And I support new owners looking for a more predictable dog with the lifelong support a breeder will bring to that dog. Buying responsibly is not a bad thing, and is what keeps some of these breeds alive.

Now, let's talk rescues. Rescue culture is interesting. Back when I was younger, we just called dogs from shelters/streets/oopsie litters mutts. Sometimes we got lucky and got a purebred from a shelter, and we'd say that was a lucky find (by the way, there are purebreed rescues and many dogs in shelters are purebred, often due to guardians not knowing the demands of a breed or overbreeding). The culture around mutts has shifted to become a more positive one. Now we say "rescue", seemingly referring to any dog that is not directly from a breeder or pet shop is a rescue. I have personally rescued dogs off the street. This is not a humble brag, just a statement of facts. Of those I picked up, several were in poor health and needed medical treatment, and many were just a little dirty and skinny in need of a bath and food. Of these, I kept none, but rehomed all of them.

I'm not here to gatekeep the term rescue, but to put some context into it. While I support adopting from shelters, there is a new culture of calling all dogs in a shelter a "rescue" even if the dog was born there, an owner surrender, or never in any medical/physical/mental trauma to begin with. This culture shift was to aid the shelters in moving dogs and encouraging guardians to "adopt not shop" wasn't enough. They needed to have people feel good about their dog in a way that was more than just "I didn't buy a puppy" so they shifted to calling all dogs rescues. I don't necessarily think it's a bad thing, but it leads to a ton of misconceptions.

Shelters are a traumatizing environment for dogs. Many dogs who are in a shelter long enough suffer mental trauma and can appear as though they were abused. It's very easy for a shelter or future guardian to talk about their dog in a way that personifies them (again, sometimes helpful, sometimes not) and paints a tragedy around a dog who probably was never abused but actually just needs help working through the trauma of just being in a shelter.

Why is this a problem? Well, it's because I meet guardians who assume nothing can be done, that this is "just the way she/he is" because "they were abused". They "hate men" so therefore "a man must have hurt them". So while they love their dog, they never seek the proper help for their dogs' mental state and the dog carries that trauma with them. But they do get to carry that badge of honor saying they "rescued" a dog, whether or not any abuse took place.

I have met puppies from a breeder (I actually have a client right now with this issue) that started from a breeder but was (in this specific case a covid puppy) undersocialized. These puppies turn into adult dogs that are fearful, skittish, and scared of things they weren't ever exposed to in a positive way. Things such as men in hats, tall people, people who are not in the household. These dogs duck and cower and bark. These dogs would appear to be "abuse cases" if they appeared in a shelter (and many of them do, because these behaviors can become overwhelming and guardians can feel too ashamed to return the dog to the breeder or worse, got it from an unethical breeder). Maybe their temperament was poorly bred, too, which compounded things. These dogs would end up in a shelter with a sob story and probably be adopted by kind hearted individuals who want to save the dog and tell everyone they rescued the dog.

This weird culture over having a "rescued dog" badge of honor leads many guardians who really would do better with an ethical breeder to adopt a shelter dog instead. And, as much as this pains me to say, shelter dogs (abused or not) are not for everyone. Shelter dogs can be a huge challenge. They have trauma, whether from the environment or the past, whether they are undersocialized or oversocialized. They will often come with behaviors that are not for the feint of heart, and certainly not for first time guardians. But people feel guilty buying from an ethical breeder and feel the need to defend their decision.

Marginal dogs are often adopted out to inexperienced guardians. Even going to an experienced guardian or trainer can cause rescue burn out. A family feeling the pressure of adopting and "rescuing" rather than getting a dog that is more practical for their lifestyle will adopt these dogs and sometimes get lucky, but often times end up with a dog they have no idea what to do with and may quickly return, leading to a revolving door for some dogs which adds to shelter trauma. A family who gets enough behavior problem dogs from a shelter without knowing where to find proper help ("this is just how they are because they were abused") WILL burn out and WILL make shelter dogs look like "all shelter dogs are bad dogs" and "all shelter dogs have behavior problems".

Shelter dogs are a big, beautiful unknown. They can be diamonds in the rough, or they can be a new learning experience for an upcoming dog trainer. They can be the inspiration for some to LEARN about training and behavior in dogs. They can be a therapy dog (Copper, who inspired my namesake, was such a dog), they can be a service dog, a sports dog, a working dog. They can be an anxious dog, a dog with separation anxiety, a dog with aggressive behavior towards certain triggers. They can be beautiful or funny looking (in the cutest ways) and graceful or clumsy as Scooby Doo (looking at Pancake right now). They can have past health issues that come back to haunt new owners or be more healthy than most purebreds.

So what does all of this mean? Who's better, purebreds or rescues?

I think the more important question is: what do you want in a dog, and what are you prepared to handle? Once you know that answer, you will know who is better for YOU.

Stop shaming ethical breeders. Stop shaming shelter dogs who have behaviors their guardians don't have the knowledge or resources to handle. Stop shaming those who bought from an unethical breeder unknowingly because they were never given the chance to learn. Stop shaming guardians who turn to breeders after having a bad experience with a shelter dog.

Educate. Show sympathy and kindness. Show them resources for any of these guardians. Why are huskies a challenging breed, and what can guardians do with a shelter dog that needs more help?

Dogs are dogs, and we love them. But we are doing a disservice by simply slotting them into "breeder vs rescue". We are ignoring the nuances of what these terms mean and we are not educating those who need it most to help those dogs who need it most.

We need to focus on our mutual love for dogs and educate those who do not have the knowledge, background, or resources to find it themselves.

As always, be kind to yourself, to your dogs, and to others. It is free to be kind.

[starryevermore]

saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts ✧ tech

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

summary: tech meets an oddly familiar face in the afterlife. 

word count: 1,456

warnings?: spoilers for “plan 99”, angst, not proofread

Death was something that Tech had come to terms with long ago. In a way, he supposed all clones long since came to terms with death. They were bred to be soldiers. They were designed to lay down their lives on the battlefield. Tech had known that for as long as he was aware of his purpose. 

He always imagined he would die during a fight. What other way would he go? When you’re born to be soldier, you’re born to die on the battlefield. But, if he was being honest, he always expected that he would die with his brothers. That he would go with the same people he entered this galaxy with. 

Of course, all of that was not to say he wasn’t a little sad about dying. For a brief moment, there had been a flicker of hope that he could be something more. Ever since Omega had joined them, they had been fighting to give her a good life. A safe life. After leaving Cid, and after Phee taking them to Pabu, Tech thought that they might have achieved that purpose. 

Tech had thought that they would settle down there. That they would put the life of fighting behind them. He imagined he might become a teacher. He quite enjoyed teaching Omega, seeing her blossom and grow and soak up all the wisdom and knowledge he could offer her. Perhaps he could do that on Pabu. And, maybe if he was lucky, whatever relationship he was building with Phee would evolve into something more. He never gave much thought to romance before, but he liked the idea of being with her. It made his chest feel warm. He liked that feeling. 

Though Tech had come to terms with dying, he thought there would be more days to live. That he would get to experience more than being a soldier. That he would get to see a future that was as bright as the sun that shined down on Pabu. 

But, as Tech plummeted to the ground, he knew that he would never get to experience that brighter future. And that was okay. If his death was necessary for his family to live, he would be okay with that. That was the whole point of Plan 99, wasn’t it? 

He shut his eyes and braced for impact. There was no point in musing on those thoughts when he would never get to see them come to fruition. His body hit the cold, hard ground with a crack! 

All went dark. 

Until—

Tech blinked, looking around. He…He didn’t understand. It almost looked like he was on Pabu. But that couldn’t be. He…Well, he was dead. His body was long gone, lost to the forest below. There was certainly no way he could have survived. That was the stuff of fiction—imagining a way for a valiant hero to beat death against all odds. (Was he a valiant hero? Phee might paint him that way, he mused—she always loved teasing him. He would miss that.) 

“It’s supposed to look like the place you were at peace in,” a voice said. 

The voice was familiar, in the way that the voices of clones, specifically the regs, all sounded familiar. But it was different, too. If Tech shut his eyes and listened hard enough, it would have almost sounded like Echo. 

“What do you see?” the voice asked again.

“Pabu,” Tech said. “It was a small island, home to refugees. It was…Well, I suppose for a short time, it was my home. The closest thing that I could call a home.”

Tech looked over, finally looking at the person the voice belonged to. He had once seen a holopic of Echo, during his ARC Trooper days, with Rex and Cody and another blue-adorned ARC Trooper. Tech didn’t know his name, the other ARC Trooper, he means. Echo never spoke about it. Tech never pried. The man beside him, though, bore a striking resemblance to Echo, though, more so than one would expect from a clone. 

“What do you see?” Tech asked. 

“Kamino,” the man said. He looked at Tech, then gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Nothing nice like a tropical island, or whatever you get to see. But, it was the last place where my batch and I were happy. We called ourselves the Domino Squad.”

“What happened to your squad?”

“We had been stationed on the Rishi Moon Outpost. It had been mostly uneventful out there. Then the Separatists attacked. I lost most of squad then. It was just me and Echo for a long time.”

Tech nodded. So, this must have been the other ARC Trooper in Echo’s holopic. That was the logical conclusion. It would certainly explain the similarities between the two clones. 

“What about you?” the man asked. “What was your squad like?”

“We were Clone Force 99, but we called ourselves the Bad Batch.” Tech’s heart ached at the thought of his squad. He could only hope that they survived. That was all he wanted. Though, seeing as none of them were with him now, he supposed that his sacrifice had been successful. “We were a group of enhanced clones.”

“99,” the man repeated. “He was a good clone. He’s around here somewhere, if you ever want to talk to him.”

“I would like that. He had been a great hero to my brothers and I. We had always admired his sacrifice. Our squad was named after him, of course. But so too was one of our plans. If the moment ever came where one of us needed to lay down our life to save the others, we would it. During the war, it had never come up.” Tech looked out at the rolling waves of the imaginary Pabu. He didn’t regret his actions, not in the slightest. But he worried how the others were handling it. He had seen Omega as he fell, heard her shouts and pleas for the others to do something. Oh, he hoped his brothers were comforting her. “We never had to use it, until now.”

The man nodded, turning his gaze out to the sea. Tech wondered what he saw instead. He had said Kamino, but Kamino was a large place. Was he imagining the barracks? The mess hall? “At least you know that your squad is still out there. When I got here, I spent ages looking for Echo. I couldn’t believe that he was still alive. That he was alive and we did nothing to try to save them.”

“I’ve heard what happened at the Citadel,” Tech said. He wasn’t good at comfort, but when he realized that Omega needed comfort, especially after Echo left the squad to aid Rex, he tried to get better. He read many books and articles to figure out the right thing to do. So, he reached out, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You never could have known. The odds of anyone surviving an explosion of that caliber is demonstrably low.”

The man shrugged. It seemed like Tech’s comfort wasn’t very comforting. But then the man smiled a bit. “I’m glad he had you guys, though. I’m Fives, by the way.”

“Tech.”

Fives stood up, dusting himself off. Then he held out a hand towards Tech. Tech stared for a moment. Then, he took Fives’s hand and let the man, his brother, help him to his feet. Once Tech was standing, Fives clapped him on the shoulder. 

“C’mon,” Fives said. “Our vode want to meet you.”

Tech’s brows pinched together. That was odd. It was unfathomable, really. Tech never really had any good experiences with the regs, barring a few exceptional cases like Cody and Rex. Most of his interactions with regs usually ended in a fight—typically started by one of his brothers, but he wasn’t the sort of person to lay down and take the disrespect regs often showed him and his brothers. Why would any reg want to meet him now?

“I don’t understand,” Tech said. “Why would anyone want to meet me?”

“Any friend of Echo’s is a friend of ours.” Fives threw an arm around Tech’s shoulders. “Now, c’mon. We got a lotta embarrassing stories to tell you about Echo. Feel free to share a story or two of your own, yeah?”

A small smile tugged at Tech’s lips. He reached up and tapped his goggles saying, “I have more than a few recordings of Echo falling that I’d be happy to share.”

“That’s the spirit!” Fives laughed. “You’ll fit in here just fine.”

Perhaps. But…Well, what was the point in there being an afterlife if he didn’t get to share it with his family?

[winterweary]

Ara Backstory

Ara was born a Hivechild on a small continent on the other side of the world from the Twisted Wonderland lands. Hivechildren are a specific class of slave, bred to perform specialized tasks for their masters. Some end up bloodsport performers, servants, bedwarmers, soldiers or personal guards. Though much of the world no longer allows Hives to exist, there are some cultures in which they remain highly valued. They are named for the hive like structures in which they live - rows and rows of tiny cells curling to the top of the structure.

She does not know her parents, as her understanding is she was grown from egg and sperm of prior Hivechildren that excelled in some degree. All the children in a Hive refer to one another as Brother and Sister despite not knowing familial relations.

Hivechildren are reared under strict (and often cruel) control. They are viewed as tools to be honed according to their assets, and their only operative is to obey. Much care goes into their upbringing to create the best possible product to sell at market. Hivechild Breeders stake their reputations on the products they sell, and the good ones get rich for it. High quality Hivechildren are frequently given as gifts to royalty or nobility.

Often given names intended to remind Hivechildren of their insignificance, Ara was first named Worm (Worm #224). When they are taken from the nursery and put to more rigorous training, some older Hivechildren will secretly gift their new young peers a “Quiet Name”. Worm’s mentor, Dust, named her Ara, a word that means ‘to lead’ or ‘the act of leading’ in their home language.

As they began to near market readiness, Dust began talking of escape. This is the greatest taboo among Hivechildren and the risk was unspeakable. But Ara would have followed Dust anywhere, even to certain death, and so joined him and their most trusted peers in plotting.

Tragically but unsurprisingly they were betrayed, and having watched Dust die at the hand of a sister, Ara fled down the Hivetunnels. Meeting one of her friends and rivals, she allowed him to lead her deeper into the underground pathways, believing they were headed toward escape. Instead, she found herself attacked by her brother and fighting for her life.

Exhausted, betrayed and beaten, Ara found herself thrown into the icy river that flowed through the heart of the Hivetunnels. She was battered by the current, held under until she was certain she had drowned.

