#if any of my followers [who are german at that] even read this and wonder what show i mean

[anaid-queen]

there is something to be said for the power of childhood nostalgia.

a lot, in fact, but i don't have the time right now so i'll just say this: i've been just a step away from a total nervous wreck for days now (and it's been building up), but do you know when i felt total peace for just a moment?

when i was rewatching an episode of a science show i loved as a kid. something i hadn't seen in like, 15 fucking years.

the sheer joy of it.

100/10, recommend to anyone who can possibly get a hold of something old and pure that can make them remember, if nothing else, a simpler time.

[satansdarlin]

Blue stained glass

While I work on the fourth chapter of a full deck of cards I also decided to write for another one of my boys! Welcoming Kurt Wagner to the stage! Apologies for any bad German, I'm still learning it and often forget that it is a gendered language so please forgive me.

MDNI

Rating: E

Word count: 8.3k

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x shy!artist!fem!reader

Warnings: reader being kinda stalkerish but not with bad intentions, implied that some of the students have harmless crushes on Kurt, Kurt being a flirt, smut! Because I missed writing it, Oral (fem receiving), PiV, mentions of Kurt's faith, you wife that man up!, pregnancy. Not beta read!

If you liked this check of my masterlist or put in a request if they are open

Golden light trickled in through the curtains as the sun set behind the school. The smell of dragon's blood incense wafted around the room in delicate wisps of smoke. The only sounds were the slight breeze outside and the dragging of bristles across canvas. You sat on the wooden stool, a slight hunch in your back you'd need to correct later with stretches. Your gaze followed along as you drew blue across the canvas. Blue had become a vital part of all your recent works, and you knew exactly why. Whenever you thought of art, flashes of blue fur, a spaded tail, the smell of sulfur, a silver cross, and a mischievous laugh filled your mind. You wouldn't call it obsession or infatuation. He was your muse. Not that he knew. How could you tell your teammate that he gave you such powerful inspiration? So the portfolio filled to the brim with artworks of just him remained hidden away under your bed.

Kurt Wagner. Everyone loved him. He was a friend worth keeping, made everything fun, always had the best ideas to keep the students entertained, and loved to chatter. Even Logan enjoyed his company from time to time. Kurt just had a way with people, with mutants. A few months back, you had a solo mission with him. It was awkward at first—the shy, quiet artist of the school and the impish chatterbox didn't know how to approach one another. In the end, the mission had concluded in giggles and soft-spoken words. Kurt was wonderful. That's why you couldn't understand why he kept insisting on spending time with you of all people. You were reserved, shy, introverted—the exact opposite of Kurt.

You had put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on your door before starting, hoping it would deter visitors. It did. Well, anyone who saw the sign didn't bother you; the same could not be said for the blue fuzzy imp. He didn't see it, to be fair. He had just gotten home from taking some students to the mall for shopping and wanted to show you the paints he had found, so he teleported. The smell of sulfur and the familiar BAMF sound filled your room, making your eyes widen comedically as you stared at the canvas. A painting of Kurt praying in a church with blue stained glass—one he was most certainly not supposed to see.

"Mein Freund, you would not believe the gift I have found for you— ah," his pleasant accent-tinted voice stalled as he gazed at your shape and then the painting before you. His eyes widened and filled with glee. "Oh mein Gott! Is that me? It's... it's—" he struggled to find the English word for a moment before settling on, "herrlich."

You stammered shyly as he walked up behind you, gazing at the painting with a smile that made your insides flutter like a thousand baby butterflies had hatched. "I... erm... yes, it's you, but it's not finished," you spoke hesitantly.

"Not finished?" Kurt moved closer, his tail swaying gently behind him in that way it did when he was truly excited about something. "But it's already so beautiful! The way you captured the light through the windows..." He leaned in, careful not to disturb your workspace, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "I had no idea you were watching me pray."

Your cheeks burned hot. "I... I wasn't. Not really. I just... sometimes I sketch you when you're around the mansion, and I remembered how peaceful you looked that one time I passed by the chapel..." You trailed off, realizing you might be revealing too much.

Kurt's expression softened, and a knowing look crossed his features. "Then perhaps..." he said, reaching down to carefully take the brush from your trembling fingers, "you wouldn't mind showing me the other drawings?" His golden eyes flickered toward your bed, where your portfolio lay hidden.

Your heart nearly stopped. "You knew?"

A gentle laugh escaped him, musical and warm. "Mein Schatz, I may be a fool sometimes, but I'm not blind. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching." He paused, his tail curling slightly in what you had learned was nervousness. "The same way I look at you when you're lost in your art."

The confession hung in the air between you, as tangible as the wisps of incense smoke still dancing through the golden evening light. You sat frozen, brush dripping blue paint onto the dropcloth below, as Kurt Wagner—your muse, your teammate, your secret inspiration—waited for your response with bated breath.

"You... look at me?" You whispered in shock and a tinge of disbelief. He looked at you like you looked at him? That sounded impossible, yet the way his tail curled in nervousness and his foot tapped against the ground told a different story.

Kurt's hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you'd seen countless times when he was trying to find the right words. "Ja, I do. More than I probably should." His voice was softer now, almost vulnerable. "When you're in the garden sketching, or during the art class with the students when you create those beautiful displays... The way your face lights up when you finally perfect a piece you've been working on..." He trailed off, a deeper blue tinting his cheeks.

Your heart thundered in your chest as he took a small step closer, his tail now swaying in a gentle, hypnotic pattern. "I've wanted to tell you for so long, but..." He gestured to himself with a self-deprecating smile. "Well, I wasn't sure someone who creates such beauty would want..."

"Kurt," you interrupted, finding courage you didn't know you had. Standing from your stool, you reached for his hand, feeling the unique texture of his fur against your palm. "You are beauty. Why do you think I can't stop painting you?"

His golden eyes widened, and that brilliant smile you'd captured in countless sketches spread across his face. "Then perhaps," he said, bringing your joined hands up between you, "we've both been a bit foolish, ja?"

A small laugh escaped you, breaking the tension. "More than a bit." Your eyes drifted to the painting on the easel, then back to him. "Would you... would you like to see the others? The real ones, not just the ones I do for art class?"

Kurt's tail perked up, and he squeezed your hand gently. "I would love nothing more, mein Schatz. But first..." He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small paper bag. "I really did bring you something from the art store."

Inside was a set of iridescent blue paints that shifted colors in the dying sunlight, almost the exact shade of Kurt's fur when he moved. Your breath caught at the thoughtfulness of the gift, and when you looked up at him, his expression was so tender it made your heart ache.

"I saw them and thought of you," he admitted quietly. "Though I suppose I'm always thinking of you these days."

The confession hung in the air like a prayer, and you found yourself moving closer, drawn into his orbit like you'd always been, only now there was no need to hide it. The golden light that had started this evening's painting session now painted Kurt in warm hues, making him look almost ethereal—your own personal angel, right here in your art-cluttered room.

"Kurt," you whispered, not quite sure what you wanted to say, but knowing you needed to say something. The way he looked at you now, like you were one of his precious religious paintings come to life, made you understand why he'd always insisted on spending time with you. He'd been drawn to you just as you'd been to him, both of you dancing around each other in an elaborate routine of stolen glances and hidden feelings.

His tail curled gently around your wrist, as if he couldn't bear to not touch you in some way, and you realized that maybe this was what inspiration truly felt like—not just the desire to capture beauty, but to be part of it. With trembling hands, you knelt beside your bed, aware of Kurt's presence behind you as you reached underneath to pull out the large black portfolio case. Your heart hammered against your ribs—no one had ever seen these pieces before. They were raw, honest, intimate in a way your public artwork never was.

"I, um," you started, clutching the portfolio to your chest as you stood, "some of these are just quick sketches, and others aren't very good—"

"Liebling," Kurt interrupted gently, his tail swaying with barely contained excitement, "everything you create is wunderbar. May I?" He gestured to your bed, and you nodded, watching as he settled cross-legged on the corner, patting the space beside him.

You sat down carefully, the portfolio balanced on your lap. Kurt's warmth beside you was both comforting and nerve-wracking. Taking a deep breath, you unzipped the case and pulled out the first few pieces.

"Oh!" Kurt's delighted gasp made you jump slightly. His tail curled in pleasure as he leaned forward to study a charcoal drawing of himself perched on the mansion's balcony railing, looking out over the grounds. "I remember this day. It was right after that terrible thunderstorm, ja? When the sun finally came out?"

You nodded, surprised he'd remembered such a small moment. "The light was hitting your fur just right, and I couldn't help but..." you trailed off, embarrassed at admitting how much you'd observed him.

But Kurt was already reaching for the next piece, his golden eyes bright with wonder. "And this one!" It was a series of quick gesture sketches of him during a training session, his body in various poses of acrobatic grace. "You've captured the movement so perfectly. I had no idea you were watching so closely."

Your cheeks burned. "I hope that doesn't sound creepy."

His laugh was warm and genuine. "Nein, not at all. Though it does explain why you always volunteered to help supervise training." His tail brushed against your back playfully, making you squeak in surprise.

As you went through more pieces, your initial nervousness began to fade, replaced by a warm glow at Kurt's genuine enthusiasm for each drawing. He had a comment for every piece—remembering the moments you'd captured, praising your technique, asking questions about your process. His tail never stopped moving, expressing his excitement in a way his controlled expressions couldn't quite hide.

"This one," he breathed, carefully lifting a watercolor painting, "this is..." It was one of your favorites—Kurt in the library late at night, reading by lamplight, his tail curled around a cup of tea. You'd painted it from memory after watching him there one evening, trying to capture the peaceful contentment he radiated in those quiet moments.

"The way you see me," he said softly, tracing the air above the painting as if afraid to touch it, "it's so..."

"Real," you finished quietly. "That's just... how you look to me."

Kurt turned to face you then, and the expression on his face made your breath catch. "All this time," he murmured, "I thought I was alone in feeling this way. In seeing such beauty in someone else."

You ducked your head, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, but his tail gently curved under your chin, lifting it back up. "No hiding," he said softly. "Not anymore, ja?"

The portfolio slid forgotten to the floor as Kurt's hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this. In the fading golden light of your room, surrounded by scattered artwork that told the story of your hidden feelings, Kurt Wagner looked at you like you were the masterpiece—not the artist. Time seemed to slow as Kurt's hand remained gentle against your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. Your heart was doing acrobatics that could rival his best performances, and you wondered if he could feel how warm your face had become.

"Mein Schatz," he whispered, leaning closer, "may I...?"

You could only manage a tiny nod, and then his lips were on yours, soft and sweet. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and you could feel his smile against your mouth. His tail curled around your waist, drawing you closer as your hands tentatively came up to rest against his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt and the steady beating of his heart beneath.

When you finally parted, you immediately buried your burning face in his shoulder, earning a warm chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "Hiding again so soon?" he teased, his accent thicker with emotion.

"Mmph," was all you could manage, which only made him laugh more.

"And here I thought artists were supposed to appreciate beautiful moments," he continued playfully, his tail squeezing your waist. "Perhaps I should pose for another painting? 'The First Kiss' would make a lovely addition to your collection, ja?"

You groaned and swatted his chest weakly. "Kurt!"

"Or maybe a series?" He was clearly enjoying himself now, his voice full of mischief. "We could call it 'The Evolution of Romance' or 'Love in Blue'—"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face still flaming. "You're terrible."

His grin was radiant. "Terrible, but yours?" The hope in his voice made your heart flutter.

"Yeah," you whispered, managing a shy smile. "Mine."

"Wunderbar!" He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Though I must ask—do you have any paintings of our future together hidden away as well? Should I be prepared for more surprises?"

"Kurt Wagner!" You tried to sound scandalized, but you couldn't help laughing, especially when he waggled his eyebrows at you.

"What? It's a reasonable question! After all, you've been secretly documenting me for months. For all I know, you've already planned our wedding colors—blue and more blue, I assume?"

You grabbed a nearby pillow and tried to smack him with it, but he teleported across the room with a BAMF, leaving a cloud of sulfur and the echo of his laughter. He reappeared perched on your easel, careful not to disturb your painting, his tail swishing playfully.

"You know," he said, his golden eyes twinkling, "I think I prefer being your muse when I know about it. The poses can be much more interesting this way."

"Oh my god," you mumbled, falling back onto your bed and covering your face with your hands. But you couldn't hide your smile, especially when you felt the familiar displacement of air and suddenly had a warm, fuzzy mutant curled around you, pressing gentle kisses to your temple.

"Don't worry, Liebling," he murmured against your skin, his tail finding your hand and twining with your fingers. "I promise to be the best muse you could ask for. Though..." He paused dramatically, "I do have one condition."

You peeked through your fingers at him. "What's that?"

His smile softened into something so tender it made your chest ache. "That next time you paint me praying in the chapel, you'll be there with me. Some masterpieces are better created together, don't you think?"

This time, when you pulled him down for another kiss, you didn't hide your face afterward. After all, how could you when he was looking at you like that—like you were both the artist and the masterpiece, the muse and the creator, the beginning and end of something beautiful?

Though you did blush furiously when he later insisted on signing all your portraits of him with "Kurt Wagner, Professional Muse and Master of Stealing Artists' Hearts.”

.

.

.

The chatter of students filled the air and the sweet smell of honeysuckle surrounded you and your students. Truth be told, you hadn't even offered to do this job; teaching the art class wasn't something that had ever been on your mind, but Charles had asked you to do so, saying it would be good for the students to have an outlet for their emotions. Though teaching a bunch of mutant teenagers wasn't particularly easy, especially when half of them wanted to be in the danger room training to be X-Men—you probably got more questions about that than actual art.

"Your piece should be about expression. There is no right or wrong, only your feelings about your art," you spoke gently as you walked by the students settled in the grass of the gardens behind the school. A hand rose up and you looked over and nodded at the boy, Damian you believed his name was.

"Excuse me, but how exactly is painting helping us prepare for anything?" You sighed at the boy's question as he got some chastising nudges from some of your more kind students. You got that question about every class.

Before you could answer, a familiar BAMF sound and the scent of sulfur announced Kurt's arrival. He appeared perched on the garden wall, his tail swaying as he grinned at the class. Several students brightened immediately—Kurt had always been a favorite among them.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, mein junger Freund," Kurt said, gracefully flipping down to land beside you. His shoulder brushed yours in a subtle show of support that made your heart flutter, even after months of being together. "Art teaches us more than you might think. Strategy, patience, observation..." He winked at you before continuing, "How do you think I learned to move so efficiently in battle? By understanding space, movement, and perception—all things your talented teacher here helped me improve."

A few students giggled, well aware of your relationship with the blue mutant. It had become something of a school legend how you'd been caught with a portfolio full of Kurt drawings. Some of the older students even insisted they'd known all along, claiming they'd seen the way you both looked at each other during training sessions.

"Besides," Kurt continued, picking up one of the spare brushes from your supply kit and twirling it like one of his swords, "did you know that Leonardo da Vinci used his artistic skills to design defense systems? Or that camouflage patterns were created by artists? Even the maps we use for missions were drawn by artists."

Damian sat up straighter, suddenly looking more interested. "Really?"

You smiled, grateful for Kurt's intervention. "Really. And speaking of missions..." You shared a knowing look with Kurt before addressing the class. "Who wants to hear about the time my sketching skills helped us locate a hidden Sentinel facility?"

"Oh, tell them about the warehouse in Berlin!" Kurt added enthusiastically, his tail curling around your waist as he settled beside you. "When you noticed the architectural inconsistencies in my reconnaissance sketches?"

The students were all paying attention now, art supplies temporarily forgotten as they leaned in to hear the story. Even Damian had put down his phone, his previous skepticism replaced with curiosity.

"Well," you began, feeling Kurt's tail squeeze encouragingly, "it started when we noticed some unusual energy signatures in an old industrial district..."

As you recounted the mission, Kurt occasionally chimed in with his own colorful commentary, making the students laugh with his dramatic reenactments. You couldn't help but smile, watching him demonstrate his acrobatic moves while describing how your artistic knowledge had helped spot the hidden entrance.

"And that," Kurt concluded, landing gracefully beside you again, "is why we should never underestimate the power of art. Or artists." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, making several students coo and others playfully groan at the display of affection.

"Mr. Wagner," one of the girls called out, a mischievous glint in her eye, "are you going to model for our class like you do for the teacher?"

Your face immediately heated up as Kurt laughed delightedly. "Sadly, I'm needed in the danger room. Though..." He grinned at you, that familiar impish look in his golden eyes, "I do have a private session scheduled later."

"Kurt!" you hissed, mortified as the students erupted in giggles.

He merely winked, pressed another quick kiss to your cheek, and teleported away with a theatrical bow, leaving you to face your amused students with burning cheeks.

"Now then," you said, trying to regain some semblance of professional dignity despite your flushed face, "back to your projects. And no, Jenny, you cannot paint Mr. Wagner for your assignment—pick a different subject."

The disappointment on several faces told you that more than one student had been planning exactly that. You couldn't really blame them though. After all, you had an entire portfolio that proved just how inspiring a subject Kurt Wagner could be. After the lingering giggles from Kurt's dramatic exit finally subsided, you circled back through your students, the grass crunching softly beneath your feet. The afternoon sun warmed your shoulders as you paused to observe their work, offering gentle guidance where needed.

"Sarah," you said, stopping beside a girl whose hands were literally glowing as she painted, her mutation allowing her to create luminescent colors, "that's beautiful. The way you're using your powers to add depth to the sunset—very creative." Her beaming smile made your heart warm; it was moments like these that reminded you why Charles had been right about teaching.

Moving on, you found Marcus struggling with his brushstrokes, his extra set of arms getting in the way of each other. "Try coordinating them like we practiced," you suggested softly. "Remember, each hand can work on a different section. Think of it like... like when Kurt coordinates his tail with his movements during training."

The mention of Kurt made a few nearby students glance up with knowing smirks, but you ignored them, focusing on how Marcus's face lit up with understanding. Within minutes, all four of his hands were working in harmony, creating an intricate pattern that would have taken others four times as long to complete.

"Teacher?" A quiet voice drew your attention to Amy, a shy freshman whose scales tended to change color with her emotions—currently a nervous purple. "I... I don't know if this is good enough." She gestured to her canvas where she'd painted a self-portrait, her scales rendered in beautiful iridescent shades.

You knelt beside her, careful not to disturb her workspace. "What makes you think it's not good enough?"

"It's just..." she glanced around at her classmates' work, her scales shifting to a deeper purple. "Everyone else is painting normal things. Beautiful things. I painted... me."

"Amy," you said gently, thinking of all the times you'd doubted your own artwork, of all the paintings of Kurt you'd hidden away because you thought they were too revealing, too personal. "Do you remember what Kurt said in his last ethics class about beauty?"

Her scales flickered with hints of pink—she had a bit of a crush on Kurt, like half the school. "That it comes in all forms?"

"Exactly. And look—" you pointed to how the light caught her painting's scales, creating rainbow patterns across the canvas. "You've captured something uniquely beautiful. Something only you could create, because only you know exactly how those scales feel, how they shift and change. That's not just good art, that's powerful art."

The purple of her scales gradually shifted to a warm golden hue as she smiled, looking at her painting with new eyes. Around you, other students had paused to listen, and you saw several of them return to their work with renewed purpose.

"Damian," you called out, noticing he'd actually started painting instead of just complaining, "excellent use of perspective on that building. Been practicing your architectural sketches?"

He tried to look nonchalant, but you caught his pleased grin. "Yeah, well... after what you said about the Berlin mission... I figured it might be useful. You know, for future X-Men stuff."

"Hey, teacher?" Jenny piped up, paint smudged adorably across her cheek. "Since we can't paint Mr. Wagner, could you tell us more about how art helped on missions while we work? Please?"

A chorus of agreements rose from the class, and you couldn't help but smile. "Alright, but keep painting. There was this one time in Moscow when my knowledge of color theory helped us identify a shapeshifter..."

As you shared the story, moving between easels and offering guidance, you noticed how the students' work seemed to come alive. Even the most reluctant artists were engaged now, their creativity flowing as they listened to tales of how art and heroism could intertwine.

The smell of honeysuckle grew stronger as the afternoon wore on, mixing with paint and teenage enthusiasm. A flash of blue in your peripheral vision caught your attention—Kurt, watching proudly from a nearby window between his training sessions. He blew you a kiss before disappearing again, leaving you with paint-stained fingers and a garden full of budding artists who were finally beginning to understand that there was more than one way to be extraordinary.

"Teacher?" Amy called out, her scales now a confident shade of blue that reminded you of someone special. "I think I'd like to do another self-portrait. Maybe... maybe one of me in an X-Men uniform this time?"

