#Spectre of the Black Rose

[oldschoolfrp]

A statue of Lord Soth overgrown with roses (Kevin McCann cover art for the 1999 Ravenloft novel Spectre of the Black Rose by James Lowder and Voronica Whitney-Robinson, a sequel to 1991's Knight of the Black Rose; as reproduced in Masters of Dragonlance Art, WOTC, 2002)

The composition was inspired in part by the cover of John Berendt's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which featured Sylvia Shaw Judson's statue Bird Girl against a menacing background, and by McCann's childhood memory of being lost in a Victorian cemetery on a dark, cloudy day.

[niksrpgs]

#SpectreOfTheBlackRose, a the second #Ravenloft novel featuring #LordSoth, is now ON SALE! #dungeonsanddragons #dnd #ttrpg #dndnovels #originalprint #outofprint #tsr #NiksRPGs

[black-rose-events]

[Text ID: A meme of a white cat with its ears pointed flat and wide, tearful eyes. The text at the bottom reads ‘when hero doesn’t want to fight anymore’. End ID]

BUT WE WERE NEMESES 🥺😭

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Pair of Dorks

A/N: This literally just came to me this morning despite daydreaming up snippets while my co-conspirator (@heroes-villains-side-blog) were cooking up our prompts for @black-rose-events and planning out our Villaintine’s Day event😅 As for the prompts, I chose Grumpy!Villain x Sunshine!Hero, “I loathe you”, and black roses with a dash of sleeping curse and nemesis-versary/nemesis proposal from @black-rose-events’ Villaintine’s Day prompt list!

Warnings: uhhhh….none? Maybe some harsh words/teasing at someone else’s expense but otherwise I can’t think of anything that requires a warning😊

My Masterlist | Taglist Info | Check out our prompt masterlist for Villaintine’s Day!

“What’s this?” Villain asked, eyeing the offered rose suspiciously.

Hero blinked at her, then at the black rose he was offering her. “It’s a rose?”

Villain hummed, leaning against the doorframe of her home—her home. How did Hero even find her? Who else knew what he did? The beginning of a headache began to pound in her temples. She hoped Hero hadn’t spread the information of her home address to the entire heroic community. She didn’t want to have to move again, actually feeling a sense of comfort in the quiet neighborhood of spacious yards and privacy and houses tucked back from the road, nestled amongst the woodland.

“And so what? I accept it, sniff it, and fall victim to a sleeping curse?” she frowned, “No thanks, Hero. Now get off my property.”

Villain straightened. Before she could take a step back and slam the door in Hero’s face, she found herself freezing at the slack-jawed expression that had taken over Hero’s features.

“Wh—” he started, then stopped and shook his head decisively. Even so, he still sputtered as he tried to explain himself. “No! It’s just, uh, a rose. You know for our nemesis-versary.”

Any amusement Villain had from watching Hero squirm as he tried to explain what he was doing here and what the rose was for evaporated. In its place was confusion as her eyebrows knitted together. “Wait, our what?”

“Our, uh, nemesis-versary?” Hero shifted on his feet and finally dropped the black rose, glancing at it self-consciously. He avoided her gaze as he continued, “It’s been over two years since we started fighting each other, and exactly a year since we’ve started to fight each other exclusively—though I guess that has to do more with my case assignment from the Agency then a conscious decision, but still—I just…I don’t know. I saw the black rose and thought it was cute.”

“And you decided to give it to me? For our nemesis-versary?” Villain asked, folding her arms over her chest. Her lips quirked into a small amused smile as she took in his pink-tipped ears and worried brows, the way he bit his lip. “A celebration that literally no one’s ever heard of?”

“Well, yeah. Who else could I give a black rose to?” Hero said quietly, his voice hardly a murmur. “I thought it was neat and because I’m trying to be more financially responsible, I needed an actual reason to buy it other than—”

“Oh so you’re giving it to me as an excuse, and not from the kindness of your heart?” Villain grinned deviously. It was too easy to tease Hero, especially when he was so vulnerable. This entire interaction reminded her of the time his mask had slipped during one of their fights. He’d tried to cover his face with his hands and tell her not to look at him, but it was too late. She’d already seen his face.

Hero’s shoulders slumped. Villain didn’t know why the sight of his defeat made her heart pang. Normally she loved victory, but this was…unprovoked.

“Well,” she said with a click of her tongue. “At least it’s not red. That would be cliché and yellow would’ve been the wrong color entirely. I think the black rose suits me.”

Hero’s gaze snapped up to her, taking in her waiting hand. Hesitantly, he held up the flower, watching dumbly as Villain took it. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it.

Twirling the black rose between her fingers, Villain smirked at him. “Happy nemesis-versary, Hero. My gift to you is a crime free day. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Villain left him standing on her porch, gaping. She locked the door behind her and walked away, not bothering to see if he’d gone. Laughing to herself as she set the rose down on her kitchen counter, she grabbed a glass and filled it with water. How could such a thorn in her side be such a dork? Maybe she needed a new nemesis, one who actually deserved to be punched in the face. Or the gut. Shaking her head, Villain dropped the rose in the glass and stared at it for a second too long. A soft smile came to her face. Maybe they were both dorks.

[cesmo17]

Spectre de la Rose

dancer César Morales Anderson

[stevhengevius]

My song “Spectre” set to clips from some classic B-Movie Horror movies like Troll 2, Frankenhooker, etc.

[yeyinde]

Seen your layla frost mention - any good dark romance books you would recommend? 👀

oh, absolutely!!! though, fair warning - my ideal dr is a horror/thriller moonlighting as a romance so! def read the warnings.

Little Dove by Layla Frost. Maximo, honestly, is my ideal mmc. cold, collected, cunning, unflappable, with a cruel and sadistic side (but never directed toward the the fmc), and wholly devoted to Juliet on a level that would probably land him in jail irl

Then, Earth Swallowed Ocean (book 1) by Shiloh Sloane

"Southern Gothic Werewolves Fight the Devil" that's it. this is the book for me. Shiloh Sloane is my favourite author. genuinely, truly. i love her writing, i love her characters. i love her for her tiktok bio alone: I write love stories whose trailers would have Ethel Cain music in ‘em. obsessed with her. i stalk her daily on insta and tiktok. but the book: it's more horror erotica than DR, but to be totally honest, this is so far up my alley, it was practically written for me. werewolves, the devil, smut, an INSANE mmc (obsessed, mean, possessive), a strong fmc, and it's set in post WW2 Appalachia. instant fave. when i die, bury me with this book.

Cracked Blue Sky (book 2) by Shiloh Sloane

features a native fmc and i know Shiloh Sloane is white, but how she shapes Howie Black Elk was pretty realistic. i loved how much she reminded me of a few cousins, aunties. love this book!!

Snuff by Bonny Capps

dark horror erotica that you absolutely should heed the warnings to. i loved it. 5*. but it does end up on several dnf lists for being brutal and disgusting. fmc goes to Russia to discover her roots, is taken by the Bratva to feature in their "passion projects" (snuff films!), but the mmc decides he wants her all to himself. if you're queasy about totally irredeemable mmcs (sadistic, vile, possessive, obsessed, cruel), then this probably is not for you, but lucky for me, i'm into that. def on my "i couldn't look my therapist in the eye for a while" collection, though.

Lemonade by Nina Pennacchi. mmc is irredeemable (cruel, vile, obsessed). historical romance (Victorian). also on the collection. Little Mouse by Emily Rose. mafia. age gap. A Stone's Throw by Stevie Sparks. age gap (dad's best friend. Scottish hero. auction. weird rich people doing weird rich people shit. God Of Vengeance by Michelle Heard. age gap. mafia. found family. i re-read the bound series this week and my favourites are Bound by Vengeance (Growl and Cora), Bound by Duty (Dante and Valentina), and Twisted Pride (Remo and Serafina). anything by Lilith Vincent. Brutal Husband is dropping in October and i cannot wait. The Devil's Vice by Mindy Paige. trauma bonding. motorcycle gang. age gap. Little Stranger by Leigh Rivers. revenge (fmc sends mmc to prison and he gets out and comes for her). insane mmc. Spectre by Shiloh Walker. kidnapping. violence. neuro-atypical fmc. Slashed by Thalia Sanchez. fmc wants to become a Final Girl. Slasher!mmc gives her just that.

also, not a romance but if you're into dark books with compelling characters, Break Her by BG Harlen was sooo good!!!! the premise is that a professional rapist is sent to break the fmc and it's such a good psychological thriller. def not for everyone though. A Beautiful Evil by Eris Belmont has no HEA but a very brutal and malicious mml. God's Eye by Ansa Reads is brutal. loved it, dgmw. but it's def not for the faint of heart.

[ecoterrorist-katara]

Ka/taang: friends-to-lovers or the Friend Zone?

It’s almost axiomatic, in any ATLA shipping discussion, that Ka/taang is the friends-to-lovers ship while Zutara is the enemies-to-lovers ship, and that differences in shipping tastes can be boiled down to whether you prefer FTL or ETL.