The next thing she recalls is puking up a bellyful of cold water onto stone, and looking up to see the astonished faces of the NRC house wardens. The mirror had spat her out in the middle of their usual monthly meeting with Crowley.

Ara had no idea how she ended up at NRC, but she knew it was her only hope at salvation. She vowed her services to Crowley and the school if they would grant her asylum, and sensing a boon he graciously agreed.

Given to Ramshackle Dorm under the care of their other expat, Yuuri (and Grim), Ara is doing her best to try and adjust to an entirely new life.

[heartheaded]

savior: AVALORE AVALEE fandom: dungeons & dragons race: half-elf (high variant) class: bard subclass: whispers age: 25 sex/gender: intersex / male

backstory: Hails from a modest living in Helm's Hold. Born to a half-elf father and half-elf mother, the latter of which passed away from birth complications. Upon this birth, something strange also attached itself to his soul and would unfold loads of tragedy down the road. This, along with Avalore's unique body make-up, would be desperately hidden in an attempt to succeed.

As he grew in his youth, Avalore would remarkably attend school at the urgency and life savings of his father, who desperately wanted his son to succeed. It was only a wish for the barest of educations, for the elven side had long since been bred out. However, along with anything in the past that Lore would try that he would even remotely be interested in, would be ruined by the interjection of his animated shadow. Having to leave class, or ruin a song, or being unable to sleep because his shadow would be causing a ruckus.

Eventually, Avalore would have enough, and end up leaving both school and home in order to protect himself and his father. Mostly, it was because he likely would have failed anyway, and didn't want to burden his father with the news... Best just to go missing.

For the better part of seven years, Avalore has happily "been lost", using what skills he managed to pick up from school to fuel his wanderlust. He secretly hopes to uncover exactly what this shadow is, and why it suddenly became so compliant after leaving home. So compliant that it grew enough confidence for a voice... a voice that was happy to be away from the crowds and tests.

A voice that claimed to be the side of Avalore that wanted this, that lusted, the side that he had been neglecting...

Whether or not that was true, Avalore currently sings songs, adventures for hire, and fuels himself with the beauty of nature and smiling faces of people. He enjoys cooking, cleaning, costume design, singing, and if something were to go wrong because of him OH BOY!

He is kind, whimsical, and will always have an answer for every question even if the validity is questionable. If he isn't performing or otherwise putting on an act, he is withdrawn and quiet--afraid, even. Avalore has an over-reliance on magic and believes it to be the answer to all his problems. He will also kill/die for anyone that sticks around long enough to call him friend.

However, due to Avalore's own insecurities, he often leaves adventuring groups before they can ever form a bond--whether because they're turned off by the shadow, find him useless, or simply don't need him is his own demon to deal with.

appearance: 5'7", mousy brown coconut-cut hair, hazel eyes, thin and bendy performer body-type, sharp joints and a diamond face, button nose, freckles all over but especially shoulders and cheeks, gap in teeth, 10% pointed ears -- wears earthy-toned, loose traveling clothes and comfy boots... never wears anything that can't also be slept in

the shadow: Avalore is attached to an Animated Shadow -- this involves a slew of mechanical abilities, but the downlow is:

his name is Peter

he is a Fey that is trapped on another plane

he is soulbound to Lore--their souls are tied & their fate is one

he is NOT Avalore, but looks/is shaped like his silhouette by merit of being his shadow specifically

the reason for this varies--in the campaign, he was exiled from the Feywilds to the Negative Plane for being a Bad Boy and latched onto the first thing that drew him in after reaching out for help

dw about how -- Archfey magic

he is able to interact physically with the material plane, and in this state he's 3D and transparent--soul is here, but body and mind are not--it's like a negatively charged astral projection

he is always with Lore, and their relationship also varies -- in the campaign it's roughly close childhood friends

they are NOT RELATED, just unlucky

Peter sleeps in the daytime, so he can be "inactive & unaware" during the day

[lasplaga]

❛ nothing is worth losing you. ❜

「𝔖」 --- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐍𝐄𝐑.

How long has it been since they were held captive by their oppressors, at the mercy of insidious Demon-Hunters? Eloisa --- the poor woman --- made the HUMAN mistake of expressing sympathy for a hideous, cursed thing. A monster which the rabid villagers called for execution & to sacrifice ; As well as accusing the fair maiden association with WITCHCRAFT, punishable by death.

But that was the farthest from the truth. She was only guilty of providing a starving predator food, so that he was not forced to feed upon his brethren, the innocent, or risk being trapped in the woods. The dead were ALREADY hauled off in wagons to be burned, why did it matter if the bodies instead resided safely in his gullet?

Disrobed & stricken of his religious vestments, his pale form BURNED in the presence of spare daylight that bled through the glass windows. These blasphemous rays, WHICH HE SO LOATHED, would never permit use of his God given gifts. Left only to lay in sarashi, linens bonded tight around his waist, blisters began to form upon the length of his forelimbs. Now, the separation of her humanity & his inhumanity was made even MORE apparent, as he curled & growled against something as harmless & beautiful as sunshine.

" 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔡𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶'𝔯𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤. " Tears, black as crude oil, dripped & stained such a ghostly physique as his eyes BURNED. The villagers, blinded by their ignorance, would only come to their senses unless they were set free from their tyrannical institution. The Commander knew what he was meant to do, bred specifically to die at the hands of the unrighteous, but whether he had the heart for Eloisa to believe that he was dead for an eternity...

If it was to spare her life, in hopes they would reunite in the future, as he has promised her soul salvation --- it would be done.

Pathetically, his form unfurled from the floorboards, as if he was set to wither in moments. IT FELT LIKE IT. The 'man' rubbed at his anguished face, flicking the disease that seeped from his body elsewhere --- as this sacrifice would be honorable & most importantly, HIS CHOICE. Osmund would not allow Eloisa to see him break down & weep, being raised fearless approaching the precipice of death. AFTER ALL, HE WAS FATED TO RETURN ONE DAY.

" 𝔗𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔊𝔬𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔇𝔬 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔢𝔵𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔡. " This false abandonment would be one of the most painful moments of his life, forsaking the ONLY positive human connection he obtained for decades. It was not death that the zealot feared... but crippling loneliness. " ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔪𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢, 𝔞𝔩𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. " Crucified, beheaded, torched & dumped in a shallow grave paled in comparison to severing this attachment in his heart. But he could not live with himself breaking a sacred covenant : " 𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢. --- ℑ��𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔦𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔥, 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔶 𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱. "

If they believed the Anti-Christ truly gone from the world, it would afford his subjects an opportune moment to seize The Severe by the horns & put an end to his heretical reign forever. But --- waiting for that day, without Eloisa, without the fair maiden of the village, would be the most insufferable days of his life.

[slimysalamander1114]

"I love dogs!!"

Do you?

Or do you only love the overbred schnauzers and golden doodles and pugs that are walking vet bills?

Do you love the old senior dogs who have been sitting in a cage in the shelter for years?

Do you love the dog who was abandoned on the side of the road because she was pregnant?

Do you love the puppies who get put in a box marked 'free puppies' on the sidewalk?

Do you love the dog who was sent back to the shelter because he was too energetic?

Do you love the dog who has tumors, doesn't have one single identifiable breed, and was forced to have litters and litters of pups? just so a backyard breeder could make money? And then she was also thrown out once she couldn't have any more? Do you love her?

Do you love the scared dog who is afraid of his own shadow because he was forced in an illegal fighting ring? Who has his tail cut off so there's nothing but a stump that wobbles around when he's happy?

Do you love the dog at the top of the kill list at the pound? Who's about to die? And no one wants him because he's not a german shepherd or a dalmatian or a border collie or a chocolate labrador?

Or do you just love those pugs? Do you just love those puppies that are one of many overbred litters? Do you really love all dogs?

Dogs are not accessories. Dogs are pets. They are our friends. It's because of humans that they are not able to survive in the wild, and so it is our responsibility to care for them.

All of them.

Not just the pugs.

IMPORTANT:

There's nothing wrong with getting a bred dog! There are many reasons why you would - like, a lot of dogs were bred for specific reasons, and that's why we have those breeds today. You could get a hypoallergenic dog. Or you need a guide dog.

But the issue arises when there are families who don't have any reason to get a dog expect for that they want to - and while they go and get their australian shepherd or golden retriever for thousands of dollars,(that often ends up returned because of their energy, or they end up biting someone, or the kids lose interest as the dog isnt a puppy anymore) there's dozens of dogs in shelters that are about to die, yet they have all the traits that the family could want.

Also, its important to know that while a lot of dogs in shelters are pitbulls and mutts, there are often purebred dogs in there.

And one last note - A lot of the dogs I described are dogs that my family has fostered over the years. We've seen how they've been neglected - literally on the fence of death, and nobody wants them. People who have enough time and money to care for these dogs.. don't. And so it's left to the people who have nor time nor money, but we make it work for the sake of these wonderful creatures.

[papercherries]

Previous Writings: before creation

A selection of writings that I created prior to this page, with the same intentions. To keep me grounded and to express my feelings in some sense. My therapist suggested I upload them to social media so I am "releasing" these emotions. I'm not sure I believe it though. They are in no particular order. Just the order I found them. Nameless texts will be listed as notes (also in no particular order). They also range from stories, thoughts and essays. They vary in quality, read at your own loss.

P.s. There is more but I couldn't be bothered writing up all my non digital writing.

Sleeping Under Stars:

The idea of the creative depressive

I sit in a cold living room at 2:46am. I prefer it cold as I feel less nauseous when I am cold. As per usual I try to listen to classical Spanish guitar whilst I’m “working”. Many of these songs are sombre yet hopeful. Words are too distracting for background music. My flatmate peaks his head through the door to wave goodnight.

The real question is why? Why do I tell you this? What importance does it provide to this text? Gran Vals starts playing. Perhaps one of my favourite to play.

I want to put you in my head. You already knew that. It’s the whole point of a text like this, I want you to see things from my perspective. But, the above section so far is completely irrelevant to a text that is trying to build a response to Susan Sontag’s “Under the sign of Saturn”. 

However, this is probably the first essay you’d read by me if I were to die at this very moment; unless you’re my CHS lecturer (Dr . Vlastimir Sudar). You have no context of who I am, what are my interests and most importantly. How I write. This is sporadic even for me but I promise, it has a purpose. There is no point me telling you this though, as I have rambled enough for the first page.

1:1-

When I told you this was a response to Sontag’s “Under the sign of Saturn”, I meant it, however a response usually implies a disagreement. I mean to even build on a text, one implies that the text was incomplete in the first place. I think for Sontag’s text this would be insane. I am in no place to disagree with Sontag’s ability as an essayist, however I do know the people born under Saturn. Saturnines. 

Depressives, mad men, alcoholics, smackheads, crackheads, potheads, winos, “a weakness for the pokeys”, thieves, grifters and pure bred lunatics. If you asked my friends, I’d probably fit in one of these categories. I wouldn’t blame them either, I have often found refuge in the bottom of a bottle. Usually two. Sometimes three, when the necessity is provided.

I don’t think Sontag specifically meant these types of people. (However I must admit, I’ve only read till the end of “Under the sign of Saturn” in the collection, I was so overwhelmed that I had to start reading something else, though it did cause me to choose Artaud to read as “something else”). I think she meant more of the depressive artist. The melancholic type, (spanish romance, beautiful) the depressed artist. The common trope that, to create great art, one must have great pain. Whilst I don’t think it always applies, I subscribe to the notion. Our pain seeps into everything we do, even if we don’t realise.

This is not a bad thing. Pain is merely, relation, remembering, recalling. A lover once lost has left their mark in the form of changing barbers because they didn’t like your haircut. A bluebell reminds you of home and the family you have lost, or have yet to lose. A song found by a close friend that you’ll listen to for the rest of your life despite only knowing them for barely a 10th of it. However, this is normal pain.

The pain of those born under Saturn is a deeply lonely one. The lone wanderer. You could relate it to the feeling of being in a crowd full of people but they’re all faceless. You don’t know them, they don’t know you, so at that very moment, you no longer exist. “How do you know you exist, you have no passport, you don’t have a job, you’re not even registered in this country” “Because of you” - Daisies (1968) (Paraphrasing).

So, when you’re neglected and ignored by every institution, person and mouse. You lash out, you need to feel real. You must be perceived. But what happens once you’re perceived? What then?

You must continue being perceived or come to terms with a different form of perception. For the painter, poet, musician, filmmaker, photographer and any other discipline of art, they must create. They’re addicts through and through. The artist must think, perceive, create. If they do not, then it is no longer art, just a product. The issue is, ignorance is bliss. Bliss is in short supply when it comes to creatives. They’re incredibly unhappy people. At least in my experience. (room smells of gas, living room smells of gas sometimes when the back door is open. Always wondered why). 

That’s why many of them become depressives, drunks, smackheads, crackheads, potheads, mad men, thieves, grifters, and men of doolally. If art is the expression of thought and perception, then the opposite is the expression of recklessness and blindness.

If Sontag thought the artist was melancholic. I think the artist is rage filled. Under the sign of Mars. (However I acknowledge Sontag’s work wasn’t ruling out that the artist was rage filled).

1:2 -

So, why is art happy? If the artist is Saturnine? Why does joyful art exist? Even in the case of Artaud, he writes like a madman sure but you can feel the excitement dripping through the page. 

The artist is not the art he makes. Art must be spoken to, it cannot be led with action. 

A good example of this is Wes Anderson. Specifically his style of storytelling. Whilst known for his colours, framing and colourful characters, to me, his stories stand out as happily depressing. Bittersweet (however I don’t like this term for this example, I prefer sweet-bitter). Due to this, he has been compared to Yasujiro Ozu. Whilst I have only seen “Tokyo story”, I agree with this sentiment. Their films share a similar feeling. 

Look at Grand Budapest. The film is based around Gustave’s search for money; essentially, he finds family (Moustafa) on the way. The film ends in success. Or at least, it could have. Right at the end, we are pulled into the wrenching death of Gustava. He didn’t need to die, the movie could have ended on a high. “Everyone lived happily ever after”. Why must he die?

Simply because he must. It is purely the nature of it.

A similar thing happens in Tokyo Story. If you cut out the final parts in the film, you could have had the same happy ending. “Everyone lived happily ever after”. Why does the grandmother die? Up until that point, the film is generally quite cheerful. Or at least neutral, however there is a looming feeling throughout the whole film. I didn’t know death would occur on my first viewing, but I could feel it. There was an air of death. Why must she die?

