#despite all the times we tried to disembowel each other

[we-will-swallow-your-soul]

Best Pep Talk Ever

Chucky: I screwed things up with Damballa. Didn't pay the spiritual power bill, now it's lights out.

Tiffany: No no, Chucky. You are a cockroach. You always come back. 

Chucky: Not this time. You should see me. I'm bald. I'm withered. I think I saw a liver spot.

Tiffany: Stop it Chucky! Stop it. That's disgusting. 

Chucky: The worst part is after all the kills and all the thrills, here at the end, I'm not even sure what it was all for.

Tiffany: No, Chucky. You lived a great life, and you ended so many more. You know Chucky despite everything... despite all the times we tried to disembowel each other, you're still the brilliant psychopath I fell in love with. And you always will be. 

Chucky: I love you too Tiff. Those three brats are going to be coming for me. I think I'm going to just throw in the towel.

Tiffany: Pull yourself together! You're Chucky the killer doll! Don't you ever let them forget who you are! Don't you want to go down in history as the greatest serial killer of all time? Think of where you are, Chucky. You are at the fucking White House! I say go out in a blaze of glory and take as many as you can with you on the way out.

Chucky: The greatest of all time, huh? You know what, dollface? You're absolutely right!

[deadgirlwalking91]

new guitarspear fic

'thank you for the venom', chapter one: 'if this is what you want, then fire at will'

Summary

“Is that all it takes to make you moan? You’d be such a freak in the sheets, Lieutenant.”

“Hilarious. Respectfully, Sir, go deep throat a cactus.”

***

Despite working together for years, Adam and Lute can't stand each other.

He thinks she's got a stick up her ass.

She thinks he's an idiot.

When Lute goes behind Adam's back to Sera and proposes they change their training regime for Extermination Day, Adam is hellbent on making her life miserable - until he learns it's in his best interest to work with her, not against her.

The problem is, neither of them counted on unexpected feelings getting in the way of their jobs, which makes things... tense for them.

What happens when one day, they accidentally take things a little too far?

***

Chapter One

Adam & Lute’s Office, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

Lute knew she’d messed up this time.

If she had an ordinary boss, she might only cop a slight reprimand for going over his head – an uncomfortable conversation, promises of ‘I’ll never do it again’, waiting for time to pass until the awkwardness of the situation wore off and they could go back to business as usual.

Unfortunately, her boss was far from what most would consider an ordinary angel – both in title and temperament. Which consequently meant his reaction to her undermining him would be… hostile, to say the least.

“I can’t fucking believe you went to Sera without talking to me first!” Adam bellowed, pounding his fist on his desk. Old coffee cups, abandoned paperwork and scattered stationary threatened to spill over the edge, littering the already cluttered floor around his workstation. “Fucking low blow babe, even for a kiss-ass like you.”

Don’t rise to his anger. Keep a cool head. Explain your case.

“Sir,” Lute laced her fingers together and placed them on the surface of her own desk, ready to state her case for taking her proposal directly to the High Seraphim and bypassing her superior. In contrast to her Commander, her own workspace was neatly arranged, not a hint of messiness to be found. She cleared her throat. “I tried to talk to you about this a week ago, and you dismissed me.”

“You haven’t said shit to me.”

‘Yes I have,’ she thought to herself, resisting the urge to retort back and begin a verbal tennis match. She knew she’d win – after all, she was much smarter than Adam, and could hold a sentence without swearing, cursing or a sexual innuendo. Stooping to his level would just escalate the situation further than where it needed to be, and if it got to that level she was certain things would get ugly. Fast.

“I’m positive we have had this conversation, Sir.”

“Nup. We haven’t.”

Lute inhaled slowly and deliberately through her nose, trying to supress her already-rising frustration. He was being particularly petulant today, and she found her patience with him was quickly wearing thin. Squaring her shoulders, she continued. “Sir, we were on our way to the eight o’clock agility training session. I remember it clearly as you were complaining that you had a meeting with Sera later that morning. I thought it would be an opportune moment to mention it to you as it would be fresh in your mind when you met with her.”

Adam snorted and leaned forward onto his elbows; the golden facial expression on the screen of his mask fixed into a jeer. “And you think that was a good time to approach me about one of your lame ideas? I thought you were smarter than that. What’s my first rule of working together, sweetie?”

Don’t throw a knife at him. Don’t threaten to disembowel him – as much as you want to. Stay calm, Lieutenant.

“With all due respect, Sir –” Lute growled, her professional tone wavering. “I hardly think that putting limits on when I can and cannot converse with you is conducive to creating a professional working relationship with you.”

“Firstly, we don’t have a professional working relationship, babe. It’s pretty fucking black and white, actually – I’m your boss, you listen to me. It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp.” Lute opened her mouth in anger to protest, but Adam held up a single finger, signalling for her to wait. Dumb move. That single gesture just fuelled the intense rage that was quickly building inside her.

“Secondly, the rule is don’t talk to me about important shit before nine o’clock. Chances are I won’t remember it because I’ll be half asleep, and I’ll give even less of a fuck about what you’ve got so say because you’ve pissed me off before I've had my morning coffee.”

“I’d rather not talk to you at all,” Lute said through gritted teeth. “But, I unlike you, actually care about Extermination Day, and if we continue how we’re currently track-”

“And I, unlike you,” Adam said mockingly in a high-pitched voice that was supposed to sound like Lute’s, “couldn’t give a shit about how many Sinners we slay next Extermination Day, or whatever the fuck it was that you ran to Sera about. The only thing that matters is that we show our faces in Hell on Extermination Day and slaughter some demon ass. That’s it. Those fuckers are scared shitless of us anyway, so it doesn’t matter how many we kill, we'll always have the upper hand. It’s called working smarter, not harder, babe.”

He cannot be serious right now. Does he not realise that our kill rate is slipping, year on year? How this might affect us long-term? That Sinners might start to fight back once they figure out that we’re starting to let our guard down?

“So what you’re telling me,” Lute started, now barely able to contain her vitriol, “Is that you don’t give a flying f-”

“Exactly.” Adam stood up and smirked down at Lute, the smug look of satisfaction on his mark now too much for Lute to bear.

Fuck you, you arrogant prick.

“Conversation’s over. Get back to actually doing your job, Lieutenant, instead of wasting my time with your insignificant, petty bullshit. Don’t fucking pull a stunt like this again.”

Adam strode towards the door of their shared office, pausing briefly as his hand rested on the door handle, his smirk intensifying. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What?” she snapped, head now in her hands. She couldn’t even physically look at him.

“I’m pretty sure we just established that I’m your superior, so a bit of respect would be nice to hear, Lieutenant.”

“What, sir?” Her hands pulled in frustration at her silvery-white bangs that had fallen into her eyes.

“Be a good girl and finish that overdue paperwork for me, would you? I’ve got more important shit to do. It’d be a good reminder for you of what your job actually entails.”

That’s it.

Lute had tried to play nice. Tried to do the right thing and raise her suggestion in a polite, professional manner. Took an alternative avenue once she realised her attempts at improvement were going nowhere. She’d even attempted to sit calmly through his dressing-down without reacting to his bullshit. But now?

She’d finally snapped.

Agilely leaping over her desk so she was in front of his, she picked up one of the multiple long-forgotten mugs that cluttered the surface and hurled it in his general direction.

Lute hadn’t really expected for it to hit him – the act of picking up the mug and throwing it had been born out of built-up frustration and anger at her imbecile boss, a need to expel some of the hatred that had built up over the course of their most recent conversation. The fact that it had connected with the side of his head and shattered into at least a hundred tiny ceramic pieces?

Just a bonus, really. It was just a damn shame it didn’t leave a mug-sized hole in his head.

‘Good. Hope it fucking hurt.’ She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, taking in his surprise as he lifted a hand to his head and checked for blood. Time to let him have it.

“If anything,” she hissed in a low, dangerous voice. She was now moving towards Adam, one hand clenched by her side, the other pointed threateningly at his face. “Let me get this one thing through your thick head – though more than anything right now, I’d love to drive my sword between your eyes, carve up your tiny, pathetic excuse for a brain and force feed it back to you raw.”

Adam opened his mouth to respond, his surprise at her tone quickly turning to fury, but she didn’t give him the courtesy. He needed to hear this – graphic acts of violence and all.

“Shut it,” she snarled. “Shut the fuck up and just fucking listen for once, as difficult as that is for you. Because I’m not your fucking secretary. I’m not your assistant. I’m here to do my job – which is to provide training and mentorship to the other Exorcists, because you’re too damn incompetent to do it yourself.” Her normally restrained voice grew louder. “Perhaps if you focused more on doing your job, instead of screw-”

“Geez,” Adam drawled, “You’re a fucking little mouthy cunt, aren’t you?” He gripped the wrist of Lute’s outstretched arm, rage etched all over his mask, which had started glitching ever so slightly. Not a good sign.

Ouch. Lute may be the better aim of the two, and more agile, but Adam was had the upper hand when it came to brute strength. She was positive that his hold on her wrist was going to bruise – that was going to be fun to explain once it was noticed. She continued to stare him down, never daring to break eye contact or even blink. She couldn’t let him think he’d won. Even if he did have her arm in a death grip.

She’d rather fall to the depths of Hell than admit defeat to him.

Rap-rap-rap.

“Adam? Lute?” a soft voice called from behind the door. “Is everything alright? I heard something break just now.”

Sera.

Seizing her moment, Lute yanked her wrist from Adam’s grasp and made towards her desk once again.

“Come in, Your Highness,” she called in an uncharacteristically chirpy voice. “Adam accidentally dropped his coffee mug, and it broke, which is what you must have heard. I was just showing him the best way to clean up the mess.”

Adam shot her a filthy look and stomped back to his desk, muttering incoherently under his breath – though Lute was sure she heard the word bitch at least twice.

The handle clicked, and Sera poked her head through the gap between the door and the frame. She frowned at the scattered ceramic pieces that lay forgotten on the floor.

“Are you two… having a disagreement?” she asked concernedly, her large, almond-shaped eyes noticing the glowering looks the two angels were shooting each other. “I thought I could hear shouting.”

“Yeah, we’re fine Sera,” Adam waved his hand dismissively at Lute. “Lieutenant here was just running some ideas past me for next month’s training plan and got a bit carried away.”

‘As if he hadn’t completely flown off the handle just minutes ago’ Lute thought angrily to herself but feigned a smile and nodded politely. Going toe-to-toe with Adam in private was one thing, but she prided herself on keeping her composure around the Seraphim and other senior angels in Heaven. They didn’t need to know about their little disagreement.

Or the hundreds of disagreements that had occurred before this one. None had been quite this heated, though.

This was the only one that had almostended in violence, though. That was a first.

“Oh, excellent.” Sera moved into the room and shut the door behind herself. “What do you think, Adam? Your Lieutenant has some brilliant ideas, which I personally can’t wait to see executed over the coming months. Her presentation to me was very promising.”

The look on Adam’s face was positively feral now. Lute relished this moment and made a mental note to file this look away in her memory bank – seeing him quietly seethe in the presence of his direct superior, knowing it was in his best interest to keep his cool was something she was going to enjoy. To rile him up further, she propped an elbow on her desk, rested her chin in her hand and shot him a quick, satisfied smirk.

Cop that, asshole.

“Yeah,” Adam grumbled, suddenly busying himself with the paperwork on his desk. “They’re good.”

“Well,” Sera clapped her hands together and smiled at Lute, who bowed her head in respect in return. To hear that her proposal was highly regarded by one of the most senior angels in Heaven was praise beyond what she ever expected to receive for her work.

It was certainly more than what her direct boss had ever given her.

“That settles that, then. Lieutenant, if you could please come with me, I’d like to add a couple of things to your training program that I’ve thought of.” Lute nodded and rose from her desk once more, gathering her bag and notes. Noticing that Sera had turned to open the door once more, Adam quickly shot Lute a one-fingered salute to bid her farewell. Lute simply mouthed, “get fucked” in return.

“Oh, Adam, I see you’re working on the monthly training incident report that I asked you to turn in a week ago,” Sera said as he hastily went back to pretending to review his work. “Make sure it’s on my desk by five o’clock, please. I need it for a meeting tomorrow with the other Seraphim.” She turned and glided out the door, Lute only a few footsteps behind – though she took care to accidentally bump Adam’s shoulder with her own as she trailed behind Sera.

“Kiss-ass.”

“Dick.”

Lute closed the door with a little more force than necessary – just for good measure, knowing it would infuriate Adam to no end. Just to rub her victory in a little more. Because, after this round?

The score was Lute – one, Adam – zero.

Laughing to herself, she was sure she could hear Adam cursing her with language colourful enough to paint an entire rainbow as she strolled down the hall to Sera’s office.

Bring it on.

***

The Common Room, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

The Training Centre common room was abuzz with idle chatter and echoes of laughter as Lute entered later that morning, determined to continue her work far, far away from Adam. No formal training sessions had been scheduled for that day – the result of his poor timetabling skills, Lute was sure of it.

She would have expected the Exorcists to be using their ‘free’ time to hit the gym, or initiate sparring sessions with one another. Perhaps use the opportunity to enhance their weapon skills or, if they were particularly ambitious, simulation training. Slaying holographic demons was almost as satisfying as the real thing. Just a lot less bloody.

The reality was, on personal development days, the Training Centre turned into a goddamn sorority house. Hundreds of incredibly beautiful women congregated together in the common room, not a helmet or uniform in sight as they lazed about in their casual clothes. Some were huddled together in small groups, hands wrapped around mugs of steaming coffee or tea, giggling at whatever the latest gossip happened to be - usually centred around Adam’s latest squeeze. Others congregated around tables, playing card games (the most popular one lately, Lute had noticed, was an extremely competitive game involving red, green, blue, yellow and black cards that seemed to invoke a lot of shouting and name-calling).

The sight of it all never failed to give Lute a thumping headache. This wasn’t a fucking kindergarten, this was supposed to be work, dammit.

It wasn’t that she was against fun. She knew how to enjoy herself. There was nothing better than cosying up on the couch after a long day at the Training Centre with a hot chocolate, blanket and comforting book. Or an intense, two-hour gym session, sweating her frustrations away – a ritual she religiously undertook every single day, no excuses.

Sometimes, when Lute really wanted to spoil herself, she’d have a bubble bath. Now, that was wild.

Sighing, she located one of the more comfortable, vacant armchairs and slumped into it, allowing her eyes to close for just a moment. Normally she’d redirect the Exorcists to go and use their time more productively but after her earlier verbal sparring match with Adam, she needed a moment to relax before she got stuck into the fresh paperwork Sera had assigned her.

Sera loved paperwork.

Only three more days until I can start to turn this shitshow around.

“You look like hell.”

Lute chuckled softly. Without looking, she knew exactly who had greeted her in such a matter-of-fact way – it was the only person she’d allow to do so without punishment. Opening her eyes, she was graced by the presence of a petite angel perched on the arm of her chair, her soft red, almond-shaped eyes crinkled into a look of concern. She handed Lute a mug of steaming, black coffee which she graciously accepted with a wry smile. This morning’s events called for extra caffeine to get her through the rest of the day.

What an angel.

“Thanks, Vaggie. Rough morning in the office again.”

“Ugh. What did he do this time?”

One of Lute’s favourite things about Vaggie was how she was certain she was the only other Exorcist in the lounge who openly hated Adam as much as she did. Probably because she was one of the only other soldiers who he hadn’t taken to his bed over the years. They both often joked that he was the sole reason Vaggie was a lesbian, that the First Man was so repulsive that he alone caused her to swear off all men.

Lute didn’t have her sexuality as an excuse as to why she’d never slept with him. She just straight up hated him. Plus, it would be highly unprofessional. And he was a cretin.

Did I mention that I hate him?

“He found out I took my proposal to Sera.” Lute took a long sip from the cup, the scalding liquid almost burning her tongue. Perfection. “Then proceeded to lose his shit because he forgot that I’d tried to talk to him about it before I approached her. He thought that I’d undermined him.”

Vaggie rolled her eyes. “Typical. How did it end? Did he threaten to leave you in Cannibal Town next Extermination Day again?”

Speaking of cannibalism, I threatened to feed his own brains to him. That’s normal, right?

“Um, not quite.” Lute began, taking another sip of coffee. “I might have accidentally-on-purpose thrown a mug at his head.”

Also totally normal.

“I’m so proud of you. Did you make him bleed?”

“Sadly not, but there’s always next time.”

Vaggie grinned, clinking her own mug against Lute’s. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Amen. He then called me a mouthy cunt and I’m about ninety percent sure one of us would have caused grievous bodily harm to the other if Sera didn’t walk in at that exact moment. The cherry on top is that she came to tell him we’re going ahead with my plans.” She set her empty mug down on a nearby table and grinned up at Vaggie, who had now crossed her legs and somehow still managed to stay perfectly balanced on the arm of her chair. Tiny little thing, she was. “You should have seen his face, Vaggie. It was glorious. I’m surprised he didn’t self-combust in anger.”

“If only.” Vaggie downed the rest of her drink. “So, if Sera’s approved the plan – congrats, by the way, we need to celebrate - when do you start whipping us into shape?”

“Monday morning. We’re going to announce it in here during the morning address, before we move into the training rooms.” Lute surveyed the Exorcists lounging about. “Don’t know how the girls will take it, though. Can’t say I’ve scheduled too many days like this.”

“It won’t be easy at first,” Vaggie warned. “They’re too used to this kind of freedom.”

“I know, and if Adam undermine-”

“UNO!”

Lute and Vaggie whipped their heads around simultaneously at the sudden high-pitched squeal, Vaggie almost losing her balance and toppling off the armchair in the process. A group of five Exorcists were at a nearby table, playing the colourful card game that seemed to be all the rage.. One was grinning madly as she clutched a single card to her chest.

“What even is that?”

Vaggie’s eyes widened.

“Seriously? You’ve never played Uno? I know you’re a hermit Lute, but come on.”

“No,” Lute admitted, “Who would I play with anyway, besides you?”

“Fair point. But – and I say this with love – I’m worried that you’ve thrown yourself into your work a little too much lately, especially with this new program you’ve created. You need to relax a little.”

“What does it look like I’m doing now?” Lute grumbled. “If I’m not training, working, or exercising, I’m relaxing.”

“Lute,” Vaggie laughed. “I could see how tense you are as soon as you walked in here – and to be honest, you’d be uptight even if you didn’t have a crappy morning. This isn’t chilling out. Relaxing is letting your hair down, getting a drink after training with the girls. Playing cards,” She nodded towards the group of angels, the girl who was holding one card now picking multiple others up from a pile, cursing her friends as they all giggled amongst each other. “Try it, you might enjoy it. It’s actually pretty fun, once you get the hang of it. I absolutely annihilated Scout the other week, she wouldn’t talk to me for three days.”

“Maybe. It’s probably blurring the lines between me being their superior and being their friend, though.”

“Oh yeah,” Vaggie said dryly. “And you don’t think them taking turns being Adam’s flavour of the week blurs any lines, do you?”

Dammit. She’s got a point.

Lute screwed up her nose in disgust.

“That’s different. I’m professional, he’s… not.”

“I’m not saying sleep with them, geez.” Vaggie rolled her eyes and slid into a standing position. “I’m just suggesting maybe try being friendly with the other girls, that’s all.”

“Fine. Once the program’s under way. If they don’t hate me for kicking their asses and making them actually work.”

“You may be a hardass, but nobody’s gonna hate you.” Vaggie held out her hand, motioning for Lute to take it. “Come on. Let’s grab lunch, I’m starving.”

Would it be so bad if I let my guard down… just a little?

Lute took her friend’s hand, allowing herself to be pulled up off the seat. She grimaced slightly at the tenderness in her wrist where Adam had grabbed her – no doubt there’d be a bruise there tomorrow.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Vaggie slung her arm around her friend’s shoulders as they walked towards the cafeteria together. “Buckle up, buttercup. Shit’s about to get interesting.”

***

Chapter Two

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Lu Bu, Leonidas and Forgotten Queen section in command having a drink and talking how Great their leader are

FQ second in command say he is scared of her as he remembers when alive that before she made her first attack and command she told her army to break their ribs, crush their skulls, disemboweled their very souls and make them beg for mercy before death

She wasn't always called the forgotten queen she was calling the demon empress as how much blood she killed and destroyed despite being merciful, he knows her lossing her son from her ex husband given the fury that he knows she made few small civilization forgot their old gold to give in new ones in their place

-The three second in commands, your own Jett, Chen Gong for Lu Bu, and Hagis for Leonidas, were all enjoying some rare down time together, enjoying food and drinking together.

-All three were gushing about their commanders, telling each other about battles they had all been in, watching their commanders lead them into battle.

-Hagis was curious, looking at Jett, “Was having a woman commander easier in your opinion? Queen Y/N seems rather levelheaded.”

-Jett choked on his drink, surprising the other two as he tried to curb his coughing, trying to calm down as he looked a bit frazzled.

-Once he could breathe and talk again, “You would think that, but while Lady Y/N was level-headed after she reclaimed her throne, at least until the final attack, but during her reclamation and that last battle…” he trailed off and visibly shivered, surprising the two.

-Chen Gong and Hagis were wide eyed, listening to Jett who was telling them of your battles, on how violent you were. Chen Gong had seen you fight before, during the war games with Lu Bu, and he knew that you were an intense warrior.

-To hear Jett’s words, “She told us to disembowel them, break bones and skulls, she told us to make her enemies beg for death before we were to give it to them.”

-Chen Gong knew you were scary, but this was scary, before Jett spoke again, “She normally wasn’t like that, but when her husband, that bastard we had for a king, killed the little prince… it was…” he couldn’t continue, and the two men shared a small look.

-You were a woman, a mother, and to have your husband murder your child, to get you to try to stop your siege, only to break you, turning you into a vengeful demon, as Jett told them many called you the Demon Queen during your fights, they couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain you must have felt.

-Jett told them, after you regained your throne and buried your son, you became the wonderful leader everyone knew you by, leading your kingdom into prosperity, giving everyone fair justice and nobody went without, which sounded like a paradise.

-Then when greedy kings, jealous of the wealth and happiness of your empire, wanting it for themselves, not realizing they were the cause of their kingdom’s misfortune, and they thought it would be easy to take from a woman.

-Everyone knew how well that went, as you took several of the bastards with you, fighting like a demoness, something Jett still remembers, as he had been in awe of your anger.

