#patriotic gore

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"TWO YEARS NEXT TIME WIFE-BEATER IS TOLD," Toronto Star. September 22, 1933. Page 2. --- But She Wanted to Forgive Him So He Goes on $200 Bond ---- "You will go to the penitentiary for two years and receive ten strokes of the strap if you come back here again," said Magistrate Patterson to Louis Paolucci, charged women's police court to-day with beating his wife. "Your wife wants to forgive you, so I will let you off with a bond of $200 to keep the peace."

"This is too big a city for you. Better go home to the small town," her worship advised Mary England, charged with theft from downtown stores. Accused was placed under bond of $200 to keep away from the stores for six months.

Attendants, spectators and the police had a hectic five minutes hunting for coins dropped by Mary McKay, appearing on a charge of being drunk.

"There goes my fee," groaned T. B. Horkins.

The money was finally located in the form of three cents. Accused was fined $50 or one month.

"It's a case of roosters crowing. They're merely trying to put accused out of business," said T. В. Horkins, K.C.. for Ezek Grynek, charged with breach of the Public Health Act, and asking for a remand to Sept. 29, which was granted.

Agnes Cassidy, charged with manslaughter, was remanded to Sept. 29. Florence Steele, 9, with long, golden curls, green cap and blue sweater, charmed everyone in court as she charged Leslie Latchford with aggravated assault.

"He threw three stones at me and they all hit me and hurt terribly," she said. "Then he kicked me in the side. I wasn't doing anything."

Defence claimed the girl had been injured in a fall during the Exhibition which accounted for the bruises and that they had been utilized by Mrs. Alan Steele, who laid the charge, to get back at accused to satisfy a neighbors' quarrel.

"I'm a veteran of the imperial army and I demand that this fellow be put in jail." shouted Mr. Steele.

"I have a flag flying and I defy him to pull it down. I want justice. This man is after my wife and family all the time. We want protection."

"You should be ashamed of yourself, attacking a little girl like this," said the bench. "You will be bound over to keep the peace for six months."

There was much weeping as Rita Flynn, Dora Flynn and Mrs. Kathleen Roberts appeared on joint charges of stealing sweaters, shampoo, tobacco and other articles from downtown stores.

"They simply picked the things up and put them into shopping bags," said a store detective.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Roberts," said her worship. "Encouraging young girls to steal. I suppose the tobacco was to roll your own with."

After sobbing in unison that they would never do it again, Rita and Dora were remanded for sentence to Sept. 29 in care of the Salvation Army. Mrs. Roberts will have to raise bail of $100 or go to jail until Sept. 29.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 11

Read on AO3. Part 10 here. Part 12 here.

Summary: Do you think a cowardly person would do THIS?

*flinches at the sight of a man naked*

NO.

Words: 5800

Warnings: cw: gore, detailed descriptions of amputation

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Hi! Welcome back! We are so excited to share with you the fruits of our continuing obsession with 1700s medical practices. You could really just do anything back then, y'know?

We hope you guys continue to enjoy - we truly love writing this story and composing the plot and world. We fear this is becoming a bit more historical fiction than Patriot fanfiction, but, like, that's the fun of it, right?

Love y'all so very much. Hope we're looking forward to next chapter where a regular ball will happen and nothing will go wrong. 🙏😇

You didn’t think you could ever grow used to the sound of screams.

Violence, sure—the blood, the gore—it was a cicada melody in your mind, now, a thrum that whined alive in waves. To see soldiers sliced open, their flesh the color of smashed blackberries inspired terror the same as scanning a page in a book. Even death, a rare visitor to your camp, never startled you with its entrance, regardless of its haste.

A quick death, short and shocking like a dagger, was your preference. Other soldiers seemed to invite death to stay, to share their beds with it, groaning and writhing underneath its shadow for hours, days.

And even then, it was the screaming that unsettled you. It was something about the desperation, like a plea to God they knew would die unanswered. A scream cradled grief in its depth, a grief that could seldom be named. Yet it was a grief that shook you with its enormity, that crawled along your neck and slept on your shoulders.

So when a young private was dragged into your tent, to be honest, you didn’t notice the blood, or the gore. You couldn’t. What captured you was the serrated edge of his scream.

“Calm down, lad.” The man hauling him in was a major, from his uniform. Words rolled off his tongue in a bright Scottish lilt. “Calm down, it’s all right.” He looked toward you. “On the table?”

You nodded, half-shocked by the fact a major had taken the time to grab a man from the field at all, let alone a private. Most would’ve left him to die.

“Up you go!”

Standing, you approached as he hoisted the private onto said table, hushing him as he guided his shoulders to the wood. The private gasped, his forehead coated in sweat, face inflamed with pain. Soot stained his uniform, grass streaked across his shirt—but apart from that, you thought he seemed in one piece.

“It’s all right, Private. They’re going to take care of you.” The major huffed, turning toward you. “The surgeon, please?”

The wounded soldier cried out. You looked in the direction of his leg. There was a macerated mass of flesh where his calf should have been.

“Jesus Christ.” You hovered over the wound, starting to roll up your sleeves. “What happened here?”

Lottie, behind you, stepped forward to observe and wailed, disappearing into the back of the tent.

“Grapeshot,” the major replied, grimacing. “Not pretty.” He looked between you and the currently hidden Lottie. “The surgeon? Where is he?”

“Dr. Moore is attending to the officers,” Lottie called. “W-we’re just field triage.”

“Ah, hell.” His eyes lingered on the private’s leg. “What do you think, then?”

He glanced at you with honest, sincere curiosity. It disarmed you.

You considered the leg, grit your teeth. Everything below the knee was done for. Since morning, you’d spent hours flitting back and forth between your triage station and the officers’ hospital, assisting Dr. Moore with at least a dozen amputations between the two. Given all you had seen today, you were left with a firm—and grim—confidence in that assessment.

“It’s going to need to come off. Amputated.” You winced internally as the words left your mouth.

Lottie wailed again. The soldier on the table groaned, twisting in pain.

“Rum,” he said. “Rum!”

You grabbed the rum, hands starting to tremble as you brought it to his lips. He grabbed it from you and gulped down what must’ve been a half-pint in a few swallows. With a gasp, he broke off and allowed it to flop into your hands.

“No.” You placed it on his chest. “You’re going to need it.” Turning to Lottie, you said, “I’ll get the tourniquet on. Run and fetch Dr. Moore. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

Lottie nodded, crept forward.

“You’re only fitting the tourniquet, right?” she said, hands bunched up near her chest. “Do you… need anything before I…”

It was something you had stopped to consider. But you couldn’t risk her passing out on you. Shaking your head, you began, “N—”

“Oh, thank God,” she sputtered, and fled into the camp.

You turned back to the soldier. He was already nursing the bottle again, his hands shaking so badly that the glass clacked against his teeth. Moving to the instrument table, you grabbed the screw tourniquet and stuffed it underneath his thigh. As you tightened it, he sobbed in pain, fists curling to white-knuckle balls.

The sounds of gun and cannon fire had quieted in the past hour. In its absence, the only noise was the whine of the screw as it tamped down on his flesh.

You glanced up. The major was watching over his private, grey eyes studying, face twisted in concern. His bright red hair was tied back in a queue, accentuating his strong jaw. You couldn’t recall ever meeting him before.

“What is his name?” you asked, cranking a final turn and locking the tourniquet.

“Leonard Maycott,” the major said.

You leaned aside to scratch the name onto your growing ledger. “Thank you,” you replied. “It’s rare for a major to give such consideration toward their infantry.”

He offered a half-smile. “They’re the backbone of any good army, miss,” he said. “No matter what cavalrymen say.”

You laughed, imagining how badly such a comment would irritate Tavington. “I’m sure he’ll be quite grateful that you went out of your way, Major… ah?”

“Ferguson.” The man nodded toward you. “Patrick Ferguson.”

Your jaw dropped. This man—this kind, thoughtful, somewhat handsome man was Patrick Ferguson? The man who was courting, or, rather, manipulating your sister with his, what, charm? His lies? Frustration boiling inside of you, you clamped your mouth shut.

“I must inspect the wound and make measurements.” You circled around the table to better position yourself, and definitely not to turn an icy shoulder toward the Major. “Good day.”

Ferguson tilted his head. “Are you certain you don’t need anything else?” he asked. “Is there any way I may be of assistance?”

“No,” you said, annoyed he was being so gracious with his time and energy when he was obviously a terrible person. “Please leave.”

You turned back to the task at hand.

“If you’re cer—”

“I’m certain.”

Ferguson sighed. “Understood, miss. I’m grateful.” He gave you a slight nod before departing the tent and leaving you alone with Maycott.

You drew in a deep breath, forcing your hands to steady as you gazed down at the bloody display before you. There was no room or reason for you to be scared. After all, he was the one losing his leg.

You wondered what Grace was doing. Probably stitching something sweet into a tablecloth.

“Is the battle over, Private Maycott?” You weren’t sure if you were making conversation for his benefit or your own. “Was it won?”

You grabbed a seam ripper, made short work of his trouser leg just below the tourniquet, peeling the fabric like rotten bark from his sweat and blood-soaked skin.

The man—barely more than a boy, really—nodded. “It was won,” he managed to choke out. “We—” Wincing, he took another sip of rum. “It was a massacre.” He shifted as you pried fabric away from the gnarled flesh below his knee.

Your heart sank into your stomach. You couldn’t, wouldn’t worry about what that meant for your father. “Wonderful.”

Eyeing Maycott’s mangled leg, you held your palm out to measure one hand’s breadth above the wound. That would put the incision marker at mid-knee. That wouldn’t do. The amputation would have to be higher, on the femur.

Poor bastard.

“Tell me, Private.” It was best to keep him talking, you figured, lest he slip into shock. “How did we take the field?”

“Bay… bayonet charge…” Maycott puffed, face contorting. “Enemy left flank co—collapsed.”

With a glance up to ensure you were still alone, you slipped a flask from your pocket and soaked a wad of cloth in whiskey.

