#severed ties has been on loop today !!

[saturnisfallingdown]

my message to the world...... listen to pleasure venom

[olive-treeeee]

Remember Me - Kate Lethbridge Stewart x Reader

Well! What's this? Two Fics in one day!? Now this wasn't a request per se. It was based off this post by @buggyboba

Now, this did take me a little longer than three days, but I did sit at my laptop for a very long time with an ungodly amount of caffeine. 😌 I really hope you guys enjoy this cuz I love Kate so so so much, she makes me so gay man, so if you guys like what you see, please please roll in those requests. I love writing for her teehee!

Anyhoo, the general summary for this fic is:

You are trapped in the wish world. You have been noticing the cracks in reality for a while, hoping and praying for a way out. But then there's Kate Lethbridge Stewart, who no longer remembers the life you two once shared, but as time twists and memories fade, love may be the only force strong enough to break the illusion and bring the real Kate back. She just has to remember you...

trigger warnings: Slight mention of misogyny.

Word count: 2.9k

Requests are open!

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The clock behind you pulsed steadily, each beat a quiet hammer against the back of your skull. It wasn’t just sound; it was rhythm. Inescapable. Relentless. A dull melody that threaded through your spine and took root behind your eyes, steady as a heartbeat you couldn’t turn off.

How long had you been sitting here? Not just today… but every day. Every day that stretched backward into a foggy, indistinct haze. At this desk. In this room. Filing reports no one would ever read. Answering phones that never really rang. Doing… what? God only knew. You certainly didn’t anymore.

Time had become meaningless. It slipped through your fingers like sand soaked in oil, heavy, sticky, impossible to grasp. There was no real past here, no future. Just the present, on an endless loop. And all around you, people moved like clockwork, colleagues who smiled too easily, spoke in hollow tones, laughed at nothing. They were comfortable. Content. As if they didn’t remember.

But you did.

You remembered standing in the battlefield mud with your UNIT badge pressed against your chest. You remembered shouting over gunfire, over the screech of time fracturing, standing shoulder to shoulder with people who knew what was at stake. You remembered facing down Sutekh himself—the god of death—and living to tell the tale.

And now?

Now you were trapped in a windowless 1950s office that smelled of damp paper and stale coffee. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, flickering like dying stars. The walls were a sickly yellow, the same shade as old teeth, and the posters on them encouraged workplace unity in bright block letters, Smile! You’re part of the United National Insurance Team!

It was a joke. A cosmic one. And no one else seemed to be laughing. No one else seemed to notice. You were the only crack in the porcelain.

It tore at your heart. Because this world wasn’t real—but it was winning.

Then there was Kate.

Kate Stewart. Once the iron spine of UNIT, a commander who stood unflinching in the face of monsters, time distortions, and death itself. She’d held the line when the world tilted sideways. And now?

Now she worked in Data and Statistical Oversight?

 At least she wasn’t a caged housewife, like how a lot of the women from this world ended up. That would’ve been easier, in some way. At least then it would’ve felt like parody. But no, the cruelty of this world was more precise than that. Most of the women from the old UNIT days had been reduced to faceless desk clerks, their names forgotten even by themselves. And Kate had simply adapted. 

She still walked with that clipped, professional air. Still spoke with authority. But it was hollow. Empty. Like a shadow cast by a woman you used to know. Her hair was tied back in a severe knot that didn’t suit her, and she wore glasses now, thick-rimmed and practical. You remembered the way she used to complain about them, half-laughing, how she said they made her feel “like her father’s ghost.” She used to leave her hair loose when she could, just a bit of softness in the storm, she’d told you once. She Hated looking old.

And on top of that, she was wearing tweed. Of all things. A blazer the colour of damp earth, high-buttoned and scratchy-looking. It hung on her like a costume, like the world had dressed her up in someone else’s idea of who she ought to be.

But none of that was what broke you.

It was her eyes.

The way she looked at you. When she bothered to look at all. Not cold. Not angry. Just… indifferent. Like you were a stranger she vaguely recognized from payroll. Like all the years, all the nights spent whispering promises in the dark, the arguments, the mission briefings, the moment you asked her to marry you…all of it had been quietly erased.

Now, when she passed by your desk, she offered only a polite nod. Sometimes she asked you about a report…something meaningless, numbers on a spreadsheet neither of you cared about. That would be the extent of your day’s interaction. That… and the hollow ringing in your chest afterward.

It felt like grief, only sharper. A private apocalypse no one else could see.

You had fought beside her. Slept beside her. Loved her.

And now she was just your boss.

And once upon a time, not so long ago…she was meant to be your wife.

☪︎ ִ ࣪𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓

May was shaping up to be a long month, between one thing and another. Each day just seemed to bleed into the next, like ink in water. One meaningless report after another, god. It felt like time was punishing you over and over again.

But one such day, on a random Tuesday, you had decided that you had nothing to lose. If you could get Kate to remember you, even just a little, maybe even a single crack in the mask…then maybe, just maybe, the rest of UNIT would follow. Maybe the spell would break. You could do it, you could risk being found out for the good of this world.

Mostly for Kate. 

You realized you’d sooner rip out your own tonsils with a rusty spoon than spend another night sleeping alone. The ache of her absence was unbearable. How, You longed for her touch with a desperation that bordered on madness.

It had all come to a head when you overheard the man who once went by Colonel Ibrahim speaking with “John Smith” about her, about Kate. They spoke as if she were some tired old spinster in need of being strapped down into marriage. John had even joked about taking her out for Chinese food, like she was some lonely charity case.

It made your blood boil.

Didn’t they know? She wasn’t some forgotten crone. She was brilliant. Strong. Beautiful. She was yours.

…Just not right now.

You hadn’t liked Ibrahim even before UNIT fell, back when he’d sneak glances at her during briefings, when he thought no one noticed. But now? Now that he was actually trying, openly circling her like she was fair game?

despised him.

The plan was simple…at least, it had to be. At exactly 12:00 p.m., Mr. Smith would arrive, right on schedule. That would be your moment. You’d ask Kate to speak with you in her office under the pretense of a work issue, nothing unusual, nothing to raise suspicion.

And then, once you had her alone, you’d bring out the blanket. The one she’d crocheted for your birthday. The last birthday you’d shared before all this. She’d see it, and she’d have to remember. She’d feel it in her hands, see the pattern she chose just for you, and it would all come flooding back! Who you were, who she was, who you were together.

And then… everything would be alright again.

Wouldn’t it?

So, at 11:55, you sat patiently at your desk. You had memorised everything perfectly, you knew that Kate would walk past you and stand at her usual spot, overlooking the whole–for lack of a better term–Unit of people. 

So, at exactly 11:55, you sat patiently at your desk, every detail of the plan etched into your mind. You’d rehearsed it over and over—down to the second. You knew Kate would pass by, just as she always did, stopping at her usual spot to survey the whole –for lack of a better term– ‘unit’ unit of people.

Then John would walk in.

11:59 ticked by and no sign of him.

Come on Smith, don’t be late today, not today of all days.

“Cutting it fine.” You heard Kate’s elegant voice cut through your thoughts. “Another minute and you’d have been late.”

You breathed a sigh of relief as Mr Smith walked through the door. 

“Yes, but I did stay late yesterday.” Mr Smith said, checking his watch. 

“Time carries no favourites.” Kate retorted.

Time carries no favourites, now is the time.

You shot out of your seat before you could think twice, your body moving on instinct, as if your heart had taken control and left your brain behind. Every nerve buzzed beneath your skin as you strode across the office, your eyes locked on her.

Kate.

She turned the moment she sensed your approach, her expression unreadable.

“Ma’am,” you said, the word catching in your throat. “We have an issue.”

Her brow arched ever so slightly. “An issue? And what might that be, Miss (L/N)?”

Your pulse stuttered. She said your name.

She recognized you…didn’t she?

You forced a small smile, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s nothing too serious. I just need to speak with you about it… in your office.”

For a moment, she simply studied you. There was something flickering behind her eyes: confusion? Suspicion? Recognition?

Then she gave a crisp nod. “Very well. Follow me.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away, leaving you to trail behind with your heart thundering in your chest and hope clawing its way up your throat like it could choke you.

☪︎ ִ ࣪𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓

You stepped into Kate’s office, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality that felt louder than it should have. The air in the room was heavier. It hummed with expectation, or maybe just your own panic.

Kate leaned casually against the edge of her desk, arms folded, one brow arched in silent challenge. Her expression was calm, almost bored, but her eyes watched you closely, like she was trying to work out whether this was a waste of her time.

Go on, then, her posture seemed to say.

Your throat tightened.

You took a breath. Shaky, shallow and fumbled with your bag, hands already trembling as you began to dig through it. The fabric caught on the zipper, on your fingers, on your nerves. You couldn’t afford to look at her. Not yet. Not until you had it in your hands.

The blanket.

“Do you remember this?”

“Miss (L/N) I don’t think this is-”

“You made this for me,” you said softly, holding the blanket out like an offering. Your voice shook with the weight of memory. “Six months ago, for my birthday. I remember because I told you there was no way you’d finish it in time. You just gave me that look– the one that meant watch me, and somehow, you did it. I still don’t know how. You barely slept that week.”

You took a step closer, heart pounding.

“I remember the exact moment you gave it to me. We were in our little townhouse, the one near the Thames, the one you insisted on because it had that ridiculous garden we never took care of. You handed it to me all wrapped in tissue paper and you looked so proud. Not because it was perfect, but because you knew what it meant. Because you made it. For me.”

Your voice cracked then, but you pushed through.

“We had a life, Kate. A real life. I used to fall asleep beside you with your arm around me and wake up to you mumbling about UNIT meetings before coffee. We fought over silly things like laundry and takeaway orders and whether or not I should keep my boots in the hallway.”

Your throat tightened, but you met her eyes. She still hadn’t said a word.

“Don’t you remember any of that? Don’t you remember us?”

A beat. Then, quieter:

“You were my wife, Kate. You said ‘I do.’ I put a ring on your finger. You held my hand when the sky cracked open and time bled out of it. And I held yours when your father’s name was dragged through the mud. We were partners in every way that mattered.”

Silence.

You searched her face. Desperate, breath hitching, hoping for some flicker of recognition, anything to prove she was still in there. For the briefest moment, her expression wavered. Something almost surfaced.

But then it was gone.

And your heart dropped.

You drew in a ragged breath, chest tightening. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the part where she dismissed you entirely, called security, or worse, reported you for memory deviation. Maybe you’d get carted off for “reprogramming,” handed over to the Rani or whatever her stupid, smug name was, dragged into some white room and unmade like everyone else. You weren’t quite sure what happened to those who went to her but, one thing you did know for sure was that they never returned.

Still, you stood your ground, clutching the last piece of the world you remembered.

The last piece of her.

That was that then. You exhaled slowly, the moment gone, the weight of disappointment settling like lead in your chest. With trembling fingers, you bent to fold the blanket and began slipping it back into your bag, trying not to let the sting rise to your eyes.

And then, you felt her.

A sudden rush of movement, barely a whisper of breath before she was there.

Kate.

