#and macmillan is useless

[dionboop]

Me: Veteran difficulty is going to be hard

Me, when Veteran difficulty proved to indeed be hard:

[cherubfae]

𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱 || {𝔩𝔢𝔬𝔫 𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡𝔶, 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢}

what better way to test if your boyfriend can stay silent by sucking him off in the middle of a trial with a killer on the prowl? things do not go as planned.

tags: nsfw, smut, gn!afab! Resident Evil verse!reader, dubcon (just in case!!), descriptions of afab anatomy, degradation/namecalling (ghostie), forced blowjobs (ghostie), public acts of indecency, voyeurism (ghostie likes to watch), dry humping (Ghostie x reader), established relationship, slight ghostface x reader x leon, brief mentions of anal play, allusions to puppyboy!Leon, leon is a bit of a freak lmao he's def a closet perv, breeding kink (previous mentions about potentially having kids), Leon and reader are not good teammates x3, this got vulgar aaaaa

The Macmillan estate was vast, cluttered in useless machinery, old rusted tools, and many nooks and crannies for you and Leon to find a temporary safe haven in. The Ghostface had already successfully hooked an injured Meg, who had struggled enough to summon the Entity early, unfortunately, everyone knew they wouldn't make it in time to unhook her. Her sacrifice would soon be claimed by spindly inky spider-like legs. With one practically in the bag, the killer continued on his vicious pursuit of both Vittorio and Sable.

Crouched down into a squat with his back to the silent generator, Leon winces at the jingle of his belt, quickly unfastening the buckle and tugging down the zip. "Are you sure you can keep quiet?" The rookie teased. He looked smug, one dark brow raised, and his thumbs hooked into the loops of his uniform pants. The waistband of said pants sag around his hips, a sliver of skin revealed above his blue plaid boxers, looking oh so tantalizing.

Scoffing, you shoot him an incredulous look, unimpressed. "Leon, baby, every time one of the killers strikes you it sounds like you're practicing for a porno, you little masochist. This was your idea. Don't make me gag you." He knew full well you'd find whatever you could to shove in his mouth-- and he secretly hoped it would be the underwear you're currently wearing.

Whining, Leon's head dully thuds back against the generator. "Fuck, that doesn't sound half bad. Wanna try without first, baby, please. Promise I'll be your good boy." Giving you that signature grin you love so much, Leon easily swayed your opinion. He really was just like a puppy, always begging to be praised, and you were more than happy to oblige your boyfriend.

You missed all the toys you liked to use on him back home in Raccoon City. The way his ass stretched around the silver plug you oh so kindly fucked into him. Leon would just about die if any of his comrades ever found out that almost every night after his shift his partner was fucking his ass with a wolf-like tail butt plug or a pretty, glittery blue strap-on. He would never mention he had the ears, the studded collar, and the paw print gloves to match. All in an adoringly cute silvery-grey.

And when you weren't pounding into him? He had you folded in half beneath his strong body, ever so eager to prove just how much he's physically improved, humping into you in the deepest mating press possible. Never fully satisfied, much less satiated, unless you were dripping in his seed. He loveeeeed watching your hole clench with the absence of his dick, cum staining the sheets below. Like a doting, caring boyfriend, he'd push back all of his cum inside. You'd talked about it before. Maybe he wanted it to take this time.

You two were insatiable, like rabbits.

Now, trapped in this eternal purgatory, things were certainly no different. You two continued on as normal as you could in this hellscape. You thanked whatever god, probably the Entity, thank you were sent here with your boyfriend. True hell would be to never get to see one another again.

Deciding he is taking too long; you yank them down yourself. A gust of wind ripples across the ground, making the two of you shudder and huddle in even closer.

His erection is hard and hot, flushed red and thicker than your wrist, and visibly twitching in your grasp. You've barely touched him yet and already Leon gasps like he's close to cumming.

"Fuck, baby, need you. I need you, please." Leon begs, shuffling closer. He claims your mouth in a passionate kiss, parting with a heavy whine. Gently lowering you to rest between his legs, he parts your lips gently; always so sweet and kind to you. Tapping his cock against your lips, you open wide, tongue lolling out to lap at his tip. His moans are delicious and it's clear there was never any intention of him staying quiet. He'd already failed.

You take him in as far as you can go, swallowing around his head once he hits the back of your throat. His fingers curl around the back of your neck to keep you in place, idly toying with the ends of your hair. Too deep in your element, you fail to hear a rustling noise several feet away from you.

Leon, drunk on pleasure, snapped his head up. Through ashen blonde bangs he makes out the unmistakable shadowy outline of the Ghostface's shroud billowing in the wind. Although straining, he can hear the muffled, heavy breathing rasp from behind the killer's mask. Yet, the cloaked murderer makes no move to stop for the couple.

Narrowing his eyes, he watches Ghostface with confusion. Watches as the killer sheaths his knife into the ground with a dull thud. Despite the distance, Leon doesn't miss the jerking motion Ghostface does with his hand now between his crouched legs.

Leon's hand cards through your hair, stroking the silken strands lovingly. A gasp catches in his throat when your eyes tilt up, peering at him through your lashes, with your mouth full of his thick cock.

Smirking, he caressed your cheek. "We've got an audience, love. The Ghostface," he hummed. "But he's not trying to attack us. Guess he likes watching my pretty baby suck their boyfriend's dick." He gently taps your cheek, a signal to continue. "Whaddya say, wanna give him a better look? Want him to touch you? Yeah? Atta baby." Leon waves his hand. "Go ahead then, Mr. Ghostface. Do what you will."

Now you hear it. The uneven, raspy breathing. The crunching of heavy boots on dead grass, the cracking of twigs as the predator creeped ever closer. There was the undeniable scent of steel, of faint cologne, and the tang of copper. Blood.

Heat pools in your abdomen at the lewdness of this whole scenario. There was something undeniably sexy that both your boyfriend and some masked stranger, a serial killer, were getting off to such a display of indecency.

A gloved hand, sleek against your soft hair, roughly pushes your head down forcing you to take Leon to the back of your throat; Leon crying out in ecstasy. You gasp and gag, sputtering and coughing around the length, your nose buried in Leon's pubic hair. Unable to look to see what's happening, you do what you can to focus on pleasing your boyfriend. The strong hand on your hand is a heavy reminder that the roles have now been switched.

Something warm and hard pressed at your ass. It didn't take you too long to guess as to what it may be. A second later, you're being pushed tightly into Leon's chest, your hips harshly gripped between gloved hands as Ghostface drags his bare, flushed cock along the seam of your jean shorts. He's long and thick, that much is evident, with every drag of his cock along your clothed cunt. Precum clings to the light blue fabric, staining it.

Ghostface humps his cock at your backside like a mutt breeding a bitch. His larger frame has you caged between the two males, thighs pinning yours in place and gloved hands groping any skin he can touch. You yelp as Leon's cock falls out of your mouth with a wet pop. Spit and saliva connect the two. You wrap your hand around him, sticking out your tongue to lap at his head moaning low.

Slipping his hand beneath your waistband he alternates from grinding his gloved fingers along your slit and grabbing a handful of your tits. The texture was rough. It rubbed your skin raw, massaging your velvet walls in such a way that you saw stars. You didn't care how fucked out you looked anymore, you rode Danny's fingers eagerly.

"Suck his dick like a good little whore," came the raw, deep voice of the Ghostface. "You like your mouth being used as his little fuck hole, don't you, sweetheart?" Feigning sweetness, the killer cards his fingers through your hair. Tears prick your eyes, but fuck, it was so hot. It felt so fucking sexy to be used like this.

Gripping you at the scalp, Ghostface roughly forces you to bob your head up and down on Leon's cock. Your boyfriend frantically tries to give you some semblance of peace and security by gripping and massaging your shoulders with his warm hands. His eyes squeeze tight, rapidly inhaling and exhaling.

"F-fuck! I'm gonna cum!" Leon yelps, hips gyrating. Borderline fucking your throat with every hump of his hips to your face. He hoped you would forgive him. It felt too damn good to stop now.

Ghostface cackled, forcing you back down. His large hand greatly obscures the back of your neck. He holds you in place, all the while laughing at your tear-stained face desperately trying to swallow down all of the rookie's cum; white essence spilling out of your mouth as you're overfilled.

"Such a slutty, slutty little mess, hmm?" Ghostface grumbled. He yanks you off Leon's dick, forcing you to face him. Leon instinctively wraps his strong arms around your tummy. Ghostface kicks your legs apart to crouch between them. His leaking, bare cock now visible with his shroud hiked up to his waist. Long, hard and visibly throbbing for attention. He cups at your sex, mocking your pathetic whine. "Think you can fit two dicks in there, sweetheart? Whaddya say, rookie cop? Feel like sharing?" As if Leon had any choice.

Collecting the cum trickling down your chin, Ghostface pushes two leather-clad fingers into your mouth. The digits press down on your tongue, noisily slurping on them. Red eyes, as red as blood, stare down at your wanton expression with faux kindness. There is only sadistic mockery in his tone. "Show us your hole, then, sweets. I think it's time I deserved a treat. I'll go easy on ya. I'd hate to make Kennedy pissy." He hissed, his hand going to his cock, jerking himself directly over you. "Unless you'd rather be hooked?"

|| ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʀᴇᴜꜱᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ © ᴄʜᴇʀᴜʙꜰᴀᴇ 2024 ||

[blut-s]

Ghost x punk!Soap

part 1

It happened. Ghost - no - Simon had to live as a civilian and it was not an easy task. He never took longer breaks, not since he got his revenge on Roba. A night out with Gaz and Price was as far as he allowed himself to get, still leaving the pub early. Now, however, he can’t just go back to the barracks, sleep, and start work again in the morning. Not after the last mission.

He was shot. Bullet right through his right forearm, shattering a part of bone and damaging his nerves. You can’t always avoid injuries happening, especially in his line of work, but he wasn’t even sure if it’s gonna be his work after that. His arm wasn’t cut off, but at this point it might as well have been. His hand is so weak it’s basically useless. He couldn’t even hold a pen right, having to clumsily sign his leave documents with his left side. It all made him feel like a stupid, little kid again. John and Kyle have been trying to help him with everything they could before he left the base. They carried his bag and backpack for him to the car, which he couldn’t even fucking drive. Captain had to talk with MacMillan to make some poor, young sod drive him to the London’s train station, where he could get a train back to Manchester.

He didn’t talk to anyone during the trip. Not in the car and not on the train. He had no reason to. After around 5 hours he reached the target city and oh boy, wasn’t it a depressing sight. The place on its own? Not so bad. It was the memories connected to it that caused discomfort. He didn't have time to think about it too much. Not now. He still had to get to his flat.

After an awkward cab ride and with 35 pounds less in his pocket Simon was finally in front of the building. Bags were hanging uncomfortably from his shoulder while he looked for his keycard and keys in the left pocket of his jacket. And then the bags fell loudly to the ground and he wanted to start crying from all the frustration. Instead, he (very bravely I might add) opened the main door and started walking upstairs until he reached his flat's entrance. Finding the right key wasn't difficult and he could finally get in, setting his baggage aside.

There sure was some cleaning up to do there. Dust covered almost every surface reminding him of how long he has been away. Few years, wasn't it? He should have just sold the place, not botering with legal stuff connected to owning an apartment he doesn't even live in. Okay, maybe he's the tiniest bit happy that he doesn't have to stay in a hotel right now, it for sure would be more annoying. Simon told himself that he'll just start cleaning and get some basic groceries tomorrow, exhaustion getting more to him. He threw himself on the stiff couch and quickly fell asleep.

… . . … … . … … ..