“We advanced… broke the—mmph—the militia.”

You swiped the cloth around Maycott’s thigh, cleansing his skin from just above the knee up to the edge of his cut breeches. He flinched at your touch, then let out a sob.

“Then what happened?” you said, quickly dousing your own hands in the liquor before stashing it again.

“Conti… nentals,” he strained. “Counter-attacked. With ball and… cannon.”

You measured another hand’s breadth above the knee joint, then drew out a thin strip of linen and looped it around his thigh to designate the incision point.

“I… went down. Thought I was… was done for. But the dragoons…”

Your ears pricked.

“Charged their rear. Shattered them.”

A tiny, idiotic flicker of relief. It shouldn’t—didn’t—matter to you that Tavington had survived. Your teeth set. You tied the linen.

“All I saw then was rout and—agh—and slaughter.” Maycott gripped the table with marble-white hands.

A rustle of fabric drew your attention up to see a new redcoat enter the tent.

“The casualties, miss?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’m, uh, drawing up the report on the casualties,” he said, pointing to a stack of papers in his arm. “I was told you could provide me with the number of wounded…”

Blinking, you nodded toward the clearly suffering Maycott on your table. “Do I appear at leisure to provide you with numbers?” you snarled.

“Well, I… the report must—“

“I’ll write the report myself.”

The man shrunk from you. “But Lord Cornwallis—”

“I’ll deliver it to Lord Cornwallis myself, too!” You shooed him. “Please!”

The man bowed, scurrying out.

How long would Dr. Moore take? You had a feeling he’d begrudged Cornwallis conscripting him. Ever since you’d made camp near the general’s forces at Camden, you’d caught him puffing around like an anxious horse. Shaking your head, you beheld the table of instruments.

Sharp, shiny metal, like teeth of a steel lion, gleamed back at you. You bit your lip, glimpsed Maycott from the edge of your sight. He laid there, face bound in pain, sucking in desperate air through his nose. The river of blood leaking from his leg had run dry, leaving a sticky lump of grapefruit pulp below his knee.

You cast around.

Gnawed your lip.

Wrung your hands.

Maycott whimpered, and you tipped another swig of rum into his mouth. You could not, in good conscience, allow this situation to worsen while you were perfectly capable of handling it yourself.

All the preparations were made. Every necessary instrument within reach. Eyes flicking over them one by one, you recited the procedure in your mind. You recalled every step as if it were branded behind your eyes, complete with annotations and illustrations.

Yes, you could do this.

The only thing left was to make sure he didn’t break his teeth. Or yours.

You snatched the only stick on the table—smooth, wrapped in leather. It had so far gone unused. Jaw tight, you shoved it sideways into his mouth.

“Mr. Maycott,” you said. “Listen to me very carefully.”

Eyes, dark wet saucers, met yours.

“Your hands shall not leave this table. Grip it as hard as you must, but do not let go. Understand?”

Maycott swallowed, then nodded with an mmph around the stick.

“Look at my face, or at the ceiling, but do not look down.”

Another whimper and nod. You hoped, for both your sakes, that this boy was braver than he looked. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he fastened his gaze to the tent ceiling.

With a quick, steadying breath, you grabbed a supply box from the ground, hoisted Maycott’s leg atop it to give you circumferential access to the meat of his thigh. He sobbed, leather creaking between his teeth.

You grabbed the amputation knife. Poised the curve of its blade along your linen guideline.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Step one: Incision.

A flash of silver, and blade parted flesh.

It happened in a span of blinks. One rotation carved adipose, the next split muscle fiber, artery, tendon. By the time Maycott drew enough breath to scream, you were scything around a solid branch of bone. You tossed the knife.

Step two: Retraction.

Hell, this was going to be difficult alone. It was possible you’d been a mite hasty in dismissing Ferguson’s offer of aid. No—it didn’t matter. You would improvise.

You wedged the retractor into the split meat of Maycott’s leg, shoved it down until you felt it notch onto the femur. He thrashed on the table, and you braced a forearm across his hips, wrestling him back down.

“Be still, please, Mr. Maycott.”

He shrieked.

You heaved against the retractor, drawing his flesh up like a gelatinous stocking to expose the bone beneath. It would have to stay in place somehow, so you quickly lashed the leather panel with twine, threaded that through Maycott’s belt to form a crude rope-and-pulley system, then hoisted it as high as you could before securing it taut.

That would have to do.

Step three: Femoral transection.

The capital saw gleamed on the table—a single, sinister mandible. You grasped it. Positioned it, grip trembling. You looked down at the white, naked rod of bone and, for the first time, hesitated.

That’s right, cub. Hold it perpendicular, just like that.

A vision. Your father’s voice. Your own, smaller hand holding a saw above a fence rail, somewhere out behind the barn.

Maycott’s scream splintered the air. An autumn breeze brushed your mind.

Grip it tight, there you go. You can do it. Use the whole length of the blade, like I showed you. Back, forth. Back, forth.

Back, forth.

Back, forth.

Teeth gnashed bone in rhythm. It sounded just like the wooden fence.

There, cub! On through, give it hell.

Back, forth.

Sweat daubed your brow. You leaned into the saw, threw your weight into each thrust, waged war against the vile insistence of Maycott’s body to remain intact.

It would yield to you.

You would unmake him.

You would form him anew.

You were no coward, and nothing so trivial, so mundanely corporeal as a man’s body would incapacitate you.

Letting out a gritted cry, you heaved against the saw. Two, three more passes, and the resistance vanished. Maycott’s lower leg fell to the table with a damp thud.

Gasping, you braced on your forearms, then shoved the disembodied limb to the ground.

Step four: Arterial ligature.

Using the saw, you cut the rigging on the retractor. Maycott’s flesh sprang back into place, swaddled the shaft of bone like a maiden caught with her stays open. You turned your focus to the meat.

Five principal blood vessels surround the femur.

“Try to breathe deeply, Private Maycott,” you said, reaching for the tenaculum and suture kit. With his leg shed, his screams had receded to tattered whimpers. “The worst is done.”

He didn’t seem to hear you, wracked as he was with spasms, but at least he was breathing at all. You leaned in to inspect your work.

This close, you could see every detail that had evaded your sight while acting only as assistant to Dr. Moore. Electrified, you scanned the bisected tissue, identified and hooked the central artery from its sleeve of muscle. You folded it over, just as you’d observed, and sutured it neatly with silk thread. The remaining four vessels followed with ease, your hands now steady as a hawk’s stare, heart fluttering with something far more intoxicating than fear.

You’d bloody done it.

Just as you were tying off the last vessel, the tent flap opened yet again. Dr. Moore strolled through, inspecting a parchment with his spectacles perched down his nose.

“Miss Goddard tells me there’s an emergency,” he said with all the haste of a sunny Sabbath morning.

“Not anymore,” you said primly, making your final loop and cut. “I have it sorted.”

Dr. Moore looked up, and his whole body seized.

“You…” His mouth fell open, snapped shut. He shoved his spectacles up. “What have you done?”

Parchment fluttering to the ground, he was beside your operating table in two strides.

“I’ve performed an amputation above the knee on Private Maycott here,” you said, chest swelling even as Dr. Moore’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his skull.

“You perf—” He shook his head, as if the very notion had swarmed him like mosquitos. “By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no, it isn’t possible—look here, this is all wrong, it’s… it’s…” Dr. Moore leaned over Maycott, faltering as he inspected the stump where the Private’s leg had been. “Hm.”

You stepped back as he circled the table, leaned in to study your handiwork even closer.

“I’ll need to release the tourniquet now, doctor,” you said, moving to do just that. “It’s been affixed for some time, he risks necrosis.”

“Now—now wait just a moment, I—” Dr. Moore pinched the side of his spectacles, squinted hard. “I must ligate the vessels.”

“The ligature is done.”

Dr. Moore gaped at you.

“Well—well of course it must be done properly.” He snatched the tenaculum, moved to fish a perfectly sewn artery from Maycott’s leg, then paused. Squinted again. “Hm.”

Maycott, glassy-eyed and damp with sweat, whined. You cleared your throat.

“Doctor,” you said. “If I may please remove his tourniquet.”

Dr. Moore straightened. Puffing air through his lips, he looked between you and the ailing Maycott on the table.

“Well, I… hm. Well, all right then, b-but do it—”

“Slowly,” you said, reaching for the screw. “I know.”

You unlocked the mechanism and gradually released about one-quarter of the pressure. Both of you swooped down to observe the stump.

A bright, healthy trickle of blood began to leak—but not burst—from the tissues. Your ligatures dammed each artery perfectly. Dr. Moore leaned back from the table, blinking.

Grabbing wads of lint, you began to pack the stump, working quickly while Dr. Moore seemed to behold something realms away. When the wound was covered, you realized he was still standing between you and the roll of bandages you needed.

“Doctor?” you said. “A bandage, if you please?”

Numbly, he passed you the roll.

“Thank you,” you said, and swathed Maycott’s stump, securing the packing. “Wool cap?”

Dr. Moore passed it to you. You shimmied it over the bandage, secured it with a garter, then released the tourniquet entirely.

“There you are, Mr. Maycott,” you said, brushing your palms down the front of your skirts and moving to observe your patient. “All finished.”

His throat worked as he stared through the ceiling. He drew long, ragged breaths. Grabbing a spare cloth, you awkwardly dabbed the sweat from his brow. You weren’t quite sure what else to say. Lottie usually did this part.

All that mattered was that he was alive. He was alive, and you were the reason. A fierce, hot glow swelled in your chest.

You heard movement behind you, turned to see Dr. Moore stooping to pick up his discarded parchment. He had also, you noted, swiped the half-empty rum bottle from the operating table. Straightening, he took a swig, shaking his head as it went down.

“Never in all my days…” the doctor muttered to himself, and ducked through the tent flap.