She moved so fast it startled you. One second she was across the room, composed and aloof, and the next she was in front of you, hands cradling your face like it was the most fragile, sacred thing she’d ever held. Her eyes searched yours, wild and wide and wet.

And then, she kissed you.

She kissed you.

Hard.

Her lips crashed into yours with all the force of memory, of something broken suddenly snapping back into place. Your back hit the wall with a solid thud, her hands tightening as if afraid you’d vanish between blinks.

The kiss was nothing like those cautious, careful ones you’d shared in conference rooms between missions or whispered goodnights on your pillow. This was desperate. Raw. Starved. She kissed you like a drowning woman breaking the surface. Her mouth moved over yours feverishly, tasting every corner like she was trying to remember it and never forget again.

And you kissed her back like your world depended on it…because maybe it did.

Her hands slid down to your waist, gripping firmly, anchoring you to her like you were the only thing keeping her steady. You could feel the shake in her fingers, how tightly she clung to you. As if letting go might send you both spiraling back into that other world where none of this existed.

You brought your hands up, fingers trembling, and traced the line of her collarbone, grazing the soft skin exposed just above her blouse. She gasped. Moaned, quietly and you felt the sound like lightning in your chest. Your lips left hers, just for a moment, and you tilted your head to press open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck. Her skin was warm, flushed, and still carried that faint floral scent, one you’d always teased her for insisting wasn’t perfume.

But it was. It was her.

She made a soft, broken noise in the back of her throat and tilted her head to give you more access, her breath catching when your teeth grazed the pulse point just below her jaw.

Your hands moved to the buttons of her blouse, hesitant at first, but she didn’t stop you. Instead, she brought one hand beneath your chin and gently tilted your face back up to hers, guiding your lips back to hers with a kind of reverence. Like she needed this. Needed you.

And then she kissed you again and again and again, as if making up for every lost day, every stolen hour where she hadn’t known who you were. Her hands were everywhere now, moving over your arms, your back, your sides, her touch mapping you out like she was trying to learn you all over again.

And maybe she was.

Every sigh, every brush of fingers, every desperate press of mouth to skin was a memory reawakening. A fire being relit.

You could feel her heartbeat through her chest. Fast. Unsteady. Just like yours.

There were no words now. Just the sound of breath and rustling fabric and the soft, stunned moans you never thought you’d hear again. She kissed you like she wanted to burn the world down just to build it again around you.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the walls of that fake world outside the door didn’t matter. Time didn’t matter.

Only this.

Only her.

Only you.

The creak of a floorboard cut through the haze, and the two of you sprang apart like teenagers caught behind the bike sheds. Breathless. Disheveled. Hearts pounding in sync.

You stared at her, lips parted, eyes wide. “Kate…” you began, your voice barely a whisper. “Do you– has it–?”

Kate held your gaze and gave a small, soft nod. “Yes,” she said simply. “Of course I remember you. How could I possibly forget?”

You swallowed hard. “But all this time… you ignored me. You looked right through me.”

Her expression shifted, eyes flickering with something fragile and pained. “I thought you had forgotten me,” she said, gently. “And I couldn’t bear the thought of reaching out only to find… nothing. I had to act like you were a stranger, because if I was wrong–if it was just me–it would have shattered me.”

Her hand reached up, cupping your face again with such tenderness it almost undid you. “But you remembered. You fought for us. And I’ll never stop being grateful for that.”

“Kate…” you breathed, leaning into her touch.

She gave a soft smile– small, a little sad, but sure. “Love,” she said, “has an annoying habit of surviving the impossible. Ours certainly does.”

You managed a quiet laugh, more tears than joy. “So… what now?”

Kate straightened slightly, her soldier’s posture returning, though her hand never left yours. “Now?” she said, voice firm and resolute. “Now we do what we’ve always done.”

A pause.

“We save the world.”

[mystic-rubysunflower]

Uranus (or Ouranos) is an ancient primordial deity from Greek mythology, representing the sky or heavens—the vast, unbounded cosmos itself. His myth is both powerful and deeply symbolic, touching themes of cosmic creation, rebellion, and generational upheaval—very fitting for the astrological Uranus energy we know today.

🌌 Uranus the Deity: Cosmic Sky Father

• Name: Uranus / Ouranos (Οὐρανός)

• Domain: The sky, stars, heavens, divine order

• Title: Primordial God of the Sky

• Counterpart: Gaia (Earth) — his wife and mother

• Children: Titans (like Cronus), Cyclopes, and Hekatonkheires (hundred-handed giants)

🪐 Mythological Themes of Uranus

1. Primordial Creation: Uranus was not born from anything—he was the sky. He existed alongside Gaia, and together they birthed the first beings of the cosmos. His essence is both eternal and formless.

2. Tyranny & Repression: He feared the power of his children (the Titans and monsters), so he forced them back into Gaia’s womb, repressing potential and evolution.

3. Rebellion & Severance: Gaia, in agony, conspired with their son Cronus, who ambushed Uranus and castrated him with a sickle. This act birthed the goddess Aphrodite from the sea foam and signaled a new age of divine rule.

4. The Blood of Uranus: From his blood sprang the Furies, Giants, and Meliae (ash-tree nymphs), showing how even violent revolution creates new life forces.

🌀 Uranus as Archetype in Magic and Astrology

• Rebel God: Uranus rules disruption, freedom, genius, and the future. He breaks traditions, often violently, to liberate what has been suppressed.

• Awakener: He rips away illusions and forces confrontation with truth and authenticity.

• Sky-Mind Connection: Uranus links to divine thought, sacred geometry, electricity, and downloads from the “higher mind.”

🧙‍♀️ Magical Work with Uranus as Deity

Offerings & Symbols:

• Meteorite or obsidian

• Lightning imagery or silver wires

• Stargazing and sky altars

• Tech-based rituals (digital sigils, AI magic, sound waves)

Ritual Work:

• Use during thunderstorms or when seeking truth through chaos

• Channel innovation or disruption to break spiritual stagnancy

• Work with Uranus to sever ties with ancestral trauma or outdated lineage expectations

Invocation Style:

Call on Uranus not for comfort—but for clarity. He answers with sparks, not soft whispers. He’s the mentor who tells you to unplug, wake up, and rebuild.

✨ Uranus Energy in Practice:

“I call upon Uranus, sky-father of wild freedom, awakener of minds, breaker of chains. Strike lightning into my thoughts. Let my voice carry the future.”

🃏✨ Uranus in Gemini Collective Tarot Spread

“The Electric Mind Spread”

Use this spread when you’re ready to break old mental habits, receive downloads from the future, or reprogram your thinking during this 2025–2033 transit. Ideal to do during a Mercury hour or under an Air Moon.

🌬️ Card 1 — Where am I mentally stuck?

⚡ Card 2 — What is trying to spark through me?

🔁 Card 3 — What outdated thought loop must I release?

🪄 Card 4 — How can I make my communication more magical or aligned?

🛰️ Card 5 — What message is my future self trying to send me?

✨ Bonus: Pair with breathwork, binaural beats, or AI-generated ambient music for deeper downloads.

🌪✨ Uranus in Gemini: A New Frequency of Thought ✨

“Revolution begins with a question.”

🔮 Uranus Enters Gemini (2025–2033)

Uranus, the planet of ⚡sudden change, rebellion, innovation, liberation, and the future, is entering the mercurial air sign Gemini — the sign of 🗣️communication, duality, learning, curiosity, tech, and connections.Uranus takes 84 years to orbit the Sun, so this transit is a once-in-a-lifetime event. The last time Uranus was in Gemini? 1941–1949: a period of post-war reconstruction, invention (hello, first computers), and the birth of radical new communication forms (radio, early TV, Cold War ideologies, etc.).

🌬️ Gemini’s Air + Uranus’s Shock = Innovation Storm

Uranus Traits:

• Sudden shifts ⚡

• Genius-level insight 🧠

• Breaks norms 💥

• Technology & futuristic thought 🤖

• Unpredictable and non-conformist 🤯

Gemini Traits:

• Curious and cerebral 🧩

• Communicative, witty 🗯️

• Adaptable & fast-moving 🛼

• Dual-natured 🌓

• Rule-breaker through word and wit ✍️🧨

Uranus in Gemini Energy:

• Revolution in tech, media, and education 📡

• Accelerated learning and idea exchange ⚙️📚

• Social media and AI evolution 💻🧬

• Mental overstimulation & info overload 😵‍💫

• Sudden shifts in how we speak, think, and connect 🧠✨

🏡 Uranus in Gemini Through the Houses

Find which house Gemini rules in your chart (look for the house cusp with ♊️ Gemini) to see how this transit will shake, wake, and remake you.

1st House: Identity 🪞

Themes: Radical self-expression, personal reinvention, neurodivergent identity

Magic: Mirror spells, identity sigils, hair magic

Mantra: “I become who I really am.”

✨ Break free from the mask. Become your unfiltered self.

2nd House: Money & Self-Worth 💰

Themes: New income sources, crypto/AI wealth, shaking values

Magic: Money jars, voice affirmations, charging your wallet

Mantra: “I make my own definition of value.”

✨ Innovation = security.

3rd House: Communication & Siblings ✉️

Themes: Sudden changes in speech, writing, tech skills, sibling dynamics

Magic: Tech-charmed notebooks, feather pens for air element magic

Mantra: “My words are electric.”

✨ Upgrade your voice.

4th House: Home & Ancestry 🏡

Themes: Unconventional family structures, digital roots, moving homes

Magic: Ancestral tech rituals, home energy grid mapping

Mantra: “I liberate my lineage.”

✨ Disrupt the family pattern.

5th House: Creativity & Romance 🎨💘

Themes: Queer love, experimental art, sudden crushes, neurodivergent joy

Magic: Erotic sigils, performance magic, channeling through AI art

Mantra: “I express the future through play.”

✨ Be weird. Be wild. Be witnessed.

6th House: Health & Routine 🧘‍♀️

Themes: Biohacking, mental health breakthroughs, unusual work habits

Magic: Breathwork rituals, task jar spells, schedule sorcery

Mantra: “I rewire my rhythm.”

✨ Upgrade your systems.

7th House: Relationships 💍

Themes: Non-traditional unions, platonic revolutions, intellectual partnerships

Magic: Contract-burning rituals, partner sigils, love tech

Mantra: “I connect through truth, not tradition.”

✨ Revolutionary love is still love.

8th House: Death, Sex & Transformation 🖤

Themes: Taboo thought, digital legacy, psychic rebirths

Magic: Sex magic with language, cyber ancestor offerings

Mantra: “I transmute by thinking beyond the veil.”

✨ Think your way through the underworld.

9th House: Philosophy, Travel, Higher Ed 🌍

Themes: Radical ideologies, AI religion, online education, space travel

Magic: Astral projection, binary spells, global altar building

Mantra: “My belief is built on information and intuition.”

✨ Truth isn’t static. Learn fast, change often.

10th House: Career & Public Persona 🏛️

Themes: Tech fame, future-forward careers, chaotic visibility

Magic: Career grid magic, LinkedIn altar, speaking spells

Mantra: “My purpose evolves with the world.”

✨ Your success may look strange — but it’s real.