As he promised himself, the next day was full of cleaning every surface he was able to get. For a soldier he had poor coordination in his left arm, so it took a bit longer, but in the afternoon everything was shining. Groceries he did earlier were unpacked in the fridge and shelves, consisting mostly of microwavable meals and instant noodles, but it sure was better than starving. He's not gonna cook for himself. It's not that he wasn't capable of it, he just didn't think it was necessary. Okay, maybe he wasn't so capable right now, not being able to hold a knife well, but he didn't lack cooking skills! First one to go was a store brand fish pie. As the microwave was humming, Simon started zoning out. He couldn’t imagine his life outside of the military and the threat of a medical discharge was hanging right next to his head. Of course, he’ll get physical therapy after his arm heals a bit, but what if the nerves don’t start working well again? Not being able to even just hold things - he would be useless there. He would be useless overall. Not even civilian jobs would take him. What if he landed around sketchy people? Gave up on life and started using, chasing some nonexistent pleasure? What if he ended up like Tommy did, before he went to rehab? Simon would never do drugs, right? He is too proud for that. Then why is he stressing over it so much? Why the fuck can’t he stop thinking about-

DING

Sound of the finished microwave cycle was a blessing. It stopped him from spiraling even deeper down the anxious hole. Simon took out his food, hissing at the hot temperature of the packaging. He put on a news channel on the telly and got to eating. The fish pie for sure wasn’t the best thing he has ever eaten, but it had to be enough for now. He wasn’t poor by any means. His military salary was definitely not the lowest and you don’t really spend a lot of money when you’re at work almost all the time, but he really didn’t want to order takeout right now. Having to talk to a stranger while receiving his order really did seem like too much for now. Maybe another day. Now he opted for having a short nap on the couch.

As short naps usually do, Simon woke up a few hours later, news still playing in the background. What disturbed his sleep were sounds from outside the window. He checked the time - 02:13. Who in the bloody hell (being of course Manchester) thought it would be fun just yelling at the streets in the middle of the night? Although with every second it sounded less and less like someone having fun and more like someone was in big trouble. Despite his better judgment and with the knowledge that he won’t do much with the condition his arm is in, Simon, maybe because of some work instincts, foolishly rushed through the corridor, down the stairs and through the main door until he ended up on the pavement in front of his apartment block. From the right he heard a grunt and looked to see a figure illuminated by the lights coming from a repulsive pub.

A/n i apologize for any mistakes its my first time writing anything.

[fraugwinska]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! 🎃 Jesus, today is a day of Uploads! xD I have to upload a buttload of more stuff, so bear with me! I didn#t think I'd finish on time - butt here it is! My take on Hazbin meets DBD! The Wheel of Misfortune gave me Angel to work with, and despite all odds, I wrote a story without SMUT! Can you believe it? :D The Masterlist can be found here - check out the works of all the other, talented writers and artists! It will be updated frequently, as Kinktober and other shenanigans came inbetween some of us and the deadline. But that only means we'll have fantastic fics and delicious drawings to look forward to! Thank you to everyone participating - for making this Event such a special one! You all are AMAZING! @redvexillum @ritualofcirice @chefskjssart @dewdropdinosaur @lumikello24

@macabr3-barbi3 @xalygatorx @melodyonthewireless @kewpikayo @jurijyuu

Warnings&Tags: Major Character Death, Pain & Torture, Physical & Psychological Abuse, Kidnapping/Abduction

Night. It was always fucking night.

Danny hadn't minded when the entity, whatever it was, had called on him. When the fog arrived, shortly after he left Roseville, he had embraced it, yeah, even felt giddy - he hated boredom, loved the thrill of the chase. And the realm the soundless voice promised him seemed to be a remedy for both. His old routine renewed by almost wickedly enhanced powers, his slaughters improved with every new, fresh meat hooked that he didn't care enough about to learn their names.

The first weeks the entity sent him alone into the woods in between trials. An unspoken pledge that once Danny has proven his worth, he'd join the others. Killers, like him, an arsenal of evil, depravity and death. He was intrigued by the prospect - acclimating in this environment was fun, but the real thing would be asserting himself next to legends like Myers or Krueger. So he did what he did best - Stalk and chase and kill, each new trial bumping up his adrenaline and fuck it was fun. Barely a trial went by where he didn't get the full set of kills, his reward plenty by the looming black thing above, sending him new powers and an overpowering sense of accomplishment. And if he missed one or two, the entity would soothe his flaring anger, the fog cold and calm on his skin when the world around him would collapse in fire and smoke - Don't worry about the pests that got away - There's next time, Danny Boy. And he always got them next time.

Finally he felt it - as the ground split in glowing reds and the heat took over the Autohaven, he felt the hot, dripping claws of the entity christen him. He had succeeded the trial by literal fire, and as he was pulled away, not north towards the lone patch of woods he had come to know, but south, the presence of evil growing bigger by the second, Danny left his old, useless name behind. The entity had given him a new one, one that he embraced with a laugh of euphoria: Ghostface.

***

While the survivors, as they called them so ironically, gathered around a campfire between trials, the hunters - killers, for a better term - were granted a real home. A shack in the same woods somewhere, filled with an Arsenal of weapons and tools for them to use as they pleased, and blood-stained, torn seats around a burning fireplace. Most of them lived in their own heads, some of them too animalistic to socialize. The ones that wanted to spend their times waiting together for ‘The Call’ on those seats, sometimes indulging in the strong, burning drinks the entity manifested along new blades or rods when she was pleased with them. And as all groups, the hunters, too, had a leader, as far as leaders can exist in a group of hungry wolves. Evan MacMillan was that one, although he, as most of the others, shed himself of that name when he became the Trapper. He was respected amongst both the vocal and silent, strong, calm and cold-blooded enough to keep brawls in between them to a minimum, one of the oldest and longest standing killers of the entity. But even he, after so many trials he had withstood, so many survivors he had killed through either the entity's hooks or his own hands, has never experienced anything like this before.

"Shit, come on, Bubba, get yourself together man." One of the Legions, Frank, clumsily patted the wailing monstrums back. The Hillbilly had never been able to speak more than just grunts and howls, making communicating with him often hard and frustrating, but the sounds he made now weren't hard to interpret - he, too, had just ended a trial with the new survivor. And as with a lot of them before, it wasn't the prey that had been scared and traumatized, but the predator.

The Nightmare took a swig of the last bottle of whiskey they had, hissing at the burn. "Can't blame the poor fuck - I've seen the dreams of that freak.... swear to god even I got nightmares after that."

"Frederick, pace yourself and leave some for the poor man." The Doctor chimed in, taking the bottle out of the sharp clawed hands and handing it to the Hillbilly with a mournful expression. "Only one chug, lad. Going at this rate, we might as well start to get accustomed to bread and water... She is not happy with us."

"Кто может винить ее? Мы все подвели ее с этим существом." (Who can blame her? We all have failed her with that creature.)

The Huntress threw another hatchet into a nearby wall, hitting the middle of the target she had painted with blood next to her previous four. Although her eyes were hidden behind the rabbit mask, Evan and the others could hear the sourness in her voice.

"Uhuh, sure, babe, whatever you say." Legion mumbled and rolled his eyes, handing the still sniffing Bubba a dirty rag to wipe his deformed nose with.

"Huntress is saying what we all think, Legion. We are failing. All of us." Evan sighed and brought one of his massive, rough hands up to wipe sweat from his temples. He knew the ropes of the entity's game, knew that some survivors had advantages, were more courageous or daring, even defiant. Evan was good, but not perfect, and he wasn't so far gone like some of the others to expect their victims to stay quivering, fearful messes like when they are freshly called upon. But the new one...

He... or it? Was so much more different than any survivor before him. Tall and lean, which would've normally make it so much harder to hide from them, flashy instead of discreet, loud and boastful instead of silent and secretive... human-like and yet so not-human at all.

"Ahhhh, another four for four, bitches!" The newcomer, Ghostface, as he had introduced himself, kicked open the door to the shack, his flowy robes drenched in blood and slimy mud that told Evan he'd been at Backwater Swamp. "Oh god, don't tell me Billy-Boy was too pussy to get over that new Survivor, too?"

The whole room growled at that remark, and Evan sighed in annoyance. The Ghostface had made more foes than allies in those few days he'd been sent to them as an addition to the entity's team of murderers. It wasn't that he was cocky, crude or obnoxious - they all were like that when they first came to the realm. What irked them all was the sense of superiority he wore so obviously on his sleeve, convinced that he was the entity's favorite, blessed by her dark energy and favored by her will.

"Fuck you, Ghostface, leave Bubba alone!" Legion spat, his facemask cracking with anger, while the Nightmare threw him a look of disgust and Michael, usually stoic and silent, turned his emotionless mask to its screaming counterpart, the blackened, hollow eyes almost flowing out with angered darkness. Evan wanted to shake the boy under the costume when he just laughed, the mockery blatant and offensive. "Are you guys telling me you, the creme de la creme of carnage, can't get a newbie under control?!"

The Trickster, who had been playing with his throwing blades with more than just an exasperated expression (which Evan could understand, given that his humiliating loss against the new survivor left too fresh of a wound in his ego), stood up with a hiss in the language none of them had been able to learn yet, but the Legion was faster, leaving Bubba in the care of the Wraith, stomping towards the cackling figure. "Listen, Fuckface - he asked the Spirit if she could give him tips about SHIBARI and yelled 'Harder Daddy' when the goddamn Executor tried to slam him into the ground... THAT'S NOT NORMAL!"

The Shape huffed in agreement, and the Nightmare added his own opinion in a raspy voice, scratching his distinctive scars around the face and neck: "I agree, he's fucking weird - insane, not scared of any of us. He doesn't even look like a normal survivor, and that's comin' from someone with that kinda face."

"That's a whole lot of words to say that you suck at your jobs, fellas." Ghostface retorted with a sneer in his voice, running his gloved fingers along his shining knife, the hilt still covered in blood spots but the blade pristine and almost glowing.

"Enough." Evan said, his voice booming across the room, effectively shutting the others up.

"You talk big, Ghostface. But you haven't had a trial with the one they call 'Angel' yet." Evan and the others felt the familiar cool wisps of air, harbingers of the arrival of the black fog for another trial. The Entity whispered the names of the prey into the winds - Evan had learned to listen for them long ago, and under his never-changing mask, he felt his lips pull into a rare smile. It was a gamble, risking to topple the weak chain of authority they had established among each other. But Evan felt that he wouldn't deserve the title nor the respect that came with being the leader if he would let this petty behavior and destructive jealousy continue. The favored one needed a well-deserved damper on his ego, and maybe the newest survivor - who- or whatever he was - could teach him that lesson. He stopped the Skull Merchant that had stood up to offer herself to take the trial with a wave of his bear-like hands and turned to the young killer, pointing his makeshift ax in his direction. "Maybe you are right. Maybe me and the others just don't have what it takes anymore to honor the Entity."

The silence that fell over the shack was heavy as the Entity's presence grew stronger, and Evan was sure the others could feel it, too, her excitement building up and electrifying the atmosphere surrounding the killer's shack. He ignored the burning fury in Legion's eyes, the angry scratch of Freddy's claws over moldy wood. The young man tilted his head in curious interest, letting his finger press into the edge of his blade until the leather broke and blood started to drip out of it in crimson pearls.

"Here's your opportunity. Show us, Ghostface, how you will fare against this new kind of prey."

***

"Oh my god, toots, move over, I can't watch this a second longer."

Angel rolled his eyes at the meek girl, brushing her dirty blonde hair out of her face as she let him take over. The other two were useless too - that Ace guy couldn't do shit even if his life depended on it - huh, which it literally did, now that Angel thought about it. And Renato was a sweet dude, a little too nerdy for Angel's taste, but he was still too rattled after his last trial with that hunk of a killer with the butt-stupid metal triangle head to be of any help except for maybe cleansing totems in between hiding in lockers. Angel couldn't blame him - he had seen how Sexy Back had Mori'd the poor dude, and it had not been the kind of gutted that Angel would've liked either. But Kate was a cool gal, a pretty face and too nice for her own good but normally very capable. She reminded him a little of Charlie, and the thought always stung faintly in his chest. Normally she would've rocked the generators, but for some reason, she was nervous and erratic this trial, her eyes always wandering around, looking over her shoulder every few seconds and fucking up the gen more than she repaired it. He let his second pair of arms grow out of his sides, cutting the time it took to finish the rest in half, and with a click the machine roared to life, steadily pumping electricity into the mainline for the exit gates. One down - four more to go.