The tent fluttered shut. You stood, staring into the slit of sun peeking through the bottom as you sank into a chair. Blood painted the front of your bodice, stained the edge of your sleeves all the way to your palms like you’d steeped your arms in a vat of it. Red cracks formed in your elbows—evidence of it settling into your skin.

You didn’t care. Triumph crackled over every inch of you, poured like light from your skin. Had night fallen just then, you could have shone brightly enough to arrest its shadows for a mile.

Maycott laid on the table, short half a leg. His breathing was stable. At least for now, you both could try to relax.

You figured you’d clean your hands to write the report. Though the thought of presenting Cornwallis with a report stamped with bloody handprints was enticing.

After soaking a towel in the wash basin and wiping your forearms, you gathered your ledger of casualties and moved to Dr. Moore’s desk. Pieces of parchment scribbled with words you couldn’t discern were scattered like leaves across the wood. Whatever his numbers were, you didn’t particularly care. Your tent was the only tent you’d want to put your name to, regardless.

Grabbing a fresh piece of parchment and his quill, you began your notations. You’d start by counting the names of the wounded you’d attended.

Beyond the tent, a raucous cheer rolled through the camp, its center shifting with each new reprise. And with each new reprise, your count was interrupted, forcing you to start again. The reminder of their victory irked you, disgusted you. Why were you even writing the report? Would it not have been more beneficial to the Continentals if you’d abdicated your duties when the battle had begun?

You could’ve let Maycott die. Could’ve botched his amputation so badly that he would’ve passed on the table. He wouldn’t have been the first.

But there was only one thought that disgusted you more than the British succeeding, and it was you failing. Intentionally, at that. No matter how beneficial it would’ve been for the Continentals, you would sooner amputate your own leg than sully your character with traits like incompetent or irresponsible.

There would be other opportunities. And more importantly than anything for the cause, you were keeping your father safe by remaining with the British.

You hoped he had managed to heed your warning. Not that you’d be able to get him a letter to verify.

Counting. You needed to focus on counting.

The number of wounded was dozens upon dozens, but most had been a musket ball, or contusion, or abrasion easily treated. Maycott was your final amputation, and the final casualty you counted that day. By tomorrow, more could roll in. Or die.

None of them would be your men, though.

After finishing your total count, you split the numbers into categories by casualty and listed the soldiers with each casualty by name, adding in details like rank and regiment. Lottie had been good at jotting these down in the ledger when you’d been preoccupied with tasks she’d found less appealing.

By the time you completed the report, you guessed it was late afternoon. Papa had been right when he’d complained about Gates—your report had taken at least triple the length of the battle itself. Continental embarrassment was so palpable it wrung the air with a heavy stench.

Or perhaps that had been the Continentals themselves.

Since you had the paper in front of you, you decided to pen another letter to Grace, as well. You’d exchanged a few in the past couple of months—delivery had been slow—and her most recent message had inspired at least a few choice thoughts you needed to express.

Starting the letter, My Dearest Grace, you continued on with a quick summary of recent events, updating her on where you’d been and what you’d been doing. You did not mention seeing your father, or what he’d tasked you with accomplishing.

Toward the end of the letter, you made sure to address her mention of Patrick Ferguson visiting again, adding,

I this very afternoon had the pleasure of meeting your Major Patrick Ferguson, though I am yet undecided how great the pleasure was. But I’ll withhold my judgment…

You were confident she’d understand your disapproval.

Folding the letter, you sealed it with the wax on Dr. Moore’s desk, then scrawled Grace’s name across the front of it before dropping it in the basket for the courier.

“Good afternoon!”

You spun to see Lottie slipping into the tent. Her attention fell on Maycott instantly. Before you could even respond, she was at his bedside.

“Sir,” she cooed, “are you awake?”

He nodded toward her, mumbling out an acknowledgement.

“Good,” she replied, pressing a palm to his forehead. “But remain resting. We’ll be here monitoring you, er, Private, um?”

She looked at you, lost. You nodded. “Maycott.”

“Private Maycott,” she turned her attention back to him. “Brave Private Maycott.”

You couldn’t help yourself—you grinned. Her tenderness comforted you like the scent of tea could comfort more than only those drinking it.

“Lottie, good afternoon.” You skimmed her dirt-dusted bodice. “Dr. Moore kept you at the officer’s tent, did he?”

She nodded. “He seemed to be under the impression you could manage without him.” A sly grin curled her mouth. “I might be inclined to agree.”

You sat a bit straighter. “Well, thank you,” you replied. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Maycott squirmed on the table, and Lottie shushed him, sweeping a hand around his cheek. She looked back up at you. “You are, are you?”

“I am.” Gathering the pages of the casualties in a stack, you stood from the desk. “I’m about to deliver this report to Lord Cornwallis.” You nodded toward Maycott. “You don’t mind observing Private Maycott’s convalescence?”

Lottie smiled. “Of course,” she said, grabbing a chair and plopping right next to him. “Won’t be a bit of trouble, will it, Mr. Maycott?”

He gazed at her and nodded, no doubt sinking into the warm coffee of her eyes.

“Thank you,” you said, casting one final search around to make sure you’d gathered everything. “There’s, ah, willow and alder bark decoctions in the rack there. They taste vile, but see if you can get him to take one of each when he can sit up.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage that.” She patted his hand, brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “We’ll be old friends by the time he’s ready to leave the tent, right, Private?”

Maycott, delirious from rum and pain, grasped at Lottie’s hand against his cheek.

“Will you marry me?” you thought you heard him slur.

Lottie looked up at you with pink cheeks, lip pinched between her teeth. “Perhaps not that good of friends yet, sir,” she said through a stifled giggle.

Suppressing your own laugh, you turned to leave. The smile fell from Lottie’s face.

“You, ah, don’t want to perhaps…” She gestured toward her torso.

You frowned, glimpsing your sanguine-splattered skirts. “What? Cornwallis is smart enough to figure out what I’ve been doing all day.”

She raised her eyebrows, averting her gaze. “I hope so.”

You snorted. “I doubt he’d have similar complaints for Dr. Moore, so I don’t particularly care if he has complaints for me.” With that, you flounced out of the tent.

Joining with the rest of Cornwallis’ troops had swelled the camp to a size you could hardly comprehend. Not just hundreds, thousands of men had joined Tavington from across South Carolina—which meant twice that number of new eyes staring, surveying, scrutinizing you as you shuffled through the camp.

None of them, as far as you could tell, were Major Patrick Ferguson or Colonel William Tavington, both of whom you wished to avoid for very different reasons. But Ferguson was your current object of ire. The suggestion that he could potentially be a good man irritated you to no end. He hadn’t gotten your permission—or your father’s—to see Grace, and so had no right to call on her at home.

While you weren’t even there.

He had no true respect for you, or your family. That was most clear.

You arrived at Cornwallis’ tent and paused, poised yourself to open it. Familiar voices beyond the canvas arrested you.

“They were my supplies. My dogs, my personal effects.” This was Cornwallis. Clearly furious at whoever he was speaking to. “Does that impress upon you the importance, Colonel?”

Colonel?

“Yes, my Lord,” Tavington replied, his voice tight with restraint, “but certainly—”

“Certainly nothing. Your own single-mindedness, your own short-sightedness is responsible for this. An officer of your caliber should therefore seek to assume that responsibility.”

“Was our victory today not proof enough of my responsibility?”

“Your victory today is but one piece of your responsibility, Colonel Tavington.” Cornwallis sighed. “I expect to hear from this point forward that our supply lines are nothing short of impregnable to this… this rabble.”

“Of course,” Tavington replied. “Of course, my Lord.”

Both men sat in silence. You fought a smile. Your information about the supply lines had been worth something. Knowing that it had ruined Cornwallis’—and by association, Tavington’s—day summoned a devilish thrill in your heart. Unfortunate that it couldn’t have damaged them enough to earn the Continentals a win.

You wondered how thick the air felt inside of the tent.

“When will your men be prepared to depart again, Colonel?”

“Tomorrow morning.” A shuffle, like Tavington was moving closer. “Many are exhausted from the pursuit this afternoon.”

“I received word before your arrival that Sumter’s men remain in the province,” Cornwallis said. A pause, a rustling of parchment. “Set out tomorrow with Major Ferguson’s detachment. Find them, drive them out.”

“Understood, my Lord.”

“And Colonel?”

A pause.

“Remember what we discussed.”

Tavington, the final tether of his patience fraying, replied, “Yes, my Lord.”

Hard, quick footsteps. Before you could dart around the corner, the tent flew open, bringing you face-to-face with Tavington. His eyes brimmed alive with fury.

His attention fell first to the blood smothering your bodice, covering your sleeves. Brow screwing in confusion, he met your gaze. You were paralyzed. For some inane reason, you wanted to tell him what you’d managed to do. Not such a coward now, am I? You could almost imagine his response—something snippy, something that would bring the most reluctant smile to your face.

Like he read your mind, his mouth parted to speak. Then his gaze fell to the papers in your hands. His expression hardened. Blowing rage through his nose, he broke from your stare, pushing past you into the camp.

The tension inside you snapped like a bone. You exhaled, gathering yourself before stepping into the tent yourself. This interior was grander than any tent you’d been inside. A half-eaten spread of fresh food dried on a long table, half-full wine glasses dotted every free surface.

And the Continentals didn’t even have shoes.

“Excuse me?” You stepped forward, bowing to Cornwallis. He was seated at a desk, reviewing the piles of papers that had been stacked on top of it. “Lord Cornwallis?”

“Yes?” He glanced up. A quick blink of confusion. He paused. “You are…” He studied your face, and his brow lifted in recognition. “Ah! You.” The words left tentatively. “The… daughter of the Continental captain, yes?”

You nodded, surprised he remembered you at all. And Tavington had said swearing of loyalty to the King held no value. “Yes, my Lord, that’s me.”

“Well, come in!” he said, urging you forward. His expression faltered. “Oh, my. My dear, you weren’t involved in the battle, were you?”