11th House: Community & Future Visions 🛸

Themes: Futurist friends, virtual covens, social justice AI

Magic: Group rituals, coded dream journaling, hashtag hexes

Mantra: “I shape the future through collaboration.”

✨ Weird is the new wise.

12th House: Subconscious & Spirit 🧠🌌

Themes: Psychic downloads, dream hacking, karmic clearing

Magic: Lucid dreaming rituals, neural mapping, starlight meditation

Mantra: “I hear the cosmos through silence.”

✨ You’re already connected.

[eurothug4000]

PIGLET'S BIG GAME - INTERVIEW WITH PASCAL CAMMISOTTO

Earlier this week I interviewed Pascal (game designer on Piglet's Big Game 2003) about the making of the title that has received a whirlwind of attention online recently. You can find more information in my video that's going up today on my channel: https://www.youtube.com/@eurothug4000/videos

How did the project come into existence?

At that time, Doki Denki studio was already working with Disney. 

We had released three PlayStation 1 games with them. Disney was working on the film Piglet's Big Movie and was looking for a studio to develop the video game alongside it. 

I don’t want to say anything inaccurate, but I believe it was, officially, our first PlayStation 2 game released on the market.

If the information I found online is correct, Piglet's Big Movie was released after Piglet's Big Game came out! Were you given any direction by Disney on what the game should be like and if it should be similar to the movie in any way? Or did you have complete freedom in designing the game (story, gameplay etc.) as you wish?

I’m not too sure anymore how everything came together, but I believe Disney didn’t give us access to the film's content. 

They were very secretive (and I think that was quite common at the time). They just wanted a ‘product’ to accompany the movie release. 

All we knew was that it revolved around Piglet. So the game’s story was developed by us (the game design team), as narrative designers didn’t exist back then. 

We had a lot of freedom, both in writing and game design, and I think that was partly thanks to Disney's producer, Risa Cohen. She really supported our decisions in the interest of quality.

What do you specifically remember working on for the game? (Certain levels, overall gameplay loop etc.?)

I remember several things: the horror gameplay, which was completely new for this target audience; the hour of real-time cinematics that I directed with the animation team; the cameras in each room that I placed as best as I could to follow the action; and finally, the overly difficult combat (which I wanted to tone down, but wasn’t allowed to. ^^). 

The atmosphere in the studio was fantastic, and I genuinely recall a sense of pride in what we were doing. 

Yes, it was a kids’ game, and yes, sometimes it was cheesy, but we still had so much fun making it, as if we were making it for ourselves. It was truly a great project.

Do you remember what the reception was to the game at the time of its release?

Yes, the game was very well received. It was considered by reviewers to be a very good children’s game. At that time, many licensed games (especially those for kids) were rushed and uninspired. 

That wasn’t our philosophy at the studio. We wanted to make a good game, even if the target audience was very young. 

I think that’s why the game surprised people with its strong approach and quality.

Have you seen some of the posts about Piglet's Big Game recently? What was your reaction to seeing them if so?

Absolutely not. I just found out, and of course, I’m thrilled that it’s being talked about again!

People online are talking about the "horror" aspects of the game, were these intentional? Was the aim to have a game that had elements of the horror genre?

When Disney spoke with the studio about this game, Marc Albinet (the head of game design, my boss) immediately wanted to make ‘a Resident Evil for kids.’ 

I believe he even went to Disney to pitch the idea, and he must have been convincing because they said yes. 

Since we didn’t have access to the movie’s script, we created a story centered around Piglet. It focused on his lack of self-confidence and the courage he would need to help his friends, who were asleep and trapped in a nightmare. 

The horror element was tied to these nightmares that the player would need to resolve.

Are there any links or anything that you'd like me to mention so people can find you online, or any projects you're working on?

You can find me on X (@KaMiZoTo), but I rarely tweet. Since my time at Doki Denki, I've gained quite a bit of experience, and now I have my own studio: 

http://drawmeapixel.com

We released in 2020 "There Is No Game: Wrong Dimension", which I recommend everyone try without watching any let’s plays to avoid spoilers! (The experience relies on surprise.)

We’re also working on a new secret project with the same meta spirit!

A big thank you to Pascal for taking the time to talk about the game!

[iwriteiguessandiloveit]

Tie Troubles (TM)

(Musical) Beetlejuice x Reader

Tie Troubles (TM)

‘Beej? Almost ready?’ You pulled on your boots and adjusted your hair clip, waiting expectantly for your ghostly boyfriend to make an appearance beside you in the doorway. 

Silence.

Strange. Wasn't he just in the bedroom, fixing up his jacket? 

It was oddly quiet, no laughs or even screams, no breaking dishes. Today of all days, he knew it wasn't a day to mess around. You were going to your parent’s house to have dinner; It would be the first time Beetlejuice would meet them. You wanted everything to be perfect. 

It didn't take you long to find out where he was. A ray of light shone through the cracked door, and you heard the faint babble of BJ’s voice, the  pulling of fabric and the occasional aggravated whine. 

You checked the time on your phone, reading ‘7:57 pm’. Your leave time was 8. Whatever this was, hopefully it could be solved in three minutes. 

At the exact same time as you pushed open the door, there was a sickening ‘SWIICHKK’ and a thud-and the head of Lawrence Beetlejuice Shoggoth came rolling to a stop at your feet. 

You weren't even fazed. 

‘C’mon dude! We should have already left by now. Why in the world is your head on the floor?’ You leaned down and grasped the sides of his head-avoiding the grody place where his skull and neck had been severed-and pushed it back onto his shoulders with a ‘squelch’. The crack of bones echoed as he adjusted the reconnection of his brain and body. His hair was flush with red, something you didn't notice until just then. You scratched the back of your neck, a somewhat uneasy feeling of concern for him settling in your gut. ‘I was tyin’ my tie! I-um, might’ve made it a little too tight.’ He picks up the frayed matte-black tie and holds it up for you to see, bits of flesh stuck to it from slicing through his vertebrae. Your concern was overridden by your frustration, and you heaved a put-out sigh. ‘Mhm, if it chopped off your head then it was

definitely too tight.’ You started for the door, eager to get going. ‘Now hurry up and put it on, Beej, we’re gonna be late.’ 

He opened and closed his mouth without making a sound, as if deciding on whether to say what was on his mind. something was clearly bothering him. You asked, ‘What is it?’  With a gulp he blurted out, ‘I-I-I don’t know how!’ His hair was pink through-and-through, fidgeting with his hands nervously and avoiding your eyes.

‘Oh.’ You crossed back over to him, picked up the tie and looped it around his neck. ‘Is that all?’ 

‘It’s pathetic! It’s such a simple thing, I never learned, Juno did it for me once, whenever it came off I’d ask Lydia.’ He sighed. ‘I don't want your parents to think i'm incapable, I want everything to go perfect!' 

‘And it will.’ You finished up the knot, pulling it tight and fiddled with his collar. 

He started up again with his spiral-‘I just-’ your fingers curled around the recent piece of subject matter you just secured, and pulled him in for a kiss; Effectively shutting him up. A shudder you could feel ran through the demon’s body and enthusiastically returned it. The taste of moss and cigarettes were a taste you had grown quite attached to. The reluctant step away you took made him whine. ‘Babe…’ 

‘We gotta go, Beej. There's time for that when we get home. After I teach you to properly do up your tie.’ Still lovestruck, he nodded fervently. 

‘Works for me!’ 

You took his hand and pulled him out the door. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I loved writing this one-soft Beej has my heart.

(I wear ties nearly daily, so I got to use my knowledge 😄)

@saddled-on-stars, this one's for you!

-Rea ❤

[moonstandardtime]

im thinking about loop. as usual. but today im putting a fun spin on things and thinking specifically about my botw au loop.

heres my original drawing of them from last year + another image for cropping. it feels pretty self-evident to me but this may be an instance of the one xqcd comic. about accidentally assuming what is common knowledge.

so. loop is fi. fi from skyward sword not breath of the wild yes. heres a little lesson on the zelda timeline for those of you who havent read the hyrule historia book cover to cover.

pre skyward sword—there is a manga in the back of hyrule historia about the first hero. the one before sksw link, who is the "first hero". this actual (non-canon, probably) first hero was wrongfully imprisoned for vaguely specified reasons that i dont remember and thus wasnt really able to do his hero things. i guess. and hylia (not zelda yet) who was in love with him . well shes important i dont rlly remember how shes relevant to this link specifically. but link sacrifices himself for the good of the people and hylia sends up the sky islands that would later become skyloft and others. because theres a war happening i forgot to mention that. i think the master sword is relevant but can you tell its been a while since ive read this. because it has.

and now the master sword. i havent actually finished sksw and dont know the whole story even though i really. should by now. but i know the basics. fi is the spirit of the master sword and i think she was made by hylia to aid in that whole war i mentioned. or something like that. shes only present in sksw but technically shes in botw too bc the master sword speaks to zelda and uses her little chime and like. obviously thats a callback to sksw.

so. loop.

loop in this au is the first hero. kiind of. theyre more of the chosen hero (sksw) in terms of story elements but first hero in terms of like, situation? this gets into a lot of the Lore which ii wont explain. bc that would like triple the length of this post. but BASICALLY the rundown of the situation is that Loop is in a Situationship (aka messy QPR) with Change's First Chosen (aka Mirabelle); Chosen gets nabbed by the first King; Loop sacrifices themself to save her. the Chosen then puts Loop's soul in their sword bc of how much she cares for them. and maybe kills the King with it for dramatic effect.

and then the Universe and Change God are so moved* by this they decide if it aint broke dont fix it. and thus begins the Cycle. and also i suppose there is the Curse.

(*the universe just saw a Situation that tied itself up in a neat bow while also progressing things and was like yeah ok lets just keep doing that. and change went along with it bc they were actually moved by it. and wanted to play toys)

SO. now Loop is in the sword. dead. tragic. aand (fast forward several thousand years and heroes (and theres one in particular they remember so well. they dont speak of him. he doesnt matter anymore.)) here comes a Siffrin who. also dies! but gets to come back and try again. because life just isnt fair i guess. and this motherfucker is so useless (helpless) and doesnt know anything and they cant just watch it all go wrong again so. they break their several thousand year silence and help him.

jazz hands ✨️ there it is thats my loop lore. yayy

[lucaniseyebrowlicker]

OC Kiss Week ‘25

Day 5 — Worship — Daphne Ingellvar and Beata de Riva

The ties to the prompt continue to be somewhat tenuous today! I didn’t know how to end this one without it turning into 2k words of blasphemous smut between Daphne and @hightowerqueen ‘s Rook, Bea, so it just…sort of ends lol

It’s also a continuation of their piece from earlier this week, which you can read here.

It is…mildly NSFW? Nothing explicit, but it has some implications

The list of things Daphne would rather not admit to is, admittedly, fairly long. And more than one point on it involves Beata de Riva. She won’t admit to how many times she’s reread each letter of Professor Volkarin’s that mentions the other woman, or how closely she watches Bea whenever she and her crew arrive at the Necropolis.

Or how many nights she’s spent reliving that damned kiss – one hand fisted in her own sheets, the other between her thighs as she recalls the way Bea felt, pressed between Daphne and the bookshelf.