-Jett fell not long after you did, and when he woke up in Valhalla, he was fully prepared to follow you in this life as well, even if you didn’t fight anymore, you were the ruler he declared his life to, which Hagis and Chen Gong both agreed to, with their own lords.

-Jett gave them one warning on to not piss you off, else they would get an ass kicking, something neither other second in command wanted to experience.

[rodeoxqueen]

For new year, can I have oneshot Dante x reader? They went to hunt during winter, then in a cave they have to hide themselves from the demons. That cave - where it's cold and the only warmth around is from each other. Dante become big spoon, pressing kisses to her neck, breathing in her shampoo and hugging her closer. Omg too much warmth for me ><

Howdy, it got a lil gore-y and hurt/comfort trope-y. Hope that’s dandy with you. 

-Rodeo

Content/Warnings: Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Holding Each Other For Body Warmth, Reader’s Gender Not Mentioned

Dante was never one to surrender and return for a second battle. He wasn’t like that and he was never going to be. So it was up to you to drag him away when the demonic horde only seemed to grow exponentially in magnitude. 

Practically pushing all of your body weight on him, the two of you fell into the narrow entrance to the rocky cave, hitting the stone-cold floor with a thump. Dante grunted as you turned to see the flurry of wings, horns, and scaled skin continue to chase after the path you were previously taking. 

Thank god for peripheral vision. 

The crevice you had wedged yourself through was barely the width of Dante’s head, yet you managed to shove the devil into the cave with you. There wasn’t even any room to stand without hitting even your head, let alone Dante. 

Forgoing your worries of the vanished demons you were supposed to hunt down, you quickly went to check on Dante. Laying on the cave ground and resting on his elbows, the giant splotch of dark red blood from his stomach had already spread through his undershirt. 

You quickly crawled over and attempted to open his leather jacket, to examine the wound. 

“Whoa, whoa, take me out for pizza first.” Dante laughed as you managed to lift up his shirt, exposing a nasty slash across his navel. It was unnaturally deep, a normal man would simply hold onto his intestines and fall to his death. Not your Dante. Not your beautiful man. 

You gave a pointed glance at him as you saw his tissue begin to reconstruct itself. 

“I’m fine babe. You should’ve just let me finish the job.” He pouted, watching his skin mend itself. 

“In this condition? I doubt it.” He sighed. 

“I’ve been through worse.” Dante tried to joke. It failed, seeing how glum you became. Often had you realized what he had gone through before in the past, without anyone. Alone. 

Dante saw the sad gears in your head turning and attempted to fill the silence. 

“Well, once this papercut mends itself we have to go back to kickin’ demon ass. And then we’ll get a pizza.” He waggled his eyebrows at you.  

“Yeah, but you need to rest now Dante.” You reminded him. 

“The one time you let me sleep on the job.” He snarked. You snorted and stroked his hair, his purrs vibrating through the cave. 

The slash was a lot deeper than Dante thought as he noticed a sliver of his own intestine was slowly being covered with muscle. He shivered a little bit at the sight. 

You were obviously more perturbed and even more worried about how Dante must have felt. You shivered as well, but more from the chill of the night, coming to bite your bones and rattle your teeth. 

Although Dante had the worst of it, your own cloyhee had ripped at the sleeves and pants, leaving your arms and legs exposed. 

“Hey.” Dante opened his arms to you, offering an embrace. 

His flesh no longer bled, yet the mark stayed stubbornly open. 

“Dante, you’re still hurt.” 

“Yeah, but you’re cold.” 

“I’m gonna get your blood all over me.” 

“Yeah, but you’re cold.” 

Even with his guts nearly hanging out, he was thinking about you. If it wasn’t for his near disembowelment, you would’ve dove into his arms and kissed his cheek for being your valiant gentleman. 

“Come on, babe. I could really use some company over here. You know, me being a foot away from you.” You sighed and relented to those puppy-dog baby blues. 

You decided to scooch to the other side of him that wasn’t horribly maimed, your size difference obvious. He grunted as he moved to lay on his side. 

“You’re so clingy.” He blew a raspberry. Your skin was goose-bumped and you still shook slightly. This wasn’t going to do. 

“Do you have to be the big spoon this time?” 

“What do you take me for? Of course, I do.” You make a noise of approval as you can feel his warmth against your cold back. 

Dante lifted his coat slightly and wrapped you in his arms and red leather. The smell of iron offput his cologne, the one you bought for his birthday, wrapped in pizza themed wrapping paper. Despite the acerbic scent of blood, you were home here in this embrace. 

A ticklish sensation followed by a soft yet chapped press of lips on the nape of your neck, Dante grinned at your giggle. He leads his adoration from your neck to your ear and kissed the top of your head. 

He smelled your hair, chuckling when notes of strawberry and vanilla came to his senses. Good to know you were still using his shampoo and conditioner. 

He couldn’t wait to go home and hold you in better conditions, such as in the shower, as hot water soothed your tired forms. 

“Does it still hurt?” You ask. 

“Nah, babe. Not with you around.” He flirted, hearing your breaths slow as you rest with a smile on your face. 

“You’re still paying for the pizza.” 

“Damn.” He yawned.  He buried his face against your neck, finding comfort in your scented skin. The feeling of his skin grafting was lost as he drowsily dozed next to you.

The two lovers rested, a haven to each other even in times of trouble. 

[astoldbygingersnaps]

#wip wednesday

it’s me, ya boy, back with Yet Another New Project!

this time, i bring you the beginnings of a oneshot dreamt up by alexa continuing to fan the flames of my shiita brainrot. enjoy!

There are very few moments in Itachi’s life that he can point to and say that he felt truly content. Many of them are from his childhood, small snatches of memory that involve his mother’s cooking or his brother’s laugh. One or two even contain his father, tiny blips of interaction where the man’s unbearable expectations and slavish dedication to duty had slipped away to reveal the human heart beating deep within him. But Itachi would be lying if he tried to claim that the majority of those moments did not include the friend that is currently sitting beside him.

This, however, is not one of those moments.

Currently they’re on the outskirts of Konoha’s vast forests, the coverage against the afternoon sun thinning as the leaves wither in the crisp, autumn air. A gentle breeze rolls through, not harsh enough to chill but the current rakes its way through Shisui’s hair, making it even more unkempt than usual. Itachi’s keenly aware of this fact, and of Shisui’s general presence, as the man has himself wedged close to Itachi, his head resting on Itachi’s knees as he prattles on about Itachi’s least favorite subject: his love life. 

It’s a fascinating contrast, the image of Shisui thoughtlessly draped over Itachi as he drives the knife that is his sexual history deeper and deeper between Itachi’s ribs. But it’s not a wound that Itachi holds Shisui accountable for, not really. Painful though it may be, it’s not as if Shisui is thoughtless or intentionally cruel; it’s merely a side-effect of Itachi’s most closely guarded--and frankly most terrifying--secret.

Often, Itachi has considered telling Shisui the truth, fantasized about what the various outcomes of such an action would be. Still, each time he’s come close to confessing, the words sitting precariously on the very tip of his tongue, Itachi swallows them down like a bitter taste. After all, there’s just no neat and tidy way to say, “I’ve loved you since we were children.” So, Itachi says nothing at all, day after day, month after month, year after year.

“Are you even listening to me?” Shisui asks, in the whiny tone of voice he always gets when Itachi isn’t giving him his full attention. On any other person, it would be an annoying affectation, but Shisui has a way of making even his worst traits charming.

Yet another truth Itachi refuses to tell him. “I’m riveted,” he replies dryly, never taking his eyes off the book in his hand, fighting a smile as Shisui groans in frustration. 

“You’re a terrible friend,” Shisui says, his faux-offended expression lingering on the edge of Itachi’s vision, and in response Itachi lifts his book to block out the sight of Shisui completely.

“The worst,” Itachi hums in agreement, finally giving into a laugh when Shisui grabs the novel he’s been only mildly interested in and chucks it out of Itachi’s reach. Raising an eyebrow, Itachi looks at the discarded tome, its pagings rustling in the breeze, before glancing back at Shisui. “A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“How come we never have these conversations about your romantic woes?” Shisui retorts, and the question is so unexpected and uncomfortable Itachi feels the neutral mask of his features start to crack.

“What?” 

Watching him critically, Shisui sits up, resting his cheek in his palm as he leans more of his weight across Itachi’s body. “I’m serious. All the times you’ve had to listen to me bitch and moan about this stuff, and not once have you ever chimed in with problems of your own. What gives?”

“Perhaps I don’t believe in kissing and telling,” Itachi replies, tone more clipped than he means it to be. Though he doesn’t resent Shisui for his curiosity, a part of him can’t help but be annoyed that somehow such a finely trained officer doesn’t realize he’s stepped on top of a massive landmine. 

Rather than take a moment to read the metaphorical room, however, Shisui presses on with his typical single-minded focus. “Oh, come on,” he argues. “It’s just us, Itachi. You know you can tell me anything.”

Despite his best efforts, Itachi can feel his stomach clenching at the proclamation. For a moment, he weighs the pros and cons of what admitting the truth would be, and is displeased to discover what the best option is. “There’s nothing to tell,” he says, shrugging as if the words don’t mean a thing, and carefully keeps his eyes off Shisui’s face.

The funny thing about Shisui is that, for all his gifts with the Sharingan’s manipulations and illusions, he’s a shockingly open book outside of his profession. Surprise paints itself across his face, all wide eyes and an open mouth, and against his will Itachi feels a flush burning at the base of his throat. “Wait, seriously?” he asks, voice low as if they’re trading secrets of national security rather than engaging in petty gossip. 

In response Itachi tugs his legs out from under Shisui, taking an unkind satisfaction in his friend’s grunt as he hits the ground. Still, the movement is, in Itachi’s mind, a tactical retreat; there’s no need to feel physically trapped when Shisui already has his metaphorically pinned down. “I’m gonna kick you.” 

“Don’t,” Shisui mutters, whiny again, as he grabs Itachi’s leg with his trademark speed. The touch burns against the bare skin of his ankle, and Itachi shakes him off with a scowl. “I’m not being an asshole--”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Itachi cuts in, annoyed.

Graciously Shisui ignores that and continues, “It’s just surprising, you know? Because you’re… Well, you.” 

Itachi feels his stomach twist. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Shisui looks at him, and absurdly Itachi feels like an opponent on the wrong side of Shisui’s kunai. “Nothing, I guess,” he eventually offers, quietly, and the statement is so outside of Shisui’s typical cheerful, confident persona that Itachi can’t help but feel profoundly unsettled.

The truth is he’s kept himself guarded in this fashion for a variety of reasons, some he can admit to Shisui and others he’d rather be disemboweled than confess to another living soul. Part of his reluctance stems from the plain fact that he’s simply too busy with other matters to commit to dating of all things. Between his obligation to his village, his devotion to his brother, and his own ambitions at eventually securing the Hokage’s chair, he doesn’t have time to waste on a frivolous matter like courtship. 

He also knows that, somewhere down the line, his father will no doubt want to marry him off, eager to pass on the talent and promise of the esteemed Uchiha prodigy. Frankly, the man would have probably done it sooner if he hadn’t felt some gratitude towards his son for working with Shisui to end the feud between their clan and the village, thus granting the Uchiha a much higher standing in Konoha. But at twenty-three, Itachi knows he can’t count on his father’s good graces much longer, meaning the inevitable grows that much closer with each passing day. 

The other issue is… a bit more delicate. Itachi’s far too pragmatic to invest in the concept of virginity as something sacred, something special to be shared with exactly the right person at exactly the right time. But it does strike him as unfair to go to bed with a person and offer them a lie instead of himself, knowing that for every moment spent together his thoughts will be firmly locked onto someone he can never have. 

Rather than reveal any of that, however, Itachi simply says, “Sex has never been a very high priority of mine.” 

“That’s kind of depressing,” Shisui replies. “You should get out there. Play the field, have fun.” 

Itachi’s just irritated enough at his continued cross-examination of his personal life that he asks the unthinkable: “Why, are you offering?” 

In hindsight, Itachi supposes that after carrying the burden of his feelings for so long such a slip-up was inevitable. But it feels less like an understandable mistake and more like a battlefield miscalculation, one dangerous enough to leave him wide-open to a counterstrike.

That in mind, perhaps it should come as no surprise when Shisui counters, ”Do you want me to?”

to be continued.

[halothenthehorns]

Meeting Moony

An Excerpt from my Marauders prequal; We Were-  Chapter 5: Free

Remus spent the next two weeks having an incessant argument, with himself and them, about whether he should allow this. Most nights he woke up from horrors on what would happen if he didn't, it got so bad Sirius filched a dreamless potion from Pomfrey two days before and kept slipping into Remus' drink both nights, and he woke up in his bed just to keep going.

'This was the most terrible, worst idea ever, and you're going to regret it the rest of your life,' he kept assuring himself as he slipped into the empty tangles beneath the tree under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye, but there they were, waiting for him like this was just another trip to class or meeting him outside the hospital wing early.

It felt odd, not removing his clothes as he trudged after them, but Sirius flung an arm over his neck forcing him to keep up, and James only waited until they heard the whoosh of the tree start above them before he started humming under his breath. Sirius was as quick to join in as ever, only Peter seemed as worried as him and he'd bite his tongue off before he ever told them no.

His body ached in that horribly familiar way, his skin already trying to blister and twitch despite the fact he probably had a good hour before the moon was at its peak. He was hyperventilating as James reached the hatch and shoved it casually open, Sirius once more shoving him to get moving like that very first time. His hands were shaking so bad James and Sirius had to help get him up despite the fact it was barely a leg up anymore.

"Stop begging Remus, time for the big reveal," James clapped him on the back with a friendly enough gesture that actually sent him to his knees he was trembling so hard. He was trying to both not look at them and memorize every facet of them. If this was the last time he'd see them, at least they were still smiling, smug, idiots.

James took a few steps back, and Remus had to fight the urge to throw his arms around his knees and beg not to be left alone, or shove him back down the hole in one last desperate attempt, even he didn't know what his twitching hands meant by it. There was a pop, and then James' boots vanished to be replaced by four sets of heavy looking, black,  elongated cloven toes neatly dicing each foot nearly in half. The dew claws on the back were nearly invisible as his eyes began traveling up the strong, powerful looking legs, the massive black hide was much smoother than James' hair had ever been in its life and still he'd swear even the tail stuck up in the back in that familiar way just to insist otherwise.

The soft muzzle nosing his ear forced his eyes higher, and he gaped not at the four points on each prong or even the odd white spectacle markings traced in, but the familiar hazel eyes gazing calmly at him even with rectangular pupils now.

Sirius wouldn't live with himself if he let James have all the fun, and a massive bark broke his concentration and tackled into the deer, the black dog sending him ungainly off balance as one stumbled away and the canine now stood proudly before him.

He'd been the one most prominent in both versions going off in his head. The werewolf in him would either see this new one as a challenge, or be happy for a new play thing, he just didn't know himself well enough to guess. The large black dog was even more massive than Remus had gotten a wayward look at, now standing proudly in the dim lighting of the shack.

"You guys," he croaked as he felt more than anything Peter moving the hatch behind him, and he looked back just in time to see it slamming in place. None of them would be able to change back and get it open before he ripped all of their hearts out. A large brown rat sat on the ring, fur the same scruffy brown coloring as Peter's hair, grooming his whiskers for a moment before scurrying to his knee and rearing up to take a few curious sniffs at him.

His fathers warnings still rang clear in his head. Eleven years old again and begging him to have a say in his own life, he'd be a good boy at school, follow every rule, and nobody would be the wiser for it. He knelt there, crying once more, but there was no going back now, as the first crack rippled up his spine.

The three of them backed slowly away, and it was the last thing they wanted to do, as they already felt like failures as Remus began to scream. The noise was the most dreadful thing they never could have imagined, somehow tangled in a human and animal as the mouth formed first, glistening fangs in a muzzle began jutting from his face, and then he got bigger.

Even watching from six feet away the whole thing was hard to believe, his skin nearly vibrating in place as it was pulled and folded into itself while silver fur began creeping out, arms and legs cracking and repairing before their eyes, the werewolf was long and lean, they wouldn't have ever believed that had been inside Remus if they hadn't seen it for themselves as he finally burst free from the clothes and boots and towered above even James, balancing on his two legs as he let out a long, night piercing howl.

It was the eyes that truly shocked them all, no story in the world could tell them what they were seeing as the circular black pupils and amber orbs held no sanity in their depths. The snarl caused James to skitter back a few feet and Peter to squeal and dart up the nearest thing, which happened to be James. Sirius flopped onto his back on pure instinct before scolding himself and rolling back over, but continuing forward as low to the ground as he could.

The werewolf didn't attack though. He just watched, nose twitching, ears flicking in all directions as he tracked everything, and finally fell back to all fours, now with Sirius right underneath him. The black dog began licking the werewolf's lower jaw, keeping his belly low the whole time, and the werewolf actually bowed his head and gave a soft lick back on the side of his exposed neck.

Sirius sprang to his feet in excitement, but the werewolf now turned away in boredom, padding softly to begin sniffing the other two keenly. They stayed very still and let him nose all over, but the moment he was done with that, he did snarl again. Sirius darted forward while James tried to hop back again, but his rump was already against the wall, and the werewolf wasn't angry at them. He'd already lost interest.

No, he turned, and made a bite at himself.

Already in motion, Sirius tackled his side before the jaws could get a good purchase, and the werewolf stumbled more in surprise than anything, glancing at the dog once more in true disbelief. It was very clear nothing had ever disturbed him before and he didn't know what to make of them anymore than the other way around.

They had a weary stand off before the werewolf grew bored once more, and began sniffing the air. He started circling the little hatch in the ground, nose pressed flat to it in an almost desperate sort of way, but then without warning snarled once more and flashed around, his own claws batting at his stomach in frustration.

'Hungry,' Remus had always told them it was the only clear memory he had of this time. No food they would have brought would satisfy him though. Sirius again sprinted right into the werewolf, not quite fast enough as blood blossomed in the shiny fur, but he was once more temporarily distracted and gazed at the dog with some unreadable emotion in the alien face.

Then he did pounce at Sirius, but there was no accompanying growl. The two went rolling about, head butting and shoving, even rearing up from time to time and starting to flash their teeth, but they were playing. Sirius could feel it in his bones, read it in every move that was made, even as a playful growl burst from his own chest and the two smacked muzzles against each other and tried to pin the other, it was no different than their wrestling matches for years now.

The werewolf had the upper hand, he was still quite a bit bigger than Sirius and soon had him pinned, panting almost happily they'd swear over his victory, but the moment he let Sirius up he already seemed too bored to try again, pacing and circling again, sniffing the air.

So they just kept at it, all night, and things steadily got worse. James tried his hand next, darting forward and butting his antlers before skipping back, but there just wasn't enough room as the werewolf didn't even seem to want to acknowledge him, just butted him away with a paw whenever he got close and tried to attack himself again, anger, hunger, boredom, or some combination of all three kept him in constant movement that Sirius alone just couldn't entertain as their wrestling matches slowly got less playful.

Sirius recognized this and tried to retreat and submit again, but the werewolf was just growing more frustrated as the night wore on, unable to lash out at anything, he finally snapped his jaws around flesh and held tight, not caring for the high pitched dogs cry until something painful jammed into his ribs, and he released the useless pray to turn and snarl, teeth snatching onto an antler with no more pleasure, just an aching jaw.

James began bellowing in panic he couldn't get away, rearing up to try and dislodge him but the creature only went with the movement, thrashing his jaw this way and that. His sharp hooves only added to the problem, thrashing against the silver fur of the rib cage on instinct to be free, it would have disemboweled a normal wolf. Sirius was still limping and trying to get back to his feet, so Peter finally darted forward, still keeping himself precariously on James' other antler as he leaned down and bit at the werewolf's snout.

He yelped, and James was released. His own fuzzy point was spat into his face as they all retreated into separate corners for only a moment, before the werewolf tried turning on himself once more. Sirius let out his own howl of frustration as he recklessly darted forward, but when the werewolf appeared to get the upper hand and sank down a hold, Peter would dart forward and bite at anything to distract, a massive padded foot the size of him, the tail, a lip, even an ear if his head was bent right, and they'd be released, only for James to jump forward next. It just started all over again.

In the moments it was about to end they still didn't guess what was coming, he finally turned away from them in displeasure, and began slamming himself against the walls, howling one last desperate cry for freedom before he was trapped away for another month, and the whole thing flew in reverse much faster.

The cracking bones seamlessly began shrinking, the jaw collapsed and the tail vanished, his ears tufted, then blunted as the cartilage reshaped, the concave stomach and ribs realigned, and then Remus stood before them, naked, bleeding, while his green again eyes rolled into his head and he fell to the ground.

Peter had been the only one to come away without a bite, but he still traveled up the stairs on all fours, only changing back when he reached the door upstairs and throwing it open to grab the blanket and come tumbling back down to throw it over him. For just a moment, it all felt worth it, as the few bruises and scratches on Remus' side looked almost mild in comparison to the work he usually did on himself.

Then he looked up, and saw the damage on the other two. Both had felt the teeth sink past fur, blood was matted into their sides, and the two stayed on trembling fours, clearly fearing to change back until Peter darted forward and cast his healing charms on them. Even after the wounds were sealed, they waited far longer than they should have as the sun began creeping in. They needed to leave, before Madam Pomfrey arrived for him, but now came the true test of the night.

Just like everything they did, as if they'd planned it long before hand, James and Sirius appeared at once, panting with exertion, their faces bruised and hobbling painfully from side to side to be back on two legs just as much as their aching bodies, but they ripped their shirts up, and laughed. There were no bite marks visible, the werewolf's saliva and contamination had not followed them to their human bodies. Everything had been worth it.

[tired-college-student-writing]

Tim’s Secret Weapon Pt.9

I’ve been slightly obsessed with @ozmav​ ‘s Damian Wayne/Marinette Dupain-Cheng pairing as of late, and just saw a post that has inspired me more than anything else has in months, so I felt the need to write it

Summary- Tim has always seen the numbers floating above people’s heads, been able to perceive their threat levels with a single glance. After being a hero for so long he thought he was desensitized to seeing high numbers above people’s heads until Damian brings a new friend home.

Part 1

Part 8

Part 9 (HERE)

Part 10

This will probably be the last update for awhile, I start student teaching this coming week and I’m nervous as all hell right now

____________________________________________

It took a good twenty minutes to calm down the Miraculous Team, during which Max had changed back and needed to feed his Kwami,  Kaalki, before changing back. 