"Jesus with a strap-on, Kate, I thought with what you look like you'd know how to get an engine going." He teased, but the girl didn't seem to even hear him, her eyes still scanning the dark woods behind them. "Sorry, Angel, sorry... it's just... don't you feel it?" "If you mean Big Mama's presence, then yeah. Pretty much hard to ignore with all the black claws and shit, but I've gotten used to it. Kinda feels like a well-worn, cheap training bra now." "No, not that... I think someone is watching us. Like... stalking."

Angel grabbed her arm and pulled her into some nearby bushes, the neon signs of the worn-down cinema blinking in the near distance. "Babes, 'ya know I can handle Mute Mikey. What I can't handle is you loosin' 'ya head now. Fuckin' Ace is hard enough to carry." They both crept along the sides of the forest nearer to the building. "It's not Michael... I can't explain... it feels different, like when Claudette told me..."

Whatever Claudette had told Kate - Angel wasn't about to hear it as Ace's screams of terror echoed through the forest from the other side of the entity's caged playground.

"Motherf... okay, 'ya go get that dumbass and heal up, imma find a gen and fuck it up so whoever it is will get distracted. Stay low, kay, sugartits?" Kate nodded with wide eyes, and ran into the darkness. Angel cursed that dumb fucker, finding a gen around a corner and let it misfire before he made a quick turn and went through the broken wall into the cinema show room of the Greenville Theatre. Fuck, a movie would be nice - watching one of making one, anything would be better than this. He silently went up the stairs into the storage room and began to work on the generator there.

Eyes on the goal.

Surviving wasn't what Angel saw as the goal. Even if he'd die in mommy's sick game, he knew from seeing the others revive at the campfire, only to be sent to another trial again a few moments later. Living or dying, Angel couldn't find himself to care, although he always chose to live, even if the others kicked the bucket and he was the last one standing. No, the goal was to get the fuck out of that shitty nightmare Val had sent him into. 

Whatever he had fucked up with 'The Entity', it must've been huge because the last time he saw him he was barely alive even by hell's standart. His wings were ripped from his back, his insides hanging out of a fat gash on his side and the studio a chaotic mass of fire, smoke and debris. And in all of it stood she. 

Roo. 

That's what Val had called her anyway, that bitch in edgy clothes and with those manic eyes, smiling in such a terrifying, blinding way with teeth sharp as an excorcist's blade that Angel thought just that smile could smite an army of sinners if she wanted to.

"Roo... I can expl...ain." Val had stuttered, blood running freely out of his mouth drenching his words.

"No need, Valentino. You and the other Vee's went all in with chips out of my own pocket, and you lost. And I don't like losing my stake."

She had summoned black, claw-like spikes, writhing like insects towards a panicking Val. He stumbled two steps back, noticing Angel creeping away, towards the crumbled wall, the running masses and the open streets of the Pentagram. Angel had seen Charlie and Vaggie forcing their way towards the burning ruins. And Husk. His Husk, wings outstreched and he was fucking flying over them all towards Angel. He had never seen him fly before.

"You can... Take! T...TTake him!!!" Val had screamed, falling to his knees as he pointed to Angel, coughing red and black onto the formerly pink, tacky tiles. His words sent a wave of hate and fear through Angel, and his eyes went from Charlie's tear-stained face to Husk screaming his name as he flapped his wings to pick up speed and fell onto her. Smiling at him, one slender, white finger with a black, pointy nail pressed into her cheek. She watched the cat demon dodge a falling beam and looked... amused as her eyes found his. She winked.

"Fine, you'll do."

Before Angel could even breathe to say something, or run, black fog encapsulated him, and only her glowing white smile and Husk's distressed scream of his name followed him as he fell through the darkness.

No. Surviving was just a crutch, a means to an end. His goal was to get that bitch Roo. To find his way out of this fucking mess. Back home, back to the hotel, back to Charlie and Vaggie and Niffty and even Alastor.  And most importantly: Back to fucking Husk.

Almost done with the gen his head turned as he heard two sounds at the exact same time: The sound of another generator coming alive and Renato's pained cry. That stupid man... Instead of running, Renato most likely had stayed on the gen to finish it, sacrificing himself to be thrown onto a hook. Angel shook his head, trying hard to focus on connecting cables and switch out gears. The others could get him off. They had learned that he was best at two things: Getting gen’s to work and screw with the killers.

But apparently, no one came close to Renato in time - when Angel stood up from the now running machine, he felt the dreading boom of a successful sacrifice - Renato had been swallowed by the entity, and from the muffled screams and misfiring generators him he knew that Ace had been already hung up too, and Kate was at least injured, if not on her way to be hooked by this rounds killer. Another boom told him Ace had given up - that asshole had most likely struggled too much to get himself off instead of waiting for him or Kate, and lost the fight against Roo's hungry claws. Which left him and Kate, and two generators to open the exit gates - not the best odds, with how fast this Killer acted and how idiotically nervous the usually so assured girl fumbled with the generators. He could wait for Kate to die and go for the hatch, but Angel knew he wouldn't. Not for Kate. Not after seeing so much of Charlie in her.

He made a dash down the stairs and through the arcade room, peeking his head out and spotting Kate's limp body on a nearby meat hook, swaying gently in the breeze. next to her stood an unfamiliar, cloaked silhouette, twirling a knife skillfully in gloved hands. This fucker was new, someone Angel had never encountered before. But he had heard things about him. The guys around the campfire had been wary of him, but as usual, Angel quickly had most of the girls at least interested in and friendly to him, and from the latest conversations, he remembered Feng-Min and Claudette talking about a new killer, a stalker like Magic Mike but more real, more humanlike which made them even more terrified of him. Someone that, unlike the others Angel encountered, seemed to be almost casual and gleeful to have been wisped away and thrown into trials by Roo, treating the trials like a personal, fun game... and from what he heard, he always won them.

He looked around and found an old can. Quickly and noiseless, he snuck along the Arcade walls to the opposite doorway, and hurled it with as much force as he could into the woods, trying to hit a hook to make as much noise as possible. He heard the guy's quiet steps outside, quickly but silently rushing towards his distraction, and Angel grinned as he exited the arcade room and ran towards a groaning Kate.

"Shh, babe, we ain't got much time, that fucker's fast." Angel whispered, quickly working on patching Kate up so she wouldn't leave a bloody trail behind her. "Angel, he's too good, I can't..." "'Ya can. I'll handle tall, dark and gruesome, make sure he won't get near 'ya. But 'ya gotta do two gens, okay? Open the exit the furthest away from us and go. Don't wait up for me - I can handle myself." His sentence ended as he finished closing her wound, and he shoved her into some bushes after she hesitantly looked around. "Don't argue, just move your ass, toots, and hide till the creep's found me."

Kate nodded, giving him a weak smile and a hushed 'Thanks, Angel.' before she turned and vanished between the trees. Angel looked up, the dark clouds swirling above him as the entity's - Roo's - displeasure vibrated through the air. She always hated when he did things like these - helping the others (maybe it was the general idea of doing good deeds) and her getting pissed off make Angel smug and satisfied.

"Yeah, yeah, bitch, rage all 'ya want - Bite me."

Angel didn't even try to be decent, no, he not much less than swaggered in the direction of where he threw the can. It was quiet, except for the humming of the generator Renato must've finished, but no sign of the cloaked figure. 

“Gee, look at little old me! All alone in the woods, totally helpless. Such a shame.”

Angel discreetly traced for blood or maybe footprints as he rounded a nearby hook, trailing the cold metal with one finger. He had a feeling of being watched, and yet couldn't see anything but trees and grass and dirt. The fog was thicker here, and a shiver ran through him as he could feel a pair of eyes on him, watching, waiting.

“Where are ‘ya, daddy-o? Baby lost his pacifier and needs something else to suck on…”

A quiet whir behind him made him turn and grab a lean and muscular arm, stopping the blade just mere inches away from his side. He stared not into a face, but a mask - a white, cheap looking rubber one, a white face with two black holes that looked like they were melting and a long, equally black mouth open as if in a blood-curdling scream. Angel cackled and tugged the arm, the killer surprised by his unexpected strength, stumbling forward until his head hit the hard, rusty metal of the meat hook.

"Uuuuh, what a nice long blade 'ya have, hot stuff." he cooed, putting his hands on his hips with a smirk as the cloaked figure whipped around with a grunt. "But if 'ya want to rearrange my guts, I know other things than a knife that are way more fun."

"You're a mouthy one, huh?" His voice was rough and saturated with aggravation. Young, not as young as the Legion fuckers, but younger than most of the killers Angel had met.

"Oh, daddy, 'ya don't know half of what my mouth can do. Care to find out?"

Angel dodged and tripped him as the killer pounced forward, quick but not inhumanly quick - interesting. His height was human, his voice too, his mannerisms, his motions, his speed and his abilities... not supernatural. Not like the other killers at all. He used the second of his weak momentum to lock the already twisting figure between his legs, pinning him on the waist into the dirty ground. Angel laughed as his upper pair of hands had the gloved wrists in a tight grasp, while he let his second pair of arms grow out of his sides to ram the fallen knife blade-first into the ground. In the distance, he hears a generator pop into life - Kate was doing her part, one more to go. Good girl.

"Fuck, you... survivors are not supposed to fight back." the stranger growled, squirming under him.

"Dang it, I forgot - we oughta run from 'ya! And 'yer supposed to kill me, right? And yet, here we are, handsome."

Through the layers of ragged, black clothes and cloak, Angel could feel a tight, muscular but lean body - hot, but definetly normal. Not bulky like the trapper dude, not slimy like the running Melty-face or cold and eerie feeling like the Ding-Dong-Douche. As the figure under him bucked again, he could also feel something else that was entirely human and he had to surpress a laugh.

"Ohooooo, daddy, is that a dagger in 'ya pants or are 'yay just happy to finally meet me?"

With a hot fury the killer ripped his hands free, planting a fist directly into his fluffy chest with surprising force. With a breathy sound that was half cough and half wheeze, Angel's grip around the young man's waist weakened, enough for the cloaked man to throw him off. Angel could hear a rib break at the sudden punch to his side - motherfucker, that would be a bitch to heal after the trial. As he propped himself back on his arms, the cool, dirty steel of his own knife's blade touched his throat and forced his gaze upwards to meet the mask's holes.

"Enough with the goddamn nicknames. I'm fucking Ghostface, and you better remember that name as you'll scream it when I'm done with you."

Jesus, that new guy made it too easy for him.

"Mmmmh... Kinky."

Decades of whipping around poles and fucking every porn actor pride had to offer - twice - had one or two good things going for Angel. Bendy as he was, and with strong, long legs he had no problem to just pull one of them forward and ram the pointy heel of one of his overknee boots straight into Ghostface's balls, leaving his captor sputtering and writhing while Angel pushed backwards to stand upright. He sauntered towards the disoriented man, kicking the knife further out of reach and looked at him with both pity and amusement as the last generator went off, and the blaring sirens of an exit gate about to be opened echoed through the forest. Kate was near - too near for Angel's taste, but it had to do.

"A'ight, Ghost Daddy, that's my cue. Me and Katie are gonna fuck off, was fun though, 'ya might get the hang of the whole killer thing if 'ya keep practicing."

"We'll see about that, Angel-Cakes."

Angel-Cakes.

The name echoed in his head like a bad spell, a curse. Fucking Roo must've fed him that fucking pet name, these dreaded words that Valentino had always used, along with his intoxicating pheromone smoke that had left him dizzy and weak-willed too many times to count. Using the moment of his stunned stupor, Ghostface flipped around, getting up with a speed Angel didn't deem possible or had accounted for, and rammed his elbow into his face before he started running - not to go for his blade that laid aside about four feet away or the trembling Angel, but straight for the woods. Straight for the opening exit gate. Straight for Kate.

Angel's eyes widened as a dark, content thunder roared from above - that bitch. That stupid bitch and her fucking new toy.

With a dizzy head he ran after him, wheezing from the pain in his face and stomach. There was Kate, screaming as she saw Ghostface coming, charging at her, her knuckles white from the tight grip on the lever to the saving exit. He could see her legs tense and start to bend to take off and make a dash to flee, to maybe hide, and before he could think any further, Angel lunged forward, using a tree as leverage to throw himself forward and tackle the approaching killer to the ground. There were gloved hands and black fabric everywhere, furiously trying to get him off, entangling in his limbs and his fluff and his hair, but Angel didn't care. He knew now what Roo wanted - had wanted all along. He had played her game exactly how she had wanted him to play it without realizing - Surviving the trials and saving his own ass. Good deeds upset her.