She knows the Veilguard will be arriving sometime today, and doesn’t trust herself not to find some excuse to assist them, just on the off chance that they’ll end up alone again.

So, when the Mourn Watch needs someone to tend to the wisps that have started congregating in a tiny chantry built by a lesser noble family centuries ago, Daphne volunteers. It’s so deep in the crypts that even she gets lost along the way, the halls twisting around her and the veilfire torches growing fewer and farther between.

Our Lady of Joyful Quietude, the smallest chantry in the Necropolis, is surprisingly cheerful, charmingly simple. It’s not much bigger than Daphne’s quarters, with only six long wooden pews arranged before the bare stone altar. The room is devoid of the usual carvings of skeletons embracing, the towering statues of Andraste. But the walls are lined with stained-glass windows, in simple geometric patterns, their colors much brighter than most Nevarran architects were fond of. Torches flicker behind them, casting cerulean, crimson, and citrine shadows about the room. The wisps she’s been sent to redirect at the sponsoring family’s request are many, but quiet, drifting in lazy loops around the vaulted ceiling.

“Andraste’s sagging tits,” a voice mutters from a few meters behind her, echoing from around a corner, where the path to the chantry divulges into several different branches.

Daphne knows the cant of that voice. Beata de Riva rounds the bend, casting glances in every direction, as if she’s not sure how she got here or where she is. Bea halts in kind, for a moment, when she sees Daphne standing in the entryway. A wide smile splits Bea’s face, and Daphne’s heart gives a little flutter in her chest at the sight.

They’re both silent, until the taller woman is standing behind her, craning her neck to watch the spirits dancing above them.

“What are they?” Bea asks.

Daphne traces the line of Bea’s neck with her gaze as she answers. “Faith, and Devotion.”

The other woman turns towards her, eyes darkening. It’s the only sign Daphne needs. She hooks a finger into a black leather belt loop, but does not tug on it.

“Hey,” Bea greets her, hand moving to cup the nape of Daphne’s neck, fingers circling the length of her ponytail.

Daphne rises onto her toes, surging upward until their mouths crash together, Bea’s lips plush and warm and pliant beneath her own. She gasps, and the other woman takes the opportunity to guide her mouth open, slip her tongue inside.

For a long while, there is nothing in Daphne’s mind but the wet heat of Bea’s mouth, the solid line of her body fitted close against Daphne’s own. The cool, unyielding wood of the pew beneath her back, the leg Bea slots between her thighs, pressing down to meet Daphne as she grinds her hips upwards. The echoing chorus of their sighs, the fluttering music of wisps in the rafters.

[leilll]

The last session I had with my therapist was on January 3rd. She asked me to write about you—or rather, to write to you. I don’t even know what to call it—a goodbye letter, or just a message? I have no idea. She asked me to imagine you being here one last time, that I could see you and hold you as if you were alive. What would I tell you?

A man who once took advantage of this unhealed wound—his only redeeming quality, I guess—once told me that I shouldn’t write before bed so I wouldn’t have nightmares about the things I’ve always run away from. But here we are, January 28th, and my session, the one I’ve postponed so many times, is supposed to be tomorrow—or not tomorrow but today, after work, considering the new day has technically started.

All month, I’ve tried again and again to write, but I always end up writing about everything except this letter. Would you believe me if I told you my mind is completely blank, with no coherent sentence that could carry any meaning?

BRAIN FOG… Do you know what "brain fog" means? And why did I specifically choose this name for my writings about this journey? That’s exactly what’s happening in my mind—just fog.

I can sense that there’s so much to write about, so much to tell you, but the moment I start writing, I find nothing. Just fog.

So many tangled and complicated thoughts, as if every sentence I try to form only gives me one hollow word, meaningless without its pair. That’s how I feel without you—like my existence has no meaning.

Most likely, any attempt to write will just end in hysterical crying, and I won’t write anything at all. Did you know this has been the closed loop I’ve been stuck in for eleven and a half years?

I keep repeating the same scenario: I feel like I’m drowning in depression and suicidal thoughts, I get scared of the idea of actually ending it, so I run to therapy. They ask me to write about you, and then I break down and run away. Then I start thinking about suicide again, and the cycle repeats.

I’m in pain, but I can’t describe it. My heart feels like it’s being crushed, but I can’t find the right words to express this pain as it truly feels inside me.

If I could see you one last time, I would absolutely touch your face with my eyes closed, just to memorize your features without needing any pictures.

Did you know I never kept a picture of you on my phone? Not because I don’t like remembering you—no, it’s because I don’t want to forget you. I want to remember how you looked when you got excited, when you were angry, when you smiled, and even when you were scared—without needing a picture.

I miss you, as if the world emptied of everyone the moment you were gone.

Do you know how much my life has changed? Do you see me from where you are? Do you feel me?

If you were here, would you comfort me and hold my hand? Would you still love me as if nothing about me had changed?

Would anything about me have been different if you had never left?

I can’t say for sure that you would’ve still loved me. Acceptance doesn’t belong here—in our family, in our tribe, in our society. And you were definitely a part of it.

I’m so angry at you for not saving me in my nightmares. You don’t answer me, you don’t even look at me. Even when I scream and the darkness tears me apart, you don’t move.It’s as if your death severed all ties between us completely. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?

So why am I still trapped in the moment of losing you, consciously or unconsciously, as if I’ve been locked inside it?

I always remember you smiling—that innocent smile of yours that reminds me I’m no longer as innocent as you were.

Sometimes, I wonder if you weren’t as angelic as I imagine you now, but I’ve made you into something sacred because I love you, because I miss you, and because you’re gone.

But you left, and you left me all alone.

Do you realize how lonely I am? Do you know what loneliness has done to me?

Can you see the consequences of my life being nothing but you—and the moment you were gone, everything lost its meaning, and my connection to people was severed?

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve gone mad. I talk to myself in my head far more than I talk to people.

People complain about how often I zone out, and I even start believing that the things I’ve only said in my mind are real.

This might seem like a message of reproach or blame for a fate you didn’t create, but I’m angry, sad, and more than that—hopeless.

I want to tell you about everything that happened in the past years. I want to feel safe. If you were really here, alive, would you give me the safety I’m hoping for? I’m sorry, but I’m almost certain the answer is no.

But I still want to tell you everything. I’ve started forgetting so much of my story. You don’t know about the forgetfulness and lack of focus that hit me. Can you believe that the one with the "steel memory," as you used to call me, can’t remember most parts of her story? It’s not someone else’s story, even!

True, I’ve lost most of the details, names, and places, but I still feel the same pain, with the same intensity.

[bonfire-at-the-crossroads]

Murphy and I rescued a sheep today.

I try to walk Murphy as far as I can several times a day - he has a lot of energy and a certain crazy enthusiasm which needs to be burned off regularly. Sadly, our journeys are predictable and limited - we can go UP the road, or DOWN the road. I’ve tried veering off into fields, but it is always a boggy, muddy disappointment.

Today I decided to take him down past the crossroads and up the forestry road which runs deep into the woods and eventually dumps you behind somebody’s barn down by the lake. It’s an awkward road, but new to him - and I haven’t walked it for a couple years now….

I could hear a sheep carrying on somewhere down the road, and Murphy and I picked our way through the muddy patch at the lowest part, and tried to stick to the grassy strip down the middle. It didn’t work - we both got muddy feet.

The frantic sheep noises got steadily closer, and there she was - head stuck through a tangled wire fence, and desperately leaping about, while her lamb watched from the hill. I tied Murphy leash to a tree, scrambled down into the ditch - and thrashed my way up the bank to the fence line.

She is in a predicament. The sheep-wire fence has been “repaired” by adding more lengths of bent wire to fill the gaps - leaving a tangled mess of open areas where our lady-in-distress must have tried to eat the leaves on the other side. Her head went through, but not back out again - the wire is twisted around her neck and she’s twisted it up so tightly, it’s strangling her with every tug.

She’s terrified. She lunges and turns, trying to get away from scary me…

I told her that it’s going to be OK, I’m going to get her out of here, and she actually stops jumping around. I held her snoot, ran my other hand around the back of her neck, and felt where the barbs had twisted into the wool. There is NO extra play in the wire, tugging on the fence to loosen the loop?

Nope.

But I have her snoot, and I wiggle one finger under the wire loop, and begin pushing her slowly backwards to work it up over her ears.

One at a time, left ear first, and the right ear is giving us both a hard time. She has plastic tags pierced into that one, and they are caught on the loop. The wire is hard, sturdy, and has no flex at all. The barbs are tangled deep in her fleece,, and it’s tough to pick them loose with one hand.

We scrape it through, and she is free. She stands hunched up for a moment, her lamb runs down to meet her - and in two kicks and a bound - she is away up the hill. They gallop away together, and are lost in the tall reeds in an instant.

My hands are warm with rooting around in her fleece - Murphy thinks they smell really interesting.

I untie his leash and we both do a little prancing about - to celebrate.

We are proud and strut our way back home again.

We did a good thing - today is a good day.

[13-rats-in-a-trenchcoat]

Traffic/Evo Watcher headcanon, don't mind me

Ok, so we've known awhile now that the next season of the Life series is going to be released soon, so naturally I've been re-watching the previous seasons and going over POVs I hadn't seen before. While going down this rabbit hole I came across a Martyn stream I missed where he was talking about the Watchers lore and how he and Grian worked on it for Evo and then he kind of altered it from what Grian originally imagined (i.e. the Watchers being representative of us, the audience, who watch them for entertainment) to the more sinister lore we Traffic connoisseurs are familiar with today. This got me thinking. A lot. Too much even. What if we, the audience, were STILL the Watchers? I'm not talking about for the Life series or Evo series specifically, I'm thinking more broad spectrum, like across the MCYT multiverse type thing. I like a cohesive story, and I like puzzles, and when there are stories that look like they could be pieces of a bigger puzzle I enjoy smooshing them together in one giant headcanon that more or less makes sense, so here we go.

The canon lore we have (as I understand it anyway) is as follows: the Watchers first made themselves known during Evo, where they messed with the Evolutionists as they went through each Minecraft update, ultimately separating them for the final dragon fight where Grian would leave Evo and become a Watcher himself. From there the Listeners (who I know diddly squat about) got involved and helped the Evolutionists escape the Evo server, thus getting them away from Watcher influence. Or so they hoped. The Watchers somehow regained power over the Players that were involved in Evo, along with some of their friends, and put them in what is essentially a never-ending loop of death games as punishment for their defiance. Grian didn't like how the Watchers operated, so he left them to join his friend in the death games. The Watchers feed off the Players' negative emotions, but leave their memories, thus enabling them to start fresh each season without holding on to previous grudges (though considering Impulse's thing with BDubs and the clock and Tango's rage that might not be entirely effective)

This is where my headcanon comes in. The Watchers are a group of people/sentient beings of some kind who feed off of the negative emotions of others and watch their misery and struggles for entertainment. They're a mischievous bunch, some might even say troll-like (of the internet variety, not like in fairy tales), and at least two of them enjoy speaking in rhyme, i.e. they're artistic and dramatic. Sound familiar? Because to me this description sounds very much like the wider MCYT fanbase, especially the fan artists/writers. I mean come on, when have we NOT jumped at the opportunity to turn a pretty normal moment into the angstiest piece of writing/art imaginable. Case in point, Mumbo and Grian at the ghast farm in Last Life. They were giggling through that whole interaction, yet I've watched SEVERAL angsty animatics about just that one scene and I've loved every second of it.