Tim mentally edited his profile for the Horse hero, while his brother's teased the teenagers. 

Max ????- Baskerville Font Deep Golden 13, Codenamed- Pegasus. Kwami- Kaalki, the Horse. Main Power- Voyage. Time limit of Ten Minutes after using Voyage before Forced Detransformation. 

 He’d need to ask later if this time limit existed for the other heroes as well. He was also going to have to hack Collège Françoise Dupont’s register to complete these kid’s profiles apparently. 

The other heroes offered to detransform as well, but Ladybug suggested they wait until after the meeting Bruce had set up as they only had minutes before he told the other heroes to connect. 

 “Ready?” Bruce asked as he pulled on his cowl, the domino masks quickly being tossed to the correct brother as the Paris heroes exchanged looks.

 “Nope,” Bunnyx answered as she flopped down into her seat next to Viperion, “let’s get this started,” 

 The Heros of Paris all held hands as they sat on the side of the Conference table that the active camera couldn't see. The Batfamily sat across from them with Batman at the head of the table as he opened the video call. 

“Hey Bats,” Flash greets as the founders all joined the video chat, “What’s with the emergency meeting?” 

 “This is highly unusual for you, Batman,” Superman added, “Should we be heading for the Zeta tubes?” 

“While urgent,” Batman answered, eyes narrowed, “What I’m about to say isn’t exactly time-sensitive, but it is dire that we come up with a plan to assist soon.” 

Green Lantern raised an eyebrow, “That doesn’t sound good.” 

 Marinette could feel her team growing restless around her from beyond the view of the camera. After so long trying and failing to reach out, this was their chance to end things. Seeing Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman, and Martian Manhunter so close nearly made her heartbeat straight out of her chest.

  It was unreal…How much had her world view shifted in the last twelve hours? The blunder of a Billionaire that more closely resembled a zombie gorilla then human if woken up before 8 am was THE Batman, The nearly thirty-year-old police officer that still thought Captain Crunch was a suitable dinner was Nightwing, the man who tried to sneak in and steal macarons out of the oven only to pout when he burned himself was Red Hood, the much too young CEO who routinely did his paperwork in green crayon to anger those filing it was Red Robin, and oh not to mention her boyfriend who had sworn her into secrecy after crying during Tangled was the latest Boy Wonder. 

 “Paris has been under attack for nearly four years,” Dick answered from where he sat directly to Bruce’s right, “They’ve been fighting the threat alone, despite the villains' potential.   to destroy the world.” 

The seasoned heroes all stiffened. 

 Martian Manhunter was the first to speak, “What is the threat and who are these heroes?”

 “A villain known as Hawkmoth rose to power almost four years ago,” Batman told them, “He has the power to control those that express intense negative emotions and give them powers of varying intensity. Ladybug and Chat Noir have been fighting him back since he first-” 

 “Did you just say Ladybug and Chat Noir?” Wonder Woman cut him off, “Do you perchance mean the Ladybug of Creation and the Black Cat of Destruction?” 

 All eyes were on the princess as she stared down Batman. He didn’t move but Marinette could feel his eyes flickering past the camera and towards her, letting her make a move if she wanted to. 

 She hesitated before clicking the button Red Robin had given her to enter into the video call, “Yes. That is exactly what he meant.” 

 Wonder Woman’s eyes flew open wide as she saw the bright red outfit, arms snapping in front of her, crossed at the wrists, head bowed, “My Lady!” 

 Marinette cocked her head to the side, confused, “There’s no reason to call me my lady, honestly you just sound like Chat. I’m surprised that any of the League knew of the miraculous.” 

 Diane lowered her hands, looking up once more, “As you wish Ladybug, and every Amazon know the tales of Ladybug. After all, my mother once wore your earrings and held your mantle with Herakles as her Μαύρη γάτα.”

 Ladybug broke into a smile, “Hippolyta… Tikki has told me stories of past users, Πασχαλίτσα was one of my favorites to learn about.” 

 “Woah, Woah, Woah!” Flash waved his hands frantically, “Are we saying that she’s on par with your mother?!” 

 “Now I won’t-” 

 Diane cut her off, “Yes. All of Themyscira would follow a ladybug into battle as willingly as they follow my mother, their Queen.”

 The young heroine blushed as Chat, Bunnyx, King Monkey and Abeille laughed, Viperion Pegasus and Ryuko smiling at the shocked faces on the League’s faces. 

 “ Good to know my Lady is so highly respected,” Chat finally spoke up leaning into frame from her right. Marinette sighed, honestly surprised he remained quiet this long. Silently she clicked the button that made the camera pan out to bring her entire side of the conference table into view. 

 “As I’m sure you guessed,” She said to the gathered heroes, “I am Ladybug, and this is my partner Chat Noir. The other members of our permanent team are Abeille, the Bee of Subjection, Ryuko, the Dragon of Power, and Viperion, the Snake of Chance. On our reserve team is Pegasus, the Horse of Teleportation, King Monkey, the Monkey of Jubilation, and Bunnyx, the Rabbit of Time.” 

Wonder Woman looked worried, “So many active, your war must be devastating.” 

 Abeille scowled, “Paris would have been nothing but bloody rubble within a month had Ladybug not had her Miraculous cure. Hawkmoth, Butterfly of Transmission, and Mayura, Peacock of Emotion, have been attacking us for almost four years at this point trying to take Ladybug’s and Chat Noir’s miraculous, and our requests for help from the League have been ignored up until this point.” 

 “Requests?” Superman questioned as the elder heroes all stiffened, “What requests?” 

The Paris team gave them skeptical looks. 

“You’re kidding right?” Chat Noir asked slowly, “My Lady and I sent probably two dozen requests for aid since we were given our miraculous before being sent what might as well have been a cease and desist request that was just signed from the league because it was thought that everything that had leaked out of the city had just been fancy video editing and CGI. How could you guys not know?” 

“As one of the main reviewers of requests,” Manhunter replied monotoned even as his jaw clenched, “I never saw any of these messages.” 

“Yeah man,” Green Lantern added, “Neither did I, and I help out a lot up in communications when I’m not out on business. Plus we’ve never sent out a ‘stop calling us’ message before.”

“Well someone had to reject us,” Pegasus argued, “Logically speaking it has to be someone from the League as the other option is an unknown individual hacked into the League’s database and the only detectable thing they did was delete the messages from Paris.”

“I don’t care who it was, Find them,” Robin growled, white knuckles clutching his katana hilt, “I wish to disembowel them.” 

“You will not.” Ladybug’s voice was low and pointed, “Not only have we handled ourselves well, but I won’t condone infighting just because someone messed up. I don’t care who rejected us at this point, Paris has a strong team protecting it and the League is lending us their help now, something that might have been detrimental a few years ago.” 

“Detrimental?” Wonder Woman questioned, a twinge of hurt in her voice, “How would the League of been detrimental?” 

Flash scratched the back of his head, “Yeah, how would The League being in Paris be bad, kid?"

“Pfft,” Bunnyx just laughed, “Geez, Kids? Could you guys be more condescending? It’s not like we’re seasoned heroes in our own right by now or anything.” 

Ryuko's gaze flicked over all of them, “Your trust in us is lacking because of our age, but you want to give us a chance to show you how we operate since we have been taking care of our city. During our battle today the entirety of the Batfamily was watching us from the shadows and yet never felt like they needed to intervene with a team that already works efficiently with each other, yet you still question us.”  

“You saw us?” Jason asked a little startled, “Damn Onna-bugeisha, you’re sharp,” 

The girl smiled softly, “I appreciate the praise, however, I would suggest not wearing a large bright red bucket on your head next stealth mission. I was already on the lookout for red so it made spotting you and your family easy.” 

Dick snorted, “Told you your helmet wasn’t slick,” 

Jason just glared and shot back, “Discowing,”

“We’re not speaking of that atrocity. I’m going to need eye bleach to forget it already,” Marinette shuttered before becoming serious again, “The point we were trying to make is that I and my team have your trust. With Wonder Woman, Batman and his team speaking for us, you respect our claim to protecting Paris and the fact that we are the most knowledgeable people when it comes to Miraculous and our villains. Would we hold that same respect in your eyes if you arrived when Chat and I only held our miraculous for a few months? When we were inexperienced and improvising? Or would you have swooped in here with promises to fix things while shoving us to the side, upsetting us to the point where we might have been akumatized because of how little say we were given in protecting our city and stopping the villain that threatened our friends and families?”

The league heroes all shifted a little uneasy. The girl had a point. 

Inexperienced heroes had to earn the League’s respect through hard work and proving their worth, something that could have left them open to akumatiation, giving the villain exactly what he wanted. 

“Another thing,” Ladybug added eyes scanning over their faces with a serious glare, “This is our city and we have experience with the villains here and what to avoid. With that said, I believe the only members of the Founding Justice League I would trust to be in Paris before Hawkmoth and Mayra are relieved of their miraculous are Batman, Martian Manhunter, and The Flash.” 

“What!” Green Lantern yelped, but the Paris team all nodded in understanding. 

 “Ooh Yeah,” King Monkey cringed, “The last thing I want to do is face an akumatized Wonder Woman.”

“Dude, you’d be the only one safe from an evil Green Lantern,” Bunnyx groaned, “Can you imagine the damage? It’d be like Mr. Mime on Steroids!”

Viperion turned to Pegasus and asked, “If Superman got akumatized what is the likelihood that Luck Charm would just give us a chuck of Kryptonite?” 

“Considering she’s dating a Bat,” The younger man started ignoring the bugging eyes of the League, “There is a higher chance that it will just give her an indication to use Voyage to retrieve him and the kryptonite he no doubt possesses. On the 17.85% chance, it gives us Kryptonite, I’d be worried about using it as all of the Lucky Charms are red and black. Red Kryptonite usually causes a bloodlust, or uncontrollable rage in Kryptonians, while Black causes the being to be split into a good and an evil version of themselves.” 

“Soooo,” Bunnyx  draws out, “Use Uproar to take their powers away, then the kryptonite so that we just have too really angry dudes fist fighting each other in the middle of Paris?” 

Pegasus nods, “Yes that plan holds an 85% chance of working should we be put into that situation.” 

Batman just rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Should I ask where you learned so much about Kryptonite?” 

“No.” The Paris team chorused.  

The Martian looked intrigued, “Back to the original statement, May I acquire what sets us apart from the others so much that you’d be willing to accept our help but not theirs?” 

“Easy,” Chat answered, smirking slightly at the flustered looks that still remained on the rejected heroes faces, “Hawkmoth and Mayra prey on negative emotions, whether that’s anger, frustration, fear, sadness, or disgust. The more powerful the emotion the stronger the Akuma or Amok is that we have to face is. Superman, Wonder Woman and Green Lantern are known for using their emotions as strength during a fight.” 

“What about Flash?” Green Lantern barked, looking miffed, “The dude isn't exactly Mister Stoic." 

"Oh Oh!” King Monkey had his hand raised above his head, “I’ll take this one!” 

“Go ahead King,” Ladybug offered with a bemused look.

The Burly teen grinned up at the monitor, “We’ve found there are two great ways to keep from falling into Hawkmoth’s hands, thought considering everyone but Ladybug has been akumatized at least once this is mostly through trial and error. We’ve come to realize that either you need to be like Ladybug, Pegasus, and Ryuko, confident and professional to the point you don’t have time to let negative emotions, and  how Chat and I deal with it and it’s probably the same way Flash deals with the horrors I’m betting all of you deal with on a biweekly basis, if not more.” 

The speedster gave a tired smile, “An over cheerful, bantering mask?” 

Chat clicked his tongue and shot duel finger guns at the monitors, “Bingo Bongo,”

Abeille rolled her eyes, as Ladybug smacked him lightly over the head, “Nerd.” 

King just smiled wider, “Yup! We flirt, we banter, we joke around with our partners and the villains, cause it makes it easier for us to deal with after we're out of danger.” 

Superman’s eyes grew a little far away, “You pretend not to take things seriously?” 

Chat shrugged, “I mean kinda? It’s more like knowing that if everyone was serious then it would start wearing on us. We’re all people, we can’t stay serious 100% of the time, plus I know that when I crack puns the other may groan but their attacks are a little less sloppy, My lady may say she hates it when I call her Bugaboo, but it pulls her away from a bad headspace and helps her focus. It’s just our way of dealing with the dangers we face.” 

“The Heart of the Team,” Batman spoke with a heavy reverence that had each of the seasoned heroes looking over the Paris group with understanding. 

“Alright,” Green Lantern sighed, “Supes, Wonder Woman and I will stay out, but why don’t you explain what’s happening exactly in Paris. What is this Hawkmoth guy after anyways? What’s his end goal?” 

Ladybug’s eyes grew hard as her team straightened around us, “His goal is to obtain the Ladybug of Creation’s earrings, and the Black Cat of Destruction's ring. Whoever possesses both shall have unimaginable power, and the ability to grant one wish by rewriting the very essence of reality.” 

Flash let out a low whistle, “Wow, and his wish is lovely I’m sure.” 

Chat’s voice was soft, but held immense weight, “His wish could be of pure intentions and goodwill, but it doesn’t matter, because the balance must be maintained and the price is always much more destructive then one can ever imagine.” 

Ladybug nodded in agreement to her partner before taking over, “An Italian father wished for his family to never know sickness like that that took his sister from him when he was young, to live long happy lives free of sickness.  The wish came true and nothing worse then a cold touched the family, even today, but three days after the wish was made the first ship that was contaminated with the Black Plague landed in Italy.” 

“A teenager, whose homeland was riddled with war and bloodshed,” Chat chimed in again, even as the surrounding group looked sick, “He wanted for the fighting to stop, for his parents to not have to risk themselves anymore to keep their city safe, for him not to have to take up the blade in only a few short years. His wish was granted the fighting stopped and he no longer had to worry about his family dying to senseless war… because his entire city, the city of Atlantis had sunk into the sea, almost two-thirds of the population perishing as the last third realized they had an unknown ability to breathe underwater and survive the harsh conditions of the sea.” 

Aquaman looked uneasy, “So much damage for such simple wishes?” 

Chat just nodded, “Balance needs to be maintained, and each wish is a lesson in human’s foolish nature to try and fix the universe for their own needs and wants. The simple truth of the matter is no lesson is painless. Even the Kwamis can’t change that.” 

____________________________________________

“Why don’t we head to my hotel?” Abeille asked as she stretched. The call to the League had drawn to a close leaving the teens mentally exhausted but giddy, “That way we don’t need to transform again, and we can just tell our parents that we were hanging out in my room instead of each coming up with a cover story. The fact that the Waynes are also staying there just makes it easier for us.” 

“Good idea,” Ladybug agreed, “But I want to remind all of you are under no obligation to share your identity if you don’t want to, Red Robin won’t share it with the others even if  they ask.” 

“I knew Bruce’s identity for like 6 years before I broke into the cave and asked to be Robin. I think I can manage not to spill your secrets” He revealed with a little laugh as his family gave him strained looks. 

The Paris heroes laughed before Pegasus, asked for the room they were staying at, quickly opening a portal.

Alfred simply raised an eyebrow, “Well, I expect the meeting went well then?” 

Marinette flopped onto the couch with a groan as her transformation fell away, “You guys were not exaggerating with how much of a boy scout Superman is!” 

Jason snorted as the other Paris heroes agreed, “Yeah Supes always had a stick up his rear, but J’onn is looking forward to meeting you guys, the dude doesn’t get off the Watchtower much.”

“Maybe he’ll bring M’gann,” Dick suggested, “She always loves meeting new heroes, and I’m sure she and Supey would love to talk magic.”

“Change first,” Bruce ordered, ushering his children back towards the main bedroom, “Then we can hash out anything else we wish tonight.”  

____________________________________________

 Tim felt himself relax more as the transformations fell around the teens, one by one, each taking time to introduce themselves and their Kwamis to the Bats. Profiles gradually began to fill further in his mind.  

Marinette Dupain-Cheng- Cursive Soft Pink 15, Codenamed- Ladybug. Kwami- Tikki, the Ladybug of Creation. Main Power(s)- Lucky Charm and Miraculous Ladybug. Possible time limit, estimated to be 20 minutes after use of Lucky Charm

Chloe Bourgeois- Delicate Canary Yellow 14, Codenamed- Abeille. Kwami- Pollen, the Bee of Subjugation. Main Power- Venom. Possible time limit estimated to be 15 minutes after the use of Venom.

Kagami Tsurugi- Calligraphed Burgundy 13, Codenamed- Ryuko. Kwami- Longg, the Dragon of Power. Main Power- Elemental Transformations. Possible time limit estimated to be 15 minutes after the use of all three elemental transformations. 

Adrian Agreste- Bubble lettered Neon Green 15, Codenamed- Chat Noir. Kwami- Plagg, the Black Cat of Destruction. Main Power- Cataclysm. Possible time limit, estimated to be 20 minutes after use of Cataclysm

Max Kanté- Baskerville Font Deep Golden 13, Codenamed- Pegasus. Kwami- Kaalki, the Horse of Teleportation. Main Power- Voyage. Time limit of Ten Minutes after using Voyage before Forced Detransformation. 

Lê Chiến Kim - Buffon Font Grayish Brown 13, Codenamed- King Monkey. Kwami- Xuppu, the Monkey of Jubilation. Main Power- Uproar. Information points towards some type of time limit, but currently unknown

Alix Kubdel- Thin decorative font, Norwolk probably, Icy Blue 13, Codenamed- Bunnyx. Kwami- Fluff, the Rabbit of Time. Main Power- Burrow. Information points towards some type of time limit, but currently unknown. 

Finally, he turned to the snake-themed hero, the only one who hadn’t changed back yet only to have considering aqua eyes peering back. 

????- ?????, Codenamed- Viperion. Kwami- ?????, the Snake of Chance. Main Power- Second Chance. Possible time limit estimated to be 15 minutes after the use of Second chance (in a single time stream). 

The only puzzle left on the Paris team. 

“So I’m the only one you haven’t figured out yet,” He asked, a considering look flashing over his face. 

Tim shrugged, “The miraculous mess with my power so I can’t see your number while you’re transformed so yes. I haven’t figured out a thing about you yet.”

“Well,” Viperion hummed a sly grin as he leaned into The older hero’s space, “I’m not going to give you an easy answer then, Bird boy.”  

Tim couldn’t help the indignant huff, “Bird Boy? I’m older than you!”  

“Hmmm,” The smirking snake just served to make the other Bat’s share a look at the display, “Well, Bird Boy. Let’s see how fast you can find me,”   

“It’s Red Robin-”

“Yumm~” 

Tim’s cheeks burned as his brothers, Chat Noir, Bunnyx, and King Monkey cackled behind him, the other heroes hiding smiles. The younger hero finally pulled back and leaped out of the window and disappearing into the night with a final wink at the stunned hero. 

"Looks like you're following in B's footsteps," Dick teased clapping his shoulder, causing the others to laugh harder as Tim tried desperately to find his tongue. 

____________________________________________

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[peachyteabuck]

old school (make me drool)

summary: bunny is sweet, well-behaved. something about princess, though, makes her want to act out for the first time in her life. 

pairing: natasha romanoff x ofc

words: 2,663

trigger warnings: heavy md/lg, spanking, forced age regression, manipulation, there’s a vague allusion to starker, breaking of rules, 

notes/other: ANYONE WHO USES THIS AS AN EXCUSE TO BRING RAPE FANTASIES INTO MY INBOX WILL BE BLOCKED IMMEDIATELY. this was inspired by @orphiclittleone & i highly reccomend you check out their blog!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

It started when Princess had to go with Steve to a meeting with Natasha. For whatever reason Steve decided she couldn’t be alone, and Natasha said it would be fine. Princess wasn’t too mad, unhappy she could only bring one of her prizes stuffed animals, but nearly-willingly went with her Daddy to Aunty Nat’s. Still, it wasn’t until she met Bunny that the pointed frown left her face.

Steve put her down onto the thick comforter next to Bunny, whose lips were wrapped tightly around a paci, hands clutched around a large stuffed animal of her namesake, eyes trained on the TV in front of her. Her long, thick hair was tied from her face with a pink scrunchie with a bow on it, her knit sweater a matching shade of pink. Her socks were stark white, ankle devoid of the tracker Princess had to wear.

Bunny said nothing at her guest, head only turning when Natasha caressed her face.

“Uncle Steve and I are going to do some work in my office, okay Bunny?” She placed a kiss to the girl’s head where her hair parted, careful not to remove any from her perfect ponytail. “I’ll be down soon to give you your bottle. Until then, play nice with Princess, alright?”

Bunny, still not dislodging the paci, nods and leans into her Mommy.

“Good girl,” Natasha praises, leaving one final kiss to her girl’s forehead before leading Steve into her office, a room adjacent to the playroom the girls resided in. In a moment of good faith, she had her coworker close the door behind them.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Steve chuckled as he sat in the fine leather chair near the fireplace. “I put that track on Princess for a reason, you know.”

Natasha sighed, grabbing the file from her desk. “If we weren’t discussing how someone was disemboweled by a small terrorist organization outside Orlando, I’d keep it open.”

Steve, already worried about what Bucky had exposed Princess to in order to watch her squirm, acquiesced.

Back in the playroom, Bunny made a disgruntled noise as Princess poked her chubby cheek.

“Do you ever speak?” Princess asked, nose wrinkled at her supposed playmate’s poor playful reciprocation. “Daddy said you were quiet, really quiet. He said you almost never talk. I’m not quiet.”

Bunny, much to Princess’ dismay, remains mute. Not a squeak, not a huff, not an eyeroll. Even Bucky’s Doll was better than this, and she was often too exhausted to give Princess enough attention for the girl’s liking.

Princess, though, is anything but a quitter. She pulls back for a few minutes, allowing her counterpart to relax. Just as Bunny seemed the happiest, Princess yanked the paci out of her mouth and pinned her to the floor.

Bunny tried to yell, but Princess placed her hand over the girl’s mouth before she could do anything. As Princess leans close to her ear, she whispers low, giggling as Bunny clutches her stuffed animal’s ears in her tiny hand. “Daddy says we can be playmates, do you want that, Bunny?”

Suddenly, in the span of less than a second, Princess hears her Daddy’s footsteps, hears the knob turning, and jumps off Bunny to the other side of the blanket. Bunny laid, there, stunned, as Nat and Steve picked up their respective littles.