“No, no, sir.” You gave an embarrassed smile, though you were really quite proud. “I’ve been working in the field hospital since June, actually. I was assisting Dr. Moore today.”

“Were you?” He sat back in his chair, appraising you. “And you’ve brought me his casualty report, I imagine?”

You stepped forward, holding out the stack of parchment to him. “Yes, I have. I just completed it.”

“You completed it?” Cornwallis took the papers and skimmed them. “You can cypher?”

“Yes, I can, my Lord.”

“Incredible.” His eyes flicked to you as he read. “Very well, it seems.” He nodded. “Detailed.” He placed the parchment on his desk and grinned. “Seems as if you were quite involved.”

“I was, my Lord. In fact, I…” You paused, considering your next words. “Despite Major Ferguson’s protests, I was able to help one of his severely injured privates who was pulled from the field.”

“Did you, now?” His jaw dropped in fascination, like you’d just told him that you were a limbless dog who’d learned to ride a horse. “Well, that is impressive indeed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His gaze fell, his hands steepled and brow furrowed as he considered you. “He protested, did he?” Cornwallis said. “Ferguson?”

“Yes, with quite unbecoming language. Utterly monstrous.” You shrugged away the imaginary barbs the major had thrown at you. “But perhaps he was simply stressed from battle.”

Cornwallis hummed. “That is unlike him,” he replied. “Perhaps I’ll speak with him.”

You held back a smile. There was your one good deed for the day. Cornwallis continued to stare at you, watching while you chewed the inside of your lip. Were you finished? Did he need to dismiss you? Focusing on the ground, you rocked back on your heels.

“Have you been to a ball, my dear?”

You nearly stumbled backwards. “Pardon me, my Lord?”

“We’ll be celebrating this victory at Middleton Place on Saturday,” he said. “I’d like to invite you as our guest.” He grinned. “I think the other officers would be overjoyed to see someone of your position serving our men with such dedication.”

Heat rushed you. You’d never been to a ball. You’d never even considered you’d be given the opportunity to go to one. The thought of trotting around on display for the British army, their little converted Loyalist princess, seemed repugnant to you. But turning down this generosity—and opportunity for information—was too foolish to even debate.

“I’d be honored to attend,” you replied. “Thank you, my Lord.” A small smile. “Though I’m not sure just yet what I’m to wear—”

“Oh, don’t let that concern you,” Cornwallis said. “We’ll provide for you, my dear. Do not fret your little head about it.”

You stilled your tongue. Oh, you would never fret your little head about anything.

You needed to go before you said something like that aloud.

“Thank you, my Lord,” you said. “Your generosity is most appreciated, as ever.” Bowing toward him, you turned and went to leave the tent.

“I look forward to seeing you at Middleton Place, my dear!” he called.

You tossed a grin over your shoulder. “Oh, the anticipation is all mine.”

You stepped into the camp, glancing around. Soldiers were starting fires, rousing each other with merriment. If only, for once, you were a Loyalist. You might have felt excited about what you’d discussed with Lord Cornwallis. Instead, you trudged to your tent with a sinking dread that you had no idea to what you’d just agreed to.

[m0dernv4mpire]

At this point he's just my oc haha like he isn't even recognizable....Good

[be-ly]

Lord of Crime

[beetlerope]

Patriotism (1966) | Yukio Mishima

[mlimby]

Depiction of ritual suicide and gore below the cut

[seepweed]

btw i hope you guys know this is what i mean by "killing and maiming". source: the patriot (2000)

[lyledebeast]

A lot of this is discussion of historical accuracy, which is not the most interesting thing for me when it comes to this movie. However, one thing Brandon brings up that I hadn't considered is that the people at the party looking shocked will look a lot more upset when everything that just got blown to heck--wood, metal, and human--is incoming from the force of the explosion. He also compares this scene to the church burning, which is presented as the worst thing that could ever possibly happen (even though everyone in the church is going to be dead in a matter of minutes given how Very Flammable the building is. Men aboard the ship who were further from the blast are unlikely to be so lucky).

One of the more egregious double standards in this movie is the assumption that suffering the audience does not see counts for nothing. Almost all of the visible bodily trauma we see involves Patriot bodies, as though Patriot violence does not produce the same effects on British ones. We only know British bodies have blood in them because Mel Gibson ends up wearing a few gallons of it after That One Scene. Part of the closeting of Martin's violence is that its effects are always out of frame, if sometimes only by a few feet.

[hergan416]

Yeah I fucking. Don't want to write this even though I think this could be highly moving and like. A good read if I did find the story in me.

But.

Louis James Moriarty & (/?) female oc where the oc commits many crimes, leaving clues in a way to specially get him to kill her. (Don't ask me why this person feels feminine to me.)

Anyway...as to how this works...perhaps she works in a group so that William will need help making sure no one makes it out, and on the day of the attack predicts where Louis will be hunting? Regardless...it works, she is targeted and Louis does fight and stab her, but finds out after it is too late and she is dying that this was her goal all along.

The oc has a lot of complicated feelings. I think she loves Louis? There are a lot of background things about this character that I haven't figured out, like how she knows so much about Louis, how her feelings developed, what kind of life she's lived, her class background (although I suppose to draw the interest of the loc she'd have to be at least welathy now...), why she feels this is wanted/necessary. I suspect Louis hasn't met her outside her crimes before.

She's also kind of obviously suicidal through the whole thing, and like, at the moment she is stabbed is written in detail. Maybe not physical feeling, but her emotions are the entire flavor of the writing, and she's like...rejoicing in the visual, both what Louis looks like killing her, and what it looks like to be stabbed, what her flowing blood is like, etc.

I have no idea how Louis feels about any of this either when it all has happened. I mean I'm sure he is irked about being manipulated...but does he care that he's killed this person who wanted to die? She did do some very awful stuff on the way there. What is forgivable? [Would his complicated feelings about William's crimes and his suicidality have any bearing on the situation? Or is his view on all that because it is William?] Like this could get deeply philosophical from Louis' pov.

[littlestickfish]

Edit: I fucking. Said "us" in the notes. I am not even Catholic anymore

I just grew up so immersed in the culture and theology (3rd generation Sicilian-American) that even after 6 years as a Gnostic I still cannot stop using the first person plural

Roman Catholicism is the Hotel California of religions

Being raised by areligious jews with 0 exposure to christianity outside pop culture is so fun. One time I asked my ex-catholic friend why a picture of jesus had a bristle crown and she looked at me like I was insane. One time I heard someone mention the "lance of longinus" and responded, word for word, "Like from Evangelion?" One time during a history lesson my professor described an important monk and scholar as "Dominican" and I spent the rest of class super confused and hung up on it because I was very sure that the Dominican Republic didn't meaningfully exist as an entity back then, maybe she meant he was a native Taino or something but that's a weird way to say that and I'm pretty sure this was pre- European contact? Really fucks people up when they realize I genuinely have no idea.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

Alice Brady, draped in Old Glory. June 16, 1917. Bain News Service. Library of Congress, LC-B2- 4224-7. hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/ggbain.24502

From the LOC Flickr page - thanks to the commentators:

Alice Brady (born Mary Rose Brady, November 2, 1892 – October 28, 1939) was an American actress who began her career in the silent film era and survived the transition into talkies. She worked up until six months before her death from cancer in 1939. Her films include My Man Godfrey (1936), in which she played the flighty mother of Carole Lombard's character, and In Old Chicago (1937) for which she won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_Brady

The Sunday Oregonian, June 17, 1917, SECTION FIVE, Image 66 printed this photo wth the caption: "At the tableaux for war relief given in New York by the big stars of the movie world, Alice Brady appeared as "America." She is the daughter of W. A. Brady, the manager, and is equally at home in drama, light opera or film work. Recently the reel world has seen more of her than the legitimate stage."

[qqueenofhades]

I just read an article on The Conversation that states: "Today, most data has Trump narrowly beating Biden in the national popular vote, albeit within the statistical margin of error." (Source for that data: https://projects.fivethirtyeight.com/polls/president-general/)

In your opinion, is that true? How can that be possible after everything Trump has done? After the Insurrection? I'm terrified 😕

(For reference, the original article can be found at https://theconversation.com/five-reasons-why-trumps-republican-opponents-were-never-going-to-beat-him-223288?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=The%20Weekend%20Conversation%20-%202888329325&utm_content=The%20Weekend%20Conversation%20-%202888329325+CID_fceedfd21410eb8a7b6fd6e1124d9d54&utm_source=campaign_monitor_uk&utm_term=five%20reasons)

Short answer: no, I don't think it's true.

Long answer: no, I really don't think it's true. Here's why.

Broader context. A Republican has won the popular presidential vote only twice in the 21st century, and in the first of those occasions -- 2000 -- I use "won" very advisedly. We all know, or at least we should, about all the fuckery that went down in Florida with Bush vs. Gore and SCOTUS stepping in to stop the recount (which almost surely would have gone to Gore) and handing Florida, and thus the presidency, to George Dubya Bush by a mere 537 votes. Dubya then did win re-election and the popular vote/EC in 2004, in the throes of patriotic war fervor and the GOP's Swiftboating of John Kerry (who was a pretty terrible candidate to start with). Other than that? None. Zip. Nada. None. Even in 2016 when Trump squeaked out a win (and thus the presidency) in the Electoral College, he lost nationwide to HRC by over 3 million votes. He lost to Biden by 7 million votes nationwide last time. Also, the reason the GOP loves the antidemocratic Electoral College is that it always works in their favor, and because red states with relatively scant population are given the same power in the Senate. That's why California, with 40+ million people, gets two (Democratic) senators, and Wyoming, with 400,000 people, gets two (Republican) senators. There is just no way that red states can get the actual raw numbers to win the popular vote against heavily blue urban population centers. The only one that comes close is Texas, and while it's something of a white whale for Democrats who think fondly that it'll surely turn blue this election cycle (and then it doesn't), it's not giving all its votes popular-vote-wise to Republicans. So yeah. The numbers aren't there. Biden is about 99% certain to win the popular vote, but because this is America, the question is whether the EC will follow.