Simply because she must. It is purely the nature of it.

These two movies create a sweet-bitter feeling. There is either happiness or excitement which precedes sadness. In Budapest's case, it is the loneliness of Moustafa which tips us off, we know it doesn’t end well, yet why does it matter? And in the case of Tokyo story, we don’t know death is coming. But we can feel it, it permeates the air, creates clouds in your brain, so much so you can feel the tears before death even occurs. Yet why does it matter? Why don’t these films focus on the deaths more? Quite simply because it doesn’t matter. Consider these films, the fathers’ speech at the funeral. The final parting words. You don’t include the trouble, the taxes, the bad breakups. Just the fun, excitement and happiness they provided throughout their lives. A sweet-bitter feeling. 

Followed by a great unfathomable loneliness.

A wave of melancholy.

The Saturnine life.

2:1-

This final section is dedicated to all the sleep lost writing this.

It is 4:15am. The door is still open. I am no longer cold. I am still listening to Spanish classical guitar. I heard a cat meow outside not too long ago. The song I'm listening to sounds like “Johnny Guitar” (El Testament d’Amelia). I am deeply sad. I am deeply lonely. However, without those feelings. This text wouldn’t exist. You get to decide whether that’s a positive or a negative.

The great loneliness waves mist around my soul

It comes and goes

Plateaus

I may be born under Saturn

I may be born under Mars

But among all the stars

I see a drunken bottle

So I float in Space

Undecided, on the human race

I hide in a drunken bottle

Forever to float

Melancholy waves, in my soul.

2:2 -

Final notes and stuff I couldn’t fit in (no particular order):

Grand Budapest and Tokyo Story, both focus on the lives leading up to the death of a spouse.

As a combined response to Susan Sontag’s “Under the sign of saturn” and my own personal relation with the idea of being “Saturnine”. As well as my own obsession with drunks, smackheads, lunatics, thieves, grifters, mad men and phonies. As like the many above, I have also found refuge in Satan’s belief of happiness.

We see the grandparents in Tokyo story from the children's (children of grandparents) perspective, I think that’s why the looming feeling of death is there. It’s that feeling when you know someone is going to die soon. They just become grey, grey is the worst colour. I also think that’s why some of the family members seem more indifferent than the others about the death. She was already a walking corpse in their mind, just filling out her quota. 

This was just an emotional outlet, never intended for quality. Though I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Could you ask a question without them?

Who, What, When, Where, Why and the honorary how. The questions that we’re all taught, or all should be taught and we should all keep close to our branded souls. Who? Something in their early 20’s. What? Unable to sleep. When? 5:01. Where? Kingston Upon Thames, Greater London (formerly Surrey). Why? General destruction of sleep schedule and major debilitating depression. How? Life. 

Some may ask, “Why are these questions so important?” “What purpose do they serve?” “Where would I ever use these in real life?” “Who would even ask me these questions? “When would someone ever ask me this?” “How would I even put it in a coherent sentence?”. These 6, 3 to 5 letter words, are the basis to every question ever asked. They are required for all critical judgement, without them. 

They can bring down empires and spawn new life. They are humble in stature and do not oversell themselves. They don’t need explaining and they don’t need reinventing. They need only to exist. That is enough.

Could you ask a question without them?

Meditation: The hot branding in my brain

Me and my younger sister have always had strange dreams. Hers’ were nightmarish and caused late night fits of screaming and crying. This once saved me, due to her waking up and coming to my room. At this time, unbeknownst to me, my bed was on fire. Ironically, between the ages 0-19, I slept as if I were a mountain. I could not be moved nor shook awake. I even fell out of a top bunk of a bed once and remained blissfully asleep. Though it was strange waking up 8ft lower than I fell asleep.

My deep sleeps are rarer these days yet the strange dreams persist. Usually the lower into my depression I tumble the more memorable the dreams become. They say you can’t read in a dream, I don’t believe this. In my most recent dream I read a sign for a tube stop I needed to get off at. Its name is lost on me now but I know it started with a T. Dreams tend to melt into each other but sometimes I watch other things melt into each other. In the same dream I watched an American woman melt into the loving embrace of a man. They converge into one entity, mixed like paint. The colours were beautiful. It felt like I was watching water dance inside people, flowing and crashing against each other. I’m not sure if this is something I desire and my subconscious yearns for it but it seems beautiful yet terrifying. 

However, lately there has been a trend in my dreams. A constant. I keep seeing visions of fire. Reoccuring themes in dreams is not a concept lost on me. However, usually for me it’s people. Ethereal things like fire and water don’t often consistently appear. The first time it happened, I was on fire. My whole body engulfed in a roaring flame, I was like a floating effigy. I was not in pain. I was at peace. The fire felt like a warm blanket against my cold skin. It brushed and kissed my hands, caressed my face. It took me into its warm embrace. The second time, I was trapped inside a burning building. In this instance I was a saviour, (this is most rare, my dreams are usually too abstract for such concepts). Carrying people “outside”, away from the fire. I only remember one of their faces. A friend of a friend. She lives in Liverpool, we’ve only ever had one actual conversation and it was about a film she really liked and I violently hated. Perhaps the only reason I remembered her in this dream was because she was an odd addition. A new player in an ensemble cast. All the others after that are not of note really, mostly because I only know fire was involved and I can’t recall the rest. 

It makes me question, what do these dreams mean? Are these introspective hallucinations a gateway into understanding my true wants and needs? What does the fire represent? Am I a dying comet, flying through outer space, will I eventually burn out? Are these the questions I’m supposed to be asking? Is it a warning that I am burning out, basking in a self destructive glow?

Or, is it that I am a saviour? That people need saving from the destructive glow and I am the one destined to do it? I am bound by my self conscience to help those in peril? 

It could be both. I am the self destructive glow, I am burning up and I am tasked with saving what is left before I create a colourful combustion. 

The most likely case is that they mean nothing at all. We have a million dreams a minute and I am cherry picking the ones that fit my narrative. Or due to the surprise I felt the first time, it caused that dream to fill more of my psyche. My brain space is filled with fire and it must be conveyed through self-conscious expression.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter anyway you pitch. I am stuck with these dreams. They don’t mean anything to anyone else. It would be foolish to think, I could hand you my eyes, so that you may witness my creations. For they are not the creation of my eyes, my environment or even my nature. They are a full stage production, directed, written, produced and filmed by the wormy flesh that is my brain.

Bad Plane Food

I was on a plane, regrettably beforehand I had eaten some “bad food” shaped like smiling faces and fun. This was a usual occurrence for me, though usually they were chocolate flavoured. You see, planes make me awfully nervous. The vibrations and the constant hum of the engine, they just throw my compass way off course. It’s too close to outer space, I can hear our alien overlords beaming down their messages: “Submit, Surrender your weapons, we are your gods! Buy the new McDonald’s saver meal for just £5.99!”. I just can’t handle the things that those animals say. So, I eat my bad food and I sleep. However, on this particular journey, I had eaten some real bad food. Stuff that makes your stomach twist, knot and then finally your intestines prolapse out of your arse. The doctors can’t do anything about it, your bladder has shrivelled to the size of a pea and your intestines look like a snake that had recently consumed a very overweight pig. Now, I don’t fear this sort of thing would ever happen to me but one must always be cautious and if you feel your intestines slipping out of place. You must hold your breath for 30 seconds and say “I will not prolapse”. The people around you will think you're raving mad, but it is better than having your guts spill onto the floor. 

I got on the plane and I found my seat, a window seat. Usually I’d prefer this, it helps with the fear, however I was about to set off on an existential journey that would rival that of future space travellers. They will look upon my work one day and dare to ask “how can we survive like this man?!”. Luckily, the middle seat was empty however a small frail, Oxford born, got everything from his daddy and, I imagine he sits at night watching homosexual movies in an act of defiance yet doesn’t subscribe to the lifestyle. He sat on the end. I had to keep my outbursts under control. A boy like him had only ever seen the violent outbursts of his white nosed friends at his school dormitory, they were probably coherent and sexually charged with pent up homosexual feelings, as most male school dormitories are. These oncoming outbursts would be like Moses reading the ten commandments. He wouldn’t be able to understand a word of hebrew. I would look upon him like that golden cattle and I would punish him for his worship of false idols. 

As expected the planes’ takeoff was delayed slightly, this allowed the murmurs to creep in. I could feel my muscles tensing and I could feel my brain pulsating. It was like listening to a whale's heart. My head would shake after every pulse. Luckily, a flight attendant happened by at this moment. I asked if I could have a glass of rum and some olives. This would calm my nerves for the time being, I also asked if I could buy the boy a drink. Extending this olive branch would be more of a preemptive apology for oncoming behaviour. However, this flight attendant clearly didn’t understand the severity of this situation. She couldn’t serve us until we we’re in the air. I begged and pleaded. I’d have got down on my knees if the space allowed. But no luck, fucking flight attendants. I then swiftly went to the bathroom, I said it couldn’t wait. I must toilet, I simply must, or I’ll go on the cabin floor. Is that what you want? They allowed this, though It was probably to save themselves the trouble of dealing with the mess I would have caused. In the bathroom, I washed my face. Grabbed my hair and looked at myself in the mirror and said “you’re alive! You’re alive!” It must have been some sort of coping mechanism, as what I saw next was a harrowing face. My gaping mouth stretched larger and my jaw continued to fall and fall. Soon my face looked like a fucking rubber mask. I grabbed my jaw as I tried to return it to my face. I can’t go out there like this, they’ll call the ambulance and I’ll never get to leave this back alley city. The skin on my face slowly began to stretch with my jaw. The skin around my eyes grew loose as I tried my damndest to keep my eyes from falling out of my skull. If I survive 40c heat, I can survive this. I kept trying, eventually my face stopped stretching and I was able to force and fold my skin back into place, so it loosely resembled the face that entered the hellish bathroom. Who would leave such a trap for me? This information would never become apparent to me but it did add an air of suspicion to my trip. 

I feared the plane would take off with me still in the bathroom and god knows what the altered gravity in this bathroom would do to me if I were at a 90o angle. I swung the door open, I told the lady waiting for the bathroom to be careful in there or else her face may fall off. She ventured in bravely, I’m not sure I saw her for the rest of the flight. Perhaps her skin melted to a liquid and she fell through the plane. The flight attendants would know but why would they tell us, if someone dies on this plane, they have to pay for it. They would chalk summoning circles before admitting someone's death. They are worse than the Manson’s, at least they believed in the religion they were pushing. These flight attendants were just envoys of Satan, not loyal in any way but he granted them great power. 

I went back to my seat and I waited. I just stared at the fabric of the chair in front of me, it felt like hours. I could see every weave dancing in time with the one next to it, Each and every one of them eventually started fucking like animals and then afterwards they took their pleasure to new heights with extreme sadism and in more lonely cases masochism. I was jolted away when the boy next to me asked if there was something bothering me about the chair. I couldn’t answer for the first couple seconds as I was enthralled by a male weave who had managed to tie himself to a chair and set up a machine to whip his back every time he pushed his foot down. The act was brutal and deplorable but the craftsmanship was gorgeous. I told him I was interested in stitch work and I was examining the stitches in the fabric. I told him they were quite low quality but that was expected. He asked if I worked in the fashion industry and I told him I was a helicopter pilot for a rich Malaysian businessman. He then went on about his helicopter lessons he had as a child and such. I couldn't stand him any longer and I told him that I was really goddamn tired and I just wanted to rest. He kept talking so I said it again, until I was nearly at a shout “I just want some goddamn fucking rest man, can u respect that?!”. He finally fell silent, as did most of the plane. It was bliss for a moment. I had a little chuckle to myself and I was on the precipice of falling asleep and enjoying the hallucinatory station in my dreams. But just as I was about to fall off the cliff into God's loving gift of sleep. The plane started up and we started flying.

I looked out the window and saw the ground below had faded into obscurity. You wouldn’t be able to spot a human if you had binoculars. My ears felt like a gun had been shot next to them. But the calm was coming, I could feel it. Just a little longer with these tremors and then I’ll be free of this awful curse. I looked out the window again. I saw a house, and I swear I could see a band of 16 Nazi’s in their backgarden, with their leader on a podium giving a speech. If I pressed my ear to the window I could hear them. His voice was thunderous, luckily I could make out a few words. “Pillage, rape, make sure the children are cooked to medium rare and remember to grab the spiced latte from Starbucks on your way home it is to die for”. Then I saw them rush into the house and pull a man out into the garden. They tied his legs and arms to the floor and made a cross with their bayonets into the man's stomach. I was so far away, but I could still tell that the man was still alive. Begging for help, they then let their dobermans on him. They ignored his limbs, chest and face. As going for the limbs might allow him to escape and there’s no meat on the face and the chest. They went straight for his torn stomach. The cross previously left was created so the dobermans had a good peeling point, where they could reach in, grab a corner and rip it straight off. They just went straight for his guts. I swear I could see one take his heart and crush it under his paw. I looked away in disgust. I just had to focus on getting through this a little longer.

I then started to question the meaning of life and that is always the worst thing to do at a time like this. When my vibrations are so out of sync they would cause me to jump straight for the window. However, this conversation ended when I managed to quell my inner voice with thoughts of The Muppets. I was finally at peace. Imagining myself in the world of the muppets on treasure island. I was Long John Silver’s secret lover and we both sank to the bottom of the ocean in each other's embrace. Before our deaths however, I was awoken by the boy who was telling me the plane had landed. I rushed off, pushing past everyone so I could finally feel the natural sun on my face.

Meditations: “If I were an animal, what animal would I be?”

People always like to ask, “if I were an animal, what animal would I be?”. For me the answers are always the same few. From my family, a sloth. From my partners/lovers, a fox, a raccoon or a cat. From my friends, a cockroach, a rat or a mouse. I think my family sees me as this slow moving, sleepy creature. I am not a sleepy creature, I’m just awake when they are not. When I am active it’s solitary. Most of my energy is spent when I am on my own. In that regard, I am a very energetic person, it just comes in bursts. I’m not sure about the trend with my partners, perhaps they see me as sly, nervous or passive. Perhaps they just find these animals cute and I attract a certain type of person. But my friends, I have asked why they call me these creatures. It is by no means an insult, in a way it is endearing. I simply don’t die. Not that I won’t give up or anything motivational. I am just a creature of passive survival. No matter how little money I have, how deep I am in dire straits. I always continue to exist in my current state. I will simply steal and mooch until I am back in a place where I no longer have the need for such survival. I think I agree with them in that sense.