"Don'tcha let go of that fucking lever, Kate!" Angel shouted, feeling his head pulled by his hair back into his neck. Ghostface punched, pulled and clawed at anything he could find of him, but Angel held onto the fighting frame - today would be the first day he'd die in a trial. And that was exactly what Angel wanted. The signature bell sound of the dooms clock went off as Angel heard the heavy gates slide open. In the mess of his wrestling with the cursing killer he caught a glimpse of Kate, her eyes fixated on him as she started to run towards him. Her expression, her eyes... they had almost the same look in them like Husk's when Roo had pulled him away. Determined to get to him. Desperate to help him.

"NO KATE, GO!" he screamed, and was awarded another painful punch into his face and his hair pulled even further, but he didn't let go, even when tears started to wet his face, and Ghostface's laugh mingled with Kate's distressed shouts and cries as he felt cold, hard steel piercing his side. "FUCKING GO! NOW, DAMN IT!"

The earth shook with Roo's anger as the girl, sobbing his name, ran back and bolted through the gates into the nothingness. Finally, Angel let go of the heavy breathing killer. A twist of the knife and his arms gave out, his head falling next to Ghostface's masked face, only a small pool of blood escaping his lips.

"God fucking damn it - Fucking idiot, you ruined it. FUCK! What a pathetic excuse for someone called 'Angel'." The killer ranted with panicked rage, pulling on the slipped and oddly twisted mask that only clung to half of his face to pull it off and throw it on the ground with a frustrated growl as he got off him. Deep brown hair clung on his forehead from sweat, framing dead eyes with dark circles under them. His face was handsome, maybe even pretty, with sharp angles and a strong, set jaw that was locked in anger.

"Anthony."

The clock rang again, and the ground was breaking apart into deep red’s and black's.

"What the fuck did you say?"

The man stared at him, knife still in his hand as Angel smiled a bloodstained grin.

"My name, asshole. S'Anthony... Angel's the name my fucking pimp got me. Just like your stupid-ass one." He managed to throw the offended looking man before him a grin. "Can't tell me 'ya gave yourself such a lame-as-fuck name."

"You're pathetic. She honored me with that name - it's nothing like with you and your... pimp."

Angel laughed as he reached down to him with his black gloves to throw him over his shoulder. He didn't resist, no use in that anyway with the wound in his side, even if he wantted to. But Roo's anger was electrifying the air around him, she was upset in more than just one way. Not only had Angel found a way to get under her skin and sour her game - but it seemed that she was especially angry about the way her newest toy had handled this trial, and him.

"'Ya just wait, Ghost Boy. With folks like her and Val, they always show their real face, sooner or later. And I have a feeling 'ya gonna see for 'yaself real soon." ***

Ghostface's face was stoic and emotionless as he threw the skinny man on the hook. The world she had created was already crumbling - he was just in time. Three out of four wasn't bad, he knew that. But it wasn't just that he missed the perfect four. If she hadn’t helped him, he would've failed even more than he had. He felt her anger, her fury bubbling beneath the realm she created. Gone was the soothing aura and the gentle caress of her invisible fingers on his cheeks. All he felt was hot gushes of wind and unseen sharp nails scratching on his arms and neck. And for the first time, he feared the punishment.

"Danny." He said quietly, watching as the survivor's grin widened before the lights behind his unusual, unsettling eyes slowly disappeared. "I was Danny once."

The last words of Angel - no, Anthony - echoed in his head as the entity's claws ripped into the white and pink flesh of his victtim, pulling him up and ttowards the swirling clouds and the black fog, hot and scorching instead of cool and calming, wrapped around him and Ghostface fell - Not into the familiar darkness, but into a sea of fire, smoke and unbearable pain.

[kay-elle-cee]

A restless waves rise and fall microfic (series). 🏴‍☠️ Pirate Jily AU. @jilymicrofics April Prompt 8: Frustrated || 849 Words

Lily glowers from where she sits on the bed, watching James walk about the room and wrangle together his effects. Her hand rubs across her swollen belly—an agitated rhythm punctuated by each footstep James takes, his heavy steps thundering on the wood.

"I don't like this," she says matter-of-factly for what feels like the dozenth time, her teeth nervously chewing on her lip.

Earlier that morning they'd noticed an unmarked vessel trailing them. At first it seemed harmless, but after some purposefully questionable maneuvers on The Minnie's end, it seemed all but confirmed that this mystery vessel was indeed following them.

Instead of giving them the opportunity to catch up under the blanket of night, James (with input from Lily and Sirius both) had decided to turn around and meet them head on. It makes her skin prickle at the thought, being so reminiscent of their encounter with the HMS Ascension all those years ago, but as they make their way towards Eleuthera to see the Potters, it seems a prudent idea to keep any potential scuffle at sea.

If only she wasn't on bloody bed rest.

Gradually—and with much vocal complaint—Lily had finally acquiesced to her captain's insistence that she take a step back from her usual duties as her pregnancy progressed, but this week had seen her relegated to their quarters more often than not, based on Remus' medical advice.

It was frustrating and humiliating, but James had been so attentive, so thoughtful in holding all his meetings in their quarters so she could still participate in the ship's business. Through the aggravation, her heart beat a little stronger for him.

But she couldn't be there for this, and she tried not to worry, but found it nearly impossible.

She watches as James sheathes his sword, carefully picking up another and crossing the room to the bed. Kneeling down beside her, his eyes glimmer with determination and hope, but there's a hardness to them that speaks to the experience he's gained these last few years at sea. It's a silent promise that he'll not be caught unaware again.

Warm knuckles caress her jaw as his lips meet hers slowly, softly.

"I know you hate this," he acknowledges, his voice hushed even though they're the only two in the cabin. "I know you're frustrated and it's hard for you to stay down here, but it's what's needed right now." He places her sheathed sword beside her in the bed and lifts his free hand to rest next to hers on her swollen belly, thumb gently brushing back and forth as he rests his forehead on hers.

Lily squeezes her eyes shut, swallowing down the bitterness. "I feel so useless like this," she whispers, voice wobbling with constrained emotion.

James pulls back and looks at her so quickly she's blinking to make sense of his sudden absence. The hand that had been so soft along her jaw now tilts her chin to look at him, eyes alive with fire.

"You are not useless, Lily. Don't you ever say that."

Her heart flutters and she knows it's true but the pent-up frustration bubbles forth as she huffs a sigh. "The Prewetts and MacMillan are still laid up sick, how am I supposed to feel when we don't know what our odds might be?"

"You trust in us like we trust in you, Evans. You're doing more than any of us right now." His eyes break from her and look to where their hands rest above their child. "Not long now until you're back on your feet and running us all ragged."

She lets out a stilted laugh and his gaze is back on her face, roaming over every feature before he places a kiss to her forehead.

"You have your sword in case you absolutely need it, but please don't move unless you must. We've got this situation under control—older and wise, et cetera."

He stands to leave with a final squeeze of her hand, and Lily watches him go, her frustration burning off and giving way to fear as it claws at her throat, as her heart pounds against her ribs harder, faster.

"James?"

Her voice is high, pleading, and he turns around quickly, brows furrowed and shoulders rigid at the sound of her distress. She looks at him and sees the man she met all those years ago in her husband before her, sees how the time at sea has changed him—molded him to someone whose instincts have only sharpened and evolved—sees the captain she swore to follow to the ends of the earth and how formidable he's become.

She knows he'll be fine, but the fear is still here, nestled in her chest right above where their child grows.

"Be careful."

His face softens, shoulders relaxing as he realizes she's not in discomfort.

"I will, love."

"That's an order."

It makes him laugh, and he gives her a brilliant grin before opening the door and stepping into the hallway, his response of Aye, Potter, ringing in the empty room with her.

Read on ao3 Happy one-year anniversary to restless waves rise and fall's completion! :)

[exchequershouse]

Every leader’s puppet summed up in one sentence. At least the ones that appear on SI.

Conservatives

Harold Macmillan: No one knows what he’s saying but his heart is in the right place

Alec Douglas-Home: He’s Prime Minister, you know

Edward Heath: All he wants to do is be a sailor

Margaret Thatcher: All one needs is a useless cabinet, crocodiles and an affair with Reagan

John Major: The true grey man - now available in light and dark grey

Labour

Harold Wilson: Has anything good happened to him ever apart from that holiday

James Callaghan: He’s probably a founder of some small time hitman agency where the hitmen are dogs

Michael Foot: Sometimes you just want to be a socialist

Neil Kinnock: Everything will be alright as soon as the roses are installed

John Smith: He did not sign up for any of this torture

Tony Blair: Someone should throw him in the air for fun

Liberals / SDP / Lib Dem

David Steel: What a nice tiny man who deserves the world

Roy Jenkins: David took the party leadership in the divorce

David Owen: Killing a man should be legal but it’s not so I must suffer

[jamesirius]

BOLD WORLD: a post-war murder mystery

“Now, the debate starts in an hour, but you don’t have to go to that. They pay people to attend those so that it sounds like a full crowd over the radio. Then afterwards is the dinner and dancing, and you do have to attend that because they want everyone on the campaign teams to be there. For unity, or whatever.” “Unity,” Astoria repeated dubiously. “Whose idea was this?” “The post-war Unity Coalition, of course,” Daphne said in tones of disgust. “But it works out for us, because the Ministry puts on these dinners and they’re all kind of old-fashioned, and all the little halfbloods and m—Muggleborns don’t know all our old traditions. And Macmillan always invites all of Dumbledore’s Army and they’re just useless at the waltzes and everything.”

KEEP READING

[waitwehadhomework]

The One Where He Is Suave (he is, shut up Pansy)

  People would probably never believe him if Draco were to tell them that he preferred children to adults. It is unbelievable, he’ll admit, but it’s the solid truth. Children are loud, clumsy, messy little creatures. They also don’t judge people for who they are or where they happen to come from. They always speak their thoughts; even if those thoughts are better left unsaid. They don’t understand things like war or politics or prejudice, no. They stick to the more important things like; why are clouds so fluffy? Or, why are brussels sprouts so disgusting? Draco loves them.

  This is why he is secretly delighted when their Care of Magical Creatures professor tells the class that their year will be in charge of supervising the first years on a field trip located in the denser parts of the Forbidden Forest. There are audible groans all around and Draco had to quickly hide his excitement behind a mask of bored indifference.

  “Oh c’mon, don’ be like tha’.” Says Hagrid as there is another round of groans. “It’s jus’ fer one day, an’ the firs’ years are all well behaved, so there’ll definitely be no problem.”

  “You’re sending us into a dangerous forest with a bunch of infants, you oaf.” Pansy complained under her breath. “I see a lot of problems.”

  Draco refrains from rolling his eyes. “Hush, Pansy.” He shushes her.

  “It’s fairly simple.” Hagrid claps his hands together. “Yeh’ll be split inter’ groups o’ three, and yeh’ll be helpin’ each other supervise groups o’ ten.”

  An excited murmur arises around the students as they begin searching out and clutching onto their friends. 

  “Ahem, I’ll be pickin’ yeh groups for yeh if yeh don’ min’. Ya know, inn’er ‘ouse unity an’ all.” Hagrid continues causing more groans. “I’ll start now, yeah? Righ’ now, we ‘ave:

  Lovegood, Thomas an’ Zabini

  Parkinson, Weasley an’  Macmillan-”

  Pansy let out a wail of despair. “A Weasley and a Hufflepuff? Is he trying to kill me? You know, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  When Draco doesn’t answer, she hits him with her book. “Show some sympathy, will you! I’m being led to my death here!”

  “Ow!” Draco rubs at the sore spot gingerly and glares at her. “Poor you.” He says, his voice flat. 

  “-an’ the las’ group; Smith, Malfoy an’ [L/N]!” Hagrid beams at the whole class who- unsurprisingly- does not beam back.

  Draco chokes on his own saliva and turns to face Pansy, horrified. “Who did he just say I’m grouped with?”

  “ Zacharias Smith and [Y/N]  [L/N], why?” Says Pansy, not paying attention to him but to her nails, examining them with a detached sort of satisfaction, unaware of Draco’s crisis. 

