#Reanimator other roles

[weyounthevorta]

Art Swap!

My half of the art exchange with @pillowprincessherbertwest, who made me a beautiful digital painting of John Reilly in exchange for a custom made D-Day plush.

The Cult of Combs is such a cool community, with so many amazing artists in it! I love having a weird little group to feed my Jeffrey Combs hyperfixation gremlin with.

[weyounthevorta]

The Cult of Combs is the best community ever!

I had the honor of making a custom-made D-Day plushie in exchange for a very cool one of a kind digital painting by @pillowprincessherbertwest

This was a very fun little project, and it’s going to be so hard to say goodbye to this adorable little d-day, but alas. His new cuddle buddy awaits.

my share of the art trade between me and @weyounthevorta!! I have such a soft spot for John.

[prismit]

dead cells show looks sooo ugly but aside from that it does look fun to watch ngl.... i feel so conflicted

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

One common argument I see is that Beric’s and Catelyn’s resurrections somehow “cheapen” the weight of Jon Snow’s eventual rebirth. However, I think this misses a critical point: while both characters foreshadow Jon’s resurrection, they represent two very different aspects, and neither is redundant nor interchangeable.

With Beric, there are key elements that simply don’t apply to Catelyn. For starters, Beric is resurrected by a red priest of R’hllor who wields a flaming sword—mirroring the champion of fire, Azor Ahai. When Beric is brought back, he embodies those same traits of a warrior imbued with the fire of life. This serves as clear foreshadowing of Jon’s own resurrection by Melisandre, especially considering her role as a servant of R’hllor, a more powerful version of Thoros. It’s about the passivity of the act—Beric is the one brought back to life.

Now, with Catelyn, things are different. Her resurrection wasn’t performed by Thoros, but by Beric himself—and that’s a critical distinction! This shows that someone resurrected through R’hllor’s power can actively give life to others. It’s almost biblical in nature: Beric, having been resurrected multiple times, now becomes the giver of life, a messianic figure. Catelyn’s resurrection doesn’t foreshadow what happens to Jon; instead, it hints at what Jon, in true Azor Ahai fashion, might do for others. Other aspects of Azor Ahai are also absent in Catelyn/Stoneheart—i.e., no flaming sword.

And we have to place this within the broader context of Jon’s arc. He’s a ghost, constantly haunting the Stark crypts, often coming into confrontation with the ancient Kings of Winter who are buried within. What sets him apart from other notable crypt visitors—like Ned and Theon—is that while the Kings of Winter are often passive observers in other situations, Jon’s presence in the crypts reanimates them. They are literally brought to life. They move, they speak, and their tombs open. There is a very messianic parallel here, ref Jesus raising Lazarus, which Beric (but not Catelyn!) also plays into.

So, while Beric’s resurrection points to what might happen to Jon (being revived by a servant of R’hllor), Catelyn’s resurrection foreshadows what Jon could do with that power. His resurrection is not just about his return from death but also about his potential to wield the power of life and death over others . Thus, Beric and Catelyn highlight different, yet complementary, aspects of Jon’s role in the greater narrative. But these events are not the same!

[robin-evry]

anyone with yuu who's a child of hades i beg

Sure thing

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐆𝐎𝐃 ( 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 ) ⚰️👻

A demigod is a part-human and part-divine offspring of a deity and a human, or a human or non-human creature that is accorded divine status after death, or someone who has attained the "divine spark".

Demi-God!yuu are calm and collected would be reserved and yet sarcastic towards people, they are very blunt and straight forward person.

They would have eye bags due to their part time job as a judge for souls due to their father having other businesses in the underworld.

They rarely sleeps, plagued by vivid dreams or visions of the underworld. When they do sleep, it’s short and restless, leading to their permanent eye bags. Despite this, they always seem alert, almost as if their connection to the underworld sustains them.

Demi-God Yuu’s presence often makes people around them feel a slight chill, as if the shadows grow darker in their vicinity. Some students find it unsettling, while others are drawn to the mystery.

Also Plants around them tend to wither slightly, and candles flicker or dim when they enter a room.

loves learning about ancient myths, especially those relating to death and the afterlife. They spend hours in the library researching past civilizations, and their knowledge often surprises the professors.

They have the ability to sense spirit, summon the souls of the dead for guidance And borrow their power for a short time.

Demi-God Yuu eyes seem to reflect the vast, empty depths of the underworld, almost like looking into the abyss. Some say staring into them too long makes you feel like you're being pulled into the shadows.

While Grim loves causing chaos, Demi-God Yuu is always there to rein him in. They take on a more parental role, ensuring Grim doesn’t bite off more than he can chew. Grim, despite his bravado, is secretly afraid of Yuu’s “death glare.”

They have a dry, dark sense of humor, often making grim or morbid jokes that leave others unsure whether to laugh or be scared. Ace and Deuce are the usual targets of their deadpan quips.

Despite their grim aura, Demi-God Yuu has a gentle side that comforts lost or lonely souls, both living and dead. They seem to attract those who need guidance, offering quiet, profound words of wisdom when needed.

Demi-God!yuu is a powerful necromancer, By knowing the knowledge of the undead as well a sacrifice of blood they can create or summon them to zombies to aid them with a flick of their hand. They can use this power as servants to do their order. They also can use the powers and abilities of the undead freely as they do.

This ability can stand anything as long as they're dead, animals or people can summon as long as they know the knowledge and the soul structure of the thing they summon. Animals with more complicated structures will need more concentration as well blood.

They also can reanimate skeletons, summon Skeleton Warriors, bring back the dead, manipulate ghosts. Crowley has forbade them from using any necromancy magic due to being illegal in twisted wonderland.

They often seeks solitude in graveyard, finding comfort in the stillness and quiet. They sometimes have long conversations with the spirits buried there, enjoying the peaceful connection to the afterlife. The ignihyde dorm or dismonia dorm reminds them of the underworld so they usually tend to hang out there as well to play video games with idia, or hang out with the dismonia gang.

When faced with peril, Demi God Yuu is unfazed. Whether it’s a magical duel, a rampaging monster, or a chaotic spell gone wrong, they remain eerily calm, calculating the best way to neutralize the threat. Their classmates often wonder if they even feel fear.

They're connection to the underworld has dulled their senses. They can’t taste food as vividly as others, and colors seem muted to them. The only exception is the color of flames—they are drawn to fire, seeing it in a vibrance others can’t perceive. It’s one of the few things that remind them they’re still connected to the living world.

The ghosts of Night Raven College are particularly fond of them They feel understood and respected by someone with such strong ties to the afterlife. They frequently visits the ghost dorms, chatting with the spirits about history, the past, and lost legends.

Demi-God yuu's favorite hobby is to solve puzzles as well as literature, they are new members of the board game club, you can find them playing board games with Azul and idia.

Since them being the child of hades, since he's the god of the dead as well treasure and wealth, Demi-God Yuu grew up in a rich lifestyle, they are the richest in NRC, their wealth is infinite. By far they have turned ramshackle into a palace with the help of undead workers they summon to help them build it.