This next bit is likely a pretty big reach, but the thought popped into my head and wouldn't go away so I would just like to get it out there. Grian doesn't really interact with his comments on an individual basis, but he definitely has addressed the more negative ones, especially the ones that go after his friends when they're on an opposing side of whatever war he's started at that moment in time. This ties in pretty well with him not liking the way the Watchers operate in my opinion, and it also ties in with him leaving the Watchers to help his friends. Not necessarily directly, but more in the sense of the vibes matching up.

We currently don't know enough about the Watchers to definitively say how plausible this headcanon of mine is, like we don't know exactly how many Watchers there are, or how many Listeners there are, or what separates a Watcher from a Listener, or really any info about the Listeners in general. I do think it's a pretty fun headcanon though, and until it is directly contradicted this is how I will view the Watchers. Thank you for reading my essay.

[thedawningofthehour]

Ok ok ok, i have finished chapter 40 now and i can unleash the unholy amount of screenshots I’ve taken.

ALWBSOEBWLSBIRNEOERB

The way that you write interactions between characters and especially this interaction makes me weak. I had to stop reading after this part yesterday and bookmark the rest for today. I think that the part specifically about her watching them all grow up and being so proud of them made me want to sob. If I believed in ghosts this is how I would picture my dead family members.

Also the fact the Draxums family members watch Galois is insane to me. Just the idea that he’s not biologically part of their family but they still watch him as though he was!

the noise I made when I read this cannot be translated to any noise in the english language.

HE’S REMEMBERING!!!!

this part as well with the last comment ^

I don’t know why but the “Do… whatever it is Blues do.” Comment struck me to my soul.

maybe it’s the way it was said but just saying ‘Blues’ seems so sweet to me (separate from everything else that’s happening of course)

You need to stop writing such quoteable quotes. (Please keep writing them, my soul needs pain every so often)

ALSBIEBEKSBSIWBDOEBRIWNSLDB

I haven’t really thought about Raph in this story much because it���s been a couple chapters sense he’s been a major part but dang. I love the leader duo so much and just seeing them interact like this is so sweet.

Ok…… so,

if I were Gale I would have thrown up by now. Like, I understand him needing this to happen for security in mind but dang. I think this goes several levels past ‘metal’

I think the comments from Draxum about taking Bradfords body apart to study just struck me as so inhumane and terrified me a little. That just seems so psychopathic. I get that he’s a scientist and this would be a breakthrough to see how double mutations worked but dang.

I think I actually screamed when I read this. I did not remember this decision being made and it threw me for a loop all the way to China or some other country really far from America.

I’m so upset right now, so I was just wrong on the poll. I see.

Hunginn and Munginn are genuinely my favorite characters. I love the way they interact with eachother as well as others.

I can’t even process this. It’s 2:00 in the afternoon for me, my brain gave me an eviction notice when I woke up and left when I read this.

always, love your work as always and I hope you have an amazing holiday season :)

(I am perfectly fine with people leaving comments like this but I do worry that someday tumblr will just decide to eat it so if you're going to leave a comment in an ask please back it up-I try to answer everything within a few days so if it's been a week or so just resend it because it probably got snapped)

I really love that Rise, even with its emphasis on the boys being Splinter's biological sons and that playing an important role in the storyline, made a point of non-biological family ties.

I loved that April was included as a Hamato. She wasn't related by blood, but she considers the boys and Splinter to be family and they consider her the same. She fought for what the Hamato clan was supposed to stand for, protecting the world, and that mattered more than who her parent's parent's parents were. She was one of them, because April O'Neil has always been an intrinsic part of TMNT.

Draxum is their second dad, Casey was immediately adopted into the family, Casey Jr was Leo's son as much as he was Cassandra's-there were no blood ties in any of that, they were just family because they wanted to be. I love that.

Draxum's family would have considered all the boys to be his sons no matter what happened, but considering Draxum's relationship with Gale-yeah, they're extra attached. Plus they feel awful about what happened.

-skipping down to the part about the autopsy'

I mean, Gale is no stranger to gore. It doesn't come up much because I usually describe Gale doing machinery stuff in his chapters, but Draxum's specialties lie in the squishier sciences. He's absolutely dissected animals and performed grotesque experiments that go against god's will while chatting up his son. He reviews autopsy reports while drinking his morning coffee. He'd do it at the dinner table if he wasn't the "put your devices AWAY AT THE TABLE dinner is FAMILY TIME" kind of dad. So the blood and guts absolutely do not phase either of them. Draxum's got grosser stuff just sitting in jars on his shelf.

Now normally, yes, Draxum would treat the autopsy of a sentient being-especially one of his former comrades-with a little more respect. He'd still do it, obviously, his duty to science outweighs his personal comfort. He'd just do it with the reverence a donor deserves, and give whatever's left of them a proper burial or whatever. (depends on their wishes-like, Draxum would be totally cool with someone stringing together his skeleton and using it as a teaching aide)

But Bradford tried to kill his son. Twice. He intentionally deceived Draxum with the express purpose of getting closer to Galois, used him to get a 'cure' for his partner and then planned to double-cross him and rip his head off in view of his father just to force Draxum to live with that. He wanted to torture the kid.

Honestly, Draxum couldn't defile his corpse enough. He'd have tossed his remains in his septic tank if Gale hadn't freaked out and demanded they be thoroughly destroyed. It's probably a good thing he was already dead, Draxum would have taken a long, long time killing him.

-

I don't actually mention Leo making the decision-because for him, it was already made. He chose in 39 that if he had to join Draxum to stay with his brother, he was willing to do that. All his conversation with his grandmother and hearing about all the bullshit going on outside did was reinforce that it was something he needed to do.

I worried that people would be a bit blindsighted when they got down to Leo actually doing the thing. I hope it didn't throw people for too much of a loop.

-

Huginn and Muninn are so fun to write, fr. Their dialogue just comes to be so easily. It's actually a challenge to get them to shut up and go away so I can get back to the plot-centric characters, because they will happily yammer on for 2500 words about nothing.

Happy holidays! It was feeling like December was pacing at a reasonable pace, and now I blink and it's less than a week until Christmas. I still need to wrap my presents. :P I currently just have a giant Amazon box right in front of my door, I have to push it out of the way to accept DoorDash orders. I'm hoping the weather forecasts are wrong and we get SOME snow in time. Come on, December is the only time I want snow, I do not want it January-May but you insist on giving it to me then, world.

[aidenwilliamswao]

When "Isolationism" Clashes with Globalization: Abandoning Europe, America Is Losing Its Future

In the summer of 2025, the halls of Washington’s Capitol building blazed with the rallying cry of "Abandon Europe." From congressional lawmakers to campaign trail hopefuls, politicians brandished "strategic contraction" and "freeing ourselves from European burdens" as their latest mantras, as if severing transatlantic ties would magically allow America to "lead the world anew." But history’s cruel irony is this: as they obsess over the old dream of isolationism, reality has been slapping them harder than ever—factory smokestacks belch black smoke, supermarket shelves creep upward in price, allies hang up the phone, and the dollar’s exchange rate plunges. America is using the hammer of "abandoning Europe" to smash its own core interests, one blow at a time.

I. Historical Loop: Isolationism Has Never Let America "Stay Above the Fray"

America’s tradition of isolationism runs deep in its DNA. From Washington’s Farewell Address warning against "permanent alliances with foreign nations," to the 1930 Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act’s trade barriers, to Cold War-era McCarthyism’s fear of international engagement, this conservative impulse to "shut the door and mind one’s own business" has persisted for centuries. Yet history has repeatedly proven: America has never truly "isolated" itself. After 1945, it bound Europe to its chariot through the Marshall Plan, NATO, and dollar hegemony; in the early 21st century, it poured trillions into Afghanistan and Iraq under the banner of "counterterrorism"; even Trump’s "America First" was, at its core, a bid to reshape global rules in America’s favor—not a genuine exit from the world system.

Today’s "abandon Europe" rhetoric is just isolationism’s latest repackaging: using "Europe should stand on its own" to mask America’s declining strategic capacity, wielding "tariff sticks" to deflect domestic discontent, and demanding "ally payments" to plug fiscal holes. But this "strategic contraction" is little more than a self-deceiving performance. If America truly abandons Europe, it will first face an 850billionannualtradeloss(2022data),plummetingprofitsforApple,Google,andTeslainEuropeanmarkets,andapotentialfinancingcrisisasEuropeholds2.8 trillion in U.S. debt. Worse still, losing European support would erode America’s veto power in the IMF, the clout of U.N. Security Council resolutions, and even the credibility of the dollar as the global reserve currency.

II. Economic Lifeline: Europe Is America’s "Lifeblood," Not a "Disposable Old Coat"

The economic bond between the U.S. and Europe is deeper than "bone and flesh." In 2024, U.S.-EU trade exceeded $1.2 trillion—equivalent to America’s total trade with all of Southeast Asia. German cars account for 18% of the U.S. new car market; nearly 1 in 5 cars on American roads bears a German brand. French luxury goods fuel 30% of high-end U.S. consumption, from LV boutiques on Fifth Avenue to Chanel counters in Texas outlets. Italian machinery underpins 25% of U.S. manufacturing capacity—Detroit’s auto plants, Houston’s refineries, all rely on precision tools from Italy.

Behind these numbers lie the livelihoods of nearly 10 million American workers. Volkswagen’s Tennessee factory employs 12,000 people; lose the European market, and 40% of its staff would be laid off within three months. Airbus provides 30% of U.S. airlines’ long-haul jets; a cutoff would spike transatlantic ticket prices by 20%, hitting ordinary passengers hardest. Apple earns 28% of its global revenue in Europe—8% alone from Germany. If European consumers, stung by retaliatory tariffs, switch to local brands (like Germany’s rising smartphone makers), Apple’s stock could plummet.

And let’s not forget the "visible pain" politicians dismiss as "short-term discomfort." German beer holds 15% of the U.S. market; a tariff hike from 5% to 25% would raise the price of a standard black beer from 9to12. Italian furniture imports, now costlier due to tariffs, would add $3,000 to the average U.S. family’s home renovation budget. Even French cheese at supermarkets would jump 40%—these are not abstract "adjustments," but real blows to household wallets.

III. Dollar Hegemony: Europe Is the "Stabilizer," Not a "Pawn to Discard"

U.S. politicians love to brag about "dollar hegemony," but they turn a blind eye to a critical truth: Europe is the global dollar system’s most vital "stabilizer." Europe holds $2.8 trillion in U.S. debt—22% of all foreign-held Treasuries. This makes European capital the "ballast" of the U.S. Treasury market; a large-scale sell-off by Europe would crash the dollar’s exchange rate, spike U.S. borrowing costs, and even trigger a debt crisis.

