#letting the thought out into the wild untethered

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

i'm still working through all of my thoughts and opinions about the complicatedness of this topic (i'm fond of nuance, actually) but...

do we realize how much we owe to the people who are "weird" about things? like... the things we would not have without them...

maybe instead of asking them to be normal about it, we should be thanking them for saving shows and getting closure and providing artists the ability to create and so much more

just something I'm thinking about this morning

[shadowqnights]

crazy how everything about mcd is so much more insane when you apply what i call the dog rule and that is when they are all dogs now in some way shape or form: an analysis.

when garroth is purebred, a hound made to serve, that does not know how to do anything but heel. he has purpose. he is sleek and well-groomed because he has to be, because he has always been tended to. a dog that falls into desperate spiral when that dynamic shifts - because who is he, without someone to follow, protect, love? a dog that becomes flea-bitten and hungry when he runs because he was never taught to take care of himself, to be his own master. he falls apart. he needs this, he knows, but what is he without someone to own him? a dog that cannot lead any kind of pack or family because it is afraid to understand the kind of animal it is if not in submission. if a parent, a teacher, he is promptly punished by his students as cruel reminder that he is not allowed to find joy in anything other than what his makers intended. a dog so desperate that it offers up its own leash to whoever will take it when things crumble - even if it means turning back to distasteful company. as long as it is held at all. time and time again, he tried to tend to the younger, weaker. he tried to feed them and lick their wounds - and time and time again, only to be mauled in turn. no more, he thinks. life was simpler when he was mindless, just four paws and a purpose. if that was what he was bred for, what business does he have pretending?

when laurance is a stray but made out of love. his coat shines thanks to the love of his family, his sister. he is sleek and well-groomed with them. the nether breaks him in, turns him a little wild. gives him cause to show teeth when threatened. when he bites, he mauls. there is something wicked in his animal eyes. he goes for the kill. when he bites, something in him wants it to hurt - whether his prey or himself, he can't tell. a part of the dog believes the suffering is natural because its maker declared it so. the pain wanes in and out like the cycle of the moon; life is unpredictable. he is braced to survive, sometimes with teeth already bared to expect the suffering. constantly on edge, pacing, waiting for the next disaster. a loyal, desperate pet that will follow to the ends of the earth - a desperation that borders on obsession. he will eat you alive, if only you would stay with him, inside of him, never leave him. never look at anyone else the way you would him. don't put him on a leash - let him choose who to lope after. his leash, in fact, is in tatters. he can't be collared. he merely follows, hungry at the heels of who fed him. his sense of duty is not of obligation but of love, a sacred need to stay at the side of those who treated him with kindness and them alone. and worse, he is burdened with the constant fear that if left untethered for too long, that obsession might turn carnal - that if wronged, he may not kill to eat and feel full, but kill merely to feel the blood on his teeth, just to feel the pain. feel something. anything. that he might enjoy the taste of his loved ones. maybe a leash is the right thing. maybe he needs to be caged. he can't bear either thought.

when they both bite the hand that fed them. when they bite each other. when they are dogs and kind of made for each other.

dante is a dog. aaron is a dog. aph is a dog. katelyn? oh you fucking guessed it. ivy. jeffory. zane. yeah. all of them are dogs. welcome to the dog rule fuckers its exactly how it sounds. are you sick of the word dog yet.

[pininghermit]

Just Talk to Me Already!

Genre: a sulking Adrian and struggling reader

Summary: All it took was a friends night out, 2 shots of vodka, and fake courage of your friends with your inflated drunk ego.

You woke up with empty arms and a spectacular view of Adrian's back – spectacular but tense. As if he hadn't just pushed himself away from your embrace the moment he felt your dream fading. But you are shameless. Unfazed by his earlier retreat, your arms circled his waist again as you drew closer. However, your attempt to settle comfortably as the big spoon was thwarted as your hands were gently pushed away, and your beloved extricated himself from the bed.

Sighing, you returned to your overheated pillow, its once-cool sides now exhausted. "Well, if this isn't the consequence of your stupid loud mouth," you groaned into your pillow.

It all began with a fateful night out with friends, two shots of vodka, and your inflated, drunken ego. Spilling the steamy details of your past steamy escapades with your ex to Adrian wasn't planned, but it happened, thanks to drunk you. A week had passed since that unfortunate incident, and Adrian was still sulking.

Normally, Adrian was impervious to your drunken antics, but this was different. It had hit a nerve, making him insecure about his own abilities and your genuine affection for him.

As the memories from that intoxicated night resurfaced amid the fog of a confusing hangover, you realized the extent of the damage. Of course, you'd apologized; you might be a wild drunk, but you were a civil person. You even tried to be cute, using the coy voice Adrian adored, but it didn't work.

Undeterred, you bought flowers, sweets, and, just for the heck of it, a dagger because your beloved had a penchant for such things. However, your care package failed to elicit even a faint smile. Instead, you found the dagger stabbed into the garden floor, a display of strength you chose to ignore for your own sanity.

Turning to a more romantic approach, you wrote a poetic letter. Adrian, known for his dramatic flair, should have appreciated it, right? Wrong. Your beautifully scripted words were obscured by grocery lists, budget planning, and reminders of yearly events...he could have used the plain blank side and no you did not pout looking at it.

Not to mention, he wouldn't even share dinner with you or rescue you from the culinary monstrosity you'd created. The desire for a simple meal prepared by Adrian had never been stronger.

In desperation you resorted to your trusted technique of annoyance. "Adrian look at me," you settled next to him, scooting whenever he tried to scoot. "Adrian look at my crooked tooth, does my finger look bent to you," you followed after him the entire day like a puppy.

Until Adrian became a damn bat and flew. Even the puppy eyes failed you.

It was only last night that he tried to slip out of your room, but you caught his wrist, stopping him. "Don't go," you said seriously. "Just sleep here. Give me a chance to make it right. So come here and lie next to me, Adrian. We can't act like a divorced couple; we aren't married, to begin with."

You pulled him back onto the bed, and he, despite his strength, let you. Wrapping your arms around him, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, ignoring the fact that his hair almost made you sneeze during this supposedly romantic moment.

"I won't say I was wrong," your words made him tense under your touch. "I've had my fill of fooling around, of being an untethered kite. It's great, but Adrian," you pulled him closer, preventing him from seeing your blush. "I don't need that with you. I don't need wild fantasies or extreme pleasures, though I can't get enough of you. Just being in the same room as you is more than satisfying."

Your hands traced patterns on his back as you thought through your words, articulating your feelings for the first time in your life. "Don't blame yourself for anything, Adrian. Don't carry that burden. I could never forgive myself if I became the reason for your sorrow. I will gladly be the crux of your resentment. Just stay by my side and let me make it up…" You spoke throughout the night until your words began to slur, and you woke up to the sight of Adrian's back.

At least he was still in the bed, which you counted as a small victory. You planned your next grand gesture to win him over, but little did you know that your antics were making a certain dhampir, you resisted to face you, smile uncontrollably.

As he heard you groan into your pillow, he promised himself to savor these moments just a bit longer, practicing his poker face in anticipation of the day filled with your endearing gestures.

[strangelittlestories]

Let me tell you about the Truthspeaker.

It is well known that most fae are tricksters. They are creatures who do not lie per se, but who make truth light as chaos or heavy as a contract.

They distract you with the truth and while you are looking at it, they steal the ground from beneath your feet, the name from the craw of your soul, and the

They are like shitty close-up magicians, but the coin they produce from behind your ear is everything you ever valued. And the rabbit they vanish into their hat is reality itself.

They leave you untethered, unmoored, floating free in the summerlands while the path home unravels like a knot of handkerchiefs.

It is well known that fae do this. However, you should realise that 'it is well known' is also a clever illusion.

For while you *should* fear the fair folk, they are multi-faceted and manifold. There are some among them that you may still wish to seek out - for while they will *wreck you* quite thoroughly, sometimes a person must shipwreck themselves to reach their destination.

So let me tell you about the Truthspeaker.

I first heard rumours of them when on my quest year. It's become something of a tradition among aspiring urban esotericists to take a year out to gain practical magical experience. Druids venture into the fragmented urban wilds beneath their city. Mages seek out spells and traditions in rare local dialects and folklores. Seers get very high and follow whatever visions they may have to their inevitable horrible conclusions.

Meanwhile, I started out seeking a simple remedy for mild dimensional bifurcation. One of the alchemists I spoke to mentioned they sometimes sourced ingredients from the fae - in particular, they had a connect for ice cold truths that they thought may help me.

Sadly, I was hot on the trail of the Reality-phage by that point. And that whole situation … escalated.

When I emerged from that densely-woven five-year headfuck with a master's degree in Divine Linguistics and a fully fractured sense of self, I went panning for gold through my memories … and I recalled the Truthspeaker.

The path to faerie is an easy one to find, but a hard one to walk. Especially if you want anything that resembles yourself to emerge on the other side.

I had little enough of my self left, so I took precautions.

I conjured a worm out of earth and lichen. I took one of my memories - one I could not afford to lose - and I fed it to the imaginary creature. It was fat and wriggling, as if ready to burst with dreams.

I wrote my own personal rune on the worm's skin in white marker. The worm wrote *its* rune on me in slime.

I took it to a dried up canal behind a main road. I walked onto the footbridge that crossed it. I speared the worm on a hook, tried it to a silver thread and I dangled it from a fishing pole.

From the canal bed beneath, hungry mouths began to warp out of the concrete. I snagged the biggest and reeled it in. Arms aching with the effort, finally it breached the guardrail with a squeal of metal. Its grey teeth gnashed towards me.

I dived in.

After a small unknowable bubble of time, in which the concrete hydra and I argued over semantics, we finally reached an accord.

I rode in its mouth into the Summerlands.

Apologies, I was supposed to be telling you about the Truthspeaker.

Reaching them was complex, even with my fearsome new ride. (Honestly, riding in that thing's maw made me feel I was in that book about the sandworms, but a bit more 'Vore.)

I won't repeat the trials I had to go through, the spirits I had to beg, bribe or bludgeon ... if you ever seek them yourself, you will need to pay your own way.

But eventually I reached their grove.

It was a strange place. It had a mushroom arch, like many fae groves, but if you looked close you could see spots of rust growing on the caps of them. I peered closer and saw: there was an iron frame beneath the fungi.

I've heard it said that fungus make death into the stuff of life. Even given some faeries' affinity for mushrooms, I think it takes a very special fae to take that which is inimical to you and make of it your sustenance. (And to be quite so cottagecore about it.)

I passed beneath the arch and felt my magical protections torn away by long intangible fingers clawed in ferrous decay.

Inside, the grove sat beneath ... what is the opposite of a 'verdant' canopy? A dying canopy? A putrefying canopy?

No, it was canopy of tomorrows. A vast and dense web of mycelial strands that ate dank darkness and shunned the sun. The interlaced fungal strings shone with strands of copper and arced with electricity.

At the centre of this dwelling with something akin to a cottage, but vast and ballooning with bulbous growths. Cosy and grand. Homely but haunting.

From within its cavernous doorway emerged the Truthspeaker.

My eyes were drawn first to the crown that burst from beneath the skin of their head. Filigreed wires wove in and out of their temples, burning where they met flesh. From that burning emerged green shoots and flowering fungus in all the colours of autumn killings.

They were dressed in stars and pale cotton. Their eyes were caverns. Their lips were lined with morning frost, which crunched softly as they spoke.

"You have travelled a long road." their sweet, soft voice was echoed deeply by the creatures that squirmed in the earth around their feet.

"I have, honoured one." My voice shook.

"There is no honour here, child."

"Nonetheless, I come to honour you."

"You come to ask of me."