You smiled, thinking of your own portfolio of Kurt, of how art had led you to love, and how that love had led you here, helping these young mutants find their own way to express their unique beauty. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Amy. Just remember—"

"We know, we know," the class chorused together, matching your grin, "there is no right or wrong, only our feelings about our art!”

.

.

.

Evening had settled over the mansion, the last rays of sunlight painting your studio in familiar golden hues. The day's classes were done, art supplies cleaned and stored away, and you'd finally managed to stop blushing from Kurt's teasing comments during your lesson. You were just setting up your easel when the familiar BAMF announced his arrival.

"Ah, mein Schatz," Kurt's voice was warm as he appeared behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tail curling affectionately around your ankle. "Ready for our 'private session'?" You could hear the playful smirk in his voice.

"You," you turned in his arms to poke his chest accusingly, "are terrible. Do you know how many knowing looks I got from the students after you left?"

He laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I couldn't help myself. You're adorable when you blush. Speaking of which..." His tail reached over to your desk, picking up your sketchbook and flipping it open to reveal today's quick sketches of him during his brief visit to your class. "Someone was inspired during their teaching duties, ja?"

"Kurt!" You tried to snatch the sketchbook, but he teleported across the room, perching on the window seat as he continued flipping through pages.

"Oh, this one is new!" He held up a sketch of himself demonstrating acrobatic moves to your students. "You captured my best side."

"All your sides are your best side," you mumbled before you could stop yourself, then immediately covered your face with your hands as he teleported back to you, gathering you close.

"Is that so?" he murmured against your ear. "Then perhaps we should make sure you have proper reference material for all of them?" His tail gently pulled your hands away from your face, forcing you to meet his tender gaze. "Now then, how would you like me to pose, Liebling?"

You gestured weakly to the arrangement you'd set up—a comfortable chair positioned near the window, where the last of the sunset would cast those perfect shadows you loved to capture. "Just... sitting would be nice. Natural. Like when you're reading in the library."

Kurt's expression softened as he settled into the chair, understanding your desire to capture one of your favorite quiet moments. He pulled out a small book of poetry—Rilke, you noticed—and arranged himself comfortably, his tail draped over the armrest.

"Like this?" he asked, and you nodded, already reaching for your charcoal. This was familiar territory now, though no less special than those first secret sketches. If anything, it was more intimate—knowing he was here specifically for you, watching you create, sharing these peaceful moments together.

As you began to sketch, Kurt started reading aloud softly in German, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. You'd grown to love these evenings, the gentle cadence of his voice mixing with the scratch of charcoal on paper, the way his tail would occasionally twitch in response to a particular phrase or stanza.

"You know," he said during a pause between poems, his golden eyes meeting yours over the top of his book, "I used to wonder why you chose me as your subject so often. Now I think I understand."

You paused in your sketching, curious. "Oh?"

"Ja. It's the same reason I can't stop watching you when you create." He marked his place in the book and leaned forward slightly. "There's something magical about seeing someone doing what they love, being exactly who they are meant to be. You see me that way when I move, when I pray, when I simply exist. And I see you that way when you're lost in your art."

The charcoal trembled slightly in your fingers as he continued, "It's like seeing someone's soul, isn't it? Their truest self?"

You nodded, unable to find words for how perfectly he'd captured it. Kurt rose from the chair in one fluid movement, crossing to where you stood. His hand covered yours on the charcoal, bringing it to rest against the easel.

"Perhaps," he whispered, turning you to face him, his tail wrapping around your waist, "we could find other ways to capture this moment?"

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted of poetry and promises. The charcoal slipped forgotten from your fingers as you wound your arms around his neck, letting yourself get lost in the overwhelming rightness of being held by him.

When you finally parted, Kurt rested his forehead against yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Though I do hope you'll finish the sketch later. I have a reputation as Professional Muse to maintain, after all."

You laughed, the sound mixing with his own quiet chuckle in the golden evening light of your studio, where art and love had become beautifully, perfectly intertwined.

"So how do you wish to capture this moment, hm?" You hummed up at him with a new sense of courage.

Kurt's yellow eyes sparkle with mischief and desire as he gazes down at you, his tail gently squeezing your waist. The sunset light casts a warm glow on your skin, highlighting the delicate curve of your neck and the soft fullness of your lips. He leans in, his breath ghosting over your skin as he speaks.

"There are so many ways, mein Schatz..." he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "We could start with a kiss..."

And he does, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. His lips are surprisingly soft against yours, moving with a passion and tenderness that sets your heart racing. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your back, pressing you closer to him.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily, your cheeks flushed and your eyes dark with desire. Kurt's tail tightens around you, keeping you anchored against him as he trails his lips along your jaw, nipping lightly at your earlobe.

"Or perhaps," he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine, "you'd like to capture the way my hands feel on your skin?"

Without waiting for an answer, he begins to unbutton your shirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin as he reveals more and more of your body to his hungry gaze. Each touch sends sparks of electricity through you, igniting a fire that only seems to grow with each passing second.

As your shirt falls to the floor, Kurt takes a step back, his eyes roving hungrily over your newly exposed skin. His gaze is almost reverent, as if he's drinking in every inch of you like a man dying of thirst.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his voice filled with awe and desire. "You're absolutely perfect, Meine Liebe."

His hands come up to cup your breasts, thick fingers brushing over your hardening nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he begins to circle and tease, building the pleasure slowly but surely. Kurt's hands continue their sensual exploration of your body, tracing every curve and dip with a reverence that makes your skin tingle. He leans down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin.

"I want to worship every inch of you," he murmurs against your throat, his voice rough with desire. "To show you how much you mean to me."

His fingers find the clasp of your bra, deftly unhooking it and sliding the straps down your shoulders. The garment falls away, baring your breasts to his eager gaze. Kurt pauses for a moment, simply drinking in the sight of you, before cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms.

"Perfektion," he breathes, thumbing your nipples until they pebble beneath his touch. He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth and suckling gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

You gasp at the sensation, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him close. Kurt continues his ministrations, alternating between your breasts, licking and sucking and nipping until you're writhing against him, desperate for more.

His hands drift lower, skimming over your stomach and hips before dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. He strokes you through the damp fabric of your underwear, his touch light and teasing.

"So wet already," he marvels, his voice thick with arousal. "You're so responsive, mein Schatz. So perfect."

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and underwear, tugging them down your legs in one smooth motion. You kick them off impatiently, standing before him in nothing but your socks and shoes.

Kurt takes a step back, his eyes raking over your naked form with undisguised hunger. He licks his lips, his tail swishing behind him in anticipation.

"Lie down on the couch," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I want to taste you." You obey without hesitation, settling into the plush cushions immediately.

 Kurt follows you to the couch, his eyes never leaving your body as he crawls over you, settling between your spread thighs. He runs his hands up your legs, his touch light and teasing, until he reaches the apex of your thighs.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, spreading your folds with his fingers and exposing your glistening flesh to his hungry gaze. "I can't wait to taste you."

He leans down, dragging his tongue along your slit in one long, slow lick. The sensation is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body. You gasp, your hips lifting off the couch as you seek more of his touch.

Kurt chuckles, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. He looks up at you through his lashes, his yellow eyes gleaming with mischief and desire.

"Patience, mein Schatz," he teases, blowing a cool stream of air over your wet heat. "We have all the time in the world."

And then he's diving back in, his tongue delving deep into your core, lapping at your essence like a man starved. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, flicking over the sensitive bud again and again until you're writhing beneath him, desperate for release.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he feasts on your flesh, his groans of pleasure muffled against your skin. The room fills with the obscene sounds of his licking and sucking, punctuated by your own breathy moans and gasps.

Kurt brings a hand up to your clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen nub as he continues to tongue-fuck your dripping cunt. The dual stimulation is too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with each passing second.

"That's it, Kleine," he encourages, his voice rough with arousal. "Let go. Come for me."

His words are all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. You cry out, your hands fisting in Kurt's hair as waves of pleasure crash over you, threatening to drown you in their intensity.

Kurt works you through it, his tongue and fingers never faltering as he prolongs your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp until you're boneless and spent, collapsing back against the couch in a sweaty, satisfied heap.

He presses one last kiss to your sensitive flesh before crawling up your body, settling his weight on top of you. His erection presses insistently against your thigh as he wiggles off his pants, hot and hard and ready for you.*

"I need you, meine Engel," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "I need to be inside you."

He reaches down between your bodies, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. You can feel the heat of him, the pulsing need that throbs against your slick folds.

With one swift thrust, he's inside you, filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden stretch, your walls clenching around him like a vice.

"Fuck, you're tight," Kurt groans, his hips rocking against yours as he begins to move. "So perfect. So gut."

He sets a steady rhythm, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, his cock hitting depths you didn't even know you had. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, igniting a fire in your core that threatens to consume you whole. Your heart flutters hearing him slur out German and English in a pleasure drunken haze. Kurt's tail wraps around your legs, holding them open wide as he pistons into you, his hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps.

"So good," he pants, his face buried in your neck as he laves his tongue over your pulse point. "So perfekt. So mine."

His words send a shiver down your spine, igniting a possessive heat in your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your body with each thrust.

"Yours," you gasp, your nails digging into the fur of his back. "All yours, kurt"

Kurt growls, low and deep, his tail tightening around your legs as he pounds into you with abandon. The couch creaks beneath your combined weight, threatening to give way under the force of his thrusts.

"Ich liebe dich," he slurs, his words muffled against your skin. "Love you so much. Need you. Need to be inside you forever."

His confession sends you careening over the edge, your body seizing up as another orgasm rips through you. You clench around him, your walls fluttering and spasming as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

"Fuck, Prinzessin," Kurt groans, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release. "Feel so good. So perfect. Gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

With a final, bruising thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he empties himself into your waiting womb. You can feel the heat of his seed, the way it paints your insides, marking you as his.

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions as he pants against your neck. His tail unwinds from your legs, draping lazily over your thigh as he nuzzles into your hair.

"I love you," he murmurs, his voice soft and sated. "My perfect girl. Meine schöne Künstlerin."

You smile, your heart full to bursting with love and contentment.

.

.

.

Nearly a year later

The chapel was quiet save for the soft whisper of your pencil across paper. Early morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting familiar blue patterns across the wooden pews. Kurt knelt at the altar in prayer, his tail curved peacefully behind him, rosary beads wrapped gently around his three-fingered hands.

You'd grown comfortable here in these morning moments, sharing this sacred space with him. What had once felt like an intrusion now felt like belonging. Your sketchbook was filled with these quiet scenes—Kurt in prayer, Kurt reading his Bible, Kurt simply existing in this place that meant so much to him. But this morning was different. This morning, your hand trembled slightly as you drew, your mind wandering to the small box hidden in your art supplies.

It had taken weeks to create, working late into the night in your studio after Kurt had fallen asleep. A hand-carved wooden ring box, painted with delicate scenes from your relationship—the first time you'd been caught painting him, your first kiss, teaching art class together, quiet moments in the chapel. The ring inside was simple silver, engraved with tiny crosses and artist's brushes intertwined.

"You're thinking very loudly this morning, Liebling," Kurt's voice startled you from your thoughts. He hadn't moved from his position, but his tail swayed knowingly.

"Sorry," you mumbled, adding another shadow to your sketch. "Didn't mean to disturb your prayers."

"You never disturb me," he said softly, finally turning to face you with that gentle smile that still made your heart skip. "Though I am curious what has you so distracted. Usually you're much more focused when drawing in here."

You set down your sketchbook with trembling fingers. "Actually, I... I have something for you."

Kurt's eyebrows rose curiously as you reached into your art bag, pulling out the painted box. His golden eyes widened as you stood and walked to him, kneeling beside him at the altar.

"Kurt Wagner," you began, your voice shaky but determined, "you've been my muse, my inspiration, my best friend, and the love of my life. You've shown me that beauty exists in so many forms, that faith can be found in art just as much as prayer, and that love..." you had to pause, swallowing hard as his tail curled around your wrist encouragingly, "love can be both the masterpiece and the creation itself."

You opened the box, revealing the ring nestled inside. "Would you let me spend the rest of my life creating with you?"

Kurt's breath caught as he took in the painted scenes on the box, his fingers trailing reverently over the tiny details you'd spent so long perfecting. When he looked up, his eyes were shining with tears.

"Mein Gott," he whispered, "you've managed to surprise the teleporter." His tail tightened around your wrist as he pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "Did you really think there could be any answer but yes? You are the greatest masterpiece God has ever placed in my life."

Your laugh was watery as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a perfect fit just as you'd hoped. Kurt cradled your face in his hands, his touch infinitely gentle.

"Though I must say," he murmured, his accent thick with emotion, "you've rather stolen my thunder, Liebling." With his tail, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, making you gasp. "I was planning to ask you after morning mass."

Inside was a delicate gold ring with a blue sapphire that matched his fur perfectly. "Great minds think alike, ja?"

You couldn't speak through your tears as he slipped the ring onto your finger, but you didn't need to. The way you pulled him into a kiss said everything necessary, the morning light painting you both in shades of blue and gold through the stained glass windows.

"I can't wait to see how you'll paint this moment," Kurt whispered against your lips, making you laugh.

"Already planning it," you admitted. "Though I might need my muse to pose for several reference sketches."

His tail wrapped around your waist as he grinned. "I believe that can be arranged. After all..." he pressed another soft kiss to your lips, "we have the rest of our lives to perfect it."

Through the chapel windows, the morning light continued to paint you both in blues and golds, artist and muse, two hearts creating something beautiful together. And if anyone noticed that your afternoon art class was especially romantic that day, well... they were kind enough not to mention it. Though you did have to tell Jenny, once again, that no, she still couldn't paint Mr. Wagner for her assignment—even if he was now your fiancé.

.

.

.

You woke up to soft snores and looked over, unable to help but smile softly. Your husband's sleeping face was too cute to not smile at. After five years of being married, you'd never grow tired of waking up to this. Recently he had taken to growing out a goatee, saying it made him look more mature (you couldn't help but agree—after all, it made your mind wander a lot too). You carefully pulled out of his embrace without waking him; his tail was always a struggle to remove from its place around your leg without waking him, but you managed it. After a small silent dance of triumph, you moved out of your shared bedroom to the room across from it.

The room was halfway painted, though you had been working on it for the past six months. It had paintings of stories and family littered across it—scenes from Kurt's favorite fairy tales, the X-Men as loving aunts and uncles, even a small portrait of Professor Xavier smiling benevolently from above the planned crib space. You picked up a brush and were about to continue when you accidentally kicked a paint bucket. That's all it took, and with a sudden puff of smoke your husband had teleported in, his stance ready for action but relaxing when he saw it was just you up early.

"Mein Gott, woman, I thought you were a thief!" He exclaimed, holding his three-fingered hand over his chest before walking over with a soft tired smile and pecking your lips. "You're up early, I don't even hear the morning birds yet."

"Needed to stretch my legs," you hummed back, and he hummed softly in suspicion. His hand rested on your stomach.

"Are you sure it is not because of the Kleine?" He spoke in a teasing voice as he gently rubbed your stomach.

You leaned back against his chest, letting his warmth seep into you as you both gazed at the wall you'd been painting. His tail automatically wrapped around your waist, just above where your small baby bump was beginning to show. "Maybe," you admitted. "I just... I want it to be perfect before they arrive."

Kurt nuzzled against your neck, his goatee tickling your skin. "Liebling, with you as their mother, how could it be anything but perfect?" His hand joined yours on the brush. "Though perhaps we could add a few more acrobatic scenes? A future X-Man should know their father's best moves, ja?"

You laughed softly, mindful of the early hour. "Kurt, we don't even know if they'll be able to teleport yet."

"Ah, but they're already showing artistic talent!" He moved to stand beside you, gesturing dramatically at your stomach. "Look how perfectly they've rounded out your usually straight lines!"

"Did you just call me fat, Mr. Wagner?" you asked with mock offense.

His eyes widened comically. "Nein! Never! I merely meant to say you're more... sculptural these days?" His tail flicked nervously as he tried to backtrack, making you giggle.

"Saved it," you murmured, turning back to the wall. You'd been working on a particular scene—a small blue figure learning to teleport while protective arms waited to catch them. "Do you really think they'll like it? All of this?"

Kurt's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as he surveyed your work. "Mein Schatz, they will love it. Just as they will love you." His hand splayed protectively over your stomach. "Though perhaps we should add a small easel next to the training equipment? Best to be prepared for all possibilities."

You turned in his arms, brush still in hand, accidentally leaving a small blue streak across his chest. "Oops."

His grin turned mischievous. "Oh? Is that how we're playing this morning?" He reached for another brush. "You know, the wall isn't the only canvas in need of some color..."

"Kurt Wagner, don't you dare—" But it was too late. With a playful BAMF, he was behind you, painting a gentle heart on the back of your nightshirt.

What followed was a careful (mindful of your condition) but enthusiastic paint war, filling the nursery with quiet laughter and colorful streaks. By the time the sun began to rise, you were both covered in paint, sitting on the drop cloth and admiring your handiwork—both on the walls and each other.

"You know," Kurt mused, his tail drawing abstract patterns in a small paint puddle, "this might be your best work yet."

You looked around at the cheerful chaos you'd created together—the story-filled walls, the paint-splattered drop cloths, the mixing of your artistic vision with his playful additions. Your hand found his, fingers intertwining as they rested on your growing bump.

"No," you said softly, "I think our best work is still in progress."

His answering smile was brighter than the rising sun, and as he pulled you in for a paint-smudged kiss, you couldn't help but think that sometimes the most beautiful art came from life itself—messy, unexpected, and absolutely perfect.

Though you did make him clean up the paint footprints he'd teleported all over the mansion before the students woke up. Your gaze went over to the window which Kurt had helped you place the stain on. The blue hues glittered over the room and it filled you with a sense of love and happiness. Blue would always be apart of your life now, and you wouldn't have it any other way. 

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Received this question just now. Posting my response sans askers' username per their request:

Hi, as you are a holocaust historian, and as you mentioned in a recent post, words mean things, I was sort of wondering what you thought about people saying that what’s happening in Palestine isn’t genocide because the holocaust was genocide/6 million Jews was genocide. I’ve seen a couple people saying stuff along the lines of ‘if what’s happening in Palestine is genocide, we need another word for the holocaust’. I’m not worried about you knowing it’s me asking (like asking on anon) because I think you talk to people pretty reasonably but if you could answer it in private or without my name on the ask I would appreciate it, people seeing it could get… unpleasant, talking about this stuff and I try to stay out of the line of fire to the best of my ability. Totally fine if you don’t want to answer, I don’t want you hounded about Palestine either, it just seemed like you might have an interesting take with your studies

Anyone is capable of genocide, of following orders to commit human rights abuses, of attacking civilians, etc. No identity groups’ past—however violent and traumatic—makes them incapable of committing war crimes. Referring to what’s happening in Gaza as genocide doesn’t invalidate Jewish communal thought regarding the Holocaust. Moreover, the fact that the State of Israel has built Holocaust memory into its nation-building doesn’t mean that that country is inherently incapable of crimes against humanity. There is a cohort of primarily 65+ Jews who hold a trauma-induced belief that Israel could never be capable of these crimes because everything Israel does is in the interest of protecting the Jewish people. It’s a pretty thought, and one I used to hold, but it’s not reality. Many as well would argue that, because the October 7 attack was inherently genocidal, Israel was moral and just doing what it needed to do to bring the hostages home and stamp out Hamas cells. Indeed, these hypothetical individuals would continue, the fact that Hamas has built itself into the civilian architecture of Gaza means that Hamas is using Palestinian civilians as human shields; not that Israel is committing genocide. I personally think that’s wishful thinking. Hamas 800% bases itself near structures like hospitals and kindergartens so Israel will look bad when it attacks those places,* thus willfully allowing the people it governs to exist as human shields. HOWEVER, I don’t believe for one minute that the Israeli military doesn’t have the technology needed to seek out evidence of heat, heartbeats, etc, in hidden subterranean areas. Their counter-attack was always going to happen, but the way it’s been fought? Naw man it’s indefensible.

You know I don't do comparisons or Holocaust inversion, but I do have feelings and emotional responses which don't care about my Serious Intellectual Historian views on comparisons and Holocaust inversion. And, there's a very disturbing moment in one of my primary sources for my book where a woman describes a Nazi attack on a hospital in the Warsaw Ghetto. She describes the screaming and the panic and the civilians begging to be euthanized. Similar readings and sources exist for hospitals in Warsaw during the 1944 Warsaw Uprising when the Germans were destroying the city. I suspect similar descriptions exist of any hospital of a densely populated civilian area under siege. And, even if I was still bullheadedly in my Zionist era, I wouldn't have been able to simultaneously do the work I do, watch Israeli soldiers attacking hospitals, and emerge completely fine with everything. All of that doesn’t erase the simultaneous facts that: 1) the Holocaust happened and was a traumatic moment in Jewish History, the memory of which will endure throughout the millennia; and 2) the October 7 attacks were carried out by Hamas with genocidal intent.