The dorm has become the most luxurious out of all the other 7 dorms as well being guarded by zombies, and yet it still carries an Erie feeling for whoever dares to enter the dorm without demigod yuu permission. Some students say the dorm Carries multiple undead and spirits servants that serve under demigod yuu and grim. It has a beautiful garden filled with multiple flowers, but by far the ones that stand out the most are black roses that Demi-God Yuu personality plants and take care of them. It's also known that dorms usually have a lot of crows or raven hanging around the castle.

Grim and first years has been spoiled by Demi-God Yuu, luxurious beds, food, etc anything he asks for demigod-Yuu will give it to them with no question asked, this creates a situation where grim would fake cry and run towards them saying that ace and Deuce is being mean leaving him to be pampered by them. Of course demigod-yuu is aware of his tricks but finds it amusing so they never bother. The first years usually receive gold of jewelry from them and when they ask what's the special occasion they just shrug and walk away.

Demi-God Yuu also believes you can solve little matters with money, during the Octavinelle arc, when Azul was about to speak, they put a large bar of gold in the coffee table.

Azul : okay now let's start negotiation-

Demi-God! yuu : put a large bar of gold on the table

Azul : I assured you prefect I'm not so easily swayed by money-

Demi god!yuu : put another large bar of gold on the table

Azul : I am not easily swayed -

Demi-God Yuu : put another large bar of gold on the table

Demi-God Yuu has a natural talent for negotiation and persuasion. They’re able to strike deals or mediate conflicts, earning respect among the students for their diplomatic skills. But they usually find bribing an easier way And only negotiate during serious moments.

Ruggie is seen trying to get close with demigod-yuu trying to be on their good side for some treasures, he once helped them get their favorite drink which is milk tea in the busy cafeteria and they paid him back using 5 solid gold coins, this left him in shock and they continued on their day without looking back. Right now he's by far more eager to help them in exchange for some gold, and this causes some tension around Leona and them.

They also bribed Crowley by making grim a student, originally he was against it but when they bring out a chest full of solid gold saying that they will pay forward grim tuition for four years in NRC and if the gold is not enough they will add more and boom grim became an official student at NRC.

Another popular rumor that pops up is who is by far more richer kalim or demigod-yuu, which became a hot debate in NRC. And of course it's Demi God Yuu is richer than kalim, what do you expect their father is the god of treasure and they will never run out of money.

Their favorite fruits are pomegranates, you can always find near their bed a bowl of pomegranates seeds in their nightstand. They also wield a bident in combat, they are very skilled with it as well.

When the great sevens introduction and they met with the statue of hades Disney version, they had the surprise Pikachu face and said "wtf that's my dad".

Likes to go out on nightly walks when they can't sleep, and that's how they come across with idia, originally he was awkward around them until both of them learned about his fascination with the underworld. He will ask for a bunch of questions about it in exchange for demi god yuu is taught by idia how to play video games. And one point idia will ask them if they could bring back his brother and Demi-God!yuu still haven't given him an answer yet.

I imagine demi god yuu aesthetic would be similar to gothic or dark academia style, when they go out, they are very stylish and very prim to the bottom, But when at home they wore a giant oversize hoody and very sloppy, they look unrecognizable to their outside version, even during the VDC when vil visits them and meet them in their home attire he's first reaction is who are you, basically it's like a light switch they found no reason to be stylish in their own home just wear an outfit your most comfortable in, This is just a personal idea you guys can add if you like. and I also imagine them not being big fans of the sun, they usually wear an umbrella and sunglasses to cover themselves from the sun.

[quill-n]

I started this rough little animation on ibis paint like a month ago with full intention of finishing it, but I ended up abandoning it because animating on ibis paint on my dinky little phone kinda sucks :/ but I found the file earlier and thought I should share anyway :)

I might go back and reanimate it on krita, but I have some other projects I'm focusing on first

(I really hope someone understands this reference lol)

[VD] A short animation of Mollymauk Tealeaf and Caleb Widogast from Critical Role. They start by staring off at something off-screen; Caleb looks mildly shocked while Molly just flicks his tail with a grin on his face. Caleb then stands upright, seemingly processing whatever they were looking at. Molly looks over at him, back off-screen, then turns back to Caleb with a mischievous grin and tackles him with a sudden kiss, knocking them both off-balance so they fall off-screen. [end VD]

[bobthedoctor27]

Makuta Parrea

Parrea was the Makuta of Lesovikk's homeland and a member of the Brotherhood of Makuta.

Parrea was responsible for the creation of several Rahi breeds to populate the Matoran Universe during her early life, most notable of which was the Fusa, a breed of mammal Rahi suited to desert landscapes. Displaying some talent in the area, Parrea never fully committed to the role of Rahi Creator, however, possessing more interest in other disciplines.

After the Matoran Civil War, Parrea was assigned to supervise Lesovikk's homeland by Makuta Miserix, who felt she was the least likely Makuta to interfere in the delicate affairs of the fledgling Matoran colony that was struggling to establish itself. Situating herself in the large desert biome of Galria's western region, Parrea established herds of Fusa, to the extent where the central desert region became nicknamed the Fusa Plains. When residing in the desert, Parrea often used her Kanohi Tryna to reanimate fallen Rahi, Visorak and even Matoran to ward off travelers from areas of interest. 

During the Dark Times, Parrea notably remained on Galria, supervising the island and conducting research into a mysterious labyrinth at its center. Over time, her contributions towards the advancement of the Brotherhood of Makuta dwindled. Displeased by her apparent lack of loyalty, Makuta Teridax dispatched Gorast to investigate her activities and eliminate the errand Makuta if she proved disloyal to the Brotherhood's agenda. After this encounter, Parrea halted her exploration of the ancient labyrinth and quietly resumed supplying Rahkshi to the Brotherhood's offensive efforts.

Parrea wore a Kanohi Tryna, Great Mask of Reanimation, a Kanohi that enabled her to animate the corpses of dead beings, commanding them to perform basic tasks until she lost concentration.

Sporting a wide arsenal of Protosteel weaponry over the centuries, Parrea armed herself principally with a Rotating Razor Shield, which served as both a defensive and offensive tool capable of channeling her Shadow powers. Prior to the Invasion of Karda Nui, Parrea also equipped herself with a Tridax Pod.

[comfortless]

hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

[stu-dyingstudent]

Sakura Haruno fic recs: ANBU

AHHHH!!!! I love ANBU fics, especially when they involve Sakura. It was such a cool concept, which was unfortunately never fully expanded upon. However, our lack of knowledge regarding the shadow corps allows for some really cool fic ideas since authors can take creative liberty on the structure and workings of the division.

In my opinion, Sakura had the most potential out of team 7 to join ANBU (at least more than Naruto). It's all about being discreet and efficient and although she wasn't strong during og, she possessed abilities that would be valuable for this. Her clever mind, chakra control, and genjutsu potential would've made her a good fit. Naruto was too flamboyant and Sasuke was too reckless and cocky, but this is just my take. However, with her new skill set from her training with Tsunade, I don't think she would be able to go down that path anymore.