Inside myself, I felt my heart shrivel and rot away and a new heart build itself again from the mess.

"From where I stand, to ask favour is to show my throat. This is honour."

"You are a sophist." they snorted and a cloud of spores filled the air, glittering.

"That is the source of my power, honoured one." The spores settled on my robe and began to form a sparkling crystal city.

"You bear the blessing of the Once God."

"I, uh..." I found myself reaching for my phone to take a scrying selfie and resisted. "I had honestly forgotten it was there."

"As had the blessing. Such is the way of things with the God That Was But Was Not."

"There is much I have lost."

"You are not special in this regard."

"Are there ... any ways in which I *am* special?"

"I don't especially care to name them if there are."

"I..." I licked my lips and they tasted of earthy spices. "I would ask you to tell me one true thing, Truthspeaker."

"I have already told you several."

"I can offer fair exchange. I can serve you. I had knowledge and skill once, I am sure I can find them again."

"No. You never shall."

I blanched.

"Never?"

"They are mulch. New talents will grow. Or you will die. Such is the way of things." they looked me up and down with their hollow, everything eyes, "Tell me what truth you would have. I will find something to do with you after."

My mouth was dry. My lungs filled with thick honey-like dreck. My skin shone translucent. The crystal city on my robe spread and grew, went through two cataclysms, rebuilt itself, then began to spread across my back.

I forget the truth I had planned to ask for.

Instead I said:

"Do you like me?"

"I do not know yet." The Truthspeaker said. "But I am willing to find out."

That is how I met the Truthspeaker. Our first meeting, but not our last. But that is all the detail I will give you for now. If you want more then you will have to seek me out and ask me or win it from me or remind me of it.

But what was it that I wanted to tell you about the Truthspeaker? What did I learn? What might you learn from them?

Surely, I have already told you that?

No, I will say one thing more:

Sometimes the truth does not set you free. Sometimes it anchors you.

Because sometimes you don't need a trickster fae to untie you from reality. Sometimes you are already doing a perfectly adequate job of that yourself.

And when that happens, a truth you can rely on is like cold iron for the soul.

---

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[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Febuwhump Day 12 -- Semiconsciousness

Four hated the portals.

He hated them for a lot of reasons, a lot of good reasons. It was never fun to be swept off of one’s feet and deposited into a world that wasn’t their own. It separated friends from friends—his heart ached for Shadow—inhabitants of eras from their own timelines, it even stole one of his earrings, one rough morning where they were all stolen directly out of their beds. Sometimes the heroes found themselves dropped into chaotic battlefields, into icy tundra, into the very middle of deep lakes, every time without warning before and usually without a chance to catch a breath afterwards. The portals were uncomfortable, inconvenient, and above all, inconsiderate to those that they ferried from era to era as if they were nothing more than cargo to be taken wherever the whims of the Goddess pleased.

But the headaches that came with them, every blasted time. Oh, the headaches, and the nausea, and the disorientation. That was enough to make Four want to hang up his mantle of hero and go take a long, undisturbed nap, hopefully one that lasted forever. Unfortunately, that nap was not available because he was one of those said heroes, and a hero did not rest until their quest was completed, especially not in an era that wasn’t his own.

Still, it seemed that they had been dropped neither into a battle nor a lake this go around, and the grass upon which he found himself lying was nice, all things considered. Four didn’t remember stepping into the portal, and he didn’t remember stepping out, but the headache brewing behind his eyes and between his temples was testament enough to what had happened. The memory would come later, it always did when he thought about it hard enough. But he’d do so later, when everything wasn’t quite so sunny and swoopy and off balance. Four let out a hiss and threw an arm up over his eyes, shielding them from the brightness of the sky that he knew to be looming overhead. He gripped his fingers into the long strands of grass cushioning his rest, anchoring himself to earth spinning underneath his back—if he got up now, in his untethered state, he almost feared he could be flung off of the surface of the planet itself with the momentum of its rotations, and he’d be lost among the stars, his quest forever unfinished.

That’s a little dramatic, Vio, Four thought to himself. Nevertheless, he didn’t let go of his handholds that kept him anchored to the world itself as his head spun and throbbed and churned.

No, that was his stomach churning. He was going to vomit, Four realized with a start of rising panic. Abandoning his hold of the grass, Four only just managed to prop himself onto an elbow and lean over before his stomach emptied its own contents quite violently. Once the contractions wracking his body and compounding with his aching head to make his body into an unholy roar of pain passed—there went Wild’s rice and mushrooms that he’d made them for breakfast—he reared away from the puddle of sick, groaning.

“Foooour~,” Warrior’s voice drawled in a sing-song tone nearby. “Smithy, how’s it going over there? Don’t tell me these portals still get to you.”

Cheeky bastard. Warrior had never had a problem with the portals, owing to his experience with them in his War of Eras, a few years before he’d met the rest of them, he claimed. Realistically, Four knew it was a blessing that at least one of their members could be expected to be completely level-headed upon stepping out of a portal, no matter how bumpy the ride may have been, so that they were equipped to defend themselves and ready to face whatever threat was on the other side of it; right now, Four wished he could make him experience just a fraction of what it felt like, even if he had to throttle him to get the intended effects.

“Alright, Captain,” Four answered blearily as he pushed himself up onto his elbows with the greatest effort. His eyes streamed from the combination of the bright sun, his still-growing headache, and his earlier vomiting—at the thought his stomach clenched, threatening to go again—so that he was only able to open them in little pathetic slits. “Just dizzy.”

“Wow, it really got you this time,” Warrior laughed. Tall boots stopped in front of Four, just at the edge of his vision. “Can you walk, you think?”

Four took stock of his own condition, considering it. His body existed as one uncoordinated pulse of pain—his head throbbing, his stomach churning, the world still tilting and swooping jerkily beneath him, though it didn’t seem in danger of catapulting him into the stratosphere anymore. “No…” Four began, his tongue heavy with guilt. They’d have to compensate for him, again, like they almost always had to. “I don’t think so, Captain. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, dear Smithy, we’ve got you,” Warrior quipped back. Those boots walked away, and Four dropped his head into the cool grass, squeezing his eyes shut, as another wave of nausea and dizziness threatened to consume him. “Everything looks to be safe right now. Twilight, can you carry him?”

A grunted answer, then a shadow fell over Four. Four sighed, bracing himself as best as he could manage, and blindly thrust a hand upwards. What had to be Twilight pulled him up and off of his feet completely—Four pressed his lips together tightly as he fought to breathe through the new wave of nausea that arose from the movement, he would not vomit all over Twilight—and he found himself slung over furry shoulders similar to a baby lamb with a broken leg.

“Thanks…” he mumbled, heat rising in his cheeks, as he tucked his forehead against Twilight’s cloak. Nearly every portal, now, the heroes were forced to compensate for him. While the others’ tolerance had grown better over time, his only seemed to get worse and worse. “I hate this…” The words were already past his lips before he realized that he’d said anything at all.

“Don’tchu worry your pretty lil’ head ‘bout a thing,” Twilight answered affectionately. He tugged Four’s hood down over his face for him, sending the bell at the end of it jingling. It blessedly blocked out the worst of the sun, allowing him to un-squint his eyes at last. “You just get yourself some rest, n’ we’ll find you somewhere to lie down for a bit, yeah?”

That sounded like a good idea, actually. In seconds, Four was out, slumbering uneasily against Twilight’s shoulder as the world rocked in a steady rhythm beneath him, the movement no longer nauseating but instead lulling him to deeper sleep.

Read this on ao3! HCH Febuwhump Day 12 — Semiconscious

Or check out the whole series here! HotCheetoHatred's Febuwhump

[royal-wren]

With chaos being so divine I know of a trio far from being mild The three leaders of the Theoi Nomioi are on my mind

Far from home, society in the city where arts and reason flourish I find them as the wandering shadows darting through the trees Traversing at every hour, ever out of reach Always in the periphery of one's gaze and many thoughts Always untethered, untamed

Artemis is the chaos the unknown, the hidden and unseen Hermes is the chaos best captured as the freedom to come or go To see new sights, to fly unhindered all in a moment's notice Dionysos is the chaos that comes with multifaceted liberation

All the chaos of agency and individuality to get lost in All the chaos of the wild, of all that's out of reach All that can never be conquered

All three inspire humanity to live like them If you want anything learn to reach for it without regret Chase after it and let nothing hold you back they whisper enticingly

Be wild and free under their decree

[gallawitchxx]

hi hello good afternoon, apparently i have a lot of feeling about this gifset--which shows mickey on the toilet being yelled at by mandy ("you know you're the reason that he left, so go find him."), next to mickey finding a glittering, feather boa-clad ian dancing on a john at the club--and apparently i am going to share them with you now:

there are a plethora of things at play here: a tangled web of nature and nurture, cruelty and circumstance. differing perceptions of reality. some bad behavior, sure. heartbreak, certainly. but there's a lot going on that can't just be boiled down to mickey hurt ian, so ian became a sex worker, the reality of which also hurts mickey.

still, the inciting incident is mickey getting married. publicly. after years of privately being with ian.

a door had been opened between them, and before that day, it had remained unlocked. yes, there were juvie stints and barbs thrown. mickey shut the door time and time again, but he also kept on knocking. barreling on through with brash bravado and a little bit of a death wish, too.

but his marriage put a lock on the door in a way there had never been before. not even immediately after they got caught by terry. ian had kept coming around, kept showing up, wanting to see if mickey was okay, wanting them to be in that experience together.

then, the wedding. oh god, the wedding. ian really thought his plan worked. he came in, he pleaded, he got through to him--mickey initiated the kiss, after all--and then he fucked him good and hard until mickey was pleased. he was so hopeful, smoking that cigarette, asking if the plan was to run away together...

and mickey'd said no. he said, no deal. he went upstairs and made a vow. picked a point of view. locked up the door between them, and swallowed the key. he might not have seen it that way ("if she's gonna be out there banging dudes, why can't i?"), but ian sure did. it was case closed.

so ian went to the army, where his mania only increased. he must've felt so out of control. so big, and yet so small. untethered. and when things got too wild, he went in the direction of tried and true, desperate to find something in drugs, and booze, and older men, and flashing lights, and desire. an openness maybe, too--an egregious flaunting of want--that had not only been denied to him before, but that he'd made to feel foolish and stupid to want. to need. to believe would be possible.

so sure. you could draw a pretty straight line from mickey's wedding to mickey finding ian in that club. but it's also a whole lot more devastating than just that. for this doesn't even account for the living hell that mickey was in being married to, and supposedly fathering a kid with, a woman that had been used by his own dad to violate him in the most hateful of ways; separated from the only person who'd ever known him and wanted him; and fucking trapped.

it's all so fucking sad.

it's also not even the middle of their story, let alone the end.

those fuckers end up together.

there's another wedding, too. one that's bright, and shiny, and mickey's in white, and everyone's smiling.

[utilitycaster]

seeing as we're kind of reaching a halfway point for C3 going off of the length of the previous two campaigns, what do you think could be the next major arc or plot post dealing with ludinus, if there will be another arc? I'm trying to think of stuff that isn't just character driven since while I'm hoping for more of a cool down arc after this one that's just less...intense, it probably might just be something that will surprise or catch everyone off guard and be just a different kind of intense lol. still usually it's stuff that's been foreshadowed or hinted at. I'm just wondering about it since as much as the debate surrounding the gods is intriguing i doubt this will be the rest of the campaign y'know? also your posts are great bye

Thanks! I don't really have an answer to this. I've gotten a few questions about speculation, and to be honest this campaign has been difficult to predict and I don't find trying to guess things without sufficient puzzle pieces and clues available fun or interesting. I know some people do like to say "well what if this wild thing happens" but that's fanfic to me, not meta, which is to say, valid but wish fulfillment rather than an intelligent analysis of canon. You will always have better luck getting good answers from me if you ask about thoughts on what's happened or is currently happening, not about what may happen.