What you’re seeing is people within our community dealing with cognitive dissonance. And honestly the experience of watching people lash out is stage 1 of that process (or as I call it, the Cognitive Dissonance Temper Tantrum). It’s no fun to witness, but can be positive if the person doing the temper tantrum chooses to learn from it. 

ETA: When I discuss things I felt/believed in my "Zionist Era," I'm discussing stuff from when I was like, under 21 years old. For reference I am currently 35.

No one has my permission to use my words to silence other Jewish people. You have no obligation to stick around for people having cognitive dissonance freakouts or saying shitty things about Palestinians, but I see part of my...duty as being available to work with Jewish individuals who want to deal productively with their cognitive dissonance once the freakout period dies down, if they want help.

*Here my Unnamed I/P Reader notes that it’s quite a bit more complicated than stated here in part due to Gaza’s pre-Oct. 7 2023 population density.

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HC's: Letters Home

A/n: I'm really rolling with these BofB headcanons! hope you enjoy :)

Characters included: Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon, Ronald Speirs, Carwood Lipton, Buck Compton, David Webster, Joe Liebgott

Dick Winters

Writes frequent, short letters

Meticulously dates his letters and includes a blurb about the weather. January 12th, 1945. It’s snowing outside, dark and cold. 

Starts each letter with My dear y/n 

Always asks how you are, even though he’s the one fighting a damn war

Follows up on every little question or story you include in your letters. How was the bake sale? Did you ever hear how Louise Graham’s brother is doing after taking that shrapnel to the shoulder? Hope you were able to get someone out to look at the washing machine.

Ends his letters with classic but sentimental sign-offs, like Affectionately yours and All my love

Makes sure not to include anything in his letters that would worry you. Doesn’t necessarily lie or fake being happy, but just gently side steps that. 

Although every once in a while you get a longer letter where Dick’s handwriting is a little messier. You know it’s from writing fast, you can almost feel the pressure behind the penmarks. He opens up more in those letters, talks about losing too many good men and sometimes will say things that just absolutely break your heart, like sometimes I wonder how all of this is really going to end for the men who are over here fighting. 

Even in these letters, Dick never says “I” or “Me”, always writes about the men and the boys. You know - and so does he - that he’s including himself in those boys.

His next letter he always makes sure to reassure you. And it’s genuine, you can tell. He’ll say something like I have to put some of these heavier thoughts somewhere, and there’s nowhere I trust more than with you. 

When he comes home, you find a stack of letters you wrote to him tied up in a neat bundle and stashed in an inside pocket of his Ike jacket that he sewed in especially for that purpose. You could tell by the flimsy, near-ripped creases and dirty paper that he’d read each one about a hundred times over. Buried in the middle of the stack was the picture you’d given him before he’d left for training. On the back, he’d written simply your name, the date the photo was taken, and a short instruction: in event of my death, please send all personal effects to with your home address. It made you sob but you never told him you found it.

GIF by mads-weasley

Lewis Nixon

Rarely writes. Actually drives you crazy with worry most of the time.

When he finally does, you can tell that he’s initially annoyed at having to put his thoughts down on paper. Letters start off with short, sarcastic sentences like nothing new here. Still fighting the war, in case you hadn’t heard. Enjoying German hospitality. 

But as the letters go on he relaxes into it and stops being so grouchy. 

Because he’s always grumpy at having to write (you should probably thank Dick for cajoling Lew into actually sitting down to write to you), he usually doesn’t write any sort of introduction or sweet address, just dives right into it.

His letters usually don’t say much, he just kind of rambles about how much he hates being away from you and how he can’t wait for the whole damn thing to be over. 

Sometimes he’ll write something so incredibly romantic it takes your breath away, like I’d fight a whole division of Panzers myself if I could just get one more sniff of your perfume. 

Those are the letters you save and reread to yourself over and over again when you’re waiting weeks for the next one.

Always signs off with something kind of sassy but also sweet?, like You know I love you or Keep our bed warm for me. 

Sometimes you feel like you can smell whiskey on the paper, which both worries you but also reminds you of Lew

When he finally gets home and you ask him about what he did with your letters, he kind of looks at you like you’ve gone crazy and says I read them of course, what else was I supposed to do with them? 

This hurts your feelings at first which of course he doesn’t understand, but after a few weeks you start to realize that he actually did read them and not only that he memorized their contents. Like he refers to your mother as “the Wicked Witch of Wichita” (something you called here after you wrote him a long rambling letter about how angry she made you at your sister’s bridal shower) and buys you a bouquet of daffodils because you wrote him a letter with a daffodil doodle in the margins of the page talking about the spring gardens. 

You realize that Lew shows his love in the little details, and it makes you appreciate him all the more.

GIF by beautifulguycollector

Ronald Speirs

Ron’s letters read like military bulletins. 

Doing well despite the cold. 1st sgt sick with pneumonia. Think of you often.

Writes predictably once per week. Never misses a letter. Ever. 

You always write him long, lengthy, romantic letters. Sometimes even a little raunchy, if you’ve had some wine. After one particularly *ahem* suggestive letter, you feel ridiculous and say so the next time you write.

In typical Ron fashion, you get a short, to-the-point reply, but it still puts a smile on your face and a blush on your cheeks: Loved your letter. Keep writing. 

Towards the end of the war, Ron starts a countdown to when he expects to be coming home. Two months now, maybe less. Home for the Fourth of July. 

Also signs off with R.S. Which makes you laugh, as if you could forget who was writing to you.

Whenever your girlfriends find a letter from Ron (you keep them all in a shoebox in your closet), they tease you and ask how you can possibly be in love with someone so stiff and formal. To which you can only chuckle to yourself, because you know it’s just that they don’t understand that Ron doesn’t tell you he loves you, he shows you. Writing a letter every single week. Updating you on everything going on, even short updates, because he wants you to know how he’s doing. That’s Ronald Speirs’ love language.

Maybe three weeks before Ron comes home, you start getting boxes of (stolen?) German silver at your door. At first it freaks you out and makes you feel slimy for having lavish riches from an enemy country, so you don’t unpack the boxes and you just stack them up in the back bedroom. When Ron gets home and sees the boxes unopened and shut away, he immediately asks you what’s wrong. You stammer out an explanation and without blinking an eye, Ron loads them into his truck and takes them to the dump. 

(Later you convince him that a better use of those would be to donate them to the local orphanage, so off he goes in his truck to get the boxes back out of the dump and bring them to shelter.)

One night when you’re lying awake, head on Ron’s chest, talking idly about things that don’t matter, he interrupts you to ask Can you guess which letter I kept? 

You instantly blush, thinking of that risque letter you wrote him when you were halfway through your second bottle of white wine. He shakes his head and pulls a letter out of his nightstand and hands it to you. You don’t recognize it immediately, although you do see that it’s too short to be one of the naughtier correspondences. 

It’s too dark to read, so you ask him which letter. He says it’s the one you wrote to me for my birthday. 

You don’t remember that one and you tell him as much, so you ask him why he kept that one instead of some of the others. He looks down at you with a serious look in his eyes, a little surprised that you can’t figure it out. Then he tells you: it’s the first time you wrote that you loved me. 

The next day, you sneak a peek at the letter and realize he’s right. You signed it, I love you Ron. 

From then on, you make sure to tell him that every night before he falls asleep.

Carwood Lipton

Formal, sweet letters. This man is a king of romancing by words.

Writes as often as he can, but you know that Lip needs peace and quiet for an entire evening to get one of those letters done (he probably definitely writes a draft or two before he gets it right). And let’s face it, Easy Company doesn’t have the luxury of many quiet evenings. 

Always, always, always starts his letters off with Dear (future) Mrs. Lipton, which you honestly think is hopelessly corny but it’s way too adorable to tell him so. And besides, you secretly love it.

He always reminisces about home in his letters. Tells you how much he misses the smell of your baking, the squeak of the front porch swing that you two would sit on and watch the sunset. 

He worries a lot about you and his family. He always asks you to look in on his mother if it’s not too much trouble. 

Lip doesn’t talk much about the war, in fact he hardly acknowledges it at all. And he never uses the term ‘war’ or ‘battle’. Instead, he says things like The boys over here are still committed to doing the job or Easy presses on.  

Lip’s letters get a little shorter and less soft after Bastogne. He starts including the names of the casualties in his company in the P.S. Even though you don’t know these men except by name - and some of them, not even that - you feel honored that he trusts you with their memories. 

Lip has saved your letters and all the pictures you sent to him - he loves pictures, and asks for an updated one of you almost every month - tucked in his foot locker and safely between the pages of his Bible so they don’t get creased or dirty. 

You also find that he’s kept stacks of letters from some of his men that died in the field. When you ask him what he plans to do with the letters, he gets a heartbreaking, far-off look in his eyes and says I reckon I’ll try to get them back to their families. 

You take on the burden of doing that, and you write to some of the families introducing yourself and introducing Lip and offering to forward them the letters.

All the replies you get back mention that their soldier talked about how good a leader and friend Lip was. Their replies bring tears to your eyes. For some reason, you don’t show the letters to Lip, although you do tell him about them. He never asks to read the letters, he just kisses you on your forehead and tells you that he’s never loved you more. 

Even after he’s home, he’ll still write you a letter from time to time, usually at Christmastime or for your birthday in the summer. His letters are always talking about his favorite memories with you, and there’s always a paragraph at the end where he talks about how in love with you he is. It’s borderline poetry and it makes you cry every single time.

GIF by balladofthe101st

Buck Compton

Basically just writes a list of questions for you to answer in every letter.

Wants to know everything about what’s going on at home. Especially sports teams.

Doesn’t write frequently, so sometimes it’s hard to feel like there’s a conversation happening. 

But he always includes sweet little notes about how much he’s thinking of you and how he’s counting down the days until he can hold you again, so you’re not complaining. 

Not the most poetic writer. Always says what he thinks and feels though. Completely honest and open. 

Does not tell you anything about the war. Basically ignores the entire thing. 

Sometimes you think about asking him about that, but you figure that he’s not talking about it for a reason, so you follow suit.

Calls you baby in his letters. 

Doesn’t actually say ‘I love you’ in his letters, although says everything else. Miss you baby. Dream about you all the time. When I get home, I’m putting a ring on your finger. 

One time he writes that he woke up last night out of a dream and swore I could taste you and it makes your toes curl.

You save that letter, tuck it in your underwear drawer. 

Signs his letters very simply: Buck. Sometimes he’ll put something in like until next time or I’ll write soon. But usually nothing super romantic or sentimental.

Doesn’t save your letters, but that really doesn’t bother you too much because all you wrote in them was basically just rambling details that Buck requested about your boring day-to-day. 

Buck’s always better in person than in writing - he’s a quality time and physical touch kind of guy - but you know that your letters were his only lifeline to normal during the war, and you’re just happy to have him back at all. 

He does surprise you one night when it’s really quiet in the house and you’re sitting on the couch together, each reading a book. He suddenly turns to you and says You know baby girl, your letters saved my sanity over there. It’s the most he’s really ever said about the war, but it’s enough, and you kiss him so he knows that you get it.  

GIF by balladofthe101st

David Webster

Unsurprisingly, Web is probably the best letter writer in all of Easy Company. 

He helps a lot of the other guys write letters home, especially if they’re trying to say something important. Web just has a knack for words unlike any other. 

He writes a lot of letters home, not just to you, but to the rest of his family, his siblings, some of his friends, and definitely his professors. 

So because you’re close with Web’s family, you do get to read a lot of his writing. 

His letters to you are different though. They’re darker and a little less polished. Sometimes, they frighten you a little bit. Web talks about things you’re not you really understand - like how pointless death is, how empty it makes him feel to see his friends get KIA, how he carries around guilt about surviving this long like an anchor. 

Refers to you exclusively in his letters by your first name, his writing is always serious and somber and drenched with heavy emotions, so pet names just really don’t fit the vibe.

He quotes poetry and literature quite a bit when he writes. It all feels a bit Gothic, but you’ve always known that Web has found clarity in the world through books, so you don’t begrudge him a little poetic license.

Signs his letters Yours in perpetuity, David K. Webster. 

Asks you to send books. Sometimes he asks for something specific, but other times he’s happy to get whatever you pick out for him. Your tastes are different from his; you prefer to choose shorter, gentle pieces about life in the British countryside or Western adventure novels. Web would prefer Wadsworth or Hemingway, but he figures it’s probably in his best interests to read things that don’t tackle dark themes. You always tuck a letter for him into the first few pages. 

He doesn’t save your letters, per se, although he does save every single book you send to him. When he gets home, he puts them all up on the bookshelf in his office. Even though they’re beat up and stained and not at all fitting with the rest of his collection, they’re front and center. 

Sometimes he takes a stab at sketching in his letters. He’s not bad, either. You try to encourage him to take lessons when he gets home, which he never does. He secretly loves how much you love his drawings though.

GIF by yourspeirs

Joe Liebgott

KING OF DIRTY LETTERS

You definitely like to re-read his letters… again and again…

Not every letter is a dirty one. But most are. Or at least have a dirty section in them. 

You don’t know how this man makes you feel wanted from halfway around the world, but somehow he does. Lord knows you love a lot about your Joey, but you didn’t realize how good he was with words until you found yourself practically stalking the mailman, hoping for another delivery from Joe.

Uses a lot of pet names in his letters. Baby girl, Doll, Princess are some of his favorites. Literally never calls you by your name.

Always signs off with Your Joey. 

Even when Joe is clearly in a dark place, his letters are saturated with how much he needs you and how he can’t stop thinking about all the ways he’s going to have you when he gets home. 

When your mother finds one of Joey’s letters to you, she throws an absolute shit fit and freaks out that you’re sleeping with someone before you’re married. It takes a long time for you to convince her that you haven’t slept with Joey yet, you’re just… really into dirty talking.

She kinda chills after that but still looks at you suspiciously every time you get a letter from him.

She never tells your dad though, which makes you think maybe she’s more supportive of your relationship with him than you realized.

After working up the courage, you write Joe a letter that is so sinful you actually doubt whether you should send it in the mail, it just feels so wrong.

When I say this man goes crazy for that letter, it is an understatement. He is out of his mind and immediately writes you a reply telling you so. Basically begs you for more.

Even though your letters back and forth with Joe are pretty raunchy, there’s also a sweetness to them. He’s always sure to mention that This ain’t just all talk, Doll. When you’re Mrs. Liebgott, you’re gonna see exactly what I’ve been writing about. Which you know is still pretty dirty, but hey, he’s basically proposing to you, right?

You are not the least bit surprised to know that he kept your naughtiest letters when he finally gets home.

But, Joseph Liebgott is a man of his word, and even though he is clearly dying to and you’re practically begging him to, he doesn’t make good on all those dirty promises until after you’re wearing his ring.

Much to your delight, you find that he is just as good with actions as he is with words.

[chevroletdean]

Ambitious — Chapter 1: Hunter in the Rye

SUMMARY: It seems like the Winchesters have found themselves a rival. A mysterious huntress is one step ahead of them, whatever case they’re working on. While she’s a thorn in his side, who is Dean to say no to a little challenge?

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character GENRE: Fluff, smut TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Rivals to lovers, miscommunication (or rather: Dean and OFC being stubborn asses), canon level violence, competitive hunting, a bit of German folklore, they're working on a case with victims and children being kidnapped, fluff, smut (MDNI!), fingering, protected p in v, Switch!Dean, not beta read WORD COUNT: 10.5k (sorry) A/N: Spice was not planned, originally, nor was such a hefty word count. But, as predicted, my love for writing about OCs took over and thus I present to you a lengthy entry for the @jacklesversebingo challenge. PROMPT: Work Adversaries CREDIT & LINKS: header by myself ─〃★ gun divider ─〃★ flower divider ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist ─〃★ series masterlist ─〃★ ao3

▶️PLAYLIST ⏩NEXT CHAPTER

When it came to hunting, Dean was always ambitious.

With the exception of using every excuse to hit the local bars, flirt with the patrons, and later make it every motel guest’s problem in close proximity to his room.

Still, once he actually was locked in on a hunt, he wanted to get it done right.

“I get that this is a strange case,” the coroner muttered, both in obvious resignation from the second night-owl shift in a row and in sheer surprise. Her white coat looked worn and for a moment, the hunters were left to wonder if she even had the chance to change out of it in the last twenty-four hours. “But is a third examination really necessary?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. They were certainly used to the whole ‘I already spoke with the officers’ type of deal when it came to interrogations and such. However, this…

“I’m sorry,” Dean rasped, forcing an awkward, tight smile. “Did you say third?”

Suspicion flashed across the woman’s eyes, the brows of which were now knitted together in deep thought.

“Could I see some ID again, please?”

Begrudgingly, Sam and Dean handed over their FBI badges, which the coroner inspected a little too closely for their liking. Bobby has spent a good amount of time on getting them perfectly right though. Hence the brothers giving a confident nod as she handed them back, seemingly satisfied.

“Your colleague came in last morning, mere hours after I handed in the report,” white-coat shrugged. A quick glance towards her name plate identified her as Nora Banks. “I showed her the body, and after lunch break some municipal officers came in.”

Not again.

Dean had to refrain from rolling his eyes, despite his clear annoyance with a certain colleague of his. Oh, she was a colleague alright. Not a fellow FBI agent, but definitely a fellow hunter. A damn thorn in his side was what she was to him.

“We’re just following protocol, Miss Banks,” Sam chimed in. “We don’t want to miss any details.”

“That FBI agent went through just about every detail, if you ask me,” Miss Banks sighed, the irritation in her furrowed brows obvious. “But, sure, be my guest.”

Despite her dismay of having to go through the procedure not only twice, but thrice, Nora guided the two men down the hallway. Morgues always gave Dean the creeps and his soured mood did not help his tension. He was still dwelling on the fact that that little beast had bested him yet again.

He’s lost count of how many times that girl must’ve interrupted his leads. Lately it was just working case after case, chasing monsters and inevitably running into traces of her. The stench of her methods were all over this case.

Nora Banks mentioned some of the strange questions the agent had asked her yesterday. Key-words like ‘sulfur’, ‘cold spots’, and ‘increase in local animal attacks’ confirmed Dean’s suspicions that it must’ve been a hunter.

And he only knew one person that tended to appear at the scene of the crime — literally — before they even had a chance.

Although, knowing was putting it very generously.

Despite her being very much of an annoying obstacle when it came to jobs, neither Sam nor Dean had actually ever met her in person before. All they knew was that she was an ambitious, thorough hunter, and working faster than lightning, apparently.

As the brothers left the station, Sam sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Just from that Dean could tell he wasn’t going to like what he’d say next.

“Looks like this case is already taken care of,” he shrugged, which earned him a glare from Dean.

“Don’t,” Dean interrupted him midsentence, talking over his brother’s meek attempt of smoothing over the older Winchester’s frustration. “Don’t even say it.”

“Dean,” Sam groaned back. “What’s the point?”

As if to question Sam’s seriousness, Dean scoffed at Sam. “The point is,” he huffed, “that this is our case, I didn’t drive eight hours for nothing.”

The older Winchester was as stubborn as ever, but this time around, his persistence was of childish nature. It wasn’t even about the case, it was just about this dumb competition Dean had set his mind to. A competition that was, noteworthily, one-sided — given that whoever this mysterious huntress was probably didn’t even know about the Winchesters.

“Since when are you so eager to work, anyway?,” Sam questioned, but the only reply he was met with was a harsh slam of the Impala’s door. Dean slid into the driver’s seat, clearly not taking no for an answer. He really was dead-set on solving this case first.

It was personal at this point. To him, at least.

Back at the motel, he even double-checked the newspaper articles and went through a list of witnesses to interrogate. Sam genuinely couldn’t recall the last time his brother had been so adamant about solving a case.

While Sam was trying to get ahold of Bobby over the phone, Dean was in the middle of looking up what could’ve caused the strange scarring on the victim’s body. The arms were covered in vein-like marks, like tree-branches raking over every inch of skin. The coroner had attributed the cause of death to be electrocution.

But something about it just felt off — How could a guy just drop dead in the middle of a rye field as if struck by lightning without any signs of storms nearby? That paired with children disappearing and strange sightings of what locals described as a cryptid wasn’t adding up either.