Note 1:

We like to feel like we're moving. Going toward something.

Note 2:

There's a certain sadness to their eyes, I can't place. Only behind the soul do their worries lie.

Note 3 (13th Feb 1:50am):

I feel like there is something in my body. Constantly working against me. Some sort of entity that seeks to make me suffer. I can suppress it. I have always suppressed it. In moments of weakness I've allowed it's exploits but why does it continue to haunt me? What am I? Am I even living at this point? I've been in bed for nearly 5 days now and I've barely spoke to a soul. My sleep is restless and I wake up sweating with constant headaches. What am I missing/ I see lights behind my eyelids, big streaks of blue glow, like lasers across the night sky. I've left my computer on most nights so I could encourage myself to work, at least I've turned it off now. The room is eerily dark. I can finally hear the white noise around me, perhaps it's my tinnitus. The cracking of my desk and computer under the change of temperature. The room is pitch black besides the glow of the surge light on my extension cable. In this moment I feel most alone, yet something is watching me from the shadows. I know there's nothing there but apparitions appear in the corners of my eyes. I know they're not real. I've always had these, they're not paralysis demos as I've stopped being scared of them. They don't paralyse me and as soon as I sit up they disappear. Most of the time they just stand tall over me, watching me in my sleep I presume. I wonder what they wait for? If I know they're not real and I know they're apart of my own brain, what purpose do they serve? I wouldn't know. I think I'll try leave my bed tomorrow. I'll have to leave it by the day after at least. I have work that needs doing. Perhaps they are company

Note 4 (Same night):

The blue lines are more like flashing epileptic lights now, as if they're on a crt. I can feel my heartbeat shake my whole body yet I am no afraid, worried or even excited. I want to sleep. That's all I want to do when I'm depressed. It removes time, allowing rest. I don't have to think when I'm asleep. I just have to deal with my strange dreams. I had one last night where I was on a beautiful beach in Portugal. I was trying to take a photo of the sunset over the horizon but every-time I looked into the viewfinder, the world would be kind of inverted, kind of black and white but the colours were switched. Something was covering the sun in some sort of eclipse. but I still thought it was beautiful. I continued on to the beach and eventually found myself on a mountain hike in the blazing sun, wearing shorts and a hoodie. Strange choice of clothes. At least I've not had any night terrors in a while. Hope I didn't jinx that, oh well.

Note 5:

I keep having a single vision. A single thought haunts my mind. I keep thinking about taking scissors to my face and cutting my cheeks. I think it's a way of self punishment. To have a visible mark of my own guilt. I would never commit to such a thing, it wouldn't help in any way. These thoughts will fade, they always do.

Note 6:

My hair feels like razors on my forehead.

Note 7:

We're not as sad as we are in our heads.

Note 8:

I hate the night train, I wish they'd dim the lights so I could see the surfeited night.

Note 9:

I see the God's fighting among the clouds. They spin and careen through the blue abyss till an eventual dissipation. Where they are then returned to the earth, to continue anew.

Note 10:

No wonder people though there were gods above. When random clouds shaped like fish and men dance in a perfect wind. How could you not believe in such a thing?

Note 11:

Whilst I do subscribe to the idea that you shouldn't trust your thoughts past 9/10pm, when does it roll over? When does it end? Is it only once we sleep, we are allowed to think freely of ourselves? Or is it the intensity of fatigue that wears down our mental fortitude?

Note 12:

The chances of me falling off the earth are zero to none. Sometimes I wish that number were a lot higher.

Note 13:

I admire people who commit themselves to slam poetry. There's an immense amount of bravery required to profess your deepest feelings to an audience of strangers. Especially without the assistance of a persistent beat or a harmonious pipe. The audience has no rhythm to attach to, besides that of your words. It's a private book, that most people include in their individual wills.

[luminnara]

It’s Been a Long, Long Time | Alpha!Bucky x Omega!reader part one 18+ only

Summary:  When HYDRA had their prized asset, the Winter Soldier, they did something no one ever thought was possible: they gave super soldier serum to an omega. With the sole purpose of tending to him during his ruts, she spends decades living in HYDRA facilities, denied her humanity and her life. Now, years later, Bucky Barnes has his mind and his own life back...and the last thing he ever expects is to see a familiar omega again. Bucky/OC, a little angsty but mostly smutty/fluffy/romantic!

Warnings: NSFW, knotting, abo, smut, mild dubcon

Request are OPEN! I would love to write more Bucky stuff!

Also posted on AO3

Part one | Part Two | Part three | 

In a world full of massive, snarling, strong alphas, nobody wanted to use something as small and physically weak as an omega to do war. Omegas were better suited for other things, like nurturing, and giving life. The alphas were the ones who fought and maimed and killed and protected and hunted. It wasn’t even until relatively recently that omegas even had many rights in the modern world, and there were still plenty of traditionalists who stuck to the old ideals. Omegas were for breeding and claiming and little more. Though those ideas were fading, there would always be those who believed that there were things omegas couldn’t and shouldn’t do--

And fighting was at the top of that list. 

Omegas weren’t built for it. They were sturdy, sure, to help them withstand the ruts of big alphas who couldn’t control themselves, but they were generally small, and, many believed, unable to fend for themselves. Their role, their purpose, was to be claimed and bred by big strong alphas, and that was that. It made sense; after all, someone needed to stay and care for the pups, or else there would be little chance of survival. Throughout most of history, survival wasn’t something that was ever guaranteed, and having a secondary gender that was intended for rearing offspring greatly increased the likelihood that pups would make it to adulthood. Alphas were bigger and stronger, natural leaders, always ready to fight and defend their territory and their pack, and omegas were always there to carry the young. 

And that was that. Omegas weren’t meant to be warriors. Their only place on the battlefield was in the medic tent, where they could tend to wounded alphas and betas. It was nearly unheard of in many places for there to be omega soldiers, even infantry. 

Until the twentieth century. 

The catastrophic proportions of both World Wars brought with them an all hands on deck mentality. In the states, male omegas were being drafted along with the others, newly-invented heat and rut suppressants meaning that they could all work together without the danger of blunders thanks to anyone’s natural cycle. Back home, not only were alpha and beta women suddenly flooding the workforce while the men were overseas, but omegas were joining them. It was unprecedented, and began to change many minds. Maybe omegas were useful for more than incubators. Maybe they could work.

They still weren’t the best choice for hands on, tactical things, though. While there were omegas in the army, they rarely became officers, because who was going to want to listen to them? They weren’t natural born fighters, and they were hardwired to obey alphas. They were better as battle fodder, extras to pad out the numbers. They certainly weren’t anyone’s first choice for special missions or programs.

Well...almost anyone’s.

When HYDRA got their soldier and programmed his brain, they were pleased. The big alpha, James Buchanan Barnes, had survived the super soldier serum, and with his mind wiped and his old life far away from him, he was the perfect assassin. The Winter Soldier was strong, well trained, and easy to control, when given the proper commands. The serum made him practically unkillable, and he had the speed and strength to rival that annoying Captain America. 

Unfortunately, the serum also made his ruts much harder to suppress. HYDRA would never permit him to settle down with an omega, of course not...but an omega was the only thing that could ease his rut cycle. Without one, he could spend a week snarling and pining, absolutely useless. With one, he was only out of the field for a few days. Until they could develop better suppressants, their only solution was to give him an omega. 

Unfortunately, they weren’t very good at surviving him. 

He didn’t like any of them, not really. He never meant to kill them, never really tried, but HYDRA had a habit of starving the poor things before they tossed them into the lion’s den, and they just couldn’t keep up. The soldier used them to alleviate his ruts, always mechanical in his movements, and that was that. 

HYDRA didn’t particularly care whether the omegas lived or died, but they did reach a point where it was getting to be a bit ridiculous to catch so many for their soldier. Someone along the way had the bright idea to simply make a stronger omega, one who could withstand their asset’s forcefulness. Giving the serum to an omega was such a ridiculous idea that it just might work, and so they did, and oh, did they get lucky with the omega they chose.

Taking scent samples from several omegas they already had, they presented them to the soldier, allowing him to choose. It was, perhaps, the one time they had ever given him a sense of autonomy over himself and his life. It was the one time he had any freedom, despite the incredibly controlled circumstances.

 While strapped down to a familiar chair, he watched the doctors pacing around. He was expecting the familiar agony of having his mind refreshed before a new mission, or maybe even the chill of preparation to go into cryo for a few years until he was needed again. Instead, they presented him with strong-smelling test tubes, each one unmistakably omega. He inhaled their scents with mild interest, none seeming to particularly stand out...until they reached the last.

Amoretta Arancini was a young adult female omega, whose file stated that she was “a kicker.” From the moment she had been captured with the intent to be given to the soldier for a rut, she had clawed and kicked and bitten at anyone and everyone who came into contact with her. She was nearly impossible to deal with, and had the soldier not immediately flared his nostrils and strained against the leather straps that held him down, she would have been finally put down. 

Neither she nor Bucky knew it, but he was the only reason she was allowed to live.

The soldier was placed back into his usual cell, and the doctors set about gathering the unruly omega he had chosen. It only made sense that the big, killer alpha would go for a positively savage little monster of an omega, after all.

They administered the serum, unsure whether an omega would even survive it, and by the time their soldier’s next rut came around, she was ready. If she could withstand him, she would have a purpose within HYDRA, and they would be able to stop wasting so much time on finding new omegas for him to burn through. 

She was given double the suppressants he was. They didn’t care if she experienced side effects; after all, her only job was to present herself to the soldier at the start of every rut. She didn’t need to be out in the field. If that meant she was groggy and nauseous all the time, who cared? It seemed to work, keeping her heat and fertility at bay while leaving her lucid enough to get the asset through his cycle. The last thing HYDRA needed was an unscheduled heat or pregnancy to deal with. 

“The asset is entering his rut. Bring in the omega.” A voice on the intercom said. 

An alarm blared, a door slowly screeching open, revealing a cold cell, bare save for the cot against the wall. It was a cell specifically used to hold the soldier during his ruts, and now, it would also hold Amoretta. 

She stumbled along, a beta guard with a cattle prod stalking behind her. She was naked, having been allowed to shower before meeting the soldier for the first time, her dark hair still damp as it fell behind her shoulders. It was the cleanest her skin had felt in weeks, so she could only be so angry about it...but she was still angry. 

With the threat of electricity behind her, she entered the empty cell. A door slammed shut the moment she stepped in, another sliding open on the other side of the small room. 

His scent hit her like a freight train. Motor oil, earth, and cloves...Amoretta’s lip raised in a sneer, partly because she had a feeling she knew what was coming, and partly so that she could try to disguise the way she suddenly began salivating. 

Sure enough, just as she suspected, the biggest alpha she had ever seen in her life came stalking in, eyes dark and wild as he searched for the omega he had smelled on his way in. His chest was heaving, sweat prickling his brow, and as his musky rut-scent wove around Amoretta, she swallowed hard. She definitely knew what was coming next. 

She had never seen the asset before, but she had heard whispers and seen the other omegas they offered up to him. Before she was injected with the serum, she lived in a cramped cell with several others, and whenever someone was dragged out, it was always a toss up whether they would return or not. When they did return, they were never in good shape. 

Now she could see why. 

He was predatory in his movements, dark hair falling in his eyes as he stalked toward her. The door slammed shut the moment he was clear of it, and suddenly, Amoretta was trapped with him. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide from what was quite possibly the most dangerous alpha in the world. If he decided he wanted her, she would have no choice. If he decided he didn’t want her...she would probably die, either by his hand, or HYDRA’s.

She stood as still as she could, watching him with level eyes as he sized her up. A large part of her was surprised that he hadn’t pounced yet, and as a low rumble started up in his chest, she sort of wished he would. The sound went straight to her core, her thighs pressing together of their own free will while she did everything she could to keep from biting her lip. 

His nostrils flared as the scent of her arousal mounted and he pressed himself up against her. The soldier was still looking her over, taking a surprisingly long time to examine the omega standing before him, especially considering that he was rutting. He slowly lowered his head, inhaling deeply, brushing his nose over the scent gland on her neck. The rumbling in his chest grew louder, and this time, Amoretta couldn’t help the needy whine that escaped her throat. 

The soldier’s hot tongue swept over her gland, his hands gripping her hips. He liked how she smelled. He liked how her flesh tasted. 

He wanted more.

He gave her a small shove towards the cot, but as he did so, this little omega glaring up at him actually snapped. She bared her little teeth at him, trying to tell him to slow down, and he responded with a snarl of his own. His tore through his throat, a savage noise, and while it shut her up, it didn’t get rid of the harsh look she was shooting at him. 

The asset wasn’t used to anyone, especially the omegas that HYDRA offered up to him, talking back. They usually went belly up for him the moment he stepped into the cell, behaving and presenting themselves for him to take. That’s what he preferred--a willing omega, whom he could enjoy for a few days. He didn’t like...whatever was going on here. Why was this one so upset with him? He wanted this omega to relax, to take him easily.  His mind, usually so analytical and tactical, was clouded by his rut, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. 

Amoretta saw the way that he hesitated and she lowered the lip she had raised. So he was capable of listening, after all. That was a good sign that he had some control over himself. Ever so slowly, she relaxed, allowing him to give her a little nudge. It was impressive that he was allowing her to set the pace, especially considering that his musky scent was growing heavier by the second. She definitely hadn’t expected him to be at all interested in what she wanted, and she had been pretty sure that he would just push her down and take what he considered his.

He was almost...gentle, though. Gentler than she thought possible from such a big alpha, at least. She turned and walked toward the cot of her own accord, knowing full well that she didn’t have much choice in how all of this was going to play out. If she was going to be knotted today, then she might as well try to enjoy it, right? 

The way his scent made her mouth water gave her the feeling that that wouldn’t be too hard.