My first ship was Percabeth. My biggest ship was Klaine. It took me until Mockingjay to let go of my Gale-and-Katniss-are-childhood-friends rose-tinted goggles and start liking Everlark. I started dabbling in ETL because of Zutara, but I’m incredibly picky about it (do not ask me how many Dramione fanfics made me irrationally, disproportionately mad).

All this to say: as a longtime friends-to-lovers enthusiast, I should theoretically love Ka/taang. But…

My difficulty with Ka/taang as a friends-to-lovers ship boils down to this: Aang and Katara’s friendship was always narratively framed as insufficient, because Aang liked her from the start and always wanted a romantic relationship. And imo that dynamic really colours their entire friendship.

I like to think Aang would’ve been a ride-or-die friend — the type to give up the Avatar State to rescue her, the type to commit ecoterrorism and help her get arrested, the type to make her a flower necklace to cheer her up — even if he didn’t have a crush on her, but I will never know that. We never got to see the pure friendship part of friends-to-lovers, because the spectre of the romantic relationship was always there. Before the last five minutes of the show, Katara’s feelings for Aang range from “plausibly interested” (The Headband, Cave of Two Lovers) to “doesn’t hate it” (Day of the Black Sun, The Fortuneteller) to “no” (Ember Island Players). Yet Katara’s eventual capitulation to reciprocation of Aang’s feelings was always depicted as inevitable, starting from s1 when the prisoners during Avatar Day reassured him that she’d “come around” because he’s a catch. It’s as if friendship, even one full of devotion and mutual love like the one they share, is not enough.

And that’s just totally antithetical to what I love about a friends-to-lovers dynamic. I love romances where characters value each other outside of attraction, when they see each other for who they are (this goes double for pretty characters like Katara, whose complexity and imperfections are just as important as her beauty and her care for others). I love the idiots in love sub-trope, where they’re obviously into each other, yet do a bunch of mental gymnastics to remain in comfortable denial (we got a little bit of this earlier in the series, but by s3 we were firmly in Aang-pines-and-Katara-deflects territory). In every friends-to-lovers story I’m simply obsessed with the confess-and-kiss scene, but the version we got in ATLA was ruined by the lack of reciprocation, twice.

Over time, because Aang was written as so insistent about his affections, Ka/taang went from a friends-to-lovers story to a Nice Guy Friend Zone “why doesn’t she like me” story. I mentioned Everlark earlier: I got the same ick for Gale in Mockingjay as I did for Aang in s3, where the woman is not interested yet he still badgers her about it. (And considering Gale is canonically hot, I don’t think the relative attractiveness of Aang is the issue here). But Gale’s insistence was presented as his problem, his lack of empathy, his self-righteousness; Aang’s insistence was just a part of his quest to get the girl.

A lot of people say Zutara is a female fantasy, whether they mean it in a positive or pejorative way. Nobody says the same about Ka/taang, even though women definitely have friends-to-lovers fantasies too. A good friends-to-lovers story reminds me of all the times when I was an idiot before getting together with a friend I was actually head-over-heels for. Ka/taang reminds me of all the times when I was not interested in a friend and they didn’t respect my preference. Friends-to-lovers is a delicate balance, maintained only by unerring mutual respect and unconditional care for each other, and it can veer into Nice Guyism if the writers aren’t thoughtful about why this dynamic is so appealing. Which is exactly what happened with Ka/taang.

[archive-z]

Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time or, what was on Daniel Molloy’s bookshelf in 1973?

Inspired by @volkswagonblues’ and @islandbetweeenrivers’ reading list of texts providing historical and cultural context for Daniel Molloy as journalist in the 1970s and 80s

This is, pretty much in its entirety (bar one or two references throughout the show and its extant material), assumptions I’ve made about the character. But, also: it’s my blog so I can do what I want. Dating works is somewhat inconsistent, as I opted for the date a piece was published in a collection or translation rather than when it first appeared in print if it seemed more realistic to have been acquired in that format.

I’ve found the archives of Rolling Stone and Playboy have been helpful in piecing together a who’s who of literary life in the late 1960s and early 1970s, especially for a intellectually precocious teen from suburban Modesto, CA transplanted into the centre of countercultural life in Haight-Ashbury.

From what I can gather, being born in ‘53 means Daniel was just a year shy of being drafted to fight in the Vietnam War, an experience that would have profoundly effected his peers just a year or two older than him. Throughout his teenage years, he’s got the spectre of the possibility of being drafted hanging over his head. It reminds me of pop-inspirational phrases like “you only live once,” which really puts his risk-taking, thrill-seeking behaviour into the perspective of yeah, this is someone who is trying to live life to the fullest every second of every day because the possibility of being drafted means that he might not make it past twenty. (Unfortunately! Louis & Armand also mean he might not make it past twenty either xoxoxo)

However, crucially, he did narrowly miss the draft, and despite that it would be horrible, I think there’s an acute sense of having missed out on this profoundly altering experience as well. Moving to Haight-Ashbury, he’s six years late to the Summer of Love ‘67, and the rose-tinted image of hippies, peace, and love is replaced by the grittiness of speedfreaks and serial killing (the Zodiac Killer being active throughout 1969, when Daniel would have been sixteen). He’s made it to San Francisco just a few years after its golden era, and i think this makes him even more determined to live, more determined to chase living life in order to make up for that, yknow?

i think the themes that he’s drawn to when reading are:

new journalism, and particularly when the journalist-as-rockstar persona is inserted into said reporting

the provocative, bacchanalian pursuit of pleasure, whether it be sex, drugs, or rock ‘n’ roll — and often sex mixed with violence in a way that is neither straightforward nor legible

travelogues and adventure stories that reflect his restlessness, particularly which let him romanticise far away places with thriving literary scenes like Paris and New York

a general aura of repressed queerness and crises of american masculinity (Capote, Tennessee Williams, Ginsburg, Hemingway)

war narratives as a vehicle for cold war/red scare anxieties

Without further ado, the actual book list:

Periodicals

Playboy magazine. People have long joked about reading Playboy for the articles, but it is the one piece of literature teenage Daniel is in-universe confirmed to have readily accessible, so I’m running with “Danny actually does read it for the articles, though” (and anyways, it’s Diana Ross’ Rolling Stones cover issue from Feb 1 1973 that he jerks off to). In 1973 alone, Playboy featured interviews with playwright Tennessee Williams; Huey Newton (co-founder of the Black Panther Party); news anchor and journalism’s elder statesman Walter Cronkite; science fiction novelist Kurt Vonnegut; and Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times Vietnam war correspondent David Halberstam. Other Playboy interviews of possible interest: Fidel Castro, Orson Welles, Michael Caine (1967); Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, sexologists William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson, Paul Newman (1968); Martin Luther King Jr., Marshall McLuhan, Allen Ginsberg (1969). Also of note: between 1969 and 1971, Playboy was publishing faked letters to the editor that eventually developed into the Illuminati conspiracy theories.

In terms of reporting from major national newspapers in circulation, significant stories that come to mind are the New York Times publication of the Pentagon Papers (1971) and Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein’s Watergate investigations for the Washington Post (1972-73). It’s harder to gauge the circulation of underground newspapers like the Berkeley Barb (CA) and the Village Voice (NY) but its entirely likely that a resourceful and enterprising young reader with a point of view in Modesto, CA could get their hands on a copy.

Prose, Fiction & Nonfiction

The Little Red Book by Mao Zedong. At Berkeley, The Black Panthers would raise money by selling copies bought in bulk at markup to students. Absolutely makes sense that daniel would acquire (and actually read) a copy. Growing up in the wake of McCarthyism/Red Scare nonsense def makes me think he would see flirtations with communism as provocative and cool/edgy, but never back that flirtation up with follow-through.

The Hell’s Angels, a Strange and Terrible Saga (1966) by Hunter S. Thompson. Throughout the 1960s and 70s, the Hells Angels had a sizeable presence in San Francisco and Oakland — from what I can find they lived dead centre of Haight-Ashbury up until ‘69 if not later. As a teenager in Modesto, Daniel would have been geographically quite close (if not actually in attendance at) the 1969 Altamont Festival Rolling Stones performance where a teenage concertgoer was stabbed to death by a member of the Hells Angels.

Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail in ‘72 (serialized in Rolling Stone magazine) by Hunter S. Thompson. The quintessential text to understand ‘73 Daniel, imo. Fuck Nixon, Fuck Reagan, fuck the National Guard killing student protestors. Thompson’s other works include “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved“ (with illustrations by Ralph Steadman) and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

The New Journalism: An Anthology (1973) edited by Tom Wolfe. In addition to excerpts of Hunter S. Thompson’s work already discussed above, the anthology collects In Cold Blood (1965) by Truman Capote, Slouching Towards Bethlehem (1968) by Joan Didion, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (1968) by Tom Wolfe, and Armies of the Night (1968) by Norman Mailer. I won’t do justice to summarizing the New Journalism here, but it’s def important.