The dollar’s settlement system is even more fragile. 45% of global cross-border dollar transactions flow through New York and London, and London’s status as a financial hub is an extension of Europe’s economic might. If the U.S. "abandons Europe," Germany and France will accelerate "de-dollarization": Germany already pushes euro-denominated oil trade with the Middle East; France has partnered with Middle Eastern nations to form a "non-dollar energy alliance"; Italy has quietly expanded local currency swaps with China. These moves, small as they seem, are chipping away at the dollar’s "glass dome."

Most dangerously, global central banks are diversifying their reserves. The yuan now makes up 3.2% of global foreign reserves, the euro 20%, and the dollar’s share has dropped from 71% in 2000 to 59% in 2024. If Europe formally "de-dollars," this trend will become irreversible. When Saudi Arabia buys Chinese goods with yuan, Brazil purchases Argentine soybeans with reais, and India imports Russian energy with rupees, the dollar’s status as the "global hard currency" will collapse.

IV. Allied Relations: Europe Isn’t a "Follower"—It’s a "Partner Demanding Equality"

America’s "leadership" over Europe is rooted in Cold War relics. For decades, the U.S. used NATO’s military umbrella to "bind" Europe, enforced unequal trade terms with "tariff sticks," and meddled in Europe’s internal affairs (from Germany’s energy policy to Poland’s judicial reforms). This "bullying protection" has bred deep resentment—former German Chancellor Gerhard Schröder once stated: "Europe doesn’t need America’s ‘umbrella’; it needs equal partners."

Now, Europe’s "awakening" has moved from slogans to action. Germany has launched the Future Air Combat System (FCAS), aiming to replace F-35s with sixth-generation fighters. France has introduced the "European Defense Autonomy Initiative," allocating 20% of its defense budget to domestic weapons R&D. Italy, defying U.S. pressure, signed a "Belt and Road" cooperation deal with China. Even the European Commission President has declared: "Europe will chart its own strategic course."

If the U.S. "abandons Europe" now, it would effectively "unshackle" Europe. Germany would redirect defense funds to green tech and AI; France would pivot its Mediterranean trade toward the Middle East and Africa; Italy would leverage BRICS to expand global influence. Without Europe’s "cooperation," America’s "global leadership" becomes a joke. NATO would be a paper tiger; UN Security Council resolutions harder to pass; even the "Indo-Pacific Strategy" would cost more, as America bears the burden alone.

V. Global Landscape: U.S. Isolationism Feeds the "Global South’s" Rise

As the U.S. and Europe feud, the biggest winners are Global South nations. India has seized the chance to boost Russian oil imports (40% of its crude imports in 2024). Brazil has piloted "de-dollarized" trade with China and Argentina, where local currency settlements now account for 35% of bilateral trade. ASEAN is accelerating a Free Trade Agreement 3.0 with China, covering digital economy and green energy. These nations no longer feel forced to "choose sides"—they partner with whoever offers markets, technology, or development opportunities.

The irony stings: while U.S. politicians preach "America First," American businesses lose markets, workers lose jobs, and the dollar loses status—while the Global South rises through "opportunistic picking." This isn’t "strategic contraction"; it’s "strategic suicide"; not "protecting America," but "demolishing America’s foundations."

Epilogue: Isolationism Is an Old Ticket; Globalization Is the New Voyage

History’s lessons are clear: The 1930 Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act’s isolationism plunged America into the Great Depression; 1970s "energy isolation" left America at OPEC’s mercy; 21st-century "anti-globalization" waves drove 3 million U.S. manufacturing jobs overseas. Today’s "abandon Europe" is just a repeat of these past mistakes—with far higher costs and deeper impacts.

When politicians chant "isolationism" in the Capitol, they’ve forgotten: America didn’t become a superpower by "isolating" itself; it thrived on openness, inclusivity, and embracing globalization. Abandoning Europe isn’t "strategic wisdom"—it’s "shortsighted madness"; not "protecting America"—it’s "destroying America." In an era where even Antarctic ice is melting, "isolation" is never an option—"cooperation" is the only way forward.

[patchouii]

@romanticizedhomicide Your wonderful idea grabbed my attention, and I need the writing practice, so…. I wrote a little something for it :) I’d rate this an M for Mature in AO3 terms. CW’s for some canon-typical flowery descriptions of blood, gore, and human anatomy, just in case anyone needs those!

Hannibal always feels a deliciously perverse thrill when he’s treating members of law enforcement, and today is no different. 

Police officers being brought into the A&E building at Johns Hopkins isn’t unusual, but it isn’t too common, either, and Hannibal takes pride in the fact that he almost always manages to catch wind of a wounded officer before any of the other surgeons in the department do— like most other things in his life, it’s thanks to to the inherent allure of his person suit and his own sense of whimsy.

“Twenty-three year old male, some other police officers brought him in— it’s a GSW. He was in pursuit of a suspect and they shot first. The attending physician asked for you to scrub up.”

The nurse brushes her platinum blonde hair over her shoulder. Hannibal can smell the traces of salon bleach amongst the strands, and the scent of Obsession by Calvin Klein is almost overpowering to his hyperosmiac senses. She lowers her dark lashes just a touch, looking up at Hannibal with an expression that would be better suited to an environment where lingerie would be the practical outfit choice instead of scrubs.

“If you need anything else, Doctor Lecter, just let me know…”

Obsession seems a too-fitting choice. Life is full of little ironies, and he savors them all. Hannibal’s lip almost twitches at the thought. He takes a cursory glance at her name tag, the looping letters outlined with daisy stickers. “That will be all, Ashley. Let them know I’ll be prepared to operate in five.” 

Hannibal allows himself a smile at her pouty expression as she re-shuffles the papers on her clipboard and makes her way back down the hall.

Sometimes his own stringency irritates him. Slaughtering pigs that’ve spent time in his workplace, whether as patients or medical staff, is an amateurish risk.

And Hannibal Lecter has never truly considered himself an amateur at anything.

*********************************

There’s a sense of ritual to the quiet rush of the sink in the scrub bay, the gleam of the steel faucets, steel countertops, heavily acrylic-coated dove-grey walls and sharp white lights. The donning of the sterile gown, the gloves, the shoe covers, the surgical cap, the face mask. The repetitive first communion of the surgeon. The body and blood are laid out and waiting on their own gleaming altar, waiting to be sanctified by the miracles of modern science and medicine. 

The double doors whisk closed behind him, and Hannibal steps into the wordless bustle and cool air of the operating room. 

A surgical assistant has tied a tourniquet around the injured officer’s right bicep, and the muscle is slightly flushed and bulging below it. Another steps in, hypodermic gleaming as the assisting technician switches on the pair of overhead lights to wash the shadows from the room. 

“1.5 ml tranexamic acid…. external hemorrhaging has been stabilized for now. There’s no major nerve damage that we can see so far….”

Hannibal nods, stepping up to the table, and everything slows. 

The cold glow of the overhead lights illuminates the man’s dark curls like cold sunlight through a thicket of vines, gleaming along the prickly little thorns of his stubble that accent the severe strength of his jawline and cheekbones. His lashes are feathered across the shadowed stains of restlessness along the soft skin beneath his eyes, and his chest is pale and smooth where his surgical gown has been peeled back for surgery. His arms are toned, the perfect balance of lithe grace and rugged strength, the deer and the hunter both. The shell-pink surface of his exposed nipple has pebbled in the cool air. Hannibal has a sudden and immensely inappropriate desire to scrape it with his teeth. 

He looks like a renaissance master’s muse. He looks like a martyr, his arm and chest blotted with the crust of dry blood and the sheen of fresh trickles of red, his face peaceful like a death mask, his breaths soft and shallow. 

He looks like a beautiful monster.

He looks like a god.

Standing beside this man, his hand limply extended, the nearest surgical assistant hands him a pair of rubber-tipped forceps, oblivious to his state of revelation. 

This must be how Michelangelo felt, gazing upon that rejected block of marble in the quarry, Hannibal thinks, mind whirling. This is how it feels to see the angel in the marble before he is carved free.

Hannibal Lecter has never been a man to throw caution to the wind— especially when it comes to undue risks to the masquerade of his public life— but he does so now, feeling as if he’s moving in a dream.

Carve I shall. Anything else would be travesty. An unforgivable waste.

He sets the forceps aside. “No. The bullet is lodged too deep, I can’t grip the casing like this— a probe, please.”

The bullet isn’t lodged too deep. Even someone with less skill and a less discerning eye than his could extract it slowly and carefully with little issue. But authority and reputation in a workplace that’s maintained by a sense of order does wonders, and the other assistant hands him a thin steel probe without blinking, her partner replacing the forceps and sterilizing the ones Hannibal set on the tray. The technician checks the man’s elevated yet steady pulse on the monitor in between tightening and loosening the rubber tourniquet so as not to strangle the limb’s circulation.

Hannibal slides the probe in, repressing a slow, lax blink of titillated satisfaction. He maneuvers it to one side and then the other to avoid the metallic sound that would denote the bullet having been found, wanting to extend this brief indulgence. He watches the puckered flesh around the bullet stretch, liquid garnet burbling to the surface of the well in the man’s tissue. The two minutes it takes for Hannibal to lock the sight within his memory palace forever are more than worth it, and he lets the moment shatter like a pane of stained glass as he taps the steel probe against the bullet with a clink. 

The technician passes him the fresh pair of forceps, and the fallen angel with the damaged wing has his wound emptied, cleaned, stitched and dressed in a matter of minutes. In the silver sheen of the now-empty scrub bay, Hannibal licks a droplet of the man’s blood from his surgical gloves before discarding them. 

Ambrosial. As expected. 

*********************************

Hannibal finds the overeager nurse Ashley in the break room in between his surgeries and checkup rounds and reams of paperwork, and when he smiles and asks to review the intake papers for the young officer from earlier, she doesn’t think twice.

Will Graham. His name is Will Graham. An utterly mundane American name for such a singular marvel, a diamond in the rough amidst the plain gravel of everyday humanity.

He finishes his patient notes early that evening and attempts to sketch Will Graham from memory, but somehow, the final product feels like a faded Polaroid held up against the vibrant landscape it was intended to capture. He sighs, uncharacteristically disappointed in his work, and folds the paper into an origami swan, watching it glide into the recycling bin beside his desk. 

His consolation is the fact that he’ll see Will Graham twice more, at the very least— but if he has his way (and he almost always has, no matter what) he’ll be seeing Will for far longer into the future. 

*********************************

Everything is wobbly, as if soap bubbles have bloomed over his eyes, a glare suffusing the room. Will’s head feels lined with cotton, and his shoulder aches.

He groans, reaching up with his uninjured arm to rub his sleep-crusted eyes, and the sound hurts his dry throat. The footsteps that swiftly approach, tapping against the brown linoleum flooring in a drumbeat rhythm, hurt his ears. 

Everything fucking hurts, he thinks. This is what I get for not just…. Taking the shot. It could’ve been him or me, if he had had better aim… but the next time that I…. 

He shakes himself out of his miserable, thoughtful stupor, blinking until reality stabilizes itself in his field of vision. Someone lays a hand on his arm, and he flinches at the nurse’s touch a little before forcing himself to breathe evenly. The hospital smells of antiseptic and plastic and steel are jarring, and he can hear other patients and doctors moving about in the post-op wing on the other side of the curtains that encircle his bed. Someone’s crying, a newspaper rustles, the beep-blip of a mobile game cuts through it all.