The soldier watched her with predatory eyes, following every movement closely. Absentmindedly, a hand drifted down to the loose pants he had been provided, palming his already hard cock through the fabric. He liked this omega. He liked how she looked, how she smelled, how she moved...he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her hips as they swayed slightly, a pleased rumble rising in his throat. He knew what was coming next, and he couldn’t wait. He was aching to be inside of her, to fill her up, to knot her...he wanted to make this omega his, and take care of her, and protect her, and he’d be damned if his captors got in the way of that. 

Amoretta climbed onto the cot, her back still turned to the most dangerous alpha on the planet. All too aware that she was completely naked, she crawled onto her hands and knees, dipping down until her chest hit the sheets, her ass up in the air for him. Her primal, omega brain was clamoring for this chance to present before such a big, strong, handsome alpha, and as the cool air tickled at her, she couldn’t help but let out a shrill, needy whine. He was taking too long, and part of her was genuinely worried that he was going to reject her. She was doing everything right, she was submitting, she was in a very vulnerable position...so why wasn’t he already on top of her? 

A tiny bead of slick trickled down her thigh as she glanced back to see him standing there with his hand on his bulge. Oh. So that’s what he was doing instead of jumping on her. At least he was turned on by the sight of her...right?

Wait. Why did she care? Why did she care at all what this terrifying alpha thought about her? This terrifying, big, strong...nice smelling...alpha…

If she weren’t on so many suppressants, she was absolutely sure her heat would have started then and there. He was so goddamn handsome, standing there all shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Her body wanted him, she wanted him, and if her hormones were allowed to do what they wanted, they would have been absolutely raging.

 His nostrils were flared as he took in her scent, his blue eyes wild and his pupils totally blown out as he finally stalked towards her. His movements were brisk, filled with purpose, the bulge in his pants clearly visible even as she craned her neck to look back at him. 

“A-alpha,” she whined, warmth rushing through her as she spoke. 

The sound of her voice seemed to have an effect on him, a shudder rolling through his body. 

“‘Mega,” he growled, voice impossibly low. “My ‘mega. So obedient...good girl.”

His words had her trembling. 

All at once, he was shoving his pants down and grabbing for her hips, rubbing the length of his cock over her lips. She keened, more and more slick running down her thighs as he pressed the head inside of her. Even though she was loaded up on suppressants, her body wanted him, her cunt already dripping wet and relaxed enough to accommodate his sizable girth. 

Still, the feeling of him stretching her out was absolutely delicious, eliciting a filthy moan that came pouring from her lips as she buried her head against the sheets. He wasn’t gentle by any means, thrusting into her as far as he could go before pulling back out roughly. His pace was harsh and quick, his body immediately caging her in as his chest pressed into her back. He was possessive, trying to hide her from the surveillance cameras he knew were situated in the upper corners of the cell. He didn’t want anyone else to see his omega, especially not while she was beneath him like this. She was his, and his alone. 

As rough as he was, he was still paying attention to her. Somewhat, at least. He was well aware by this point that she was tougher than the other omegas HYDRA had given him, and he took the opportunity to sink into her deeper, fuck her better than he normally could have. She could take him,  all of him, without complaint. She could withstand his harsh grip on her hair as he pulled her head up and forced her back to arch. She didn’t have any problems accepting what was happening to her, her body responding to him happily. 

“Such a good omega,” he grunted, forcing his cock even further into her. 

“I-I want your knot,” she whimpered, her voice surprisingly demanding considering the position she was in. “Fill me up, Alpha…”

How could he deny her?

When he had spilled his seed inside of her and his knot had inflated to a nearly painful extent, he wrapped an arm around her, holding her to his chest as he laid them both down on the cot. He was happy with his choice, with his omega. She was everything he wanted, and as his rut continued for the next few days, he had his way with her again, and again, and again, before HYDRA separated them once more. 

The soldier snarled and roared, refusing to be taken away, but as soon as they recited his trigger words, he was compliant. Amoretta listened and watched, eyes wide as they led him away. She had only spent one rut with him, but she was already head over heels, her heart aching and pining for her alpha to come back to her.

[lazyevaluationranch]

On a post about the Blue Haired Girlfriend's quixotic citrus breeding experiments, @voidingintotheshout​ asked:

I mean, if you wanted a hearty citrus relative, why didn’t you just grow Osage Orange? They can grow as far north as Michigan which is surely further north than anyone could reasonably expect to grow a citrus tree. They’re not edible but then hearty orange isn’t either. Osage Orange are so cool and such a interesting historical plant from the Shelterbelt era of American agriculture. Apparently they do smell like citrus.

This is part three of three. Part one. Part two.

Now you've done it! It's time for A Very Brief (But Also Insufficiently Brief) History of Twentieth Century Hardy Citrus Cultivation! Growing citrus trees this far north is kind of nuts, it's true, but I promise you it is not even close to the weirdest things people have done to grow citrus in places where the citrus doesn't think it should grow.

A note: This post will written using the Swingle citrus taxonomy system, including things that are definitely wrong. The citrus taxonomic tree looks like that one box of orphaned computer cords I keep moving with me to new houses "in case I need them" except some sort of adorable five-dimensional kitten has entertained herself with them and some of the resulting knots are not technically possible in our space-time continuum. 

The powers that be gave us citrus because nothing pleases them like seeing a geneticist cry.

1. The Migrant Trees

The Soviet Union wanted lemons for tea, and they wanted to be independent enough not to have to trade with anyone else to get them, which meant they wanted to grow their own citrus. That part of the world is not a great place to grow plants that die when the temperature goes below zero, but at the foundation of the Soviet Union, there were citrus orchards in the warmest part of Georgia, along the Black Sea. Specifically, there was about, uh, one and a half square kilometers of somewhat implausible citrus orchard.

Hang on, it is about to get way less plausible.

This is the great citrus migration: any tree that did well in one spot, they'd try planting its seeds a few kilometres further north, or a few kilometres further east. Prizes were offered for breeding hardier citrus. Slowly the orchards spread, but they were extremely weird orchards.

It's usually a few degrees warmer at ground level than up in the air, and there's way less wind. So as the trees grew, they were bent over and tied along the ground. Some of them had the central trunk run in a straight line along the ground, with branches spreading out from it like the leaves of a fern, like an espaliered tree on its side. Others were starfish shaped, with the central trunk looped down until it ended up next to the base, and the branches sprawling out along the ground from the centre like starfish legs. The citrus trees were no taller than particularly vigorous strawberry plants, but they survived the winters, and you could throw a blanket over them to help them stay warm.

None of that helped if the ground froze solid, so they needed Underground Citrus. You'd dig a ditch, down below the lowest area where the ground froze, and you'd plant flat Starfish Trees or Flat Frond Trees running along the bottom of it, too deep to freeze. In winter, you'd just cover the ditch with boards any time the temperature was expected to go below freezing - citrus would tolerate the lack of light, but not the cold. Mandarins (Citrus reticulata) seemed to do best, so that’s most of what was grown.

It is a nearly unimaginable amount of work to grow citrus this way, along the bottoms of pits and trenches. We are experimentally trying to grow a Soviet-developed mandarin breed of unknown parentage, Shirokolistvennyi, but we will definitely not be putting in that level of effort.

2. The Mixed Up Trees

There are a couple species of citrus that tolerate cold well, but taste awful. A lot of effort has gone into crossbreeding them with more edible citrus. The results are ... mixed.

The Ichang Papeda (Citrus cavaleriei) generally survives temperatures down to -18 degrees C. It is stoic and calm and has mastered emptiness. Unfortunately, it has mastered emptiness too well. The fruit smells like lemons, with maybe a hint of rose, but there's nothing to eat here. It has a rind and seeds. No juice, no flesh.

(Photo by Michael Saalfield)

The Ichang Papeda is the parent or grandparent to several delicious, extremely sour Asian citrus types. Yuzu/yuja smells like grapefruit and clean wet stones from the bottom of a fast-flowing stream. Sudachi smells like grapefruit and leaves with dew on them. (I haven't met kabosu or any other papeda hybrids personally, but they are numerous.)  They're all too sour to eat plain, unless you really need to turn your face inside out for some reason, but make for excellent flavouring. 

(We have a yuzu tree and a sudachi tree and they're surviving, but no fruit yet.)

Trifoliate orange (Poncirus trifoliata) can survive temperatures down to -30 degrees C. This may be partly because, uniquely amoung citrus, they can drop leaves in autumn or winter and regrow them in spring, like a maple tree. They also produce an internal antifreeze. They are angry, twisted, thorny little plants that yell swears when you walk past them. They make a great hedge. The fruit is furry, smells like flowers and pine trees and taste like burnt, bitter plastic. It may or may not be possible to breed the horrible taste completely out of trifoliate oranges without losing cold-hardiness, if it's due to their antifreeze chemicals. Here’s Stabby:

(Photo by Rob Hille)

Even the least terrible trifoliate crossbreeds are bitter enough to qualify as “acquired tastes.” There are recipes for trifoliate marmalade: put a dozen trifoliate oranges, a kilogram of sugar, and a kilogram of pebbles in a pot, cook until it gels, then sieve out the oranges and eat the pebbles. 

We are growing a trifoliate orange / minneola orange hybrid. And, of course, someday our own trifoliate hybrids. The Blue Haired Girlfriend planted 200 trifoliate oranges a couple years ago. There are fewer now, but the survivors have lived through two winters of snow and frost, and they might have somehow gotten more stabby. We're going to breed them, to each other or to less angry fruit, try and make something new and good from them.

I've limited this post to twentieth century hardy citrus breeding, but I have to give a shoutout to somatic hybridization, a decidedly twenty first century technique, where you take a cell from each of two different plants, remove their cell walls, put them next to eachother, and shock them with electricity until they merge into a single cell whose nucleus contains all genes from both plants. Then the new plant is like, "Wow, I guess these are all my genes? It seems like a lot, haha, but it's not like somebody made me from dismembered body parts and electricity, that is not how science works. Anyway I guess it's time to do some plant stuff now."

3. The Mutant Trees

In the 1950s, people started using radiation to randomly scramble the genes of plants. You'd irradiate seeds enough to change the genes somehow, and then you'd have to plant them to see what had happened. Maybe it was people horrified by the atomic bomb desperately wanting to find some life-supporting use for atomic fission, maybe it was government-supported cold war "atom bombs are good actually, look how many we have, USSR" propaganda. Probably both. 

This time period also saw serious plans for Orion, a spaceship with a huge metal plate for a butt, intended to be propelled by exploding atomic bombs under it, which I am not actually making up.

Thousands of people in Europe and the US signed up to receive seeds with random mutations in the mail, plant them, and report back on what they heck they grew into and if it had any useful weirdness. (The gamma radiation used to mutate the seeds did not make them radioactive themselves - the seeds were completely safe.) There were also more formal and carefully controlled university research programs in China, Japan, and the US, where plants where grown in a circular research garden with a coverable radiation source at the centre, so that the farther you got from the centre, the less radiation the plants got. Radiation breeding is less popular than it used to be, but Japan still has a very productive citrus radiation breeding program.

The most popular radiation-bred citrus is the "Rio Red" grapefruit and its offspring, which has a much deeper red than non-mutant red grapefruit.

There aren't many radiation-developed citrus breeds noted for cold-hardiness - with radiation you get whatever you get  - but there are a few, and I want one just because I think they're neat, a monument to that lovely human vision that looks at terrible weapons and somehow sees glossy-leaved trees with bright fruit.

4. The Monster Trees

Citrus are usually grown via grafting. That is, you plant a seed from a fast-growing sturdy breed, you let it grow roots and all that, and then you cut the top off and replace it with a branch from a more delicious breed. The two citruses grow together, and you end up with a tree that's disease and cold resistant in the roots, below the graft, but makes tasty fruit above the graft.

Occasionally, this process goes Wrong. 

The first recorded instance is the tree called Bizarria, discovered in 1640. Someone attempted to graft a sour orange branch onto a citron. But instead of a clean line between sour orange branches and citron roots, the graft was damaged somehow, and the two different species of cells got tangled and mixed through the whole tree. It has branches that produce citron fruit. It has branches that produce sour orange fruit. And it has branches that produce, uh ... these:

(Photo by Labrina)

Most graft chimeras are made accidentally, when the graft site is damaged. Trifoliate orange is often used as rootstock, so there are many reported chimeras involving trifoliate orange and a nicer fruit. The mixed-up cells can be arranged a lot of ways, but it's possible to have the outside layer of the tree be trifoliate orange, and the core of the tree be the other citrus (periclinal chimera). This means you could theoretically get a tree with frostproof trifoliate leaves and branches, but fruit that doesn’t taste like burnt plastic rolled in quinine.

This lucky monstrosity has, in fact, reportedly happened. Twice. There is the Prague Citsuma, discovered in a greenhouse in Prague and suspected to have been created by a Soviet breeding program. And then there is the Hormish, discovered in China and thought to have been made by frostbite messing up the clean lines of the graft. The Blue Haired Girlfriend has managed to track down budwood from the Prague Citsuma - I’m so excited! - so we'll see how the fierce thorny monster tree with a heart of gold, or at least heartwood of gold, does for us.

5. Conclusion

Humans have been trying to grow citrus trees where they don't belong for nearly two thousand years, at least since the Jewish Diaspora and people trying to grow holy etrog trees - trunks gnarled as barnacle stones and the whole tree scented like the best dream you can't remember - in Europe. Maybe longer.

The Blue Haired Girlfriend's citrus-breeding schemes aren't going to singlehandedly transform Canada into a net citrus exporter. But history shows us: it might be possible to have a little gleaming sweetness from the stony ground here, with the ravens and the fir trees and the auroras. A sweetness we made ourselves, that exists nowhere else. 

Or maybe we'll just have a bunch of weird inedible fruit. I don't know, but it's worth finding out, worth weaving together leaf and thorn and stone and the light of our hands as the years unwind. Worth it to have a quixotic project we can expect to spend decades on together, hands and hearts. This is how home is made, sometimes, with a balcony full of angry thorny little trees that shout swears at passerby.

[gnosk]

I hope it's alright that I add my two cents, as someone who used to work in agriculture and food education. Hell's post is a really good, well-articulated response to the original asker's question; here I'm largely elaborating on stuff regarding the innate ethics and environmental impact of the agriculture industry (specifically in regards to livestock) and ways it can be improved that aren't going vegan.