Slaughterhouse-Five (1969) by Kurt Vonnegut. The quintessential Daniel Molloy fiction novel, to me. Exploration of post-traumatic stress disorder through an encounter with time travelling science fiction aliens. Takes on a new resonance for Daniel when he’s dealing with his own ptsd post-1973. Vonnegut’s other works include Cat’s Cradle (1963) and Breakfast of Champions (1973). On the subject of Cold War anxieties, there’s Catch-22 (1961) by Joseph Heller. I don’t have much to say about it as I’ve not read it yet, but it feels like the kind of thing teenage Daniel living in Schrödinger's draft call-up would take to. Maybe also John Le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (1963) and The Looking Glass War (1965), the latter particularly for the palpable air of repressed homoeroticism and WWII nostalgia/Cold War anxiety.

A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway (published posthumously in 1964). Daniel absolutely spent his teenage years romanticising being an expat America writer in the Paris literary scene. Substance use, war, and crises of masculinity throughout. In addition to Hemingway’s reporting on the Spanish Civil War (1937-1938), other works include novels The Sun Also Rises (1926), A Farewell to Arms (1929), and For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940).

George Orwell: Down and Out in Paris and London (1933), Burmese Days (1934), Homage to Catalonia (1938), Animal Farm (1945), Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949); and essays ”Books v. Cigarettes“ (1946), ”Decline of the English Murder” (1946), “Politics and the English Language” (1946), and “Why I Write” (1946). I think Orwell’s nonfiction writing would appeal to Daniel more than his fiction, especially when at the right age to romanticize the poverty-tourism of Down and Out. Also bonus points for Paris.

On the Road (1957), The Dharma Bums (1958), and The Subterraneans (1958) by Jack Kerouac. In particular, The Subterraneans is based on Kerouac’s interracial relationship with an African American woman in the 1960s. He’d also probably read Naked Lunch (1959) by fellow Beat poet William S. Burroughs.

Lolita (1955) by Vladimir Nabokov, both for its salacious notoriety and its unreliable narration. Like myself, Daniel feels like the kind of teenager who would read Lolita at sixteen as a provocation in a conservative environment, but come away genuinely enjoying it.

Poetry, Drama, Misc

Howl and Other Poems (1956) by Allen Ginsberg, particularly the edition published locally by San Francisco’s City Lights Books Pocket Poets series.

A series of miscellaneous titles I’d group together as “Daniel Actually Did the Assigned Reading in High School English Class” — The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger (“Get off that bench, brother”), Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck, and “The Second Coming” by W. B. Yeats. Most significantly, I imagine high school is where he’d be exposed to the work of American playwrights Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller. The Glass Menagerie (1944), A Streetcar Named Desire (1947), and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1955) by Tennessee Williams. In the context of his relationship with Louis, I think it’s fun to imagine he’s familiar with/attracted to the Southern Gothic by way of Tennessee Williams (again with the crises of masculinity, the spectre of war, the repressed sexuality). Williams and Death of a Salesman (1949) by Arthur Miller, present the life Daniel could have had ie. the alcoholic husband, housewife vacuuming on Valium, etc.

If there’s anything else anyone thinks I’ve missed, feel free to hit me with a reply or a dm or an @ or whatnot. stay freaky & support yr local library x

[black-rose-events]

Friend: "Woah, okay, settle down. You've literally only learned how to stand up for yourself."

MC: "VENGEANCE!"

Friend, staring at MC in exasperation as they continue to strut around triumphantly and celebrate: "I can't believe I'm friends with you."

MC, bounding back over to them and looping arms with Friend: "C'mon, you can be my henchman! It'll be great!"

Friend: "Do I get a cape?"

MC: *thinks about it* "Fine, but it can't be cooler than mine!"

Quote Prompt

“I think I’m slowly becoming a super villain. And I think I would feel worse about it if it weren’t for the sweet taste of vengeance.”

[gremlinmodetweeker]

You're A What Now?

Just some silliness and then angst with Ghostbusters König because I can't commit to one genre.

TWs: Discussion of Nazi occupation of Austria, Nazis, Graphic Descriptions of Violence

Wordcount: 1.75 K

Story Below the Cut

Visuals [1] [2]

You're A What Now?

“DUCK!”

You dropped to the floor with a thud as the phantom screamed overhead.

“SHOOT”

ZAP!

You could see the electricity arcing overhead in great bright branches of lightening, scouring the wallpaper a charred black as Horangi wrangled the proton blaster under control.

“Nikto she’s coming your way!” Roze screamed over the sound of crackling lightening.

“On it,” a heavy Russian accent called back as a hulking machine of a man barrelled down the hallway, “south entrance clear!”

Horangi spit and hissed like a barn cat as he leaped over a broken chaise-lounge to dart after the phantasmal spectre, nearly tripping over you in the process. He looked down at you and barked, “On your feet, recruit!”

You scrambled to get your limbs under you as you watched the posse careening down the hall. You leaped to your feet and ran up behind them.

Okay, so, as of your first day on the Ghostbusters team, you can officially say that you believe in ghosts. Damn your lifelong skepticism, you weren’t going to fuck around and figure out just how bad a possession was gonna be on your first day.

You slammed into the wall before crashing into the kitchen where Roze, Nikto and Horangi were all running around like they’re heads were lopped off. You nearly missed it, but König was ducked in the corner with a screwdriver in his hand, cursing under his breath in his other tongue as though he could peel wallpaper with his venom.

“König where’s the trap at?” Horangi ducked under a piece of antique china being thrown his way.

“I-Verdammt-There’s a problem!” he called back.

“We don’t got time for problems, big guy,” Roze bellowed as she zapped the ghost with another blast.

“Then make time!” he spat before turning back to his tech.

“I thought Germans were great mechanics!” you yelled as you joined Roze with your own proton stream.

For just a brief moment, everyone in the room stalled. A plate crashed against the side of Horangi’s head, breaking the tension.

“Did you just call me German!?” König rose up to his feet as though he were a wraith himself.

“No no no not the time König!” Roze growled as she wrestled with the ghost.

“Now’s the perfect time!” König crossed his arms as he widened his stance, “I will not tolerate this clear display of intolerance and xenophobia from our newest recruit!”

Nikto took the opportunity to snatch the trap from König and got to working on it himself.

“I am not a German! I am not of such inferior breeding!” König crowed proudly as Horangi jumped over a flying chair.

“I thought you said the recruit was the xenophobe over here,” Horangi ducked behind an overturned table.

“Germany is a country of thralls and ignoramuses! The entire nation is devoted to blood and genocide!” König stamped his foot for emphasis, “I will not allow such a people to overrule my homeland any longer!”

“It was a brief occupation during Nazi Germany,” Nikto was barely legible over the sound of the spirit being slammed into a wall.

“And we will never forget!” König pumped a fist into the air defiantly.

“I’m sorry!” you wailed as you threw yourself behind the table with Horangi.

“Sorry is not enough! What, do you think I am some sort of Nazi!?” König spat.

“Your grandfather nearly was,” Horangi drawled blithely as he ducked behind the table to avoid a flying toaster.

You, Roze and Nikto all stopped what you were doing to look at König. Even the spirit stopped her struggling to watch the 6’10 scientist turn redder by the second.

“YOU SWORE TO NEVER SPEAK OF THAT.” 

And with that, König vaulted the table to lunge at Horangi.

“Get off me fatass!” Horangi growled as he hoofed König in the gut.

"Shut up you slimy little shit!"

"Tasty," Nikto drawled sarcastically.

Seeing an opportunity, the ghost quietly phased through the back wall of the kitchen while Nikto and Roze were distracted. You only noticed because you were watching Nikto drop the trap to try and haul König off Horangi, only to trip on the slime left behind and fall face forward onto the others in a cluster-fuck of legs and arms.

“Get off of me you commie bastard!” Hornagi howled as he thrashed at the bottom of the pile.

“Stop your squirming, I can’t get up!” Nikto snapped back as he tried to extract himself from the group.

Roze dropped her proton blaster back into its sheath before lumbering over to help Nikto get back to his feet while you stooped to extract Horangi from König’s grasp.

Once the group had all gotten to their feet, Roze sighed and stepped back before tapping the side of her headset, “Okay so, we lost track of the ghost.”

“What?” Hutch’s voice came through the static, “how? You were right there.”

“König had a shit-fit,” Roze grumbled as she stalked down the hall, “can you follow the readings through the house?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Hutch replied before the line cut.

You watched as Horangi wiped himself down as he shook the dust from his back. He looked at you, one of his spectacles cracked but somehow miraculously intact. He looked at König, who was doubled over wheezing while the adrenaline left his system and the pain from Horangi’s kick sunk in.

“You owe me a coffee,” Horangi joked, clapping your shoulder before following Roze and Nikto to the next room.

This, of course, left you alone with König.