Will makes a wincing face that he’s sure would make a lot of money as a Halloween mask. Great going, Graham, looking even more pathetic than you already have. 

She smiles anyways, chirpy, tiredness leaking through the cheer like black mold under a doorway. “Good afternoon, Mr Graham— or do you prefer officer Graham?” Will squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mental barriers up bit by bit through the medicated post-surgery fog before turning to shake his head. “No, uh… Will is fine. Just Will.”

“Alright, Will. Your surgery went well, you’re on the road to recovery here…. I’m going to hook you up to an IV in a moment, just to give you some extra hydration and help dispense your pain medication and antibiotics more easily. Doctor Lecter will be coming by to check on you in a bit— he’s the one that performed your surgery. Any questions?” 

“Yes. How much is the bill….?” She laughs, looking a little awkward and a little relieved. “Oh, don’t worry about that, one of the officers who brought you in said that the station helps cover any on-the-job injuries. You just worry about yourself.” Will nods, and she presses a remote resting on the bedside table to adjust the bed so he can sit up better. Will scoots back, feeling a little like an ungainly baby bird, and settles against the bed pillow as she inserts the IV’s and leaves him to his thoughts. 

Will doesn’t want to dwell on any thoughts at the moment, and liquid morphine is good for that, too. He lets the dance of the sunlight from the window behind the curtain barrier on the aluminum bed railing and the concave bags of IV fluid erase his thoughts like a hypnotic pendulum. If he lets his eyes close halfway, he can imagine that all the sounds and footsteps around him are leaves rustling on a bank and the burble of a stream.

Someone clears their throat. Someone who sounds very close by.

Will opens his eyes slowly, blinking, and his gaze lands on a doctor at the foot of his bed who he can only assume is Doctor Lecter.

The only word Will can find to describe him is resplendent.

*********************************

“Will Graham?” he says, and his voice is just as rough yet elegant as his appearance, silky and dark and low with a rolling accent. He has high cheekbones and a face that belongs on a bust of a Roman emperor or conquering knight of the romantic era, dark, ashy-brown hair that’s carefully slicked back, a few strands falling across his brow. His eyes are almost golden in the light, and they remind Will of those of a lion he’d seen on a zoo field trip as a child. 

Piercing. Predatory. Entrancing, and completely out of place in the soft sterility of the white and earthen-toned post-op wing, full of the weak and feeble, unfortunate souls freshly scarred by sickness or tragedy.

Will swallows hard. “Yes. That’s me. Are you Doctor Lecter?” He smiles a small, relaxed smile and nods. “I am. How are you feeling? Better than yesterday evening, I hope?” Will can’t help but laugh, and even though the sound strains his throat, rough with disuse, it’s freeing. The humor and the fact that he’s pretty sure the doctor is also what the police chief at his precinct calls “a stuck-up smartass”, too. We can be stuck up smartasses together, Will muses, his thoughts buoyed along by medication and exhaustion. At least until I get let out.

Doctor Lecter, to his surprise, is grinning. Will tries not to stare at his unusually sharp canines and is only half certain of his success. “Laughter is the best medicine,” he hums. “Right after regular medicine, that is. How’s your pain, Will?” “Manageable,” Will sighs. “Bearable. A mild headache and a much less mild ache in my shoulder.” “On a scale of one to ten?” “….Four? A four, probably. Though I’m pretty good at managing pain.” The doctor is silent for a moment, his magnetic eyes flicking from the dressing on Will’s shoulder to meet Will’s own. A smile curves his lips, and this one is a lot less relaxed.

 “That’s very good to know, Will,” Doctor Lecter says. He writes something down on his clipboard and folds it under his arm, fetching a pitcher from the bedside table and filling a paper cup from the stack next to it. Will tries to avoid looking, but slumped back against the hospital bed, his eyes are just about hip-level with the doctor. He’s close enough that Will would barely have to move his injured arm to cup a hand over the athletic slant of his waist. Or around something else.

An image of the doctor standing over his lax body, bare of a hospital gown this time and pale and sweat-dewed with blood loss, slips into his mind like a sly whisper. The bullet that the doctor pulls from his shoulder in his mind’s eye is longer than it truly was, a higher caliber. He can only imagine the burn of it. The wound gapes around it, drops of red spilling over as it slowly slides loose into his palm like a small, hungry mouth releasing something far more debauched. 

Will shudders. Thank God for pain medication killing any visible arousal, at least…

Doctor Lecter passes him the cup, and their fingers brush, their eyes locking for the span of several heartbeats. Will watches Doctor Lecter’s eyes glide to the pulse monitor next to his bed, watching the spike in Will’s heartbeat as he does so. He hums, sounding pleased, and Will can feel his face flush in the cool hospital air. 

The doctor pats his hand, the depths of his eyes gleaming like twin embers. He straightens his coat, stethoscope and clipboard to leave, parting the curtain around Will’s bed and letting the sounds and colors of the world outside the Elysian sphere his presence has created back in. He stills, his eyes meeting Will’s over his shoulder, irreverent humor gathering in the quirk of his lip. “I’ll check on you again tomorrow afternoon, Will. Get some rest. I trust you won’t disappoint me with neglecting your recovering health.” “Don’t worry about me too much, Doctor Lecter. I won’t.” 

And then he’s gone, and Will can’t help but exhale long and low, feeling as if he’s had a brush with some beneficent miracle of good luck— and his luck has always been the polar opposite of good. 

 There’s always time to turn that around, right? Will takes a sip and sets the water cup down with a sigh. His fingers come away dotted with ink, and he turns the cup towards him, brow furrowed. There’s a name— Hannibal Lecter— and a phone number scrawled in perfect copperplate around the rim.

And below that, a tiny little scribble of an anatomical heart is encircled by those two precious words—

 Call me.

just thought about hannibal meeting will when he was still a practicing surgeon and will was a cop and they're like 7yrs younger and will just got rushed into the A&E for a bullet wound, where hannibal has his night shift

[tomorrowedblog]

Friday Releases for September 20

Friday is the busiest day of the week for new releases, so we've decided to collect them all in one place. Friday Releases for September 20 include Wolfs, A Different Man, The Substance, and more.

Wolfs

Wolfs, the new movie from Jon Watts, is out today.

George Clooney and Brad Pitt reunite for the action comedy WOLFS. Clooney plays a professional fixer hired to cover up a high profile crime. But when a second fixer (Pitt) shows up and the two “lone wolves” are forced to work together, they find their night spiraling out of control in ways that neither one of them expected.

A Different Man

A Different Man, the new movie from Aaron Schimberg, is out today.

Aspiring actor Edward undergoes a radical medical procedure to drastically transform his appearance. But his new dream face quickly turns into a nightmare, as he loses out on the role he was born to play and becomes obsessed with reclaiming what was lost.

The Substance

The Substance, the new movie from Coralie Fargeat, is out today.

Have you ever dreamt of a better version of yourself? You. Only better in every way. You’ve got to try this new product. It changed my life.

Eureka

Eureka, the new movie from Lisandro Alonso, is out today.

The protean Argentinean director Lisandro Alonso continues to shapeshift, delight, and challenge with his marvelous and immersive new film, which takes the viewer on an unexpected journey through three stories set in wildly different terrain, each of them reflecting lives haunted by the specter of colonialist violence. In the first, Viggo Mortensen and Chiara Mastroianni guest-star in a black-and-white neo-Western pastiche following a taciturn gunslinger seeking revenge in a lawless frontier town. In the second section, in a different kind of law-and-order narrative, set during the present day in the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, we accompany a Native American cop (Alaina Clifford) on her nighttime patrols, revealing a community troubled by addiction and poverty, but also, because of the cop’s good-hearted basketball coach niece (Sadie Lapointe), touched by transcendence. Finally, the film travels to the magnificent Brazilian rainforest of the 1970s, where Indigenous workers pan for gold while articulating their dream lives. Cleverly transitioning between segments without hand-holding the viewer, Alonso has created an improbably unified aesthetic experience that leaves it up to us to make the connections among its transient worlds.

Long Gone Heroes

Long Gone Heroes, the new movie from John Swab, is out today.

Gunner, a special forces soldier who has witnessed the darkest side of country and combat, is forced back into the field of battle to save his niece, who is being held in South America. As the fight intensifies, Gunner and his team discover that her disappearance is part of a corrupt private operation that hits way too close to home.

Never Let Go

Never Let Go, the new movie from Alexandre Aja, is out today.

In this new psychological thriller/horror, as an evil takes over the world beyond their front doorstep, the only protection for a mother, played by Academy Award winner Halle Berry (Monster’s Ball), and her twin sons is their house and their family’s protective bond. Needing to stay connected at all times – even tethering themselves with ropes – they cling to one another, urging each other to never let go. But when one of the boys questions if the evil is real, the ties that bind them together are severed, triggering a terrifying fight for survival.

Omni Loop

Omni Loop, the new movie from Bernardo Britto, is out today.

OMNI LOOP follows Zoya Lowe (Parker), a quantum physicist who finds herself in a time loop, with a black hole growing in her chest and only a week to live. But what the doctors and her family don’t know is that she has already lived this week before; so many times, in fact, that she doesn’t even know how long it’s been. Until one day Zoya meets a gifted student named Paula (Edebiri). Together they team up to save her life – and to unlock the mysteries of time travel.

Transformers One

Transformers One, the new movie from Josh Cooley, is out today.

TRANSFORMERS ONE is the untold origin story of Optimus Prime and Megatron, better known as sworn enemies, but once were friends bonded like brothers who changed the fate of Cybertron forever.

La Maison

La Maison, the new TV series from José Caltagirone and Valentine Milville, is out today.

High fashion meets high stakes in this realistic behind-the-scenes look at how an iconic fashion house is thrown into scandal and reinvention by a viral video featuring star designer Vincent Ledu (Lambert Wilson), leaving his family’s iconic and legendary haute couture house, LEDU, hanging by a thread. Perle Foster (Amira Casar), Vincent’s former muse who is still in his shadow, teams up with visionary next-generation designer Paloma Castel (Zita Hanrot) to save, evolve and renew the century-old Maison LEDU. Taking advantage of Vincent’s demise, Diane Rovel (Carole Bouquet), the ruthless CEO of the powerful Rovel luxury group, launches an offensive to acquire what she sees as her most important prize: Maison LEDU. To achieve her goal, anything is fair game, as this is more than acquiring just another brand — it’s about revenge.

Frostpunk 2

Frostpunk 2, the new game from 11 bit studios, is out today.

Develop, expand, and advance your city in a society survival game set 30 years after an apocalyptic blizzard ravaged Earth. In Frostpunk 2, you face not only the perils of never-ending winter, but also the powerful factions that watch your every step inside the Council Hall.

Lorn’s Lure

Lorn’s Lure, the new game from Rubeki Games, is out today.

An android is led through a vast structure by a glitch in his visual system. Lorn's Lure is an atmospheric narrative first-person platformer with novel climb-anything mechanics and modernized retro 3D graphics.