(Just for transparency - I'm writing this from the perspective of farming in the US and when I'm talking about "the agriculture industry" I am talking about the agriculture industry in the US. I'm sure there's crossover/parallels with other countries, but I don't know enough to talk about them.)

It is absolutely true that the capital-M capital-I Meat Industry is godawful, for a multitude of reasons. It's bad for the animals, it's bad for the land, it's bad for the environment — if you've read this far I'm sure you already know the gory details. But the reasons that the Meat Industry is bad don't stem from some fundamental problem with raising animals for meat — they stem from gross incentives that capitalism puts in place. The system rewards profit at the expense of all other factors, so the meat industry has optimized to make a very high volume of very cheap meat very quickly. Factors like environmental impact and the quality of life of the animals simply aren't considerations for large-scale meat businesses, which is where issues arise.

However, it isn't mandatory to raise animals this way. We can do better, and we do do better, even if not at the same scale. Like Hell said, pretty much every animal we raise for agricultural purposes has been domesticated for thousands of years, to the extent that they are totally reliant on humans. If we adequately care for the animals, they live perfectly happy & healthy lives, much more so than they would if we just released them into the wild (not to mention that any animals that didn't die immediately would rapidly become invasive and cause a whole host of other problems). This doesn't happen in the greater meat industry because properly caring for animals is expensive, and at least right now, the demand for cheap meat is much higher than the demand for ethical meat.

That's not to say the demand isn't shifting — it's much easier to find cruelty free meat nowadays than it used to be — but it's shifting slowly. Because it's more expensive, most people are not able to afford to eat good, cruelty-free meat every day. I can say that I at least am willing to eat less meat if it means I'm eating meat I know is from a source that actually treats its animals as, well, animals rather than as product.

Another thing that gets people about meat is that people tend to be very squeamish about death. Even if you know an animal lived a good life, it can be a bit harrowing to know that it was killed specifically so that you could eat it. I don't necessarily want to make any blanket statements about morality here, because I know this often ties into deeply personal and even religious beliefs, but I can at least give my perspective and you can decide if you agree with it. Every animal — every living thing — is bound to die eventually, and as long as care was taken to ensure an animal was happy and healthy while it was alive, slaughtered humanely, and then its remains used with minimal waste... I don't see anything wrong with that. You could even argue it's more ethical than waiting for it to die of "natural" causes, which would be much more likely to lead to a death with suffering (e.g. sickness or being killed by a predator) and leave little to no usable remains.

Most animal products don't require the animal to literally die, though, and domesticated animals produce an overabundance of whatever it was they were bred to produce (again, as Hell discussed above), so assuming the animal is otherwise being raised humanely, zero harm comes to, say, a cow when it is being milked.

The other really major issue with our current system for large-scale animal farming is the environmental impacts — but, like with animal welfare, these impacts are a symptom of capitalist incentives, not an inherent flaw with raising animals.

Our current large-scale farming techniques are super carbon postive, meaning they put out waaaay more carbon out into the surrounding environment than they take back in — in both crops and livestock, but livestock especially. I usually see it assumed as a given that farming livestock is somehow innately carbon positive. But the thing is — it's not! Or at least, it doesn't have to be. Large-scale livestock production ends up being carbon positive because there's no mechanism to fix that carbon back into the environment, which doesn't happen in normal, balanced ecosystems... So, what if we could run a farm more like an ecosystem?

That's where regenerative agriculture comes in. The general idea of regenerative ag is to merge conservation with agriculture by farming in ways that are not just carbon-neutral, but carbon negative, typically by using techniques that mimic processses in natural ecosystems. Regenerative ag aims to reverse the adverse effects humans have on the environment, and animals are crucial for this. Animals are very good at taking carbon stored in unwanted things (e.g. weeds) and recycling it into more useful nutrients (i.e. manure). In a regenerative ag system, instead of just being released into the environment, this carbon goes back into the soil, fixing it for the next round of crops. Good crop management can then take even more carbon out of the atmosphere and sequester it back into the soil. I'm simplifying somewhat, but I hope I've made my point clear — soon, you've regenerated your topsoil, and healthier topsoil means more resilient crops, healthier crops make for healthier animals, and so on, and so forth.

Also, because you're probably wondering: yeah, indigenous wisdom is often a big part of regenerative ag! The people who have been stewards of the local land for thousands of years generally have a good understanding of how to manage that land effectively.

Also, to be clear, regenerative agriculture isn't just One Single Thing. It's more a combination of techniques with a guiding philosophy. What exactly effective regenerative ag is is going to vary wildly based on place and needs; for instance, the climate where I live is quite arid, so many of the techniques used on the farm I worked at focused on conserving water. Other places are going to have different issues and different needs. It's not a one-size-fits-all bandaid solution; regenerative practices need to be tailored very specifically, and don't scale well, which makes the entire process cost a lot more money than just monocropping and factory farming. Food produced this way is going to be more expensive as a result, which makes it unavailable to a lot of people.

There is definitely an element of class that comes into being able to make significant choices about your food. If you're below the poverty line, you probably can't afford to go vegan, muchtheless buy the expensive, cruelty-free regenerative ag milk. (Maybe vegan options have changed and are cheaper now than they used to be? But my impression is that it's nearly as expensive to be 100% vegan and still getting the right amount of calories/nutrients as it is to buy 100% local/organic/etc.). Frankly, I find it kind of screwed up that milk that's been trucked in from a factory farm on the opposite side of the country can be cheaper than the stuff from 10 miles up the road, but here we are.

I haven't even gotten into, like, worker's rights or transportation/shipping concerns or selective breeding... but I have the sense I've written enough of an essay on this for now.

But anyway, at the end of the day... we all need to eat. It's practically impossible to ensure that everything you consume is 100% Free Of Sin, not to mention incredibly expensive. Individual food senstivities and other dietary restrictions end up shaping a lot, too. Do what you can, but don't worry too much about the things you can't.

Oh, and if you have a chance to visit a farm and pet a sheep, do it. It's good for the soul.

Hi Hell, I wanted to get your thoughts on something. My friend who has been vegetarian for close to 30 years is thinking about becoming vegan. His main reason is that the pain and suffering of an animal in the large majority of the animal product industry is not worth the enjoyment he gets from cheese, milk, etc. He hypothesizes that most people are not vegan due to lack of education about the industry’s methods, and because eating meat is so normalized. I mostly agree, but something about what he’s saying makes me feel bad. Maybe because I don’t see myself ever becoming vegan, due to how much I love certain foods, but I like to think of myself as an empathetic and moral person. So I think I just feel quite selfish.

He is a very analytical and logical thinker, and says he wants to find more anti-vegan arguments before deciding for sure, but can’t seem to find many. What do you (and your followers) think? I was thinking you aren’t vegan, but I don’t actually know.

This is very much not my lane, but if you want my two cents then for me it comes down to a few things.

One: there is a basic mass of food that any human needs to consume in order to stay alive. That can be plants, it can be animals, it can be animal byproducts. For the a significant proportion of commercially produced food, there is a negative impact. It's hard to quantify; in some cases it is certainly direct, quality of life issues for animals. In other cases it's more broad environmental impact from commercial farming, or quality of life for the human laborers involved in harvesting etc. It's hard to come up with any objective measurement for harm when comparing individual animal suffering vs human quality of life vs large scale environmental issues. There's plenty of information out there on some of the vegan diet staples and how increases in farming things like quinoa have enormously detrimental effects on their native communities, if that's something your friend is not already aware.

Two: There is a degree of this that is just...unavoidable. Things eating other things is the way living creatures survive, and on a systematic level there's not a ton we individually can do to change things--and on a practical level, there's only so much you can afford to spend on food, and organic, cruelty free stuff is more expensive. There is a level of privilege in being able to choose to spend your money in that way that is not always an option for everyone.

I'm not vegan. I'm not vegetarian. I care deeply about animals, and I'm aware of what commercial husbandry looks like--it's pretty terrible. I still eat meat. I try to do so as ethically as I reasonably can.

I don't have an issue with eating other animals. It's a part of nature. To me, I see the obligation more to do our best to try to get meat (or byproducts) that have been raised as well as we can manage. Free range eggs are pretty easy to come by, if you live in the country. Same with locally made cheeses and butters, even farm fresh milk--some places have self-serve milking that allows cows to roam in pastures and then be milked at will. Price and availability will vary by where you are, but it's more and more common; as more and more people start to care about how the people and animals involved in making our food are treated, better options become more available.

It also should be noted that the animals involved in farming are almost universally completely domesticated. There's no alternative for these animals and their progeny except for life in human care. These breeds require human aid for their own health and safety, because we have been breeding them for (in many cases) thousands of years to rely on us and to develop traits that will not aid them in the wild. If everyone decided, tomorrow, to become vegan, then these animals would need to remain in human care for however many thousands of generations it would take to breed them back to the ability to survive without us, or we would have to sterilize them en mass and terminate these breeds through lack of reproduction. It is not an option to just release these farm animals into the wild. Domesticated animals require human care. Some of them, like pigeons, have gone feral when we abandoned them, but they are not like their wild cousins, and it shows.

Because of the selective breeding involved in domestion, most of these animals are producing byproducts--eggs, milk, honey, wool, etc--in quantities that they do not need. While some species have been bred to do that to their own detriment, most heritage breeds are fully capable of producing more than they need of these things, and there can be true symbiosis between these animals and their human caretakers. Some of these things they need to have removed for their own health. It's an ancient bargain--we keep them safe, and warm, and healthy, and protected, and they give us that which they have in abundance. The problem isn't the animal product, it's how it's produced commercially.

So yeah--veganism is one option, but it is, in my opinion, a narrow scope at an issue that is far more nuanced. I think it's equally ethical to aim for a diet that focuses on local, ethical farming practices--for growing crops, for caring for meat animals, for beekeeping, for chickens and sheep and whatever else we need. We've spent longer than any of us will live making these animals part of our world--discarding them and what they can give us is not going to benefit them. We just have to learn how to treat them respectfully.

[cardierreh15]

Phoenix: Story of the Lost Fire Princess.

Hey guys! This is my Second Story! Took me FOREVER to figure out when and where to start it. But I do hope you enjoy It. Once I got the hang of it, it was so much fun to put together. Enjoy 🖤🤍

**I do not give permission to repost or copy my work!!!

Warning 18+: Strong Vulgar Language , Violence , Blood , Racism , Monsters , Death , Grief , Mentions of Loss .

Pairing: Henry Cavill(Geralt) x African American Woman(Phoenix-POV)

Description: Phoenix tries to continue to live in the shadows until she comes across an unfortunate event. Where she’ll also meet a new friend.

Word Count: 7.0K

Chapter 1: Her Majesty

'Harder! Push! Strike! Push! Strike!-' The sounds of steel clinked together with the sound of Phoenix's grunts. 'GRRRR-AHH!' she exclaimed as she swung her blade tiredly at Levy's head. He ducked just in time, and before she could bring her tired arms up to swing again, he pushed her back. 'Uhh!' Thud. Phoenix's eyes looked up at Levy with great anger. She scrambled over to her sword but before she could grab it, he had already had his foot on the blade. Grunting, she tugged on the handle as she tried to pull it from beneath his weight. 'Let go!' She exclaimed with an annoyed tone.

'Get Up,' He'd demanded with a deep, and dark voice.

'I don't wanna! You can't make me!' She pouted and sat up on her bottom and crossed her legs together, folding her little arms across her chest. The large male snatched her up by her arm and placed her on her feet. 'YOU WON'T HAVE TIME TO SIT AND MOPE AROUND WHEN YOUR KINGDOM IS BEING RAIDED! YOU WON'T HAVE TIME TO SIT AND MOPE AROUND WHEN YOU'RE FACING DEATH IN THE BATTLEFIELD!'

The young girl looked up at the knight, the pain from her arm was completely masked out by the fear she felt in this moment. His eyes were green like jade and he had a nasty scar over his left eye. His hair thick with curls and was bright blonde. So blonde that it was almost platinum. He was a huge man, which it was no wonder why he was the King's Golden Knight.

Phoenix let out a small whimper as she looked up into his eyes. 'L-Levy...' And he violently pushed her arm away and stepped off of the sword. The princess whimpered and rubbed the spot where his fingers squeezed into her flesh. 'You have no idea how good you have it child,' He huffed and walked over to the weapons rack and placed his sword down on the table so it could be resharpened by the blacksmith later. 'You never had to witness a gruesome sight as watching those around you drop. You'll never understand the pain of watching your friends die so young. Thus,' He turned around and walked back towards her. 'Is why I am trying to teach you as best as I can. You don't learn by being a spoiled brat and half assing your lessons...' He stood there, arms folded across his chest. 'I didn't mean to be so angry. You know I would die protecting you princess. But you have to trust me. You aren't like your mother, you have fight. You weren't bred to just sit up in a castle and look pretty all day princess. A Queen rules, even when it's time for her to risk her life for the safety of her kingdom. Do you understand?'

'Y-yes sir.' She murmured out as she put her hands behind her back.

'Good. Pick up your sword, place it next to mine and pick up the wood. You'll be using those for the rest of the day.'

'Aw but Levy!?'

'No buts! Go.' He argued back and walked over to his chair and sat down in it.

***

Phoenix was sitting beneath a large Oak tree, falling in and out of sleep as the children laughed and played by the lake. They weren't her own children no, but when you do something nice for someone, specifically, orphaned children, they tend to follow. It was a set of twins; Nika and Noel. Both of them had hair so dark, it was like staring into a black abyss. They had bright purple eyes, pointy ears and pale white skin. Phoenix thought they were angels at one point until she caught Noel playing with her mini hand blade and he'd cut his little hand.

'AHHHHH!' The little girl screamed happily and ran from her brother. The sudden screech caused her to gasp loudly, sitting up and quickly reaching over for the handle of her sword. Her brown eyes studied the area to make sure they weren't in any danger. She stood up quickly; still slightly delusional from her lack of sleep. 'NOEL! NIKA!?' The children stopped dead in their tracks. She jogged over to them, 'Are you hurt children?!' She asked before stabbing her sword into the dry dirt.

'No mama.' Noel said softly.

'We were just playing!' And Nika chimed in.