(Although, I gotta say. In the deeply unlikely event that Biden loses the popular vote but wins the Electoral College -- i.e. the exact same thing Trump did in 2016 -- the right wing would lose their fucking minds and it would be incredibly hilarious. Also, we might finally get some red states willing to sign up to the National Popular Vote Compact, which is just a few ratifications away from going into effect. As noted, the Republicans will cling onto the Electoral College with their last dying breath because it's the only thing that makes them competitive in nationwide elections. If it fucked Trump, they might finally listen to ideas about changing it.)

The media are incredibly biased, and so is Nate Silver. Silver first rose to prominence as an independent geeky Data Guy elections whiz-kid, and was relatively good at being unbiased. That is not the case anymore. He's now affiliated with the New York Times and has started echoing the smugly anti-Biden framework of both that paper and the mainstream media in general. I'm not necessarily saying his data is total bunk, but he's extremely eager to frame, narrate, and explain it in ways that artificially disadvantage Biden (in the same way the NYT itself is all in on "BUT HIS AGEEEEE," just as they were with "BUT HER EEEEEEMAILS" in 2016) And that's a problem, because:

The polls are shit. Like, really, really shit. Didn't we just go through this in 2022, where everyone howled about how All The Data pointed to a Red Wave and then were /shocked pikachu face when this was nothing more than a Red Dribble of Piss (and frankly, the best midterm election result for the ruling party since like, the 1930s?) We've also had major, real-time proof that the polls are showing a consistent pro-Trump bias of 10 or more points, which is a huge error and keeps getting corrected whenever people actually vote, but the media will never admit that, because TRUMP IS WINNING WE ARE ALL DOOMZED!! We heard about how Biden might lose New Hampshire because he wasn't even on the ballot and that would be a critical embarrassment for him. He cruised easily with 68% (all write-in votes and FAR more than any other Democratic "candidate.") Meanwhile, Trump won New Hampshire by about 15% under what the polls had predicted for him (after doing the same and barely squeaking over 50% in Iowa, one of the whitest, most rural, most Trump-loving states in the nation). The number ballparked for Biden in the NV Democratic primary was something like 75%; he got over 90% (and twice as many votes as any candidate in the Republican Primary/Caucus/Whatever That Mess Was). The number for what he was supposed to get in the SC primary was in the high 60% (driven by the media's other favorite "Black voters are abandoning Biden" canard); he absolutely crushed it at 97% statewide. When Biden is winning by whopping margins and Trump is underperforming badly, in both cases by gaps of ten percent or more, it means the polls are simply not showing us an accurate state of the race. This could be because of media bias, bad data, selective polling, inability to actually connect with voters (especially young voters, who are about as likely to eat a live scorpion as to pick up an unsolicited phone call from an unknown number). This also shows up in:

Special elections. We've heard tons of Very Smart Punditry (derogatory) about how Democrats kicking ass in pretty much every competitive election since Roe was overturned in 2022 totally means nothing for the general election. (Of course, if the situation was reversed and Republicans were cleaning up at the same rate, we would be hearing nothing except how we're all destined for Eternal Trumpocracy... wait. no... we're still only hearing this. Weird.) In the last special election in early February, Democrat Tom Suozzi won back his old U.S House seat (NY-03) by over eight points, after polls had given him at most a two- or three-point edge. (Funnily, once again a Democrat did far better than the media is determined to insist, so Politico hilariously called a thumping eight-point win "edging it out.") This represents almost a 16-point blue swing from even just 2022, when The Congressman Possibly Known as George Santos won it by 7 points. On that same night, a Democratic candidate in a Trump +26 district in deep, deep red Oklahoma only lost by 5 points, marking another massive pro-blue swing. This has been the case in every special election since Roe went down. Apparently blah blah This Won't Translate to the General Election, because the media is very smart. Even when Democrats (historically hard to motivate and muster in off-year election cycles, or you know in general) are turning up in elections that don't involve Trump to punish terrible Trumpist policies, we're supposed to think they won't be motivated to actually vote against the guy himself? And not just them, because:

Trump is a terrible candidate. Which we know, and have always known, but now it's really true. We've had up to half of Haley voters stating they will vote for Biden over Trump if that is the November matchup (which it will be). Haley, amusingly, actually outraised Trump in January, because it turns out that the Trump Crime Family's open promise to send every single donor or RNC dollar to pay El Trumpo's legal fees hasn't been a terribly effective message. We had Republicans in NY-03 telling CNN that they voted for the Democrat Suozzi because they're so fed up with the GOP clown show in the House and don't think Republicans can govern (which uh. Yeah. Welcome to reality, we all knew that ages ago too). We have had up to a third of Republican voters saying they won't vote for Trump if he's convicted of a felony before the election (and technically he already has been, but we're still hoping for the January 6 trial to go ahead). Now, yes, Republicans are a notoriously cliquey bunch and might change their minds, but for all the endless bullshit BIDEN SHOULD STEP DOWN BECAUSE DEMOCRATS ARE DISUNITED narrative the media has been pushing like their kidnapped grandmothers' lives depend on it, Democrats aren't actually disunited at all. Instead, Trump is in chaos, the GOP is in chaos, sizeable chunks of Republican voters are ready to vote for someone else and in some cases have already done so, and yet, do we hear a peep about how Trump should step down? Nah. In related news, did you hear that Biden is old?!?! Why isn't anyone writing about this?!?!

Now, I want to make it clear: Trump's chances of winning are not zero, and they are not inconsiderable. We need to face that fact and deal with it accordingly. Large chunks of the country are still willing to vote for white Christian nationalist fascism. Trump still has plenty of diehard cultists and the entire establishment Republican party in his pocket, and it's been made very clear that Putin is bringing the full force of his malevolent Russian fascist machine to bear on this election as well. Case in point: we spent four years hearing about HUNTER BIDEN HUNTER BIDEN SECRET CORRUPTION GIANT SECRET BUSINESS SCANDAL, and it turns out that the GOP's "star informant" has been actively working with Russian spies the whole time and fed them complete bullshit disinformation, which they were eager to repeat so long as it might hurt Joe Biden. (And it would hurt Ukraine, so, twofer! I cannot emphasize enough how much it was all a deliberate collaboration by some of the worst people on earth.)

In 2016, people naively assumed that Trump could never win, and so they were especially willing to throw away, spoil, or otherwise not exercise their vote, or throw purity hissy fits over HRC (likewise fed at the toxic teat of Russian disinformation). That was exactly what allowed Trump to squeak out a win in the EC and put us in the mess we are currently in. If people act in the same way in 2024 that they did in 2016, Trump's chances of winning are drastically increased. So once again, as I keep saying, it's up to us. If we all vote blue, and we get our networks to vote blue, Biden is very likely to win. If we don't, he won't, and Trump will win. It's that simple. We had better decide what we're doing. The end.

[faustiantales]

𝕾𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖉 𝕬𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖛𝖊

🔮— rules

Welcome to the Shadowed Archive of Faustian Tales 🌑

Explore the dark depths of my stories, organized by fandom, and type for your convenience. Click on the titles to delve into each twisted tale.

𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘

𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖋 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝖁𝖊𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖁𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖔𝖗 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕬𝖇𝖞𝖘𝖘

haunted narratives: select your phantom lead・on the verge of revelation

𝕬𝖓𝖎𝖒𝖊・𝕸𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖆

🕯️𝕰𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊 𝕰𝖕𝖎𝖈𝖘

late night break・shuntaro chishiya・alice in borderland

synopsis: As Shuntaro was studying late in the night, a certain person came in search of his help. And that person is none other than his sweet, little sister. cw: incest, cunnilingus, fingering, vaginal penetration, squirting, creampie, pet names

chains・tenn kujo・idolish7

synopsis: She didn't know when it started. She didn't know why it happened. By the time she realized it, it was already too late — Kujo Tenn wasn't the same caring and loving older brother that she remembered him to be anymore. cw: incest, yandere/possessive tenn, obsession, imprisonment, noncon, physical violence, psychological abuse, emotional distress

betrayal・nagi rokuya・idolish7

synopsis: He knew that he was the only one in her life. He knew that he was her entire world. So, of course, when he suddenly decided to leave her one day, she'd come retrieving what was rightfully hers. cw: incest, mentally ill reader, violence, blood, gore, murder, obsession

lenience・daiki aomine・kuroko no basuke

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

needy・atsushi murasakibara・kuroko no basuke

synopsis: It's no surprise that Atsushi loved eating sweets. That's why when he was suddenly woken up by his grumbling stomach in the middle of the night, he decided to pay a visit to his unlimited supply of ambrosia — his little sister. cw: incest, dubcon, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia

oha asa's daily readings・shintarou midorima・kuroko no basuke

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

pleasure・laito sakamaki・diabolik lovers

synopsis: In the middle of playing the piano, Laito was disrupted by his little sister's sudden arrival. From her behavior alone, he knew what she wanted: to play a little game with a valuable prize. cw: incest, female-led relationship/femdom, fellatio, biting/blood-sucking, edging, masturbation, vaginal penetration, overstimulation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, pet names

first blood's hidden eve・tsukinami brothers・diabolik lovers

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

pleasure・subaru sakamaki・diabolik lovers

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

in the heart of darkness・osamu dazai・bungou stray dogs

synopsis: As the boss of Port Mafia, Osamu isn't alien to a life of crime and cruelty. He is a man bathed in the tainted world… a man who is destined to die alone, without any meaningful connections with others. Yet, the only one who was always by his side was none other than his beloved little sister — his life, his anchor, his entire world. cw: incest, beast universe, osamu is overprotective and possessive, dubcon, fingering, vaginal penetration, creampie, pet names

his little fan・ringo tsukimiya・uta no prince-sama

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

broken promises・edward midford・black butler

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

moriarty's princess・moriarty brothers・moriarty the patriot

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

not so innocent・itsuki shikatani・yarichin bitch club

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

baby maker・keiichi akechi & koshiro itome・yarichin bitch club

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

my princess・shaiapouf・hunter x hunter

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

brother's precious doll・illumi zoldyck・hunter x hunter

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

revival of the clan・kurapika kurta・hunter x hunter

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

📜𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖆𝖌𝖆

"The library of shadows is empty for now—check back for upcoming tales."