Were I designing this campaign at this point, this is perhaps a little influenced by the SDCC panel I just watched, but I would actually go for something structured rather more like the Chroma Conclave arc and run that out for the remainder of the campaign. Have discrete subdivisions that connect (the four different dragons of the Conclave) with plenty of room for character-driven arcs and relevant fetch quests, and space for downtime after smaller victories (specifically thinking of how the post-dragon fight victories are some of the best VM moments for me), but all building to a final showdown (either of Ludinus, or Predathos, or simply untethering the moon and yeeting it elsewhere). But that's only how I'd do it, not what I think the next arc will be. I don't know what it will be, and I've found my enjoyment of this campaign vastly improved once I stopped trying to guess and I let myself go along for the ride.

[kingofsummer93]

All I See Is You

Summary:

Feyre is desperate to avoid the life that's been paved out for her. She prays to anyone who will listen, but in doing so she makes a crucial mistake.

She forgets that she's not supposed to pray to the gods who answer after dark.

Inspired by The Invisible Life of Addie Larue.

Part 2 /3

AO3 Part 1

Feyre couldn’t stay in her village. All the faces were too familiar, and their lack of recognition hurt too much. It’s one thing to be anonymous in a city full of strangers but it’s another thing entirely to be anonymous in the place where you’ve lived your whole life.

She kept her eyes determinedly pointed away from her childhood home as she skirted around the village and headed for the road that would take her north, towards Le Mans. It was a big enough city that she might not stand out too much, and she also didn’t know where else to go.

After only a few hours of walking her feet were sore, her stomach was rumbling, and the sun was burning her shoulders. She was quickly figuring out that these discomforts might ail her, but they would not kill her or permanently mark her body. Just like the cut on her lip had magically healed itself, so would the blisters on her feet. Her stomach would cramp with hunger, and she would become weak from it, but she would not starve.

You wish to live on your own terms. To move through the world as you see fit. You wish to do this untethered, and for as long as you want…

A clever trick.

Towards late afternoon she came upon an orchard, and she sat with her feet in the river as she ate her fill. Was this what her life would be like, from now on? Sneaking around like a vagabond, poaching fruit and sleeping outside like an animal?

Darkness fell as she sat there, massaging her sore legs, but Feyre did not dare call out to him as she had done the previous night. Who knew if the gods who lived in these parts were the same as the ones in her village? She did not dare, and besides- she was starting to suspect that even if he did appear, he would only laugh.

--

After three days of walking she came upon a village that looked familiar. At first she simply assumed that it reminded her of the village where she had grown up, but then she realized that it looked familiar because she had read about it in Elain’s letters.

Finding her sister’s house was easy. Elain had described it to her in great detail, and soon Feyre was standing at the end of the path that led to the cheerfully painted yellow house. She knew it would be wiser to walk away and save herself the pain, but part of her just wanted one last glimpse. Besides, she was technically a stranger in need of help, and she knew Elain would never send away a stranger in need.

Before she could fully make up her mind, a tall figure with flaming red hair came around the back of the house, whistling as he carried a stack of firewood. The whistling stopped as her brother-in-law spotted her, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. For one wild moment Feyre thought that he knew her, that he would rush to her side and hug her and call out to his wife that her sister was here.

But of course that look in his eyes was not recognition, only concern, and shock.

“Dear god! You gave me a fright. Are you alright?” Lucien asked, dropping his firewood and walking towards her.

“No,” she mumbled. She was suddenly exhausted. Of walking, of explaining.

“Is someone waiting for you at an altar somewhere?” It was meant as a joke, to put her at ease, but Feyre did not have the energy for it. “Not anymore.”

Lucien shuffled awkwardly, scanning the road behind her. “Where did you come from? Did you walk here? It’s days to the nearest village…” A dry laugh came out of Feyre. She knew precisely how far it was, because she had just walked it. The front door of the little yellow house opened, and Feyre inhaled sharply as her sister poked her head out.

“Love? Who is that?” Elain’s brown eyes widened as she looked at Feyre. And again for one wild moment Feyre let herself hope, but of course it was not recognition in her sister’s gaze.

“What’s your name?” Lucien asked gently.

Feyre. My name is Feyre and I’m your sister in law!

“My name is F…” The word caught in her throat. Feyre clasped a hand to her throat, gasping for air. “My name is F….” But again no sound came out. Was this another aspect of her curse?

“I think she might have heatstroke,” Lucien said, alarmed.

“Come inside, dear, we’ll get you cleaned up…” Elain took her hand gently and guided her towards the house. “You can tell us your story over a bowl of soup.”

Feyre knew it was a bad idea but she was powerless against her sister’s kindness. She let herself be led inside and into a comfortable chair. A bowl of soup was placed in front of her, a blanket was wrapped around her shoulders.

“Are you in danger?” Lucien asked gently, once she had slurped down half the soup. “Is somebody looking for you?”

A gentle way of asking, Who are you and what are you doing wandering around on your own in a sodden wedding dress?

“No,” Feyre said. That was perhaps the most truthful thing she had spoken in days. “Nobody is looking for me.” “Are you…are you headed somewhere?” Elain asked tentatively.

“Le Mans. I’d like to get to Le Mans.”

“There is a caravan scheduled to leave for Paris in a few days’ time,” Lucien said carefully. “Artisans, mostly, going to the market. They will stop in Le Mans on the way. I’m sure they won’t mind if you join them.”

Feyre was so grateful she could have kissed him. Finally- a plan, something feasible.

“I don’t have any money,” she mumbled, embarrassed.

Her sister and her husband shared a glance, communicating silently. And then Lucien reached into his pocket and pressed a coin into her palm. Feyre stared at the silver piece until her vision became blurred with tears.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

A high-pitched wail sounded from the back of the house, and her sister jumped to her feet and disappeared from the room. Once she was alone with Lucien he wrung his hands uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

“I’m very sorry, but I cannot let you stay here,” he said, his handsome face reddening. “We don’t want any trouble, you see, and with the baby…” “Of course,” Feyre blurted. She got to her feet and moved towards the door, but Lucien stopped her with a hand on her elbow.

“Wait,” he said, frowning at her ruined dress. He reached for a hook beside the door and handed her a thick cotton work shirt as well as a worn cloak. “Here. It’s not much, but it’s better than walking around in a wedding dress.”

Feyre accepted the clothing gratefully and stepped out of Lucien’s house, and out of his memories.

--

Blending in with the caravan was surprisingly easy. It was large enough that she was just another stranger in a group of strangers. They stopped in Le Mans, as Lucien had said they would. Several people left their caravan, and more people joined still.

Feyre considered staying, but in the end her curiosity won and she continued with the caravan until they reached Paris. As they breached the walls of the city Feyre simply stared. Everything about Paris was dirty, and bustling, and so wildly, blissfully different that for the first time since she was cursed she felt joy.

The caravan dismantled, and Feyre spent the rest of her first day in Paris wandering the streets, overwhelmed and fascinated all at once. There were so many beggars trolling the streets that she didn’t stand out like she had back in her village. She was simply another unwashed, dirty stranger. She was also, however, a woman, and without the safety of a large group of people she knew she wouldn’t be safe on her own forever.

Finding a boarding house was easy, but finding one who would allow her in was another entirely. The first one she tried was too expensive, the next one allowed only men, the third was full. Finally, on her fourth try, the proprietor waved her in gruffly.

“Three copper marks,” the woman declared. “A week’s rent up front. And no funny business.” Feyre’s heart sank. That was all the money she had left. And, more importantly, paying a week’s rent up front would not work for her, for reasons she couldn’t explain to the gruff woman in front of her.

“I’m only looking to stay one night,” she explained. “I’m simply passing through, you see…” “Not my problem. You pay or you leave.”

Feyre was tired, she was dirty, and she wanted nothing more than to take a bath and lie down. With a twinge of regret she handed over the coins, gave the woman a fake name, and followed her wordlessly to her room.

“Women’s bathing room is across the hall,” the woman said. “Breakfast will be brought to your room at seven.” And with that the door shut with a clang.

Feyre waited for a few minutes, heart in her throat, her ear pressed to the door. But nobody came to kick her out, so she quickly crossed the hall to the bathing room. It was late, and the room was blissfully empty. The water in the basins was cold and dirty, but since her only baths lately had consisted of quick dips in the river, to Feyre it felt like a luxury.

She would learn, over time, how to trick people into believing they knew her, and had simply experienced a lapse in memory. But she didn’t have this skill yet, so when the proprietor came knocking on her door at dawn, accompanied by a large, muscular man, she had no choice but to grab her few possessions and leave the building without complaint.

--

Feyre had thought the market of Le Mans to be bustling and exciting, but it was nothing compared to the markets of Paris. Rows after rows of stalls, selling everything from bread to dresses to weapons and everything in between. The streets were so full of beggars that at first Feyre thought stealing from the market would be easy, but the eyes of the merchants who sold their wares were sharp, and it was weeks of getting chased like a criminal before she perfected the art of stealing.

Keeping herself fed enough to stave off the pangs of hunger was one thing, but finding a place to sleep was a challenge that started over again every day. Even on the rare occasion when she had enough money, the boarding houses were not a good option. So she slept in parks, and alleys, and barns. Always fitfully, never comfortably. She did this for the rest of the summer, and through the fall, but eventually winter came.

She was huddling in a doorway, her extremities so frozen she wouldn’t have been surprised if they simply fell off, when a shadow fell over her. For one wild moment she thought it was the darkness, but when she lifted her head it was simply a man, his smile slimy and greedy.

“Well,” he murmured. “What do we have here?”

“Nothing,” Feyre said quickly, getting to her feet. “I do not want any trouble…”

“This is my house,” the man said, stepping closer. “You could come inside, if you’d like. But you’ll have to give me something in exchange.”

She had been given such offers before, of course, but she had always managed to refuse and get away. It wasn’t so hard, really, when all she had to do was slip out of sight for even just a split second, and then her pursuer would forget her completely.

But she was tired, she was hungry, and she was so, so cold. What other options did she have?

It wasn’t so much that she agreed to it as much as she simply let it happen. One minute she was out in the cold, and the next moment the man was opening the door and pressing his hand to her lower back to lead her inside. He did not ask for her name, which was just as well, because she wouldn’t have been able to give him her real name anyway.

His hands were rough, but she didn’t resist as he pushed her to the couch, not even bothering to walk all the way to his bedroom. There were no soft kisses, no gentle touches, none of the things that Feyre had read about in the books that Nesta sneaked to her. And when he pushed inside her, there was no pleasure, only a sharp pain, and the dull pressure of one thing being forced inside another.

She shut her eyes, wishing that she could shut her ears, too, so she wouldn’t have to hear his breathless grunts. By the time he shuddered and rolled off her she felt sick, with angry tears pushing at the corners of her eyes.

Feyre would not have considered herself a romantic, certainly not after the last six months, but she had always foolishly hoped that when she gave her body to someone, it would be someone of her choosing. Someone whose eyes softened when he looked at her, like Lucien’s did when he looked at Elain.

Someone like her handsome stranger.

“Now now,” the man said. “Don’t be like that. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

And with that he slung a heavy arm around her and promptly fell asleep, his now limp cock still hanging out of his trousers. Feyre waited until he was snoring before slipping out of his grasp. She stared at him lying there, and for one hysterical second she considered killing him. His house was comfortable enough, she could live here until someone came looking for him.