  There’s a moment of silence as Draco tries to regain his composure when the realization hits her. “Oh, oh. Is that the girl you’ve been going on about for- I don’t know- a century?” 

  “No” Draco denies quickly, but he knows it’s useless when Pansy smirks evilly.

  “Oh ho ho. This is gold, you literally have her to yourself for a whole ninety minutes. Draco Malfoy, whatever are you going to do?” She drawls.

  Draco gives Pansy a look which he knows conveys just how much he would like to throttle his best friend. Pansy is undeterred and she sticks her tongue out at him before scanning the crowd.

  “Just where is the unlucky girl, I wonder?” She muses loudly.

  “She’s right-” Draco stops himself. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He fibs. In truth, he’s actually been staring at her on and off throughout the whole class but Pansy doesn’t need to know that. Judging from the sly look Pansy is now giving him, Pansy already knows that. 

  “Oh Draco, you have it so, so bad, honey.”

  The Field Trip

  The first thing Draco notices about her is that she gives great lectures. All the first years are enraptured as she describes different magical creatures and plants with creative little details, not to mention adding her own fun facts to keep the children's attention from wandering. The next thing Draco notices is that although she is great at teaching children, she’s not that great with, well, children. He watches in amusement as she squirms uncomfortably when a little Ravenclaw girl praises her in awe, and then has to stifle a chuckle as she flinches away from a young Hufflepuff boy when he grabs and holds onto the end of her school robes.  

  “Charles, what exactly are you doing?” She asks, her voice strained.

  Charles looks forlornly up at her. “My aunt told me that if I’m ever in an unfamiliar place, I should stick close to the most responsible person.”

  “Oh, boo hoo” Smith mutters nastily. Draco shoots him a glare but Smith doesn’t see it, occupied as he is scowling at [Y/N]. 

  That’s the next thing Draco notices. As far as observation serves him, [Y/N] and Smith seem to have a strong mutual disliking for each other. Every once in a while, one of them would take a subtle- or not so subtle- swipe at the other and after a particularly cutting comment from Smith, Draco was about ready to hex off his private parts. How dare he.

  The three of you and your little group had reached a small clearing in the forest and [Y/N] had decided to give the first years a little break by giving them free rein.

  “This is exactly how I wanted to spend my day,” Smith says sarcastically, leaning back against a tree. “Babysitting a bunch of brats while listening to Ms. I-know-everything over here prattling off about fungus. What joy.” He sneers.

  That’s it. Draco’s had enough. He raises his wand and a hex is already on the tip of his tongue when he’s blocked by someone stepping in front of him. At first, he’s confused because he thinks [Y/N]’s trying to stop him from cursing the bastard but then he sees that she has her own wand out and it’s jabbed directly in between Smith’s eyes.

  “Careful now, Smith. I have tolerated your pathetic, immature whining up until now but you still insist on mouthing out your lame, dumb, downright imbecilic thoughts. You have two choices; shut the fuck up or get hexed. It’s completely up to you.” She threatens menacingly, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

  Draco stares at her open-mouthed. He’s never seen her like this before. Like sure, he’s seen [Y/N] when she’s mildly irritated but even then the most she’d ever done is glare murderous daggers at the offending person.

  And she has been glaring daggers at Smith, he supposes. She’s probably just reached her breaking point.

  It’s a shame that Smith hasn’t come to the same conclusion.

  “What, are you seriously gonna hex me in front of all your precious little first years?” Smith goaded. 

  [Y/N] freezes as if just now registering her surroundings, shoulders slumping in defeat as she lowers her wand. “You’re right” She says regretfully. Then a beat.

  “KIDS, VOTING GAME TIME! Who do you guys like better; me or Mr. Smith here?”

  There’s a short moment of surprised silence then the small group erupts chaotically into cries of “[Y/N!]” and “I like [Y/N] the best!”. Draco is pleasantly startled when he hears a few voices exclaim “My favorite is Draco!”

  It warms his heart and he sends an uncharacteristic smile the children’s way.

  “There you have it, Smith. I have a feeling that they won’t be telling on me, whatever I do to you.” [Y/N] gloats, wand gleefully trained back onto him.

  Draco has to admire this side of her . Even though he knows just what she’s capable of, having already witnessed her in action. She’s never really been the type to use her skills in such a way. It’s what drew him to her in the first place.

  Smith bares his teeth in an ugly snarl. “You wouldn’t fucking dare [L/N], I’ll -”

  “ Densaugeo!”

  The Hufflepuff doesn’t stand a chance. The rest of his sentence is cut off as his front teeth start growing at an alarming speed, eliciting surprised yelps from the first years and a very unladylike snort from the caster. Draco can do nothing but stare as Smith tries to conjure the counter-curse through his botched dentures, fails, turns tail to flee... and barrels head first into a tree, effectively knocking himself unconscious.

  Salazar, we’re going to be in so much trouble.

  “ And that, darlings, is how you deal with morons.” [Y/N] bows with an overexaggerated flourish to enthusiastic applause, cheeks glowing with poorly concealed pride, the first years clamoring all into her space, praises of amazement filling the air. 

  Draco is done for, he hopes his family will attend his funeral. Cause of death: [Y/N] [L/N]. The love of his life, a menace to the general society. May his soul rest in peace.

  “Umm, you won’t tell on me, will you?”

  It takes him a solid minute to realize that the question is directed at him, along with bright, questioning eyes.

  As if I ever could. “Why would I? Prick got what he deserved.” An idea occurs to him then. “On one condition, though.”

  [Y/N]’s posture straightens minutely, interest piqued. “What?”

  It’s now or never, he decides. “Next Hogsmeade weekend, have lunch with me.” Wait, that was too abrupt. “Uh, please?” Ugh, nice going you simpleton. 

  Quietness descends as [Y/N] and the first years both gawk at him wearing identical looks of bewilderment. Oh crap, he completely forgot about the first years. Merlin, smite him now. 

  “... lunch as in a date?” [Y/N] questions, suddenly standing right in front of him, gaze piercing. When did that happen?

  “Y-yes, a date.” He barely manages not to stutter, desperate to exude the notorious Malfoy confidence he absolutely does not feel. “ I would like to court you, if you’re amenable to the idea.” Great, now he just sounds snobbish. Where the hell is Pansy when he needs her?

  “If I’m amenable,” [Y/N] repeats, smile spreading slowly across her face, “how gentlemanly of you.”

  Is he being teased right now? 

  Before he can work himself into a full blown panic, she takes pity on him as well as both his hands. It’s a considerably light hold, the barest of pressure applied and yet he finds that he can’t. Bloody. Breathe.

  “Breathe, Malfoy.” She grips his hands harder, grounding.

  “I’m trying.” He wheezes. He really is, he swears on his mother. It’s just a tad bit difficult when the person he’s been obsessing over is casually touching him like it’s nothing when he’s trying not to flipping die.

  “Do you really mean it? You really want to date me?” The query is uttered softly, meant only for him, the uncertainty so clearly laced in her tone catching him completely off guard.

  “Yes I bloody well mean it!” He splutters, “what the hell do you think I’m freaking out for, woman?! This is way out of my comfort zone, mind you and if it wasn’t obvi-” His tangent is interrupted by peals of sudden laughter. [Y/N] collapsing into him in a fit of uncontrollable giggles nose pressed against the side of his neck.

  Without thinking his arms wind themselves around her automatically, holding her in place as she tries to calm herself down. He’s not even mad, it was a stupid tangent anyway. He takes a chance and nuzzles the top of her head gently, immediately emboldened when she doesn’t pull away.

  “You dolt,” She says into his collar, voice muffled by the fabric, “I’ve been trying to get your attention since forever. I’m the one freaking out right now.”

  No way. No fucking way.

  He hugs her tighter. “So you’re saying tha-”

 “I’m saying yes.”

  Salazar, Merlin. If you’re listening, thank you you sadistic bastards.

[actuallymoon]

Just kiss me Potter!

A little excerpt of the first chapter:

After he was done, in his haste, he unintentionally collided with Potter's chest on his way out of the restroom. Draco couldn't help but notice that Potter had grown a few inches taller during the years they hadn't seen each other, a fact that bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"Watch where you're going, Potter!" Draco exclaimed, his annoyance evident. But instead of retaliating, Potter wore a peculiar look in his eyes, leaving Draco momentarily bewildered.

Potter's next words caught Draco off guard.

 "I think Macmillan fancies you, Malfoy," Potter stated, his words hanging in the air Draco's heart skipped a beat, his surprise evident in the flush that colored his cheeks under Potter's intense gaze.

Draco's mind raced, trying to process Potter's words. The close proximity between them sent a jolt of electricity through his veins. He noticed that their chests were nearly touching, an urge to reach out and feel the taut muscles hidden beneath Potter's shirt gnawing at him. But he knew better than to act on such desires.

Rolling his eyes, Draco retorted defensively, "That's none of your business, Potter," before swiftly pushing past him, attempting to conceal his temptations.

There were rumors circulating about Potter's intentions to ask for the Weaslette’s hand in marriage after they graduated, and the news saddened Draco more than he cared to admit. It stirred a deep ache within him, a reminder that his teenage crush on Potter might never find a happy ending. He had tried to convince himself during their fourth year that it was useless to hold onto unrequited love, resorting to picking fights with Potter in a feeble attempt to make himself hate him once more. It had been a futile endeavor, leaving Draco with a bitter taste of longing.

Returning to the dormitory, Draco carefully placed his neatly folded uniform atop his trunk, ready to be tended to by a house-elf the following day. Climbing into bed, he drew the curtains closed, enveloping himself in a cocoon of solitude. The incident with Macmillan could have easily been brushed off, but it was Potter's unexpected reaction that lingered in Draco's mind. He couldn't help but dwell on it, his thoughts consumed by the enigmatic Gryffindor. His next letter to Pansy surely will be a long one…

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

June of Doom 2

@juneofdoom Day 2: Scream | Forced to Watch

(( child whumpee / parental whumper / abusive parent / magic whump / cruciatus curse / bloody injury / forced to kill / reluctant whumper / fantasy racism / Muggle torture ))

fandom: Harry Potter whumpee: Lucius Malfoy age 11 / random Muggle whumper: Abraxas Malfoy / Lucius Malfoy / Pureblood side characters words: 1100

The Muggle screamed, a horrifying broken sound as he writhed in the frosty grass. Nearly a dozen wizards were loosely circled around him, lit only by a full moon that seemed huge. 

Lucius had never been allowed to witness the Christmas Muggle hunt before, except from his bedroom window, and that didn't really convey the visceral realities of it. He'd never seen the Cruciatus curse up close before. It was only a Muggle, but it was still unsettling, all those screams. Watching the way he clawed at the earth and pulled his fingernails up, and his limbs twisted around at bizarre angles. His back arched up so sharply it looked like it would snap, and his eyes were just… blank. 

The screaming cut off as Black ended the curse. The Muggle collapsed, twitching and gurgling wetly. Some of the other wizards were talking amongst themselves, with their pipes or drinks. Some didn't even have their wands out. It was like they didn't actually care.

He watched quietly, trying to fit in with that and take his cue from them, and especially from his father. His father was hardly paying attention, talking with old Macmillan about a Ministry job he was going to set him up for now that the Mudblood Minister was out. That was so normal. 

He should just be normal.

He looked back at the Muggle, reminding himself it was just a Muggle. Basically an animal. He'd been practising curses on animals for years.

"Go on, boy," Lestrange said. He had his younger son there with them, the next youngest person there after Lucius; he had just left school. It was his first time, too. He'd been at some of the parties before, but not the hunt afterward. 

Rodolphus smirked and lazily waved his wand with a silent spell, so that chains leapt into being and bound the Muggle tightly. "Flagrante."

Lucius knew that curse — it made things unimaginably hot. He didn't see the use at first, though, and there wasn't any change he could see. Then the Muggle started screaming in high, desperate shrieks, jerking around, and the sizzling and the smell of cooking meat answered for themselves. It was the chains that were burning. They scorched through the Muggle clothes and dug red and crispy black streaks into his skin. The smell was revolting… It made the brandy he'd been given to drink sit badly in his stomach, and he looked away uncomfortably, twisting his wand in his hand. 