As Steve bid his goodbye, and Nat turned around to close the door, Bunny perched her chin on her Mommy’s shoulder and locked eyes with Princess, who wears a smile fit for the evil penguins from the movie Bunny was watching before Princess showed up.

Somehow, Bunny knew their game wasn’t over.

The next time they met, Bunny is playing on a blanket in Natasha’s expansive backyard, dressed in a plain-pink one-piece bathing suit with her hair in two braids down her back and the bracelet Doll made her on her left wrist. Peter’s in the pool, sunbathing on a unicorn floatie. Doll’s curled into Bucky’s side, shoulders covered with one of her Daddy’s worn t-shirts – one large enough to cover her sensitive, bruised thighs. Natasha, Stark, Strange, and Rogers are all inside, making drinks for themselves as the sun swelters high in the sky.

Princess is the only other conscious person who remains outside, an easily forgettable body as Bunny colors under the sweet shade of the big tree in the back of the expansive yard, quiet enough that the occasional squirrel or bird will hop across her blanket and sniff at her forgotten snack.

She’s unable to ignore her counterpart, though, when Princess plops herself down onto the thick, cotton blanket specifically designated for outdoor use.

Bunny, despite her annoyance, says nothing.

Princess says nothing in turn, watching the girl in front of her meticulously color in the lines of a complicated flower.

“Daddy never lets me color anything like that,” she finally says, staring at the set of sixty-four crayons Princess had wanted for two Christmases and three birthdays but still never received. “Daddy says they’re too complicated for me.”

Bunny stops coloring for a moment, whole body stilling. Princess thinks she’ll say something, thinks she’ll show a break in her shell that’ll give her some in. But no, the sound of crayon gliding against thick paper fills whatever silence Bunny intended to proliferate with words.

It’s then that Princess takes out one of the most-loved crayons – a soft blue that’s had the wrapped long since pulled off.

“Do you like this crayon?” she asks Bunny.

Bunny stops coloring – bright orange crayon inert as she tries to swallow the dryness in her mouth. Fear paints her face as she gazes upon her favorite coloring tool. Out of all her markers, her colored pencils, her watercolor paints. None of those hold a candle to that one crayon. It’s the only crayon she doesn’t like Natasha using, the only one she saves for the special coloring book pages – the ones she gifts her Mommy for Christmas and for her birthday and when Natasha picks her up from spending time at Uncle Bucky’s place because she’s been on a business trip.

Which is why Bunny nearly cries when Princess snaps it in half, then crushes the pieces into something resembling dust. She does whimper, though, does drop the crayon she’s holding and curl her legs up to her chest and stares at Princess with these wide eyes that beg for her to stop whatever it is she thinks she’s doing.

“What’d’ya gonna do about it?” Princess questions. When Bunny doesn’t answer, Princess quirks her eyebrow then moves to grab another one.

Bunny gasps, tears beginning to well up in the corner of her eyes. “Please don’t,” she whispers.

Princess pretends not to hear her, and selects another well-used crayon. “Really, you’re just gonna be a baby and let me do this?”

Bunny looks around the lawn, begging Natasha to come outside or Peter to feel how frightened she is or even Bucky, a man who rarely pays attention to her but seems to like her more than Princess, to look over and wonder why there’s such tension between his best friends’ best little girls. Unfortunately (for you, at least), none of them pay you any mind. Somehow this is worse than when Natasha has to leave you alone for work or whatever it is she does when she’s away. At least then you don’t have to do deal with Princess.

“Please, Princess,” Bunny says a little louder. “Please don’t break my crayons.”

Princess smiles wide and sinister, like that Cheshire Cat from that movie you don’t like very much. “Alright then,” is all she says before standing up and skipping off to lay on the Aurora towel that was in the shade of a different tree. Even though she’s alone, Bunny remains upright, curling around her precious box of crayons.

The third time they meet is Bunny’s birthday party about a month later. The main festivities are over, all the adults drinking from Natasha’s expensive liquor cabinet. Doll’s curled up on Bucky’s lap, playing with a My Little Pony toy (Applejack, of course) and occasionally being fed bits of cake from Bucky’s fork; Peter’s enthralled with the latest installment of their classic movie marathon that’s playing just too loud for Bunny’s liking.

On any other day, Bunny would be elated to watch her favorite movies with her favorite friend. She’s allowed to eat ice cream cake (vanilla, from her favorite pastry shop down the street) and wear her favorite pink dress.

Her hair is in two low buns with a pretty pink bow. Natasha spent the whole morning with Bunny in her lap, telling her how cute she is and how much she loves her. Everything was great, perfect.

That was, until Steve and Princess showed up. Natasha was preoccupied with catching up in her friend to notice Bunny clutching her favorite stuffie or Princess’ sly smile.

Like the first time they met, she and Princess are placed on the blanket that sits in the middle of the playroom. This time it’s fleece, thick, one Bunny made with Doll one of the rare times they’ve had playdates together. It’s full of mint green and soft pink flowers around a bunch of sea animals. Bucky said he found the blanket kit at a craft store and thought the two of them could make it when he and Natasha were working in his office.

There were a few moments of silence as Steve pet Princess’ hair and explained how much Princess had been looking forward to today. Princess just smiles big and wide and teasing, waiting for the adults to leave before she finally speaks.

“Ya know, Daddy and I love teasing each other…” Princess says as if she’s the most innocent conversation maker to ever fail to meet her counterpart’s eyes. “You and your Mommy should try it sometime.”

Bunny gulps, fidgeting with her hands. “Mommy doesn’t…Mommy doesn’t let me do that without her permission.”

Princess scoffs. “Oh, you ask your Mommy for everything. Daddy hasn’t made me do that in forever.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Daddy likes it when I act out.”

“Mommy doesn’t,” Bunny doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to stave off what she now understands is inevitable. “Mommy doesn’t like it when I act out. She likes it when I’m good. I get candy, cuddles, stuffies when I’m good.”

Princess almost rolls her eyes, frustrated. “Maybe you should just try it sometime, just to see what happens.”

Bunny doesn’t say anything back, too scared of what would happen. Natasha always told her curiosity killed the cat, but could curiosity kill her as well?

Hours pass without incident, without Princess nagging Bunny or Bunny snapping at Princess or, really, anything happening. Princess merely leaves her to brew for hours, eating cake with her fingers and eyeing Bunny to see how she’s doing. Bunny’s lost in her own thoughts, the only indication of time passing being Steve coming in take Princess home.

As Steve picks her up once more, a smirk spreads across her frosting-stained face. Her eyes are knowing, full of mischief. In the background, the forest fire scene from Bambi plays on the large TV. Bunny wishes she could be one of the forest creatures running for their life, able to get away from the natural disaster that had descended upon her home.

Despite her fear of Princess, her words stick in Bunny’s brain like gum in her hair. It’s all Bunny can think about for days, maybe even weeks after her birthday party.  It gets worse when she’s alone, when all she has are her thoughts and her hands and…and…

Bunny decides to do something, do the unimaginable the day Natasha says she’s going to have lunch with Stark and Strange. That she’ll be back in a few hours.

Just enough time, Bunny thinks as she hears the front door shut and the deadbolt lock. Just enough time for her to do the unthinkable.

◦ ◦ ◦

“Bunny!” Natasha calls into the house. There’s the usual pause, one where she’s used to allowing Bunny to find her voice. But for whatever reason, she doesn’t hear the usual yes, mommy? followed by the pit-pat of her feet across the house. “Bunny?” she calls again, but the only thing she can hear is resounding silence.

Natasha’s heartrate picks up tenfold, not even throwing her shoes off as she runs to the room she kept Bunny in when she had a long work day. As she types in the code to open the door, Natasha is met with a sight she’d never thought she’d see:

Bunny, with one hand down her pullup, and the other clutched over her mouth. Her pale yellow pajama shirt is hiked up to her ribs, threatening to fall over where her hand meets her center.

For a moment Natasha does not know what to do, body frozen and chest heaving and heart racing. Bunny hadn’t so much as blinked without permission, let alone touched herself sans asking Natasha beforehand.

Squeaky, breathy moans slip past her fingers, eyes rolling to the back of her head as her body shakes with the desperation that comes just before an orgasm.

That’s what snaps Natasha out of her trance, what makes her fly across the room and grab Bunny’s face with her perfectly manicured hand.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Natasha hisses through her teeth.

Bunny bites her lips, eyes wide with fear. “P-princ-“

Natasha almost growls. “What, Steve’s little?”

Bunny nods slowly, meekly, lip quivering in fear as Natasha hand remains firmly grasped over her jaw. “P-princess s-said that it woul-d be f-un to-“ Natasha, a woman who has not had a hair out of place since the Reagon administration, nearly knocks over Bunny’s designated stuffed animal bookshelf. Wordlessly, she places Bunny over her knee and exposes the soft skin of her ass.

Bunny hadn’t been spanked in years. Ever since Natasha had gotten her, broken her, she’d been the perfect little – so obedient and eager to please, smart and quiet, happy to play by herself while Natasha worked with the others. She was everything Natasha could’ve asked for and somehow more…

But this? This was inexcusable. She was a big believer in second chances, but those must always come after an appropriate punishment.

“You think just because Steve’s Princess can whine and act however she wants, that means you can, too?” she hisses, hitting each cheek twice. “You think that girl’s behavior excuses your own?”

Bunny yelps, trying to find the strength to speak without sobbing. “N…no…” she mumbles, digging her face into her and trying to curl against the woman whose lap she has found herself in.

“What was that?” Natasha snaps, hitting the backs of her thighs this time. The slaps of skin on skin echos throughout the room and stabs at Bunny’s ears.

“No, Mommy, I am not allowed to misbehave! I am not allowed to break the rules”

“Good,” Natasha says through grit teeth. She takes a moment to grope her heated ass cheeks, and you savor the sweet moments away from the sharp pain. “If you didn’t know your place, I would’ve had to call Steve up to see how he keeps Princess in line. Maybe Bucky, too. He once kept Doll in a basement for two weeks because she wouldn’t eat her vegetables. Do you want that?”

Violent shivers shoot through you. Uncle Bucky and Steve are nice enough to you, especially when Natasha’s around. But with her permission to discipline you in their preferred way? You shrink away at the thought. “N-no Mommy. No, Mommy I’ll promise I’ll be good.”

“Good girl,” Natasha coos, another few smacks landing on her bottom. “Now, for the rest of your punishment…” Bunny gulps, trying to relax her muscles so it doesn’t hurt as bad.

“Now, should I put you on meal replacement shakes or keep you in chastity?”

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

The Switching Hour

A/N: it’s been just over a week since halloween but i finally got this piece done and i’m quite happy with it! :D i hope you guys enjoy and feedback is always welcome and cherished!! ilyyyy

masterlist | ask 

word count: 8.4k 

content: dramatic perfectionist demon!h, fluff, and a lil bit of smutty sexual tension

preview:

Her voice chimes up, prickly with annoyance and just the slightest bit of awe. “Are you always this picky when it comes to your Halloween costume?” 

Harry rubs the material of a Jack Skellington pantsuit between his thumbs and forefingers, humming in absentminded disapproval at the flimsiness of the fabric. “Always.”

“Why?” 

He drops the article of clothing, watching it sway back and forth on its hanger for a second before glancing up to meet her irritated expression, answering with a prideful undertone. “Because Halloween is the best holiday of the year and I’ve built quite the reputation for myself amongst my group. I always outshine and I tend to keep it that way, darling.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Right, I forgot how competitive you are.” 

“Actually, I like the praise,” Harry gives her a slow, sultry once-over, lips buckling with a sly smirk, “but you already knew that.”  

Her arms tighten instinctively across her body. 

Harry goes back to filtering through hangers, scrunching his nose in distaste at yet another Dracula ensemble. Drac never even wore a cape, he preferred tapered vests. He was the one who taught Harry how to style flared pants centuries before they came into fashion. With the way humans stained his cherished outfit designs, he’d be rolling around in his grave right now if he had one. He wasn’t even a vampire— just a crossroads demon with a very peculiar taste in beverages.

Y/N toys with the visor of an astronaut helmet, staring at her warbled reflection in the grey plastic and sighing with defeated boredom. “Why don’t we just get the Purge masks and go?”

Harry gives her a look of incredulous disdain. “And cover up one of my most prized assets? I’d rather let a hellhound disembowel me again.”

///

Harry was aiming to be an angel. 

Well, not literally. Hell forbid it, in his opinion. Most of them are wound so tight, they wouldn’t be able to fly if they tried. 

Plus, he actually quite enjoys being a demon. Immortality, flexible work hours, free range of the human world, and not to mention a pretty sick gig with the sorcery. It’s a sweet deal, once you get past the decades of excruciating torture and training, of course.

So no, he’s not aiming to be a literal celestial being. Rather, he’s planning to be one for Halloween on behalf of Y/N’s approach to switch identities as a couple’s costume. 

The idea had stemmed from when they had been walking around Party City a few days prior, trying to gain inspiration for the annual costume party a friend of Harry’s is hosting. 

Y/N hadn’t really been keen on going, despite the invitation being extended to her through Harry. She felt like she never really fit right with her boyfriend’s inner circle and it was for an obvious factor: they were all demons. 

She’d only ever gotten along with one demon before (granted, she’d only ever put effort into befriending this single one) and she was perfectly fine with that number. It isn’t that Harry’s friends treat her coldly in any way (they were pretty welcoming, much to her surprise), but she could practically drown in the awkward tension that milled whenever they had to interact. She stuck out of place in a painfully obvious manner and she refuses to force herself into bonding with them; it would just make the situation a whole lot worse. 

The connection remained as a polite acquaintanceship, and from what Y/N could tell, both parties are more than happy for it remain as so. 

Either way, Harry had managed to sway her into accompanying him. She wanted to give out candy to the children from the complex and he wanted her to be his plus-one, so a compromise was settled. They would hand out candy from six in the evening until eight, then get ready and leave for the party at nine.   

After agreeing upon the terms, they’d spent well over forty minutes in pursuit for their costumes at the store. 

The choices they had weren’t very compelling, according to Harry.

He outright refused to be a vampire, warlock, or werewolf— the overuse of the genres made them tacky. He’d rather be caught dead (a second time) than have to wear a cowboy hat, so that was a bust on Y/N’s part. No aliens, no zombies, no Frankenstein (which he filed under zombie and it was an entire five minute bicker session between them before Y/N finally let it go with an exasperated sigh). 

No superheroes. He’d cycled through all of them already, including Black Widow. He looked great in a bodysuit, if he does say so himself.

Historic figures were a bore considering there isn’t anything truly scary about King Tut, other than his crippled foot and untimely demise. Animal costumes are for children, as well as ghosts and ghouls. Mummies were too messy. 

Due to his selectiveness, they ended up circling the store five times, coming up empty-handed. Y/N had stopped giving him suggestions after he’d used a release spell to make her drop the Elvis wig she’d been inspecting.

Her voice chimes up, prickly with annoyance and just the slightest bit of awe. “Are you always this picky when it comes to your Halloween costume?” 

Harry rubs the material of a Jack Skellington pantsuit between his thumbs and forefingers, humming in absentminded disapproval at the flimsiness of the fabric. “Always.”

“Why?” 

He drops the article of clothing, watching it sway back and forth on its hanger for a second before glancing up to meet her irritated expression, answering with a prideful undertone. “Because Halloween is the best holiday of the year and I’ve built quite the reputation for myself amongst my group. I always outshine and I tend to keep it that way, darling.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Right, I forgot how competitive you are.” 

“Actually, I like the praise,” Harry gives her a slow, sultry once-over, lips buckling with a sly smirk, “but you already knew that.”  

Her arms tighten instinctively across her body. 

Harry goes back to filtering through hangers, scrunching his nose in distaste at yet another Dracula ensemble. Drac never even wore a cape, he preferred tapered vests. He was the one who taught Harry how to style flared pants centuries before they came into fashion. With the way humans stained his cherished outfit designs, he’d be rolling around in his grave right now if he had one. He wasn’t even a vampire— just a crossroads demon with a very peculiar taste in beverages.

Y/N toys with the visor of an astronaut helmet, staring at her warbled reflection in the grey plastic and sighing with defeated boredom. “Why don’t we just get the Purge masks and go?”

Harry gives her a look of incredulous disdain. “And cover up one of my most prized assets? I’d rather let a hellhound disembowel me again.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He pulls a pirate costume out from the metal rack, eyeing it judgingly. “You don’t get crowned best costume every year without being dramatic.” 

The outfit holds a decent aesthetic with the passable material and colorful gems. The embroidery on the cosmetically tattered vest holds up and there’s no stingy parrot accessory in sight, though the cheap plastic sword is a bust. He’ll have to rummage through his storage and find a real one (probably the one he used during the American Revolution). If he’s lucky, maybe it’ll still have some dried blood on it.

With a bit of smudged black eyeliner and a pair of silver hoop earrings, he just might strike gold at the party. 

Best of all, the costume gives him an excuse to show off his broad chest (not that he needs one, but the fact that it adds to the genuinity of the look is a win). 

“Harry, look.” 

The giddy hilarity in Y/N’s voice draws his attention upwards from examining the purple buttons on the potential candidate. 

She’d clad herself in a bright red glittering cape that goes down to her knees, the button of the collar a large pentagram and perched atop her head is a pair of bedazzled devil horns about five inches in height each. In her hand she holds the rest of the costume— an attachable pointed tail and a three foot tall blood red pitchfork. 

“What do you think? Kinda reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.” She looks up in faux thoughtfulness, tapping her chin for effect. 

Harry’s cheeks twitch with a grin of endeared amusement, dimples blinking. “I think you look absolutely adorable. Although...”

He trails off as he drift towards her, tugging lightly at hem of the cape, looking past his girlfriend towards the array of other devil costumes. He reaches for another, pulling it out and holding it up for consideration, shrugging his brows suggestively. “I think I’d rather see you in this skimpy little red dress and fishnet stockings.”

Y/N’s eyelids droop into a stern scowl. “And I’d rather not have my ass hanging out in front of all your friends.” 

“That’s the whole point, minx.” Harry holds the hanger up in front of her, humming admirably as an image swipes over the front of his eyes of her prancing around in a pair of glossy red-bottom heels, a pentagram choker, and some bold cherry-colored lipstick. “Just wanna show off my girl.” 

Y/N shoves the garment back towards him, tone cocky and pointed. “If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it, then?”

He lowers his arm, slinking his head slightly to the side and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, the edges of his mouth twitching cheekily. “I don’t think all my bits and pieces would fit inside these stockings properly.” 

She unclasps the pin that holds the cape closed, pushing it off her shoulders as she sing-songs her words teasingly. “Won’t know until you try it.” 

Harry puts the articles of clothing back into their designated spot. “You’re no fun.” 

His focus dances to a few hangers down, a random twinkling nabbing his curiosity. He moves the surrounding pieces away with the back of his hands to get a better look, a smile creeping across his face at the fit. 

“Hey, babe. What d’you think of this one?” 

Y/N glimpses up from fiddling with the bendy devil tail, scoffing in entertained delight at the sight before her. 

Harry stands with his elbow propped on the top of the metal clothing rack, his legs crossed at the ankles with the tip of his worn tan boot tapping at the sleek black floor beneath it. He’s decked himself out in full angel attire, a light-up, wire-supported halo flashing brightly above his head, alternating patterns between quick bursts of yellow light and longer, drawn-out fading. The wings across his back span about four feet in total, strewn with white and gold holographic feathers, some covered in glitter. 

“I think you look dashing.” 

Harry pushes off the metal rail, the whole set-up quaking a bit under his strength. He ambles over until he’s right in front of his girlfriend, holding his arms out to his sides grandly. “I think I look dashing, too.”

He then turns his torso to the side, propping his chin on his shoulder and batting his lashes, going for a faux effect of adorable pureness. “Personally, I feel like I’d blend right in.”

His eyes suddenly ink black, dark veins protruding under his waterline and snaking their way down his cheekbones. “I’m as innocent as they come.” 

Y/N glances up at the ceiling with pretend mild annoyance, irises focusing back on Harry with the left corner of her lips curved, her sentence deadpan. “I beg to differ.” 

Harry drops the act, a look of insulted shock painting over his features as he carefully removes the halo headband from his quiffed curls. “You don’t think I’d play off being a good angel?!”

Y/N reaches over his shoulder and gives the tip of one of the fluffy wings a signifying tug. “Frankly, I don’t think you’d get past the gates. You’d get smited on sight.”

He gently grabs the hand that was playing with a gold polyester feathers, sifting his fingers between her’s and thumbing over the back of her knuckles temptingly. He cocks his head sideways a tad, stepping forward until his chest is ghosting over Y/N’s, the air of his sultry words just barely caressing her lips. “Maybe you could sneak me in, then?”

Y/N squeezes his digits playfully, snorting softly. “And why would I do that? So you can wreak havoc in the dining hall?” 

Harry releases a boyish giggle, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his nose scrunches. The childish grin slowly melts into a brazen smirk, teeth gnawing at the inside of his lower lip as some very explicit scenes bounce around the inside of his skull. He shakes his head lightly, making a low mm-mm sound to hint that he has other plans in mind. 

“Want you to sneak me in so you can take me up to your room. Show me around a bit— beginning of the universe memorabilia sounds interesting.” 

“Yet something tells me prehistoric rocks aren’t why you’d want me to sneak you up to my room.” She gives him a knowing stare, the pad of her thumb toying with the glossy black surface of his painted index nail. 

“Well aren’t you a clever little thing?” Harry leans in closer, his lip piercing grazing the skin along her jaw, settling nice and snug right against her earlobe. Her blood feels like it’s boiling. 

His whisper send tendrils of electricity revving across her temples and down her neck. 

“You’re right, though. Honestly, I just wanna fuck you on your bed instead of mine, for once. Make you whine and whimper for me to let you cum, all right under your dad’s nose. Make you stain your sheets and leave a few nail notches on your headboard.” 

“Harry, we’re in public...” Y/N’s urgent murmur is warm against his neck, causing him to whine deeply in the back of his throat as the heat washes down his jugular, leaving his ears tingling. 

His voice is thick and full of gravel as he answers. “I know, makes it so much hotter.”

He pauses his breathing for a heartbeat and Y/N gets the sensation that he’s analyzing her. She then feels him press a conceited grin across the back of her jaw, his two front teeth nipping at her earlobe tauntingly. His tone is heavy with arrogant certainty. “You’re wet.”