But she was not a killer, so instead she tiptoed through the rooms and ransacked his possessions. She washed herself in his bathing room with soap, a luxury she hadn’t had since she left her village. She slipped on three pairs of socks, some trousers and a heavy woolen shirt, and slipped her feet into a pair of boots she found in a closet. After she ate until her stomach was ready to burst she wrapped a heavy cloak around her shoulders and filled a knapsack with bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine.

The man did not stir the entire time, and she didn’t bother to be quiet as she opened the front door and let it slam behind her. It wasn’t like he would be coming after her. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and sipped her wine as she walked. The intoxication wouldn’t last, for the same reason that her skin never showed any bruises and cuts healed immediately. She had asked for an endless amount of time, and that meant her body would always stay as it had been when she’d made that deal.

Six months. Six months she’d been doing this, stealing and sneaking and pilfering. Her body would never give out, but how long until her mind did? Feyre was just about to toss her empty bottle into a sewer when she heard it. That laugh, gentle and crooning and inhuman. She whirled, and came face to face with darkness. A mass of shadows, the same as in the forest back in her village.

And then, stepping out of those shadows, her handsome stranger.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” he purred. His lips were lifted into a little smirk, his violet eyes shimmering with amusement. His hands were in his pockets, his steps slow, relaxed. The picture of cool arrogance.

A wave of fury and grief rocked through her, and without thinking she lifted the bottle and flung it at him. Those violet eyes flashed in surprise as the bottle hit him square in the chest. He stumbled backwards, momentarily caught off guard, and then he laughed again.

“Well,” he murmured. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“I called you!” she yelled. “I went back to the woods and called for you! I know you heard me!”

The darkness shrugged. “I was busy.”

Feyre growled in frustration, and before she knew what she was doing she had stepped forward and lifted her hand to slap him across his smug, handsome face. He saw her coming, and her hand went right through him as if he was no more than smoke. She was the one who stumbled then, and this time when he laughed it had a dangerous edge to it.

“Now now,” he teased. “Don’t be like that.”

It was the same words the man had spoken to her after using her body in exchange for shelter. The hair prickled on the back of her neck.

“You were watching.” It was not so much a question as much as an accusation. “I am the night itself, darling. I am always watching.”

They stood there, observing each other like two fighters in a ring.

“Can you take a different form?” Feyre asked eventually.

He smiled, and looked down at himself appraisingly. “I could. But you like this form.”

“You have ruined him for me.” Just one more of the many things he had taken from her.

The darkness tutted. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one. I made him up.”

“You must call him something, when you think about him at night.”

Feyre blushed, hating herself for being affected by him. Today, of all days, after what had just happened.

In truth she had tried out many names for him. Luc, Henry, Jacob, none of them had seemed quite right. Until one had stuck, and it was that name that used to fall from her lips in a sigh as she thought of him.

“Rhys,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened with pleasure, and he dipped his head in a pantomime of a bow.

“You tricked me.” Feyre tried to keep her voice steady but she was shaking with repressed anger.

Rhys lifted a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “I saved you. Remember how desperate you were not to marry that man? It was quite pitiful, really…”

“It’s not fair! I didn’t ask for this…”

Thunder clapped above them, even though it was a clear night. Darkness swallowed them until the alley disappeared, and it was just her, and Rhys, and the empty void of night around them. Feyre stared at the darkness in front of her and did not back down.

“You did not know what you wanted. I gave you immortality and freedom. Do you know what people would give to be granted those wishes? And here you are, complaining about it.”

Feyre stared into his star-specked eyes and said nothing. That first night, when she had run back to the forest, she had been prepared to beg, and plead, and bargain. But today, after everything she had endured, as he smirked at her with that cocky grin, she decided that she would not.

“Do you surrender?” he whispered. “I can make all your suffering end, right here, right now.”

If it is my soul you what, then you can have it. But only when I decide that I have lived enough.

Had she lived enough?

“I saw an elephant a few months ago,” she blurted. “It was part of a traveling circus. I had no idea animals could be that large.”

Rhys frowned in displeasure. The darkness swirled around them.

“It’s only been six months,” Feyre continued. “Imagine what I’ll have seen in six years?”

“Is that a challenge?” Rhys taunted.

Feyre squared her shoulders. “And if it is?”

The darkness laughed, not mockingly but with what seemed like genuine amusement.

“Well, in that case, Feyre darling,” he crooned, “I’d say this might be interesting after all.”

And with that the darkness lifted, and he was gone.

--

She didn’t see him again for six years. She had expected this, when she challenged him, but still, there were days (and nights), when she whispered to the dark and begged for him to come. Some days she was ready to give up. Other days, she simply wanted someone to talk to, someone who would remember their conversation. Someone who knew her name.

Some days she just wanted to see him. She hated herself for this, but she told herself that it wasn’t her fault. He had chosen his form to taunt her, and she couldn’t be blamed for the fact that it worked.

One day, out of desperation, she even takes a coin and buries it in the dirt in a park, and then she prays to the dark. But even then he doesn’t come, though she could have sworn the night darkened around her as she prayed.

When he finally returned it was on the longest night of the year. Fitting, she supposed.

Feyre was walking through a holiday market in Paris when he simply fell into step beside her, casually, as if he was showing up for a pre-arranged meeting. She could have screamed, or wept, or thrown something again, but instead she simply walked through the stalls and let him follow after her.

“Not even a hello?” Rhys asked after a while. “I know you missed me.”

She could have denied it, but he would have known it was a lie, so she didn’t.

“So many nights, you called for me,” he taunted. “And now here I am, and you have nothing to say?”

“I’m starting to think there’s nothing you enjoy more than the sound of your own voice,” she replied drily.

She expected him to be angry, but he only laughed, and she couldn’t help but feel a little thrill of victory.

“Oh, Feyre,” he drawled. “You do amuse me.”

“Ask me,” she tells him.

He stopped in his tracks and smiled at her wolfishly. “Ask you what?”

Feyre stepped around him and continued walking through the stalls. She had been desperate to see him, but now that he was here she couldn’t stand how grateful she felt. He knew, of course, but pretending like he didn’t was part of the game.

“You would want to get rid of me so soon?” he asked, his tone dripping with mock hurt.

“Don’t you have other humans to check up on?” she snapped.

His hand clamped around her elbow, and she whirled to look at him. His eyes were dark, his smile cunning. She shivered despite herself.

“Oh Feyre,” he whispered. “You still consider yourself a human? How sad.”

Her stomach lurched, but she shook off his hand, determined to not let him see how rattled she was.

“In time you will not, and you will surrender,” he whispered.

Feyre sneered at him. “Never. I will never surrender to you.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his warmth. She knew it was an illusion, but it was a good one, and she indulged herself by breathing in his scent. He smelled like the aftermath of rain, tinged with salt, and somehow, inexplicably, like those lemon cakes she had tasted so long ago.

He dipped his head towards her, and Feyre froze. Her traitorous eyes dipped to his lips, so thick and sensuous. She remembered the feel of them against her own- soft at first, and then insistent. Hungry.

He cupped her cheek, and Feyre had to fight the urge to not lean into his touch.

“Oh but darling,” he whispered. “You will.”

He closed the distance between them, pressing a feather-like kiss to her lips. Feyre’s eyes fluttered closed, and when she opened them again he had gone.

--

Another year came and went, and that time when winter solstice rolled around Feyre was prepared.

The dress she wore was new, stolen just that morning- dark blue velvet, so dark it almost looked black, embroidered with silver thread. The bodice was tighter than she preferred, and the neckline quite low, but she knew she looked good in it.

There was a meal on the table in front of her, bread, soup and a bottle of wine with two glasses. All pilfered from the kitchen of the house she was squatting in. The owners had been away on holiday for a week and it was the longest Feyre had stayed in one please in the almost ten years she’d been cursed.

She sat at the table and waited, and when shadows gathered on the other side of the room she pretended like her heart didn’t quicken. Rhys stepped out of the shadows, his gaze landing first on her, and then on the table set in front of her. His eyebrows lifted comically high.

“Hello, Rhysand darling,” Feyre purred.

His answering smile was nothing short of predatory. “Hello indeed. Did you go to all this trouble for me? And here I was, thinking maybe I wouldn’t show up this year.”

Feyre’s fist clenched around the stem of her wineglass. Rhys noticed, and his eyes glittered in amusement.

“I’d like to talk to you about that,” Feyre said, ignoring the jab. The more casual she acted, the less he would suspect how badly she looked forward to these visits.

Rhys cocked his head, lifting an eyebrow in question. He lifted the lid off the pot sitting in the middle of the table and sniffed with disdain.

“Come with me,” he said simply, holding out his hand for her to take.

Feyre looked at him warily.

“You’re all dressed up,” he continued with a shrug. “Why waste it on cold soup?”

It was barely a compliment, but Feyre felt a little thrill from it nonetheless. He might not have been a normal man but it seemed some pleasures were universal- having a beautiful woman on your arm being one of them.

She stood and took his hand, expecting him to lead her from the room, but then the world tilted around her. Darkness engulfed her, and for a moment it was just her and Rhysand, falling through the night. But then the world righted itself, and she was standing on a busy street in a city she didn’t know.

She gripped Rhysand’s arm and gaped around her incredulously. “Where did you take me?”

“Rome,” Rhys said simply. He opened the door to the restaurant with a flourish, and she stepped inside, mute with shock.

As soon as they were seated the din of conversation inside the restaurant died down. And then, as if in cue, all the other diners rose from their seats as one and exited the restaurant.

Feyre stared at them in alarm, and she realized with a lurch that they all wore the same slack-faced, vacant expression. One glance at Rhysand and his complete lack of concern confirmed her suspicion.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

He shrugged. “Getting us some privacy.”

With a lazy wave of his hand a waiter appeared, his dark eyes just as vacant as the others. Two champagne flutes were placed in front of them, the golden liquid glittering in the candlelight.

Feyre took a sip, her eyes widening as a thousand bubbles exploded across her tongue. She drained her glass, and the waiter reappeared to fill it again.

“So?” Rhysand drawled. “You wanted to speak with me?”

Feyre squared her shoulders. “After we eat.”

Rhys chuckled. “Are you afraid whatever you have to say will cause me to leave you here with the bill?”

In truth Feyre was afraid that he might leave and never show up again, and if it was to be that way she at least wanted to enjoy this night.

Dishes were placed in front of them, and Rhys spoke about Rome, and London, and far-away lands she had never heard of. Feyre told him what she had seen and done in the past year, and it was almost normal, except that of course it wasn’t.

Their dessert plates were cleared, and Rhys looked at her with something that almost resembled regret.

“I cannot free you,” he told her, his tone devoid of his usual humor. “I am bound by the rules, just as you are.”

“I know,” Feyre replied. “That is not what I want.”

“And what is it that you do want, Feyre?”

The same question he had asked her in those woods. The question that had started it all.

“I want you to answer me when I call for you.”

Rhysand’s eyebrows rose in surprise for the second time that night. The expression in his violet eyes was unreadable.

“And why would you need me? Have you been getting lonely?”

It was meant as a taunt, but Feyre had been prepared for this line of questioning.

“What’s more human than being lonely?” she fired back.

He stared at her for a moment, and then he leaned back in his chair, contemplating her. “Did I not tell you once that I am no genie, forced to answer when called upon by a bored human?”

Feyre resisted the urge to laugh. She had had a year to prepare for this conversation, and it was even more predictable than she had hoped.

“Yes,” she replied coyly. “And yet you keep showing up.”

“Ahh, but if I don’t, how will I know when you’ve had enough? Shall I simply let you wander the earth on your own for the rest of eternity?”

It was a chilling prospect, and Feyre’s cool mask slipped. She sipped her champagne and hoped he didn’t notice the way her fingers trembled.

“And tell me, do you wine and dine everyone whose souls you’re hoping to steal?”