Started: 2024.08.06

Last Updated: 2024.08.29

note: feel free to check out my master list which has a bunch of Sakura Haruno fic recs (all organized)!

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Masks by mads999 || ao3 || kakasaku || E || canon divergent || complete

1. Sakura's Inner is far more diabolical than anyone ever expected 2. Crows prove to be cruel mentors 3. Sakura comes to learn exactly how much she hates Kakashi (as well as how alike they are, in the most terrible of ways)

Kakashi is a hateful turd and Sakura is spiteful! I hate this ship and I'm not a big fan of Kakashi here, but boy is this fic good. One of the best character developments I've read for Sakura and she certainly becomes of force to be reconned with. The ANBU lore in Masks is absolutely phenomenal and I love the whole system that is put into place as it adds for some drama (lol). Also, can we talk about how awesome crow summons are????

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Five Kingdoms for the Dead - Evil Is A Relative Term || ffn || M || canon divergence || complete

After the Forest of Death, Sakura comes to realize that being weak is no longer an option. However, she finds that change is sometimes painful and that truth doesn't always come easy. Luckily, she'll have some help along the way.

It's been a while since I've read Five Kingdoms for the Dead, but I just remember it being absolutely great! I'll be honest, I found a lot of the mind stuff pretty confusing at times, but it was still enjoyable. Also, some great characters are utilized in this fic such as Neji, Sai, and Itachi. Makes me really wish that we saw more of Sakura and Neji working together in Naruto since I think they compliment each other quite well.

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Trials of Change - Espoiretreves || ao3 || gen || time travel AU || complete

Haruno Sakura made a promise. Looking in the eyes of her Shisou and the reanimated Hokage, she took on the most important mission of her life. Go back in time and try to prevent the 4th Shinobi War. Now, Sakura is back to her 5-year-old body, with all the knowledge and haunting memories of the future. She vows to keep her precious people safe and stop certain events from happening, without altering the timeline too much. The trials her emotions and logic put her through have her questioning her very existence, but for the sake of peace, she has to push forward. No matter what.

Trials of Change is actually apart of a time travel series and I have to say that it is probably one of the best of the genre! Now, Sakura is not in ANBU here, but she works very closely with team Ro (Kakashi's ANBU team) and it's a huge part of the story, so I'm choosing to count it anyway. I really adore all of the worldbuilding and backstories going on here in addition to the fact that there are breaks. Yes, the story keeps moving, but there are other things going on, like playdates, and not just Sakura trying to save the world. Also, if you love Shisui then definitely check this out since he has a huge role and his and Sakura's friendship is just so precious.

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bite me and see, said the fly to the spider - MirrorImage003 || ao3 || itasaku || T || non-massacre AU || ongoing

In which Sakura is not initially a part of Team 7. In which she wears her failures like armor and brandishes her fears like her most trusted weapons. In which I do what hundreds of other authors have done before me, and rewrite Sakura's story. Non-massacre AU. Canon Divergent. Slow-burn.

After Sakura's first team, consisting of the graduating class's "expendables," dies, she joins team 7 and faces backlash along her shinobi journey. Sakura doesn't join ANBU until the later chapters so fair warning that there isn't too much content in that regards (unless it updates). Nonetheless, Sakura views ANBU as vital to her career as it offers her the highest clearance she can get. Gaining her opportunities for information her civilian-born status didn't allow her privy to.

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The Sixth Shadow - thinknicht || ao3 || kakasaku || M || canon divergent - eventual time travel AU || ongoing

No one seemed to find it odd when little Haruno Sakura threw herself smack dab in front of a Chidori and Rasengan. Not even Kakashi stopped to wonder.(He really should have.)

The story of how Sakura came to be the sixth hogake despite all of the challenges thrown her way. I especially love Sakura's drive in addition to the political aspects. However, be warned that Kakashi is an absolute HATER (in the beginning), but he gets better! The Sixth Shadow is extremely long and I only just recently got to Sakura's introduction to ANBU, so I can't say too much in that regard.

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Daughter of Fire - justjstuff || ao3 || kakasaku || E || canon divergence || incomplete (maybe ongoing)

Sakura got up and didn’t bother brushing the dirt from her dress. She had a feeling she was about to get even dirtier.She looked at the memorial stone one last time, memorizing the characters without even realizing she was doing it. It would serve from that moment on as a reminder of her determination. She wouldn’t let Naruto and Sasuke join the names carved on that stone.That was her nindo.

Sakura's growth throughout Daughter of Fire is great and realistic all while pointing out aspects from the original series which were flawed and dare I say misogynistic. I struggled a bit in the beginning to justify her abilities, but overall the story is really well done and the ANBU aspects are quite intriguing.

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cut the head off the snake - itsthechocopuff || ao3 || T || time travel AU || complete

when eighteen-year-old, post-war Sakura is thrown back into her tiny, pre-Academy body, she makes a decision. she'd had a childhood once already, and this time, she's more interested in Not Dying when the inevitable shit hits the proverbial fan. so she will work harder, care less, kill more, and smile when she's done.and hey, if she ends up reviving an extinct nature transformation to attract the most corrupt, power-hungry man from her timeline, all the better for her, right?

Such a unique take on a time travel AU and Cut the Head Off the Snake executes it perfectly. Sakura decides that her first order of business is to infiltrate ROOT and that's exactly what she does. Sai, Shin, and Shisui are all great characters and team Ro is present as well. Very good!

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Flowers - Idunmy || ao3 || E || kakasaku || canon divergence || ongoing

Flowers only bloom just before they wilt When Sakura loses her fight against Ino in her Chuunin exams, she questions her ability to ever become a kunoichi, too weak to protect herself, let alone her village One wrongful promotion later and Sakura gets a second chance in the shape of a mysterious new teacher who against all odds is willing to put her faith in a young girl with potential and a willingness to fight. Or- a fix-it inspired fic where Sakura grows to be the powerhouse she was destined to become.

Flowers is a newer series (which has recent updates) and I love it! Critiques are made towards the medical ninja training, which I believe needed to be discussed and it's refreshing to see. In most ANBU fics I've read, Sakura is immediately put onto the strongest team, but here it's a bit different. She begins on a demolition squad, which not only suits her skill set quite well, but is a realistic approach to how she would be introduced to the corps. Anyway, it's one of my favorite reads at the moment and I really like where the story is going.

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names. - waterpllar || ao3 || T || gen || canon divergence || complete

There are no names or faces in ANBU. Everything is designed to be strictly formal, efficient and professional. A recently orphaned Sakura, however, learns that some regulations aren't meant to be followed, and finds a place in Team Ro after being shunned from her former teammates. (fic prompt from anon on tumblr: orphaned sakura in anbu with yamato, genma, and team ro.)

AHHHH poor Sakura. After her parents' death Sakura seeks Tsunade's help out of desperation to become useful. Under recommendation, Sakura's new goal is to make it into ANBU.