She digs her nails into his knuckles, looking down at her feet out of embarrassed instinct. “Shut up.” 

He ignores her request. “I’d have to muffle those pretty sounds you make— we both know how loud you are. Would cover your mouth with the palm of my hand while I spread your thighs with my hips and fill you up with my cock until you feel it at the pit of your tummy. I’d run my lips across your stinging nose and hot cheeks, hushing you and mumbling dirty things against your skin. Telling you what a good girl you are for me and how tight and warm you feel. How good you’re taking me and how cute you look all sweaty and needy, trying to keep quiet so no one finds out you snuck a demon back home, all because you wanted to get your brains fucked out with everyone right outside the door.”

A sudden prickling slithers up the back of Y/N’s neck, her muscles tightening in heightened anticipation. “Someone’s watching us.” 

Harry’s arm wraps around her waist, the hand holding the halo sliding over Y/N’s hip and maneuvering her out of sight of the prying eyes he can feel burning into his broad back, piercing right through the material of his leather jacket. He glimpses over his shoulder, catching a snapshot of the culprit peeping into their exchange: an elderly woman, partially hidden behind the black and orange tensile decorations, staring at them with disgust. 

Harry mumbles a quick basic spell under his breath. “Dis.”

Push.

The aged woman spontaneously jars forward, stumbling out of sight down the aisle she’d been loitering. 

Harry cranes his neck back towards his girlfriend, a happily satisfied smile staining his lips. “Took care of it.”

Y/N’s wide, astonished gaze leaves the empty space where the target had been, zoning in on her boyfriend with alarmed outrage. “You just shoved an old lady!”

His giddy grin immediately drops into a confused frown. “And?”

Harry didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to go wider, but she puts rest to his doubt. 

“And?! She could be hurt!” She immediately slaps his hand off her hip, releasing their conjoined fingers and smacking her palm across his chest as a repercussion for his actions (though he barely feels it). 

He rolls his eyes at her theatrics. “She’s fine! It was a light graze.”

“It was a satanic spell!” 

“She was intruding!”

“Oh, and that warrants you pushing her down the aisle?”

There’s a halt in the argument, followed by Harry’s eyes darting across different points of Y/N’s face— her tinted lips, her creased brows, her slightly flaring nose, and her faintly glowing eyes. The look in them is intense and begrudging. 

He hadn’t even realized his lips were parted in aroused surprise at her vehement outburst— she always looks so hot when she’s mad. He licks over them lightly, willing them closed and exhaling loudly through his nose. His eyebrows jolt upwards with salacious intent, the corners of his pursed mouth following suit. “Are y’gonna spank me for it, then?”  

“You’re insufferable.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.” Harry pecks the tip of Y/N’s nose and steps sideways, purposefully leaving just enough space for Y/N to squeeze between his chest and the clothing rack. 

A swift peek at the designated aisle confirms that the woman is indeed fine (just a little bewildered) and Y/N is finally able to move past it, though still grumbling condemnation. 

She pulls at the thick clear straps of Harry’s fake wings thoughtfully. “We still haven’t found any costumes.” 

“Speak for yourself. I think I’m gonna go as Captain Jack Sparrow over there.” He hooks his thumb towards where he’d hung the pirate costume while he tried on the angel props. 

Y/N squeezes the cushioned bedazzled devil horns, an idea dawning. “What if we go as each other?” 

Harry raises a single brow, intrigued. “Well, that’s an idea.”

“It’d be a cute couple’s costume!” 

He removes the wings from his back. “I dunno. I quite like my pirate costume. I look great in black liner.”

Y/N pouts, though he doesn’t think she notices, which makes it all the cuter. “Pleaseee?”

He lightly tugs at the collar of Y/N’s striped t-shirt. “I could be persuaded...”  

She huffs. “Why are you such a handful?” 

He taps the pad of his index finger against the faint hollow at the center of her throat. “I’m more than a handful and you’re well aware of that.”

She forces herself to keep a tab on the electricity threatening to brim into her irises. “Please?” 

“Say it again. Love the way your voice sounds when you’re begging.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, irked (and slightly aroused, though she’d never admit it) at the way he’s being so crude. “Pretty please?”

The sensual touches at her neck halt, the atmosphere suspended for an elongated second. “Pretty please...?”

His tone suggests he’s waiting for her to utter something more, eyes waltzing with pompous appeal at the way she’s stroking his ego.  

Y/N grinds her teeth, jaw muscle visibly ticking. When she speaks, her voice is low and timid. “Pretty please, Daddy?”

The amusement swimming in the amber specks around his pupils translate across the ends of his mouth. “Sounds like a plan. Cliché, but I’ll bite.”

She clears her throat to break the puncturing sexual tension. “We just have to figure out the outfits to wear with the accessories. It can’t be that hard, right?” 

Harry smiles confidently, dozens of combinations of clothing already buzzing around his mind. “You leave that to me, sweetheart.” 

He doesn’t disappoint. He brings the rest of their costumes home the next day after three grueling hours at the shopping mall, carrying two frosted plastic covers over his shoulders (as well as an exhausted yet triumphant expression) when he saunters into the living room. 

Y/N falls in love with her fit before it’s even fully out of the bag. 

It’s a two-part velvet design and it’s absolutely dazzling. The main statement piece of the garment is the actual pantsuit: flared cuffs that cut perfectly just below her ankles, the soft fabric a pigment mix between a bright red and deep maroon. As the eyes draw upward, the suit ombrés into a murky black; by the time one’s sight gets to the bando-style top, the color is solid. The accompanying second half of the outfit is a blazer, tinted the same shade of maroon and covered with carefully embroidered crystal clear gems, resulting in material that both absorbs and reflects any light that hits the jacket, giving it bewitching juxtaposition. The cuffs and grand folded collar are lined with elegant glittered lace— a small detail that makes a world of a difference. 

The beauty of it draws attention, clutching it effortlessly and Harry knew it would match her ideally the moment he laid eyes on it at the store. 

He even managed to work an aspect of his little skimpy dress fantasy into the mix: the red-bottom heels. They compliment the look down to the detail with the chic, dark glossy surface on top and the flashy red lining along the underside. The model of the pumps is sleek and tapered, made to give an air of sensual confidence to anyone who dons them. 

He doesn’t regret a single cent of the thousands he’d spent— the way his girlfriend’s eyes are twinkling with enamored awe makes it more than worth it.

Y/N had been rendered speechless as she passes the pads of her fingers gingerly over the plush velvet, almost as if she’s scared it will disintegrate if it wrinkles. Her voice is a stunned murmur. “Jesus, Harry...”

“You like it?” He sets his own protective carrier down along the arm of the couch, the blurred plastic keeping its contents hidden. 

She holds the top portion of the pantsuit up to her chest, trying to imagine how it’ll look with her hair and makeup done. “Like’ doesn’t even come close.”

Harry smiles shyly as he takes the spot beside her, chest fluttering at the notion of making her so happy, fingers rising up to mess with the hoop piercing hooked along his eyebrow— a bashful mannerism. “Good. Always love making your eyes glow like that. Metaphorically speaking.”

Y/N laughs lightly at his joke, face shimmering with a certain loving warmth that makes his insides stir. 

Harry drops his hands into his lap, leaning a bit to bump her shoulder jestingly with his. “Where’s my thank you?”

Y/N returns his gesture, hugging his gift to her stomach gratefully. “Thank you. You spoil me rotten, honestly.” 

He ducks his head down to press a lingering kiss to her temple, inhaling her scent of lavender and cherry blossoms and baby powder and another odor he can’t quite place but it reminds him of a time in his life long ago when he was happy and fulfilled and loved. “I’d do anything for you.”

“You better stop before my eyes start glowing non-metaphorically.”  

Harry’s full-hearted chuckle chimes the air like a thousand bells. It dies down slowly, his forehead pressing against her cheekbone, the tip of his nose brushing across her skin in a caring manner. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and raw. “Can I have a kiss?” 

Y/N bobs her head, craning her face towards him, their noses bumping. She flushes her forehead to his, gazing deeply into his irises as they twinkle with delicate admiration. 

Contrary to the usual, there’s no lascivious teasing or suggestiveness in Harry’s behavior; just simple, subtle affection. And the fact that he’d asked permission makes it sweeter. It’s intimate moments like these that make her cherish giving love a chance.

She buttons her lips to Harry’s tenderly, feeling him sigh dreamily through his nose. It’s not a messy kiss, there’s no desperate sexual drive behind it. It’s homey and mellow, like a hug from someone long lost.     

It lasts a solid ten seconds before Y/N draws back, dwindling the singular kiss into a dozen tiny pecks across Harry’s cheeks, nose, and eyelids until his face is puckering up at the feathery sensation, lashes fluttering open sleepily. 

Y/N sponges her lips between her boyfriend’s brows with finality. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She attentively eases the cover back over her expensive present, zipping it closed and making sure the metal bit doesn’t catch on the cloth. She lays is out across her lap, already glancing over Harry’s shoulder investigatively, trying to make out what he had bought for himself.

“So what’s yours look like?” Her hand stretches out towards the costume with the intent of undoing the zipper. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Harry’s fingers come town over the top of her own, smacking them away humorously. 

Y/N’s head reels back quizzically, insulted. 

He shrugs his brows ominously, one of his large, ring-clad hands streaming across the bag protectively. “It’s a surprise.” 

“That’s not fair!” She exclaims adamantly, though the giggles escaping her are doing a horrible job at backing her claim. “You got to pick mine and I can’t even take a peek at yours?”

Harry defends his secret with another playful slap at her insistent hand as it attempts to reach below his arm. “You know how much I love edging.”

Y/N slumps her shoulders dramatically, the weight of the mystery already itching the back of her brain. She doesn’t know how she’ll be able to put up with it for the next couple of days. “Can I at least see the shoes?”

Harry shakes his head, an evilly delighted simper coiling onto his face. “Nope.”

“Unbelievable.” She snips, crossing her arms over her stomach. 

“‘Good things come to those who wait’ and all that.” 

He’s having way too much fun with this.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him challengingly. “I’ll have my way when you’re asleep.”

He belts out a laugh. “Over my undead body.”

With that, Harry springs up from the couch, jetting towards the stairs that head up to the top floor of the condo, the forbidden costume in tow. 

“Hey!” Y/N vaults up to chase him, well aware of all the possible hiding places scattered upstairs. It’ll take her ages to find it; by the time she does, it would already be past the date.

Harry has a decent amount of time ahead of her, his lanky legs taking the steps two and even three at a time, easily leaving her in the dust. How he keeps from slipping on his jack o’lantern socks is beyond him.

Y/N scurries up the spiral staircase after him, both of their airy giggling bouncing off the intricate metal railings and dark hardwood panels.  

Harry stumbles into their room and slams the door shut behind him with a simple spell, the lock magically flicking shut. He’s laughing so hard his stomach aches, whipping around on his heels to keep alert as he backs into the room, picking his brain for a proper enchantment. He mumbles the invisibility incantation out of breath and half-snickering, but gets it out nonetheless. 

“Fallax flamma, ignis de potentia, et in abscondito, ego ignire te evanescit.”

Cloaking flame, fire of power and concealment, I ignite you to vanish.

A blinding red and blue flame engulfs the entirety of the plastic cover, extinguishing almost immediately, leaving behind no trace evidence of the object he had under his arm moments ago.

And without a second to spare, the door flies open, Y/N rushing in with a victory elating her features. “Gotcha—!”  

Her head swivels from side to side, confusion furrowing her brows as she takes in the image of her boyfriend’s empty arms, alongside his smug, self-satisfied expression. “Where’d it go?!”

Harry creases his brows to mimic her own baffled appearance, mocking. “Where’d what go?”

She ignores the dig. “You can’t possibly have hid it that fast! Not unless you used…”

Realization floods her face. “Cheater!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s called using my resources.”

“Cheater!” Y/N reiterates, lunging forward and koalaing her arms and legs around Harry, sending him stilting back and crashing into the mattress, the duvet rising up in a puff of fluffy black cloth.

His back bounces three times against the bed yet she manages to stay latched on, her knees digging into his hips as her hands fumble to pin down his wrists. 

He fights back, wriggling from side to side to try and shake her loose, kicking up his legs wildly in hopes of teetering her off. “This is wrongful punishment, I didn’t even get a fair trial!”

Y/N ducks down, running her soft lips over the spot where his neck meets his jaw, knowing full well it’s one of his most ticklish places. She whispers her words warningly. “Let me see it.”

Harry can’t help the high-pitched, half-suppressed laugh that escape him, jitters coursing through his bones, stemming from the area where her mouth rubs along his heated skin. He wills the bubbly shrieks to die down, teething at the ring that adorns his bottom lip, eyes alight with pure ecstatic energy. “No.”

Y/N shrugs off his refusal, her supernatural strength proving valuable as she manages to keep her boyfriend stretched to the sheets. “Fine, then. Guess I’ll just have to torture it out of you.” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at her mockingly, the ruby gem piercing glinting in the faint, grey evening light streaming in freely through the large glass wall that overlooks the city skyline. “Guess you will.” 

Her method backfires almost immediately. 

Harry’s sneaky ways and matching inhuman strength accomplish to outmaneuver her. After a fair share of complaining grunts, palms slamming against cheeks, carefully coordinated pinches to side, and a somewhat harsh tug to her hair, she ends up splayed over the mattress beneath him, heaving shallowly as he traps her forearms against his chest, nimble fingers wrapped around her wrists. 

Harry kinks his brows up boastingly. “How’s that, then? Taste of your own medicine.”

Y/N squirms excessively, but slipping free seems unlikely. “I could totally kick you in a really sensitive place right now, but I won’t.” 

He calls her bluff, words sticky and warm against her chin. “It’s in your best interest not to considering you’ve taken a liking to bouncing on it.”  

She yanks at her arms almost savagely, snapping her head sideways to avoid him taking a piss at her as her irises flare up a pale neon blue. 

Harry ends up getting his way. The costume remains unseen until the night of the Halloween party, hidden in some tear in the universe where he knows she won’t be able to find it.  

It remains in its magical alcove until Harry summons it out after his shower, hanging it on an unused towel hook on the marble wall.

He gives it a calculating once-over, chin propped on his loose fist, elbow supported by the wrist of the arm he has swung across his torso. He sways ever so slightly, the towel clinging to his hips dangling dangerously low on his structured pelvis. His wet curls caress the back of his neck, mopping over his small ears and itching his brows, resulting in Harry combing them out of his face with his fingers and sighing lightly.

He taps absentmindedly at the center of his plump lips, running the pad of his index digit along the ridges of his bottom one, feeling the smallest bit off since his piercing is lacking in its rightful spot. The things he does for the authenticity of the look. 

The hand across his stomach clenches and unclenches thoughtfully as he chalks up the details of the full costume in his head, cracking each of his knuckles one at a time with his thumb as he dwells on his ideas. He can never seem to stay still when he’s plotting. 

He glances down at his nails, smiling fondly at the white lacquer Y/N had painted on them to go with his theme. He knows the suspense has been killing her and it amuses him to no end.

Harry rummages through the bathroom cabinets, retrieving his hair drier along with his favorite mousse. Y/N’s makeup bag also makes it onto the counter, as well as his Dove Fresh Cucumber deodorant, cologne, and a pair of dangley pearl earrings he’d acquired as a gift centuries ago from a French noblewoman more than willing to give him what he wanted (in more than one sense).

He knows exactly what his costume is going to look like now and he doesn’t waste a second in beginning preparations. 

On the opposite side of the door, Y/N thinks quite the contrary— he’s taking forever to get ready, the minutes wasting away just like her patience. 

The plan had gone as intended, to an extent. They’d handed out candy to all the children that had come and she’d even weaned Harry into buying a cute jack o’ lantern bowl to set the mood. She enjoyed seeing all of the creative costumes the kids had conjured up; she thinks her favorite was probably the ten year old girl dressed like Thanos from the Avengers movies. Y/N’s favorite part had been the gauntlet, which had carried different colored Jolly Ranchers in place of the Infinity Stones. Quite clever, if you asked her. 

There was an incident with a twelve year old who gave them attitude for their choice in the candy they gave out, but Harry handled it before Y/N could even react. He’d crouched down to her level, mumbled something unintelligible, and then from what Y/N could see in the split second that it occurred, flashed her his demon face. The preteen fled without a single word. 

He had pushed himself back up with his palms to his knees, brushing past Y/N into the apartment, grumbling under his breath. “Entitled miscreants.” 

No more kids ventured towards their door after that. 

She had been the first to get ready, well aware of how long Harry tended to take when preparing himself to go out. 

He casually suggested that it would go by faster if they showered together, not to mention it’d “help the environment and what not,” though she knew his intentions would likely set them on a detour. He was playfully insistent, however, and she ended up having to shove him out of the bathroom with his underwear already half off. 

After she had cleaned up and blow dried her hair accordingly, she left the bathroom to him, deciding to finish getting ready in the bedroom to avoid being late (and also because she knew he wasn’t going to let her see him putting on the costume). 

“I know we have an eternity to live but try not to fill it all up with your showertime.” She’d quipped as she drifted past him on her way out of the foggy, humid washroom.

A sudden tug at her towel had sent her hands fumbling, just barely managing to keep her chest covered. Harry’s snickering had bounced off the shell of her ears. “I make no promises.”

Now Y/N sat on the large bed, distractedly rocking her heels back and forth against the thick-carpeted ground, running her fingers over the silky velvet fabric of her flared pantsuit as it bunches around her thighs. 

She isn’t one to brag or boast because she had been wired to be humble, but she doesn’t think she’s ever looked better. The suit fit her perfectly, all of the seams and cinches falling exactly where they should. The jacket was loose enough to be comfortable but snug enough that it hugged her shoulders properly, not to mention the inside was made of velvet, as well. The wide-legged portion of the fit stopped just below her ankles, giving away to the shiny, midnight-tinted glassy shoes. She’d practiced her walk for about ten minutes. 

Her hair is parted to the side, the front section pinned back from her face to showcase the makeup she’d applied. She’d tightlined her eyes with black kohl eyeliner and a red lip pencil she’d had to make due with (which she’d ducked into the bathroom to get, disappointed when she didn’t see the familiar plastic covering hanging anywhere along the walls) and applied the bright red lipstain Harry had gotten for her. 

Around her neck lays a delicate gold chain, Harry’s large ruby ring glittering at its center. He always loved seeing something of his on her and he always joked about how this specific act was a vintage antic that dated back to the nineteen twenties; girlfriends would wear their boyfriend’s rings around their necks as a symbol of love. The first time he’d mentioned it, she had fallen head over wings for the idea— fallen for its simple yet deep meaning. And it just confirmed to her that under the layers of the hard exterior he donned, Harry was a hopeless romantic at heart (despite the fact that his no longer beat).

Y/N thumbs over the big stone encapsulated in the aged gold band, sighing restlessly through her nose as the pattering of the water echoes through the walls of the bedroom. He’s probably taking this long on purpose and she has half a mind to stalk in there and drag him out by his wet curls, but she refrains. His surprise better be worth it.

The water spout creaks to a stop, the only sound resonating in the bathroom being Harry’s faint humming to Thriller as the door to the shower cracks open loudly. Fucking finally. 

Y/N scampers onto her feet, nearly breaking an ankle as she forgets her choice in shoes. She heads towards the washroom door with an attentive stride, rapping her knuckles on the wooden door lightly, voice tinged with irritation. “Are you done?”

Harry chimes back, tone full of airy, cocky humor. “Not quite. Still balls-naked, but I suppose I could go like that, if you want me to. Don’t mind it.” 

“Just get dressed already, would you? You’re taking forever.” 

“Haven’t you ever heard of being ‘fashionably late?’”

Y/N growls in exasperation, crossing her arms and pacing back and forth in front of their bed, trying to reign in her nerves. Going to a party where she barely knows anyone is bad enough, but Harry isn’t easing her woes any by being a little shit. 

On the other side of the wooden door, Harry is finger-combing mousse through his hair as he harmonizes to Monster Mash, twirling strands here and there around his index finger to accentuate the ringlets just the way he likes. He flips his head over, mussing up the roots to ensure the soft volume and fullness he’s so known for. He always takes his hair seriously— a residual mannerism from when he had it shoulder-length for almost a decade. 

Blow drying doesn’t take long and he’s buttoning up his top before he knows it, leaving the last three buttons undone to expose his swallow tattoos and upside down cross necklace, the antennas of his butterfly inking peeking out from the edge of the open shirt, along with the curved tips of its wings. 

He fishes out a couple of products from Y/N’s cosmetics pouch as he wiggles his toes into his new shoes, zipping them up with finality and leaning in closer to the mirror for the makeup application. 

Once he’s finished and everything has been returned to its rightful spot, he spritzes a few pumps of his Tom Ford cologne across his flexing necking and down his jaw, capping it and giving himself a thoughtful once-over in the mirror. He’s proud of what he’d achieved. 

He murmurs a spell, retrieving the halo and wings from the magical storage facility he’d placed them in, fitting them onto his costume and humming in approval. 

The door to the bathroom swings open, startling Y/N enough to trip up her angry loitering.

Harry steps through the frame of the door, completely decked out in his attire for her to witness in its fully glory. “Let the switching hour begin.”

Y/N can’t stop her jaw from dropping in astonishment. 

Harry looks incredible— breath-takingly ethereal, to say the least. She scans the look from bottom to top, taking in every detail slowly, feeling almost as if time had slowed down around her. 

It starts with the footwear. They’re a pair of glossy, bright white heeled boots, silver metal tips adorning the front of the shoes. She’s never seen anything like it and knowing how dramatic Harry can be, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’re custom. 

The boots disappear under the flared cuffs of the off-white, wide-legged pants he is sporting, the fabric ironed and crisp, complimenting his height. They’re high-waisted, ending just above Harry’s navel, the front embellished with two parallel rows of gold buttons, each engraved with a capital, Roman-font letter G that glints under the soft, buttery low light of a single lamp. 

His top is probably the statement piece of the layout. It’s a baby blue long-sleeved button-up blouse with a frilled collar and cuffs, the buttons decently-sized opal crystals that shimmer holographically with every movement. The fabric of the cloth presents a similar effect, the material frosty and see-through with reflective, multi-colored sparkling fibers sewn in. The shirt is tucked into the high waist of Harry’s pants, fitting loose and flouncy around his torso, the twinkling faintness of the thread juxtaposing the darkness of his tattoos in an unexpected yet flattering manner. It hugs his shoulders and back tightly, muscles rippling the cloth in a way similar to how a stone wrinkles the surface of a still lake. 