You awkwardly nudged over to the door, worried that the man would clobber you next but he stopped you with one raised hand.

“Ah, recruit, I’m sorry you had to see that,” König huffed and puffed as he slowly drew himself to his full height again, “Gott in Himmel I’m getting too old for this.”

“I mean, you still seem pretty young,” you offered him politely.

“You’re too nice,” König hacked and heaved, “mein Gott, I thought he was a physicist, not a damn kickboxer!”

“Yeah, it looked like it hurt pretty bad,” you chuckled.

“I think I might need a minute,” König righted a fallen chair and plopped down onto it. Without a word, he pulled up a second and patted the seat, leaving it empty for you. You tentatively took the seat, a bit concerned the man beside you might keel over any minute.

“Sorry about getting so upset,” König sighed, “I just… Ever since coming to America, everyone here calls me German! Everyone! It’s not too hard to notice the difference, is it?”

“I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever met an Austrian before,” you told him.

“Really?” König sat up to look at you, “how long have you been in this city?”

“Long enough to know there’s not many Austrians here,” you laughed.

“Well, then consider me your first,” König determined, “but yes, um, I’m sorry about making such a fuss. I just… I cannot stand being called a German. Those damned Germans…” he shook his head, “never forget.”

“Never forget what?” you asked.

“The occupation,” König said, “Austria used to be a part of Germany, but it separated in 1866. Then Hitler comes around and he drums up all this Nazi support and tricks my people into falling for his lies. Then, he comes and steamrolls my country.”

“So there’s still a lotta tension, I’m guessing?” you tried to make a joke, but it fell flat on its face.

“Like you wouldn’t imagine,” König said, “but I guess I don’t hate them that much. I just hate how everyone calls me German! I’m not a damn German, I’m an Austrian! My family’s been in Austria for generations! It’s like no American knows how to look on a damn map.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged.

“And how would you feel being called a citizen of a country that once tried to crush you beneath its boot? My poor Opa… Well, you heard Horangi,” König spat.

“He was a Nazi?” you cringed despite yourself.

“Nearly a Nazi,” König swiftly corrected you, “he was a good soldier once, but he didn’t respect the Germans or what they stood for, so he broke his own leg to stop Hitler's men from sending him to war.”

“Wait, really?”

“Oh ja, but he was worried that might not be enough. So, he took on a new identity and moved across the country,” König explained, “he first tried to be an accountant, but he couldn’t do math so good so he went to go be a mechanic in my village. He used to be a panzermensch, so he was able to take some of those old skills he learned to get by.”

“Did anyone ever figure out who he was?” you asked curiously.

“Only one person,” König shrugged, “my Oma.”

You chuckled, “So he married her to keep her quiet?”

“Not then and there, but he did promise her that he would one day,” König snickered, “so they stayed low until Austria became independent again. Then my Opa took back his old name and married my Oma.”

“That’s really cute,” you smiled brightly.

“They were very cute,” König agreed, “but ja, if it weren’t for the Nazis, my Opa could have been a much richer man. The work in the village did not pay well, but he could have earned good money in the army. Mein Vater did not grow up with much, and he didn’t make much more for us when he married meine Mutter.”

“So Germany really fucked up a lot of your life,” you concluded.

“And then people go and call me German! It’s…” König sighed, “I do not like it very much.”

“Makes sense,” you nodded and leaned forward on your knees.

The silence between you stretched on forever, but a part of you never wanted it to end. There was something comfortable about being able to just enjoy the quiet with a man like König. Something about how he filled the space of the room left little space for conversation to try and shake the solid grounds you both stood on. It wasn’t like you often had a chance to talk, and when you did it normally was curt and strained in tone. This moment was a welcome break.

“Alright you two,” Hutch’s voice crackled through your headset, making you nearly jump a good five feet out of your seat, “the other guys need some help setting up that trap.”

“On it,” you replied as you dusted yourself off.

König stretched up beside you, hitting the ceiling with his hands before slumping back down.

“You ready?” you slipped the safety off your proton blaster.

König nodded and pulled his goggles back over his face.

“Alright,” you grinned, “let’s go bust some ghosts.”

AU Masterlist

[black-rose-events]

[Image ID: the "not sure if..." meme with Fry from the show Futurama squinting eyes. The top text says 'Not sure if I'm in love' and the bottom text reads 'or if I'm latching on to the first person who has shown me basic human decency in a long time.' End ID.]

Raise your hand if you're personally attacked by this meme 🙋‍♀️

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Bakugou Katsuki (Platonic Scenario - "In My Defence")

Warnings: Strong Violence, Use of Firearms, Swearing Throughout, Morally Ambiguous Reader, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 4,192.

Artwork: Akiyama Yoco's for Episode 97 of the series' anime.

"Does he even want us on this mission?"

From out the darkness overhanging an awning slunk a blending of scales and skin. A man below the neck; a viper above; a triangular skull bisected by diamond-shaped eyes; a forked tongue undulating and licking; a rounded crest mottled and flared — nature's grotesque experiments had found a new beast to assemble.

He wound a coil of tongue around lead, colouring it morbid yellow, before stuffing it into the top of a magazine and locking it in place. A ring of light spiralled off the barrel as he took aim, the oblong proportions of his head forcing his neck to twist hard.

A lone bullet whistled low before the crack alerted Katsuki; and you collapsed at almost the same instant to one knee, and thence to the road.

Kirishima dove to catch your head before it split on the asphalt, and the skin on his arms metamorphosed into flesh-coloured rock. He hunkered down close against you, his back to the noise, his body crumbling to grit, then growing back stonier by the second.

A fever of resentment cooked inside Katsuki as though he'd been fed hot charcoal fresh out of a furnace. "What the hell did you do?" his voice rose ten decibels with each syllable, and the skin on his cheeks turned purple as he bellowed out a heap of breath on the last word.

Many a young heart cried out in fear at the depth of his rage, which flowed without ceasing, as foam at the mouth of a rabid dog.

Katsuki charged the villain faster than he could blink, arms outstretched to the point of aching, palms up to reveal the curvature of his hands. There ignited the essence of a bomb, the biological incarnation of a lit match, of flint against steel, glistening and accumulating sweat in obeisance to him.

A thunderous roar and hiss on par with artillery fire wrested peace from every eardrum in the district. The maw of this inferno drank up the earth's light, engulfing it in a near infinite storm of colour. The sun returned swiftly, but the spectre of the bomb danced still in the eyes of each observer, clawing out bursts of black and white that fuzzed round the edges like sparking wires.

You shooed away the hand of another and hovered your own above the gaping wound. There arose the song of metal bending, and the bullet levitated from where it had lodged in your femur. The sudden collision with bone shattered the bullet into tiny, gore-drenched chunks.

Kaminari went rigid as a drop of blood snaked along the bullet, bloated at one end and splattered down. He reeled towards Kirishima, his hands spread wide, grasping at the air. "Can't you do it? Your Quirk makes you way better at this kind of thing than me!"

A few metres away, an explosion devastated the road, and a golden glow of embers flashed across Kirishima's serrated teeth. "Listen to me, you gotta man up!" his expression hardened by the sobering reality of the battlefield, but his voice remained clear and true: the sound of encouragement passed from friend to friend. "I've only got two hands, so I need you to pick up the slack!"

Gulping his last protest, Kaminari crossed his hands over the wound and steeled himself against the slippery flow of blood. "Bakugou's gonna kill me." His chest heaved with a breath so deep he seemed keen to disappear underwater, and he dove into the mess of blood gushing from your thigh.

Kirishima listened to the string of obscenities running amok, some he'd heard before, others mixed in with profanities he'd never imagined in his darkest days. "I think he's a little distracted."

Blood spurted from the wound, bubbling over his fingers, lapping at them with a warm tongue, and Kaminari struggled to keep down the lump in his throat. "Gross," he whined, scrunching his face to the brim with wrinkles. "I so wish I had gloves right now." Kaminari glanced wistfully at Katsuki, whose hands lay shielded in puffs of cloth.

The laughter of the nearly departed wheezed out from under your haggard breathing. "I'll remember that when you take a bullet."

As the pallid white waves swept across his cheeks, Kaminari pronked with a start, his mind's eye now teeming with grisly visions. He let out a weak laugh, almost choked with comic horror, and hoped the levity would ease your pain a little. Every hinge of his smile begged to collapse, but Kaminari forced his muscles to hold it together until you once again propped your neck against Kirishima's arm.

With a flick of your hand, the bullet reversed its course and sliced clean through the wasted left ear of he who had fired it.

A drizzle of red encircled the road beneath his feet as the villain wrenched wide his mouth, hissing, teetering towards escape.

Before Katsuki could bound forth and give chase, Kaminari leapt in front of him and pressed both hands to his chest. His whole body spasmed at that moment, and Katsuki jumped back, his fists twitching. He swallowed down the urge to knock Kaminari out of his way, wrenching a shred of control from what burned through his entrails.