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Equinox - FM_White || ao3 || itasaku || M || anbu AU || complete

ItaSaku (Post Uchiha Massacre) AU: Climbing through the ranks of Konoha, Sakura finds herself with the invitation to join ANBU and a chance to learn from one of the most renowned and legendary ninja in the world. Despite her efforts to grow stronger however, she finds the world isn't as black and white as it looks and that some truths are easier to hide than others.

I don't remember Equinox very well, but I love most works by this author sooo. Anyway, Itachi stays in Konoha and instead it's Sasuke that goes rougue. Sakura, Naruto, and Shikamaru are newly joined ANBU members and all placed on a team with Itachi and things go from there.

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stars in our eyes as we dream of the heavens (the gods walk among us, sweet child, do not forget) - snickiebear || ao3 || kakasaku || T || age-swap AU || oneshot complete

“Kakashi-sensei,” Naruto whispered, staring at his teacher, horror plain on his face. “You’re married?” Lazily, Kakashi looked down at his gloveless hand where his ring rested, “It would appear so.”

Sakura is born in the same generation as Kakashi and turns out as a badass ANBU married to him. This is super wholesome as it's a lot of the two of them bonding with Kakashi's genin team (Sai makes three) in an effort to help them out. It's a series so you can read more of the events taking place prior to the fic.

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Anachronistic Drift  - Elesrea  || ffn || gen || T || time travel AU || incomplete

Her plan was flawless. Save Shisui. Save the world. Time-travel, Sakura-centric AU

Sakura spends years training to be sent back in time and save the world from Sasuke. She isn't in ANBU, but rather poses as one in order to keep an anonymous status on her doings both in and out of the village.

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Sakura - lilac haze || ffn/ao3 || M || minasaku || time travel AU || complete

AU. Non-Canon. Time Travel. Please see inside for full warnings. Cross posted on Ao3. On his deathbed he was granted eternal peace and place to rest for all of time. Of course that was not appealing to him. Ever unpredictable to the end he had a counter offer. One that the Sage had to consider. In which Sakura's going to have a rough time. A really rough time.

Sakura is probably one of my all time favorite fics because the emotions are just spectacular. The story is pretty heavy on ANBU and ROOT aspects, which I always enjoy, but I wouldn't say it's a major focus. However, there is an emphasis on the unfair treatment towards kunoichi. Anyway, the characterizations and storytelling are beautifully done. Please share this author some love.

Check TWs before hand!!

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Hope y'all enjoy these recs, and please feel free to send me some if you have any!!!! I really appreciate when you do :)

[weyounthevorta]

Sleeping Curse

Five cute guys can’t wake up. Turns out an evil witch put a sleeping curse on every single one of them.

A good witch was able to give you a special potion. If you drink it, you can wake one man up with a kiss. Only one, then the potion’s spell breaks, and the rest of those sweet boys must slumber indefinitely.

Which one are you waking with a kiss?

[sweetercalypso]

Watch Party || Joel Miller

word count: 1.5k

summary: renting a Halloween movie turns into a nightmare when poltergeist!Joel Miller crawls out of your TV

notes: part two in my week of horror series! minors dni; female mast., male mast., voyeurism, facial, afab reader, better tags on a03 because tumblr hates this post

It’d started as a joke.

The dusty VHS tape sitting on your coffee table was a relic, an obsolete piece of lewd cinema recorded and forgotten by time. ‘Night of the Lustful Undead’ is clearly an outdated work, but you doubt that the twenty-first century has produced anything that rivals the corny obscenity featured in this parody of a classic horror film.

Static from the TV flickers in a black and white trance, casting a strange light over your living room, dancing across the furniture with an eerie glow.

You grab the tape and slide it into the VHS player that you’d pulled from storage just for this occasion, and settle onto the couch with the remote in hand. This started as a joke, but you’re in too deep to back out now.

When your Halloween plans had been cancelled for the third time in a row, you’d assumed it was a sign that you were meant to spend the holiday weekend at home. You’d told your friend about your dilemma over brunch one morning, and she’d said that time alone could be just as fun, as long as you knew how to spend it.

You’d blushed at the implication and laughed off her suggestive tone, but the idea had planted a seed in your mind, and by the end of the month, it’d grown into something more.

­­­­If you were going to spend the holiday by yourself, you decided that you wanted to stay on theme with your choice of celebration. A movie rental company on the other side of town had exactly the entertainment you were looking for.

You’d been grateful for the anonymity of the empty, dated storefront, though you’d struggled to make eye contact with the cashier as he’d stuffed your purchase into an inconspicuously plain plastic bag.

Now, as the opening credits roll across the screen, you’re still telling yourself that this is just an ironic charade. You’re not actually interested in the passionate plot you’d read on the back of the cover; you’re not secretly glad that your friends hadn’t invited you out at the last minute; you’re not vaguely aware of the heat simmering in your belly at the thought of what’s to come.

The scene opens with a grainy shot of a scantily dressed woman barricaded in the cellar of an old farmhouse – a reference to the film’s inspiration.

She’s toying with a radio to call for help when the reanimated “zombie” bursts through the door, mangled shirt barely covering his tan chest. He lunges towards her and she gives an exaggerated gasp before zealously attempting to wrangle herself free.

“Oh, that’s so fake,” you scoff, though your hands twitch absentmindedly at your sides.

Their stilted performances makes the movie seem more gaudy than you’d anticipated, but you’re too distracted by their heated struggle to worry about bad acting.

The performer in the scene is handsome enough – a burly, broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and a stony expression. The undead part of his character had been implied solely in his tattered clothes and the baritone warble of his voice, and now that he’s stripped down to his popped-open jeans, you can’t remember much else about his role.

Your hands inch into your lap as the two actors tangle themselves together, almost entirely abandoning the storyline they’d spent the first ten minutes building up. He lays the woman down on a conveniently placed blanket and moves between her thighs with the promise to ‘give her what she needs’.

The camera changes angles and you shift in your seat as the expanse of his back fills the screen. His muscles flex in time with his first experimental thrust, spine bent at an awkward angle as he leans down to groan against the woman’s throat. You barely notice the sound of her high-pitched moans over the guttural noises he sings against her skin.

When the point of view changes again and you’re met with a close up of his side profile, you’re immediately entranced by the sight. His nose is pressed against the woman’s cheek, brows pinching together as they share greedy breaths between their open mouths.

You gasp as he glances over at the camera. For a split second, it felt like he was looking directly into your eyes.

The thought is enough to bring you to your breaking point, finally caving in and slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of your sweats. You’re soaked between your thighs and the sound of the actor’s heady pants fuels the urgency in your touch.

Your fingers swipe messily at your clit as the man on the screen picks up pace, grunting a breathless command of ‘don’t come without me’ into the small room.

The camera switches to a more scenic shot of the pair and you mourn the loss of his close-up features. The woman seems to have forgotten her character’s earlier reservations, thighs wrapped snugly around his waist, one hand knitted into his dark, tussled hair. You silently envy the way she gets to explore his form.  