𝕲𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘

🕯️𝕰𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊 𝕰𝖕𝖎𝖈𝖘

a help with vr・info-kun・yandere simulator

synopsis: Kenzo's little sister sought his help for a VR game. Since the game she's playing is an 'immersive' visual novel romance, with his aid, the line between reality and fantasy blurred — as well as the line between siblings. cw: incest, dubcon, headcanon info-kun name, underaged sex, fingering, vaginal penetration

brother's private tutoring・vyn richter・tears of themis

synopsis: Vyn Richter is one of the popular professors at Stellis University. Many young women would swoon over the handsome psychiatrist, falling in love with his charm and gentlemanly personality. However, those poor women will never realize that Vyn and his precious little sister often engage in their routine clandestine endeavors behind locked office doors. cw: incest, cunnilingus, vaginal penetration, creampie

a pleasant surprise・johan talede・lord of heroes

synopsis: As Johan's younger sister, she is responsible for preparing a special surprise for her older brother on his birthday. Although the blonde knight received a lot of gifts and affection from the Monarch and his fellow knights, she knew what he wanted to have deep inside. cw: incest, fellatio, vaginal penetration, slight female-led relationship/femdom, creampie

in grave danger・asher (ashley) graves・the coffin of andy and leyley

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

taken over・andrew graves・the coffin of andy and leyley

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

daddy's baby dearest・daddy dearest・friday night funkin

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

without me・byakuya togami・danganronpa

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

📜𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖆𝖌𝖆

my sweet nectar・vincent charbonneau・dead plate

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress." synopsis: Vincent Charbonneau, is a charming young chef who owns the famous bistro, La Gueule de Saturne. Yet, underneath his charismatic exterior, hides a sinister and unstable personality. And the one responsible for influencing him growing up like this was his beloved little sister. Now that she returned to him after a time-long separation, what else could happen due to her incitement? cw: incest, explicit sexual themes, graphic death, blood, gore, violence, murder, cannibalism, psychological manipulation, mentions of insanity/mental disorder

𝕸𝖔𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖘・𝕿𝖁 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

undo me・jax・the amazing digital circus

"The dark quill is still at work—this tale is in progress."

𝕺𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖘

"The ink has yet to dry on my original tales—stay tuned for upcoming stories."

[dedenneblogs]

HEARTBREAK HIGH S2 ANALYSIS PART 1 (buckle up this is going to be a doozy)

so... it's out (the trailer).

my excitement cannot be expressed...

BUTT! today, i will be doing my iconic mouse analysis of this trailer (this is actually the first time im doing something like this so it's not rlly iconic BUTT it will be soon) with the most comprehensive inspection i can using under 2 minutes of video as a basis....

with that said lets

BEGIN!

the heartbreak highers are back for another "cursed" term....

so glad to see the trio back in action. like. actually so happy. MIGHT explode from excitement... as always, their outfits slaylay.

the boyfriends... friends? boys? BUGS??? found out on hh s2!

these goons are back... gayer then ever,,, seriously. when will these two have an episode long make out 'sesh? unlikely, to much dismay....spoiler alert...you'll see....

MISSY!!!!! and sasha, i guess

SPOILER ALERT AGAINNNN missy looks like she'll be more prominent in this season so...WIN!!!!

also why is she mewing who is rizzing up

and new on the the chopping block-- Rowan Callaghan!

we'll get to rowan when we get to rowan

in other (more important) news-- SHE'S HEALING! HARPER IS HEALING!!!

i... *sobs* i she's growing her hair out oh my GAW...... she's getting better...she... there's a lower chance she'll cock-block amerie (oh but she'll get cock [spoiler-- again!])

butt let's not celebrate just yet-- it's still "everyone hates amerie" up in this joint, smellas

may as well... shot them. huh. well. pop off, i suppose... (amerie asserts her right to bear arms-- truly patriotic coming from an aussie!)

...touché coming from the (still) most hated student in heartly who only adds salt to the wound by... using the pink 'ildo from s1 as a mic... chat... she's lost it.

(unrelated but in the background-- MISSY AND MALAKAI!!! they were building up a relationship between them in s1 and how she and her brother (i think? 'memory's fuzzy) helped him heal from the shit he had to go through in s1 and even better connect him with his aboriginal roots. i hope to see more of these two interact come april 11th and i binge the whole season)

ALSO also ANOTHER new character-- Zoe Clarke!

we will ALSo get to zoe when we get to zoe

anywho-- cue: AMERIE'S ONLINE HARASSMENT ARC! becuz every show needs one...unfortunately. Give a cold welcome to Bird Psycho, heartbreak highers (we will get to bird psycho when we get to bird psycho)

(who ever is doing this shit is a bitch but either way: "you dont get to be the hero" shut your goofy ass up)

oh that's gore. that's core of my comfort character.

ok so maybe this bird psycho cuck isnt fucking around because clearly he's gotten to our girl ams :(

(dw they uh...take her out for ice cream. after this. proabably.)

moving foward-- STAND BACK I SAID STAND BACK WEIRD GIRL QUINNI

oughh im gonna be sick. of course. OF COURSE SHE WOULD GO FULL SHERLOCK HOLMES TO HELP HER BESTIE.

yeah anyways with this in mind she'd totally try and crack the fnaf lore wouldn't she. wouldn't she.

she's slay she's girlboss but at the end of the day she's a weirdo

anywho nuff of my rambling there--

ominous of you to say zoe

BUT ENOUGH OF HER CA$$HHHHHHHHHHHH

ca$h omg eshay eshay eshay pspspspsp,,,

i am so happy to see him (spoiler alert for 2 secs throughout the whole trailer) but anywho remeber? remeber right he's in prison. but seems to be doing okay... (maybe for the best heartly drama is really coming to a boiling point)

<3

and-- oh. uh... chicken dumbell... okay... pop off, missy...

when i said i wanted more missy i didnt expect this

spider seems to be into tho maybe what ??1/1/111.1/?!??!/1/1/1

missy x spider was NOT on my bingo card

WHEN MISSY SAID SHE WAS STARTING TO LIKE WHITE BOYS I DIDNT THINK SHE MEANT THIS.

BUUTTTttttt-- i. am. down. for. it... somehow. frankly, spider needs someone to put him in his place and low and behold, missy seems to be the student to do so..........

hey. if they're both happy with their...chicken dumbells, i am too.

amerie dont be alarmed but there's a white boy to your right

in other news this love triangle scares the diarrhea out of me

look at them. they're the perfect couple (malakai x amerie 4life) and rowan is--

well he's a nice boy but cmon

LOOK AGAIN IM DOWN FOR THEM TO BE HAPPY BUTT when it comes in between THE BEST SHIP IN THE SHOW (looks at amerie x spider shippers with affectionate disdain) i draw the line.

but who knows? rowan seems nice enough, and if he's able to make amerie happy, let them have each other! <3

also knowing malakai's track record i wouldn't put it past him to get freaky with rowan too (threesome attempt 2??? actually no wait thats a horrible idea NEVERMIND [gets s1 ep4 flashbacks])

also also "classic love triangle" scene gives major "erm...well this is akward!" vibes from ams (we stan cringey amerie in this household tho)

and well. shart. max limit of 30 photos. oh well-- ill make a second part! tune in for the update heartbreak highers :3

[justgrey]

hallo! Would ya be willing to write Scout x Male Reader? preferably a one-shot or something, but honestly I'll settle for anything. I got a few ideas for ya to build off of if you'd like!

-Being protective of him! we talking wrapping our arms around him when someone gets too close, pre relationship.

-Flirting and getting him flustered.

-getting bloody while protecting him from an enemy

-Bit of a heavier topic- reader being masked (I always imaged like a fighter pilot helmet lmao) and being sent on a dangerous mission, one that they might not return from, even with the respawn machine. They take off their helmet and put it on Scout, giving a small smile while saying "Keep it safe for me, yea?"

-Reader might also have a cat when they leave. Hit him where it HURTS.

-Comfort while reader heals after said suicide mission

Alright gangsters, I'm exploding. it seems you want something very specific, but i can't exactly put my finger on it 🤔

Also don't question the name, motivation hit in the middle of the night when I was settling in and rewatching Arcane for the 80th time. I promise I'm sane you guys don't call a raid on me please please please

went with the suicide mission BTW if it's not immediately clear because it probably isn't I'm gonna melt

Sad Boston Boy Hours

Scout x Male Reader

Warnings : suicide mission themes, angst probably, slight gore, swearing, not proofread

^ (dis yo boi?)

You didn't want Scout to hear about your latest mission. You wanted to delude yourself into thinking that not telling him was to make him not worry, but it was mainly because you didn't want to face him the day you had to leave.

Scout had managed to find out about it anyway through one very loud, very patriotic American as 8 out of your 9 other mercenary companions came to say their goodbyes in the dead of night.

You get a couple of handshakes, hugs, and pats on the back from the rest, and just as you're about to get in your vehicle, Scout's speedy footsteps rush out of the base.

"Woah, woah, woah! Where 'da Hell are you tryin' to go! And at 'dis time of night?!" He shouts, pulling you away and holding your arms tight.

"Scout- Scout, listen. This is something I have to do alone, alright." You try to defuse his anxiety and worry for you by running your fingers through his hair.

"Whatd'ya mean you gotta go on 'dis mission wit'out me? Wit'out anyone? Why would ya' ever gotta go somewhere without me? I mean, w- why would you even agree to 'dat?"

Scout looks stunned as you don't respond to him immediately, scratching the back of his head in confusion.

"I- It's just something I have to do. D- don't worry. I'll be ba-"

"Don't tell me 'dat, I'm not stupid."