"Dude, we got him! He's totally on the run!" Kaminari laughed goodhumouredly. A glob of blood hopped from his palm, smearing his fingerprints on Katsuki's costume, but as Katsuki fidgeted, the shape mangled into confusing streaks.

Shame churned in his stomach as Katsuki watched the blood fall and answered for himself who had spilt it.

A whisper laden with groans drew his attention over his shoulder, where you had wormed your way into the fetal position. Kirishima knelt at your side and took your hands in his own, sweat trickling down his face. "Squeeze as hard as you can, buddy, you know I can take it!"

"I'm not done yet," muttered Katsuki, dazed by the state of the mission and your deteriorating health, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure's battered form. He seized Kaminari by the back of his jacket and flung him to the pavement. "Until I blow his fucking head off!"

Kaminari braced, rolling until his elbows pressed against his chest and his screams of terror faded into the air. He winced at the scrapes on his hands as he slammed his palms down and lurched to a stop on his belly, the shock propelling a jolt across his spine as he reached out for Katsuki.

The path forward, now unobstructed, promised the sweetest opportunity to crush and dominate his enemy, and it thrilled Katsuki; the ambition to inflict upon this villain a pain like none had suffered before, or indeed ever would again, rampaged ahead of all other desires.

His pulse throbbed in every limb, threatening to burst from his neck, and the details of the world round him warped in and out of focus. Hearing nothing but his own breath and heart, he threw his arms back, splayed his fingers, and bent his knees.

Blast after blast sent Katsuki sprawling into the street, each one picking up speed and hurtling him closer to the villain. Smoke and flames streaked across the Musutafu skyline, obscuring that entire part of the world, the black of the smoke and the red of the flames as intense as a sunrise after a moonless night.

The villain had fled into an office building, the door riven and clashed shut, pinned with a chair. He walked backwards into a cubicle, counting the seconds, pistol trained on anything that broke through the barricade. Yet putting his other hand on the grip to steady the first hand seemed too great an effort;—sweat beaded on his palms, turning his limbs to mush.

Katsuki wove in the air with the tenacity of a guided missile, landing with such force that steam billowed everywhere. He pulled himself up to his full height, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck back and forth over one shoulder. But first, he thrust a laugh between his teeth, then heaved in another breath and took aim.

Bricks and mortar flew into every corner of the office on wings of smoke, one smashing into the villain's face. The trauma ripped the pistol from his hand the instant after his index finger clenched the trigger on impulse. With a scuff of his shoes on the concrete, he tumbled backwards, his skull caroming off the floor.

The muzzle blast revealed the dark spread rushing down his chin, the numbness of his dislocated jaw, and the silhouette rising from the edge of the rubble in the distance. In the darkness of the ruins, everything touched by sunlight appeared fulgent and blurred.

The demoniacal passion that beat in the throat of anyone bold enough to summon it drove Katsuki's voice to the brink of distortion. "Come out and fight me!" every remaining window in the building cracked at the sound of his challenge.

Katsuki stuck his boot atop the heap of rubble nearest to the entrance and listened, controlling every breath and holding every upset. Amidst the rustling of dust, the injured man's grunting stirred the blood in his veins, and Katsuki let out a yell and leapt towards the source, releasing every bestial urge he possessed.

Two explosions, one from each hand, propelled him higher, reaching their apogee above the murmurs of pain. There, Katsuki swung his arms overhead, blasting the ceiling with precision, setting it ablaze, and plunged downwards with his legs outstretched, poised to stomp the life from the voice. Instead of the crunch of bones under overwhelming pressure, he heard the sound of splinters.

The concrete fissured beneath his feet and a shockwave went up in a puff of smoke, followed by a faint scream from ten paces away. Katsuki lifted his head to see the outline of the villain, who shuddered before him and scrambled in the opposite direction. Periodic whimpers and curses escaped from the gap between his fingers, and each time Katsuki seemed to take pride in this weakness.

Every few seconds, his hand snapped with a crackle of sparks. A mist of light draped in ribbons across his face, the glint of burning orange shining more clearly than ever against the sea of black. At that moment, his canines shone prominently, baring and grinding his teeth until his mouth vibrated with menace.

The villain looked into the abyss of smoke, and in the eyes that looked back, there was no reflection of the hero, only the light of a mind that shrieked with primal hatred and fed on vile fantasies. The same red colour that poured from his nostrils floated in the darkness, shadowing him.

Katsuki swung his arm, puncturing the column of smoke and drawing it back as a curtain. The longer he beheld the villain, the more veins bumped along his temples and muscles bulged like sinewy ropes in his neck. There came the sound of an old record scratching and a firecracker popping, flanked by a flash of light on either side of Katsuki.

As soon as the villain staggered away, a gloved hand struck him in the chest; that horrible moment of death pierced him and the inescapable realisation that he was seeing his own through the eyes of another.

The force of the blast doubled in intensity, pain and heat flooding through his body like a grenade, splintering his sternum and filling his ribcage with shrapnel. A crater opened up in the wall behind him as concrete slammed against his spine, and his feet lifted high enough to never again touch the ground.

Through the din, the hero roared in a trance of vengeance, his voice growing more and more animalistic. Katsuki reached for the villain's heart, his arms tremulous, barely able to catch his breath. He struck with all the strength of his body, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke that sucked the air from his lungs.

From the inside of his gauntlet protruded a metal pin;—as he bent his finger to hook it, an instantaneous surge of rage shot through him. When he loosed the pin, a single word, "Die," burst forth, a word that packed a lifetime of contempt and rancour.

A swirl of the most vivid reds and oranges, hot and unquenchable as the core of a forest fire, tasted the air through the tubes of his gauntlets and soared infernal. An explosion more powerful than the loudest clap of thunder rang out, and everything opposite Katsuki burst into embers and spatter.

A whirlwind of flame and smoke pushed the unburnt pieces of concrete into darkness. Thick soot and ash blackened each window, and with a loud crash, shards of glass rained down into the street. The hiss and echo of shrapnel cascaded through the air, flying on the wind, before the explosion waned to a booming rumble.

Sizzling steam wafted through the air, exhaling the sticky fumes of sweat and blood. The hard soles of his combat boots thudded against fissures in the pavement. Smoke arose from his slick forehead, stinking at the hero as he stalked through the clouds of dust, and the threads of his costume stretched as his chest grew heavier.

These huffs and puffs fell short of his eyes, which glowered at all before them. The wildness that had possessed him withered to its usual ache once the sun gilded his face. With each step more driven than the last, the gloom of the wreckage and those whom it buried slipped further and further from his mind.

Katsuki hovered as close as he could without stepping on you. Dollops of blood dripped from the spikes of his hair and stood vibrant against the black of his costume.

"Hey, Bakubro!" Kirishima scanned the street in the vain hope that he would find the villain handcuffed, not reduced to the meat paste one wiped from their shoe. "Where's the villain?"

The muscles in Katsuki's face contracted, as did the muscles in his fingers, which curled inwards to throttle even the memory of the villain. For a moment, a sour calm passed over him, and the twitching in his cheeks subsided. "I blew his ass to pieces."

"Serves him right." You spat out a glob of blood and phlegm onto the asphalt.

A swell of pride drew from Katsuki a chuckle both brief and spirited, for his eyes lit up as the glow of his brightest explosion. The primordial anger that boiled within him gave way to the triumph and bloodlust espoused only by those who relished the battlefield.

Kirishima, whence he sat with hands clasped about your own, slackened them and recoiled a tad, his face blanching and on the verge of contortion. "What? But we can't just..." he bit his tongue as Katsuki swooped down on him.

"We made a judgement call, shitty hair!" He swung his arm wide. "So back the hell off!"

Another wheezing gasp escaped you, but it shrank to a torn, guttural pant as the moribund life inside failed to regain its strength.

As the short distance from the pavement drew his eye back and forth, back and forth, Kaminari eased his hands about your underarms and hauled you up to his chest. The first step to the pavement shot through your body a convulsion of spitting, flailing, and snorting. Froth and drool gelled in your mouth, and blood emptied from your nose into your throat.

The instant Kaminari dropped you and flinched back, wincing at his own carelessness, the skin on his arm erupted with invisible flame and rocketed closer. The centre of his face seemed to cave in on impact, spewing viscous strings of snot in blood and saliva in tears.

Katsuki struck him hard on the wrist, and Kaminari fell over backwards, cracking his nose with his own hand.

"Dumbass!" thundering footfalls commanded his attention, snarling out a venom that would give even the fiercest of beasts pause. "What the hell are you doing?" Kaminari shivered at his reflection, for in the same eyes that brooded over him, there lay a familiar glaze of fear.

With one hand clamped over his nose to stymie the flow of blood, Kaminari squinted through tears. He pulled his knees close and curled into a ball, his side to Katsuki. Despite the congestion in his throat, which Kaminari fought down to the best of his ability, he looked Katsuki squarely in the face.