Parking Garage Rally Circuit

Parking Garage Rally Circuit, the new game from Walaber Entertainment, is out today.

Retro Arcade Rally Racing... in Parking Garages?!? Precision driving with tight simple controls and arcade physics, all in a Sega Saturn style presentation.

MIXTAPE PLUTO

MIXTAPE PLUTO, the new album from Future, is out today.

The Genuine Articulate

The Genuine Articulate, the new album from The Alchemist, is out today.

[burpenterprisejournal]

JD ZAZIE AT A.I.D. #63

2024/01/28 A.I.D #63 SVARTVIT JD ZAZIE AUGUSTE VICKUNAITE TINY TRAMP CEDRIK FERMONT xxxtr Berlin - DE

A.I.D #63 January 28th, sunday doors: 20:00 TRXTR (dm for location)

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• SVARTVIT Exploring the boundaries of sound since 2009. Svartvit sculpts corporeal sonic landscapes that pulsate with raw intensity. Through extensive manipulation acoustic sounds are held captive in the liminal space between their point of origin & grotesque indecipherable slabs of distortion. https://youtu.be/T2vd1Xs3C7k?si=UfzuHR9ZfoZm1z8l

• JD ZAZIE JD ZAZIE is an experimental DJ, avant-turntablist and sound artist. Coming from a DJ and radiophonic background JD Zazie has explored over the years different approaches of real-time manipulation on fixed recorded sound sources. Her live and recorded output works to redefine DJ and electroacoustic activities. As a solo performer, in small groups or large ensembles she moves in an area which is constantly stretching the borders of what is supposed to be DJ mixing, free improvisation and composed music. She is a member of the Italian label Burp Enterprise and broadcasts monthly on Colaboradio and Reboot.fm. https://jdzazie.tumblr.com/soundgallery

• AUGUSTE VICKUNAITE Augustė Vickunaitė is a sound performer with a background in physics science. She mainly uses reel-to-reel tape recorders to play, record, and create sounds that contain diverse field recordings, malfunctions of the old technology itself and intentional sounds/instruments recorded in natural environments. Her performance will contain audio tape loops and found tapes collage. https://archive.org/details/@augustevi

• TINY TRAMP Tiny Tramp uses his voice, tape loops, various electronic effects and DIY instrumental luggage loaded with rusty metal pieces to create a mix of noise, comedy, cabaret and horror. He transforms stages into a playground, where music meets madness in a one-man spectacle, blending ritualistic energy with lo-fi allure. https://youtu.be/eURluenGOgU?si=c_A-3rXFFioXZRi2

• CEDRIK FERMONT Born in Lubumbashi in 1972, Cedrik Fermont, also known as C-drík, Kirdec, and Cdrk, is an artist with Belgian, Congolese and Greek roots based in Berlin. He studied declamation, theatre improvisation, and electroacoustic music in Belgium. Since 1989, he has been actively involved in the realms of noise, electronic, and experimental music as a composer, musician, mastering engineer, author, radio host, concert organiser, independent researcher, and label manager at Syrphe, a label and platform founded in 2002, mostly dedicated to electronic, experimental and free improvised music from Asia and Africa. He was a member of groups such as Axiome, Tasjiil Moujahed, and Ambre and has lent his compositions to sound installations, theatrical performances, and choreographies. http://syrphe.com/c-drik.html

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A.I.D (Art is Dead) is an organization that came together with the purpose of breaking ties with musical criteria defined so far. Art is Dead is a fluid heading referring to the point music has come today with new technologies, methods, reasonings and experimental attitudes; for it involves a wide-ranging scale from acoustic improvisation performances to pre-composed electroacoustic pieces; from severe-harsh noise styles to hardcore / terror sets, and site-specific interactive/multidisciplinary spatializations & installations and alike. https://artisdead.in/

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[queensoybean0724]

Succession Chapter 20 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fanfic

Title: Succession Chapter 20

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader, the Duke

Rating: PG-13

Summary: you discover a long lost relative has died and made you his sole beneficiary.  While flying to collect your inheritance, you crash in a village in Romania.

Author’s Note: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village.  This is a work of fiction.  Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter 20

Heisenberg pulled a clean undershirt from the tall, five-drawer chest next to the bed.  You lay naked, your head in your hand and your elbow on the pillow.  The sheets were pulled up over your breasts as you watched him put on his clothes.  Despite lots of begging and pouting from you, Heisenberg had to attend to his metal army and continue his work of vengeance on Mother Miranda.

As much as you loved watching him remove his clothing, there was something equally arousing watching him put on his clothing.  He stepped into his underwear and khaki pants, grabbing his belt and sliding it through the pant loops.  He pulled the undershirt over his head and buttoned up the khaki shirt, tucking them both into his pants.  The three items he always kept around his neck were next, followed by his hat.  His sunglasses followed and lastly, his long overcoat.  The ensemble was complete.

Heisenberg sat next to you on the edge of the bed, putting on his socks and boots.  “I need to continue my work down in the lab, but I need supplies from the Duke.  He’ll be here in a few hours.  But time is of the essence and what I have to accomplish will take all day,” Heisenberg said.  The last few days were less working in his factory and more fucking your brains out.  He wasn’t complaining in the least, but he knew that lots of work still needed to be done and he wasn’t forgetting the inevitable clash between him and Miranda.  The feeling in his gut was growing; the battle needed to be fought and he needed to vanquish her.

“Well, why don’t you give me a list and I can get everything from the Duke,” you offered as you sat up in bed, “and while I’m there, I would like to see if he can get any toiletries and other items I’m running low on…”

Heisenberg was quiet for a moment as he tied his boots.  You could see him mulling over things in his head...whether or not he should let you go on this little excursion.  Everything he needed were things that he had bought several times over, so he knew the Duke would know exactly what was on the list.  But the worry of you running away was always in the back of his mind.  He felt certain that with everything that had happened between you and him and the confession of love on both sides that you wouldn’t want to leave even if the opportunity presented itself.  Heisenberg knew that you would get what was needed and return to the factory.  But there was also the possibility of Mother Miranda snatching you the moment his back was turned.  He would never forgive himself if she got her hooks into you and used you for one of her sick, delusional experiments in order to get Eva back.

In the end, he did trust you and he wanted to show you that trust.

“Okay, I’ll give you a list,” Heisenberg said, “just give it to the Duke and he’ll know exactly what I need.  But the moment you are finished, march right back to the factory.  Close and lock the doors and hit the red button to the right.  It will signal an alarm and let me know that you are safe…”

“I promise,” you said.

Heisenberg smiled and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on your lips.  You lifted your hands to his face, moaning softly.  The sheets fell into your lap, showing your tits to Heisenberg.  A soft giggle lodged in your throat as he opened his eyes and looked down.  He growled softly and broke the kiss.

“Such a cock tease,” he muttered playfully.

You chuckled as Heisenberg went to the table, grabbed a piece of paper,  and wrote his list of supplies.

*

The sliding double doors were heavy and it took a lot of your strength to push them open one by one.  The biting cold air rushed through the doors and nearly took your breath away.  It was cloudy and chilly.  The wind gusted in the distance.  You hadn’t been here that long, but long enough that you could tell snow wasn’t too far off.  Zipping your oversized jacket and making sure your wool gloves were on your hands, you exited the factory and made your way to the gate.

The Duke was seated in the back of his carriage and waiting as always.  You smiled and waved as you got closer to him.  Heisenberg had opened the gates earlier before making his way down into the depths of his factory.

“Well, good morning, Y/N,” the Duke greeted, a smile on his face, “is it just you today?  Is Lord Heisenberg not going to grace me with his presence?”

You shook your head, digging in your pants pocket for the list.  “Not today.  He’s busy and I told him I could get everything.”

“That’s fine with me...gives us some time to get to know one another…” he smiled.  You stood on your tiptoes and handed the Duke the list.  “Oh yes,” he said, looking over the items, “these are supplies that Lord Heisenberg is always in need of.  I know them all very well.”

The Duke handed you a burlap sack and showed you all of the things that Heisenberg needed.  One by one, you placed the items in the bag.  You also looked around at things that might catch your eye.  Thankfully, the Duke had toiletries and supplies that you needed.  You placed them in the sack along with the rest.

“Duke,” you began, “I also wanted to see if you could help me with something.  I wanted to do something nice for Karl.  Do you have anything that he likes that he doesn’t always purchase?  Maybe ingredients for a meal that he likes to splurge on from time to time?”

The Duke thought for a moment.  “I do happen to know that Tochitura de Pui is one of his favorite dishes!  I can’t remember the last time he bought ingredients for that meal.  Here…” he handed you a rectangular piece of paper with ingredients and directions for preparation.  The Duke went through the recipe and gave you all the products needed, giving you instructions on how to prepare it.  “Also…” he added, “another thing he doesn’t splurge on often is Asbach Uralt!  It’s a German brandy that his father and grandfather loved.  Lord Heisenberg buys a bottle of this a few times a year.  This would be a lovely surprise for him...and coming from you, it would make his day!”

He handed you the bottle of the alcohol and you inspected the writing.  It was in German, of course, but it filled you with excitement.  Heisenberg had cooked for you ever since he brought you to the factory.  Aside from the occasional meals you fixed yourself when he was off working, it was always him cooking.  You wanted to do this….to cater to him and make him happy with something he loved and would never see coming.

“Thank you so much for everything, Duke,” you said as you reached into your pockets, “I have some American currency, I hope you can use it or exchange it…”

“Not necessary,” he said, putting up his hand to stop you.

“Oh, please, take it,” you insisted, “you let me have that bracelet that I gifted to Salvatore.  I insist you take this!”

“Y/N,” he began, “I am more than happy to help you free of charge.  I do feel sorrow for the circumstances that brought you here.  I can’t imagine how traumatic a plane crash is.  But in the few times I have seen you here with Lord Heisenberg, I can sense a difference in him.  For years, he has been unhappy.  I assume he has told you what happened to him…”

You nodded your head.

“...then you know the horrors he has seen as a young child and growing up under the rule of Mother Miranda.  It has hardened his mind and his heart.  But since you have been here, I’ve noticed that icy exterior he has put up has slowly begun to melt.  You are a kind woman, Y/N, and you two are good for each other.  Consider these supplies as payment from me…”

You had to swallow the lump that formed in your throat.  The kindness and generosity he has shown you had not gone unnoticed.  Between him, Heisenberg, and Moreau, you have been lucky enough to see the small ounce of good this village had to offer.

“Thank you so much, Duke,” you said, “and if there is anything I can do for you, please let me know…”

The Duke smiled.  “Of course, I will.  Is there anything else you might need from me?”

“I think that’s it,” you smiled, holding the bottle of Asbach Uralt in one hand and pulling the hefty sack over your shoulder, “I’ll see you later!  Goodbye!”

“Take care,” he said as you closed the gate behind you.  He watched you walk up the path to the factory, making sure you were okay.  Once inside, you gently placed the sack and the bottle on the ground and closed the sliding double doors, locking them securely.  Lastly, you pressed the red button, alerting Heisenberg that you were safe and sound.

Heisenberg was pouring liquid metal into the press, making a cog for a broken machine.  He smiled when he heard the alarm.