'Hmmm,' she said before her eyes did a scan of the area once again. Nothing seem out of the ordinary at the time. But with her luck, someone was always on her heels. 'What have I told you about that word child? I'm not your mother.' Phoenix said with a gentle sigh and got down to their heights. 'Well, you are the only mama we know. You feed us, clean us, make sure we aren't sick...' Noel stared at her with a slight bit of challenge in his eyes. 'What else would you be then?' She looked away from him then to his sister who had her little hands on her hips, with the look of approval spread across her face. Noel had a point. Damn, to be little beings, they sure did have a big brain in their heads.

She took a deep breath and looked down at the grass between them. Not knowing what to say or, not really wanting to say anything at all about this subject, she looked back up at them with a gentle smile and stood up. 'Come on, you two must be hungry and I have to get some fire wood before nightfall.' She rubbed both of their heads, ruffling their hair and turned around to retrieve her sword.

The children stayed on her heels, occasionally making the attempt to match their little feet in her tracks as they walked in the market. The three of them got glares for various of reasons. She was a curvy black woman with curly thick hair, who stood at 5'6 and walked around confidently with a sword on her hip. And unfortunately, if you didn't look like the folks in this village, you were automatically ostracized. Not to mention she had these small children on her tail that clearly looked anything but human.

When Phoenix felt them lagging behind, she swiftly turned around and spotted them purposely jumping in the mud, splashing it all over the place with their feet. She clenched her jaw as a growl rumbled in her throat. Taking just a few long strides, she reached them and grabbed them both by their hands. 'Let's go!' She kept her head down, hidden by her hood. She knew that she was being watched by not only these people, but really they were the least of her problems.

She walked into a pub with the children's hand's in her grasp. Her eyes scanned the room for familiar faces and even potential danger. The folks in the bar had seem to stop what they were doing and stare back at her in an unsettling silence. 'No children allowed! This is a pub, not a brothel for a brown whore and her elven bastards.'

The pub rumbled with laughter and suddenly she felt something she had never felt before. She'd felt anger, disgust, annoyance, but this was deeper than those things. Perhaps they were all in one. Embarrassment. To take away from that uncomfortable feeling that settled within the pits of her, she looked down at Nika and then Noel. And the look on their faces, caused her heart to ache. They did not know her to stand down or take shit from anybody. But the odds were not in her favor this time.

So, she just lifted her head and approached the bar as the sounds of their little feet pattered against the wooden flooring. The innkeeper pressed his lips together and his features darkened, 'I said no children aloud.' Phoenix glared at him and let go of their small hands. 'I have coin. I just want to feed the children. Once they're full then we will be on our way.' Her voice was calm, nothing but pure sincereness behind it. After all, that's all she cared about.

'I said. No. Shite, you're deaf too?!' he chuckled and looked down as he begun to bust the wooden bar top. Now she was angry. Her hands shook and twitched- so tempted to grab her hand knife and plunge it deep into his throat. But her thoughts were bombarded by a booming voice. 'AW HELL,' The innkeeper quickly lifted his head to find the man who spoke against him. But when he saw him, his features quickly softened. 'Let the woman feed those children! What's a bird to ya'? A few pounds off your heavy arse?' And the room echoed with laughter. 'R-right away m'lord.' He gave him a quick bow and scurried off to the back.

The children turned around, and they stared up at the male in disbelief. 'Mama?! Mama, look! It's a knight!' Nila boasted as she tugged at her index finger. Phoenix turned around to look at the child, 'Girl, I told you to stop-' But her curiosity got the best of her, her peripheral was able to make out the shape of the man. He was tall, wore gold and red steel armor with a large dragon on his chest. It was her Kingdom's emblem. Something she hadn't seen in ages.

'Miss?'

She finally turned her head to look up at him. And by the Gods, she had never been so terrified in her life.

***

The girl was staring along the foggy lake with a gentle smile on her face. She was feeling content and happy with life. Tomorrow would be the day that she would start preparing for her duties as Queen and she had to take a few moments to relax as she would probably never get this again. But her mood was quickly diminished when her long time friend had finally spoke up.

'I'm leaving for the war tomorrow.' Fredrick said as he carved into his apple. She snapped her head to look at him, 'You're what? On my birthday?!' It didn't matter that he'd been around for the part 17 birthdays, this one was the most important one to her. Fredrick sat in silence with his head hung. 'Your father?! What does he have to say about this?!' She asked as she grabbed her dress and stood up to her feet.

'Well, other than the fact that he's the one sending me- hmm,' he let out a humorless chuckle, 'He didn't say much really.'

The princess looked down at him with tears in her eyes. She knew how wars went. What it took to win them. And the way this war was being handled, well it wasn't looking great for her future throne. Her mouth fell open gently, as she felt the heat in her neck travel quickly to her face. 'No-You can't go out there Fredrick! You're only 18! You're only a child! You'll die out there!' Her voice cracked as she watched him stand to his feet. His face held no emotion, and it made her heart shatter. 'You're not going to say anything?!' This was more deeper for her. Their friendship went deeper than any friendship that she'd had. She was in love with him.

'What can I say Phoenix. I've been pleading with him for weeks about it. Begging him to just a least allow me to stay on your birthday. But they need me.'

Phoenix's pinkened and slight swollen eyes grew slightly at the news, 'Wait, you knew that you were leaving?! And didn't bother to tell me until the last minute Fredrick?! You thought this would spare me of my heartache?! That I would just simply congratulate you and send you on your inevitable journey?!'

Fredrick placed his blade and his apple on the marble bench after taking a deep breath, 'I didn't think of it like that Phoenix. I was just too busy trying to spend as much time with you as possible!'

Phoenix let out an annoyed whine and turned her back to face him. Her hands rest on top of her hips as she tried to pull herself together. 'Phoenix,' She looked up at the cloudy sky that was somewhat blocked by tree branches, and its leaves. She could hear the crunching of the grass behind her as if he was approaching her. Then his hands gently gripped at her arms and slowly turned her around to face him.

'Princess,' The boy said in a flirtatious tone. 'You know I hate to see you distraught. If you can, please find it in your heart to forgive me.' He said as he grabbed her hand and brought it up to his lips, pressing a kiss upon her knuckles.

She looked away, trying to hide the smile that was fighting to curl on her full lips. 'And if I don't forgive you?' she asked as her head fell to the side. 'Then I'd just have to simply make up for it then.' She smiled softly, and he matched it before slowly leaning in for a kiss.

Before their lips could meet in a kiss, a dreadful sound echoed throughout the Kingdom. A sound that she was so unprepared for. Phoenix gasped, gently pushing Fredrick away and lifted her dress. They both knew what it had meant. And their feet took off towards the castle before their minds could even process what was going on. The bells had tolled.

The King was dead.

***

It was like a ghost was standing before her. Her eyes grew double their size and she quickly grabbed the children's hands in hers once again.

'Phoenix.' he said softly, with a gentle smile on his face.

He hadn't changed a bit! His hair was still long, bright ginger and kept their thick curls. His deep blue eyes roamed over her body as if she had been a work of art. He had gotten much bigger, over the past 2 decades. If it wasn't for her family's crest, there was no way she'd be able to recognize him.

'children,' she stared at him now with her face relaxed, 'We must go now.' And she quickly walked past him with the little ones dragging behind her.

'Phoenix!' she heard him call out. When they made it outside, everyone once again, stopped what they were doing and turned their attention towards her and the twins. She kept walking, fast as she possibly could with Nila and Noel until she grew impatient and scooped them up in her arms. And once again, 'Phoenix!'

She could hear the sound of his metal clinking together, and shifting as his feet crashed into the mud; jogging behind her. Before he could place his hand on her shoulder to spin her around, she turned around to face him. 'That’s not my name! Don’t call me that!' Her brown eyes were clouded with sadness and rage. All these years, he didn't try to contact her? Everyone had heard that the princess was still alive. Which was why the King had put a bounty on her head. ‘What is it Knight?! Come to turn me in? Is that what we’re doing?! Fine! But allow me to find these children somewhere safe to sleep!’ Her voice was rugged; clearly she was a mess.

Fredrick was startled by her behavior. She still had that fight in her, so bold and that protective nature. He looked around as the village folk turned their attention towards them, clueless as to really who the woman and those children were. ‘Phoenix… no one here knows who you are alright? If they had, your head would’ve been on a pike by now. Please, I know it’s been some time but allow me to explain…’ he stared into her golden brown eyes with sincerity and held his hand out towards her. ‘I still only want what’s best for you Phoenix. Just— allow me to explain my side of the story.’

She glared up at him, for a long moment before looking around once. He was right. Sure, she was a very skilled fighter, but if these people figured out who she was, what kind of reward they’d receive for her, they would’ve ripped her apart within seconds. They already looked like they wanted to kill her, this just would’ve made it legal.

—The children were stuffing their faces with a hen and potatoes as the four of them sat at a table in that very same pub. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of them, even though they were eating, she couldn’t help but worry about them. Or was it because she had nothing really to say to Fredrick.

He stared at her, trying to penetrate that brick wall that was put up over the years. She hadn’t changed; not to him anyway. She still had the same captivating brown eyes, full perfect lips, curls that bounced vigorously with her every movement, and skin that would radiate and glisten like bronze in the sun. There had been plenty of nights that he’d dream of meeting her again, and now that he wad finally here… now that he promised to explain what happened— he didn’t know what to say. ‘I—‘

‘If these people find out who I am, these children will die right along with you. Why did you decide to even follow me.’ Living a life of paranoia, was really the only thing that kept her and those children alive. It wasn’t a way to live, especially not for them.

Fredrick let out a gentle sigh and pressed his lips together, ‘I’m aware of that your grace.’

Wow, she hadn’t been called that in quite some time. ‘Don’t call me that—‘ she looked towards the window , ‘I’m nobody’s princess. Not anymore. No one’s Queen, no one’s lady. Just a fugitive.’ She reached over and grabbed her mug that was filled with water. ‘Anyway, you said you wanted to talk— so talk.’

The Knight glared at her in disbelief. Her attitude hadn’t changed either, and that alone caused a smirk to form on his lips. ‘You know you haven’t changed. You’ve aged well.’

‘Hmph.’

‘I’m serious. The last time I’d seen you, you were—‘

*** ‘Fath—?!’ The two burst into her father’s chambers to find him on the floor, in a puddle of his own blood. ‘PAPA!!!’ She exclaimed and ran over to the corpse and pulled him up into her arms. The princess sobbed uncontrollably, her words inaudible as she rocked back and forward. She’d gotten blood all over her dress, arms and hands. ‘Dad! Dad please come back!’ She sobbed as she shook him.

‘Phoenix—‘ Fredrick said as he tried to reach out for her, but she swung her arm at him not wanting to be touched. He felt horrible about all of this. King Stephen may have not been his father, but he was one of the father figures in his life and this was a great loss for the people that knew him personally, and for their kingdom. He turned around when he heard quick footsteps, along with the familiar sound of metal clinking.

Queen Silvia was accompanied by a few of the royal guards and she clearly looked distraught. She placed her hand on her large rounded belly and pointed at the princess. ‘Th—there! There she is! I saw her do it!’ Phoenix was still holding her father in her arms, completely shutting the world out around her.

‘Wha— pardon your majesty but, she was down at the lake with me. There’s no possible way she could have killed the king.’ Sure he was her alibi, but when the Queen challenged him, ‘And what were you doing with my step daughter at the lake?!’ Fredrick just shut his mouth. He couldn’t tell her that they’d been doing this for weeks and on occasions would kiss. The princess was promised to a Prince just North of here. So he thought it was only best to keep his mouth shut.

Queen Silvia waddled over to him quickly as she held her dress. ‘You be careful who you protect boy! It could get you killed!’ She glared down at him with her wet, glowing pink eyes. Even though he knew the Queen was wrong and bat shit out of her mind, he didn’t dare challenge her. So his head fell, ‘Yes, your majesty.’ He said softly with his fingers laced together. She backed away and looked over at the sobbing girl on the floor. ‘Take her away. She must be dealt with accordingly.’

The knights approached the Princess but before they could grab her she let out a blood curdling scream that caused everyone’s in their ears to bleed. Everyone groaned in pain as they placed their hands over their heads to shield out the noise. Even as powerful and magical the queen was, even she covered her ears and fell to her knees. When Phoenix realized what was going on, she’d scrambled to her feet, grabbed her dress ran out of the King’s bedroom.

‘That was the last time I’ve ever saw you… That night, the war came and I was taken right with it. I spent the rest of the day looking for you P.'

'As well as the rest of the kingdom.' She scoffed and shrugged her shoulders. She finally turned her head to look at him.

Fredrick sighed heavily and he looked around before he leaned in, 'You just won't let that go now will you?' He said in a whisper. 'You've been gone for 20 years aren't you use to this shit by now?!'

Phoenix's face folded up into a hard scowl as she leaned in as well, 'Let it go? Let it go!? My father was murdered and they pointed their finger on me. And you- you didn't even bother to stick up for me. Knowing how much that wretched bitch hated my soul because I was the true heir. She took that away from me.' she hissed before she took another sip of her water. There wasn't a single moment where she didn't think about that day. Her father. Her legacy. It drove her insane some days. She would go into crying fits and swing her sword at trees to keep herself from killing someone. And some nights she wouldn't even sleep.

The knight took a deep breath and sat back in his seat, looking to the corner of the bar to see the group of his men still chit chatting, 'Well then why won't you go take it back?'

She leaned over, whispering once again, ‘Are you fucking crazy? If anyone hears you mention anything about treason they won’t hesitate to cut you down.’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘And I’ve thought about it. But going in there could get me killed.’ Phoenix sat back against her seat once again, looking off to the side.

Fredrick took a deep breath, she was right. The Kingdom that she had grew up in was now formidable and stronger than when her father was King. If anybody had recognized who she was, they would stop at nothing to kill her. ‘So what are you going to do? Continue to live in the shadows?’

‘I’ve been doing it for 20 years. I’m sure I can do it until I’m dead.’

‘That’s no way to live P—‘

‘Well it’s living… nonetheless.’ She raised a brow.