The layers of the collar ornament Harry’s sharp jaw and grace the intricate pearl earring dangling from his right ear. She takes notice of the inversed cross necklace resting at the center of the valley that is his chest, glinting with a type of poetic irony. His fingers are garnished with his usual plethora of rings, his two blocky initials hugging his second middle finger and pinky amidst an array of gems and carvings. 

Though the dazzling clothes and expensive jewelry are eye-catching, Y/N can confidently say Harry’s makeup is the real caviar of the entire look. 

White liner runs across his waterline and over the crevices of his top lashes, opening up his eyes and making the olive tone of his irises pop more than usual. Glitter has been strewn across the curve of his cheekbones and faded up onto his temples, the holographic flecks of pastel blue, baby pink, and snow white glued down securely and glimmering under the flickering light-up halo. The lustery specks have also been combed into his fluffy, soft curls with a dash of gel, twinkling like a billion little stars. Evenly-spaced rhinestones decorate along the curve of Harry’s thick eyebrows— a final touch of grandeur that pairs adequately with the rest of the accessories.

Harry lifts the palms of his hands upward expectantly, giving a slow twirl and showing off the glitzy wings (which mold into the look effortlessly). “So, what d’you think?”

Y/N puts all of the pieces of the costume together in her brain, attempting to process it all at once and being rendered utterly speechless. The broadness of his body— the thickness of his chest, how his biceps and back muscles strain the dainty material of the top, his towering height with the heels, his sharp, defined features— contrast the delicateness of the fit, but it somehow it works. It somehow makes heat pool at the pit of her stomach and makes her ears crackle with spurts of electricity. 

All she manages to croak out is a quiet, tender, “You look pretty.” 

This sends Harry into a round of light-hearted giggling, his smile more blinding than any of the flashy props he carries. He glances down, zoning in on the metal tips of his boots to avoid her noticing the blush invading his cheeks. He pushes it down, scolding himself for being so mushy. 

He clears his throat lightly, giving a quick glimpse over her own costume. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Y/N instinctively looks down at her outfit, grabbing the excess fabric around her thighs and curtsying jokingly. “Thanks, my boyfriend picked it out.”

Harry tilts his head to the side, his two front teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyebrows jolting knowingly. “He has great taste.” 

Y/N steps closer to her boyfriend, draping her arms over his strong shoulders, the corners of her lips twitching. “Yeah, but he takes centuries to get ready. That’s kindof a trade-off.”

Harry’s hands coast onto his girlfriend’s hips, squeezing jestingly as he draws her body flushed against his, the golden buttons of his pants cold against the ombréd cloth of her pantsuit. “He sounds like an ass.”

She wobbles her head from side to side as if mulling over his comment, eventually nodding in agreement. “He is.” 

His jaw falls open into a shocked smirk, raising his eyebrows in silent objection. “Is that so? Why do you stay with him, then?”

Y/N’s palms glide down the taut muscles of Harry’s arms, the pads of her fingers pressing into his skin suggestively. “He’s got a few redeeming qualities.” 

Harry’s heavy lashes dust over the tops of his cheeks, catching a few stray particles of glitter that shimmer alluringly in the dim lighting. His forearms suddenly tighten harder around her waist, pulling her so close she can feel his groin pressing into her thigh. His tone is slathered with arrogant self-assurance, the ghosts of the words dancing across her stinging lips and her eyes nearly roll back as whiffs of his intoxicatingly delicious scent numbs her sinuses. 

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Y/N has a hard time swallowing, feeling her voice lodge in her throat as he begins brushing his lips up and down her jaw. “I’ll keep that to myself.” 

Harry chuckles deeply and she can feel the vibrations down to her bones. “S’okay, I’ve got an idea of what you meant.” 

“You sound awfully confident.”

“I speak from experience.” 

Y/N moves her face back a tad, noticing that her fingers had somehow ended up tangled in the chain of his necklace, tugging at it so hard it's bruising Harry’s throat. He doesn’t mind it— he liked the burn. 

He ducks down further, wisping his mouth over her’s, groaning lowly in the back of his throat when he sees her lips are stained with the tempting red color he’d picked out. “Your mouth looks so pretty like that. Bet it’d look even better skimming down my chest and over my thighs.” 

His hold has her leaning back so far she’s now balancing on the tips of her toes, her chest heaving slightly against his. “Bet it would.” 

Harry reaches one hand up, cupping her jaw with his fingers, his thumb rubbing slowly over her bottom lip, watching the color transfer faintly. “Wouldn’t mind some of the glitter on my face ending up across your inner thighs, either.”

A small whine strains the back of Y/N’s throat at the image of Harry’s head ducking between her legs over and over, the white liner smudging under his eyes due to sweat while her damp skin rubs the glitter off his cheekbones, his ringed fingers clamping over her plush thighs as the light from the moon bounces off the glossy surface of the white nail polish. 

Harry presses a warm, sloppy kiss to the center of her jugular, her knees quaking as heat surges through her veins. “Some of it on your fingers, too, from pulling at my hair.”

He slowly dips his thumb past her lips, it’s weight heavy on her tongue. She acts on impulse, closing her mouth around it and sucking drunkenly. 

Harry’s teeth skim along the side of her neck, a breathy purr of, “That’s my good girl” simmering her nerves. 

Her words are muffled and weak, but she manages to get them out into the open. “We’re gonna be late.” 

It’s not that Y/N doesn’t want to because, fuck, she wants to, but she knows that Harry would leave her a disoriented mess for the rest of the night, and it’d be pretty obvious. The last thing she wants is his friends teasing her about it— the mortification would be eternal. 

He sighs grandly against her throat— which nearly sends her crumpling to the floor—  and reluctantly pulls away. 

Harry knocks his forehead against her’s, his sparkly lashes dusting her eyelids as they barely conceal the puncturing sexual hunger glinting in the amber flecks around his pupils. “You’re lucky the pantsuit is a one-piece or I’d have you riding my face right about now.” 

With that, he refixes her crooked demon horns atop her head, retrieving the cape, clip-on tail, and pitchfork from where she’d placed them on the bed. He tangles their fingers together and yanks a very hazy, unbalanced Y/N towards the door. 

She stumbles after him in her heels, gaining enough footing to avoid rolling as they descended down the stairs, the sounds from both of their shoes pounding hard inside her temples. Harry hands her the rest of her costume, grabbing his favorite navy blue trench coat from it’s hook next to the entryway and shrugging it on, carefully working his hands through the sleeves to keep the frill detailing from bunching up. He pats down his pockets to make sure he has his keys, fishing them out with his index finger as he unlocks the front door. 

He steps off to the side for Y/N to go through first, kissing her cheek chastely as she brushes past him with a tiny, soft, “Thank you.” 

“Of course, darling.” Harry follows her lead, turning back to lock the door to their apartment, checking the knob the same way he’s done his entire life. 

Y/N loops her arm around his as they walk towards his car, the chilly air rustling her velvet jacket and drying the light sheen of sweat that had accumulated across her hairline. The moon hangs calmly amongst the stars, illuminating the high points of Harry’s face in a very fitting heavenly manner, the soft sounds of chirping insects and hooting owls setting a comfortably spooky tone for the rest of the night. A few straggling trick-or-treaters are turning in for the night, exchanging happy halloween’s and heading towards their complexes. 

The beeping of the car rings across the still air along with the quick flash of the headlights. Harry opens the door for Y/N, just as he’s always done, helping her get settled into the passenger’s seat. He then leans down a tad through the frame of the door, fingers tapping at the hood of the car, eyes half-lidded in a sly simper.

“Just thought I’d tell you in advance, you might wanna get the situation between your thighs settled before we get to the party. I’d be able to smell how wet you are from a mile away.” 

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

All Is Found:Anastasia!AU

Part VI – Learn To Do It

Fandom: The Witcher Word Count: 3,035 Rating: G Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak​ @whatevermonkey​ @jill-makes-art​ @mynamesoundslikesherlock​ @kemmastan​ @magic-multicolored-miracle​ @writingstudent​ @mlleecrivaine​ @coffee-and-stories​ @amirahiddleston​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @astouract​ @your-not-invisible-to-me​ @mycat-is-mylove​ a/n: A retelling of Don Bluth’s Anastasia (1997)

{prologue}{part i}{part ii}{part iii}{part iv}{part v}

Despite a harrowing start, the journey continued without much ado. When you crossed over from the other side of the mountain into Sodden you all took a deep breath of relief. Well, all of you but Geralt who was still on high alert after the attack. You and Jaskier were nearly giddy, though. You noticed that his grin was a bit wider and his steps a bit lighter and when your eyes met every now and then he gave you a beaming smile.

“Is it like this every time you come here?” you asked.

“Oh no, we never really get to keep going. We get about as far as the bottom of the mountain and then usually Geralt has someone ready to meet them to take them into town and on their way. This will be the first time I’ve actually travelled farther away in ten years,” he answered, pulling the lute around to the front of him.

“Why do you always come back?”

Jaskier considered the question as he absentmindedly strummed chords on the instrument.

“We’ve never really made enough to survive is part of it. Another is that Geralt here has an honorable streak, believe it or not, and wanted to keep around in case more needed help out,” Jaskier explained.

“For a fee,” you clarified.

“For a fee,” he agreed with a nod and not a scrap of shame which you found oddly refreshing. There was a great deal of moral posturing at the Home but very little action to support it. You preferred a frank and honest mercenary than a false saint and Jaskier was certainly no saint.

He was, however, a pain in the ass.

“Recite back to me the last four ruling houses of Toussaint,” Jaskier demanded. You groaned aloud and he stared at you, unmoved by your irritation.

“Y/L/N… Thyssen… Halford…”

“Nope,” he said, cutting you off mid-sentence, “The last four ruling houses have been House Y/L/N, House Thenadier, House Agnor, and House Toussaint, the founders of the land.”

The rest of the walk was much in the same vein and it got to the point where your fighting grew so frustrating that Geralt forced you to walk on either side of him. You joked about having to say “a witcher apart” but only Jaskier giggled, Geralt stayed stony faced and alert. The tension that settled over you reminded you of the risk you were taking and the wind felt a little colder and the snow crunched beneath your feet went from pleasant to scary, every footstep possibly echoed by an unseen assailant. You set up camp under the sweeping boughs of a willow tree and when you woke you were all in better spirits. Jaskier eased off on the history lessons and focused on what he felt were more practical matters. He strummed an easygoing melody and Geralt took your hand in his and rested his other hand on your waist. The witcher looked so grumpy you nearly laughed.

“Come now, Geralt, you’re dancing with a lovely lady – a princess no less! Do try not to look like you’re about to be disemboweled,” Jaskier called. The tune continued and Geralt danced you around in a basic rhythm, your feet taking to the steps better than expected and before long, his stony face cracked a little smile of enjoyment. You’d never danced with someone taller than yourself, much less a grown man, and you found it exciting. Jaskier’s eyes went from assessing to proud… to unsettled. You enjoyed the dancing with Geralt, it was clear. Jaskier wasn’t sure why that should bother him so. Maybe it was the way Geralt seemed to enjoy it too and the way his amber eyes met your Y/E/C ones as he pulled you back in from a twirl. Whatever the reason you’d only danced through a few songs before the music stopped so abruptly you smacked into Geralt’s chest.

“Right that was splendid, shall we be off?” Jaskier asked, suddenly impatient.  

“Yes,” Geralt said swiftly. Though he had enjoyed himself more than anticipated he was nervous about losing time and wanted to put more distance between you and whoever was hunting you. Jaskier walked next to you as you traveled, far closer than a witcher apart, so close your knuckles lightly brushed against each other’s and neither knew how much the other’s hand tingled at the touch.

The next few days were spent much the same way.

Geralt taught you both how to forage for food and while you’d expected Jaskier to grouse about the quality, he always complimented it and made it sound like a sumptuous feast instead of some berries and nuts that were half-frozen from the snow. Geralt also continued to work on your knife throwing and would watch you and Jaskier, who spurred each other to practice more, competitive as you both were and determined to be the better knife thrower. Geralt would have preferred you be motivated by a basic desire to survive but he wasn’t going to argue the point as long as you were practicing. You warmed up to the history lessons as Jaskier found ways to ground it in things you would care more about. The more personalized it was, the more closely you listened, hungry for any connection with the people whose blood ran through your veins and had once, presumably, loved you very much. Jaskier did not have you practice dancing again, to your disappointment, and if Geralt shot him some very pointed looks about this, Jaskier simply pretended not to notice.

Though it was still very much winter, everything seemed better on this side of the mountain. The sun was out more often and though there was snow all around it was the pristine snow that’s left untouched on a field, not the discolored slush that covered New Nilfgaard. By the time your trio reached the first town you were all eager for a warm meal and a night away from the snow, no matter how picturesque. As you walked through the entrance of the town you heard music in the distance and you and Jaskier both perked up, Jaskier from excitement and you from confusion.

“Why is there music?” you asked.

“There must be a festival or a celebration of some kind!” Jaskier exclaimed. You gave a little ‘oh’ of understanding. You’d never been to a festival before, the closest thing to a celebration being the annual fundraising for the Home, and Jaskier could see a lack of expected excitement in your eyes.

“Wait, Y/N, don’t tell me you’ve never been to a festival or a party of any sort before,” he gasped.

“Well no, I did. I just can’t remember it and the last time it happened apparently my whole family died,” you answered glibly. Jaskier looked over at Geralt who tried to pretend he didn’t see the entreating gaze. The bard shuffled a bit closer, trying to weave into view but Geralt kept finding something in another direction to stare at.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said in a sing-songy winning voice.

“Hmm.”

“Geralt this will be the perfect chance for her to practice what we’ve been studying,” he cajoled.

“Hmm.”

“You could go get our room at the inn and sit up nice and toasty with an ale, resting your weary frame, as Y/N and I engage in the splendor!” Jaskier continued, gesturing grandly as you entered the town square. A few local musicians played and children danced to the music while most of the adults chatted, happy for the chance to catch up without other obligations. The well in the center of the town served as the focal point, covered in bright streamers and bits of holly for decoration. The smell of roast meat on the air made your mouths water and you saw Geralt eye the tavern.

“Geralt, please?” you asked, giving him the widest puppy dog eyes you could muster. He sighed heavily and you and Jaskier shared a grin of triumph behind his back.

“Back at the inn by nightfall,” he insisted. Jaskier had already seized your hand and run off into the crowd and he shook his head and trudged towards the inn.

“Oh gods, alright, what shall we do first?” Jaskier asked, sky-blue eyes sparkling with excitement as he looked to you for direction. You gazed around and your eyes fell on the musicians playing.

“A dance?” you suggested tentatively. Jaskier’s smile broadened and he magnanimously held out his arm. You looped yours through and both of you laughed at the ridiculousness of it as you walked closer to the men playing. Jaskier took you in his arms the same way Geralt had but differently as well. Geralt had been stiff and distant but Jaskier’s touch was warm and leaned into you. Not in a way that made you feel stifled or crowded, just so you felt the warmth of his body near yours and his eyes gazed into yours in a way that Geralt never had. The butterflies you felt as he began to walk you through the dance were new and almost made you want to stop dancing but there was a light in his eyes that beckoned you on and like a moth to the flame you followed him as he moved, a natural rhythm between the two of you as you danced.

From his seat in the window Geralt watched and the closer Jaskier pulled you, the deeper his frown creased. Jaskier had never fallen for the people that they aided across the mountain. There was light flirtation at best but there was no time for long lasting attachments. In the days you’d been traveling he’d watched as you and Jaskier’s squabbles had grown less bullheaded and more playful. He’d seen how you went from walking three witchers apart to nearly moving in tandem, as close as you could be. He didn’t know if Jaskier even realized what was happening but Geralt felt a sour twist of guilt in his gut as he watched the bard dip you low, your noses brushing as he paused and just held you. Your arm was clutching his shoulder, surprised by the muscles you felt beneath the doublet, and his eyes flitted to your mouth. Geralt watched this all in breathless anticipation along with you, fearful where you were hopeful that Jaskier may bridge the slight distance between your faces and press a kiss against your lips. He seemed to recover himself and pulled you upright again and Geralt took a little sigh of relief. A short lived one, however, because he knew that was just the first of what would be many near kisses. And one day, if you didn’t get to Cidaris soon enough, the line was bound to be crossed.

-----

After the dance you’d gone to the tavern to join Geralt in eating some food. You sat across from the two men and Geralt tried not to notice the fleeting smiles you gave each other, glancing away quickly as your eyes would meet. He tried not to notice the soft expression in Jaskier’s eyes, much less the slightly puzzled but happy look in yours. He would pull Jaskier aside later to discuss it.

They’d all walked to the room together, only renting one to save the money, and when the door opened and you and Jaskier walked in Geralt stood in the threshold for a moment.

“Fuck.”

“What is it Geralt?” you asked, surprised by his outburst and a little startled, fearful that he’d seen someone’s face in the window. Geralt’s stare was pointed at the bed in the room.

The one bed.

The three of you then turned to look at it and there was a moment of quiet before you unceremoniously pulled off your boots and lay in the middle of the bed. You looked at them both expectantly and then, when they didn’t make a move, you sighed exasperatedly and leaned up on one elbow.

“We’ve been sleeping together for the last several nights,” you said.

“Not in a bed,” Geralt muttered.

“Let’s be sensible,” you argued, “We all need the rest and we all can fit if we snuggle close which we need to anyway to keep out the cold. Now, is this acceptable or would one of you rather be in the middle? Geralt? Are you secretly a cuddle enthusiast?”

Your eyes twinkled teasingly but Geralt’s brows furrowed for a moment before glancing over at Jaskier, sending him a look that was a question that he answered silently in turn. You marveled at their ability to communicate through look alone and wondered, with a bittersweet twinge, if you’d ever have that with someone one day. Jaskier pulled off his boots and shrugged off the doublet. His undershirt was half undone as usual but for some reason your stomach did a little flip at the sight of his dark, hair covered chest as he moved closer and you realized it would be pressed up against you soon, and all night. He climbed over you and your heart leapt into your mouth and then he pushed you, wriggling under the blanket (though the sheet remained a layer separating your bodies).

“Rude,” you muttered as you pushed back a bit, pressing up against more of him than you’d expected. His hand rested against your arm and you craned your neck back to find his face closer than expected, your mouths a breath apart again.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied. There was the sound of armor falling to the floor, startling both of you out of your reverie, and you turned to find Geralt moving towards the bed.

“Y/N sleeps by the wall,” he said.

“Well hey now I don’t think we can just tell her where to sleep,” Jaskier protested.

“She’s safer by the wall,” Geralt insisted, shooting Jaskier a look that dared him to push further.

“I don’t mind,” you said and you boldly climber over Jaskier’s frame to the other side of him, his eyes on you the whole way. Jaskier turned to face you but he was yanked roughly aside and Geralt planted himself between the two of you on top of the bedding.

“Blow out the candle, Jaskier,” Geralt said, closing his eyes and threading his fingers together on his chest. You smiled at Jaskier, a little amused and somewhat regretful look in your eyes, and he shot Geralt a final, grumpy look before blowing out the candle and climbing back into bed. You lay in silence for a bit, none of you asleep, and when you shifted to the side and tried to oh-so-casually extend your arm to rest against Geralt’s chest Jaskier was at first struck with jealousy. Then you wiggled your fingers a bit, catching his attention, and he grinned as he turned towards the witcher as well and entwined his fingers through yours. You fell asleep like this, hands clasped on Geralt’s chest and the witcher, who was very much awake for this, realized for the umpteenth time that no matter how much they received from your grandmother, it wouldn’t be enough.

-----

“Y/N?”

Your head shot up suddenly at the sound of your mother’s voice, your heart leaping to your throat and more tears coming to your eyes, hopeful and desperate.

“Mama?”

You shrugged off the heavy blankets that tried to conceal you in the wagon, tripping over the materials in the cart but finding your balance again as you climbed to the edge.

“Y/N…”

You climb to the top of the wagon’s edge and you stand there, staring out into the world that rushes by you. The voice is so familiar, you know her but you can’t see her face.

“I miss you,” the disembodied voice calls and you feel a longing like none you’ve ever felt before and when you reply that you miss her too your words are swallowed by the cold winds but you hope she knows it’s true. You hope that wherever she is she feels your love, for that’s the only thing that this painful feeling could be. Love and its constant companion grief.

“Come here, love,” the voice calls again and your legs wobble a bit as you climb again up to the edge of the wagon. You know she’s there waiting for you if you can just take the leap. Your knees buckle and you sway and then arms grasp you around the waist and pull you back. You flail and fight but another voice breaks through.

“Y/N, Y/N stop, Y/N come back.”

The voice is desperate and scared, not comforting and warm like the one that beckons you. But that is part of why you open your eyes. It feels more real, this fear and desperation, and when you open your eyes you find yourself perched on the ledge of the well. You fall back and someone breaks your fall, the same someone who’d pulled you out of your nightmare.

“Y/N?” the voice says again and you turn to find Jaskier slowly rising up to a sitting position, hands reaching out to steady you as you sit on the snow covered cobblestones, hand rising to your mouth.

“Oh gods Jaskier…” you whispered, fear as biting as the cold winds.

“What happened?” he asked, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

“I don’t know… I heard someone and I just… It was like sleepwalking but Jaskier, I didn’t have any control over it. I didn’t have any control over my body,” you whispered. Jaskier helped you to your feet and tried to give you a confident, reassuring smile though there was fear in his eyes as well.

“It’s ok,” he said, “I got you.”

“But what if you hadn’t,” you argued.

“But I did,” he insisted, “Y/N, I’ve got you.”

He reached out to brush the snow out of your hair, hand grazing the curve of your cheek as he withdrew it slowly.

“Jaskier, who is doing this?” you asked, your voice calmer but now edged with anger.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He took your numb fingers in his hand and he fixed you with a steadying, determined look, “But I intend to find out.”

[creepingsharia]

The Battle of Hattin: Islam’s July 4 Triumph

Saladin and King Guy after Hattin

by Raymond Ibrahim

Centuries before it was remembered as a day of Independence, July 4 was remembered as one of the most consequential days between the perennial war between Islam and Christendom — and a disaster for the latter. That story follows:

Soon after liberating the ancient Christian city of Antioch from Muslim oppression, the First Crusaders managed to realize their primary goal: take Jerusalem from Islam in 1099.