He quirked an eyebrow but did not answer, so Feyre forged ahead.

“I amuse you. This would be a mutually beneficial agreement.”

Rhysand stared at her for so long that she started to worry she had gone too far. He held all the power here- she might not have been mortal anymore, but she was certainly no god, capable of controlling an entire roomful of people without so much as blinking.

But then he lifted his hand and slid something across the table towards her. It was her wooden ring, the one he had reduced to mist in front of her very eyes, and for a moment Feyre could only stare at it.

“Put it on, and I will come,” he murmured. His voice was soft, like a caress, and Feyre shivered. “Perhaps loneliness is not only reserved for humans after all.”

[cosmicallymundane]

REVENGE — fanfiction

word count — 670+

implied Daniel Grayson/Emily Thorne, pregnancy but only directly talked about in one sentence, lotsa flowery text im not sorry :,)

Emily, for all that she was, found herself gentle with this grief.

She folds it neatly into her arms, bundled against her bosom.

A strange, tired softness envelopes her bones, wetting her eyes with sticky sleep.

There it stays, a quiet thing really.

Sullen and droopy against her wiry and collapsed body.

Emily wonders if it had a name.

It pushes the porch swing, this grief, the groaning of wood and chain grates against her ears.

She did not know, and it sends a surge of nausea warbling in her stomach.

It's quiet. This feeling.

She's never known it silent.

Loud and volatile, double edged and searing — white hot and trembling at her finger tips.

Cutting winds of brine and sea, salt to split and bleeding skin.

Swollen fingers, purpled and pulsing, pulling and twisting little strings knotted and entangled in ways she cannot — will not untether.

Grief is wild and it hurts.

It's a withered section of her being, scarred over in the reds of injustice.

It hurt everywhere.

Mapped in this sorrow, dressed in this rage.

She finds hatred but familiarity in it at the very least.

Because Emily knows her grief.

It came to her years ago, when she thought its name was sadness, and it stayed without a bother to name its truth.

And this. Oh, this is not hers.

Too rounded, too soft. It is new, and old. Something grand, but terrible.

It liked to hide, to be small and unseen.

Craving something she had little to give.

It's not hers. No, not at all.

But she finds herself welcoming it all the same.

She met it by the bathroom door, when the walls sagged and the floors swirled. It led her by the hand, when she's pierced with vertigo and her knees felt like mush. Patience in its guidance as Emily paused and held no target in her wandering vision. Waves of sickness crashed against her and she remembers stumbling out the door.

She never stumbles — her steps always light and calculated.

Her trips precise and methodic.

But she did.

And it's okay, grief tells her.

For tonight, let her be undone.

She rests, a lonesome buoy stranded from its station in the dark sea.

She will not drown, she knows, but the act of nearly so, terrified her.

This grief, lets her rest.

It does not push, it does not scold.

A promise in its hold, that it'll carry her head above the choppy and unsure waters for however long she needs.

Her fists do not curl, she does not school her face. Not in the familiar and poised way of a delicate girl.

Her anger, a heavy rock always tucked into her pocket, feels a little lighter.

She shudders out a breath, her lips pinked and tacky.

June is always blue, nearly indigo — the sky always lighter than the sea.

The stretch of beach glittered in silver moonlight; echoes of glee and the childish shrieks of a long forgotten little girl, whose father and her stay out late to fish for stars, but a distant thought she tucks into the gaping chasm in her chest.

Tonight, the air is thick and humid.

Always carrying a little bit of sand in its invisible breeze.

It clings to the folds of her nightshirt, of which sticks to her sweat-slicked skin.

It chafes and she trembles in disgust.

Her mouth warbles, and bleary eyes flit from the sea and to her manor, the one he resides in. Because why not?

He never stayed long, here.

At one point in her life, perhaps minutes before she learned; these were her favorite types of nights.

The kind she perhaps envisions herself painting with her acrylics because oil took too long. And she can't wait. She never could.

This beauty is fleeting and never repeated.

And it's just for her.

Where it's her and her house, and her sea. And her paints.

Together. At peace.

June is peace and beauty.

Or it was.

She wishes it were August instead.

Wetness streaks her cheeks.

Because Emily Thorne is pregnant.

Amanda Clarke holds her a little tighter, in turn.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

[purple-link]

Alisaie and Purple Link

FFXIV Write 2024 Story Entry

Spoiler: Story takes place after WoL reaches Garlemald in Endwalker, but but before the Tower of Babil dungeon. Story will be largely sfw, but will adhere to FFXIV's level of mature storytelling.

Chapter 24: Bar

Lord Hien and Hakuro listened intently, hanging onto every word Purple Link and the Wolf Burglar were saying. The Wolf Burglar in particular had been in high spirits.

Purple Link smiled. He had never seen his friend so excited. Maybe it was the fact that Namai were hosting a small feast in honor of the Warrior of Light's visit.

He had politely declined, but they had insisted.

“Just go along with it,” said Alisaie, eventually, with a smirk, “Nobody can turn down free food.”

“But they’ll be full by the time we get to the actual ceremony,” said Purple Link, meekly, “There’s supposed to be food stands, and also I heard about this game where you can fish for balloons and play with them like yo-yos.”

“What’s a yo-yo?” asked Alisaie, bewildered.

“Uh, let me think…” said Purple Link, “They’re like Dancer’s chakrams, but you can bounce them on strings. Also, they’re non-lethal.”

“I change my mind,” said Alisaie, with a sarcastic grin, “I meant to say, 'You’re a yo-yo!'”

She gently tapped Purple Link’s noggin with her fist, to which Purple Link merely reacted in a cutsey manner.

It was hard to deny, with how ferocious Hrothgar tended to appear, that they could also be so adorable.

Then again, The Wolf Burglar had contended with his own affability. If he didn’t have his favorite bird to hug or his own tail to cuddle, he wouldn’t be able to sleep some nights.

…Domestication…

Was that what the hrothgar were, he thought?

Domesticated?

He spied the sharp saberteeth that protruded from out of Purple Link’s upper jaw. They didn’t look dull for their lack of use. He also noticed Purple Link’s penchant for black, sharp-looking claws. They looked real.

The Wolf Burglar had run into a few Hrothgar once or twice, before they began to further proliferate. He didn’t know whether or not it was a genetic difference, but some even appeared to have hyur-like fingernails, flat and broad, that sat at the top of the finger.

Purple Link had more animalistic features. His pupils were forever narrowed into slits. He preferred to wear more exposing clothing, often his sleeves, to let his fur breathe the natural air.

His hairstyle could be tailored like any other civlized man’s, but the veritable mane he was sporting prompted a more wild approach, untethered.

Free.

Was that what the Scions were? Free?

Before he could answer, Purple Link appeared in front of him.

“They’re not going to be ready for another two hours,” said Purple Link, “Did you say you found something?”

Despite his misgivings, he realized that things were more complicated around Purple Link than he could give him credit for, so he let it go for now. In the meantime, he more than gave his full report to the purple Hrothgar.

That’s what they were explaining to Lord Hien now. The hyur put his fingers to his chin.

The Wolf Burglar blinked at this. He noticed that the hyur’s fingernails were trimmed, cut down to the skin.

The Wolf Burglar looked at his own paws. They were quite long, as animalistic as Purple's, and if he wanted to, he could attack with his bare claws.

His own brute strength had gotten him out of jams where he even had to find his own food. He was not ashamed of his ability.

But Purple Link was.

He let himself get carried away, and almost burnt down half the town. And then, during the fight with Akimitsu, a much stronger, much angrier Purple Link used his new cat claws and teeth to almost tear out Akimitsu’s throat.

He considered his history with his own hyur adoptive father, how happy he was to live under a roof again, how proud he was to receive his new father’s love. How proud his father was that he naturally picked up his trade.

How angry he felt at his loss…

Was Purple Link domesticated, he thought to himself, or is it all an act?

“The location is sound,” said Lord Hien, “In the days when Lupin and Doman alike broke bread, it was easiest to perform ceremonies on even ground. I suppose, as a kingdom, we must have held our heads high.

"To be blinded by such simple pride…”

“Don’t let it discourage you, Lord Hien,” said Hakuro, the huge Lupin holding out a paw, “‘Tis only in policy and in judgement your reign lies, not in subjugation and loyalty.”

“My,  yes,” said Lord Hien, smiling, “But to win over some doubtful hearts, I may have to do better than that.”

He turned fully to Hakuro. The Lupin’s eyebrows shot up.

This captain of the guard, this Garlean conscript, one who had to traveled to Ala Mhigo to fight for Zenos, the emperor’s son who had turned down his inheritance.

He had only been around for a short while, but Hien already seemed to consider him as close a friend as any advisor. The wry Lupin thought briefly of Gosetsu, the huge Roegadyn who had been at Hien’s side every day, and Hakuro wondered if he was now filling that post.

“Hakuro,” said Lord Hien, “I think it’s time you and I drop the formalities. I wouldn’t mind at all, if you referred to me as merely Hien.”

“Lor…I mean, sir,” said Hakuro, his eyes growing wide, “You bring me great joy, being allowed to talk to you so informally.”

“Hakuro,” said Hien, anxiously, “I’m just a man. I am not giving you permission. We are friends, that is that.”

“That’s not why I’m happy,” said Hakuro, looking up.

“Hmm?”

“That you consider me a friend, a trusted ally,” said Hakuro, “That we could sit at the same table and share the same stories…

“I must confess, my friend,” said Hakuro, his muzzle curling into a genuine smile, “I’ve been looking forward to the day when I could ask you to be my friend.”

Lord Hien smiled brightly, and Purple Link was gladdened by the gesture. The Wolf Burglar was awed by such sentiment.

For a few hours after that, the Wolf Burglar felt, genuinely, like the rift between Lupin and Doma could finally be sealed for good. He at once cast out his doubts over Purple Link, and his attitude, and started certainly to look forward to the ceremony.

To hell with Akimitsu, thought the Wolf Burglar, maybe there was room for the Wolf Burglar to live in a world without cynicism or corruption.

He could finally see a chink in the armor through which shone a beam of light.

“Well, that settles it,” said Lord Hien, “I shall pen my document shortly, take my most trusted advisors and Lupin allies with me, and then we will have our festival in the foothills of the remains of Doma’s pride. It is my hope that our unity will outshine any reign that had come before or since.

“Although, I must confess,” said Lord Hien, “I’m putting you a bit on the spot. Not that we wouldn’t help, but you don’t have a lot of time to assemble structures for booths and entertainment.”

“Just leave that to me,” said Hakuro, “Despite only hearing about it, I’ve been preparing for a day like this for a long time. Nothing better than to shake the shackles off of our Garlean incarceration by renewing our alliance with Doma.”

“Then I shall meet you anon,” said Lord Hien, and then turned to Purple Link, “And you, my friend, have a good rest. By tomorrow, come rain or shine, we shall have ourselves a bash.”

That night Purple Link dined with the Wolf Burglar, Alisaie, and Isse and Kurobana. It was especially invigorating, because Kurobana was another Lupin, one who had shared a lineage with Hakuro.

“I’m not exactly my brother’s build,” admitted Kurobana, “I think a lot of the village was expecting me to go with my brother, but I didn't have the strength for any fight. I couldn’t protect the village.

“And then I started working on the rice fields,” said Kurobana, smiling, “Nothing can compare to the quality of life hard work brings, quite like harvesting rice out in the fields.”

“Your brother must be very proud,” said Alisaie, brightly, “Glad I am to see the both of you on the same shore.”

“Thank Purple Link for that,” said Kurobana, “If it wasn’t for him, I would have no brother, no career, and no home. He truly helped to bring our families together in more ways than one.”

Purple Link anxiously scratched his face with his claw, with a weak smile indicating his flattery.