"We have to move them! We can't just leave them in the street!"

A howl of an outburst so rancid it transcended words, a drive to demolish anything that moved, poured out of Katsuki between teeth squeezed so tight his jaw cried for relief. Nightmarish tension warped the muscles of his face, and he pivoted away from Kaminari, intent on checking your condition.

"Shut up and let me think for a minute!"

You had fallen into silence, the fatigue taking over, the road seeming fused to your skin, the agony so sharp your heart thrashed and stole the light from your vision.

"Go for Recovery Girl! Tell her we need a medevac!"

Kaminari slapped a hand on his earpiece, flooding every hero channel he could locate with a distress signal.

Katsuki spied it moments before Kirishima drawled his name: the swirl of fog over your eyes as Death trotted near.

He snapped his head up and fixed his most intense stare, a mixture of madness and wrath, on Kaminari's back. "Now!" Katsuki lunged for Kaminari, who cowered back, gnashing his teeth and pushing out searing breath. "I don't care who she's with! Bring her here now!"

A miniature explosion shimmered and evaporated from his palm, which Katsuki shoved into Kaminari's face. A line of froth trailed after each word and splashed Kaminari, who wrenched one eye shut and turned to block the droplets with his hand.

Upon seeing Katsuki towering over him, blotting out the sun, Kaminari hunched forward to make himself smaller.

In that instant, as another frantic shout dangled from the tip of Katsuki's tongue, a wretched terror stole the sound from his world. The shrillest ringing, like bullets raining down on him from all sides, shook his sanity, and a cold sweat plunged down his spine. Warmth drained from the most blistering explosions, and chilling tendrils writhed in his stomach.

The phantom pressure of breathlessness, of a sharp heel against his chest, dug at his heart.

Where reinforcements should have charged in unison, the vacant, lifeless road stretched on, beguiling his wide eyes into staring, twitching with the sickness of a revelation most dire. As Katsuki watched the bend in its infinite, absolute distance, one thought of dreadful proportion stuck in his mind: "No one's coming."

The cacophonous voice scratched at his ears again, but the sharpness of his adrenaline-fuelled senses directed him towards the smell of blood.

Kirishima opened his arms as a final, desperate obstacle, lips drawn narrow, flesh bared and hardened. "Bakugou, you saw what happened with Kaminari! If you move 'em now, they might die!"

Katsuki stopped short, reaching one upturned hand. "Take a look at 'em, shitty hair! They're dying anyway!"

First casting his eyes behind, Kirishima meditated on the truth in those words.

The metal shells of his knee guards skidded across the asphalt as Katsuki shouldered Kirishima aside and hurled himself on the ground before you. Freed of all hesitation, he cradled you for a moment, secured you on his back, and made sure to keep his eyes forward.

Black blood, curdled and rancid like old soup, matted his gloves. The tremor in his legs and the stone in his throat came not from his nauseous spring up, nor from the sweltering rush on which he arced through the sky.

* * *

Katsuki paced a uniform sea of white sandstone, staring into the distance at an unreachable target, a target that chased him from sterile wall to sterile wall. He cursed under his breath, as if chanting a spell, at himself for not acting sooner, and at all the scum that abandoned you on the field. His gauntlets rattled with every swing of his arm, skin smeared with soot and blood.

Every three or four laps, a new wave of doubt seized him, and Katsuki paused to watch your breathing, assuring himself that it hadn't ceased or grown errant. Each time, he searched for the barest hint of consciousness, and each time, the pressure of frustration clenched his chest a little tighter.

His shadow loomed over your bedside, slathered with debris and reeking of scorched death, silent as though he could menace the wound out of you.

At the faint creak of a handle turning and a door sliding open on its hinges, Katsuki wheeled round on the entrance and flung out his arm. A light that rivalled the sun bathed his palm with sweat, but Aizawa's dark eyes peered out still from beneath a veil of shaggy hair.

"Where the hell were you?" Katsuki thrust his hand forth, each word aloft from the bombilation of sparks.

Shota Aizawa, a man whom the undead would welcome into their ranks, faced this threat with reddened eyes half overcome by slumping lids: "Your actions today broke more laws than I can count."

Katsuki swiped a ribbon of smoke through the air and neared the foot of the bed, a strip of muscle in his cheek bulging and pulsing. "I ain't apologising for shit! That bastard got every bit of what he deserved!"

A glimmer of scarlet flared to life from deep behind Aizawa's eyes, and the tips of his frayed hair began to levitate. "If you value your career, I suggest you stand down immediately."

Recovery Girl trudged over, her eyes closed in exhaustion, her legs still moving with an impeccable sense of direction. She trailed the hem of her coat on all the dust of the hospital floor. "I told him to take a break I don't know how many times, but he won't leave his friend's side."

The pulp of Katsuki's stomach knotted, and the hairs on his neck bristled. "We're not friends!" He dragged on the last word, voice heavy and exasperated, as though it were an accusation he fought off daily.

Recovery Girl scolded him, pursing her lips and shaking her head, then took up with Aizawa, who lingered on him for a minute.

"They're just some idiot on my team." Katsuki turned to you again, eyes frozen and puffy, haunted by the thought that your hollowed skin looked fit for a casket.

All signs of the convulsion had been wiped from your mouth and dumped inside a steel bin. A blanket, bleached and prone to tangles, pooled thinly over you, and Katsuki drew it forth into a more complete covering. "Hey," he called, as though pulling you out of training, "I know you're hurt, but don't die."

There was a gentleness of mien then, followed at once by a droop in his posture. "Okay?"

The chatter of flapping gums and popping saliva was a needle down his ear, and Katsuki stiffened, his face gnarled once more, before rounding on the noise. "Old lady, get your ass over here and fix this!"

* * *

The head of the academy, his white fur neatly tucked behind his suit vest and chequered trousers, crept up the slope of the chair. A diagonal scar ran from the centre of his forehead down his right cheek, exposing a stripe of pink skin, dulled with time and deprived of fur. A cup of steaming tea in hand, he sat no taller than a small child.

The autumnal air flowed in, cool and refreshing, through the ajar window that Aizawa had hastened to shut.

Principal Nezu replaced the sound with a most pleasant and disarming one, his voice lowering everyone's blood pressure until it cheered death and destruction. "Bakugou's conduct was no doubt reckless, and we shall assign him extra duties for the remainder of the month."

"That's it?"

A forepaw shot out, silencing him.

"We all agree it was excessive force, but Young Bakugou acted in defence of a fallen comrade." Principal Nezu set his teacup down carefully upon his saucer, head bowed and eyes closed. "The fact of the matter is, villains outnumber heroes ten to one, and they will only grow larger unless we as a school do our part."

His beady eyes turned black as stone in the reddish haze of dusk. "It falls on our shoulders to train the next generation. Like never before, we need students who can meet this threat. Students who push the limits of what heroism means."

Nezu slid forward with his elbows, linked his forepaws, uplifted his mouth with permanence, threaded each finger through the others, and rubbed his hands. "We must never encourage lethal force, but if our students are to succeed, they need also recognise when it may be necessary."

Aizawa took one last look at the after-action report before pulling himself to his feet, leaving open the folder to its description of the villain:

"Identification could not be verified. Body recovered in pieces, result of ten-kilogram detonation at close range; all other remains vapourised in blast."

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

😂😂😂😂 I'M PRINTING THIS OUT AND FRAMING THIS LIKE I NEARLY DIED READING THIS BECAUSE I WAS TRYING SO HARD NOT TO LAUGH AND IT'S COMPLETELY UNFAIR HOW I WAS TILTING MY HEAD IN 18TH CENTURY INTRIGUE ONLY TO READ THAT HEAD NOD LINE IN THE BEGINNING

*taking notes* bursting out into songs will squander unwanted conversations

But yeah that's pretty much how the button installation went down. A+ recap for the community, bestie😎👍💜

“Welcome to the team, Mr Henchman. You start Monday.”

Pairing: Oblivious x Smitten tried for Sassy!Villain x Adorable!Henchperson but idk how to do sassy on purpose :/

Dialogue: Villainy begins at home I admit it's a stretch OR it could be the theme and so it's not a stretch in that case

Finishing touch: I'm rotten to the core, who could ever ask for more? I get bonus points! 🤩

A/N:

Inspired by @world-of-fire-and-flight-admin, this post, and this post.

Written for #Villaintine’s Day 2023 by @black-rose-events :)

Just realized it's Monday today lol 😎 The title fits!

—

“Good morning, everyone!”

“Good morning,” replied the two villains.

“I hope you don’t mind but I made breakfast for everyone!” The newly hired henchman had a legitimate picnic basket in one hand and a thin vase with a few flowers in the other. 

“Oh, Henchman, you didn’t have to do that,” Codex said, but then also immediately cleared space on the common desk. “I wouldn’t mind some food though. And poor Spectre was just telling me how she couldn't eat breakfast today.”