Despite all the propaganda that surrounds the conquest of Jerusalem, there were very few Muslim calls to jihad (only one is known, and it quickly fell on deaf ears).  After all, in the preceding decades, and thanks to Sunni and Shia infighting, local Muslim populations were hardly unused to such invasions and bloodbaths.

In Muslim historian Ibn al-Athir’s words, “While the Franks—Allah damn them!—were conquering and settling in a part of the territories of Islam, the rulers and armies of Islam were fighting among themselves, causing discord and disunity among their people and weakening their power to combat the enemy.”

In this context, the pure doctrine of jihad—warfare against infidels—was lost to the average Muslim, who watched and suffered as Muslim empires and sects collided.

It was only during the reign of Imad al-Din Zengi (d.1146)—a particularly ruthless Turkish warlord and atabeg of Mosul and Aleppo—and even more so under his son and successor, Nur al-Din (r.1146-1174), that the old duty of jihad was resuscitated.  They founded numerous madrasas, mosques, and Sufi orders all devoted to propagandizing the virtues of jihad and martyrdom.   Contemporary literature makes clear that Islamic zeal (or, in modern parlance, “radicalization”) reached a fever pitch during their reigns.

It was in this context that a Kurd from Tikrit emerged on the scene. Salah al-Din—the “Righteousness of Islam,” or Saladin (b. 1137)—formerly one of Nur al-Din’s viziers, conquered Fatimid (Shia) Egypt in 1171.   On his master’s death, he quickly moved and added more Muslim territories—Damascus and Aleppo—to his growing empire, thereby realizing the crusaders’ worst fear: a united Islamic front.

According to his biographer, Baha’ al-Din, Saladin was a pious Muslim—he loved hearing Koran recitals, prayed punctually, and “hated philosophers, heretics, and materialists and all opponents of the sharia.” Above all else he was a devotee of jihad:  “The sacred works [Koran, hadith, etc.] are full of passages referring to the jihad. Saladin was more assiduous and zealous in this than in anything else. . . . [H]e spoke of nothing else [but jihad], thought only about equipment for the fight, was interested only in those who had taken up arms, had little sympathy with anyone who spoke of anything else or encouraged any other activity.”

By spring of 1186, Saladin’s empire had so grown that he felt the time was right: “We should confront all the enemy’s forces with all the forces of Islam,” he told a subordinate.  Before long, the crusader kingdoms had to marshal all their forces to meet him, near Nazareth in the summer of 1187. Although Saladin had more men—approximately 30,000, half of whom were light cavalry and many of whom were slave-soldiers—the Christians, under the leadership of King Guy, had assembled the largest army since capturing Jerusalem, consisting of some 20,000 knights, including 1,200 heavy horse.

Aware that a head-on assault was futile, Saladin withdrew his forces, went to and besieged the nearby crusader kingdom of Tiberias.  Some twenty miles of stony, parched land—with no natural water sources or wells—stood between the crusader army and the besieged city. Nonetheless, on July 3, they set out to relive it.

Looking “like mountains on the march,” a Muslim chronicler remarked that the “hardened warriors” moved “as fast as if they were always going downhill,” despite being “loaded down with the apparel of war.”

On learning that the crusaders had fallen for his trap, Saladin rubbed his hands with glee: “This, indeed, is what we wished for most!” He immediately dispatched his light cavalry to harry the crusaders. Guy hurried the march: the real battle—and water—lay in Tiberias; but when swarms of Muslim archers bogged down his rear force, the king ordered the entire army to halt and fight near a parched and ominous double hill formation, known as the Horns of Hattin.

“This was on a burningly hot day,” writes a Muslim, “while they themselves were burning with wrath.” According to Ernoul, a European squire who was present:

As soon as they [Franks] were encamped, Saladin ordered all his men to collect brushwood, dry grass, stubble and anything else with which they could light fires, and make barriers which he had made all round the Christians. They soon did this, and the fires burned vigorously and the smoke from the fires was great; and this, together with the heat of the sun above them caused them discomfort and great harm. . . . When the fires were lit and the smoke was great, the Saracens surrounded the host and shot their darts through the smoke and so wounded and killed men and horses.

This continued into nightfall. No one slept; from the surrounding darkness, the Muslims, who by now “had lost their first fear of the enemy and were in high spirits,” made a great din. “They could smell victory in the air, and the more they saw of the unexpectedly low morale of the Franks the more aggressive and daring they became.” Out of the smoke-filled gloom and into the crusader camp came volley after volley of arrows, accompanied by cries of “Allahu Akbar” and triumphant iterations of the shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith.

Matters only worsened with the breaking of dawn, July 4: seventy camels laden with water and arrows had arrived to refresh and replenish the Muslim camp; and because Saladin’s archers could now see, even more precise shafts continued to rain on the crusader camp. The sadistic sultan further ordered “water pots placed near the [crusader] camp” and “then emptied in view of the Christians so that they should have still greater anguish through thirst, and their mounts too.”

Trapped like wild animals and driven to the brink of madness, the crusaders charged at their tormenters. And so, to quote Ibn al-Athir:

The two armies came to blows. The Franks were suffering badly from thirst, and had lost confidence. The battle raged furiously, both sides putting up a tenacious resistance. The Muslim archers sent up clouds of arrows like thick swarms of locusts, killing many of the Frankish horses. The Franks, surrounding themselves with their infantry, tried to fight their way toward Tiberias in the hope of reaching water, but Saladin realized their objective and forestalled them by planting himself and his army in the way.

As the battle raged, Muslim reserves “created more brushfires and the wind carried the heat and smoke down on to the enemy. They had to endure thirst, the summer’s heat, the blazing fire and smoke and the fury of battle.” Yet the desperate crusaders fought on: “Terrible encounters took place on that day,” writes another Muslim chronicler; “never in the history of generations that have gone have such feats of arms been told.”

The crusaders, who “burned and glowed in a frenzied ferment,” knew that “the only way to save their lives was to defy death,” and so “made a series of charges that almost dislodged the Muslims from their position in spite of their [greater] numbers, had not the grace of Allah been with them. As each wave of attacks fell back they left their dead behind them; their numbers diminished rapidly, while the Muslims were all around them like a circle about its diameter.”

By now the crusader army consisted of a confused mass of desperate men stumbling over the bodies of their dead; forests of prickly shafts appeared everywhere—in man, beast, and earth.  Encircled by an ever-shrinking ring of fire and Islamic horsemen, tormented by arrows and thirst, the Fighters of Christ finally succumbed.

The rout was complete, the gloating great: “This defeat of the enemy, this our victory occurred on a Saturday, and the humiliation proper to the men of Saturday [Jews] was inflicted on the men of Sunday [Christians], who had been lions and now were reduced to the level of miserable sheep,” concluded one Muslim contemporary.   In the end, single Muslim soldiers were seen dragging as many as thirty crusaders with one rope, any of whom would once have terrified the same—so maddened with thirst and reduced to delirium were the Europeans.

Saladin “dismounted and prostrated himself in thanks to Allah.”  Next he ordered the mass slaughter of the military orders—those warrior-monks most committed to the cause, the Knights Templars and Hospitallers: “With him was a whole band of scholars and Sufis and a certain number of devout men and ascetics; each begged to be allowed to kill one of them, and drew his scimitar and rolled back his sleeve. Saladin, his face joyful, was sitting on his dais” as they carved off the heads of their Christian captives.

Then “that night was spent by our people in the most complete joy and perfect delight . . . with cries of ‘Allahu Akbar’ and ‘There is no god but Allah,’ until daybreak on Sunday,” piously concluded a Muslim chronicler.

Finally, adding insult to injury, Saladin had the True Cross—for centuries Christendom’s most revered relic, which was brought by the crusaders to and captured by the Muslims at Hattin—spat upon and dragged upside down in the dirt.

For long, passersby could still see  “the limbs of the fallen cast naked on the field of battle, scattered in pieces over the site of the encounter, lacerated and disjointed, with heads cracked open, throats split, spines broken, necks shattered, feet in pieces, noses mutilated, extremities torn off, members dismembered, parts shredded, eyes gouged out, [and] stomachs disemboweled.”

Because so many professional fighting men were lost at Hattin, several vulnerable crusader kingdoms and strongholds were quickly captured by the determined sultan.  After a desperate siege that began in September, the holed-upped crusaders even surrendered Jerusalem.

Now “a great cry went up from the city and from outside the walls, the Muslims crying the Allahu Akbar in their joy, the Franks groaning in consternation and grief,” wrote the Muslim chronicler. “So loud and piercing was the cry that the earth shook….  The Koran was raised to the throne and the [Old and New] Testaments cast down,” as Saladin “purified Jerusalem of the pollution of those races, of the filth of the dregs of humanity.”

Muslims appreciated the continuity: “This noble act of conquest was achieved, after Omar bin al-Khattab [the caliph who first conquered Jerusalem in 637]—Allah have mercy on him!—by no one but Saladin, and that is a sufficient title to glory and honor.”

Note: The above account was entirely excerpted from Sword and Scimitar: Fourteen Centuries of War between Islam and the West—a book that CAIR and its Islamist allies did everything they could to prevent the US Army War College from learning about it.   

[st-just]

Yet More Worldbuilding

While I’m certainly not writing anything like a novel, I am at least trying to write something more consistently this month, which is probably going to mean a lot of D&D worldbuilding. Because hey, I find it oddly relaxing. 

So, here’s a bit of a snippet on an actual location for the campaign, told all episotlory style 

Despite what the schoolchildren and preachers say, no one really believes the Queen-Empress rules the entire world. No matter how invested people are in saying that she should, because her great-grandad murdered something precious and a Hierophant and Archangel told him so. Still, after literal months of going from one worthless village of pious dirt farmers to another, it’s a real reassurance of my sanity that my destination still bears all the scars of conquest, and obviously used to be something more. Which is a way of saying I’ve finally arrived in the Southern Marches, and managed to spawn a couple weeks devouring local histories.

[...]

What’s now called the Southern Marches was once (as a great many preachers have seen fit to tell me) such a fertile paradise it would have left our dear Republic a howling desert by comparison. Naturally enough, they became a nursery and cradle for humanity to grow into something worthwhile-and like every land full of worthwhile people, it did eventually progress into something impressive. Warring city-states and grand monuments held together by nothing but the iron will of a Hero-King. Primitive empires remaking the map in blood and bronze, their private gods growing fat from sacrifices made half a continent away. That sort of thing. (You’d think it’s riveting, really, even if its just however many centuries of different people doing the same things to each other with the same tools. Still, I’ll see if anyone down here has ever stumbled on publishing the better Epics, maybe if I can send you a copy).

From what I’ve gathered, things continued along that vein long past the point where ‘stitching a dozen cities together only for your spoiled brat of a son to lose it all” was anything worth writing home about, but eventually things get interesting to justify this whole trial of a trip. Priests were as much of an infestation here as they were anywhere else, but the sect who ended up dominant here at least weren’t cowards about it. Maybe it was everyone being so painfully aware that as soon as they died everything around them would fall back into a pile of foraging misery and nomadic raiders, but the local high priests and mystics dedicated themselves to the study of the soul, just how it’s bound to the body and the world, and how far the gods gifts allowed them to manipulate and control them. (The official Imperial histories call them ‘the first Witch Kings, who damned all they ever loved.” So I like them already. If I manage to bring back anything interesting, the museum is going to be facing their embassy).

This is really where necromancy as something we understand got its start. All very primitive and wasteful and absolutely drowning in pomp and circumstance, of course, but then I suppose I’m really not one to complain about that last bit anyway. Conquerors feasting upon their enemies lifeblood to secure their soul’s bonds and keep themselves in a permanent prime of their life. Scholars letting their bodies waste away but linking their soul and mind to some grand idol and using some unlucky peasant’s spirit as the structural support for the connection. (And my favorite) A particular genius of a archpriest who was ritually entombed and disemboweled, each important organ sealed away in a different chamber with a different attendant. The next day he was hale and hearty, all material concerns shunted off to the entombed acolytes. (Before you ask, yes all of them were some variety of parasitic. The world likes death, no matter what your new beau says. Have to break something more fundamental than a soul to get away from that).

Anyway, things go on like this for a long while-all the delightfully holy blasphemy only getting moreso, with irrigation networks and temple cities maintained by six generations of peasant souls kept in their corpses, and (possibly related) swarms of hungry shades who could possess nomad families and have them helpfully walk onto the sacrificial altar, and battles decided when one queen tore the entire opposing army’s souls from their bodies and consumed to turn into something bad enough that putting her down was some sort of international crisis (Yes I’m looking for any sign of where she’s buried).

Nothing fun really lasts in this part of the world, of course, and before anyone tried using a dragon for raw materials or possessed an angel or anything similarly sublime, the Empire came calling. Well, properly speaking a particularly vainglorious Witch-King conquered his way up a fair chunk of the continent, and gave the Hierophant of the time enough incentives to invent the concept of a holy war in response (Which is fair, as as far as I can tell he’s the ultimate root of the whole vampire problem they’ve been dealing with since. Still, always vaguely offended one of ours didn’t get that prize).

Everything after that’s literally scripture, and I won’t bore you with it except to say that at least some of those painters must have realized that all those ‘monsters and horrors’ they spent so long lovingly painting were just much more interesting than another spotless crusader. How it ended is the really famous bit, of course-the court of immortals meeting the King-Emperor at the gate of their fortress, all poetic hubris and boasting and threats, and him showing how actually HE’s the gods favourite toady and shaking half a continent to pieces to drown half of the place and bury the rest in ash and sand. (They built a church on the spot it’s supposed to have happened, because of course they did).

Thankfully, once his ever-so-blessed highness finally got carried off by a chorus of weeping angels, the succession crisis that followed was brutal enough to let some more reasonable people float near the top. Oh, the Marcher Lords he made out of his favourite crusaders still make a big show of swearing to draw and quarter anyone caught trying to unearth what’s drowned and buried, but it’s not like any (...most) of them are dumb enough to avoid realizing that half the expeditions of the last decade were sponsored by the current Queen’s dear old dad. So really as long as I can afford all the bribes, the main threats so far are all the other tomb robbers.

As always, send more money, more men, and anything close to current fashion that will survive this climate. Will write again when I find some concrete lead.

Your Beloved Younger Sister,

Lia

[screen-slashers]

Hey, I hope you're doing well! I am super loving your blog so far B) would you be open to how Bubba, Jason and Brahms would react to someone messing with or trying to hurt their s/o?

Hello! Yes, Anon, I love you so much!!!!! Since you’re so sweet and it’s only three, I’m gonna give you some ficlets!! I hope you enjoy!

SOMEONE’S BOUTTA DIE TONIGHT

Bubba: There was more meat around.. Nubbins had told him that he had to go take care of them. Bubba had put you in y’all’s room to keep you safe as he went off to do his job for the family. The day had gone by quickly, most of the intruders now dead, only one left. The man had run back to the Sawyer farmhouse, Bubba having momentarily lost sight of him.

Bubba’s anxiety continued to spike as he searched, looking in vain for the man, hoping he could find him before Drayton found out that one got away. Eventually, he had to give up and began to make his way back to the house, whining pitifully.

Bubba had brought you to y’all’s room to keep you safe. You knew the drill by now and sat back in the bed and began to read, hoping Bubba would finish up soon. The day went by and you continued to read, ignoring the sounds that came from outside your room. That is, until you heard the door slam and footsteps frantically run up the stairs. Nubbins was usually really excited after a day like this, so you tried to get back to your book, until your door slammed open and a disheveled, bloody man burst in.

You both stared at each other before you began to scream, hopefully catching the attention of your family. The man ran over, grabbing you and placing a hand over your mouth. “Shut up!! They’ll hear us! I’m not gonna hurt you!!” He hissed, pulling you off of the bed and towards the closet to hide. 

Frantically you pulled his hand away, letting out another screech, “Bubba!!! Bubba he’s in he-” You were cut off as the man grabbed a flower vase that was on the dresser and smashed it against your head. 

“Shit, you’re one of them! Crazy bitch!!” He growled, grabbing one of the shards left of the vase and putting it against your neck, blood dripping down your head as you dazily blinked up at the ceiling. 

That’s when you heard it: A squealing, rage filled noise as your savior burst into the room, revving his chainsaw. The man didn’t even have time to gasp before he was being cut in half, Bubba’s rage filled noises drowning out the noise of the chainsaw. 

There was practically nothing left of the man before Bubba stopped, dropping the chainsaw and gathering you up in his arms, sobbing worriedly as he took you to Drayton to patch you up, despite your daze-filled replies that you were okay. 

After that day, Bubba kept you in the attic with Grandpa and Grandma with a lock on the door so no one would hurt you again, not that you minded. The lighting was better up there anyways. 

Jason: Jason was against it completely when you said you wanted to take a part of the new summer camp that was attempting to use the grounds. What if they hurt you or bullied you? You couldn’t trust those people! Being as stubborn as you are, you didn’t budge, eventually telling him that you were volunteering if he agreed or not. 

You both were pretty heated, and when you packed your things to move into one of the cabins for the weeks you’d be there, you both weren’t happy with one another. Eventually you tried to forget about it, having fun, but Jason.. Jason watched you. There wasn’t a moment you were alone, his fear for you outweighing his anger. 

Whenever the counselors would leave posts, you’d be there to pick up the slack. When they talked about who they liked, you’d taper off and change the subject. When they talked about Jason and the tales they had heard.. You’d stand up for him. Things went great and the camp was drawing to a close. People were getting ready for bed and as you headed back to your cabin for the night, you heard noises coming from the dock. You stopped and headed over, Jason’s story playing over in your head as you quickly made your way to the lakeside. 

That’s when you saw it. The ‘head honcho’ of the counselors along with her lackeys. With your things. You make a strangled noise as you run up to them, just as they threw the last of your stuff into the water. “Hey!! Why would you do that?!” You yelled, kneeling down and managing to grab a few of your clothes that were floating around. 

“Oh, well.. Seeing how much you stick up for that freak of a legend Jason, we figured you’d like to be closer to him~!” The leader laughed, looking down at you like you were a disgrace. 

“So you’re gonna do this just because I try to look at things differently? What the hell is wrong with you?!” You spat, standing back up and getting into her face. Obviously that was the wrong choice. 

With a disgusted noise, she shoved you, and then you were falling into the water below. 

By the time you resurfaced, the leader’s head was gone and one of the lackeys was disemboweled, the third screaming bloody murder before that too was cut off. You made a noise as you pulled yourself back onto the deck, standing to your full height as you ignored the carnage and took in Jason. 

You smiled softly and rushed over to him, jumping up and wrapping your arms around his neck and giving him a kiss. “Thank you, darling.. But don’t you think you went a bit overboard?” You ask as you look back at the three bodies. 

Without saying a word he made his way over to the corpses and kicked them into the water before starting to walk away, you still securely in his arms. 

“You were right earlier, Jason.. I missed you.” You hummed happily. 

Brahms: ‘It was just the garbage disposal.. Who needed that?’ Brahms thought huffedly as he watched you as you talked to someone on the phone. He had tried to do something for you for once and accidentally got a fork stuck in there.. and then tried to grind it away instead of just grabbing it out of the disposal. Now someone is going to have to come to the manor and fix it, which Brahms was very much against. 

You sighed as you hung up, giving the man child a pitying look. “They’ll be here in about an hour, Brahmsy. Just make sure you’re hidden before they come in.” You said, pulling him down to give him a kiss on his mask. Usually it was off.. but he was officially pouting so the mask was back on, like it was when you first started dating. 

With a huff, Brahms stomped off to do something else as y’all waited for the plumber. You watch him leave before going to start on lunch for the two of you, rolling your eyes. That boy sometimes.. 

When the plumber got there, Brahms was safely hidden away in the walls, you were sure watching the man’s every move. You lead the plumber to the kitchen and explain how you got a fork stuck in the garbage disposal. You thanked the man as he began to look at it, before walking to the living room to read aloud.

It didn’t take too long for the disposal to get fixed and soon you were back in the kitchen, writing a check for the plumber as he chatted with you. “So.. Just you in this big house, eh? Seems lonely, don’t it?” He said, looking around the large kitchen.

“O-Oh, yeah, I suppose.. It’s not too bad, though.. The walls hold enough stories to keep me company.” You chuckled, holding out the check for him to take. 

“Well, ya know, I could always take ya someone comfier..” He suggested as he grabbed onto the check, raising an eyebrow at you, making you grimace. 

“Oh, uh.. For your sake, I’m gonna have to decline..” You try, beginning to head to the front door. 

“Ohh, come on, don’t be like that.. I’ll let this one go free if you give me a shot.” He tried, grabbing your hand and making you turn to look at him again. 

“Sir, please, you better let go o-” You start before you hear banging coming from all around you. Shit.. “You better leave..!” You spat as you tried to drag him to the door, but he stayed where he was. 

“What the fuck is that??” He muttered, still not letting you go. 

You saw Brahms before the man did, Brahms having slipped out from behind, punching the man hard in the ear. With a cry, the man dropped to the floor, his nails scratching your hand, causing you to gasp out. 

Brahms whipped his head to you, only to find your hand bleeding slightly and his eyes darkened. “You hurt S/O...” He ground out in his child voice, before dropping down and wrapping his large hands around the man’s throat. 

“Brahms, it’s nothing, you don’t have to kill him!” You cry, trying to push him away from the gasping plumber. It was no use.. Soon you had a dead man on the floor and an angry one grumbling and pouting as he, this time accidentally, cut off your airflow. 

“Brahms, you didn’t have to kill him!” You huffed, crossing your arms. “My hand already stopped bleeding.” You explained, trying to pull away from the absolute child you were dealing with. 

Ugh, there was no way Brahms was letting you be in a room alone for like a month now.. At least the garbage disposal was fixed again.. 

[ginny-chase-shadeslayer]

Sleeping at Last - Saturn

I think it was a few months ago in calc class when I first came up with this, but it’s the corona house arrest that’s finally making me post it. 

Stay safe everyone, and have some more Percy angst.

Find it on FanFiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13517771/1/Sleeping-at-Last

“I’d give anything to hear, you say it one more time, that the universe was made, just to be seen by my eyes”

________________________________________________________________

He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the darkness reminded him of that pit and the pain of having to live through it. Sometimes Annabeth’s presence next to him helped, but tonight, she wasn’t with him. The sad truth was that as much as they helped each other heal their wounds, they also reminded each other of what they had been through. For the better part of eight days now, Percy was faced with the heartbreaking pain of choosing between seeing her and either being comforted or being triggered into a panic attack.