His father caught his eyes, and he immediately dropped his to the ground.

Not enough. A wave of Father's wand ended those curses, and then he cast a general healing spell that covered over the burns and silenced the screaming into choked sobbing breaths. "Lucius hasn't had the opportunity," his father suggested. It wasn't a suggestion.

"He is just eleven, isn't he?" Nott pointed out. A couple of the adults had a look about them.

"Twelve tomorrow. Old enough to be a man." 

Lucius lifted his chin defiantly. They didn't think he could do it? They should know better than to underestimate a Malfoy. He settled his wand in his hand firmly, wiping a little sweat from his palm, and looked down at the Muggle.

What should he do? Most of the curses he'd practised seemed very childish now. Silencing or freezing or binding jinxes that would be useless on someone who was already prisoner. 

The Muggle's wide eyes darted around in a panic, seemingly only semi-intelligent. An animal fighting on instinct. That was pathetic.

But those eyes caught his and fixed on him, pleading, full of desire if not true sapience. That seemed to settle in his stomach, like the drink and the smell, making it roil. 

How dare he? Just a Muggle, how dare he make him feel low? He had no right! He slashed his wand down. "Exoculo!" he said firmly with intense focus, and a gash raked sideways across the Muggle's face, across both eyes, spraying blood and clear fluid. The man — no, the Muggle — screamed again and jerked back in the grass, trying to get away from him. 

Why didn't he feel any better? He'd taught the creature a lesson and made him stop looking, but his stomach was still twisting and his hands were still sweating. He really was going to be sick… 

Some of the wizards laughed, and Black clapped his shoulder. "Precocious," he praised. "I only hope my boys take to magic like this."

That felt a little better. At least he could ignore the sick feeling.

"I'm sure they will; all it takes is the right environment," his father said, and glanced at the Muggle trying to crawl away. "Let's wrap this us and retire, shall we? You know the Killing Curse, Lucius?"

He wasn't so certain about this. He did know it, he knew what it was, but that wasn't the same… But he did. "Yes, sir." He glanced at his father to make sure that was the right answer, and it was.

"You're not saying he already knows those, Malfoy," Nott insisted. Now he looked actually uncomfortable.

"What are you waiting for?" Father instructed him. 

He knew the theory, but not practically… But that was all he really needed, right? He could make it work if he had to. He took a deep breath and pointed his wand at the Muggle. The thing. The beast. It was just getting rid of a pest, like stepping on an ant or a fairy. "Avada Kedavra." 

He could feel as he said it that he'd done it wrong. He didn't have the conviction, or his magic power wasn't great enough… Whatever it was, those were just empty words. His body tensed in anticipation of the punishment he'd receive later, when the other wizards were gone. 

"That's to be expected, I suppose," Macmillan said easily. "It's quite advanced magic. It would have been tremendously impressive if he had, at that age…"

"Quite," was all his father said, and it sounded cool to him.

Rodolphus apparently sensed an opening. "Avada Ked—!" He cut off sharply; Lestrange cuffed his boy upside the head to stop him taking liberties that would annoy their host. 

Father ignored that. "It's still time to clean up. Diffindo." He sliced a Severing Charm across the Muggle in a small spray of blood, but the placement wasn't immediately lethal, it just ran across his stomach. The thing screamed again. 

Father gestured toward the Muggle and the other wizards followed suit, slicing the writhing Muggle up with charms, spraying blood across the grass. His father was looking at him, an imperious stare. He dropped his eyes back to the Muddle. "Diffindo." He watched another cut open in the path of his wand across the Muggle's chest, and more blood run out to pool around him, staining the ground dark in the moonlight.

[miss-mollys-ballet-blog]

Which male ballet roles do you like the most/find most interesting, and which do you like the least/find most boring?

Oooooo this is a good question and some of my answers would depend on the production based on choreography. I'm also sticking only with narrative ballets, nothing like Jewels.

Most Interesting (they're all very similar and very dramatic lol):

Yevgeny Onegin from the ballet Onegin. This role requires literally everything from a dancer from perfect acting to perfect dancing, both solo and partnering. I love the choreography, I love the music, and I love the entire ballet.

Prince Frederick from Mayerling. The amount and specific type of acting this role requires is incredible. The nuance and passion needed is so difficult because it's possible to give too much but also not enough. Not only that, but he has to stand out and keep our attention in a ballet that is entirely too long and has so much filler (like all MacMillan ballets honestly).

Ivan from Ivan the Terrible. I am OBSESSED with the entrance of Ivan and the final scene, it looks like so much fun to dance. The pure power of the role, the music, the entire ballet is awesome. If I was a dude, this would be a dream role of mine.

Least Interesting:

Jean de Brienne from Raymonda. He really has nothing to do in the ballet and the entire story could happen without him honestly. It's one of my favorite ballets, but JDB is useless lolol.

Romeo. I hate the story of Romeo and Juliet in every single medium and think everyone involved is just stupid (except Tybalt, they should have listened to Tybalt) but that's a rant for another time.

Espada from Don Quixote. I find his parts boring and useless.

[pressvtomakarov]

Am I Pretty?

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: T Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Some Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, Major Character Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, First Kiss, Missions Gone Wrong Summary:

They should have been faster to regroup with Soap.

Not even Ghost, who had moved ahead after a few minutes, had been there on time.

________________________________

The mission had gone well so far.

They had taken out the head of the operation, Victor Zakhaev, and stopped his attempt of launching a nuke.

Their group had allowed themselves a moment of calm, a moment to feel the satisfaction of such victories burn through their veins, before reality called them back. Reality in the form of Soap requesting back up.

Soap had been the only member of the recently founded 141 to not participate in this part of the mission. Price had thought it better that he led the marines lent to them by General Shepard against the ground force of the Ultranationalists led by Zakhaev.

It was a good plan on Price's part, Ghost would have done the same in his shoes. While they hadn't spent much time on the field together since they became part of the 141, Ghost knew Soap was capable of handling such a situation. Soap had proven as much when they went after Makarov back when they were S.A.S. under Major MacMillan. No matter how many times Ghost had called out that he would handle a target, Soap killed them before Ghost had the chance to properly aim his sniper.

Ghost had never felt that useless on the field before.

But none of that changed the fact that they should have been faster to regroup with Soap. Either to kill the remaining Ultranationalists in the area, or to get them safely to exfil.

continue reading on ao3

[insidious-journalist]

*Panting and bleeding heavily*

"No... I am so close. Need... To... *Coughs blood* hatch"

-A Meg Main

Meg was disoriented, the last 20 minutes of the match being a blur of trying to rescue survivors off of hook only to either be downed or them to run right back into trouble that seemed to creep around every corner. It was all a mix of realizing things were going downhill fast and desperately trying to get damage control done. But it was useless. They fell and crumbled like sandcastles in the wake of a thunderstorm, dark and ominous.

She let out a pained noise as she stumbled around the MacMillan estate, desperate to find her only means of escape; the Hatch. Her friends were sacrificed for what felt like ages ago and in her delirium she heard it, she actually fucking heard it. The whistling that signified a means to leave this nightmare and go back to the campfire, warm and able to recover. With a wide bloody smile she stumbled forward desperately, turning a corner on one of the loops they'd ran through earlier and smearing blood on the wall.

Her heart dropped at the sight of the Ghostface already there, crouched over the open hatch in wait. Darkness clung to him and prevented his terror radius from alerting her of his presence, and as she stood there in awe at how unfortunate her situation was he stood to full height.

The Ghostface towered over most survivors ominously, like a dark beacon of looming death. A single boot stomp shut the hatch, and the world around them began to decay slowly. He took a step forward, and in turn she took a step back. But swiftly, near mercifully, he cut her down and began to drag her off to nearby hook with little resistance. Not a word spoken.

In this game of cat and mouse, the cat had won.

[thegoblinwitchqueen]

Fox Gloves and Lupines

Charles Smith (rdr2) x Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit

A03

Chapter: One

Nature was, and would always be, Unforgiving and cruel. And she…

She was stupid.

Frozen shards of crystalline water droplets fell heavy from dark clouds. They blinded Kitt, blurring the vision of her sore and hazy eyes until the once familiar mountain trail was nothing but a screen of overwhelming whiteness against a backdrop of uneasiness. The unpredictable climate of the West Grizzlies did not discriminate, and it did not matter how often or for how long she had traversed the untouched wilderness of the Ambarino mountainside for the entirety of her twenty-six years, the sudden change in weather could kill even the most seasoned fur trappers without hesitation if caught off guard by raging ice and wind storms. And unfortunately, it was on a gloomy spring evening when Kitt Arquette unknowingly found herself in one such dilemma.

The heavy furs she had wrapped desperately around her shivering body hardly kept the biting chill from penetrating clear to her bones with frigid gusts of wind that cut profoundly into the soft flesh of her cheeks like sharpened razors. The pungent odor of iron and decay filled Kitt’s nostrils in a way that reminded her that, miraculously, the most prominent feature of her fox-like face had remained attached to her despite her lack of feeling. Kitt touched her numb face and adjusted her knitted, thick scarf back over her cracked mouth and nose. She tried to ignore the uncomfortable steam from her trembling breath, which had soaked straight through the fleece and inadvertently caused her lips to rub themselves raw against the coarse material and freeze instantaneously. She shrank instinctively and tugged a silver fox pelt closer to her chest. Sporting the uncleaned and bloody hides of foxes, elk, and mountain sheep was not ideal; however, neither was a demise caused by the suffocating hands of an unexpected blizzard.

Her once healthy limbs were now as useless as the fresh legs of a newborn foal, gangly and awkward in ways she had never experienced before and painfully burdened by a thick and heavy layer of new snow. Kitt’s elbows creaked and groaned angrily like branches of an old oak tree while blindly guiding her old chestnut-colored gelding down a short and steep slope. Carefully, she continued her passage towards a place she had hoped would be sheltered. The old horse voiced his unwillingness and apprehension by tossing his broad head, but he continued through the bitter cold with nothing but trust in his rider to guide him to safety. Kitt worked hard to develop their trust over the last twenty years with the gelding after having acquired him as a gift from her maternal grandfather.

“I'm so sorry, boy.” Kitt cooed while she wiped away the dense ice clumped against his unruly black mane. Thick Mists of hot breath escaped his large nostrils as he groaned a guttural response. “I promise it won't be much longer.”

Kitt hated lying but hated having to admit when her pride had gotten the best of her more. Typically, her glaring ego would result in a few extra drinks at the Van Horn saloon or the occasional petty argument with her employer, Mister Gus MacMillan, over the quality of a raccoon pelt she had ruined with buckshot. But, Nothing she had ever done put her life at risk like it was at that moment.

Earlier, the sky surrounding the purple and blue snow capped peaks was mostly clear with bluebirds and sparrows dancing across the horizon. But, a deep rumbling of winter thunder and darkened clouds laden with snow threatened the young trapper in the distance. Kitt, having known Ambarino like the back of her hand, understood the storm was only a few hours away, and moving quickly. However, she blatantly dismissed the warnings of mother nature and pushed herself further into the mountainside after she spied the most peculiar-looking moose. He was a magnificent creature, and Rather than the ordinary dark brown coat expected to be donned by a full-grown bull, this one was entirely white. Kitt could not defy the mouth-watering temptation to own the hefty sum of cash his skin would most definitely merit and tracked the beast until the blanket of fresh snow reached the height of her waist. Still, had her father looked after her as he had done for the entirety of her life, he would have deterred his only daughter from getting caught in the storm of the century.

Marcel Arquette was an extraordinary fur trapper as bright as he was talented with a bolt-action rifle. Instinctively, the man would have understood when to admit defeat, turn back, and let the frost-colored moose escape to his own devices. The Frenchman never hunted more than what was essential for the family to sell and survive, but Kitt struggled to restrain herself and desired a life of comfort she had never experienced before. She yearned to leave the lifestyle of a wayward wanderer who slept amongst the harsh elements for a life of feather beds and warm food, especially now that she was orphaned. It had only been six months since her father succumbed to fever and twenty-five years since her mother passed. Still, Kitt missed the many mindless conversations about medicinal herbs, animal facts, or her fathers life before she was born. His huge laugh reverberated throughout the Grizzlies, frightening most of the wild game they sought to uncover.