There was a reason the coroner had to answer inquires about animal attacks and such. Apparently, people have seen what they described as a black dog.

Originally, Sam and Dean thought about hellhounds gone loose, but there was no explanation for why they were visible to the general public, and not just doomed souls. A werewolf did not align with the moon cycle, for one, and while they were wolves, they appeared mostly in human-form. Thus, they scratched that off the list of possibilities as well.

“A Feldgeist, is what you’re dealing with,” Bobby said over the phone. “Or, what Phoebe is dealing with, anyway. Why are you two on this case, again?”

Dean’s ears perked up at the unfamiliar name.

“Phoebe?,” he echoed, staring the phone down as if Bobby could see him.

“A Feldgeist?,” Sam echoed simultaneously.

Clearly the brothers had different priorities when it came to solving this case. Sam was beginning to worry that Dean was hunting his new rival more so than being out for the monster itself.

“According to German folklore, they’re essentially somewhere between demonic and spirits. Some humanoid, some shaped like animals,” Bobby went on to explain. “It’s sort of a fairy tale to keep kids from messing around on farms. Except this one’s real — a Roggenwolf. Stalks in fields, feeds on children, causes lightning and rain to mess with the harvest.”

That would explain the strange dog-sightings, the missing children, as well as the electrocution.

“You’re well-informed on the details, Bobby,” Sam remarked.

“Phoebe asked me to do some fact-checking, she called me about this case just yesterday,” Bobby replied.

Again, Dean fidgeted, before finally snatching the phone from Sam’s hands. “Who is this Phoebe?”

“Does it say ‘Winchester’s personal assistant exclusively’ on my forehead? The world of hunters doesn’t revolve only around you idiots,” Bobby snarled, his humbling tone alone giving the Winchesters a good idea of the way he’d scrunch up his nose and tip back that cap of his. “Phoebe Bennett’s a capable hunter, likes to dive in solo. I’d say you boys can move onto the next one and let her handle it.”

“We read up on the case first!,” Dean protested, earning himself a slight smack to his shoulder from Sam and his brother taking away the phone once more.

“Clearly ya didn’t,” was the last matter-of-factly stated thing Dean heard on the other line.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam muttered hastily. “We’ll get back to you.”

With that the call ended and Dean fell back into his chair, huffing and puffing like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

He sure was acting as if Phoebe had stolen his candy or something. If Sam wasn’t mistaken, he was even pouting. Over a damn case they haven’t even looked into for longer than a couple of days.

“You wanna catch that rye wolf so badly?”

“It’s a matter of principle, Sammy,” Dean grumbled. “This Phoebe Bennett can’t just keep stealing all our leads! Is this what it feels like to have your job replaced by a machine?”

Unable to not roll his eyes at his brother’s theatrics, Sam sighed: “She’s not a machine, she’s a hunter. And from the looks of it, a decent one, too. Let’s just drop it.”

A notification went off on the laptop as Sam finished his sentence. By hacking into the police station’s systems, they were always up to date with new information. Dean skimmed over the pop-up, before he gave Sam a deadpan expression.

“From the looks of it,” he retorted in mocking fashion and turned the laptop around for it to face his brother. “Our decent hunter hasn’t finished the job just yet.”

A child had just been reported missing by a very alarmed mother. According to the testimony, the girl and her older sister had been playing near the fields, when suddenly the younger sibling was dragged away by a shadow-like creature.

That was more than enough reason to pay the family a little visit.

If what Bobby dug up was correct, then their Larry Talbot / demonic were-spirit / ghostwolf from hell — Dean hadn’t decided on a name yet — kept its victims alive somewhere to feed on them. If they wanted a chance at finding them, they had to act fast.

A fifteen minute drive downtown later, Dean parked right next to a glossy red Harley-Davidson. Amongst the family cars and amidst the idyllic picture of your stereotypical picket-fence suburbian area, the vintagey motorcycle stuck out like a sore thumb. More so than the Impala, even.

Adjusting their ties, Sam and Dean walked up the porch and rang the bell.

Mere moments later, a girl opened for them. Since she looked to be around eleven or twelve years old, they immediately figured this must be the eye-witness. That, and the subtle shell-shock look of emptiness in her eyes.

Dean gave a friendly greeting of “Hi there,” and routinely pulled out his badge. “Are your parents home? We have a couple of questions.”

The pre-teen blinked back and forth between the IDs, mumbling out a meek “Mom’s already talking to an FBI agent.”

Bingo, Phoebe*.*

Dean knew that Cruiser outside could not possibly belong to your average soccer-mom.

“Looks like our co-worker got a headstart then,” he hummed, attempting to peek past the doorway into the living room. “Mind if we come in?”

Reluctantly, the kid turned around, calling “Mom!”

A woman, eyes even puffier and more red-rimmed than that of her daughter, approached them. She didn’t seem to question the fact that more FBI wanted to bombard her with questions.

“Agents,” she nodded, voice tired and worn down, after a quick glance at their badges and waved them inside. “I’ll get more cups ready. Lily, be a sweetheart and show them to the living room?”

The girl, Lily, did as she was told, walking into the living room. Sam and Dean followed closely behind, their eyes immediately landing on the person occupying the middle of the couch.

Her red hair was tucked into a loose braid, strands of which stuck out somewhat wildly, but not messily. There was a keen, sharp look to her bright eyes. Her posture was alert, but not hostile, as she eyed the men before her with curiosity.

“Agents,” she nodded. Her voice, Dean noticed right away, was calm and smooth. Everything about the way she carried herself was.

He found it highly irritating.

For someone with the audacity to waltz about and steal cases from other hunters, this woman was too… fuck finding a right word for it, she was just too irritating.

Arrogance didn’t quite capture it. But just by her confident demeanor, Dean judged her as too prideful. To be fair, his opinion of her was rather tainted and biased. He didn’t know anything about her, aside from the vibes of a first impression.

To him, Phoebe Bennett was on her high horse, taking a sip from her cup of coffee like she had every right to be here while they had none. As if it was Sam and Dean were the ones butting in, disturbing her business.

Where Dean downright refused to even greet her back with anything else but a glare, Sam had the manners to acknowledge her with a nod and a brief “Agent” in return.

“Lily, why don’t you check if your mother needs some help?,” he suggested then, clearing his throat as he glanced down at the girl. No further convincing needed to be done. She scurried out of the room, eagerly and silent.

“Never heard of an FBI agent on a Cruiser,” Dean grumbled, to which she chuckled— What was so damn funny about that anyway?

“As if your 67 Chevy is any less flashy,” Phoebe teased back, smug smirk on her lips. She set her cup down on the table and leaned back, all nonchalance and ease, as she watched Dean’s eyes narrow. “What? You’re not exactly sneaky in that thing, following me around in four different states. Are you tailing me or something?”

Tailing her? And to think Bobby scolded him for acting as though he was the center of the world.

Sam cleared his throat and subtly nudged his shoulder against Dean’s. The tension in the room was not only palpable, it was completely uncalled for. Dean needed to snap out of it.

“Guess we’ve been following the same leads,” Sam explained. “Look, we’re after the same thing, maybe we should team up.”

“No.” Dean’s and Phoebe’s voices melted together, his voice accompanied by a loud and offended scoff, hers by a flat and unimpressed tone. While Dean stared at Sam in disbelief as if to ask if he’d gone crazy, Phoebe casually picked at a piece of lint on her sleeve as if bored.

“No offense, but I prefer to work alone,” she hummed for an explanation. “If you want to get a job done right, do it yourself, right? Plus, if I were to work with other hunters, I wouldn’t do it with someone I don’t even know.”

Fair. Blunt, but fair.

“Little Red Riding Hood hunting the Big Bad Wolf?,” Dean huffed mockingly, a crooked grin forming on his lips. “Sounds like a trashy horror movie, if you’re asking me.”

“Good thing I’m not,” Phoebe immediately retorted. Witty smartmouth, noted.

“Apologies for the mess, I didn’t expect so many guests,” came a hushed voice behind them. As the woman emerged from the kitchen, a tray of more coffee cups in her hands, she looked even more stressed than when she greeted the hunters at the door.

It reminded them all what they were trying to do here; save that little girl.

“Oh, please,” she urged. “Sit, gentlemen.”

Phoebe’s eyebrow quirked up in challenging fashion as she stared Dean down. He wanted to refuse anyway, were it not for his brother swiftly taking a seat next to Phoebe. Damn him and his will to be all civil and social.

Begrudgingly, Dean sat down as well, the trio now grouped on the couch with Phoebe in the middle.

“Mrs. Miller,” Phoebe spoke, well-mannered and sweetly. “I’m sorry I have to ask this. Could you go over the details again, for my colleagues? They’ve just been introduced to this case, you know?”

She accentuated her words with some condescending pats on Dean’s knee. The glimmer in her eyes was half mocking, half warning. Clearly she didn’t appreciate other hunters squeezing into her business last minute.

Dean fought the urge to smack her hand away. The unexpected touch nearly made him jolt in his seat and he narrowed his eyes at her, before swallowing his pride and giving Mrs. Miller an apologetic smile.

“Well,” Mrs. Miller sighed in defeat and allowed herself to sink into the armchair across the table. “Lily and Rose were out playing. I told them to stay away from the fields, but…”

Just thinking about it had the woman tear up. Her gaze dropped to her lap and she sniffled briefly.

“There was a gust of wind,” Lily chimed in, her head poking out from the frame of the kitchen door. “It went straight into the field and Rose ran after it. I know we weren’t supposed to go in deep, but she said she saw a puppy and followed it. Something grabbed her.”

Mrs. Miller waved her daughter over. The kid’s approach was hesitant, but once within arm’s reach, she found herself in her mother’s embrace.

“Did you see what grabbed your sister?” Phoebe asked.

Lily hesitated, then shook her head.

“Lily,” Dean tried. “It’s okay, you can tell us. We just want to find what took her.”

“It wasn’t a puppy,” Lily stuttered out, fidgeting with her hands while her mother smoothed over her daughter’s hair reassuringly. “It was like a wolf. A giant, black wolf.”

“And that wolf, it dragged your sister deeper into the fields?,” Sam inquired.

The girl nodded.

“The police said they will be scouting the area,” Mrs. Miller mumbled, tearing up again. “But what if they won’t find her?”

“Then they’ll have federal backup, Ma’am,” Phoebe nodded confidently and got up. “I’ll make sure Rose comes back home safely.”

Big words for someone who didn’t even know where the child was dragged to yet. Dean’s eyebrows quirked up as he shot a glance at Sam. “Can you believe her?,” his expression said.

Mother and daughter guided the trio back to the entrance. Phoebe wasted no time stepping down the porch.

“Whoa, hey,” Dean huffed and scurried over until he was blocking her way. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Catching the Big Bad Wolf, as you phrased it,” she responded with a shrug and brushed past him.

“Do you even know how to get rid of it?” Dean asked again, following her every step to her bike. “You’ll just go in there and then what?”

Phoebe raised an eyebrow at him and simply mounted her bike as if Dean wasn’t even there. She grabbed her helmet and put it on, along with her gloves.

It certainly was not her job to explain these guys how to kill that thing. However, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t just run Dean over with her bike and leave either.

“Superstitious Germans in the middle ages went so far as to burn entire fields to get rid of the wolves,” she sighed. “By then, their harvest was mostly ruined anway. Fire usually does the trick, according to the lore.”

“So we’ll just molotov the furball?”

She snorted. “We won’t be doing anything,” she laughed and started her motorcycle’s engine. “If you wanna commit arson so badly, you guys will just have to be faster than me.”

With that, she readjusted her bike’s position and took off, leaving Dean to dart back just in time. He clicked his tongue and bolted towards the Impala.

If she wanted a tournament, she could have one.

“C’mon, Sammy!,” he urged as he slid into the driver’s seat. “We ain’t got all day, hop in.”

Sam blinked at his brother in disbelief. He could already feel another migraine coming in just seeing his brother’s misplaced enthusiasm. This guy was going to stress him out to death one day.

“Move your freakishly long limbs,” Dean groaned.

Sam barely got to close the door behind him when Dean already drove off at alarming speed.

“Hey, speed limit,” Sam argued, but Dean wasn’t even listening. The only thing he was set on was getting to these damn rye fields first. “What even is your plan, set the whole field on fire? We don’t even know if she’s telling the truth.”

Surely, he’d figure it out once he got there. Preferably before Phoebe would.

However, lo and behold, upon arrival, a shiny red bike was already waiting for them.

Dean practically flew out of his seat, throwing the door closed behind him and dashing towards the trunk, from where he retrieved a flamethrower. Sam jumped to his side just in time to shove it back.

“Dude,” he sighed in exasperation, trying to be a voice of reason here.

“Yeah, dude,” Phoebe’s voice chimed in from behind them. “Are you trying to deepfry the missing children with that thing?”

It took Dean everything to not point the damn thing at her. Although, the annoyance in his eyes resembled thrown daggers, or thrown flames in this case. Same difference.

“You guys are persistent, I gotta hand you that,” the redhead sighed while busying herself with grabbing various items and weapons, storing them in her jacket and pockets. “If you wanna be a tick on my ass so bad, suit yourselves. Just don’t get in the way.”

“What about the search operation?,” Sam brought up. “Won’t police be here in a bit?”

“Nothing a phone call couldn’t already settle,” Phoebe shrugged and secured a gun in the back of her belt. “Look sharp, boys, the wolf won’t hunt itself.”

Before Dean could even complain about her ordering them around, she climbed over the fence with ease and disappeared into the fields. The rye almost seemed to swallow her frame. Not wanting to lose track of his rival, Dean hopped over the fence too.

Swallowing his pride, he decided for once to focus on the mission. “So, how do we find this thing?”

“Wind gust should be the wolf moving through the plants, so just follow that.”

“Listen to Red, all confident,” Dean snorted condescendingly. “Have you killed these wolves before?”

Without hesitation, Phoebe gave a firm “Nope.”

“How’re you so sure this’ll work then?”

She rolled her eyes, stopping her steps abruptly. He almost bumped straight into her. “Dean, right?,” she groaned. “You’re even more annoying than Bobby gave you credit for. Please quit yapping and focus on the job, ‘kay?”

Her words left the older Winchester with a gaping jaw and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Annoying, huh? She was one to talk— Besides, should his ego be more deflated by Phoebe’s dismissal or the fact that she and Bobby were apparently gossipping about him?

Against his better judgement, the curious question left his lips through a grumble.

“If I’m the annoying one, what did Bobby say about Sam?” He was mumbling more to himself than anything, but Sam still nudged his elbow into Dean’s side.

Undisturbed, Phoebe continued her path through the tall blades of yellow and shrugged: “When I asked him what Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum were up to following me like lost puppies, he said,” she started, before clearing her throat and lowering her voice to match Bobby’s gruff tone, “Annoying idiot’s called Dean, tall idiot’s called Sam.”

As a snort escaped his brother’s mouth, Dean glared at him as if to scold Sam for indulging Phoebe’s teasing. How could Sam not get a kick out of watching his brother get a taste of his own medicine though? Clearly Dean wasn’t used to being humbled, much less by smart-mouthed hunters.

A deep, guttural noise prompted all three hunters to a halt. The sound was unmistakably that of growling, low but broken. Broken up by rustling, that is. Cold breezes going through various directions rattled through the meadow and bent the rye into awkward angles.

“Did you see that?,” Dean whispered, instinctively reaching for his trusty gun.

“Sure did,” Phoebe hummed, her eyes zeroed in on where a large shadow had just flashed before them. Her finger has already found home curled around the trigger of her gun. “Bobby didn’t say anything about silver killing them, but I’m sure it’ll hurt anyway.”

“How sure exactly?,” Sam brought up, only to be ignored.

The huntress didn’t waste another moment, not even for an answer, hurrying after the creature.

“Hey!” Dean’s efforts of holding her back were just as for naught. “Damnit, she better be real sure.”

“What, are you getting worried about her already?,” Sam grinned.

Rolling his eyes, he retorted a gruff “shut up” as his only concern was the wolf getting a headstart at kicking her ass before he could.

She was an agile thing, he had to give her that. Were it not for the flame-like color of her hair, he would’ve lost her in the tall, pointy grass. As his luck would have it, however, she abruptly stopped yet again, causing him to almost bump straight into her for the umpteenth time. Seriously, was she doing it on purpose to mess with him?

Her hushing came before he could even think about complaining: A hissed “shh!” accompanied by her palm pressed flat to his chest. A touch that left him rather stunned. In fact, everything about her, all she did and said so far, seemed to have such an effect on him.

Those keen eyes of hers narrowed at a little opening right in front of her. She carefully pushed more rye aside with the barrel of her gun, slowly, to peek through.

“Gotcha,” she mumbled quietly and pointed at tracks on the ground, which took a sharp turn eastwards, likely out of the field. She straightened her back and blinked over her shoulder, giving Dean a once over — which he did not know how to react to, even — and glanced further back. “Where’d you leave Tweedle-Dum?”

Dean flinched, turned to check on his brother, but Sam was nowhere to be seen.

“Sa—?”

“Shush, God!” Phoebe groaned, glaring at Dean. “Are you trying to get us killed? This is a sneak-mission.”

Dean clicked his tongue, increasingly annoyed with her know-it-all attitude.

“Sorry, smartass,” he tched, voice dripping with sarcasm.

While he didn’t like the idea of leaving behind Sam, wherever the lanky guy has wandered off to, their best call was to follow the tracks while they were still fresh. If they were lucky, they’d lead right to the monster’s hideout.

What he definitely hated, however, was the fact that he had to chase this wolf with just Phoebe. Sam better had a damn good excuse to abandon him without further notice.

“You comin’ or what?”

Phoebe’s whispering had him snap out of his thoughts. Whilst he gave an affirmative nod, he could not refrain from grimacing in her direction the second she faced forward again. Still, finding the missing kid came first, even if he had to bite the bullet and team up with Phoebe for the time being.

They treaded through the meadow with haste but deliberate steps, until reaching the very edge of the field. The tracks, clearly paw prints with claws and all, lead them to a burrow. From the outside, it looked shallow, just a plain mound covered in leafs.

“Hold this,” Phoebe commanded flatly, shrugging off her coat and shoving it in Dean’s direction. He scrambled instinctively to not let it drop to the ground, then stared at her with wide eyes and disbelief.

“Quit treatin’ me like your damn assistant,” he snapped, wanting to shove her jacket back, but the girl was already crouching down, climbing into the hole in the ground. She had to squirm through the narrow opening, but managed to slide through eventually. Once inside, she dusted the dirt from her white shirt, albeit it remained stained now.

“Quit acting the part and I might,” she smirked up at him, all cocky. Upon watching her extending her arm towards him, his expression only sank further.

“If you want your stupid jacket back, why’d you give it to me?,” he huffed, refusing to return it just because she decided she wanted to order him around.

“I was gonna give you a hand, but suit yourself,” she shrugged, “just get your pretty ass down here, sweetheart. Ain’t got all day.”

Pretty ass? Sweetheart?

Dean’s mouth opened, but his mind blanked entirely, leaving him to gape like a dumbfounded fish. In a pathetic attempt to cover up his flustered state, he scoffed once more. “I don’t need your help,” he grumbled as he knelt, gripping the lower edge of the opening to give himself a push.

Phoebe’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes glimmering with amusement. “You sure you wanna go in head first and not-?”

Her suggestion fell on deaf ears, though by the time Dean’s hands slipped — and so did he —, he wished he would’ve listened. He was definitely taller than Phoebe, which did not work in his favor in this case. He struggled to make his way through the entrance thanks to his broader frame. Upon losing his grip, he toppled over, falling downwards and landing on his quote-unquote pretty ass.

He didn’t need to look at Phoebe to know she was grinning at his unglamorous performance and she didn’t need to tease Dean to make him feel like an idiot for not sliding in feet first.

Once more, she extended her hand towards him and this time, he begrudgingly accepted the offer and let her pull him up to his feet.

“You okay?,” she asked through thinly veiled bemusement.

“Peachy,” Dean uttered bitterly and wiped the dirt from his clothes.

Ironically enough, Phoebe’s jacket remained entirely unharmed and without any blemishes. Life could be so unfair. He handed it back to her, if only to glare at her while doing so as if to signal her it was the coat’s fault, because he had his hands full or some lame excuse.

Whether or not Phoebe caught his drift, she decided against bickering over it further and instead took it back. Without another word she turned around and walked ahead, Dean following close behind. Even she had to duck her head in this cramped tunnel, but Dean wondered if crawling might’ve been more comfortable.

Since they weren’t far yet, Dean tried to text his brother, but the signal was weak. He wasn’t even sure the message came through. Where the hell did Sam run off to anyway?