As much as he loved her, it hurt to be around her. He was being unfair he knew, expecting her to be the same as before, when he himself was only a shell of a man. But watching Annabeth shiver or snip and snarl at everything, only pushed him deeper still.

The argument that had resulted from that was vicious, and had left more than just the participants shaken.

Sitting up after an unsuccessful attempt at sleeping, he got out of bed and reached for Riptide. The weight of his loyal blade grounded him, pulling him towards the arenas.

…

THWACK!

There rolled the head, cleanly sliced off from the body.

Another strike. There were the disemboweled guts of a straw man.

It wasn’t enough. No matter how much he stabbed and slashed, it never helped abate the darkness. Riptide would cut through the clouds for a second, a shining streak of bronze. But then they would gather back faster than before.

It wasn’t long until Percy was panting, harder than he should have been. Taking shorter breaths than he should have been.

He tried blinking back the images. But the arena began to transform. He attacked a dummy viciously, face screwing up in determination, trying to fight back, but in vain.

Akhlys was laughing. Annabeth was crying his name. Bob was yelling for him, while Damasen tried to pull his sword out of the dragon’s mouth.

And Percy? He was on the floor. Staring at them from behind an impenetrable curtain. It took him some time to realize he was under water. He was looking at them from the bottom of a lake. He pounded the surface, trying desperately to break free. Even under water, he could taste the sulphurous air on his tongue as it burned his mouth, along with something more metallic. Every breath he took his poisoned his lungs, as if the water itself had turned into acid.

He heard Akhlys whispering as if she were next to him, “You killed me using your father’s powers. Here. See if they protect you now.”

His lungs began to fill. He was drowning. No, he couldn’t drown, he was the son of Poseidon. He choked and sputtered. But that only made it worse.

In front of him, Annabeth had gone blind again, and was desperately trying to call out to him through horrible coughing fits. She had her back turned to Damasen, and through his fading view, Percy saw Damasen yank his sword out from the Dragon and raise it against Annabeth.

Percy fought like a demon against the water then. He tried to control his breathing, but the water wouldn’t let go of him. He had to get to Annabeth. He had to. He swung his sword left and right, trying to fight the element that had protected him all his life. His eyes streamed, and he cried his voice hoarse. He swung his sword with all his might against the water –

CLANG!

His sword hit metal. But he couldn’t see where it came from.

The scene in front of him stilled. Annabeth had her face away from him, and Damasen still had his sword raised, so he hadn’t stabbed her yet.

A low voice from somewhere near him said, “Percy, snap out of it. It’s not real”

Slowly, the mist from his eyes cleared, and he realized he was on his haunches. His throat was raw. Riptide was still gripped under his white knuckles, as if the blade could cure his visions.

“Get up.” She ordered him. She didn’t hold out a hand, so Percy braced himself against the ground and heaved himself to a standing position. He regarded her cautiously, still trying to figure out if she was real or not.

“Do you still have the energy to fight? Because we need those dummies for practice tomorrow.”

Percy was weak, he needed a good night’s rest. His face still stung under the tear tracks. He wiped his nose, and glimpsed a streak of red on the blue of his shirt.

He nodded.

Clarisse raised her sword and swung at him.

Percy parried the strike, and his senses sharpened. He experimentally stabbed at her stomach. She easily dodged that, and returned with a blow of her own.

Slowly, they picked up the pace. Percy went from autopilot to actually focusing on the fight. He noticed that in the time he had been missing, Clarisse had gotten better at the sword. Or he had gotten worse.

He also noticed that Clarisse wasn’t really trying to fight him exactly. It was more like…leading him somewhere. He saw some mistakes in his technique that she could have taken advantage of, but she still let him move to the next position without taking the chance. Almost as if she were listening to him, to what his sword had to say, to what his tired body had to say. He had never heard of swordplay that was meant to be caring, and least of all, he didn’t expect Clarisse to know it.

He let his body go, slowly, but surely. Getting into the flow of their blades. They picked up the pace further, but that only calmed him more. This was sword fighting, it was something he knew. He was in control. In that moment, he was a blur of bronze, pouring his frustrations out into his weapon.

And Clarisse let him. In that moment, he had never felt so rested.

But when the deadly dance took him towards the armoury, a draught of wind transported the smell of gun powder, and with it, Sulphur. His eyes darted to the torchlight bouncing off her sword, flickering against the beams and columns, creating shadows that hadn’t been there a second before.

This time, there was nothing he could do. His mental shields had been down, and he had been too focused on Clarisse to notice the signs. The visions were brutal, as they were every time he thought he had finally evaded them.

He crumpled.

…

He found himself near the stairs of the arena, sitting up with his back propped against a pillar. He didn’t remember what he had seen this time, and he definitely didn’t remember losing consciousness.

“It’s going to take some time”

He was surprised to see Clarisse still there. She was sitting on the stairs next to him.

“What?”

“Your blackouts, your hallucinations. It’s going to take some time to get better.”

He stayed silent. Not ready to talk yet. Not ready to accept that he was not getting better, despite Chiron’s healing and Grover’s magic.

As if reading his mind, “Chiron’s ambrosia only works temporarily, and only on the physical pain you feel. Unfortunately, the Greeks either never thought about healing the head, or they never lived long enough to experience PTSD.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he asked, curious.

He had never expected Clarisse of all people to be sympathetic to trauma, especially not like the one he was experiencing. But if he was being honest with himself, he was grateful for her presence. Her familiar scowl surprisingly reminded him of life before Tartarus, and it comforted him. And he didn’t think he was ready to be alone just yet.

Clarisse just sighed. “Ares is the god of war, right? You want to go conquer a land, fight a battle, you make sacrifices to Ares and hope he favors you enough to let you win. At least that’s only how the Greek civilization chose to see Ares, and it stuck.”

She paused.

“But over the years, Ares has come to represent all battles, all wars.”

She looked at him knowingly, “including internal ones.”

They were quiet after that, watching the sun rise over the Long Island Sound. ‘It makes sense’, thought Percy. Although he berated himself for letting his guard down, he had to admit that dueling with her had felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time.

Finally, he asked, “that sword fighting technique, where’d you learn that?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t have to learn anything, punk. I’m a daughter of Ares, sword fighting techniques are instinct to me.”

He smiled lightly and conceded. Understood.

The dew on the strawberry fields glittered in the morning light. The Apollo cabin, naturally the first to wake up, began to stir, while the dryads in the forest softly greeted the earliest songbirds. Watching the life below him, he felt like he should have had some poetic internal dialogue about permanence and the transience of life. Or at least some epiphany prompted by the sun’s rays through the clouds.

But in that moment, he simply reveled in the fact that there were beautiful things still left in the world, outside his head. Like the tugging of his heart at the sight of a familiar blonde head that emerged from the cabins below, and the warmth of a friendship, reaching out from the person seated next to him.

________________________________________________________________

“How rare and beautiful it is, that we exist”

The title of this fic is from the song Saturn, by artist Sleeping at Last. They’re amazing you guys should go check it out if you haven’t already! 

Also, I haven’t personally dealt with PTSD, but I know that different people deal with / experience it in different ways. Nothing I’ve written here is meant to be harmful in any way.

[eisforeidolon]

Episode: Raising Hell

So, uh, basically I have no idea why anything in this episode happens or what its point is supposed to be. Having looked up who wrote it somewhere in the middle, I am completely lacking in surprise.

I mean, the first bit pretty much sets the tone.  Chatty Corpsy spouts exposition a mile a minute, then gets killed, and the ghost stands over her and spells disembowel.  Is that actually supposed to be scary?  Funny?  Anything but an absolutely bizarre waste of my time?

A bunch of dudes with basically nothing but FBI jackets and a bullshit story to back themselves up with convince an entire town to camp out in the local high school for two days without anybody figuring out they're full of shit.  You know, what with smartphones existing and all.  Plausible!

Furthermore, I have become convinced that everyone in this writer's room genuinely believes there is nothing scarier than a bunch of random antagonists standing around in a room pontificating at each other.  It's all demons do anymore. It's all angels do anymore.  Oh, fucking look, here's a bunch of goddamn ghosts doing it, too!  A fucking thrill a minute, I tell you.

Also, you know how the episode with H.H. Holmes was actually scary?  Whether or not you think it's in questionable taste for them to use real life serial killers at all, the reason they included him was because the whole murder castle deal and semi-mythical legends about him made for a scary premise they actually used in the episode.  I ignored the thing with it being Gacy before in Lebanon because there was more important stuff going on, but contrast the current writers' choices with him and this Jack the Ripper guy with the use of Holmes.  Here they're just throwing out the names of real life murderers to try and make their villains scary in the cheapest, fastest way possible.  Just like bringing back “Bloody Mary” that just kills whoever, this loudmouthed windbag has nothing to do with the name they're stealing to try and make him scary.

Also, the spell demon guy did is keeping the ghosts in, right?  Sure, it's going to fail, but at the moment, it's supposed to be an impassible barrier, yes?  So why, exactly, is it necessary for Sam to call in his goon squad to join the four of them in wandering into the danger zone to shoot at 'em? Seriously, why?  Shooting them dissipates them for a few seconds, maybe minutes.  They’re not laying out additional salt or iron lines or doing anything that might genuinely help contain the ghosts, they’re just putting themselves in danger because ...?  The mooks could also be better spent guarding the major entrance points to the town and/or the townies and/or doing research back at the bunker into what they're going to try next after the barrier fails.  But those things would actually make sense and prevent the shambling zombie that is the writers’ pathetic attempt at a plot in this episode being pushed into something vaguely resembling action. 

I am shocked, SHOCKED I tell you, that Rowena is now suddenly unable to do something with her powers that she did before.  Hey, remember when she stole that page out of the damned book to make herself more powerful to unseal her full powers (even though they touted her as the most powerful witch ever to begin with) and that was in season 13, well after the ghost-crystal-bomb thing?  But LOL, now she's even weaker?  This is exactly why nothing matters anymore.  Things that worked previously (angel powers, witch powers, the Colt, whatever) suddenly and randomly don't work to do the exact same jobs for … reasons.  The thing that makes it even dumber is they could have said that the ghost containing spell and crystal ghost sucking spell interfered with each other somehow.  Still at a bullshit level of convenience, but it doesn't involve making everyone and everything's powers completely arbitrary just because fuck continuity, that’s why!

Then Ketch shows up to save the Winchesters from their sudden attack of brain damage.  The show has provided an entire. fucking. town. full of angry ghosts straight from hell.  But actually bother to write a scene of Sam and Dean legit getting over their heads in a believable way?  Why fucking bother when you can just make them astoundingly incompetent.  It is literally unbelievable that Sam and Dean would not recognize those people as possessed fucking immediately.  Yet they stand there with rock salt filled shotguns doing sweet fuckall confronted by three fucking ghosts so Ketch can make a big entrance.  Is there a rule on a board somewhere in the writer's room that Sam and Dean have to be made to look incompetent at least once an episode?  Is this some kind of revenge for having to still write the main characters they're so clearly bored with?  Are these idiots just so fucking stupid they don't realize how insulting this is?  Did they run out of money for extras and the stunt coordinator?  

Also, someone explain to me how tiny flakes of metal are going to be less harmful to a human body than rock salt.  I'll wait.  They just really really wanted Ketch as one of the BMoL guys to have some kind of specialized gadget but couldn’t give him something actually potentially useful for the situation at hand.

Again, these writers really want to be writing a bad soap opera with occasional supernatural elements.  So despite that it's the final fucking season, we have time for Rowena and Ketch flirting.  Not to mention that they also give the only major female character even more relationship drama with the Jack the Ripper guy later.  If it's not questionably skeevy, it's not Bucklemming! 

Also, Castiel is not good at inspirational speeches, just like he’s frustratingly almost never good at anything else these days (those healing powers that were working last week? ha! forget it!).  Anyway, why do they keep having him make them?  Are we as the audience supposed to find them convincing though they never work on the target?  Are we supposed to feel bad for all the ~*feelings*~ Castiel supposedly has despite being an angel who isn’t supposed to have emotions the same way humans do?  I guess this particular one is to further show that Dean’s still mad (which I am absolutely 100% behind) but eh, whatever.  Though I guess that still ranks it above most of the episode sitting at a solid WTF, no really, WTF?!

Now we get to the part where they bring Kevin back for no fucking reason beyond that he's a “fan favorite”.  None of it makes a single tiny speck of sense.  Let's skip right past the fundamental absurdity of how Chuck apparently did this for literally no reason just to be a dick when he was actively trying to pretend not to be a dick.  Kevin has a “bad boy” reputation (come the fuck on) because God Himself cast him down - so him being in hell would have to be fairly common knowledge, for it to result in him having a reputation.  Except literally no demon Sam & Dean ran into between 11.21 and now taunted them with it?  Crowley, who was still alive and fucking King of Hell through season 12 never noticed and either told the Winchesters or tried to trade on it?  BULL and SHIT.  This is pretty close to the same scale of insult to continuity and the audience’s intelligence as these two fuckwits suddenly writing Lucifer as the older brother. 

Then in typical fashion, Sam & Dean discuss their plans to totes send Kevin to heaven in front of demon guy just so they can be told OH NOES!  He totally can't go to heaven!  So sad!  The poor widdle woobie!  Fuck off with this shit, show.  Not even to mention that they take the word of a demon as gospel truth when there is no time crunch or clear lack of better options.  It's all those many many hits to the head, I guess.  That I do actually find quite sad.  I mean, I don't actually want Kevin hanging around like a bad smell while they divert from actually important shit to try and get him to heaven where it makes no sense for him not to already be.  But at the end they don't even arrange some way to keep in touch just in case the fucking demon might be (gasp) lying?

Hey, I did actually like the exchange between Dean and Sam over Chuck poking his corresponding wound.  Oh, look, it's Sam's “I'm totally lying” face, followed by Dean's “I totally know you're lying but I'll let it go for now, Sam” face.  It was a great moment that required very little dialogue to work quite well.  It's such a shame nobody's making a show about these two characters!  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The absurdity keeps on coming, too.  In the whole two days they've been wasting time in Sunshine Daylightville they never discussed how long the spell would last?  Oh, right, they were too busy wandering into the ghost zone to shoot at 'em for shits and giggles to care about that, I guess.  Not to mention the whole “just cast it again!” is remarkably blasé about it requiring a 'fresher the better!' human heart.

More ghosts blathering at each other.  Yay.  This supposed Jack the Ripper guy is just always in the right place at the right time to hear all the gossip, knows every random thing he could possibly need to, and already has the power to intimidate and attack other ghosts. He's basically ghost!Asmodeus, who also steals AU!Michael's original idea of how to get through the barrier, because we really needed time spent discussing the world's most obvious plan.  Also, we've seen ghosts able to attack and absorb the power of other ghosts, but it was because they had already been doing it for a while.  This guy is just as fresh out of hell as everybody else, but he's more powerful and knowledgeable and totes threatening!!!  Well, I'm convinced and not on the verge of napping from boredom.

Naturally for reasons, Rowena goes into town entirely by herself without protection with their only real hope of containing the ghosts before the barrier breaks down instead of anybody insisting on her going with backup.  That's what anybody with a brain would do!  

Of course no one asks where Ketch has been the whole time.  Or even thinks of trying to test him after he was last seen literally knocked unconscious in the middle of ghost central where we know there are plenty of ghosts angry enough to be capable of possession.  Nope, why would anyone even think to do that?  Everything in this “plot” that happens requires all of the characters to be completely fucking stupid.

I'm going to assume by “you” Ketch meant “you Winchesters” because Mary wasn't there.  It probably didn't, because Bucklemming, but fuck it.  It's the least egregious stupidity in this episode that's a cornucopia of choices for the worst.

I … actually like the scenes with Chuck and Amara?  So, you know, that's something!  

Then the episode ends with the guys looking at all the ghosties still shooting up from hell and wring their hands about what they're going to do and maybe they should get on that!  Again, if Sam's flunkies aren't all dead, why aren't their worthless asses already researching this shit over the past two days?  It's not like it's new news that there was a big open hole to hell at the center of the problem and there was honestly nothing but wrangling some cranky civilians to interfere with trying to think ahead to that.

In summary, this episode is a constant showcase of the problems that result when you set incompetent morons who don't recognize their own inadequacy to write characters who are actually supposed to be intelligent experts at their work.  It's a joke – except not at all funny.

[johnnymundano]

The Sister of Ursula (1978) AKA La Sorella di Ursula

Directed by Enzo Milioni

Screenplay by Enzo Milioni

Music by Mimi Uva

Country: Italy

Running time: 90 minutes

CAST

Stefania D’Amario as Dagmar

Barbara Magnolfi as Ursula

Vanni Materassi as Roberto

Marc Porel as Mister Nardi

Yvonne Harlow as Stella Shining

Antiniska Nemour as Jenny

Anna Zinnemann as Vanessa

Giancarlo Zanetti as Fillipo

Alice Gherardi as Young Girl Victim

Roberto De Ruggeriis as Young Man Victim

Danila Trebbi as Prostitute Victim

Thief Note: I stole the images from IMDB because the screengrabs looked like hot poop. (see review).

The Sister of Ursula is a giallo so grubbily sleazy it actually slips out of the already hardly wholesome giallo genre and thrusts itself urgently into the erotic thriller genre. Like many erotic thrillers (all?) The Sister of Ursula is anything but erotic and very rarely thrilling. Which is a shame as there are occasional glimpses of a decent giallo in-between the unlovely and far too numerous grapplings.

The titular sister of Ursula is Dagmar (Stefania D’Amario), who despite the title plays second fiddle to Ursula throughout and her role isn’t really worth the prize of the title. Unless she won it for the tender scene where she strokes herself off with a gold necklace. Otherwise, she’s very passive, her main function being to coddle Ursula (Barbara Magnolfi), a singularly unpleasant young woman who is always getting up in people’s faces with a sour truculence the envy of adolescents the world over. The two are staying in a tremendously 1970s hotel which is possibly the best character in the movie with its scintillatingly tasteless décor. Maybe it’s because I am English but I far preferred looking at the archaic vulgarity of the interior décor than I did the bits where people pawed each other’s slack flesh. Although these scenes of anti-erotica did contain a complementary profusion of archaic exterior décor in the form of many a wayward pubic thatch. Delightfully, in one of these grubby failures of arousal a gentleman is getting busy down under and the scene is shot so it looks like his well-coiffed hair is being worn by his paramour as a comedy merkin. But I digress…

It takes a while for the movie to get around to a plot since it is far more important for us to watch Dagmar take off her sensible travelling underwear of suspenders and panties, watch a sex worker (or in 1970’s Italian movie parlance: ”a whore”) get murdered and listen to Stella Shining (Yvonne Harlow) sing her one (terrible) song in the hotel nightclub. In the nearest thing the movie gets to a motif the song is about eyes and there are a lot of shots of the killer’s eyes and loads of voyeurism and Ursula has a stand out scene where she insanely monologues to a melty statue of Christ about eyes and in a way are we the audience not indicted by the very act of our watch.., okay, the movie doesn’t get very near a motif at all, but it’s sure some song that Stella Shining song. Yes, I did mention a murder because it turns out that Dagmar and Ursula’s arrival at the hotel has coincided with the start of a spate of nasty sex murders. And they are pretty nasty, even for a giallo. The killer has a penchant for watching a couple rut then moving in to dispatch the woman with what looks from the silhouette which always accompanies its unveiling rather like a large penis; a penis large enough to kill. I admit that the first time this occurred I paused and reflected on the many poor life choices that had led to me watching this pretty seedy 1970s Italian movie in 2020. Not because it looked like I was watching a movie where women were murdered by a killer possessing a monumental honker, but because the picture was so poor I had to kind of work out what that was a silhouette of. It’s 2020 I shouldn’t have to squint to make out the silhouette of a massive killer penis!

Throughout the movie, which I watched on Amazon prime courtesy of Shameless, I kept wishing the picture quality was better; mainly because the hotel furnishings were so fabulous, some of the fashions were incredible and the location of the Amalfi Coast(?) is a soothingly beautiful sight in-between the unedifying bouts of bumping uglies. It does, however, serendipitously give everything the look of postcards faded over time. So if Anna “The Love Witch” Biller is thinking of wasting a year of her life and several million dollars making a giallo set in a 1970s holiday resort shot so it looks like it’s a series of old postcards, could someone show her this movie first? Thanks. Unintentionally then, the shit picture quality actually does the movie a favour. But looking at the images here, which I stole from IMDB, show how it should look. Where possible I watch these kinds of movies (that is foreign movies, not killer penis movies) with subtitles and I can report the subtitles were pretty good throughout. But just for future reference, subtitlers of the world, you can take the vernacular thang too far. The only time I expect to hear Italians in the 1970s talking about wanting “a good shag” is when they are talking about tobacco or rugs. Otherwise it’s just jarring. These people are clearly not from Sheffield. I mean, coyness is not really appropriate; this is a movie where post coital women are disembowelled by a massive penis, I think we can cope with the word “fucking.”

Despite the intrusive, over long and decidedly flaccid scenes of unerotica The Sister of Ursula is quite entertaining. But the best bits are the bits the people who made it gave the shortest shrift; the giallo bits. For starters, the killer wears black leather gloves and a big hat in the OG giallo style and there is a marvellously befuddling concoction of plot threads. Not only is there a killer, they also appear to be armed not just with a blade (for the dispatching of gentlemen) but also a phallus of malice! Dagmar and Ursula are searching for their estranged mother after their father killed himself over his impotence, but Ursula believes her father still visits her and may be the killer, despite being, you know, dead, but a helpful local doctor explains that perhaps Ursula’s latent psychic powers have been triggered by the trauma of her father’s death, this apparently being “common” among adolescents, Dagmar tries to hook up with a suave drug addict who is maniacally jealous of the promiscuous Stella Shining, who may be involved in drug trafficking with the hotel owner, whose wife is leaving him for a young strumpet. There’s a lot going on is what I’m getting at, and a bit more room for those bits to breathe would have done the movie wonders. Unfortunately it shudders to a halt far too often to shed its kecks and ruin the mood. But for giallo fans, who are a breed apart from normal movie fans, there’s lots about The Sister of Ursula to love, not least the final reveal of the murder weapon.