She throws her head back in pleasure and you imitate the act, almost like you’re trying to envision yourself in her place. Your eyes squint shut and you picture his face again, dipping your fingers into your core.

Light from the TV flashes behind your closed eyes, a wild display of vivid colors that doesn’t fit the setting of the movie. The sounds of their affair are replaced with a jarring static that makes you groan and slump down into the couch. The tape must be jammed.

You peel your eyes open with a disappointed sigh, already feeling the tightly-wound coil in your gut beginning to unravel. So much for enjoying your alone time.

From the flicker of the screen, you notice a tall silhouette looming beside the TV. The color drains from your face when it begins to move closer and you realize that it’s taken the shape of a man.

You’re frozen in fear, too scared to move and too dazed to consider whether your heart is hammering out of panic or eager anticipation.

The figure stops just a few feet away and you’re able to piece together his identity. The mused hair, the stubble on his cheeks, the hills and valleys of his exposed shoulders and chest – the man from the screen is here in front of you.

You look towards the TV in disbelief. Everything seems to be exactly the same, minus the empty space that he had once filled.

His scene partner is still plastered on the screen, blurred by the digital lines running across her image. Without his presence, the movie seems much more like the unserious spoof film you thought you’d purchased.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” his gruff baritone breaks the monotonous white noise coming from the speakers.

“How did you…” your question trails off before you can finish it. What could he say that would make you understand?

He nods towards where your hand disappears beneath the waist of your bottoms. “Keep going. I want to watch.”

His own hand is wrapped around the length of his cock, moving slowly to keep his interest limited to your assent. He’s close enough that you can see the pearl of precum dripping from his ruddy tip, glinting in the light of the flickering screen.

Your fingers move of their own volition, circling your clit with a gentle pressure, matching the leisure pace of his hand gliding over his length. Small chirps and sounds of pleasure fill the air, turning into little hums and choked sobs as your shared tempo becomes faster.

“Y’like my cock?” He spits, thighs flexing as he bucks into his palm. “Dirty girl, getting off on watching other people fuck.”

You whimper and stretch your free hand out to motion him to come closer, but he shakes his head and bats it away. “No – you’re gonna finish what you started.”

He takes another step closer and rubs his thumb over the underside of his cock, laughing to himself as your jaw hangs open in awe.

“Make yourself come, and then I’ll touch you however you want.”

A few more swipes over your clit is all it takes for you to reach your peak, crumpling forward and shuddering through your release. You’re still catching your breath when a warm hand meets your cheek, pulling your attention up to the man towering above you.

His cock stands just inches from your face, and he twists over the shaft once, twice, before he comes, striping the evidence of his arousal over your glazed features. He hisses out a blissful noise and taps the weeping head against your parted lips, leaving a salty taste in your mouth that makes your walls clench.

He tips his head to the side, admiring the opaque lines streaked across your face. When he takes a step back and glances at the TV over his shoulder, you’re afraid for a moment that he might disappear. He turns his focus back towards you with a grin, and the look in his eyes says he’s not leaving anytime soon.

[taki-yaki]

My prompt is Tav that's a necromancer, but she's still new and clumsy and very much an apprentice. Obviously, Tav/Astarion ship.

A necromancer Tav with astarion is already an interesting dynamic but a naive/apprentice one is cute.

Astarion x Necromancer Tav

Most necromancers were always seen as those who loved to toy with the undead and raise an entire legion of undead to ravage the living. Although that is the tale that is commonly spoken about in legends and fairy tales.

But you however were different to the tales that were told, only a fledging apprentice who got caught up in the nautiloid ship, now forced to relearn your basic incantations once more.

At first, Astarion grimaced slightly upon hearing that you were a necromancer, reminding him of those similar to his old master, the type who would try to experiment with the living dead or just use them as pawns for their own goals. But after seeing you blunder some of your reanimating spells one too many, he soon deems you naive.

This soon leads to him coming on strong towards you, being so innocent in his eyes, but at the back of his mind lies doubt about you. After your first few nights together, he wonders if you fell for him purely because he was an undead creature of the night. But the way he sees you offering up your blood without a second thought for him as the first humanoid he’s ever fed from, treating him as an equal compared to the undead you would raise soon erased most doubts about you.

Throughout your travels, apart from the occasional quip that Gale gives when you attempt to practise casting your spells, he would watch from afar, claiming that he’s just watching the show. He would focus on the way you practice your necormancy as your hands twist and concord in the air to form the spells, he would then attempt to mimic your gestures, after all, if his old master had access to such magic, then why not him?

Upon obtaining the cursed book of thay, this soon leads to a bickering match later that night at camp between you and Astarion, over the ownership of such powerful magic, with Gale purely trying to play the role of the peacemaker. Soon after you both settle on reading the book together, both furthering your knowledge and bonding together as they soon become late-night reading sessions.

But, as a vampire, he does have his talents which he uses to assist in speeding up your training, going out to provide you enemies' bodies that he has drained dry for you to reanimate easier without having to resort to grave plundering or the risk of developing diseases upon you.

Still, for a necromancer, you appear to be normal to passing outsiders at first but as time goes on, others at camp soon notice the weird habit between you both. When you would lay on his chest attempting to listen for a heart that can not beat, would bring serenity among you.

Or your excitement in familiars that are abnormal, especially when you met Squire in moonrise towers, fussing over the skeletal pup, only to be forcibly dragged away by Astarion, when guards attempted to search the room.

When you reunited with Us in the mind flayer colony, you pleaded with the group to keep them, much to the dismay of some druids within the camp, though he doesn’t mind the creature much, he does prefer it in its “kitty” form hunting rodents.

[smolsleepyfox]

hello! I've been listening to Wake Up the Wicked on loop pretty much constantly for the past couple days and keep finding new things to love about it! in particular I have many Thoughts about the way Powerwolf's songs with women as the focus have shifted over the years. unfortunately when I try to articulate those thoughts they mostly just come out as "AAAAAAAA Vargamor and Kyrie Klitorem and Joan of Arc just FEEL like such an important thing! I've been a fan for so long but something about these songs makes me (as a fem-adjacent person) feel like I can actually be part of the group!" in one of your posts about your thesis, you note how there's never been a Powerwolf song with a woman werewolf — I'd never noticed that until now, tho Vargamor and Dancing with the Dead feel close. examining that distinction is fascinating!

considering you've got a whole thesis on it and so will likely be able to go deeper than me, I'd love to hear any thoughts you have on how gender is handled in this album as compared to others, and in general, who "gets" to be a monster!

Okay this is a great question and also funnily enough something I've spoken about with another friend recently.