“Can I ask you something personal?,” Dean murmured.

Phoebe raised an eyebrow as she glanced at him. “I have a feeling you’ll ask me either way.”

Could she blame him for being curious?

“Since when’re you in the hunting game?,” he shrugged. “We’ve never seen you around anywhere and suddenly you’re everywhere.”

Phoebe remained silent for a moment, focusing on the path ahead instead of Dean’s questionnaire. It shouldn’t surprise him — they hadn’t exactly started on the right footing and she didn’t owe him any explanation, much less a biography. Banter or not though, he thought he should’ve at least heard her name before if she was that of an active hunter.

“I’m not a rookie, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she mumbled at last and if the tight tone did not give away that she’d rather not share details, then Dean knew from experience that most hunters had a tragic past that pushed them into this line of work.

The air down there grew staler with each step and darkness engulfed them. Dean did bring a lighter, at least, but even with that they had to be careful. The burrow turned out to be a large tunnel system. Perfect for any creature to pop in and out at various points. A flashlight might just attract unwanted attention

“Awfully quiet,” Dean remarked. “You think the wolf’s in here?”

“Sure hope so,” Phoebe sighed, gripping her gun just a little tighter. “I wanna get the kids out and burn this place to ashes.”

“Pyromaniac, are we?”

She didn’t respond to that. Even if she’d wanted to, their conversation was interrupted by another noise. Both hunters froze, ears perked.

Sobbing. Someone was sobbing.

“Hello?,” Phoebe called out, quickening her steps to rush towards the source of the sound.

So much for the element of surprise. Although the wolf did not seem to be within close range. For now, at least. Guided by the sniffles and crying, Phoebe and Dean turned the last corner and found themselves at the heart of the monster’s den.

The flooring was steeper, ceiling tall enough for Dean to finally stand comfortably. The same couldn’t be said for the kids within. Dean counted four of them, which matched with the recent missing person reports.

They were all cowering in a corner, little bodies curled up and shaking. Two of them, at least. The others lay there looking limp, like broken dolls.

“Rose,” Phoebe spoke and one of the girls lifted her head, tear stained eyes shell-shocked and face pale. “It’s okay, we’ll help you guys.”

It was the first time Dean witnessed a waver in the huntress’s voice. The woman swiftly approached the kids, checking up on each of them. A deep exhale followed.

“They’re alive,” she exclaimed in relief. “We gotta get them out of here. Rose, can you stand?”

The young girl stared back and forth between Phoebe and Dean and nodded weakly. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to. So long as they’d get these children out of here, it would all be good.

Dean quickly took ahold of the two unconscious kids, carrying one on each arm.

Phoebe busied herself with stabilizing and encouraging the remaining two. They were terrified, clearly, and one of them had a nasty gash on his leg that looked like a painful infection. Tearing the sleeve from her jacket, the very same she didn’t want to get dirty earlier, Phoebe wrapped up the injury and picked the boy up onto her back.

“Look alive, guys, we’re as good as out of here,” she animated the group, nudging Dean forward.

“What about the wolf?,” Rose hushed, small hand in a death grip on the fabric of Phoebe’s pants.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean chimed in before Phoebe even had a chance to think about a response.

She might’ve known how to act quickly when necessary, but it seemed like Dean had the upper hand when it came to dealing with kids. She’s noticed as much earlier, when they were interrogating the Millers. Considering his tough guy act mixed with the grumpy attitude, Phoebe had to admit she did not expect it from him initially.

They made their way through the narrow space, retracing their steps carefully. While the beast was nowhere to be seen just yet, the very fact didn’t sit right with Phoebe. Worst case scenario would be for the predator to await them patiently at the exit, but she prayed her hunch would be wrong.

And for better or worse, it was.

Just as they reached the final slope, sunlight shining through the hole Dean had fallen into earlier, they heard it loud and clear. Deep growling, rustling through to their very bones.

“Shit,” Phoebe uttered and hastily pushed Rose towards Dean. “Get them out of here, now.”

Green eyes went wide.

“What?,” Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “This is no time to be playing hero.”

“Quick!,” she groaned, both annoyed and urgently, her voice leaving no room for arguments.

While Dean cursed under his breath, he lifted Rose up and helped her climb outside. Once Phoebe had handed him the injured boy, he repeated the process. In exchange, she briefly held onto the unconscious kids, though her wary eyes kept gazing around to find the source of the growls.

Reluctantly, Dean pulled himself up and climbed outside, reaching down to pick up the remaining two kids.

Once all four were secured, he extended a hand down to Phoebe, but she shook her head.

“Get them out of here,” she repeated her earlier instructions, purposefully ignoring Dean’s growing frustration.

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, but flashed him a grin and — much to his surprise — held up his lighter in victorius fashion. She must’ve snatched it from his pocket earlier. “See you later.”

No matter how often Dean would call out her name, amongst other profanities (at least he tried to keep it PG13, considering he was surrounded by a bunch of kids), Phoebe turned on her heel and disappeared back into the darkness.

“Time for dinner, you bag of fleas!,” was the last thing he heard from her as she ran deeper inside.

She left him no choice. Dean seriously considered crawling back in and going after her, but how could he possibly leave behind an injured boy, a shell-shocked girl and two knocked out pre-teens? Whether or not you preferred to hunt solo, this was just reckless and he swore to himself he’d smack some sense into her, if the wolf wouldn’t take care of that for him already.

“Think you can walk?,” Dean sighed, sizing up the boy’s injury. Testing the movement, he gave a reluctant nod, but it was clear he wouldn’t be running a marathon anytime soon.

As long as they would get out of here in one piece, it would have to be enough.

Dean fulfilled his part of the task, taking the kids back and out of the field.

“Sam?”

His brother stood there, and so did a couple of police officers.

Excusing himself, Sam approached Dean while the officers tended to the kids.

“Dude, where the hell have you been?,” Dean groaned, clearly agitated. Almost skittishly, he kept glancing back over his shoulder, waiting for any sign from the redhead.

“I saw the cops approaching and had to buy us some time, looks like they didn’t listen to Phoebe’s request to wait it out,” Sam replied, before he too noticed her absence. “Speaking of the devil, where’d you leave her?”

“We found this burrow, she went back inside by herself,” Dean grumbled less than enthusiastically.

“You let her best you?,” Sam grinned.

“Shut it, ‘s not funny.”

Dean paced around once, twice, exchanged a couple of words with the officers, then grew too impatient.

“Screw it, I’m going back in,” he decided at last.

Sam couldn’t prevent him from hopping over the fence if he tried, but someone else was able to stop him in his tracks. A tuft of red hair appeared in Dean’s field of vision, leaving the older Winchester to yet again bump into her.

“Damnit, woman,” he groaned. “You ever think ahead? Ever?”

Phoebe blinked at Dean, unimpressed. She wiped a loose curl of red from her forehead, gazed towards Sam, then the police and the kids. When her eyes met Rose’s, her own softened, before she redirected her attention to Dean, whom she rewarded with nothing but a mischievious glint.

“You’re the one who keeps stumbling,” she reminded him and he wanted so badly to wipe that smug smirk of her lips.

Sensing from miles away that the bickering might just escalate, Sam chimed in: “What happened to the Roggenwolf?”

“Roasted,” Phoebe confirmed with a nod. “Sorry about your lighter, I had to toss it.”

Who cared about the damn lighter right now? Dean was still busy processing the fact that she’d run off by herself and returned within a couple of minutes as if nothing happened.

“You just set the burrow on fire?”

“Relax, not much down there to crumble,” she reassured. “It should go out by itself.”

An officer chimed in, thereby interrupting their conversation before Dean could further snap at the cocky pyromaniac. “Special Agents, I have a couple of questions.”

It didn’t take long for them to come up with a coherent story, and they didn’t seem to care too much. What mattered, at the end of the day, was that these children were healthy and safe and could soon return to their families. They’d have to get checked up on by doctors, but it seemed like they were unharmed for the most part.

Phoebe insisted on taking care of the rest, promising Sam and Dean that she’d handle the questionnaires and all. She stated she wanted to check on Rose and her family anyway, planning to drive after them to the hospital.

“It’s been a fun challenge, Winchesters,” Phoebe hummed, that damned playful smirk on her pink lips that had Dean’s brow twitch. “I’d say this point goes to me, though.”

“What are you—?”

Dean didn’t even get to finish his sentence, as Phoebe already put on her helmet, mounted her bike, gave a final wave, and drove off.

“It’s our point, give us some credit!,” Dean called after her, despite knowing there was no way he could still hear her.

“Seriously, dude,” Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “Just drop it already.”

Though Dean did not drop anything. The whole ride back he kept rambling on and on about how he carried the kids outside and that he did just as much hard work as she did. At some point Sam let his brother’s complaints go in through one ear and out through the other.

Given that the night was still young, they decided to grab a final bite for dinner before they’d leave town. The local pub seemed like the safest option for a beer and some food.

Though, when Dean was still on his rampage about Phoebe, even as they were seated in a booth and nursing a beer bottle each, Sam finally interrupted him.

“Dean, the monster’s gone, the day is saved,” he groaned. “A win is a win.”

“Except you guys didn’t win this time, I did.”

Oh, that voice alone was enough to rile Dean up in all the wrong ways. Blinking up simultaneously, the brothers’ eyes met that of Phoebe’s. Her expression was as bright as ever, grin reaching from one ear to another.

“Scooch over, princess,” she hummed nonchalantly and squeezed into the two-seater, making herself comfortable right next to Dean.

“Who’s tailing us now, sweetheart? I thought— hold up, did you just call me princess?”

“I’m sorry, weren’t we just literally chasing a fairy tale like monster? Remind me, who fell on their ass like a damsel in distress and who defeated the monster again?”

“You fell on your ass?,” Sam snickered, though the death-glare Dean sent his way had his grin drop immediately. He quickly took a sip from his beer to shut himself up.

“What do you want?,” Dean groaned in Phoebe’s direction.

She was already a thorn in his side, a damn tick on his ass. Her casual attitude about their proximity was just the cherry on top, though. Of course she didn’t give a crap about personal space in the slightest. Too close for comfort, her shoulder brushed against his as she fumbled around in the pocket of her jacket.

“Clearing a debt,” Phoebe spoke calmly, pulling a small, silver item. “It’s not exactly the same, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Dean’s eyebrow quirked up in surprise as his eyes fell on a lighter. Phoebe slid it across the table towards him. The second he picked it up he realized it was a fancy one, the comfortable weight heavy in his palm, material solid. It had a pentagram engraved on one side, too.

“What’s this?,” he asked, confused.

“Uh, last time I checked, you call it a lighter,” Phoebe chuckled teasingly. “You click this part and there’ll be a little flame. Convenient, huh?”

“I know it’s a damn lighter,” Dean grunted. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Well, I kinda lost your old one,” she shrugged. “And I don’t like being in other people’s debt.”

Dean blinked at her, dumbfounded. Then at the lighter, which he turned in his palm once, twice and a third time. It fit in his hand oddly perfect. He usually didn’t pay attention to these kinds of things. A lighter was a lighter, just a random tool, good for salt and burns. He must’ve sacrificed dozens of them in his life as a hunter — none of them this nice, though.

“It was just a lighter,” Dean stated, matter of factly.

“If you don’t want a replacement, I can—”

But before Phoebe was able to take it back, Dean held the thing closer to his chest and shoved it in his pocket.

“I’ll take it,” he grumbled. “Consider it your compensation for being a pain in our asses lately.”

She snorted softly, exhaled through her nose and leaned back in her seat.

“You guys did kind of help me,” she muttered and scratched the back of her head. “I’m usually not the best team-player, so…”

Sam glanced back and forth between the two briefly, before mumbling something about grabbing another drink from up front. Even though the seat opposite to Dean’s was free now, Phoebe remained right next to him.

Her eyes followed Sam, if only for an excuse to not look at Dean. She purposefully avoided his gaze, glancing at anything but him. The table, the napkins on the table, the logo on the napkins on the table—

“You didn’t just follow after us for a lighter, did you?”

Dean’s voice had her head snap up. Wide eyes stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Until she cleared her throat and looked off to the side again, anyway. He didn’t think he’d see her act coyly and shy, ever, honestly. It was as unexpected as it was endearing, strangely.

“Sam was right,” she mumbled awkwardly. “We should’ve just teamed up from the get-go. Just— Didn’t exactly have the best kind of experiences with other hunters.”

Though her explanation was rather vague, Dean knew what she was talking about. He, too, wasn’t always fully on board when it came to hunting with others. Sam, of course, was an exception, but does family really count in this matter?

Casually, he leaned back, one hand still holding onto the beer while his other arm was draped around the back of their seats.

“We did some pretty good work back there, huh?,” he hummed at last and never in a million years would Phoebe have guessed that he’d be the one to bite the bullet and admit that their cooperation had been… fun.

She couldn’t help but smirk, the fire in her eyes familiar to him by now.

“Well, I did most of it, but sure,” she winked to which he barked out a chuckle.

“I carried a whole daycare out of that burrow!”

“After you fell on your butt.”

“You’ll never let me hear the end of this, will ya?”

“Never.”

Conversation flowed and even though it was mostly conversation filled with playful banter, Dean’s beer bottle was soon exchanged by a second one and she was nursing a drink of her own. There must’ve been some truth to the whole alcohol loosening one’s tongue saying.

Liquid kept flowing, as did the laughter, and their chatter.

“Scoreboard says I’m in the lead with a solid 1-0, Winchester,” Phoebe huffed with a cocky smirk. “Doesn’t matter how you look at it, I won this case, fair and square.”

“What about that vampire nest in Colorado?,” Dean shrugged and tilted his head. “I know you were there, but if I remember correctly, I wiped it out.”

“And you did a horrible job at cleaning up,” Phoebe pointed out, rolling her eyes at the memory of running into a nest, guns blazing, only to find a bunch of decapitated vampires there already. “But, if you want to count the other cases as well, I’m still ahead of you, 3-1.”

Dean regarded her words for a moment, wondering just how many cases they had been on at the same time, maybe even without the other one knowing. Again, the past couple months have consisted of running back and forth on leads that turned out to be already solved.

He shifted in his seat, fingers brushing over his pocket. The lighter still sat inside it, heavy against his chest.

“You’re not the only one who likes to settle scores,” Dean spoke, voice lowered and eyes dropping to her lips.

“That so?,” Phoebe smirked. “Sounds like you wanna return a favor.”

“If you’re up for it,” he replied, his own lips curling into a smirk. “We’ll be even before tomorrow morning.”

Words that had Phoebe bite her lower lip and squeeze her thighs together. “You’re as unbelievable as they say,” she snickered. If he didn’t know it any better, he’d say he was getting under her skin.

But Phoebe Bennett, as far as he could tell, was not easy to fluster. And just like with everything about her, he liked the challenge. The faint hue of red dusting her nose was a start, one that made him wonder just how flushed she could get.

Dean leaned closer, one arm still resting behind her. Under the table, their knees were brushing together just barely. The electricity between them had her skin feel all fizzy.

His scent was earthy and it seemed to surround her completely. Soft leather and sweetened whiskey. A smell of something warm. Of something dangerous.

“Is that a no?”

Her eyes locked with his green ones, the color of which was almost consumed by dark pupils.

Although her voice was barely above a whisper, it pierced right through the dull background noises of music and patron’s chattering: “I never say no to a challenge.”

She didn’t need to tell him twice.

“Me neither,” Dean smiled back and they both got up, grabbed their jackets and left some cash at their booth. A fast stride lead them out into the cold of the night, though their bodies were already running warm.

Dean’s hand found hers on instinct, if only to pull her closer and whisper into her ear: “Where’re you staying, sweetheart?”

It was up to her to squeeze his hand and drag him along, across the road and around a corner. It only took them a couple of minutes to get to her motel.

The bigger struggle awaited them in front of her door.

Phoebe fumbled with the keys, a task that proved to be much, much more difficult with Dean’s hands at her waist and the scruff of his beard on her neck. His breath was warm against the shell of her ear, but his fingertips were burning up her skin the second he slipped them under her shirt.

Once inside, finally, all bets were off.

Dean kicked the door close behind them and in the very same motion pulled Phoebe closer. In his embrace, she turned around, taking a confident step to push his back against said door and her mouth against his.

His taste was even more intoxicating than his scent.

Dean returned the kiss with equal fervor, those hungry lips of his exploring her soft mouth, her warm tongue.

Only two things managed to break them apart: The lack of oxygen making them so dizzy they had to catch a breath, and eager pairs of hands impatiently tugging at fabric. They took off layer after layer, jackets and shoes pooling at their feet and forming a path towards the bed.

Dean had half a mind to retrieve a foil package from his wallet before discarding his jeans.

By the time he was in just his boxers and the only thing hugging her curves was thin lace, the back of Phoebe’s knees hit the mattress and she fell back onto the sheets.

Her chest was heaving, her skin already flushed. How could he not give her that boyish, cheeky grin, all cocky and victorious? Though whatever smart remark was on the back of his mind, it died on his tongue as she pulled him down on top of her and silenced her with another deep kiss.

Phoebe’s arms fit around his neck perfectly and her nails raked down his back deliciously, the ministration earning her a small grunt from him which she drank up like honey. His whimper was thick on her tongue and sweet and they both knew then this was going to be as much of a competition as the hunt had been.

Not wanting to fall behind, Dean allowed his hands to roam every inch of her body. Her back arched neatly beneath him, silky skin pressing into his touch and permitting him to unclasp her black bra.

His kisses wandered down her jaw and across her neck, settling on the spot right beneath her ear, because that was the one that made her shiver the most. However, she wasn’t going to surrender that easily. One of her hands raked back up, delicate fingers combing through his hair and giving it a firm tug.

While it didn’t stop him from latching onto her collarbone and travelling further south, nibbling and licking down the valley of her breasts, her taste did make him feel dizzy. She swallowed hard, her head falling back into the pillows so that her messy hair framed her reddened face in a way only a halo of fiery sunrays could.

Their dance was a back and forth on who could drive the other insane better — the match being rather even.

Dean hissed through his teeth as he felt Phoebe roll her hips intentionally. Her breath hitched all the same as she felt his hardness press against the plush of her thigh.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Dean rasped, voice husky and thick with need. “It’s not a marathon.”

“Feels to me like you’re the one who’s impatient,” she retorted with a chuckle, while looping one leg around his hip and pulling him closer. Her thigh draped around his body as if to invite him in, though he wasn’t sure if she was trying to lure him into a trap at this point.

Clearly, he wasn’t the only bold one here. Two could play the game of riling up, and fuck, was she good at it.

Dean’s grip on her hips tightened, firm enough to make her flesh feel all tender and almost bruised up. His fingers were sinking into her skin as if to anchor himself, or to stop her grinding motions.

“You’re in for it now,” he huffed, crooked grin on his lips belying his attempts at teasing her.

He hooked his fingers through the waistband of her panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. She obliged by lifting her hips, though his sudden action had her gasping and chuckling all the same.

“See, that’s what I meant,” she hummed nonchalantly, bringing her own hands down to his boxers.

Dean instinctively held his breath and his eyes did not leave hers. His hands splayed over her thighs, fingers drawing closer and closer to her folds. Subtle twitches of his muscles confirmed her accusations only further.

“So impatient,” Phoebe whispered sultrily, only so much as toying with the fabric of his underwear. Her fingers ghosted across the bulge inside and her grin widened as he tried bucking his hips into the tantalizing touch. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes. That girl’s tongue was way too sharp.

“You’re all bark and no bite,” he huffed, his thumb finding her clit and making her inhale sharply. “You’re just as eager.”

There was no denying that, not with her dripping over his fingers. She bit her lower lip, opening her thighs even more while Dean gathered her slick on his digits and slowly circled them around her entrance.

“Dean—”

Before she could complain further, though he did like that whiny tone of hers, one of his fingers slid into her with embarrassing ease. She cried out softly, which only urged him to add a second finger. A breathless curse left her plump lips as he pumped them in and out of her steadily.

He flashed his teeth in yet another cheeky grin. “You were saying?”

“Get fucked,” she scoffed, expression twisted into one of pleasure and annoyance all the same.

“What do you think I’m doing here?,” he laughed heartily and Phoebe felt the shudder run down her spine thanks to it. She blinked at him through thick lashes, the relentless pace of his fingers making her toes curl.

He had barely touched her yet and already managed to make her stumble across her own words? Not fair.

Unyielding, Phoebe worked her own charms. She pulled his boxers down enough for his erection to spring free and wasted no second to wrap her fingers around him. Stroking firmly up and down, her keen eyes caught every subtle twitch of his brows.

Dean wasn’t going to give up the upper hand that easily, though. His thumb drew tight circles on her swollen nub, applying the perfect pressure to her button.