"Scout-!"

"I said I'm not stupid. Listen ta' me, it's supposed to be me and you, forever! You. And. Me! You can't just go out and get yourself killed-!" He begins, waving his hands around to emphasise how displeased he is with this.

"Scout."

"Don't even try to-"

"Scout!"

Scout jumps a little at the volume of your voice, standing up straight in front of you. Now, he's listening to you. Finally. His ears even perk up a little.

Your hands slowly move to your helmet, taking the damn thing off to reveal your dashing face, adorned with scars and a bruise that never seems to go away.

Scout is mesmerised. He never got to see your face very often, and every time he did, it just blew him away. Why would you ever hide it away? He thinks. If he was as handsome as you, which he totally is, he wouldn't hide a damn thing, let alone his entire face.

His thoughts are interrupted as you gently raise his hands and place your helmet into them.

"Wh- why're you givin' me your helmet? 'Dis is your helmet. You're gonna need it, aren't ya'?" He closes one of his eyes and moves the helmet around a little, inspecting it.

"Not where I'll be headed. Listen, I want you to... to keep it safe for me, yeah?" You smile at him and move to caress his cheek, nervousness emanating from your affectionate touches. Scout blushes a little.

"No. You're makin' it back so that you can take your damn helmet back! I'm not losing you. I can't lose you. So I better not be keepin' this for too long." He pouts, pulling you in for a tight hug.

He wraps his arms and legs around your body for as long as he's allowed to before Heavy has to yank him off of your body.

"Damnit! Hey! I need'ta- give him a kiss. Lay off me, ya' lug!" He struggles out of Heavy's arms and kisses you on the lips before he's pulled away again, biting and scratching with your helmet in his arms.