So the thing about monstrosity is that it is very heavily gendered. This doesn't start but is reflected in the Middle Ages where monstrosity is physical (since the distincion body/mind didn't really exist) BUT directly related to gender roles. The example most scholars go with are the Amazons, the mythical warrior women. They are monstrous because they only have one breast AND because they take on both gender roles, making clothing (female) and hunting (male). If you behaved weird people would assume you had a physical abnormality and a physical abnormality could be a sign of somethig wrong (e.g. witch marks). Note that "monstrous" isn't technically synonymous with "bad/evil". From what I gather, bestiaries and collections of monsters from far away lands were a curiosity with no inherent moral dimension, although it obviously held implications for the treatment of queer and disabled people, foreigners etc. Dana Oswald splits monstrosity into hypermasculine, hypersexual (feminine) and hybrid. Hypermasculine is exactly what you think it is, werewolves, giants, anything that is large and hairy and ravenous. The theme here is Taking. Wealth, sex, someone's life. Interestingly, exaggerated sexuality in the middle ages was culturally feminine, so centaurs are monstrously feminine due to their exagerrated sexuality. Another example are sirens. Hypersexual/feminine monsters seduce instead of take by brute force.

About werewolves specifically, let me open with Willem de Blecourt's opening line in a book about werewolf history: There is no werewolf history. What we today see as a werewolf (and Powerwolf uses as a mascot) is a modern cultural concept that is only an approximate to other times and cultures. Let's take the Varcolac, a creature from Slavic mythology (spelled differently in different languages). The Varcolac is often translated as werewolf, but if you look at the mythology it is - simplified - a reanimated corpse that drinks blood. Usually it's a person who was evil/frivolous/was excommunicated in life that rises again. So for all intents and purposes it's a vampire. Powerwolf does have some werewolf/vampire hybrids in their music and on tshirts, but since werewolves and vampires are both hypermasculine monsters that's only a side note.

To talk about as actual a werewolf as possible, you know 1589, you know the story of Peter Stubbe. Peter Stubbe was a highly publicized case that influenced later ones. Elements of his case reappear in trials in the low countries, Germany and England, but not in France because the pamphlets telling his story were not translated into French afawk. Some details also bear striking resemblances to earlier French cases, so it's very difficult to know what actually happened. Peter Stubbe single-handedly (heh) cemented the image of the cannibal werewolf for the early modern public BUT he's an outlier. Werewolf Georg if you will. Cannibalism is definitely a defining trait of many werewolves but almost everything else is different from our modern understanding. The persecution of werewolves in central Europe was almost completely tied to witchcraft allegations. Without getting into historical witchcraft as a whole, there was a concept of male and female witchcraft in line with the gender roles of agrarian society. A werewolf was related to violence against people and livestock as well as sexual threats. Just like witches, werewolves were assumed to transform with an ointment or belt given to them by the devil. The transformation is not physical, just like witches can't actually fly but fall into a trance (induced by the devil). [Note that the idea of physical transformation has been a MASSIVE point of debate for church scholars for as long as said church existed. Go take a look if you're curious.] More modern werewolf lore (1960s) from the B/NL/DE border region shows werewolves to be a shorthand for unacceptable liaisons and sexual assault, possibly homosexuality and bestiality, but usually just people dressed in a wolf pelt taking the piss. The modern idea of the werewolf, specifically the bipedal form and painful transformation is a Hollywood product. We can quite easily pin the origin on one specific film: The Wolf Man from 1941. The transformation and visual presentation was driven by the improved special effects of the film industry and their desire to give people a spectacle. This is also a central trait of monstrosity: It is physical because people want to see it.

SO! If we're being pedantic, no, werewolves are not inherently male. A handful of women were prosecuted as werewolves, though they were the minority within the already minor number of werewolf trials. But it is a fact that the majority of werewolves are male throughout history and werewolf characteristics are - as Dana Oswald puts it - hypermasculine, meaning they exaggerate and therefore threaten the dominant concept of masculinity in a given societal context. That's the baseline of monstrosity- it breaks boundaries and threatens the system it inhabits while reinforcing a rule for the listener.

It's notable that female werewolves in modern film are almost never seen transforming, including in staple films like Underworld. You have those beefy werewolf guys and the women just. Stand there. An outlier that gets quoted in almost every paper I've ever read is Ginger Snaps, which directly deals with the way Ginger's lycanthropy makes her monstrous both in breaking the boundaries of human/animal but also what is acceptable behavior for a girl. I don't have the sources to back this up yet but I see a strong parallel in this to women in Metal in general. Think about it, Metal music is counterculture and is almost defined by depicting monstrosity (satanism, violence, etc) and breaking the boundaries of what is music. Women in Metal are "monstrous" by associating with the transgressive scene the same as men - except they get held to a completely different standard. Metal is so male-dominated the ideal (visual, behavioral) gender presentation cannot include femininity or at least makes two clearly gendered molds. Women in metal, then, have to balance being "Metal" and being sufficiently feminine to be accepted. The male ideal I like to call the 'Metal warrior', because he's so often inspired by historical warrior culture but primarily defines himself by being large, strong, possibly aggressive and definitely drinking a lot. Everything that is masculine but juuuuust over the line of polite society. Which is what Powerwolf sings about as well, they just made it a furry.

-------

ANYWAY sorry for the long-ass background info, I got carried away lol. Note that for the next section, I am doing this off the top of my head since I haven't gotten to that part of the analysis yet. The deadline is approaching, send help.

I like to call Powerwolf my problematic faves because as camp as their performances are and as self-ironic as they try to make themselves out to be, their lyrics and videos are profoundly cishet. This isn't a criticism, just an observation. As far as we know they are cishet men from a rural part of Germany (and one Dutchman). I know we make jokes about the homoeroticism between Falk and Attila but I would not be surprised if they had no idea that's what they're doing. Most cishet people do not think about queerness unless they have a reason, and in a lot of social circles there simply is none. They just don't even consider it. There's something to be said about homosocial bonds in metal music but that's a topic so large I'll skip it for now. The only queer aspect I've seen in the entire history of Powerwolf is that lesbian kiss in the music video of No Prayer at Midnight and that was so blatantly male gaze-y I'm not sure if it even counts. So, fair warning, I'm going to say men and women as in cis men and women because I'm on mobile and typing is annoying as is.

First off, to answer your question: Yes, women have absolutely become a bigger part of Powerwolf's repertoire. Joan of Arc is a historical story that they implemented beautifully, and so is Vargamor. While I personally don't like Kyrie Klitorem it's definitely interesting to analyze in a wider context. What does stick out is that the majority of women in Powerwolf's music are sexualized in some way along with sexuality becoming a larger part of their theme in general. As far as I can see, sexuality was actually not a major part of the Powerwolf brand until Sacrament of Sin. Coleus Sanctus and Resurrection by Erection are from albums before that, but they're single songs on albums otherwise concerned with werewolves, vampires and that warrior image I mentioned before. Their earlier videos have almost never any side characters and it's mostly about spooky priest things and/or werewolves (kind of mixed with vampirism, which is a parallel to the Varcolac).

In general I would say there are two 'roles' that characters in the PW universe take and it was kind of hard to find the right wording, because depending on your reading they have VERY different connotations. I'm just going to call it the 'active' and the 'passive' right now until I've explained what I mean.