“Fuck, Dean,” Phoebe moaned. While she was already close, the warm velvet of her walls squeezing his fingers like a vice, she was still too prideful to beg for anything. Even if that meant she had to groan and whine as he pulled his fingers out of her.

The shift of the mattress beneath her prompted her to blink up at the man again and at least the sight of him rolling on the condom soothed her frustration. A little bit, at least.

Deciding to help him to speed up the process, she sat up slightly, readjusting her own position so he could settle right between her thighs, his strong hands holding onto her waist while hers gripped his shoulders.

“Are you gonna show me some bite now?,” she grinned. No matter how out of breath she was, she’d always have it in her to talk back to him, it seemed. Her and that daring attitude of hers were out for trouble.

Not that he wasn’t up for the challenge.

Dean buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth sinking right into the hollow of her throat and drawing a broken yelp from it. Using the fact that her jaw fell open to his advantage, he shoved his fingers into her mouth right after. She fought the urge to literally bite back, instead just blushing as she realized she could taste herself on his skin still.

Phoebe played along, sucking on his middle and fourth finger until her lips brushed against the cool metal of his silver ring. Her tongue swirled around its edge, that look in her eyes a daring one.

Her sob was muffled, sounding so broken but beautiful as Dean sheathed his length into her without warning. Her body nearly jolted, were it not for his deathgrip on her. His forehead dropped to her shoulder with a grunt. He was giving them both a moment to adjust, before rocking his hips.

“Not so witty now, are you, sweetheart? Just needed someone to stuff that smart, pretty little mouth of yours, hm?”

She whimpered, that next thrust of his sending her eyes rolling to the back of her skull. On God, she would’ve come up with a snarky remark, but alas, his thick digits pressing down on her tongue prevented her from any commentary.

But, actions speak louder than words.

Squeezing his sides with her thighs, she switched positions with him, rolling over and straddling his lap. Her lips curled into a smile around his fingers as she looked down on him.

That look of surprise in those green eyes, wide and glimmering, always made her feel so very powerful. Putting Dean Winchester in his place gave her a kick like nothing else could.

Phoebe took his wrist and pulled his hand away from her mouth, releasing his fingers with a wet pop.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, Winchester,” she hummed lowly and gave a deliberate roll of her hips.

Dean’s breath hitched and he bit his lower lip and screw all if it wasn’t the prettiest sight she had ever seen. He was looking breathtaking like this. Strands of light hair sticking out messily from where her fingers had tugged at it. Pink lips puffy and kiss-bitten. Freckled face dusted in red warmth, especially around his nose.

“Takes more than that to tame me, cowboy,” Phoebe smiled daringly, pressing both palms to his chest, one to trace over his tattoo, the other to feel the quickened heartbeat beneath his warm skin. The pitter-patter was strong and relentless, making her feel just as alive.

She felt him throb inside of her and egged him on with another grind of her hips against his. In this position he was so damn deep that her thighs were quivering at his sides.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Dean’s voice was thick with desire and hoarse, his breathing irregular as he hissed through his teeth. Not that he gave her a chance to answer. Not when he could make her gasp so prettily by just jerking his hips upwards.

“Fucking hell.”

They moaned in unison, their curses blending together perfectly.

Rough palms slid up her thighs and waist, only for her to be lifted up and slammed back down on his cock. It earned him the addicting sensation of her clenching around him, pussy fluttering as if she didn’t want to let go of him, ever.

He could get used to this for sure.

Their hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of skin. Every squeeze was meant for memorizing freckles and scars, every bounce and squirm intended to drive the other mad with lust.

When Phoebe was nearly shaking, Dean used the last of his strength to sit up and pull her close. She held onto him for dear life as he drove into her again and again and again, their skin slick with sweat and hot to the touch.

Their foreheads bumped together, noses touching, puffs of warm exhales mingling together as their dance became more and more erratic. One final thrust turned both their visions white. Liquid heat rushed through their veins with Phoebe falling apart in his lap and Dean slumping against her all the same.

Moans and cries echoed off the motel walls until the only noise left was heavy panting.

They fell onto the bed like one big mess of entangled limbs.

Once they had somewhat found their breath again, both rolled onto their backs, staring at the ceiling. What a day filled with tension could do to someone, huh?

Dean was the first to speak up, breaking the somewhat awkward silence.

Although, all he could come up with was a breathy “Wow.”

Phoebe laughed shortly and ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

The green-eyed hunter chuckled too, before turning to his side and leaning up onto one elbow. She met his gaze, raising an eyebrow as she saw the toothy grin on his face. What a stark contrast to the continuous scowl and annoyed attitude she had been met with throughout the day.

“What’re you looking so proud for?,” Phoebe snorted playfully, but not even that was enough to wipe the confidence from his expression.

“Would you say we’re even now?,” Dean shrugged, almost chirped.

Phoebe burst into laughter and shook her head in disbelief. “What, like an orgasm scores a point?”

He shrugged, again, still grinning.

“Well, then I’d say we’re at a solid 4-2 now,” she hummed mischieviously.

The way his smirk faded almost made her feel bad. Her own grin softened, if only for a split second. She reached over, ruffling his already disheveled hair gently, then smoothing it over.

“There’s always a next game, champ.”

Dean Winchester Taglist: @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126 @zepskies @calibootsgirl

@hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46 @midnight--raine @emmy21842

@whichwitchwanda @foxyjwls007 @lyarr24

Put a green heart 💚 in the comments to be added to the Dean x Reader taglist. Let me know, if you want to be tagged for this Series specifically. (Please note: Blogs that don't have an 18+ indicator visible on their page will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts!)

[buggywiththefolkmagic]

Hello!! I was wondering if you have any book recommendations for Appalachian folk magic? Especially for a beginner, I’m familiar with our local “old wive’s tales” but I’d love to learn more!!

Hello there! I have answered this question before but I have some new resources so I'll list them here!

It really depends on which part of Appalachia you are looking at! And if you want to dig deeper the ancestral roots of the family you are looking at. For example my family has a lot of Welsh and British influence because that was our family source so a lot of those beliefs lingered and changed throughout the years!

Someone from Pennsylvania would likely have a lot more German roots for their practice. But despite the root differences for the folklore these practices stem from they do still share a lot of connecting points!

But having babbled all of that here are my favorite books on AFM specifically. (Mind you Christianity takes a super huge part in the practice so a lot of bible and doing things in threes for the Trinity is involved!)

Authors to check out:

H. Byron Ballard- A pagan who also practices AFM, from the NC side of Appalachia, a lot of people hate her writing style which is a bit ramble-y. I also dislike the term she uses for her own practice but that is a super simple and small complaint honestly. I own all of her books on the subject, which should say something.

A NOTE ON H. BYRON BALLARD: I no longer support her work after discovering she is a TERF. I will no longer be suggesting her as an author to follow.

Jake Richards - From Eastern TN like me! A lot of what he talks about are things I have seen before, and he breaks down complex concepts like burn blowing into something relatively easily understood. HOWEVER HAVING SAID THAT the author is partially Melungeon, so he does have some Hoodoo mixed in from his grandmother's side iirc? He does label these things in his works and explains that they are not for everyone which I do appreciate.

Rebecca Beyer - While vaguely Wiccan toned, which I attribute to her publishers/raising, she's a transplant to Appalachia and if you're looking for herbal information on Appalachia and to wax poetic about how even with a ton of people settling there SO MUCH of the natural herbs and plantlife still survive, read her work! Her work on foraging safely and environmentally is so SOOOOO good.

Brandon Weston - For Ozark Mountain range/German/Dutch Appalachian work! He has written quite a few books on the subject and all of them are a treat!

Roger J. Horne - For how to dig into folklore and apply it to your own practice! This author is pagan and does blend in some traditional work with the Appalachian but I do enjoy his work and how he applies folklore. This author is also FROM Appalachia which is nice to see.

INDIVIDUAL BOOKS TO READ:

Appalachian Folk Healing by Jake Richards - A republication of a very old book on remedies and 'spells', while kitschy and stupidly worded, after all it was a popular book created just for sales reasons, some of these remedies are things I remember having done to me! Good for both a giggle and actual information. TW for mentions of animal parts, hunting, illnesses, the G slur, period specific phobias and racism.

Albertus Magnus - These books all supposedly written by an ancient guy, were actually mildly common on traveling salesmen's trucks and wagons. So as a result a lot of people in Appalachia had access. Like the book above it is very stupidly worded and definitely of their time. Same TW as above.

Pow-Wows or Long Lost Friend - Another Pennsylvania Dutch book! Very good and very clear.

Southern Folk Medicine - A book that breaks down a lot of common medicinal beliefs in the South which does include Appalachia! Sadly not just Appalachia but a very good book regardless. THIS BOOK MADE ME UNDERSTAND THE THEORY BEHIND BLOOD ISSUES MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE EVER HAS.

Moon Eyed People - A collection of Welsh folktales that brewed within Appalachia from Welsh immigrants. Very good book imo!

Granny Buck's Dibs and Dabs - This book is so worth the price tag! One of the more expensive books in my collection, but I'm fine with that. Granny Buck covers a lot of topics and I can feel the accent through the wording!

Signs, Cures, & Witchery - More German Appalachian stuff! This book and it's interviewees are from the Kentucky side of the mountains!

Witches, Ghost, and Signs - This book is based more in the Southern Appalachian area! Georgia, SC, NC, and TN specifically! Lots of folklore here, but does mention some not so great bits of the lore, but that is expected.

The Foxfire Books - What began as a school project exploded into a collection of true to life stories and idioms from Georgia elders within the mountains. SO SO GOOD OKAY? For everything. How to plant, hunt, make musical instruments, anything from the mountains? They cover.

[spacelazarwolf]

hey avi! i’m a conversion student who was raised italian-american. my heritage is really important to me, so i’m really interested in learning more about all types of judaism practiced in italy, and was wondering if you had any resources on learning more about italki judaism! of course i’m going to ask my rabbi, but i also wanted to ask you and any followers of yours who may know where to look. i’m particularly interested in things like recipes, minhagim, and daily life throughout history.

(no bad faith is meant at all and i hope this is taken as respectful: specifying so much because i know you get a lot of utterly insane anons about being italki/sephardi)

OH BOY DO I.

torah.it is an absolutely phenomenal resource with a ton of recordings, pdfs, and videos about primarily the roman rite in italy but also the sephardi and ashkenazi rites as well.

there's also a website dedicated to recordings of italian jewish music from numerous rites called thesaurus of jewish-italian liturgical music.

the national library of israel also has a lot of resources, like recordings of piyutim. it's a bit difficult to navigate if you don't speak hebrew, they do have an english option but it can be a little finicky.

the jews in italy

complete works of primo levi, an italian jewish auschwitz survivor and chemist. there is even an institute named after him dedicated to preserving italian jewish minhagim. italian jews lost nearly 20% of their population (not proportionally as much as many of the german occupied countries, but the italian jewish community numbered only around 44,000 before the war) and a lot of italian jewish life (particularly italki minhag) was nearly lost. but...

leo levi, an italian jewish ethnomusicologist nearly single-handedly preserved many italian jewish musical traditions when he travelled across the country to record elders and community leaders singing their traditional melodies.

ensemble nuria (formerly ensemble bet hagat) has recorded two amazing albums of revived italian jewish music.

in terms of cookbooks, edda servi machlin is a name you should know. her classic italian jewish cookbook is considered to be the standard.

there is also cooking alla giudia, portico, jewish flavors of italy (which includes some libyan recipes from the libyan jews of rome), la cucina romana e ebraico-romanesca (i just got this one on kindle so i haven't read it yet), and cucina ebraica.

francesco spagnolo is another name you should know, he is a scholar of italian jewish culture.

[booksandabeer]

9 TBRs for 2025

I was delighted to get tagged by the fabulous @burberrycanary! Thank you. <3

The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud

The desire to read Messud's novel about an elementary schoolteacher who seems nice and calm on the outside but is secretly seething with anger and frustration on the inside was sparked by this post and a subsequent conversation with @village-skeptic about unlikeable female protagonists. I've been dying to read this for a while now, but it was surprisingly difficult to find in physical form (I'm sick of looking at screens all day and my library only had the ebook). Package tracking tells me it's finally due to arrive on January 10. I'm genuinely so very excited to read this!

Our Evenings by Alan Hollinghurst

This novel, which traces the life of a gay, biracial actor in England from the 1960s to the pandemic is only one example of a whole number of books* on my TBR about queer middle-aged men looking back on their lives and in the process delving into themes of personal growth, identity, and cultural and societal change. Wonder what that says about me as I approach middle age ever more rapidly myself? One can only speculate, of course...

*see also: Four Squares by Bobby Finger; My Ex-Life by Stephen McCauley; Caledonian Road by Andrew O'Hagan

Madhouse at the End of the Earth: The Belgica's Journey into the Dark Antarctic Night by Julian Sancton

Not much to say about this except that my thirst for books about doomed (Ant)arctic expeditions has apparently still not been quenched. I guess this is my version of True Crime. This has made several Best-of lists, so I hope that it'll be well-written (and edited!) too, which is not always a given with nonfiction books.

The Winter Soldier by Daniel Mason

The assumption is an obvious one to make, but no, this has nothing to do with the #1 Blorbo of my heart. This is actually a novel about a young medical student from Vienna thrown into a remote WWI field hospital, where he soon leaves behind any romantic notions about glory and heroism as he faces the brutal reality of war. I've read the first 50 pages of this a while ago, and I'm really eager to get back to it.

Effingers by Gabriele Tergit

This 1951 novel is often described as the "Jewish Buddenbrooks"—a comparison that I understand for marketing purposes but that I nevertheless do not like for a whole host of reasons. It’s an epic, multigenerational story about a German-Jewish family from the late 19th century through WWII. I got a beautiful special hardcover edition of this for Christmas and I can't wait to savor all 904 pages of it.

Secret City: The Hidden History of Gay Washington by James Kirchick

Speaking of long books. I bought this 848-page brick of a political and social history of queer (not exclusively gay as the misleading title would suggest) Washington at the height of my Fellow Travelers obsession... and then I just never got around to reading it. A failure that I really want to make up for this year.

Daddy by Emma Cline

I already very much liked but did not unreservedly love Emma Cline's debut The Girls. However, I was completely blown away by her follow-up novel The Guest, which she published last year, and which instantly catapulted her to auto-buy status for me. So, it's only natural that I would want to read the only book of hers that I haven't read yet. Daddy is a short story collection, which will hopefully deliver the same sharp observations, wonderfully complex characters, and elegant & precise prose that I have adored so much in her novels.

The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden

To be honest, the premise of this—historical fiction with supernatural elements, following a combat nurse during WWI searching for her missing brother—does not super excite me (anything magical realism-adjacent has traditionally not been a great success for me) and reviews seem to be pretty mixed. But. Katherine Arden is the author of my beloved Winternight Trilogy*, so I will at least give this a fair chance.

*seriously I want to grab all the Romantasy girlies and shove this into their hands instead of whatever latest abomination Cassandra Clare or Sarah J. Maas have cooked up. ...uh, sorry if you're a fan? 😬

Manhattan Beach by Jennifer Egan

I read and enjoyed Jennifer Egan's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel A Visit from the Goon Squad many years ago and have been meaning to read another book by her ever since. When a couple of my family members asked what I wanted for Christmas and I put together a little list for them (cause that's what I do), I stumbled upon Manhattan Beach. It's a blend of historical fiction, mystery, and family drama set in Depression-era New York City, about a young woman who pioneers as the first professional female diver at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Does that not sound like the perfect book for me? Seriously, the summary reads like I made it up in fever dream!

--

Looking back over this list, I'm somewhat surprised to realize that it gives the impression that I'm much more of a historical fiction reader than I actually am. Or thought myself to be, I guess. Huh! How about that.

Ok tagging: @ethicalhorseslaughter, @burninblood, @thisonesatellite, @between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place, @voylitscope, @aimmyarrowshigh, @weenhand, @painted-doe, @buckrogers, @maplefiasco and everyone else who wants to do this! Show me your books, please.

(I know this has been making the rounds, so apologies if I double- or triple-tagged anyone.)

[wordstome]

Shrike pt. 3 - who we are

König x high school sweetheart reader

2nd person, she/her pronouns, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander, absolute tooth rotting fluff, corny as hell towards the end

2.8k words

tw: physical and emotional abuse, violence (chokehold, stabbing, throat slitting)

Hello to everyone reading this from my main blog! In case you haven't seen the pinned post on bucca2, this is my new writing blog. Everything I publish will be here on wordstome now. Please feel free to unfollow bucca2 and follow me here!

also PARIS PALOMA TEASED HER NEW SONG "DRYWALL" JUST FOR SHRIKE CHAPTER 3 SPREAD THE WORD

[PART 1] [PART 2 (PREV)] [MASTERLIST]

What I had left here I just held it tight So someone with your eyes Might come in time To hold me like water Or Christ, hold me like a knife

When you’re in total darkness, your eyes adjust. You can see everything around you, but it’s all devoid of color. Then when the light turns on, it blinds you, but it’s better to be blinded momentarily than to live in the dark forever.

That’s how it feels as you prepare to travel home. To escape. You’re antsy, excited and petrified at the same time. Before, it felt like the days flew past in a murky haze. Now, even the seconds crawl.

It feels like moving in a dream, like you’ll wake up any day now and it will all be taken away from you. Your hope, your new dreams for the future, your König.

A shiver runs through you. Where did “your König” come from?

When you’re not occupied with the anxiety of keeping such a huge secret from your husband, all you think about is König. You’ve spent the past few weeks in a haze, like he’s put some sort of spell on you. You do get a kick out of imagining him as a witch with a hat and cauldron.

But you know it’s something simpler than that. All the feelings you used to have for him have returned.  It’s different than the heady rush you used to get with your husband. It feels sweeter, like you really are a teenage girl with a crush all over again.

It feels naïve, but you also don’t care. You feel safe despite the situation you’re still in, for the first time in a long time. You never would have expected to see König again—even less so for him to become your saving grace.

It seems silly in hindsight that you had been so frightened of him. Sure, the mask was a lot. But it had been something about his energy. It was different than you had ever felt from him, before or after your reunion. If he was that way on the battlefield, then no wonder he had earned the nickname König. You’re not sure if it scares or awes you.

You’re about to find out.

An anxiety attack is the worst feeling in the world.

You dry heave. Your chest feels like a roiling ball of angry carrion birds hollowing you out. You shake like a leaf in the wind. You fall down a long, dark pit of despair as your stomach seizes with nausea.

The train’s delayed. There’s been an issue with the tracks leading out of the city. No trains will be leaving for 12 hours.

You should have just sat in the terminal and waited, or tried to contact König, but you’re not thinking straight. All of your thoughts are focused on your husband, and what he’ll do if he comes home and finds you gone. You decide, somehow, that it would be wiser to throw yourself back into the lion’s den and pretend everything’s alright instead of waiting for him to come raging into the train station and pull you out by the hair. The thought of that is the only thing that gets you up off the wall you were hyperventilating against and back towards home.

The plan is to get home before he does and hide your suitcases. He’s usually not home by this time, anyway. You chalk the rising sense of dread in the pit of your stomach up to your anxiety and turn the handle to go in.

Fuck.

He’s standing in the kitchen.

The years have not been kind to him. He’s far from the charming young man you married. He’s wretched, unkempt, angry. It’s clear he’s been drinking, maybe even before he left work. The shadows etch themselves into the lines of his face as his expression twists into something awful, inhuman. You stand, frozen, as he approaches you.

“Planning a trip without me?” he asks with an awful grin.

You can still salvage this. “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I just received word. My mother’s not doing well. I have to go see her.”

“You lie like a whore,” he snarls. “Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention. You’re different nowadays. Not the nice obedient woman I married.”

Your fear turns to anger in an instant. Years and years of this horseshit, waiting on him hand and foot, placing his smallest whims before your own needs and wants—it rushes up through you like hot steam. His nice obedient woman. And the worst thing is, you hate that he’s not wrong. That is what you’ve become.

“Yesterday I came home and you hadn’t even started dinner. Where were you, huh? Running around on me behind my back?” It’s difficult to describe, but his smile is oily: sleazy, untrustworthy, dangerous. “With that big fuck in a hood that came here with the mercenaries, perhaps?”

Your blood runs cold at that. Has he seen you with König? When? Why hasn’t he said anything? It feels like you’re stepping into a trap, but you must move forward if you want to get out.

“He’s going to get what’s coming to him, alright. My manager has a direct line to his boss. One word from him will get that fucker deployed to the middle of nowhere on a suicide mission.”