“Aww, no biggie,” said Purple Link, “I’m just happy to help, is all.”

The Wolf Burglar leaned back into his chair, after having devoured his meal, as if he also wanted credit for something he wasn’t there to perform.

“I got to say, it’s nice to see more Lupin out in the wild,” said the Wolf Burglar, “We’re spread thin enough as it is, not a lot of us in Kugane, and more of them have emigrated to the Enclave.

"It’s great to see there are still a lot of us scraping the bottom, makes a wolf feel good!”

Kurobana frowned at this display of denigration.

“I don’t know what you consider as ‘wild,’” said Kurobana, “A lot of our race has died in the occupation, some of my friends besides. I don’t consider myself wanting just because I don’t live in a palace.”

“Still,” said the Wolf Burglar, “Better the devil you know, right?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” said Kurobana, his ears flattening against his head, “Lord Hien has been nothing but gracious to this whole village. You couldn’t find a better leader in a mile.”

“Wolves don’t need leaders,” said the Wolf Burglar, “We can take care of ourselves.”

“Strong words from one who does not have a name,” said Kurobana, “Were you never given one, or did you forget it after a lifetime of crimes?”

The Wolf Burglar didn’t answer. Instead, in a flash of blinding speed, he drew Soboro Sukehiro from its sheath and plunged it vertically into the flat of the wood surface of the table. The blade was sharp enough that it easily cut through the wood like a hot knife through butter, slicing into the table before the tip hit the ground.

The Wolf Burglar stood intensely like that for a few cold and silent seconds, before he withdrew the blade from the table and sheathed it.

“If you will excuse me,” said the Wolf Burglar, levelly, although you could still detect a growl.

Everyone watched him disappear from the corner, before Purple Link attempted to follow him. Alisaie put her hand out to stop him.

“Just give him a moment to breathe,” said Alisaie, “Nobody said this was going to be smooth.”

“I know,” said Purple Link, “I just want to be there for him. He has nobody but his sword.”

After a few more minutes, after which the meal was put away, Purple Link approached the Wolf Burglar from behind. He was staring out in a direction that wasn’t exactly Yanxia.

“Gil for your thoughts?” asked Purple Link. The Wolf Burglar sniffed. It wasn’t necessarily because he was crying, but Purple Link wanted to give him his distance in case it was.

“What do you care?” said the Wolf Burglar, “You’re a hero. I’m just a thief.”

“You’re the thief?” said Purple Link, chuckling, “And here I was thinking you were copying me.”

“Bull-shite,” said the Wolf Burglar, turning sharply towards him, “If you had any inkling what it was like to be me, you wouldn’t be swinging that stick with such gracelessness. You’re lucky you have magic.”

“And I suppose I deserved that,” said Purple Link, approaching his side, feeling a little less generous. The Wolf Burglar side-eyed him darkly, and then sighed.

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” said the Wolf Burglar, “I’m lashing out.”

“It’s not a mark of shame, y’know,” said Purple Link, “We all have a history, even if we’ve forgotten it over time.”

“It’s just…” said the Wolf Burglar, “I was nine. You don’t exactly have a lot of time to remember things like your name, especially when you’re parents aren’t there.”

“Your parents were absent?”

The Wolf Burglar sighed again, turning to the Hrothgar.

“I don’t know, I don’t remember,” said the Wolf Burglar, “I just remember they loved me.

The Garleans had us under such a boot-heel, we were lucky if we remembered our Eorzean language teachings before we remembered our culture. By the time I was old enough to dependably remember my name, my parents were already gone.

“I knew my step-father’s culture and I would clash,” said the Wolf Burglar, “So I didn’t push the issue. By the time I was old enough to hold a steady job on my own, people were already referring to my thieve’s name, so I went with the flow.

“I don’t know why I’m helping you,” said the Wolf Burglar, “Maybe it’s because I want to reclaim some kind of Lupin culture for myself, whatever that looks like now. I just know it’s not as simple as they want to put it.”

“Of course it isn’t,” said Purple Link, “The measure of a good deed done well is more than enough reward.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, and I do agree with it,” said the Wolf Burglar, frankly, “But it still sounds patronizing.”

Purple Link smiled.

“I think, you and I,” said Purple Link, “are on the same page on this.”

“That’s a comfort,” said the Wolf Burglar, “Whatever happens, make sure Lupin like Kurobana are taken care of. I don’t want to see them get hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s not cryptic,” said Purple Link, half-hoping the Lupin was joking.

“I mean it,” said the Wolf Burglar, tears in his eyes, “Don’t bar the way for any of them. Help them live free. This…

“This ceremony,” said the Wolf Burglar, “It means everything to the Lupin. Everything.”

He howled lightly, and Montaro alighted on the ground. The Wolf Burglar jumped on his back, and rose so gracefully, you almost wondered if it was choreographed.

As soon as he was out of range, Purple Link tried to turn back, but his way was barred by Isse and Kurobana.

The kindly Lupin was looking angrily at the flying Wolf Burglar, keeping a close eye on him as they talked. Purple Link wondered if the Lupin thought the noble thief was listening to them.

“Had a little chat with your thief friend?” said Isse, “Or do you like parading your secrets around our villages?”

“What secret?” said Purple Link, “We’re not hiding anything.”

Isse watched the Wolf Burglar fly in the direction of the ceremonial grounds, waiting until he was out of earshot. Kurobana nodded.

“You may not be, but he is,” said Isse, pointing behind him towards the Wolf Burglar, “I don’t know what you two were chatting about, but I want to warn you about him.”

“I wouldn’t judge him too harshly,” said Purple Link, folding his arms, “He’s had a hard life, so have we all.”

“Well, maybe so,” said Isse, “But it didn’t look so hard when he was chatting up a few Lupin last week.”

“‘Chatting up?’” said Purple Link, “You mean, you guys?”

Purple Link pointed at Kurobana, who shook his head.

“Not from the way he smelled,” said the village Lupin, “We thought you should know. We know who the Wolf Burglar is yes, but if my guess is correct, I’d say he was secretly talking to some bandits who live in the Glittering Basin.”

“Bandits?” said Purple Link, his synapses firing on all cylindars, trying to make sense of it all, “Him? No. Really?”

“Don’t trust anyone,” said Kurobana, “...Except my brother, Hakuro. He’s a good egg.”

“And Lord Hien,” added Isse, pointing a finger up in the air.

“Yeah, I think I know my job,” said Purple Link, irritably.

“But yeah, not that guy,” said Kurobana.

They both went back in the village, confident their warning was heard.

Purple Link stared out into the direction of Wolf Burglar, currently visiting the ceremonial grounds. Despite everything he could do to restrain himself, he felt a growl vibrating viciously at the back of his throat.

He bared his claws and yowled, slashing at a nearby tree. A large chunk of the tree’s trunk was slashed into two, ripped from the bark, and onto the ground.

“Played me like a godsdamned fiddle!” growled Purple Link, and went back to Namai with considerably less wind in his sails than he would have liked.

To be continued…

[karmahasagun]

If your ocs were in rainworld what creature would they be? How would they act? Friends? Any tamed pets? Are they the tamed pet?

oh BOY did this give me some BRAINROT

I need to put this shit under a fucking cut because this ended up longer than I thought. Anyways.

Kas

My boy is absolutely a scug, there is no doubt in my mind. I think he is somewhat aligned with Artificer, both in morals and powers, but rather than explosions, it's probably similar to Centipede electric. He's a bit faster than your average scug, and can wall-jump well. I also think, to reflect his wild magic, his electricity has a small chance to misfire which will stun him rather than whatever he's trying to stun, and the chance is higher the lower his Karma level is. Karma 10 has no chance, Karma 1 has maybe a 1/3 or 1/2 chance, with the others being evenly dispersed between. I also think he frequently terrorizes visits the local Iterator and fucks with old Ancient tech, either finding or building a mechanical lizard, probably with similar abilities to a Cyan. My girl Smoothie :]

Because my brainrot is incredibly high, I also think Jericho is a scug in this AU. They'd probably have the same spear-dual-wielding ability that Spearmaster has, and would be able to poison their spears with something like Spitter Spider/Red Lizard venom, able to slow down and stun anything they hit. They probably also have the high backflip from Riv.

Maybe the Local Iterator (tm) is Zep. Iterator Eve & Adem in the same local group. Idk what Frog would be. Maybe a Blue/Yellow Lizard? Dunno.

I don't think Kas would be able to ascend, at least if Jericho was alive. He wouldn't be able to let go of that attachment, and the ascension would fail. If he lost Jericho, it might be able to happen, but I also think he could just as easily get consumed by sadness/anger/grief, which would also make it difficult to properly ascend.

Eries

She's an Iterator. She is very similar in demeanor to Moon, but I think she is a few degrees more... questionable. She's probably a newer-gen Iterator, not really being around much during the Ancients' time before the Mass Ascension. In the campaign, she is a paladin dedicated to the Goddess of Death, and my way of translating that into RW lore would be giving her an obsession with Karma and The Cycle. Rather than trying to find a Solution to The Cycle, I think she would find a way to bend the rules of her programming to do more research on The Cycle, and how it works. As an Iterator, she wouldn't be able to experience The Cycle herself, but she'd know from her database that it exists, so I think she'd want to understand why it exists and how it works. She's not really trying to find a way to die/ascend like most Iterators, just trying to better understand the world, and the reason why death and ascension work the way they do.

As for other characters, the Pantheon are Ancients/Echos. Clover is another Iterator in Eries' local group, but his can is infected with Rot. Everyone else I'm not really sure. Eries would probably have a pet scug that she uses to study The Cycle.

Glory

They are an untethered Iterator, their can abandoned/collapsed. They have a pet Blue Lizard, aka Bluebell, and they travel around doing research on Ancient civilization.

Cypress

He's a scug similar in vibe to Monk. No real special powers, gets along with animals easier, etc. He probably has several pet Lizards.

Misc.

I didn't really have any solid ideas for Darcy and Lilac, so they're getting left out of this one rip. This does have me thinking Very Hard about both Kas and Eries tho. Lowkey wanna draw them in this AU now. This was very fun, good question :]

[dropsofjupitcr]

The Waves of Change

Benji paddled his board through the serene emerald waters, squinting against the brilliant late afternoon sun. His wetsuit clung to his toned body like a second skin as he drifted, finally allowing the frothing surf to lull him into a rare state of stillness.

Out here, the cacophony of the city seemed to fade away — the incessant ring of his phone, his boss's increasingly urgent demands, his parents' well-meaning but insistent pleas about finally settling down. Just the rhythmic push and pull of the tides enveloping him, beckoning escape into the vast unknown.

For once, Benji allowed himself to simply float, unmoored.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled the briny sea air deeply. The hypnotic crash of waves triggered a long-buried memory — plastering posters of soaring cliffs and endless blue horizons on his bedroom wall as a restless teenager, desperate to immerse himself in other shores. That unquenchable thirst for exploration had propelled him ever since, from the first cross-country road trip after college to his wild years in Australia to...

The realization struck him with surprising force. He'd never truly unpacked the reasons behind his relentless wandering before — always just attributed it to an incurable case of wanderlust. But maybe there was something deeper driving that endless search, an unresolved void he'd been unconsciously attempting to fill all this time.

As the sun began its fiery descent into the shimmering Pacific, Benji felt something unfamiliar stirring inside. Not the exhilarating sense of restlessness that usually seized him, but rather...a strange, profound calm. A sense of being untethered yet momentarily anchored hit him.

Floating there, adrift in changing tides, Benji wondered if he was finally ready to evolve. To find shores that could make him want to stay a little longer this time around.

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. But as the fading sunlight danced across the glassy waves, he realized he was open to letting the tides chart his next path, wherever they may lead.