The life she had once cherished and thrived in with her Papa, now, left her weary. Hunger pains chewed at her stomach more than before, and the crisp mountain atmosphere no longer replenished her lungs with exhilaration and energy. Instead, Kitt was perpetually exhausted from constantly existing in a state of starvation, indifference, and lonesomeness. Hunting alone in dead silence without someone to converse with did not make her feel anything but nothingness.

However, Kitt couldn’t let her lingering melancholy seep through the borders she had thrust around her broken heart. She had the horse to worry for, and though he did not have a name, a valid name, the old gelding had stuck through the years by her side without complaint. Now, It was Kitt’s turn to lead them to safety or die trying.

The soft fingers of Death’s thin hands caressed Kitt’s eyes and ears with whispers of delicious promises of bottomless sleep to quell the burning sensation that ignited her frostbitten skin like a raging fire. As she trekked on, exhausted and sore, her brain fought through the overwhelming tiredness to remember the words her father had told her after discovering the body of Papa Aiden.

“When a man succumbs to the cold, his mind will hasten the process by persuading him that the skin that had once felt ice cold is now hotter than any hearth fire. It is bittersweet but poetic nonetheless.”

The body of her father's oldest friend and lover was blue and black like a raven's feathers and entirely nude. Before he died, Aiden had hurled his buffalo coat a few feet away, and his thick, woolen shirt was nowhere to be found. But his newly patched trousers still clung around his ankles where he had lost consciousness face first into the snow late that night. Kitt was only nine and could not fully comprehend why the once happy man she loved almost as much as her father had stripped himself entirely bare to run wildly into the woods and die alone after he had spent most of their ride uncharacteristically complaining of the cold which chatted his teeth and coated his bones in frost. Through tears and heartbreak, her father said the earth was too frozen and rocky to bury the handsome Irishman, and Kitt often wondered if his body on Mount Shann was the same as when they left her father's shack all those years ago—perfectly preserved by the permafrost.

Now, Kitt understood how her father's partner had felt before he succumbed to the elements, burning, and heavy with indescribable exhaustion. Slowly, the young woman struggled to fight back the fear that bubbled in her gut as the blizzard raged well into the twilight with no indication that it would stop. Would she, too, die alone, nude, and preserved under mountains of ice until some other poor soul happened upon her corpse?

Who could say?

After a while, the trees and rocks no longer held any significance as the encroaching darkness overwhelmed her fragmenting reality. The remnants left of her sanity began to twist and turn, intertwining the forest with the forgotten rememberings of her past, painting figments of her papa, Aiden, and her unknown mother against the stark canvas of glistening white snow. Kitt resisted, ignoring the calls of the dead, and prayed to whoever might be listening to strike her deaf. The screams of Aiden's last moments echoed and rode in tandem with the howling of the wind until they transitioned into the familiar sounds of a lonely elk calling against the mountainside.

Suddenly, Kitt felt her gut lurch deep into her chest. A presence sat behind her to wrap its bloody limbs tight around Kitt's waist, humming a familiar cradlesong she had thought lost to time. The entity's lips gently touched the crook of Kitt’s neck and its breath cut sharp through Kitt’s scarf. The ghost inhaled and whispered:

“Sleep now, my daughter.”

Suddenly, the world went dark.

….

An unknown amount of time passed, but the moon was still high in the sky, and tendrils of dull light lazily drifted through the uneven slats of the roof and illuminated the hay-covered flooring.

Kitt inhaled sharply and jerked awake, slinging her head from side to side while hunting for the apparition that had haunted her. However, the young woman found herself alone and inside what seemed to be a rundown and abandoned horse stable. The decent-sized shack was empty save for a few dust-covered tools, and a soot-covered hearth meant to burn hot coals for shoemaking.

Besides the gentle skittering of various rodents along the breaking shafts, Kitt determined that by the looks of the building, it had long since been left behind to waste away underneath the snow. Though she was considerably knowledgeable about the ruins scattered across the peaks, whether it be from the cold or hunger she felt throughout her hurting body, Kitt could not outwardly recall where she was.

The young woman emitted a pitiful whimper and relaxed her painfully stiff shoulders, creaking like the stable floor boards and dropping layers of snow from her limbs onto the ground. Kitt had fallen unconscious at some point in her journey and was astonished that she somehow remained in her saddle, straddling her horse's ribs and grasping his harnesses. But, by God's grace, the old gelding continued through the storm without her guidance until he found the abandoned stable. Now, he knickered and pawed, begging to be released from his burdens. Kitt slowly descended her saddle like a greenhorn rider, fumbling through the darkness until her boots stretched out to the safety of the solid ground.

Once on her feet, Kitt ran her gloved hand along the horse's thick neck until she reached his face and pressed her forehead against the old mount's snout. At that moment, she could have sworn he comprehended the gratitude she felt for his courage swelling from her soul. Once again, the nameless beast had saved her from perishing in the blizzard. And once again, she did not know how to repay him.

“You're some sort of guardian angel. Thank you.” Kitt mumbled. The horse pulled his head free from her grasp, and lazily drifted to munch on a heap of fodder.

Kitt smiled and determined that peeling off the horse's saddle and bridle would suffice until she could reward him with his favorite radishes and apples. A groan reverberated with satisfaction from his belly as the weight lifted from his back. He shivered off the tension that sat painfully between his muscles.

Kitt, dropping bloodstained pelts as she limped, hauled the saddle into one of the vacant stalls and arranged it amongst a pile of old hay. Luckily, it was too cold for venomous creatures like snakes or spiders to burrow themselves between the grass, nor would she have the foresight to worry about such things before Kitt hurled her body down next to her only real possession. Coated head to toe in sinew, blood, and animal skins, Kitt slid her thick frame underneath the firm leather of her embroidered saddle, mimicking how her horse had sported it for all the years they spent together. Finally, She drank in his residual body heat and allowed her own to rest. This time, on her terms.

No more whispers of the dead.

And no more pain.

…

For the first sunrise since the Van Der Linde gang arrived in the abandoned mine town of Colter, the frigid storm that had provided the wanted outlaws an ideal getaway finally broke long enough to allow Charles Smith to leave the cramped quarters he reluctantly shared with his brothers in arms. It was before sunrise, and the young man of Indigenous and Black blood watched the light peak from the eastern mountains from the doorway while Lenny, Javier, and Micah slept behind him. He stretched out the soreness that permeated deep into the threads of his muscular neck and back. The man of twenty-four years hadn’t slept, at least not adequately, and blamed his restlessness on the tiny, uncomfortable bed he compressed his massive body into. As well, the persistent gnawing he felt radiating from the slow healing injury on his right hand kept him awake long into the midnight hours. When asked about the new set of dark circles, which hung heavy from his dark-colored eyes, by a concerned Susan Grimshaw, Charles would only have to say that he could not rest due to Micah and his horrendous sleep apnea. All of which honestly caused the dark-skinned youth to scowl each night while he stared at the spaces between the ceiling boards, wrapped tightly in his black coat and tattered blankets. But while each justification was annoying and contributed to his sleepless nights, they were not the actual cause. No, he thanked the painful memories of his time before Dutch had adopted him into his band of wayward souls, for they decided to plague him for the first time in years.

Charles glanced down at the stained bandage wrapped around his dominant palm and flexed his fingers continuously until the searing pain reappeared underneath the oozing and scabbed flesh. There would be a decent scar once the burn healed and he withered at the thought. It would be another few days before he could hold a bow or shoot his sawed-off shotgun. While he waited, he would devour the endless hours meandering aimlessly around the outskirts of the camp, unable to pull his weight.

Typically the elders or ladies of the camp would look to him to help with tasks that required brute strength, but in Colter, the daily functions of the base were suspended. All except Arthur and John waited and warmed themselves by the fireplace glow while the formers explored the perimeter. John Marston had been gone for two days looking for any promising shelter, and Arthur left that morning to scavenge the charred remains of Sadie Adler's homestead for any untouched goods he could bring back to feed his family. Charles had asked his mentor if he could join him but was instructed to hang around camp to recover.

Another few days of feeling simply —-useless.

Charles huffed and descended the step of his cabin into the glistening snow. He couldn't help but marvel at how much ice had fallen during the night. It was enough to reach his knee and saturate the thick fabric of his trousers. He shrugged off the uncomfortable chill, coming to be acclimated to the feeling, and carried through towards the empty cooking station where Mister Pierson had already started up his daily task of feeding the household.

Ever the busy body, Charles reasoned he would converse with the retired navy man to see if he could get any information on Arthur’s latest expedition in O’Driscoll country. Earlier, Dutch and Hosea made it a point to exclude Charles from the gang's business because they knew that a wounded palm would not prevent the man from pursuing Arthur wherever the hardened outlaw went. So, Charles supposed Pierson would be the next best thing—even if he loathed useless chatter. And boy, did Pierson adore worthless talk.

There was never an instant where Charles Smith took it easy. Despite the reassurance he received from Arthur and Dutch after the unfortunate incident in Blackwater that caused his annoying injury, he worried that his involuntary idleness would ultimately be misunderstood as laziness. Still, the man really needn’t bother because Dutch seemed to have a soft spot for lazy men such as Uncle, who somehow managed to coast through the years with little to show for his duration with the gang. Unlike Uncle, Charles had demonstrated his usefulness in the last six months he ran with Dutch and Hosea by supporting all their morally questionable endeavors regardless of the risks associated with dancing around the local authorities. But, the years Charles spent roaming from band to band around the Western Frontier since he was old enough to carry a rifle conditioned him.

To be lazy meant to be worthless and, ultimately, banished.

The Van Der Linde gang was the closest thing to a family Charles had ever held, and he was not willing to give it up anytime soon. As he moved into the shed from the frigid wind, the rosy cheeks of Simon Pierson welcomed him. The fallen sailor wore a wide grin underneath his thick mustache, and Charles repaid the gesture with a slight nod of his head, evading the man’s loitering gaze.

“Well, I would say it was surprising to see you here this early, Mister Smith,” Pierson huffed.

The heavyset man’s strong arms raised a heavy, iron cauldron whose contents were a stew made of thin broth and an assortment of filler vegetables, suspicious meat, and no seasoning to mask the awful taste. But, no one in the gang complained as a full belly made of awful food was better than starvation. Pierson positioned the pot, hanging it over a little flame and stored the gruel with a wooden spoon. He tasted the meal, cursed under his breath, and rested against a wooden chair.

The fire that cooked the food struggled to survive under the steady gusts of bitter Ambarino wind that beat it into submission. The measly fire was started on a bed of old hay and twigs, and Charles made a mental reminder to collect more timber for the cook later. After a moment, he turned his dark eyes to the heavyset sailor's gaze. “But you’re always up before dawn. So you must forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm. I’ve stopped being surprised, and the cold makes me cranky.”

“Mmm,” Charles grunted, holding the palms of his hands near the fire to warm them. Already the tips of his thick fingers grew ashen and numb from his brisk walk between his station and Pierson’s makeshift kitchen. The biting chill caused Charles's thoughts to drift to Arthur Morgan. Concerned about his current state, Charles hoped the man was roaming through the cliffs alright. They weren't particularly intimate, and their relationship could be described as more than an acquaintance, yet not quite a friend. But, Arthur reminded him of the man his father used to be before firewater plagued his mind—solid and courageous… If not a tad but stupid.

Pierson held off and watched the man think, understanding that young Charles was a creature of few words and spoke only when he felt necessary. However, the cook saw by the troubled expression on Charles’s face that the lad was stir-crazy and needed something to entertain him lest he lose his sanity to boredom. After all, it wasn’t like Charles Smith to seek Pierson out of his own volition.

“So, Charles, you feel like doing something?” Pierson requested as he wiped the assortment of food, dirt, and sweat along the coarse fabric of his thick military jacket.

“…what do you have in mind?” Charles questioned, trying not to look too enthusiastic. Nevertheless, the break in Charles’s deep voice and the shit eating smile across Pierson's face said otherwise. Yes, he had to do something.

Anything.