It’s an absurd threat, and you know it. This drunken idiot has no idea what he’s talking about—as if some middle-management bureaucrat could persuade a PMC to dispose of a soldier like König. But it’s the audacity that irks you. You’ve lived your life serving this man for too long, and now he thinks the world will bend to his whims. There’s absolutely no way he can touch König, but an old and familiar anger rises in you.

A long overdue revelation dawns on you now. He’s a bully. The same as Andreas: little boys with petty insults and empty threats. Pushing people around because their own lives are empty and unsatisfying.

An eerie calm breaks through you like the sky cutting through a storm. The man before you is just a feral animal, snarling and snapping in desperation. You’re not afraid of him anymore.

You reach behind you and slowly roll open the knife drawer, grabbing the first one your fingers land on.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house, this country, and this marriage,” you say, gripping the knife in a defensive position. Your father taught you how to hold a knife like this: backwards, with the blade along your arm, sharp edge facing outwards.

“This way, it’s much more difficult for someone to turn the blade against you,” he had told you, demonstrating the motion by moving your arm towards your chest. The memory makes you smile. At the time, you’d been indulging your old man—he had always said that violence was a last resort, but that the world was unkind and one day you may have to defend yourself. He was right, just as he was when he told you he had reservations about your marriage.

You’re going home. You’re going to see your father again. And you’ll never have to tolerate the loathsome toad before you again.

The beast laughs. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Stab me?” He’s up against you before you can react, the breath leaving your lungs in a gasp as he pins you against a wall by the throat.

“You. Are. Mine. You will never raise a hand against me because I own you,” he hisses, his alcohol-laced breath foul against your face. “And it’s high time you remembered that.” His grip tightens like an iron vice around your throat, but you’re not afraid. Even as your vision begins to blur and blacken, you stare directly into his eyes. They’re like red-hot coals of fury, but you see what’s behind them now. The fear. The cowardice of a desperate man who has no recourse but to lay his hands on someone who can’t fight back.

“You’re pathetic,” you rasp, lips tugging into a smile. The coals burn brighter. The hand squeezes tighter. The adrenaline surges through you like a tide—and your body acts to protect itself, in a way that you haven’t allowed it to in a long time. A feeling as sweet and familiar as an old friend.

The knife makes its home right between his ribs.

He staggers away from you, as if you had slightly winded him instead of stabbed him in the heart. Your hands instantly go to your throat as you cough and sputter, lightheaded and dizzy but alive, so alive. You’ve never felt so alive as you do right now, watching the demon of your own personal hell look down at the blade sticking out of him.

“You stupid little bitch—” He makes as if to lunge at you, but time slows. Your eyes widen as the shadows behind him melt and solidify into a figure. Tall and hooded. No knight in shining armor, but an assassin of deepest night.

König slashes through your husband’s throat in one deadly, beautiful motion.

Your husband falls to the ground like dead weight, gasping and choking on his own blood. Your eyes are fixed on him, a strange sensation bubbling through you. You’re making some kind of noise, loud and cacophonous, as König steps over the dying animal who has controlled you your whole adult life.

His arms find their way around you as you slowly sink to the ground, howling and wailing. He’s so patient, you think numbly with some corner of your mind that remains untouched by the mania seizing the rest of you. The two of you sit there, his body warm and solid against yours, as your body slowly exits fight or flight mode.

“Alex?” you say hoarsely once you’re in your right mind again.

“I’m here,” he rumbles.

You turn to look at him as he pulls the hood off his head. There he is, your Alexander, all grown up. He’s rugged, with nasty-looking white scars streaked across his face, but so, so handsome. His eyes are still the same as he looks at you with something akin to rapturous adoration. Your green-eyed boy.

“You’re back, rosethorn,” he says with a wide grin. There’s a touch of madness to it, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Was I…” Exhaustion sets in, seeping through your whole body. “Was I crying or laughing just now?”

He shifts you onto his lap, cradling you like a baby as you look up at him.

“I think you were laughing.”

The police release you after just over half an hour of questioning.

You aren’t going anywhere, of course. They’re leaving you, exiting your hospital room with murmurs of well-wishes for your health. They’ve hardly left the room when König comes striding in, instantly moving to your bedside and holding your hand in his.

He looks tired too, his eyes soft as he takes in your small smile. You’re sure he was being interrogated for much longer than you, but it looks like he passed muster as well. Not as if you had anything to worry about—what could the local police have done to the commander of the mercenaries taking down their local terrorist cell anyway?

“Are you alright? Did they clear you?” His expression hardens as he glances at your neck. You nod weakly. Your throat is going to be bruised for a while, but your attacker hadn’t done any lasting damage.

Attacker. Husband. Corpse. All of these words describe the same thing now.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” he says mournfully. “He shouldn’t have had the chance to attack you like that.”

You shake your head at him. He didn’t know that you weren’t on the train heading home, after all. The room is quiet for a few moments, save for the distant beeping of a heart monitor.

“Why…” you manage to ask. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“Why was I there?” He glances around to make sure nobody’s listening, and leans in to whisper in your ear.

“I was there to kill him, of course.”

You shudder a little. He admits it so casually, that he was in your house because he was there to commit a murder. You should be afraid of him, but you feel around in your brain and come up empty-handed.

Instead, you find yourself worried. For him. “What if you had gotten in trouble?”

He snorts. “You underestimate me, rosethorn. I would have just framed it as a robbery.”

You nod. Oh God…does that mean he had planned this? Why doesn’t that horrify or disgust you? You’re just going to have to dissect that later. Right now, you only feel a warm affection towards the man stroking his thumb along your hand in a soothing motion.

“So…what comes next?”

“You’re asking me? We can do whatever you like. I can take you home.”

Home. Where is that, now? It’s certainly not in the house you’ve left behind, where the ghost of the man you were married to settles in every nook and cranny. It doesn’t feel like your childhood home where your parents are, either.

It’s such a corny saying, “home is where the heart is”. But home feels like it’s already here, sitting next to your hospital bed with the fondest look in his eyes.

“I’d like to travel,” you whisper. The with you goes unspoken.

“I have plenty of leave time saved up.”

You flip your hand so you can hold his. It’s huge next to yours. This is the hand that slit your husband’s throat, a hand that has killed countless people.

You’re not sentimental enough to pretend that’s not an issue. You’re not entirely sure this is happily ever after: that all of your problems are solved because you’ve replaced one violent man with another. But another part of you yearns to be the one who gets protected. You’ll take care of König, and you know he’ll take care of you. In his own way.

You can ask the questions later. Right now, you have lost time to make up for.

“Are you sure you should be wearing that scarf?”

The air is cold, but the wind is soft instead of feeling like tiny blades against your face. You tug said scarf down from your face and take in a lungful of crisp, icy air.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure König as he hauls himself up the last ridge to where you’re standing. “It’s loose enough. And it’s chilly.”

“If you say so.” He tugs his neck gaiter further up his nose. “What a view, hm?”

You’re standing on Mont Blanc, blanketed by serene white snow just as the name promised. Further below you, the skiing slopes are crawling with tourists, but here in this little outcropping, the only sound is the occasional rush of wind and your voices.

“I think I can see Salzburg from here,” you say, pointing off into gorgeous landscape spread out before you.

“That is most certainly still Switzerland,” König says, amused. You turn to look at him instead and are rewarded with his shining green eyes looking right back at you.

“Whatever!” You let out a dissatisfied hmph, which draws a hearty laugh from him.

“You came all the way to Chamonix just so you could look at Austria again?”

“It’s a very tall mountain,” you argue.

“It’s one of many very tall mountains. We could have just gone to Großglockner.”

“That’s boring. I’ve always wanted to visit France.”

“You wanted to visit a very expensive ski chalet.”

“Bite me.”

“I just might!” You giggle and squeal as he grabs you, chasing your face with his as you squirm around.

“It is beautiful,” he concedes as he holds a hand above his eyes to keep off the sun. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

“I should push you off this peak right now.”

“You couldn’t move me an inch.” He grabs you by the waist and holds you tight to emphasize his point. You can’t even shift his arms off you, no matter how hard you push.

“Ok, fine, you win.” You pout at him, but he doesn’t let you go.

The dynamic the two of you share is so easygoing and relaxed, it’s like you had a rhythm all along that both of you just fell back into. But of course, there are some things you’ve never done together. Like travel together.

Or kiss.

“Are you going to do it this time?” you ask him, smiling.

His nose wrinkles up, uncharacteristically cute for someone like him. “Well, I was going to, but then you had to open your mouth.”

You cackle. “Go on then.”

“Can I?”

“I just said yes!”

“I forgot how much you like to talk,” he complains. Before you can say another word, he captures your lips in his.

The sky is vivid and blue as the whole world stretches out before you.

#RIPBOZO

Here we are! We're at the end of this little story I started writing on a whim. Honestly, this means a lot to me personally: I wrote a lot when I was younger, but high school and university were very difficult times for me, and I stopped writing fanfiction. I tried to get back into it during the pandemic, but I was never able to finish anything beyond a long-ish drabble. I'm quite proud of this.

Even still, I feel like there are a lot of stories that I still want to tell about this couple. There's quite a lot that I decided to cut from these main 3 chapters for the sake of pacing and time. There's a little bit of dissatisfaction at not having crammed in every little detail that I wanted, but if there's one thing that writing university papers has taught me, it's that perfectionism will keep you from getting anything done. So you will be getting more from Alex and Thorn in the future!

I know a lot of you were anticipating what delicious revenge König was going to exact on Thorn's husband, so I hope you weren't too disappointed ;; While I personally would have loved to have König strap him to a chair in the basement and do some morbid things with a knife, I think it was important for Thorn's character that she's involved in it. While of course the main focus of this story is König, Shrike is also about his beloved Thorn. I hope to explore König and the darker (and pervier) aspects of his character more in subsequent stories. But for now, they're getting a well-deserved happy ending.

One last thing before I go: Chamonix is a resort town in central/southeast France, not far from Lyon. (Sorry, I don't know whether Lyon is south enough to be considered southern France lol). Mont Blanc is Chamonix's main peak of the Alps, and is known for how pretty it is and being at the border of France, Switzerland, and Italy. As König said, if you wanted to visit a mountain as an Austrian, there are several of them at home you could visit, but since I visited it a few years ago, Chamonix has a special place in my heart. I just had to cram it in!

As usual, I'm excited to see your comments and feedback. I've read every single thing everybody has commented about this fic, even if I couldn't respond to you all, and I appreciate it so deeply. Whenever I get feedback I literally feel like kicking my feet and giggling. And if you want to ask questions or request specific scenarios with Thorn and Alex, please do send me an ask!

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @fireballoveraltanta

psst. to my tag list people while I have you here: naturally I will continue tagging you in other Shrike stories, but I'll also be using this same tag list for every other König fic I write. If you'd like to opt out of that, let me know. (No hard feelings, of course :3)

[phightingheadcanons]

Faction info dump!!!

PLAYGROUND:

I like to think that Playground is really jungly and tight around the borders, but there are different status circles/rings. The closer to the center you get, the more sophisticated and 'New Yorkian' the place gets. In the center, or the 'heart' of Playground, is a bright, livid, city, and the people are richer there. I imagine it to resemble Tokyo. In terms of culture, things are mixed! It'd probably be mostly 🦅🦅🦅 'Murican 🦅🦅🦅 (mostly African American) sillies, though, if I'm to be completely honest. I also think that there would be a lot of Latin Americans, though. I think that the main god that is worshipped there is either Firebrand and Windforce (even though she don't wanna be worshipped).

-

LOST TEMPLE/S:

I think this is pretty straightforward, ngl. The True Eye is tje most powerful group in Lost Temple. Because of this, no one is Lost Temple isbdumb enough to outwardly argue/fight them, so True Eye pulls the strings. I believe that most people in Lost Temple are either country or Brittish. Other than the gods(?) that the True Eye worship, I thing that the main god is Illumina. Venomshank is also commonly worshipped.

-

BLACKROCK:

Russia. That's all I really have to say. Blackrock in my mind is just a mix of Russia and the U.S. in the way that people treat eachother, as awell as in weaponry, technology, and landscape, but that's probably because I think Russia is epic (I'm not saying anything about politics, I just like the language and culture, as well as the animals). Most of the inhabitants of Blackrock are Brittish, Russian, or American. Some are German, but not many. Blackrock doesn't let anyone from outside of Blackrock in, so it's not very mixed up there in terms of race. Most in Blackrock do not have a religion, due to religious practices being discouraged in favour of contant vigilance in work, but those who do it anyway tend to worship Venomshank or Icedagger. Those who worship Icedagger are often the poor, seeking out mercy. I actually don't think Subspace has full power. I believe he is a lead engineer/scientist, HOWEVER, I do think that he is secretly pulling the strings and climbing the ranks. Blackrock is lead by multiple leaders.

-

THEIVES DEN:

I don't have much to say. It is a somewhat small, highly populated faction. It's basically an oversized village, with narure filling every line in the ground and crack in the wall. It's a blossoming, healthy place. I follow the commen headcanon that MOST people fron Theives Den are Japanese, but I also think that there are a lot of Africans amd Latin Americans. I would, however, lie to state that Theives Den is incredibly mixed in terms of race, culture, etc., so much so that it's almost chaotic. There is a group in Theives Den that worships Darkheart, which often causes mischief, but isn't really anything bad. The worse they have done was steal some pies. Otherwise, there isn't really any main religion.

-

A sidenote: Ghostwalker isn't as much worshipped as he is feared, that's why he wasn't really mentioned. There are, however, those who worship and praise him. Some in Blackrock pray to him to give immortality. He, of course, ignores them and their selfish desires, which is why the practice has mostly died out.

That's all!!! Thanks for reading all of this gibberish. I hope you have a wonderful day ^^

.

[danjaley]

Book-Blog Intermission:

Wonderful Journeys through Time and Literature with Nils Holgerson

Like most of my generation I grew up with the 1980 anime series. And, as I'll say at every opportunity, it spoiled me for pretty much any other TV-show. A good series should follow a literary original - and quite closely. It should have gorgeous aesthetics and music. A plot centered around adventure, history, tradition, loyalty and faith. Plot-decisions should never follow external factors like availability of actors or stale marketing formulas. And it should end when the story is told out.

My mother had the mad idea to try and read the book to me when I was about 5. I didn't understand a word of it. She had a very boring copy too, without any pictures.

Aged 25 I bought the cute edition on the right and made it a reading-project. After each chapter I watched the corresponding episode of the series. And I repeat: It shows the quality of the series that you can do this. Still is was super interesting to note everything they changed. Some things only made sense to me then. Like the story of the parade towards to icy mountain. As a child it just impressed me with its scariness. But in fact it's a parable of which plants can grow how far north.

Cute as it is, the left edition was so badly translated that I went ahead and learned Swedish to read it in the original (middle). In the meantime the German book-market also spoiled me with an up-to-date state-of-the-art unabridged translation (right). So I don't even need to use a dictionary :)

There is one other edition in the house and that's my grandmother's school-copy. As it is well know, Nils Holgerson was written as a reader for Swedish schools, covering geography, history and natural history of Sweden. Since it is an absolute masterpiece, it soon became a school-reader in many other European countries too.

Especially Germany in the 1930s had a fatal obsession with all things Nordic. So every school-child had to learn all about Swedish castles too. I always wondered why nobody at least tried to write a rip-off set in Germany. Only recently, in the course of my current research, I found out that someone did. Tamara Ramsay: Wunderbare Fahrten und Abenteuer der kleinen Dott (images not mine). But it only came out in 1941 and never made it to school-reader status.

My grandmother and her class enjoyed Nils Holgerson so much, they wrote collective fan-mail to Selma Lagerlöff. She replied too. She wrote that she got her German translator to decipher their letter and that she was very glad they enjoyed her book. The translator must have been the same Pauline Klaiber-Gottschau who first translated the book into German.

The original wild geese can of course be consulted at the International Youth Library in Munich. The building (Schloss Blutenburg) is the cutest little medieval castle that's been forgotten on the edge of the city. And in winter and spring you can meet the geese spending the winter in the moat. As a child I always regretted that Nils Holgerson ends just as the geese plan to cross to Germany. I'd have loved to see their Schloss Blutenburg adventure!

My Grandmother also appears to have read most other books by Selma Lagerlöff. At least she ticked them off in the list in her copy of Nils Holgerson. The only other one to survive in her collection is Gösta Berling (here in blue).

While the dated German bothered me a lot in Nils Holgerson, I deeply enjoy reading other Lagerlöff novels in as old editions as I can get hold of (here the much-mended red Gösta Berling). In old German print they just feel like they came from the dawn of time!

Those two have actually both been major inspirations for the McCarrics. Gösta Berling includes more or less the model for Fergus' dying-scene (if you ever want to see the subject treated by a nobel-prize-winner). And Herrn Arnes Schatz (Herr Arnes penningar) has the ghostly sister as well as badass Scotsmen (here unfortunately as the bad guys).

[wesleyhill]

On Not Talking About Jesus

A homily on Mark 7:31-37 preached on the Friday after the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany at Western Theological Seminary, Holland, Michigan

Some of you who are around my age, who went through your deconstruction experience a couple of decades ago or more, may remember a blog called Jesus Needs New P.R. Even if you didn’t read it closely, the title was a catchy summary of how you might have felt: Jesus has a public relations problem. He’s compelling and interesting and compassionate and inspiring, but His representatives — the church bureaucrats who pontificate about Him from pulpits, the politicians and pundits who use His name to promote their odious causes, the bigots who claim to follow Him but leave a trail of hurting people in their wake — are the problem.

Even if your politics differ from mine, each one of us can identify with these sentiments, at least some of the time. Have you ever winced when you saw a picture of Jesus draped in an American flag? Have you ever felt tempted to take “Christian” off your social media profile when someone invokes Jesus to support some movement or cause that you find abhorrent? An Australian New Testament scholar, Constantine Campbell, recently published a book called Jesus v. Evangelicals in which he voiced what a lot of us intuit: “The evangelical movement must be refashioned in Jesus’ image, rather than cast Jesus in its image.”

It's this propensity to cast Jesus in the image we want that explains a strange feature of our Gospel reading this morning. Jesus is in region of the Decapolis, and even in this faraway place, word has spread that he is a healer, a wonder-worker. So a group of people bring a friend of theirs whose hearing and speech are impaired. They want a miracle, and Jesus obliges. He ushers the man away from the crowd, so that it’s just he and Jesus. (Maybe Jesus is offering dignity to the man with this privacy, refusing to make him a spectacle.) In any case, He puts His fingers in the man’s ears, and He spits and touches the man’s tongue. He lifts his eyes up to heaven and sighs and says in Aramaic, “Ephphatha,” which means, “Be opened.” “And his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly.” And then comes the strange aspect of the story: “Then Jesus ordered them to tell no one.”

This happens again and again in Mark’s Gospel: Jesus charges His followers — and even demonic spirits — not to talk about His miracles, not to talk about what He does and who He is. Scholars usually refer to this as the motif of the “messianic secret” and then try to offer some sort of interpretation of it. Why would Jesus not want the good news about Him to be talked about? Why would He not want His fame to spread, so that more and more people could put their faith in Him?

One German scholar referred once to the Gospel of Mark as essentially a passion story, with a long introduction. And I think that’s our clue to the meaning of Jesus’ secrecy. Mark is telling a passion story — a story of Jesus’ gruesome execution and mysterious resurrection, which Jesus interprets as His gift of Himself to the world. And Mark knows that there is potential for misunderstanding Jesus at every turn. We may hear about one of His miracles and decide that He is basically a genie who can grant our wishes. We may hear about Him performing exorcisms and decide that He is available to fight our favorite enemies. And Mark’s point is that if we do that, we fundamentally misunderstand who Jesus is and what He aimed to achieve. Mark’s claim is that Jesus came for one overriding purpose: not to conform to our agendas and expectations but to give His life as a ransom for us, to rescue us from our self-absorption, our cruelty, our enslavement to sin and death. He came for love. He came to lay down His life for His enemies, to make His enemies His friends, and friends to one another.

And this is why, I think, Mark has Jesus refusing the boxes we want to put Him in. “Don’t domesticate Me like that,” Jesus seems to say. “Don’t use Me for your pet projects, your private theological agendas, your political ambitions.” As the Anglican priest and scholar Austin Farrer writes, “Christ does not encourage the spreading of ready-made formulae divided from living act, whether in the form of rumour or doctrine… Messiahship is not taught even to the initiate as a thing by itself, but as that which death and resurrection will express.” We understand the messiahship of Jesus, and the miracles and teachings and aims of Jesus, only when we follow Him all the way to the cross and to the grave and then hear the mysterious young man at His empty tomb telling us that He has gone on ahead of us.