“Oh dear, why ever not?” His smile had turned into a pout and Spectre’s stomach butterflies had ample room to fly around. She was going to have a word with those butterflies, this was all part of their scheme, she knew it.

“Oh…just…nerves.”

“Oh, I get it. I was a nervous wreck all weekend and this morning. My first job in a while, y’know?”

Codex nodded in understanding; Spectre moved her head in a way which could be considered a nod by 18th century metallic fortune teller standards.

Henchman hadn’t had a job in a WHILE, and not for a lack of trying. He was the longest resident of the goon shelter, he had seen goons come and go, all while he stayed and hoped to find his own loving evil lair some day. 

Alas, it had been years. 

Villains were too discriminatory when hiring henchpeople. He could hench just as well as the next guy, if only he was given a chance BUT it didn’t matter because he was always passed over based on superficial standards. 

‘He’s got a better evil laugh than me, what would the heroes think?’ 

‘He’s better looking than me, I can’t have that!’ 

'He looks cooler than me, that's like the first rule of henching!' 

‘I don’t trust him’ was the consensus. Everyone just assumed he was out to steal their job, or worse, their hero. 

It was sad. Another tragic backstory in the villain community.

But hopefully not anymore!

Two up-and-coming co-conspirators had given him a chance! They had just started a small evil base in the local community and had invited him for an interview! They both seemed really villainous and nice. One of them seemed quieter than the other as the interview went on, though. He talked about his interests, his time at the shelter and his flair for the dramatic. He thought he had said something wrong but he had been hired so it must not have been that bad. Oh, he hoped he got to fix his relationship and get to know her, they’d become the best of friends and he’d have a great evil lair for life.

He was so grateful these two weren’t meanies like all the rest of the villains. He really hoped all their schemes were successful.

He had been so excited for his first day that he barely got any sleep! So he made everyone breakfast. You know what they say, the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach, and Henchman had learnt so many dishes from all the henchpeople he had seen come and go from the shelter.

But he wanted to ease them slowly into his culinary prowess, so he went simple today.

“Here you go,” he said while serving eggs, sunny-side-up, in everyone’s plates, topping them off with homemade brown bread and mango juice.

“Ooh, I forgot you said you cooked. Do you like to bake? Spectre loves baking, don’t ya, Specs?” She nudged her co-conspirator who was acting out of it today, just like at the interview. “Spectre. Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Never better!" she almost shouted. "The food looks delicious, Henchman!”

Codex and Henchman winced at her volume but ignored it, “Why, thank you! I do hope you like it. Now, eat up! You can’t have a productive heist without a good hearty breakfast, Ms Spectre.”

Spectre gulped at the formality but nodded. 

—

Ms? Oh gosh, that was so polite of him! Oh gosh, she was going to faint right there! Oh gosh, she had got to get higher standards for people her brain decided to crush on!

It had all started the day of the interview when this absolute sweetheart helped her out with her anxiety. Yes, she was holding the interview, but it was still scary! And Codex was running late and had the only room key — note to self: make a duplicate. 

But anyway, she had maybe gotten a tad too nervous and this sweetheart thought she was another candidate and had tried to calm her down. Sure, it wasn’t anything crush-worthy, but one of the hazards of the heroes and villains business is that you tend to think you’re in love with the first person who shows you basic human decency. It might have something to do with tragic backstories but it was a fact and, try as she might, she couldn’t logic her way out of it.

Then, the interview. 

Oh, that interview where he talked about his interests and how he liked cooking and how he was good with little villain sidekicks and animal minions. And he may have got a dramatic evil laugh and was so goofy and adorable. 

Okay, maybe thinking about her crush was making it worse. 

She was going to stop now.

—

“So,” Codex looked over her to-do list for the big event, “We need to install a big red button in our villain lair.” 

This was her chance! “I can do that!” Yes! Keeping herself busy with work was exactly what Spectre needed to get over her not-crush!

“Excellent! Now, remember. The big red button isn’t a self-destruct button…this time. It’s for friends and fans to send a message or a ‘worst regards’ to us, got it?”

“Yes, can do, Dex!”

“And I can help!” The two turned. Henchman was standing in the doorway, holding a box he had brought to decorate his side of the office. It had little ‘best of luck’ and ‘congrats on your new job’ written on the sides. Gosh, that was so adorable; his friends at the goon shelter were so sweet.

But he looked nervous.

He had tried to be proactive and assertive but the blog posts don't tell you what to do after all the attention is on you. He wanted to hide inside his sweater. 

“Oh, that’s great, Henchman. But I think I can handle it.” Spectre sounded nervous too. Codex furrowed her eyebrows at her friend. 

“Oh, I understand. Yes, of course." He sheepishly went to his desk, wishing the lights would go out and no one could see his sure-to-be red face. 

Spectre, with a suspicious blush, turned back to her co-conspirator. "R-right. Where were we?"

"Y'know. Stuff like this is why we hired a henchperson in the first place." 

"What?" 

"Yeah! We need to hand over some of the tasks eventually. Let's start with this. You can teach him the ropes!"

She was speechless. Codex was right but gosh, why. But Spectre muttered some form of affirmation anyway.

"Great! Henchman, there you go! You and Spectre will be working together today."

"Sounds great!"

Spectre didn’t match his enthusiasm. "Yay," she muttered. 

—-

Spectre was fine before Henchman volunteered to install the big red button. Was she really looking forward to installing a button so much? Or was there something else going on?

Codex recounted the facts. 

Fact: Spectre was fine till Henchman showed up.

Fact: Spectre wasn't acting normal at breakfast either. Henchman was also present. 

Fact: She was nervous in the morning. Before Henchman brought breakfast. So much so that she didn’t eat breakfast at home. 

Had this been going on longer than just today? 

When was the last time she was fine? The day before the interview, it seemed like. Spectre had been okay, nervous, yes, but she had been happily knitting matching company scarves for the two of them and the new hire for Villaintine's Day. 

The interview was where it all started. Before the interview actually, when Codex had been late. Spectre was waiting outside. With Henchman. 

Hmmm. 

Codex frowned. That couldn't be it, could it? 

But Spectre was a villain and it happened to villains first, usually. Hazard of the job, unfortunately. 

Oh, poor Specs.

Well, let's get this over with. 

She went over her list of tasks and was able to find one that would make Henchman leave the two of them alone. She needed to have a talk with her friend about what was bothering her. 

Her friend was not going to be happy. 

—--

"I am not in love with him!" 

"I never said 'love'. I just said 'crush'." 

"I don't have a 'crush' on him either!" 

"You sure? He seems like a sweet person." 

"No!" 

"At least tell me what happened the day of the interview. While you two were waiting for me." 

"Nothing happened! I was just nervous. He helped. That's it!" 

Codex clicked her tongue. Showing basic human decency to a villain. You might as well confess your love to them. She knew of many villains who had fallen for heroes after they patched them up when they were bleeding out. 

Then there were the stats of course, research courtesy of Codex herself. 

Stat: Villain patch-ups become more frequent the closer it gets to Villaintine's Day. 

Stat: There's an increase in falling for fire- and ice-themed heroes and villains in winter and summer respectively, moderated by how much the "fallees" like hugs.

And, of course,

Stat: Most villains report falling in love after the very first act of kindness, especially if there was a smile involved, while heroes generally took longer.

But back to her co-conspirator who had turned around to face the window dramatically now. 

"I'm evil! I'm bad!" 

Then she turned around and her gaze darkened.

"I'm rotten to the core." 

"Yeah, I get it — oh no —" 

"They say I'm trouble. 

They say I'm bad." 

Oh no.

They say I'm evil

That makes me glad

Well. I'm...happy for you? 

A dirty no-good

Down to the bone

Of course. 

Your worst nightmare

Can't take me home

So you're not coming for game night? 

Ugh, so I've got some mischief

In my blood

Your family are civilians, Spectre.

Can you blame me?

I never got no love

Aww, sweetie :(

They think I'm callous

A low-life hood

I realize I don't know what callous means

I feel so useless

Misunderstood!

Aww, no :(((

💃

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Who's the baddest of them all?

Do you regularly ask the tablet on the wall this? 

Welcome to my wicked world, wicked world!

Umm…

🚪*Henchman enters*

What's going on, boss? 

… 

Sorry, what is she doing? 

She's just having one of her episodes. Best to just wait it out. 

Oh, how did it start? 

I accused her of having a crush on someone and she's in denial. Or she doesn't haven't a crush, I dunno. She started before the conversation ended. 

Oh. yeah, I get it. Love is the scariest evil of all. 

…sure.

But it's nice to be in the loop this time. At the shelter, this really sweet girl, her name was Jessica, she'd always stand in front of the TV when I was watching but she'd always share her food with me when it would go missing from the fridge, so anyway, everyone said she had a crush on someone but no one would ever tell me who. 

So, it's nice to know this time 🥰 

I'm rotten to the core, core

💃💃

Rotten to the core

So, I've got this list of tasks I need you to do around the lair. I'll walk you through them.