[cptsvensen]

rotating like. this stupid concept in my brain of dogged security worker stubble finally running into grimy biker svensen after five years and.

they’re both jaded and retired and rough around the edges (then again, they always were that), but stubble looks at him and the respect is still there. the sense of loyalty is a tad frayed, but fuck. stubble would probably follow him if he asked, even though svensen isn’t his superior anymore, and he doesn’t quite get it, what this unwieldy thing is he feels, but it’s too big for his chest and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

they’re not connected through their jobs any longer, but stubble would feel a bit untethered without him in his life, he thinks. he watches him through eyes clouded by nostalgia and longing (for what they had, maybe. the easy rapport, the trust. he stops himself there).

svensen seems different yet familiar, still gruff, still so fucking solid, but a little more unhinged now that he isn’t fenced in by the regs of his former position. it’s in his eyes and the way he holds himself, self-assured, devil-may-care, and stubble has this impulse to lean on him, just to see what would happen (because he used to be able to tell when svensen was his boss, and the thought that he might not anymore gives him a thrill). it’s dumb, but his fingers itch for it, the need to play with fire. danger close.

svensen takes down his phone number, and he has this smirk on his face as he does it. stubble cannot help but return it, feeling giddy. bloody hell, maybe they can be something again. friends, at least. the wild hope lets him breathe a little easier.

(shout-out to jaxon bones for asking svensen if he would date stubble on like one of their last shifts together in 3.0 and svensen going “no, he’s my subordinate, i wouldn’t”. and me thinking ok, so that's his criteria??? ok. oops. i need mc road captain svensen in my life like i need air owen pls)

[attemptsonherlifepdf]

fantastic mr fox: humanising animals, animalising men, and an exploration of masculine identity

‘this story is too predictable.’ / ‘predictable? really? what happens in the end?’ / ‘in the end, we all die. unless you change.’

mr fox, the titular character of wes anderson’s 2009 stop-motion adaptation of roald dahl’s children’s book, is a portrait of two conflicting manifestations of masculinity. he is built to demonstrate the crossover between tradition and modernity, between wild and civilised. characterised as a charming gentleman, almost renowned for his recklessness, mr fox combines his undomesticated instincts with a carefully crafted domestic life. he appears to spend more time manufacturing a perfect home and family than he does actually participating in it. the events of the movie serve to strip away his facade and present both the audience and protagonist with a harsh reality to deal with: the juxtaposing aspects of his identity that he must contend with in order to survive his situation. these aspects are demonstrated through the use of anthropomorphic animals. in essence, the text attempts to convey the message that while you can associate your actions with animal or human traits in order to characterise and frame them, you cannot change their value and their consequences. it serves as a critique of how the nature of male identity is exploited to shunt responsibility, and the movie specifically promotes a more collectivist mentality.

there are four key scenes that mark mr fox’s journey in terms of his identity. initially, we first see his identity openly questioned once he has moved into a new home (a large and expensive tree), just prior to him revealing his ‘master plan’ to kylie, who becomes his assistant of sorts. he asks, ‘why a fox? why not a horse, or a beetle, or a bald eagle? i’m saying this more as, like, existentialism, you know? who am i? and how can a fox ever be happy without, you’ll forgive the expression, a chicken in its teeth?’ he attributes his identity with the ability to fulfil his base desires, like he could in his youth. aspects of his later life such as employment, family, and safety restrict his ability and leaves him feeling untethered from himself. the movie opens with his youthful vibrance and recklessness, and is quickly contrasted with his dissatisfaction with his job, home, and life in general.

MR FOX

i dont want to live in a hole anymore. it makes me feel poor.

MRS FOX

we are poor, but we’re happy.

MR FOX

comme ci, come ca...

does anyone actually read my column?

having been moved out of the hole and into an expensive tree, mrs fox asks her husband:

MRS FOX

do you still feel poor?

MR FOX

less so.

constructing the ideal domestic space for himself and his family does not satisfy mr fox and he yearns for more, which is where is existentialism and ‘master plan’ come into play. domesticity was never going to satisfy mr fox, as he yearns for something youthful and risky and dazzling, adjectives not usually applied to a quiet and content home life. the consequences of this dissatisfaction are drastic and almost immediate.

soon, having been forced out of his new home and underground by an attack from the farmers, mr fox is faced with a situation he cannot charm his way out of. he attempts to apologise to his son and recite a speech to raise the morale of his family, and both of these attempts are shut down by those around him. the facade of his elaborate home, his monologues, even his suits, are abruptly stripped away leaving him with only his actions which he cannot charm his way out of. the reality is that he and his family, his neighbourhood, is stuck underground with no means of food as a result of his selfish actions. this prompts yet another key scene; his argument with felicity, which begins with her viciously hissing and scratching his face.

MRS FOX

why did you lie to me?

MR FOX

because im a wild animal.

MRS FOX

you are also a husband, and a father.

MR FOX

im trying to tell you the truth about myself.

MRS FOX

i dont care about the truth about yourself. this story is too predictable.

MR FOX

predictable? really? what happens in the end?

MRS FOX

in the end, we all die. unless you change.

mrs fox’s physical attack on her husbands face serves as a display of genuine animal ferocity, making mr fox’s claim to being a ‘wild animal’ appear as a flimsy excuse for his behaviour. his chicken theft, which he was insistent upon regardless of the consequences, was motivated not by animal instincts but a selfish desire to feel a particular version of his own masculinity. disregarding the safety of his family actually seems like a natural byproduct of his master plans because he is trying to reclaim his masculinity from a time before his family existed, and in his eyes, restricted him. the very recent loss of his tail, combined with this conversation with his wife, is a harsh reality check for mr fox in terms of the dangers of his masculinity.

the audience sees the outcome of this conversation later on, in the waterfall scene. here mr fox admits to his insecurities and suggests sacrificing himself to the farmers to save the local community.

MR FOX

darling, maybe they’ll let everyone else live!

…

MR FOX

foxes traditionally like to court danger, hunt prey and outsmart predators, and that’s what im actually good at…i guess at the end of the day im just-

MRS FOX

i know. we’re wild animals.

the difference between this admission to animalism and the one from his argument with felicity is that here, both parties gain some acceptance of their animalism without using it as an excuse for their behaviour. the inclusion of others in animalism – ‘we’re’ wild animals, rather than ‘i am’ a wild animal – contributes to illustrate how wildness is not specific to masculinity. it is not femininity vs masculinity but animals vs man.

the movie also questions the nature of an animal in the final key scene known as ‘canis lupus.’ wes Anderson referred to this scene as ‘the reason im making this movie.’ throughout the movie, mr fox alludes to his ‘phobia of wolves’ and shuts down any conversation surrounding them:

MR FOX

scared? no, i have a phobia of them!...a wolf? what’s with all the wolf talk? can we give it a rest for once?

arguably, these reactions are representative of mr fox’s aversion to competitive masculinity. he shuts down any opportunity for those around him to discuss something he sees as more masculine than himself in order to feel secure in his own masculinity. critic shana mlawski argues that ‘the wolf is described as the wildest, most frightening, and yet most beautiful creature in the world. mr fox fears the wolf and yet wants to be exactly like him. we can thus say that mr fox fears pure, wild masculinity yet also yearns to own it himself.’ the scene holds an eerie familiarity to it; mr fox is recognising something that he thought would be a reflection of himself, but the wild animal is no longer familiar to him anymore. he now accepts his role as a husband and a father and no longer fights to overtly express his animalism in the same way as the wolf. the most he can offer the wolf is raising his fist in solidarity. he calls out to the wolf, ‘i have a phobia of wolves!’, which is an interesting moment to admit this in. it’s his acceptance that allows him to admit this. the scene is entirely compromised of male characters: mr fox, kristofferson, ash, kylie and the wolf. mr fox’s admission to his fear allows him to be vulnerable in front of these people he cares about, and to use this as a teaching moment for the young boys.

MR FOX

what a beautiful creature. wish him luck out there, boys.

here mr fox openly admits his admiration for someone else’s masculinity in front of others without showing signs of his own insecurity. he can admire the wolf for what he is without seeing him as competition. the scene allows the audience to see and directly compare two forms of masculinity and animalism, and to understand that there is no one true expression of either of those traits. the wolf has connotations of violence and ferocity, whereas mr fox and his suit and display of multilingualism are entirely modern, but both are masculine animals who are valid in their own right. either way, both animals rely on violence for survival at times.

kupfer frames violence in three ways: symbolically, structurally and as a narrative essential. there are various forms of violence within this narrative, namely mr fox killing chickens and squabs, and the three farmers’ attack on the animal community. symbolically, mr fox’s chicken theft is attributed to his masculinity. while it is often presented as thought-out ‘master plans’, his desire to enact this violence in the first place supposedly stems from his ‘wild animal’ instincts. he associates a time where he felt secure in his masculinity with his actions at the time (violence). structurally, we see the potential for this violence in the opening scene, where mr fox takes his wife chicken-stealing and they become trapped. he is stuck in a fox trap with his wife when he receives the news of his impending fatherhood, a relatively obvious symbol for his view of fatherhood in general. the news of his wife’s pregnancy disrupts his ability to continue stealing chickens, not just on this specific occasion but through the coming years as well. mr fox appears to view family life as an unfulfilling, less raw expression of his masculinity, and is shown to be wholly dissatisfied with his life.

the violence on the farmers’ behalf is almost always in reaction to mr fox’s violence, already giving it a structural framing. boggis, bunch and bean are referred to early on in the film as the ‘meanest, nastiest and ugliest farmers on the side of the river.’ their violence against mr fox and subsequently the local animal community is an attempt to gain back power and status. mr fox’s actions are “humiliating’ and the local news coverage of this exchange between the farmers and animals raises the stakes as now the reputation of these farmers is on the line as well as their power. violence here serves as a narrative essential because it drives mr fox into a situation that forces him to confront his issues with masculinity and splitting between his animal and human traits, giving the text/movie a fulfilling arc. violence is

introduced as inherently masculine, but is decoupled from masculinity by the ending. mrs fox also plays a small but significant role in this; at various moments in the movie she exhibits her own displays of aggression equal in intensity to the men around her, suggesting to the audience that forms of violence should be categorised as human vs animal rather than male vs female. examples of this behaviour include her clawing at her husband’s face, and a parallel between her and a male human character wherein they both connect two wires and shout ‘contact!’, causing an explosion. while this moment is brief, it highlights a distinct difference between animals being violent and men. humans’ aggression is driven by the need for power, whereas that of animals is driven by the need for survival. the man paralleled with felicity only sparked the explosion to destroy mr fox’s home and assert the dominance of the three farmers, while mrs fox used the same form of violence to enact a plan to save her nephew’s life. petey’s song even alludes to this sentiment: ‘well he stole, and he cheated, and he lied just to survive.’

mr fox’s tail becomes a symbol of power; bean wears it as a necktie, and mr fox feels emasculated by his loss.

MR FOX

one of those slovenly farmers is probably wearing my tail as a necktie right now.

…

BADGER

i cant even imagine how painful, even just emotionally, that must be for you… oh but foxy how humiliating, having your tail blown clean off by-

MR FOX

can we drop it?

the use of the tail as a necktie is a symbol of the power that mr fox and the farmers end up jostling to achieve: at first it belongs to mr fox, then to the farmers, and is eventually reclaimed once more by the fox.

MR FOX

you shot off my tail.