Friends, we are about to enter the season of Lent, which is a time when Christians try to clear away some of the clutter that keeps us from seeing Jesus and being surprised by Him. By quieting ourselves and voluntarily letting go of some of our usual methods of coping with stress and anxiety, we try to see past the P.R. about Jesus. We open ourselves to considering whether we have a distorted picture of who Jesus is and what He wants with us and from us and for us. And perhaps we also keep quiet about Him for a bit. We don’t rush in to offer our preferred picture of who He is. Instead we listen, we watch, we wait. And we try to prepare our hearts for that great and holiest of weeks when we will keep vigil with Jesus as He goes to the cross and triumphs over death. Only then may we dare to speak about who He is for us.

Amen.

[liptonwashere]

only you (and you alone)

(i wanted to upload this earlier, but my respiratory allergy has struck again and i am fighting for my life 😂) hi @hell-it-was-you! i'm your assigned writer for the HBO war short story exchange. i've never written a story in English before so this is a first for me, and it was fun! i hope you like it. thank you for participating in this exchange, and thanks to those who organized it! 🫶

show: band of brothers

ship: speirton

word count: 999 words

fanfiction prompts: a private bet at officers poker night. a drunken very sloppy confession of feelings

warnings: none

a/n: they're so silly here. i'm sorry lmao

Ron often wondered about the how's and why's as a puzzle he must resolve at any cost. Most likely, he wondered about those matters that didn't really need a resolution outside the battlefield.

Whenever a dead soldier’s face appeared in his dreams—a name he could barely remember—and Ron’s façade would crumble down, asking himself, ‘Why are we still fighting?’

He had no idea.

Following orders felt natural to him. In and of itself, Speirs belonged to that certainty and what it involved: the rush.

His heart pounding loudly in his ears, and not a single doubt disturbing him. Later, Ron'd think about how in the hell he was still alive.

He wouldn't tell anyone about his thoughts.

Perhaps it was luck. Some people were lucky, and some were not. These questions always got him into an endless spiral, and he dawned on a new, unfair question.

Ron was so far beyond surprise he couldn't even open his mouth. He stared at Carwood, half-heartedly hearing Harry and Nixon, cards strewn all over the table, and drinks of whiskey Nix looted for each of them.

And Speirs wondered and wondered and wondered. Even after losing another hand.

He slumped his shoulders; what a lost cause.

How was it possible that Lieutenant Lipton was able to so easily read all of his moves? Infuriating. And what was more than infuriating? The unsolved why.

Why did he keep waiting for it? To be read by him?

Was it the rush?

Was it the way Lipton, with his lazy smirk and flushed, rosy cheeks, glanced at him like he knew what he was doing?

Probably.

Lip looked back at him through his lidded eyes, and Ron took a deep breath to ground himself.

He was getting sidetracked.

They had been drinking for hours when Harry and Nix called it a night. Ron could tell by Harry’s slurred speech and the unsteadiness of his feet that he was tipsy. Nix stood up, completely unaffected by what he’d drunk, and mocked a cheerful Lipton—the drunkest of them—by telling him to drink more wisely the next time. Nix, of all people.

Ron promised them to take care of him before the officers left.

He began to regret it.

Who would have thought Lipton was the silliest and most talkative drunk?

The room seemed to float around like a boat, making Lipton stumble around when he tried to stand. He was about to take the whole bottle, but Speirs stopped him by his wrist.

"Don't."

Lip read the stern expression on Ron's face and shook his head. "I'm not that drunk, sir."

"You’ve had too much. I can’t give you any more."

Ron placed a hand over Lip's shoulders, and he leaned into his touch. Not a single complaint from Carwood, just following his CO. As usual.

He carried him to their shared billet. Ron squinted at the darkness, swallowing the light, and was careful in his walking. A difficult task when Lipton couldn't stop talking soothingly into his ear.

"Remember when… you ran straight through the German line at Foy… and came back unscathed?"

Ron's eyes crinkled; he couldn't hold his smile for much longer.

"I remember it."

"You were… the bravest man I've ever seen… I’ll never forget that… as long as I live."

Lip did not speak afterward; his eyes were fixed on Speirs. His heart might burst at any moment, mesmerized by the sight.

Ron found he was still staring.

"Like what you see?"

That snapped Lipton out of the trance, blinking in his direction. He laughed, and his hot breath sent shivers down Ron's spine.

"I always do, sir." Lip said, matter-of-factly.

The conviction in Carwood's voice surprised Ron. They have been keeping things professional, but the major breakthrough came almost by accident.

Ron smiled, and controlled by a force outside himself, he whispered, tongue in cheek, "Are you flirting with me, Lieutenant?"

Lipton was silent for a good minute. It was so long that Speirs checked if he was still awake.

"Now that I think of it… I am, sir."

A straightforward answer that caught Ron off guard. Again. His face turned up to Lip in awe as he continued.

"I know… I'm not supposed to want you." Lipton closed his eyes. The words were just too difficult to force out of his own mouth. Finally, he managed to slur, "But I do."

And of course, Speirs wouldn't waste Lip's honesty.

"So you want me?"

Lipton glanced at Ron's lips, unaware that Ron was doing the same.

Carwood didn't bother to consider the consequences. The whiskey was causing him to say things he wouldn't have said otherwise, and he might blame himself for it in the morning, but not tonight.

"Yessir."

Ron hummed in response, amused.

Speirs had to hold himself back from kissing him. He knew by then that he never wanted anything more than to have Carwood's lips over his.

He thought about catching the nape of Carwood's neck and pulling him forward, cherishing a sweet gasp from his mouth. Ron let his thoughts run wild, Lip's fingers tangled into his curls to hold him closer, and the taste of whiskey in—

That would have to wait.

It was just a moment, but Ron's question had already been answered.

Neither of them said a word, just looking into each other's eyes and knowing the untold truth.

Carwood tilted his head from side to side, frowning. He had started to feel the effects of the alcohol long before he sobered up, so Ron made him drink a full glass of water before allowing him to lie down and sleep.

Settling in for his shut-eye, Lip mumbled.

"Good night, sir."

Ron chuckled unabashedly. How funny. Calling him "sir" after confessing his feelings, drunk and sloppy.

He pondered how Lipton would behave during his inevitable morning hangover.

"It's Ron."

Lip repeated to himself his name, a tender whisper, and he didn't know the effect it had on Speirs.

"Good night, Ron."

[deathbxnny]

Hi there! After reading your post about little sister Qiqi request, i wonder how she would be like in CSM So can i request platonic hcs of CSM characters (Denji, Aki, Power, and Makima) x Qiqi like reader.

Context on the reader:

So the reader is the Jiangshi Devil who became a fiend by taking over a 10-12 year old corpse. They are Makima’s assistant and both of them have a relationship that Qiqi and Baizhu have. They aren’t the most liked but they arent the most hated either due to they’re forgetful nature, sure they have their journal to keep track of stuff but it’s a bit annoying. They’re also part of the Tokyo Special Division 4 so that Makima can keep an eye on the team

Also on an unrelated note, what are your thoughts on Jing Yuan’s and Cyno’s VA, Alejandro Saab. I just recently found out he used to voiced a character from my childhood’ so there’s that. I hope your doing well Bxnny, have great day/night!

- Flower Anon 🌸

-----♡

A/N: Hello Flower Anon! I love the idea, so thank you for the request! Also I don't know much about that VA, as I only grew up with German/Arabic television/media when I was younger. But from the short clips I've seen of him as a streamer, he looks really cool and funny!<33

Content: Platonic relationships, child devil fiend reader, fluff, kinda unserious in some parts, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

-----♡

》Makima

Makima always keeps an eye on you at all times. Mainly because you're always at her side anyways, but also to make sure you don't get yourself in unnecessary trouble. You have a tendency to forget things and she tried helping you with the journal she gave you. But unfortunately, you also sometimes forget that you even have it.

For the most part, your job just included following Makima around and attempting to write down things she told you to. Sometimes, you were also send to secretly spy on people in the division for her, which didn't work out well for obvious reasons.

Makima takes good care of you, all things considered, and doesn't usually send you on any dangerous missions. She ofcourse doesn't care that you're a devil either. She begins to see you as a little sibling eventually, as she always craved the feeling of a family. She might even spoil you, if you've done particularly well lately. She just adores you really.

-----♡

》Aki Hayakawa

Aki well... he didn't know what to think of you at first. You were quiet and very forgetful, so you were pretty much harmless. But you were also a devil. A fiend at that. He also had to remind himself constantly that you aren't actually just a harmless child too, which didn't help him form an opinion on you either.

So, in the end, he really just accepts that you simply... exist in the division. He knows you're quite important to Makima and therefore treats you with the necessary respect, but he keeps his distance otherwise. Or well, tries to, as you get lost so often, that he usually has to be the one to find you again. And eventually, that makes him sympathise with you more, as he does feel sorry for you in an odd way.

In the end, he really does feel himself attached to you, as much as he denies it. You're just a kid in his head and it makes him want to protect and help you out. He also gets you some candy or "cocogoat milk" sometimes... whatever that is.

-----♡

》Power

Power saw your existence as a challenge, as were quite important to Makima, and constantly asked you to fight her. However, she was left baffled, when you'd just blankly stared at her and asked her who she was. She told you that 5 minutes ago... but she'll gladly just remind you again.

For some reason, you eventually remind her of a cat. She doesn't really know why, but she finds herself patting your head with a determined look and declaring that you won't ever get lost in her divine presence. In other words, you two will just get lost together.

She slacks off of work with you and drags you along, as you never really protest anyways. She later on gets scolded by Aki for 2 hours and then passive-aggressively told to never do that again by Makima. You seem to find Power fun however, as she isn't very serious and doesn't expect anything from you... though she can get tiring fast.

-----♡

》Denji

Probably the most chillest person for you to be around. He doesn't mind your forgetfulness and has no expectations of you either. The fact that you're a devil doesn't bother him either. He just sees you as a kid he sometimes has to take care of on Makima's request. With that said, he takes his babysitting job very seriously. Perhaps a little too seriously.

Absolutely nothing is hurting or touching you in his presence and he takes you out for a quick snack run often. He'll try out weird combinations of food with you or take plenty of walks around the city, until he finds something fun to do. And doing something fun with Denji around is pretty easy.

Denji and you become great friends, something that shows through you actually remembering things about him. He becomes one of your favourite devil hunters in the division too, which secretly annoys a certain woman...

-----♡

A/N: I hope this was coherent and okay! Thank you again for the request!<33

[avaford2009]

DreamWorks' Princess Amelia And The Pied Piper - Chapter 1 - Arriving at Hamelin -

The film opens in 2.00 : 1 aspect ratio (same used in 'Netflix's Chicken Run: Dawn of the Nugget'), the DreamWorks Pictures SKG logo plays out, with dreamy music playing underneath. Credits saying "DreamWorks Pictures Presents" and "A PDI/DreamWorks Production" appear.)

(A ray of light shines down on a leather-bound storybook. The book opens and a voice narrator, named Amelia the princess of Hamelin, begins reading its text)

Amelia: Once upon a time in 1284, there was a small town called Hamelin. But when a terrible plague of rats all over the town, which was the mayor give someone to get rid of the rats. When the Pied Piper arrived, he asked the mayor to give thousand guilders. He plays the flute, and the rats heard the magical flute. And they follow the river, the rats are drowned.

(Amelia chuckles and accidentally rips out a page of the book and closes it.)

Amelia: Like that's ever gonna happen. Where did I put my accordion?

("Funky Town" by Lipps Inc Playing)

(We see an outside from Far, Far Away and hear the sound of her bioplane running. Out steps Amelia, an princess of Hamelin, who has her stuff in her suitcase and her accordion. She looks lovingly at the Far, Far Away palace she calls her old home, and goes on the town Hamelin, Germany. The movie logo appears, watch says "Princess Amelia And The Pied Piper". Which is starts the key of her plane, brushing her teeth with minty toothpaste, takes a shower, gathering crab legs, piña colada, and pumpkin soup for dinner, and starts the engine of the bioplane, and starts flying)

(In a small town called Hamelin, an people sets up decorations to prepare for the 5th anniversary of the Pied Piper of Hamelin in 1284. At night they gather their balloons, streamers, banners, and confetti to fall down and enter the gate, waiting for Pied Piper to show up. Amelia sees them after investigating the commotion, people balloons, streamers, banners, and confetti to fall down. The people are busy, unaware that Amelia is showing up behind them.)

Hamelin Townschild: Mama, when's the fifth anniversary of Pied Piper in 1284 starts?

Hamelin Mother: I don't know, kind. It starts in two days before the legendary Pied Piper is here.

(Amelia arrives at the gates in Hamelin, waving the German flag. She made it here just in time.)

Amelia: I'm here! I'm here. I'm here. Whew! Just one second. Let me catch my breath.

(She chuckles, then greets the Hamelin people.)

Amelia: Hallo, guten Morgen! Willkommen in Hameln! Everyone ready?

(The Hamelin people nods in their heads, yes. Then Amelia sings as she takes a tour on the town of Hamelin.)

Amelia: Welcome to Hamelin! Come on, come this way! Where the greatest creations are all on display There's no other place just as full of surprise Where your dreams and your reality can collide

You wanna dance on beat? Or to have hair touch down to your feet? Go to outer space? Well, hey, you've come to the right place

Amelia and Citizens of Hamelin: 'Cause here in the city of Hamelin You can turn all your wanting to wishing No "what-ifs" and no "wonders" Oh here, in the city of Hamelin It's unlikely that you'll be unhappy with so much to discover

A home for me, for you, and all of us The city of Hamelin

So like, we have Pied Piper as you told And he plays the flute five years ago With rid of the rats and led the Weser River to drown No, no, no, I'm serious! But he is kindness

He's even like himself with a twist

Hamelin Townsperson Female: And someone that I'd like to kiss

Amelia: Oh, dear! For a magical wish And there you have it (Poof! It's a swish!)

Ooh and hey, did I mention when you here in any age You here to part of audition in a stage And he agree or disagree, every person he acquires And once a month, he approves someone's for desire It could be you someday, or for me (Ooh, I can't wait!)

Hamelin Townsperson Man: Does it hurt?

Hamelin Townsperson Boy: Do you cry?

Amelia: Oh! No, and you won't even miss it when you say goodbye

Amelia and Citizens of Hamelin: 'Cause here in the city of Hamelin You can turn all your wanting to wishing No "what-ifs" and no "wonders" Oh here, in the city of Hamelin It's unlikely that you'll be unhappy with so much to discover

A home for me, for you, and all of us The city of Hamelin

(As she and the people of Hamelin finished singing and dancing, the people clapped and cheered. Amelia pants, as she takes a sweat and wipes her forehead.)

Hamelin Townsperson Man: I'll meet Pied Piper in two days!

Hamelin Townsperson Woman: Do you really forget your true love once you give it?

Amelia: You forget without regret.

Hamelin Townsperson Woman: I want to see the Pied Piper!

Amelia: You're in luck. There's 2 more days until the fifth anniversary of The Pied Piper of Hamelin. You're welcome to stay and watch.

(Amelia runs back in her plane, and flies back to the Kingdom of Far, Far Away. She forgot to say goodbye to the others.)

Hamelin Townsperson Boy: I love food!

Hamelin Townsmarket: Enjoy.

Hamelin Townsperson Woman: This is amazing!

Hamelin Townsperson Man: I want to live here.

Hamelin Townsperson Old Man: So do I.

Hamelin Townsperson Woman: I'm never leaving.

Hamelin Townsperson Woman Tourist: This is delicious!

[fastwiemagie]

One-day-trip to the middle ages aka "let's go to ren faire"

Red Riding hood with a basket full of goods for grandma or more like "follow me behind this tent, I've got mead if you got coins"?

On July 8th I've went to ren faire - though that's not what we call it locally obviously. It's called "Mittelalterfest" in German, which translates to "medieval party". This event took place at the "Heeresgeschichtliches Museum" (museum of the history of warfare, Heer = army) and I really liked their slogan "Kriege gehören ins Museum" (=war belongs into museums). Wars should be a thing of the past!!

I've had a wonderful day with a couple of friends!! (Only sharing one selfie with my dear friend Duplica who's very comfortable with her likeness being shared!) I was pleasantly surprised at gaining free entry for dressing up for the event! Hurray for my thrifted dirndl-esque dress!! I've pinned the sides up with safety pins to give me more air flow and wore my pretty green hip bag for valuables & a string backpack for additional stuff! The dress is a linen & cotton blend, so it's very comfy to wear! Plus it has pockets and I thrifted it (with a broken zipper) for a super mark-down of 1€ during a special sales event. And I didn't even know until I went to pay and was flabbergasted at being only asked for one buck! Yay!

I've forgot to take better pictures of it, but I made a beautiful hair-crown with two overlapping braids and wore a felt leaf pinned to the back. (Felt leaf by my dear friend @wuselwesen .) That hair-do read semi-medieval enough for me, plus it's way cooler to wear my hair up in summer of course!

We've had great food & beverages (both alcoholic and non-alcoholic - stay hydrated in the heat folks!!). It was about 30°C on that day, so we kept it very cozy, lots of breaks and sitting around and chatting with our friends. But we also checked out all the vendours of course and chatted with them and admired their pretty wares! I was SOOOO tempted by all the gorgeous clothes in natural fibers. Alas, my coin purse (=budget) said no buuuuut I bought myself a beautiful basket bag, as an early birthday present to myself. It's so lovely, with a long woven fabric strap to carry the basket. I've also bought cherry mead at one vendour stall and my friend joked that "I'm almost like Red Riding Hood now, I only would need some cake for grandma!". But alas, I even had some pyramid cake with me (is Baumkuchen really called pyramid cake? Dictionary says so... it's dough wrapped around a piece of wood (hence "Baum" = tree (cake)) and rotated over a fire. I like it classic with sugar and cinnamon.

I've also found 5€ on the ground and invested it into an arrow head necklace immediately. What comes around, goes around!!

The day was SO beautiful, I was so emotional & happy leaving at night, I had to ask my friend if I could hug her because my happiness had to go somewhere and she said yes of course. Ahhh happy memories!!

Tagging @worth-beyond-a-number-scale because she's asked me to be tagged in posts where I'm wearing traditional/dirndl dress. This is a very casual outfit, it would be traditional to wear it with a blouse underneath & an apron. But it was way too hot for any of that last weekend!!

[id] Pic 1 & Pic 2:

both close-up pictures taken on public transport. Pic 1 is going to the renfaire, Pic 2 is the travel back home. Pic 1 shows the face & upper body of a young fat white woman with glasses and brown hair in a braided up-do. She's wearing a pentagram necklace and black earbuds. As well as a linen/cotton blend dress with a black bodice with floral machine embroidery on it.

Pic 2 has cut off the face of the young fat white woman, but you see the gorgeous woven basket she bought at renfaire next to her on a seat. More of the floral machine embroidery on the dresses bodice is also visible, as well as the green lacing on the front and the green skirt part. She's also wearing a green hip bag and has another black-and-floral bag with her (it's a backpack). Another necklace has appeared also: a golden arrow head on a black string! Ren faire purchase spotted??

Pic 3 shows some naturally-dyed yarn draped aesthetically on a construct of wooden sticks with a medieval-esque banner in the middle. The colours are very pleasing to look at and surprisingly colourful for natural dyeing!

Pic 4: The young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair (worn in a braided hair-crown on this day) is standing in front of some vendour stalls, with some faire goers in the background. She's smiling at the onlooker. You can see that the skirt part of her dress has been pinned up, for the aesthetic and extra air flow. Keen-eyed watchers spot a black bracelet on her left arm and she's also wearing black leather sandals.

Pic 5: This one is almost identical with pic 4, the young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair in her renfaire outfit, but she's smiling even more in this picture (and the people in the background have also changed).

Pic 6 & 7 are close-ups again.

Pic 6 shows the top part of the woven basket that has been purchased at the ren faire, with a pentagram necklace, an arrowhead necklace and a braided black bracelet lying on top of it. The close-ups shows all the accessories in detail!

Pic 7 is a selfie of the young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair together with another young white thin woman with brown hair, both looking into the camera, smiling and showing off the bottles of mead they just bought from a vendour.

Pic 8 is a full body shot again, with the young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair standing in front (or rather: behind) a yellow-and-turquoise striped tent (aka vendour stall). You can also see a more muted yellow-and red ochre coloured tent in the background as well as a dirty white tent. The woman is excitingly showing off her newly purchased basket bag, which she's stored her bottle of mead in. Hurray! She's looking very happy with her day at ren faire and her purchases.[/id]