Cool!

I'm rotten to the core, core

Who could ask for more?

I'm nothing like the kid next, like the kid next door

Interesting that your standard for bad is your next door neighbor who's NINE.

I'm rotten to the, I'm rotten to the

I'm rotten to the core

I'm rotten to the core

Who could ask for more?

I'm nothing like the kid next door

I'm rotten to the core

⌚

Call me a schemer

Call me a freak

How can you say that?

I'm just...unique!

Freak Du Unique! 

What, me? A traitor?

Ain't got your back?

You've got my back.

Oh, we're not friends

What's up with that?

We're friends, we're friends! 

So I'm a misfit

So I'm a flirt

*sputters* You flirt?

I'm sorry, isn't flirting Villain 101?

Yeah, but still. I've never seen her flirt. 

Maybe she never found the right hero? 

Or villain — um, yeah — hero, what you said.

I broke your heart?

I made you hurt?

Dude, don't break hearts! That's not okay!

I have to agree there

The past is past

Forgive, forget

What about our tragic backstories then? 

The truth is

You ain't seen nothing yet!

You're gonna break his — someone's heart? Please don't.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Who's the baddest of them all?

Welcome to my wicked world, wicked world!

Is it over? 

I'm rotten to the core, core

💃💃💃

Rotten to the core

Sigh, not yet

I'm rotten to the core, core

Who could ask for more?

I'm nothing like the kid next, like the kid next door

I'm rotten to the, I'm rotten to the

I'm rotten to the core. 

"..." 

"…okay, now that you've got that out of your system. I apologize for earlier. I won't bring it up again. Now, you two need to work on getting the button from the superstore and installing it. See ya!"

So Codex left the two alone, eager to get some work done before another monologue or song started.

“Hey, Ms Spectre.” 

“Y-yeah?”

“There’s something I need to confess.”

“Confess?”

“Yes. the thing is…”

“Yes?” she leaned in, fists clenched, a smile just on the edge of her lips. 

“I- I- I don’t know where the superstore is.”

“...Oh.” Spectre let out a sigh and her heartbeat relaxed. “I know where it is. Come on, I'll take you.”

"Thanks!" 

—

"Hey, Henchman."

"Yes?"

"You don't need to call use Ms. You can just call us by our villain names. Just Spectre works." 

"Oh. In that case, I'm Henchman. Nice to officially re-meet you." he had a goofy grin before getting into Spectre's car. 

Those dang butterflies were back. But she willed them down long enough to shake herself back to work. 

They drove in silence, but Henchman had a question on his mind and was just waiting to ask it.

"Ms, er, Spectre." 

"Yes?" 

"May I ask you a question?" 

"Of course." 

"Well, you see. I couldn't help but overhear that wonderful monologue you were doing. The apple core one?" 

"Ye-es?" 

"May I ask why you hate your neighbours so much?" 

"Not neighbours. Just…him."

"Why? If you don't mind me asking, that is." 

"Because he's the absolute WORST, Henchman."

"Why, exactly?"

"He keeps stealing the pies off my windowsill, for one."

"How do you know it was him?" 

"Because he leaves his calling card." She opened the glove compartment and handed him a paper with a cute smiling cartoon racoon drawn on it. 

"Then! I baked the entire family cookies for the holidays and he didn't bake any for me back. His parents did, but not him!" 

"Uh-huh."

"AND he and his friends keep stealing my cat and returning her in cat clothes that they've knitted!" 

"The…nerve?"

"Exactly! Codex thinks he could make a nice villain apprentice, villainy begins at home and all that, but I refuse to — oh, we're here." 

They got out of the car, bought a button, drove back to the base, and installed the button all while Spectre ranted about her neighbourhood nemesis’s diabolical misdeeds.

Henchman didn't mind. All that mattered was she was happy and enjoying herself, and she definitely was because she was currently laughing manically at the thought of knitting her nemesis neighbor itchy gloves for his birthday. She even asked him to help her bake an evil chocolate cake for the occasion. Yup, he was definitely on her good side now and he could be sure he was going to love working here.

It seemed like he had found his forever lair at last.

—

Bonus:

Codex: "Guys...this button is green." 

Spectre: 😁😀😮😯😶😅 "Uhhhh…it's so hard to find good henchmen these days?"

[thebrickinbrick]

The Flag: Act First

AS yet, nothing had come. Ten o'clock had sounded from Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching.

Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of "By the Light of the Moon," this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:

Mon nez est en larmes, Mon ami Bugeaud, Prête moi tes gendarmes Pour leur dire un mot.“En capote bleue, La poule au shako, Voici la banlieue! Co-cocorico! (1)

They pressed each other's hands.

"That is Gavroche," said Enjolras. ”

"He is warning us," said Combeferre.

A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying: "My gun! Here they are!"

An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the

sound of hands seeking their guns became audible.

"Would you like my carbine?" said Enjolras to the lad.

"I want a big gun," replied Gavroche.

And he seized Javert's gun.

Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the Lane des Prêcheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.

The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a smoke.

Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.

Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed, themselves, with their guns levelled at their shoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.

Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this. It was that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander, but this stony step had something undescribably enormous and multiple about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and, at the same time, the idea of a spectre. One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion marching onward. This tread drew near; it drew still nearer, and stopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard at the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which moved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees beneath one's closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch.

A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all the more sinister, since no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted:

"Who goes there?"

“At the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered into position, was heard.

Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone:

"The French Revolution!"

"Fire!" shouted the voice.

A flash empurpled all the façades in the street as though the door of a furnace had been flung open, and hastily closed again.

A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut the staff, that is to say, the very tip of the omnibus pole.

Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated the barricade and wounded several men.

The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. The attack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire reflection in the boldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment at the very least.

"Comrades!" shouted Courfeyrac, "let us not waste our powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before replying."

"And, above all," said Enjolras, "let us raise the flag again." He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet. Outside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard; the troops were re-loading their arms.

Enjolras went on: "Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the barricade again?"

Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when, without any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation. Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated:

"Does no one volunteer?”

(1) “My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy gendarmes that may say a word to them. With a blue capote and a chicken in his shako, here's the banlieue, co-cocorico.”

[itslouisan]

My Draculaura headcanons!:

(i mix g1 and g3!)

- Draculaura in my head is childhood friends with Valentine, they used to play together, have tea parties and sleepovers, after they rebonded Drac reassured Val it was fine, and hey, they still have tea parties, like old times

- in my headcanons she still leans MORE to the vampire side than witch, and in witch terms, she's actually a necromancer (big difference) and tarot reader

- she was the one to bring Ghoulia back to life and that actually makes them bond since it breaks how vampires tended to see zombies

- hear me out....demigirl?

- vivid fan of Melanie Martinez, likes J-pop and kawaii musics, loves musicals her fav being legally blond and listens to Malice Mizer

- she LOVES japanese subcultures and I actually picture her living some years in Japan more specifically Kyoto after graduating MH

- absolutely has a sweet fang and loves to bake red velvet heart shaped cake pops

- her and Clawd are still together and every noon they cuddle together in the dorms while watching movies and eating sweets

- I picture that the profession Draculaura would like to have (in which I also hc she'd love to have multiple jobs, beware Barbie she'll steal your place) being: fashionista, vampiric history teacher, necromancy teacher in MH, baker, photographer working probably with Elissabat for promos in her movies or even as far as working as a Japanese idol

- DEFINITELY has a garden that is just hers in her father's manor and Dracula makes sure it's perfectly taken care of so when she comes back Draculaura isn't too worried for the plants, her favorite flower being black roses and sakura flowers in their pink shade

- definitely in her time in the vampiric court Draculaura would sneak away with Valentine and Elissabat and just explore the town at night instead of focusing on the balls, though she'd come right on time for the dance and would always call either Elissabat or Valentine as dance partners

- THE NIECE OF THE VAMPIRE FROM SESAME STREET AND COUNT CHOCULA.

- girly loves to read and collect shoujo manga and extra cutesy slice of life manga.

- once dressed Frankie up in gothic lolita, it became their hobby to once a weekend get all girls together and dress up in lolita for photos

- learnt about her taiwanese heritage a bit later and took some late blooming to enjoy it, these days she constantly enjoys being connected to taiwanese culture

- as someone deficient of GH (growth hormone and also linked to some teen hormones such as what causes periods and boob growth) I like to imagine Draculaura actually has the same thing and that's what caused her to be a late bloomer on both psychically and in her vampire side, which was what got her interested into witchcraft.

- besties with Spelldon I don't make the rules

- auntie of Valentine's and Spelldon kids as well as the aunt of any of her best ghouls friends

Side note: I never read her diary since as a kid I didn't have basic Draculaura but her variations so I'm sorry if some info is incorrect due to diary content, also I only want to read her diary when I have my own g1 basic Draculaura

Also: @strawberry-spectre some of these are for u and inspired from your blog!!

Same for @mugcakey