Women are sexualized in the music and the videos/artworks. That's just a fact, and hasn't changed much from the beginning until now. It's not even out of character for Power Metal as an heir to classic Heavy Metal and Glam Rock. Powerwolf sing about sex, specifically hetero sex, and mostly from the perspective of cishet men. Matt even said in an interview many years ago that he's unsure if he could write about pussy because he doesn't have one. Yes, really.

The language of the music is clerical, and commonly from the viewpoint of a religious person/priest of course, which reinforces the themes of wildness/hedonism by contrasting them with what is 'proper'. Circling back to my explanations of monstrosity - improper behavior and improper physical appearance are linked, so to break the laws of faith is to become monstrous, possibly physically. The band constantly portrays this overstepping of boundaries in a religious context. Call of the Wild quite literally says "To praise the wild while the bible we're tearing". Corpse paint I would argue I'd a visual marker of monstrosity as well, especially since the band are usually the only ones in that type of makeup.

Just visually, women are a big part in Powerwolf's art and video as side characters, especially burlesque dancers, and they're typically a shorthand for desire and sexuality. Open sexuality is a massive taboo in the Catholic Church, especially in the pseudo-medieval world their music inhabits. And a woman being active in her sexuality, even choosing what, who and how to desire is far over the line even in many modern societies. (Ginger Snaps tackled this as well.) So let's take a look:

There's Demons are a girl's best friend, which is on the surface a warning against being "corrupted" by demons (sexuality) but can also be interpreted - as the title suggests - that the female protagonist is quite aware of what she's doing and likes it. Kiss of the Cobra King shows the female protagonist in white, standing in for purity, before being corrupted and possibly killed for her transgression. Still unsure about that video tbh. Dancing with the Dead is less sexual and leans more heavily into the corruption (by witchcraft?) angle. I feel like there is a disconnect between text and video in this one because in the video, the female protagonist doesn't look at all willing to dance and Attila forces her to, whereas in the text the protagonist seems quite aware and in control of what she's doing. Undress to Confess is pretty fucking clear that the woman is having fun and the artwork shows a nun, while naked, in a dynamic, powerful pose. This is what I'd call the active role. There's also the flip side of that active role that isn't passiveness but control:

Kyrie Klitorem is about how women have power over men by virtue of their sexuality. Powerwolf often uses 'we' in their lyrics and while that's technically a non-gendered pronoun, the songs suggest the narrator is a (cishet) man. Venom of Venus is also similar in topic and structure, and the vampire queen from the Killers with the Cross video is also clearly in control while being sexy (as are the hunters).

So in the 'active' role, women can be corrupted, seductive as well as empowered, it really depends on your reading. Same goes for the videos by the way - the dancers can be shown in an objectifying way, but thinking of the dancer in My Will be Done she is on equal standing with the other characters asking Attila for something. (Also, burlesque dance is an awesome art form.) Angel and Devil in that same music video are portrayed by women. However, the reduction of a woman to her body is obviously part of a long history of sexualization.

Which brings me to the passive role and the use of the nun image. Nuns have been sexualized for absolute ages. There's drawings and gossip from the Middle Ages about nuns and priests doing stuff they shouldn't. Good for them etc pp.* Powerwolf is really not reinventing the wheel by contrasting the nun's modesty/virtuousness with unrestrained sexuality. I mean look at this.

The role of women in the Catholic Church is an entire can of worms by itself. In Powerwolf's art, the love of Jesus/God is just placed on a different figure. I actually hesitate to interpret what the intention is, if it's critical of the church or a power fantasy. They absolutely criticize religion in their songs (Glaubenskraft, Sinners of the Seven Seas) but their visuals are also heavily inspired by historical art and can just be meant to look cool. That's something the band stresses in almost every interview when they are asked about deeper meanings: It has to be entertainment first. Their cover artist Zsofia Dankova told me the same: Looking cool has priority.

So nuns are in general portrayed as subservient, as they are in history and art, and sexualized. The focus on the band in performances - which in itself isn't really that surprising - and Attila's and Falk's role as 'clergy' does put them into a position of power. Here's where it gets interesting, because the bottom line of Powerwolf has been and is Have fun. In Wake up the Wicked it's a major plot point that one of them actively invites the young priest (altar boy? Idk I grew up Protestant). The artworks draw on art conventions from pulp fiction and classical works, but if you look at the lyrics involving women** it's either about submitting yourself (to pleasure) or actively seeking it out.

This has gotten way too fucking long but here's a minor detour before we get to the end. What else does PW sing about? Yes, werewolves, and history, but regardless of the underlying inspiration (Blood for Blood is about an Irish legend, I wouldn't have guessed that just from the lyrics) they sing about either bravery and power, or excess and hedonism, sometimes both. I've already mentioned the warrior ideal in my introduction, and that does a LOT of heavy lifting. Many of the artworks and merch have some sort of military theme, especially the crusades because that's fitting for the medieval-ish vibe the band has. The 'holy' knights as werewolves is both commentary on the actual crusades in a way, but also puts the listener into the body of a powerful beast heading into battle, which is just plain fun. Plenty of music is about riding into battle, Viking Metal exists. I spoke to Zsofia Dankova, Powerwolf's resident visual artist, and asked her what she thinks about the werewolf being implicitly male. She said she doesn't really see the werewolf she draws as gendered because it's just a symbol, something that stands in for power. I was a bit dubious about that answer at first, but it actually shows my own cultural bias, because that is the connotation of the werewolf at work, not the artwork itself. You can absolutely argue that the positions and clothes the werewolf is in (see image above) are men's, but for the most part, the wolves in their art are clothed in simple robes or armour that anyone could wear. It is just convention that makes it seem male. Growling (the vocal technique) is also male-coded even though men and women who growl sound identical.

I'm not going into more detail about the depiction of masculinity because y'all can read my thesis for that. Instead, I want to return to my introduction about what is considered monstrous: The breaking and exaggeration of social norms. Sexuality is what makes the women in Powerwolf monstrous - alongside a proclivity for witchcraft. Vargamor shows her to be a mother as the name implies, but more importantly a wise leader and powerful magic user. It's implied that she can fight, but the chorus is more insistent that she dwells in the shadows and is a steady presence for many different iterations of the pack through the years.

The men on the other hand are shown to be monstrous by being violent, hedonistic beasts. The songs again and again reiterate wildness and unrestrained summer fun battle prowess. Technically you could argue that 'we' doesn't have to mean men, but that would ignore centuries of cultural connotations and that it needs a pretty good in-text reason to assume an all-male metal band is writing their songs in a female lyrical I (we?).

Powerwolf quite simply portrays monstrosity as it has been since the Middle Ages, along gendered lines. This makes sense because they draw on given cultural conventions, history and folklore, they're just on the side of the monster. There's definitely something to be said about the sexualization of women in Metal and the male gaze, but the wolves have also very clearly heard the call for more female representation.

If anyone is still reading, congratulations I nearly drove myself insane here.