[through gritted teeth] i’m not leaving here without that necktie.

when he reclaims his tail towards the end of the movie, it has been torn to shreds and needs ‘dry cleaning twice a week’ to maintain itself. this can be interpreted as a symbol for his evolved definitions of masculinity and power: his masculinity is no longer defined by impressing people or stealing or killing chickens, but in the quiet satisfaction of having a family. the final scene reveals that mrs fox is pregnant again, and instead of her glowing and her husband giving an awkward grin like in the opening scene, both of the spouses ‘glow.’ the structural framing of these pregnancy reveals bookending the events of the movie allows anderson to demonstrate mr fox’s growth and change in his priorities. the domestic life appears to be enough for him, and he no longer seems to find it emasculating,

what stands out as particularly modern about mr fox is how he unconsciously separates himself from both his wildness and his suburban self in his effort to combine them. he uses his ‘wildness’ as an excuse for his violence and selfishness, but is ultimately not willing to participate in truly wild forms of violence and selfishness, such has hunting. his chicken thefts always include infiltrating a human site, like boggis, bunce and bean’s farms, and the fun of it is in outsmarting them, rather than finding those animals himself out in the wild. the local animal community essentially functions as we would expect a rural village occupied by humans to function: everyone knows everyone, there is one local school and various small and quaint homes. while the setting reflects anderson’s signature style, it is also reflective of dahl’s framing of the community in the original text.

mr fox comes across as an individual who believes himself to be above the somewhat backward mentality of his village, that he is the most civilised and dazzling and original, and he exaggerates these traits in himself out of insecurity: ‘if they arent dazzled and blown away and kind of intimidated by me, then i dont feel good about myself.’this is also reflected in his consistent ‘trademark’, his whistle-and-click combination that he uses to set himself apart from other foxes. his home is also a reflection of this:

MRS FOX

you know, foxes live in holes for a reason.

MR FOX

[grunts and tilts head in disagreement]

yes and no.

this insecurity and desire for outsider approval and individuality is inherently human, a quality of his that cannot really be associated with his animalised parts. this precarious sense of identity and self doubt separates him from his ‘wildness’ as it stands, which is only intensified by the fact that he compensates by exaggerating his human traits in order to be liked and feel worthy, as those are the traits he believes have the most value. towards the end of mr fox’s character arc, he is forced to admit that his need for external validation is flawed and unsustainable. when the façade of carefully constructed grandeur is literally washed away by bean, he is left with nothing but his actions and their implications for those around him. foxy reconciles with the relative insignificance of an identity based on other’s perceptions of you when rat dies soon after, reacting to the suggestion that he redeemed himself last minute by revealing ash’s location:

MR FOX

redemption? sure. but in the end, he’s just another dead rat in a garbage pail behind a chinese restaurant.

this moment is also used to inadvertently allow the audience to evaluate the significance of motivation and intention to the value of an action. although rat did reveal useful information to aid the group in saving Kristofferson, mr fox recognises that he only did so because he realised he could not win this fight.

MR FOX

would you have told me if i didn’t kill you first?

RAT

never.

mr fox’s own motivations throughout the movie have devalued his actions as they have mostly been self-serving. as his motivations evolve to centre around his family, he gains the perspective to understand why one’s intentions are so important. while intention does not entirely dictate how good one’s actions are, they certainly characterise the person who’s action it is. your actions have value and consequences as they are, and that cannot be changed by dressing them up or animalising them to distance yourself.

in essence, fantastic mr fox is a lesson in the value of including those around you in your mentality and worldview. it paints masculinity as something that is inherent and complex in nature, but promotes the idea that it is not stuck with its traditional connotations of violence and egoism. mr fox’s emotional development throughout the text mostly centres around his own insecurities surrounding his masculinity and how that causes him to overcompensate in ways that harm those around him. by the end he recognises that more tame and domestic forms of masculinity are just as valid, and that basing his self-worth on how ‘dazzled’ his peers are by him is immature and not constructive. his family now liberates him and allows him to be vulnerable rather than restricting how he feels he can express himself, and as a unit the animals beat the farmers in their game of power-seeking. mr fox recognises and appreciates both his human and animal traits, without using them as a means to excuse his behaviour or to feel bad about his worth.

MR FOX

i guess my point is, we’ll eat tonight, and we’ll eat together. and even in this not particularly flattering light, you are without a doubt the five and a half most wonderful wild animals ive ever met in my life. so let’s raise our boxes – to our survival.

i.k.b

[tiptapricot]

MK liveblog thoughts, Asylum

Why does this have another boring title music section uGh

The main themes being right at the beginning w the cave n Wendy,,,,, Oughhh

THE EDITING IS SO GOOD

God god god

Marc looks so beat up n confused babe I’m so sorry I’m so sorry

I still don’t think this is Jake y’all sorry I rlly just never will ok

His accent doesn’t change it just gets stronger bc he gets more upset

Dr Harrow you suck so bad

“I took the bus” “hmgggggg |:-/“

Also why does his face look totally diff Oscar why do u shift ur face

DONT BRING UP THE LITTLE BOY SHUT UR YAP

Also again… Marc’s trigger is roro n he gets mad when harrow brings it up

Taweret my love

Taweret’s painted nails n how she licks her lips o baby oh yeah

Also the fact that she’s gotta read off cards n is awkward bc this isn’t her job

Autism overrides fear of being dead, category 6 event two dead and are mad ab it

Untethered consciousness is such a fun way to describe souls

Just watching Marc fall back into old habits of thinking n self hate n being trapped in his medical trauma agghhhhh

“Mahc… mahc….”

“BingoOOOOH MY GOD”

The Duat music is amazing n the colors r LOVELYYY

Poppa-ed ya hearts out hehhehe

Steven grabbin him boobies no heart there anymore

Also how what happens when ur souls don’t balance is diff bc Ammit is entombed n cant eat them

“Kill the hippo, steal the boat”

THEYRE INCOMPLETE BC JAKE ISNY THERE U FUCK LET HIM OUTTT

“You two guys” so real they rlly are guys

“Yeawrrite”

I love Steven n Marcs bickering ab killing Taweret or not they’re so

They’re so

I love the memory rooms hey don’t go into they’re so cool looking

N the music that’s like a muffled n floaty version of the main theme ouYghH

“Woah… that’s wild”

Marc seeing the shiva n brushing it off is so…

I didn’t think anything of it the first time but knowing now is just uUggGHh

Steven’s collar is lower cut than Marc’s n that vibes

The way Steven looks when he asks “All of them?” Is so heartbreaking

Marc baby Marc baby Marc bABY I need to holD YOU OH SHIT RORO HIIII

“Why is there a child in a room full of people you’ve killed” GOD BUT HES ALIVE HES THE ONLY ALIVE ONE ITS NOT THE SAME

THE WAY MARC BANGS ON THE MEMORY BC HE KNIWS WHAT UT IS IUGGHHHHHH

“Draw wing”

Layers gators in awhile crocodile

THE SHOT OF MARC THROUGH THE HALL MIRROR THE GREENS OF THE TREES N THEN IT GETYING DIMMER AS IT RAINS

The music swelling n shifting still light n then getting heavy n deep when Steven realizes what’s happening

Marc searching so hard n Steven’s panic rising n Marc looking rigid n scared n tense as his own fear rises

Steven yelling even tho they can’t hear him the water rushing in w Marc’s memory n his breathing over the top of it Steven diving n n Marc’s breath shivering over all of it GOD GOD GOD GOD

Steven at the shiva…. He looks so shaken and empty

The room is warmly lit but the contents are not

The water dripping in the silence

Wendy’s hair going from wavy to straight in grief

Baby Marc… baby….. go back to your room

God

Ok

Steven’s face I’m

God Jesus fuck the emotions this instills just holy shit holy shit

DONT GO UP THE STAIRS

The way each level almost gets more desaturated….

Steven continuing to climb n Marc only being able to watch

The score dude… I’m just…:.::::::::

Their vices when they’re fighting

Teen Marc…. Steven just watching and the tears on teen Marc’s face and Marc pulling him away into a worse memory

Spitting up sand..

OH HEY STEVEN INSEE UR SHOULDER

Marc……. Man

Hey I… care ab these guys a lot

“What happened to you?” And Marc is already moving towards it

ALSO THE SHOT OF THE TEMPLE IUGGHHHB JTS SO COMICS IT MAKES ME YEL

I can’t even

Like

I can’t even describe the feelings of this scene we all know

But like the score doesn’t stop immediately when Khonshu starts talking his voice cuts through it and silences things and makes Marc pause

Khonshu I hate u

Also so many shots r uneven n weird this scene in a good way

“Marc he was… taking advantage of you”

The way we see through Marc’s eyes the edge of Khonshu’s staff before he says yes and then Khonshu is finally visible OUGGHHHH

HAHA THEY SAID THE TITLE YEAHHHH YEAHHH OH HEY HIS CAPE IS GLOWINH DUDE

TAWERET ILYYYY

Marc’s…. Rlly strong n panicked reaction to maybe having to relive the bedroom but Steven just can’t get it bc he doesn’t know he is unable to know and then Steven says it’ll b all his fault n it triggers Marc and he has a mini meltdown just… fuck man

The way the diff Dr Harrows act diff n have diff rules

Proves the psych ward isn’t reality immediately between the sedating vs the not sedating

Again Dr harrow asmr is begrudgingly v nice

Marc just responding by looking at him like 😕

The tomb buster figures… the stuffie, the astronaut on the shelf. The car bunk bed…. I think

Baby Steven…….

And the way Steven copies along bc he rmrs…

Steven being a fictive is still one of my fav things but also it makes sense he does not have a good reaction bc he doesn’t know what it means n his sense of self is so strong n just

God….

PUNCH HIS ASS

Steven… oh baby

I’m like

Listen guys I’m rlly fucking emotional it’s hitting harder than usual rewatched uh um um

Marc’s voice breaks even when he’s so angry and I’m just I

Oh I’m im rlly close to crying lol

Steven’s initial reaction to her being dead is just heart shattering n he’s mumbling n his world is coming down n Marc is trying to calm him bc he realized what he did but Steven can’t hear him through the panic

Steven still being brave in the face of gaslighting n illusions n not believing that Dr harrow is real like Marc did

“Oo nosy…”

Dr harrow I hate u

Steven’s breakdown as the realization of his mother is brought to the surface n he tries to deny it but he can’t the way his dont do that becomes a pleas j his face breaks oh the tear oh god

“My mum is dead” And the line is dead too

“I was just a little boy”

Oscar Isaac the actor you are Jesus shit

The way Steven just watches the memory n breaks n the tears come n he gets it

And the taxi drives away someone mentioned the Jake parallel god

“Marc… all those horrible things that’s he said to you, she was wrong, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Hey… hey… you were just a child. It wasn’t your fault.”

My chest is like twisting n it’s in my throat guys just… Jesus

THEYRE UNBALANCED BC JAKE ISNT THERE N ITS TWO HEARTS N IT WORKS DIFF THAN SINGLETS BABY CMON

This fight hurts so bad just

The faceless sand creature….

Steven working so hard to save Marc

The way Steven covers his mouth when Marc gets hit n he looks so purely scared

AND THEN HE ATEPS UP YES BABY YOU GOT THIS

“SIIIIX!! I prefer cricket :-)”

BEAT THAT THING UPPPPP

Marc’s proud happy in awe face n then he gets grabbed and it is that moment and—Steven falls

And Marc’s voice is hoarse and it’s so distant for Steven and then he realizes and tries to run but it’s too late “stop the boat!” “Wait!” But it doesn’t they can’t n Marc is yelling and Steven reaches out and says his name and is gone

The way that Taweret gasps a lil when the scales balance and then the music just.. lightens… and Marc looks so destroyed in the soft light of the field of reeds, alone and warm and broken….

Yeah I…. No wonder this put me in a shit emotional state for a week Jesus Christ

I never want to relive the wait between moon knight episodes 5 and 6 ever again but truly what the fuck dude that…… episode just

Christ