“ I know it’s not much, but do you think you can gather the coals left in the stable? They seemed pretty spent when I last checked, but anything is better than this–shit.” Pierson moaned and watched the tiny flame threaten to die. “ I’d go, but someone has to be here to ensure breakfast cooks.”

“Sure thing.” Charles said.

“There is a rusty bucket you can use to put the bastards in. Just don’t cut yourself, Mister Smith. God forbid you’re out of commission for a moment more than necessary.” Pierson chuckled, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket before placing the tobacco between his thin lips. Charles nodded and briskly turned on his heel toward the abandoned stable without saying goodbye. Pierson huffed, smiled, and lit the cigarette as he watched the strange man leave.

…

As Charles approached the stable, a sudden thought crossed his mind. The double doors of the shack were a jar, unlike how he had left it the day prior. Under tightly furrowed brows, he stood still and carefully analyzed the building for any warning of foul play. Like most of his thoughts, they did not contain words and were more like an instinct he felt reverberating through his bones. The shiver that went down his spine was one he could not dismiss.

Something was not right, but he could not say why or how…or by who. At least not yet. Quietly, Charles approached the entrance, creeping inside as he palmed the hilt of the large hunting knife strapped to his holster. For a man his size, Charles prided himself on his uncanny mastery of remaining undetected, especially when he wanted to be.

As he entered, he glanced at each stall containing the gang's horses, including his trusted appaloosa mare, Taima. She greeted her rider with a happy wine and Charles loosened up. He sighed at his jumpiness and casually made his way towards the horses. He chuckled to himself. Had there been any real danger, Taima would have definitely alerted him, but right now, she seemed more than happy to see him. She pawed at her stable door, telling her rider about her discomfort behind closed doors. Like him, Taima needed open fields and freedom to roam. And like him, she too suffered in Colter.

Charles reached for her neck, and stroked her while he whispered sweet nothings to her. He loved his horse more than anything. While he pampered his poney, another cry echoed further down the stable hall, and Charles recognized it as Javier's mount, Boaz. The unruly paint was easily jealous and hated to be ignored.

“Calm yourself. Boaz. I'll come say hi in a minute.” Charles exclaimed, patting Taima roughly before an unfamiliar bray accompanied the paint. Charles stood still and saw an unfamiliar chestnut horse inhabiting the last stable. As he silently moved towards the strange horse, he abruptly observed that the once bare floor was now smeared with smudges of dried blood. Charles slowly crouched down and touched the rust-colored stain. The red fluid had dried already, and though they were faint, tracks of heavy-toed boots descended the hall towards the horse.

Charles scowled and wiped the residue from his fingertips on his trousers, and reached for his knife again. As he surpassed the gelding, Charles spied an unfamiliar saddle embroidered with jumping rabbits and wild flowers resting in the hay behind the old boy. The horse did not show fear or emotion and allowed the young man to touch his broad nose. Whoever had spent the night in the stable was gone and left their mount and belongings behind.

O’Driscolls maybe? Or, had John finally returned with a stolen horse?

The boot tracks were too small to be Marston’s, and the horse he rode earlier was nowhere to be seen. No, this was somebody he had never happened upon before. Charles glanced to his left and spied a pile of blood-stained, silver fur resting along the bottom seal of the stable door. He unsheathed his knife, bent down, and flicked the hide with the tip of his blade.

“A fox pelt?” Charles huffed, raising the uncleaned skin to his sight for a closer look.

Once again, that intuitive shudder ran along the length of his spine. And suddenly, the stable doors slammed shut.

[pain-in-the-butler]

The time has come once again

The Bloodbath

“I’m simply one hell of a butler” says Sebastian as he starts cleaning as usual

Okay so Agni’s taking no prisoners

Work Nerd, Science Nerd, and Jock Nerd team up to form the Nerd Trifecta

Team One Brain Cell joins up with Phipps, who is quite possibly their only chance for survival

Ran-Mao remembers how Harcourt beat everyone in the unfortunately deleted round and said “Not in my backyard”

So far, everyone else has simply run away unscathed or grabbed a weapon they won’t use because the game doesn’t record weapons. Rip Tanaka

Day 1

Ran-Mao bringing the canon energy by adding a second weapon to her arsenal

Phipps somehow always turns into Team Dad during these, so I’m glad to see he’s finding time for his favorite hobbies

Undertaker up to his usual Sneaky Antics

It hasn’t even been twelve hours yet. Kind of impressive honestly

Considering Harcourt lost his mace, I’ll just assume the attack Grell “escaped” from was the vicious stabbing of his trim little schoolboy fingernails

Bad vibes

It appears that Lau also brought his canon game

Sebastian in the most recent chapters be like

I’ve actually never had this event come up before and it has to happen between two of the more innocent characters in the series;;;; god Lizzie you deserve better even in the Hunger Games Simulator

Where’s a Safety Nerd when you need one

What’s better than this? Guys bein dudes

This is probably what happened after Ciel left Weston

Sebastian will take care of this for ya, huh bud

Other events:

Agni practices his archery

Wolfram goes fishing

Othello finds a cave

Soma goes ‘splorin

Edward goes huntin

Day 1′s Deaths: Tanaka, Sieglinde, Lizzie, and Macmillan. Someday one of the ladies will win

Night 1

Butler slumber party in the woods, BYOYM (bring your own young master)

It takes a lot of energy to be this blond

I’m happy for her :)

Yeah I’ll bet you probably do Lau

A tonal shift so abrupt I got mental whiplash

Can we go back to when Grell was looking at the sky pls

Thought about science too hard. Got a concussion

Thought about Ciel dying too hard. Got an infection

Aww dad :( Hope you caught some fish tho

Looks like Harcourt won’t be winning this one, gang

I stg the hunger games simulator is misogynist because the ladies always DIE /j

Ran-Mao is hopefully here to prove the previous statement wrong

Other events:

Bard gets a hatchet

Undertaker also passes out from exhaustion

R!Ciel goes to sleep in a tree

Day 2

Oh you five are SO going in my burn book for this. It’s what Grell would’ve wanted

Ahaha just like in the real manga... right guys (;

Idk about you but I’m rooting for her

I don’t think the simulator could’ve picked four people who were less likely to team up than this

I would too if I saw my best friend was palling around with an opium dealer, a grim reaper with a lawn mower, and another grim reaper that the first grim reaper doesn’t like

Other events:

Othello chases Wolfram

That’s the only other event actually

That means today we lost O!Ciel, Mey-Rin, Harcourt, and Grell. ffs, I hope Ran-Mao kills all of you

Night 2

I’ve missed you, rare pair simulator

The “unknown sponsor” was Undertaker and the “fresh food” was O!Ciel

Confirmed: Lau doesn’t get high off his own supply

Once again a ceasefire between the strong hungry boys is formed

Girl, you don’t have to do that

“Did you kill Ciel?” Sebastian asks

“No that was William,” Othello says

Sebastian punches a tree so hard that it combusts. “God damn. Fuck” Sebastian says

Wolfram just realized I put him in the Hunger Games simulator

Other events:

Phipps thinks about “Are you winning son”

Undertaker gazes at space

Ronald becomes Lost Ronald

Soma passes out

Bard gets some water

Day 3

Damn Agni who haven’t you flirted with

Finny sees that Bard has water and thinks Bard cooked it himself, so he wants no part of that (might be burnt)

What did he even have that was worth stealing? A fish?

Well I can tell you who isn’t creating that smoke: Lau

“What’s worse than two young masters? No young masters. Now get over here and make a contract”

Everything about this sentence is a fever dream

Other events:

Undertaker decides he wants a slingy shot too

Edward chases Dad I mean Phipps

Othello gets some ouchies from picking berries

Night 3

When your young master dies, you just get an infection apparently

damn Finny’s playing hardball

I don’t think anything bad has actually happened to Bard yet. It’s just been a grand frolic the whole time

I barely remember reading the first Hunger Games but Ran-Mao’s the Foxface of this journey: she deserves to win and I just know she’ll die in the stupidest way possible

Sebastian’s like a cat that can’t reach the bird it wants to attack, so it attacks the nearest other thing instead. Poor Dad

Two white-haired anime boys and a not-white-haired anime boy talk about who will die tomorrow. Anime doesn’t exist yet so the white-haired anime boys don’t know their hair color automatically spells their doom

Other events:

Edward starts a fire, which means he’s capable of smoking opium

Ronald gets some medical supplies

Othello gets a hatchet

R!Ciel thinks about winning

Lau gets an entire explosive, but he won’t be able to light it, so no it’s no big deal

Day 4

In Soviet Hunger Games, white-haired anime boy kills you

But why murder someone when you could just mess with them

Other events:

Grey scares Bard

Finny goes hunting

Night 4

Have you four even killed anyone yet

The list of “people who didn’t start the manor fire and also don’t smoke opium” now consists of Lau and R!Ciel

The mood is too light now. Someone needs to die and it better not be Ran-Mao

At last, Father Phipps has chosen his son for this round

Agni gushes about all the hot guys he’s simultaneously in love with, giving Ran-Mao a clearer idea of who’s still alive

Day 5

Girl, it’s about time, go claim some trophies

Finny’s easily got the longest kill streak and it’s a little unnerving

Father Phipps finds a new secret fishing hole

Othello doesn’t

Lau continues to put in all the efforts of a kindergarten bully

Oh no. He’s a yandere

Other events:

Sebastian fucks around and explores the arena

Bard fucks around and hunts for tributes

Undertaker fucks around and sleeps

R!Ciel fucks around and picks flowers

Night 5

I’ve never met anyone who ships Sebastian/Undertaker but I know you’re out there

Okay, maybe these four are even less likely to team up than Phipps, Ronald, Undertaker, and Lau

Edward sees I’m making jokes about people who build fires and stays hidden

Day 6

Canonically, that is the only way R!Ciel would win a fight, so

I probably could have predicted this

I hope these are the faces they made when it happened

The “unknown sponsor” is R!Ciel and the “fresh food” is an ear that fell off his own head

I’m not sure if I should be concerned or unsurprised that Bard’s Hunger Games life is more chill than his canon life

the “unknown sponsor” was the fish and the “clean water” was “fish water”

Other events:

Ran-Mao gets her third weapon that she doesn’t want to use, which is a hatchet

Finny finds a river

Agni practices archery again, but he doesn’t kill anyone because he wants this to go on forever

Night 6

Ran-Mao I beg you please. Release us from this purgatory of mediocrity

And suddenly we’re back to canon Bard

I guess not everything can be canon

Other events:

Both Agni and Phipps pass out from exhaustion. It’s 2:50 a.m. so I should really be taking a page from their book, but unfortunately everyone refuses to die

The Feast

Finny has been a stone cold killer this entire match, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the girl I wanted to win would get eliminated by him, but it still hurts ✌️😔

If you cheat on Othello, he will overpower you, killing you

Everyone else decided not to go to the Feast. Honestly, I don’t remember what the Feast is, but everyone who did go either murdered someone or got murdered, so I guess that was probably a good call

Day 7

I’ve had enough of this dude

Jesus Finny I can’t wait to see how many kills you got, I feel like you and Agni were the only two who took anyone down

Bard, Undertaker, Sebastian, and Phipps all hunt for other tributes but they’re useless and don’t kill anyone

Arena Event: Volcano Eruption

In one fell swoop, we lose Sebastian, Undertaker, R!Ciel, and Finny, jeez. But... that means it comes down to.............

FATHER PHIPPS VS. BARD

FATHER PHIPPS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow... Unlike his manga counterpart, this boy coasted the whole time and won... He basically went on vacation and he actually won... But then again, it’s Hunger Games Simulator and nothing is sacred

Well I hope you learned a valuable lesson today. I hope you did at some point before you read my post, because you sure as hell learned nothing from this. Thank you for wasting precious minutes of your life with me 😏

[artemisia-black]

Just taking a moment to appreciate our Hufflepuff King Ernie Macmillan:

1. He says this in CoS but is very close friends with muggle-born Justin Finch-Fletchly:

“In case you’re getting ideas, I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s.” -CoS

2. This inadvertently funny line from OoTP:

“I want you to know, Potter... that it's not only weirdos who support you. I personally believe you one hundred percent.” GoF

3. Ernie the OFSTED inspector:

“ I , personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher on us at this critical period. “ OoTP