* As with most things in life, this isn't black and white. Nuns had some social advantages and there were most likely plenty of consensual relationships, but as women in a patriarchal society they were still under the authority of men who could harm them. ** I excluded Glaubenskraft because that song breaks with the Powerwolf universe by adressing a current, real-life injustice. Completely different topic.

[mushroom-madness]

🍄 ROUND 6: THE FINALE 🍄

🍄 Which of our buggy bois will be crowned TUMBLRS MOST FAVORITE FUNGAL FUN GUY!! 🍄

🍄 Vote for your Favorite Fungi! 🍄

Descriptions Below ⬇️

Leif

"Leif is one of the protagonists of Bug Fables, they're a cordyceps fungus inside a moth host. They've been in some other tournaments (notably the graveyard gambit tourney, for zombie characters). There are other cordyceps in Bug Fables but since Leif is a protagonist they're the most qualified for polls in general. They're an ice wizard who uses plural pronouns (we/us/our), has Fungus Autism(m), and their favorite things are food, cute creatures, and card games. They had a wife and kids, they don't know what glasses are, and sometimes they speak in keysmashes. Not to be biased but they're the best character ever made” - Submission 46

“*slaps roof of moth* This mans is SO full of 'shroom (which is. A major spoiler for the game, but hey! He's a fungus (cordyceps) and I lobve himb)" - Submission 67

"He may not look like a fungus, but he's actually a moth zombie reanimated by Cordyceps fungus. He is both bug and mushroom:)” - Submission 104

"Lief sweep let's gooooo" - Submission 139

Caduceus

"He heals wounds with fungus and makes tea from dead people which is, like, basically what mushrooms do" - Submission 97

"my sweet son. my baby boy. love and cherish him" - Submission 136

[cipheramnesia]

What if there was a Texas Chainsaw Reanimator movie where the Sawyers track down Herber5 West in Brazil to reanimate Grampa and Nubbins. They kidnap Dan to assist because Herbert knows like five people and four of them are dead, and he can't work without his boytoy lab assistant. There's not actually enough of Grampa or Nubbins left so they Sawyers bring random body parts from every other Sawyer family member who died for extra material. Herbert ends up making a giant multilimbed two headed monstrosity which obviously tries to kill everyone immediately.

While Bubba is fighting Gramp/Nubbins Frankenstein with a chainsaw, the Bride comes bursting into the lab (Barbara Crampton reprising her role as Megan). We find out the whole time Dan has been fronting as a legitimate, ordinary doctor, he has also been living a double life and keeping his girlfriend alive with a modified version of the reagent. After she tears Grubbinstein apart bare handed, the Sawyers reluctantly accept there's no cheating death and head home to properly dispose of the remains. Dan reluctantly agrees to return to working with Herbert on the reagent for the sake of finding a permanent solution for keeping Megan alive.

As the credits roll, a series of newpaper articles reveal an outbreak linked to the Sawyers' organic chilli. It becomes clear they made chilli meat out of Grubbinstein, which has inadvertently created a reagent-zombie plague, leaving things tantalizingly open for a Reanimator Zombie Massacre sequel.

[yes-i-write-fanfiction]

What if in the TFP Human Daemon AU, the bots and their Daemon land on Earth in the middle of a Zombie Apocalypse.

The Daemon are immune to the infection but can be fatally wounded if bitten in a critical spot.

They find survivors though, among them Jack, Miko, and Raf, who as young as they are managed to try and survive the world overrun by the dead and even help the bots and their Daemon when faced with dangers of the apocalypse.

How do the bots and their Daemon react to this?

-Optimus have always been great with his words but seeing the situation on Earth... it leaves him speechless. Humans are not daemons but they are people. At least, they WERE people, before the virus changed them. People with hopes and dreams, family and friends. And he can't even imagine the terror they must have felt. The fact that there are survivors speak not only of the strength of humanity but also serve as a testament of their willpower. Optimus is determined to protect the survivors and help them create a safe hold where the undead can't reach them.

His daemon feels the same way Optimus does and works side by side with the survivors to help them. Prepares the base in case more survivors are found in the future and plans to turn it into a long term, self sustained settlement. Does not want the children to fight the zombies but at the same time knows that they need to know how to protect themselves in case anything happens so she allows them to observe when the autobots fight zombies.

-Ratchet is familiar with disease, with viruses and plagues. At this point he had thought himself numb to the horrors of it. But he's never seen anything like this before. An infection that not only kills but reanimates the victims that then seek out the living to add them to their undead horde. He can't think of a pathogen more sinister. He had given up hope that any humans had survived but upon finding the children, he vows to never let anything happen to them. He's fiercely protective and refuses to let them leave base unattended, scared that they will be attacked by zombies and left defenseless. In fact, he does not want them to leave base at all but the children are stubborn and he knows that if they try and stop them, they will most likely sneak out on their own.

Ratchet's daemon is somehow even more protective of the children but also takes on a more caretaker role in this AU, since there most likely are no human adults around. Together with Ratchet, she searches for a cure or at the very least a vaccine.

-When Bumblebee sees the remnants of a civilization so full of life, he feels sick just imagining what happened. Sometimes when he sees a zombie he can't help but wonder who they used to be. What their name was, their favorite color, if they had any hobbies. If there's anything left of them or are they just a walking corpse. Prefers not to kill zombies unless he has to, simply because he's got a hard time not seeing them as people. Super protective of the kids and tries to protect them, not just physically but mentally as well. Will block their sight if or ask them to look away if he's got to kill some zombies, simply because he does not think it's good for them to see that.

While Bumblebee refrains from killing zombies, his daemon goes for it. Not because they like it, but to protect the kids and any other potential survivors out there. It weighs heavy on her every time she does it because just like Bumblebee, she can't stop seeing them as people.

-At first, Bulkhead has a bit of a hard time connecting the zombies to the humans they used to be. He knows they weren't always the walking corpses they are now but it's hard to think of them as anything else when there's no life in their eyes. It's only when the team finds the kids that it clicks for him. Oh. Oh. Now he feels sick and it hurts to think about it because what if the team hadn't foind the kids in time? What if they had been bitten, become one of the horde? Bulkhead will never allow that to happen. He's violently protective when it comes to the kids, displaying no mercy when dealing with the undead.

His daemon is the same, always putting herself between the kids and the zombies, shielding them with her own body. She also teaches them how to fight, how to create makeshift weaponry and armor. As much as she loathes to admit it, she knows that she won't always be there to protect them so the best she can do is prepare them for when that day comes.

-Arcee kills any infected she comes across. She wants to put them out of their misery, knowing that if the situations were switched, she would want someone to do the same to her. Becoming an undead thrall, a slave to instinct, the thought scares her. She never wants to see anyone she cares about experience that. That's why she's so protective of the kids. Arcee is scared that if they were to turn, she would not have the strength to put them out of their misery. She gets mad when they leave the base simply because she keeps imagining the worst case scenario.

Arcee's daemon tries not to be overprotective and instead turns his energy to teach the kids how to survive. Not just fighting but how to forage for supplies, how to start a fire and make traps. It helps ease his worries, knowing that even without the autobots, they wouldn't be helpless.