If there’s one thing Fredrick knew about his friend, he knew that she was stubborn. She always thought it was her way, or no way at all. He folded his arms across his chest, as his eyes narrowed at her. ‘You’re surviving… listen Phoenix. You can run and hide all you want. But eventually, you will run out of places. Your past will come bite you in your ass—‘ he stood up from his seat and looked down at her. ‘You are the true heir. Take back your throne. I will back you up in this I promise.’ He reached over in his pouch and pulled out an amulet. It was gold and red with a ram’s head engraved in it, with the name “Delphi” engraved at the bottom. A family heirloom. He looked at it in his large palm for a moment before placing it in front of her.

Phoenix’s eyebrows tugged together with disbelief and shock. She picked it up; admiring it’s beauty. Just as she had remembered. ‘Fredrick I can’t take this. This is yours, — your father’s I can’t—‘

‘I insist. If you ever need help— somehow, someway— I’m always here.’ He gave her a gentle smile before looking at the children once more and then back at her. ‘Take care princess.’ And then he walked back over to his men.

***

The children were sleeping soundly next to the fire, while she sat beneath that very same Oak tree. She continued to study the amulet that he had given her. You are the true heir. I will back you up on this, I promise. She let out a soft sigh before closing her hand, holding it tightly within her grasp. Fredrick was right. Though she was a badass swordsman and handled herself well in pretty sticky situations— she was catching up with age. She was running out of time and places to sleep. And with the way the world was going, it was a surprise she was able to keep her and those children safe.

Phoenix was awakened by a cool breeze. She shivered and rolled over, pulling the skinned buck over her body. Then she’d noticed there was no longer any heat. Her eyes flashed open and she sat up. The firewood glowed bright Orange and smoke rose from it. She placed her hand on the warm wood, and it was moist. Someone had put it out. ‘Chil-‘ she looked up and their little cots were empty. Her heart broke in her chest. ‘Oh Gods.’ She scrambled to her feet and without thinking, ‘NILA!? NOEL?!’ Thank god for the moon, she wouldn’t have known where to begin in the pitch blackness.

She ran around that field in a frenzy, listening for giggles and whispering but nothing. ‘CHILDREN?!?!’ She let out a scream, so loud that it shook the trees and the birds flocked away from them. She put her hands on her head as she felt her stomach begin to twist and turn with sickness. Her world felt like it was spinning, and she threw up. Falling to her hands and knees, she heaved until she emptied all of the contents in her stomach.

When she was unable to throw up anymore, she sat back on her legs and her head fell back. She looked up at the moon as she tried to calm down. Knowing that her being a frantic crying mess, would not help her find those babies. Finally, she heard the sound of paper flapping in the wind. Phoenix looked ahead to see a rock sitting on top of a paper. She felt a shred of hope over come her. Quickly picking herself up, she rushed over to the rock. She’d pushed the rock to the side and picked up the paper. It read:

Princess Phoenix of Kingdom Jedajél,

We are aware of your presence and we have those wee children you love so much. Surrender and Meet us in the village from once you’ve came. The children will not be harmed.

Commander Zacariah Richard the 3rd of Kingdom Jedajél

‘GRRRRR!’ She crushed the paper in her hand and walked back over to their camp and wrapped her holster on her hip, placing her sword in it along with her dagger. As she was adjusting her weapons, she could hear a howl in the wood behind her. The very same woods she had to walk through to get to the village. Her heart sank in fear a bit, but she would stop at nothing to get to her babies. She walked over to a dying tree and picked up a small branch. Using the flint that she had in her pouch, she lit the cloth that was soaked in ale and wrapped around the wood.

She could hear the terrors of the night as she carefully walked through the wood. She followed a path that was specifically made for merchants as the sign had said it would get them to the village faster than the regular trail. So she’d taken that, and bit it would be something she had regret.

Phoenix held the torch in her hand, looking back every once in a while to see if anything was following her. Her travels went unseen or so she had thought, for some time. That was until she heard the sound of twigs snapping and heavy panting. It sounded nothing of a human, it was rugged and hungry. She’d turn around towards the darkness, looking for the source of the sound and nothing. She had thought maybe it was her mind playing tricks on her. She was already emotionally unstable at the moment so maybe it was the lack of sleep and the fear of something happening to the babies getting the best of her.

That was until she came across a wrecked stage coach. She swallowed her spit and crept over to it, where she found one horse still attached to the reins and with its insides torn out. Phoenix had seen plenty over things before, but she had never seen anything such as this. It was a pretty large vehicle, so where’s the other horse?

On a regular day she would have tried to investigate but she was pressed on time. So she quickly turned away to continue on the path when she ran into something large. She stared at its chest, and it was nowhere near human. It’s flesh was gray, and so hairy. A growl rumbled in the beasts chest and it caused Phoenix to look up in fear. The beast looked down at her, shoulders moving up and down gently as it breathe. A werewolf.

She slowly took a step backwards, keeping her eyes on it as it had kept its monstrous yellow eyes on her. That was until she had stepped on a twig. That had seem to piss it off. It released a roar, a roar so frightful that it caused Phoenix to fall back on her rump. She had seem most monsters, but she had always thought this was just a bunch of bullshit. But how sharp and long it’s canines were, this was no fiction tale.

Suddenly the beast begun to charge, she scrambled to her feet; picking up her torch and tried to make a run for it. But the beast managed to swipe her and it sent her flying against a tree, releasing the torch in the process. ‘URRGH!’ She exclaimed as she fell to the ground on her front side. ‘Uhhhhh,’ she groaned in pain as she pulled herself up from the ground. She stood in a bit of a slouch, as her back felt like it had been snapped in half with how hard she hit that tree. ‘Alright—‘ she huffed, and grabbed her silver sword by its handle. ‘That’s how you want to play? Bring it.’ And she pulled out her weapon.

The beast had let out another roar before it charged at her with all fours and as soon as it leaped to attack her, she threw up her left hand and bright, hot flames exuded from her palm. The werewolf whimpered in pain as the flames engulfed its body. It rolled around, howling in pain and whimpering. While it’s walls were down, she crept behind it and stabbed it right in its heart. ‘GAH!’ She exclaimed as she pushed the silver sword so deep within him, it came out through the other side. The beast let out an excruciating howl which caused her to cover her ears and fall to her knees. ‘Ahh!’ She whimpered and looked up at the creature as it took its very last breath.

When she was sure, the beast was dead, she retrieved her sword and weakly, painfully , started back on her journey.

The moon was still high in the sky with no sign of dawn. This had to be the worst night of her fucking life. She limped into the village, with her hand on her hip. She was sure it was dislocated. But the pain had subsided when she heard the cries of Noel & Nila. ‘Mama! Mama!’ They sobbed as the men held them on their shoulders.

Relieved but tiredly, ‘Nika, Noel. I’m so glad you’re safe!’

‘Princess!’

Phoenix’s head snapped over to the tall lean, blonde haired male, who had walked in front of the group of men. He wore almost the same armor that Fredrick wore. ‘I am Commander Zacariah Richard. I hereby ask you to surrender. We have to take you into our custody.’

‘I will not. You let those children go first and then you can do what ever it is that you want to do with me.’

‘You don’t get to call the shots here Princess. You surrender first,’ then he looked back, giving one of the village men a simple nod before they pulled out small blades and pressed them towards their little throats.

‘DON’T YOU DARE LAY ANOTHER FINGER ON THEM!’ There they were again. Her emotions getting the best of her.

The commander smirked, ‘They did say you were fiesty yes.’ He chuckled and glared at her. ‘You have til the count of 5 your highness… or these sweet little Elf children will have their throats ripped out of their necks. 1…2…’

Phoenix tried to quickly come up with a plan, but the look of fear on the children’s face overshadowed all of that. She had put their lives in danger plenty of times before… she couldn’t do this again. ‘3…4…what’s it going to be princess—‘

‘Wait… fine. I surrender.’ She unhooked her holster and dropped it in front of her. The commander had seem to be enjoying this. But the princess wasn’t a fool. She always had something up her sleeve.

The two men who had the children in their grasp had pushed them away and approached her. She smirked deviously when they stood behind her.

The commander’s head fell to the side in confusion, ‘Is there something humorous Princess?’

‘You all don’t know how bad you’ve fucked up.’ She cackled before she opened her palm and it revealed a hidden blade. She had quickly stabbed one in the jugular and the other right in his eye.

The men in the village seem to be startled as well the Commander. His eyes grew in fear and a bit of disgust. ‘RUN!’ She exclaimed to the children and they took off without question.

The Commander looked behind him, ‘AFTER THEM! BRING ME THEIR HEADS!’

The woman quickly scooped up her sword and dagger. She was about to chase them down but Commander Zacariah grabbed her by her hoodie and yanked her back. Accidentally dropping her sword, she raised her dagger, spinner around and cut his face, attempting to slit his throat.

‘ARGH!’ He exclaimed as he stumbled backwards, holding his face. She quickly retrieved her sword as the men begun to surround her. Phoenix watched as he pulled his hand away from his face. She smirked with great pride, ‘You aren’t so pretty anymore now Commander Richard.’ He glared at her with anger, and pulled out his sword, ‘UGGGGHHHHH YOU WHORE!’ He exclaimed and charged at her.

With a simple duck as he swung his heavy sword at her head, she held her leg out and watched him trip over it. And it was like that fueled the men’s anger. It was like they couldn’t stand a woman kicking a man’s ass. So they attacked her. She blocked and parried every attack with the best of her ability. Cutting off heads, slicing open abdomens, and stabbing through anyone that came her way.

Phoenix was covered in blood and it was safe to say that her adrenaline had ran out because now she was starting to feel that pain from the werewolf attack again. ‘Mmm!’ She whimpered and tried to stand up straight.

‘Grrrr!’

She turned around quickly to see Commander Zacariah bringing his sword, getting ready to swing at her. ‘AHHHH!’ He exclaimed in rage. Phoenix put her hands up in defense, as she was too tired to fight any more. But his moment was short lived when a sword pierced through his chest. Blood pooled in his mouth and poured down his lips and then his chin. When the blade was yanked from his chest, he fell to his knees and her eyes followed him.

‘We—‘ he coughed as he placed his hand over his wound. ‘We— will… find you… there’s no—no place you can hide..’ he’d begun to laugh hysterically. And it actually scared her, but his laughing was cut when a sword swung at his neck. The body fell forward limply and his head rolled.

‘Hmm.’

She looked up to see her savior. And when she saw him, her mouth slightly opened. She had only heard tales of these beings. But this particular one, was legendary in his own way. This night would make a great bedtime story for the children.

His hair was white as snow and stringy as if he hadn’t washed it in days. His eyes shined in the darkness, blazing bright gold like the sun. He wore a silver amulet around his neck with a wolf on it. And that only confirmed what he was.

‘Witcher.’ She murmured. It was truly a honor. When she was just a young girl, she admired them. She loved reading and hearing about them. They had inspired her to want to be a swordsman. She didn’t know whether to bow or hug him. ‘Y—you’re the White Wolf! You’re Geralt of Rivia!’

‘And you’re just a woman… a woman whose on wanted posters all over the continent… a woman who also dropped these men like flies…’

She rolled her eyes before she heard the scream of Nika. ‘NIKA!’ She pushed past him and darted towards her children’s screams but Geralt didn’t hesitate to follow her.

She stopped when she saw the twins up in a tree, kicking away away from those horrible village men. She gritted her teeth as she felt her adrenaline pick back up once again. Phoenix took a step forward to attack but Geralt grabbed her wrist and shook his head. He’d given her a reassuring nod and walked over toward the men.

‘Come on leave the children alone.’ His voice was deep yet, soothing.

The two men looked back once they saw him, ‘Oh look. It’s a wee Witcher. The smallest one I’ve ever seen.’

‘Look you mutated cunt,’ one of the men walked up towards him and poked him in his chest, ‘Why don’t you take your brown whore over there and go fuck yourselves.’

The other man chimed in with goofy laughter until Phoenix grew fed up and pulled her dagger out and threw it. Hitting the laughing one right in his forehead. ‘Ah!’ The village man exclaimed as he watched his buddy fall to the ground. Phoenix stood up straight, dusting her arms off as she watched The white Haired Witcher speak with the last remaining man.

‘Pl-please Mr. Witcher sir! I-I was only trying to feed my family! I-I was paid good coin!’ He said as he held his hands together. He was begging.

‘Sell out. But it’s not me you have to worry about —‘ he awaited til Phoenix stood next to him. ‘That’ll be her.’ He jerked his head to the left gently with a soft shrug.

Phoenix’s eyes shown a darkness nobody had ever seen before. Anyone that harmed the ones she loved deserved the most merciless death known to men. And since she only cared for these children, loved, these children— she had nothing else if something happened to them. She grabbed the villager’s shirt and pressed him against that tree. ‘You run. You tell the village about me. You tell any man that comes looking for me that I will be waiting for him. I expect nothing less.’

‘Y—yes. Your majesty!’

She violently let him go. ‘No go. Before I change my mind!’ And the villager took off running.

Geralt’s eyebrows tugged together in confusion and then it finally clicked. Your majesty? She had his curiosity for sure, but now, she had this attention.

Phoenix looked up at the tree as the children carefully peaked down. ‘Come down my loves! I’m here!’ She took a deep breath before she could fell that sharp pain in her hips. She closed her eyes as a wince escaped her lips. She leaned on the tree to take some of the pressure off of her injury.

‘Phoenix?! Who’s that big scary man next to you?!’ Noel asked worrisome. Phoenix had looked back at Geralt as he seem to be lost in thought. ‘He’s a friend. Look, just come on down you too. Danger’s gone. We took care of it.’ She reassured him. ‘They won’t mess with us anymore!’

***

‘GRRRRR! FUCK!’ The woman exclaimed into a cloth as she felt a bunch of pressure then lots of pain when he forced her hip back into place with his hands. Though she was grateful that the pain was gone, she was not ready for the healing pains to begin. She took a deep breath and looked over at the once again, sleeping children. They must’ve been exhausted from the kind of night they had. And now the sky was beginning to glow light blue. ‘Alright—‘ she said as she stood up to her feet, looking down at him. ‘How much coin do I owe you?’ Everything came with a price. She remember from the books that Witcher’s were paid with every contract. Though, this wasn’t the typical contract— she felt obligated. He didn’t have to help her.

‘You owe me nothing.’ He said as he stood up. ‘But I do want answers.’ He folded his arms across his chest.