Eventually, you're called back into the vehicle and Scout forces himself to watch as you're driven away to some place, with only your helmet as a way to keep him company.

~~~We time skipping dis so that i can time skip to dream land~~~

The last month had been Hell on Earth Scout. He was lonely and afraid that you would never make it back. Not even Medic's very best attempt at therapy (Having Archimedes follow Scout all day) could help with the mercs anxiety.

Eventually, the same bland truck that hauled you off to God knows where comes rolling back, and Saxton Hale himself holds you as you attempt to stand.

Scout sits in his room, mopey and sad, unaware of your return for a while, which allows you to swiftly get to the medbay.

"Fuck! Fuck it hurts! DON'T TOUCH THERE! TOUCH MY KIDNEY AND YOU'RE A GONER!"

"YOUR KIDNEY IS HANGING OUT OF YOUR BODY! I AM NOT SURE IF YOU ARE EDUCATED VERY WELL, BUT EITHER WAY, YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT YOUR ORGANS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE INSIDE, NOT OUTSIDE! WHY IS IT OUTSIDE?!"

"I DON'T KNOW?! I DIDN'T SURVIVE ALL THAT JUST TO GET YELLED AT BY A MADMAN! JUST HEAL ME UP ALREADY!!"

"GO FIND A HEALTH PACK!!!"

You and Medic shout back and forth at each other, alerting the whole base to your return.

Although it is Pyro that plunges their axe through Scout's door.

"H- hey! What da' heck?! There are times when a freakazoid like you should leave a man ta' mope!" Scout cries, his ears starting to pick up on the sounds of your shouts now that Pyro has so kindly opened his door for him.

"What the...?" Scout watches as you run past his door, looking desperately for a health pack as Medic chases you down with a scalpel.

Do not piss off your local medics.

"Holy shi- W- WAIT UP, ASSHOLE!"

Scout calls and looks over to your helmet, which is sitting at the foot of his bed and smiles like a madman as he grabs it and rushes out of his room and past Pyro.

"Get a move on, py!"

"HUR HUD HUR HUDDAAA!" (Go get your man!)

This is where it ends im tired. I'll write hcs of scout taking care of you another day. Rn I need to sleep, gn gang 🫡👍

[kaynothanks]

Sucker-Punch | S.R.

Ask: 9 but with steve rogers x reader and the reader hates them because of their righteousness and they r a reformed agent/villain of some kind like natasha but super mischievous (loki level) which irks steve but they can’t deny their attraction for each other or something

Warnings: BLOOD, ruthless assassin!reader, killing, GORE be aware, smut, minors DNI!

Word-Count: 6k

Steve was going to kill you, or worse; he was going to sit you down (again) and hold his speech filled with morals and patriotic mightiness. That man certainly had seventy years of pent-up moral crap to spread into the world.

Hell, sometimes you felt like the Wicked Witch of the West, with Steve’s righteous words the water ready to melt your being and bring you to your end.

Still, you took the risk as you switched off the transmitter in your ear and the tracking device on your arm, which each team member wore in case the transmitter got damaged or one got too heavily injured to call for help themselves. With certain steps, you entered the unsecured base that Steve had ordered all of you not to – under any circumstances – get close to without backup.

A loud crash sounded. The lights shut off and you halted; listening closely and silently. It was only a moment later that some generators powered up and the whole base was illuminated by red flickering lights.

Fun.

You pulled two knives from the holsters on your hips, carefully setting one foot in front of the other. On high alert, you pressed your back against the wall and peered over the edge. Barely a blink of an eye later, a blade went sailing past your head. You pulled back; shock pushing the air from your lungs. Flicking the knives between your fingers, a grin snuck onto your lips.

This, though, was going to be fun.

Within a second you were moving, keeping a swift pace as the two males before you pulled out their guns. You flung one of the knives. It found its mark straight through the male’s palm. A wail of pain flew from his mouth as you evaded the line of bullets flying towards you. Throwing out your leg, you kicked the gun from the shooter’s hand. A few precise strikes later, both men were unconscious and bleeding on the floor as you pulled your knives from their bodies and wiped the crimson liquid off on their clothes.

From the gadget bracelet on your wrist – which Tony had designed for both Natasha and you a while back – shot two ropes made of finely treated metal that anchored in the thick bullet-proof vests the males wore. You detached the ropes from the bracelet and brought them over your shoulder, making it easier for you to pull them along after you.

About fifteen minutes later, you had a row of unconscious men seated in front of you and the heavy metal door to the room you were in locked to keep out any intruders. Their leader you had placed in the middle for good measure.

While waiting for them to wake, you double-checked their bind until the first groans echoed through the isolated room. You walked back around to their front, so they were able to face you as you leaned your back against the wall and took out one of your knives. It wasn’t long before all of them were blinking at you in confusion, their eyes shifting to the glinting blade dancing between your fingers.

"Good morning, boys," you greeted with a smile after you were certain they were back in their right state of mind. "That was fun, wasn’t it? And you got a good nap out of it, too." Cocking your head, you pushed yourself off the wall deadly silent on your feet – just like you had been trained. "The lot of you are probably wondering why you're here and not, well, dead," you smiled. "I want to play a little game with you that I made up. It's called you tell me what I want to know and keep your fingers. Sounds fun? Great."

"You're an Avenger," one of them gasped. "You can’t do that."

"Oh, honey, haven’t you heard?" You questioned and stalked along the lined-up males towards the young lad who had spoken up. "I'm a Viper." You leaned down. "And I do a thing called what I want."

His breathing picked up, you noticed, causing a smile to slip back onto your face. Aloud you counted from man to man to the tune of eeny, meeny, miney, moe until the rhyme ended and you stopped in front of one of them. The man you halted across from didn’t waver at your presence, didn’t flinch or blink, or even moved to acknowledge you.

"Now, I wanna know, where is—" A patch of spit landed on your face. Clenching your jaw, you wiped the wetness from your cheek as the man before you laughed deeply. "And to think I was trying so hard to be nice," you sneered, flicked your knife, and hit. His laughing cut off abruptly, eyes widening. He sputtered as blood poured from his mouth and splattered from the cut across his throat. After a moment he fell silent and his head rolled to the side. Dead. You wiped the blade clean on his shirt.

You tsked. "Now, that wasn’t fun, was it? At least for you." With your clothed arm, you cleaned away the droplets of red on your face. Again, you chanted down the children's rhyme, coming to stand before the one that had called you out on being an Avenger. "First question," you spoke and bent down to catch his eyes. "Where are the artifacts?"

The young male stumbled over his words until he felt the tip of your blade pressing into his jugular vein. "It's only one!" The words burst out of him. "The… The first case we… we never had. I—please, don’t kill me."

"That's a good boy," you stated and petted his cheek, letting go of him as you turned to the others. "Now, the case you guys do have, is it long enough to hold, say, a sword?" You pulled out a sharpie from your belt and made a cross on the man's forehead who had given you some answers.

"No," another one growled with irritation as you eyed him expectantly. "It's in a wooden cube one story below."

"Awesome," you gave back and went forward to draw a mark on his forehead, too. "I'm not going to lie, boys, I'm a bit disappointed you don't have the blade I wanted. The rumors I heard about it for sure made it sound interesting." You clapped your hands together loudly. "Next question." Your gaze fell from man to man. "I'm guessing you all have heard of a man named Dreykov." All of them went utterly still. Taking notice of their sudden change in demeanor, you were on the move again. "The man you were trafficking innocent children for. Ring a bell? Well, as you might have noticed, he's dead. But you know who isn't dead? His partner, or boss, or whatever."

Some of them glanced around uncertainly. One of them shifted in his seat. "He didn’t have—"

Before the black-haired man had finished his sentence one of your knives was prodding from his forehead. "See that? He was being a bad boy. Bad boys don’t get an X, they get a knife. Got it? Let's try this again. What's his name?" No one answered. You sighed in disappointment. "And I thought we were making progress."

At that moment every sense of remorse or hesitancy left in your body seemed to vanish. Minute after minute another one of them lost the beating of their heart and before you knew it, only their leader and the two males you had marked were left alive.

As you saw how the two men with marks on their foreheads looked at you, you gave them a sharp glare. "Don’t look at me like that," you scoffed. "It's not like you lot are kindergarten teachers. You are mass murderers, terrorists, and child traffickers. If you wanted to live to eighty, you should have paid more attention on career day." Bringing your attention to the leader of the group, you chose to ignore the other two, which now were completely useless to you – you had chosen to believe them when they assured you that they knew nothing.

"What's his name?" You addressed the eldest of them for the first time. "Where is he hiding? And while you're at it, you can tell me all the other shit I should know about him." When he didn’t answer, you chuckled. "Stepan—that is your name, isn't it?" Judging by the look on his face, he hadn’t expected to hear it fall from your lips. "Stepan Kuznetsov, born in 1964 just a few miles out of Novosibirsk. Two younger brothers. Parents deceased. No wife. No children… that we both know of." You winked. "Your younger brothers don’t seem to be involved in any shady business. How about we keep it that way, huh?"

His face scrunched up in anger. You could see dozens of curses running through his mind that he longed to throw in your face. "Ivan Yugov," he finally muttered.

The name started playing over and over in your head until you could physically feel each and every syllable on your tongue. You swallowed. "Go on. You know what I want to hear."

"Ты чертова сука. Почему бы тебе не сделать то, что женщины умеют лучше всего, и не лечь, как чертова шлюха, и не отсосать мой член," he spat at you.

You blinked at him before a loud laugh escaped your throat. "Not what I wanted to hear!" You exclaimed and in flash were towering over him with your knife poking at his chest. "Call me that again, and you'll find my blade somewhere very uncomfortable."

His teeth were on display as he growled in your face. "Bitch."

"I was planning on letting you live to rot away in a cell somewhere, Stepan," you assured. "But after that shit you just pulled, letting you breathe doesn’t seem so pleasant anymore." Just as you pulled back your arm, ready to plunge your knife where you thought it belonged, a loud bang came from the door. Your head rolled forward as a string of curses left your lips. The heavy metal door hit the wall and you straightened, turning to face the wrath of Mr. Liberty himself. Steve stood broad-shouldered, a glint in his eyes that let you know you were in for it in ways you had never been before.

Feeling as though nothing mattered anymore anyway, you flashed Steve a grin and threw your knife behind you. With a straining grunt Stepan, too, found his last breath. You threw a look over your shoulder at the two men still alive. "Boys," you spoke one last time and stalked toward the burly – vicious - male in the doorway. Steve was quite obviously rendered speechless by the gory scene in front of him. "Captain." Saluting him, you made to push past him, but he caught your wrist before you could lower it. Your orbs took in his hand around your arm and snapped to his with a venomous warning. Pushing down the anger, you gave him a smirk instead. "Oh, don’t worry, Cap, the blood isn't mine."

"I'm done," he stated. "I don’t care what Fury said. I won't risk another murder scene just because you couldn’t control yourself."

"Are you going to prance around now with all of your values and morals and tell me that killing them was wrong? That they didn’t deserve it?" You sneered. "For all I care, I just saved the government some money."

"There are protocols to follow. Just because you are angry doesn’t mean you can go around killing whomever you want."

"I'm going to kill whoever stands in my way of getting to him. People like them—people like him ruined me. I just plan on returning the favor." You ripped yourself free from Steve.

"Who's going to just let you go on a killing spree?"

"Who's gonna stop me?" You shot back, eyes boring into his blue ones. You stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if he was going to argue any more. Though when he said nothing else, you descended down the corridor and turned on the transmitter in your ear. "Nat, you there?"

"Where the hell have you been? We thought they had gotten you."

"Ouch," you replied. "You really thought they would be good enough to take me out? That hurts, Nat, really does."

"Glad to hear you're okay."

"You'll be even gladder to hear that the artifact is right below where I'm standing. I'm going to send you the location and head back to the jet. I don't think I'm welcome out on the field anymore."

Natasha hesitated. "What did you do?"

"I got his name, Nat," you breathed, feeling as though one of the stones you had carried in your chest broke loose. Ever since you had been sent out to kill her after she didn’t return from a mission, Natasha had played a big part in changing your life. If it wasn’t for her and Clint – whose arrow had sneakily come from behind and knocked you out cold – you would still only be a pawn in the Viper Program.

For once, it wasn’t Dreykov that had thought it up, but his partner, which he had revealed before dying at the hands of Yelena Belova. Where the children unfit for the Red Room had been brought. Instead of the big mass of children chosen to become Black Widows, the Vipers were a mere group of a dozen girls too uncontrollable, too vicious for the fine training of the Red Room. The training of the Viper Program had proceeded in the Black Pit, where there were little to no rules except exceeding. And in the end, there had been no more than five girls left alive to graduate.

After you had been sent out to terminate Natasha – she was the first ever person to beat you in a fight – you had ended up being bound the same way those men back there had. She had asked you so many questions, which you had continuously ignored until you had managed to silently free yourself from the robe. You had waited for her to turn her back before dashing out of the room with impressive speed (with Natasha having taken all of your weapons away, your chance of completing your mission had shrunk tremendously). You had been searching for the least noticeable way out of the place she had brought you, which only ended with you running into Steve Rogers, who had been alerted by Natasha just like all the other present Avengers in the Avengers Compound. You had known the place inside and out, having studied its blueprints until you held the knowledge of every single possible exit. Only a certain artificial intelligence was aware of those exits, too, and had sealed them shut before you even had the chance of getting close.

A month you had been forced to spend underground being questioned each day until you received the information that someone else had been sent after Natasha and you, too. The program had given up on you just like that. You knew what they were like and still, you believed you meant more to them after having grown up there.

All of the four remaining Vipers had come for you, and all of them died trying to kill one of their own – being too blindsided themselves to see the truth which Natasha had taken a whole month to press into your head. Natasha was able to understand you in ways you found that no one else could. She knew when you simply needed space or someone to just hover over you without talking.

You strolled up the loading ramp of the new, modernized Quinjet that Tony had hammered out with the council members of SHIELD after Bruce Banner had vanished with the last working one. Huffing at the stickiness on your skin, you unzipped the tight dark green vest (which Stark ensured to be fire- and bulletproof) covering your torso and dropped it beside one the chairs.

By the lord, you were in desperate need of an immediate shower.

"Damage Control is on the way I heard," Natasha announced as she jogged up the ramp, giving you a slight once-over.

"Oh, don’t give me that," you groaned, pulling the sleeve of your black shirt over your hand to use it to wipe away the blood on your face. "They send DC for about everything now. Soon they're gonna be cleaning up roadkill."

"You just can’t stand the director."

"'Cause she's a bitch," you hummed.

"You keep talking like that and Steve might just bring out a bar of soap."

"Yeah…" You grinned and gave her a wink after slipping off the black shirt. "Mouth washing's never worked on me." Instead of laughing along with you, her expression darkened, knowing what else was used for taming her and you. She was about to say something when Steve's broad form came into view from the corner of your eye. A sigh fell from your lips before you took off your shirt and flung it down onto your vest, leaving you in a tank top.

"I need to talk to you," his serious low voice rumbled through the otherwise quiet Quinjet, while he put down the artifact hidden away in a wooden box. Natasha let you two know she would handle the piloting as she hastily slipped to the front of the jet.

"Christ, Steve," you swore and crossed your arms, feeling the drying crimson liquid clamming up your skin's surface. "Keep your morals away from me for as long as I look like Carrie, alright?"

"Who?"

You blinked at him. "Never mind." Curiously, your eyes flitted behind Steve to where he had set own the wooden box. Before the super-soldier had time to react, you slipped past his muscular arm and toward the hidden temptation.

A hand wrapped around your upper arm, pulling you back. You gave him a sharp glare, only to be met with one of his own. "We don’t know what it does," he stated. "It might be dangerous."

Your brow twitched upward. "Don’t be silly. It's useful."

His tight hold ceased. "What do you know about it?"

"More than you, apparently," you replied and skillfully removed his fingers from your arm; the spot tingled uncomfortably, so much so you had to rub over it to make the feeling stop. Still turned to him, you have him a grin until out of the black you dashed forward, slipping the shield from his back. His arm went out to grab you but you ducked away, pushing the edge of the shield under the crate's lid, and cracking it open. Before he could reach you, you tossed the shield back to him and removed the splintered lid.

When your gaze found the glittering metal, you felt as though a little magpie had fluttered into your chest, your fingers achy to get a hold of the artifact.

"Don’t even think about it," he warned, pulling off the mask covering half his face.

You stared at him before sticking your hand inside the box and pulling out the necklace. Swinging the golden string from left to right, you stepped up to him; he was so weary of the thing between your fingers, he was close to lifting his shield and backing up as if it were a bomb. "Let's play a game."

"Let's not."

"Oh, let's," you grinned and pointed at the necklace dangling from your fingers when you were almost close enough for your chest to touch his. "If you find me, I'm gonna tell you what this baby does."

"What do you mea—" Before he could finish his sentence, the amulet flared in a bright glow. You gave him a slight wave of the hand and disappeared behind a flash of light.

…

Steve was seething.

He had known you for a while now, and had gotten used to your shenanigans and reckless actions but by the lord – you using a magical artifact without any of you knowing anything about it, was like plopping the cherry on top of the things irking him about you.

To this day, he remembers each and every word thrown between him, Tony, and Nick Fury when they were about to make the decision whether you were going to be sent to the Raft – a maximum security underwater prison located near Ryker's Island – or join their team.

Tony was all in on you joining the team from the moment he had spotted how much and how fast you were able to get on Steve's nerves. Fury had always had a thing for taking risks; some more calculated than others, for sure. And Steve had told them both off for having the worst idea of the century.

They had won.

And now, you were once again an assassin on the run, though now in possession of a magical artifact which, again, he had no knowledge of whatsoever. He could already hear Tony's taunts echoing in his ear targeting the lack of control he had over the Viper and how much Tony enjoyed watching it all play out. Steve also knew that Stark would once more comment on the redness threatening to overtake his face every time Steve was just a tad bit too close to you. Since you had joined the team, he hadn’t been able to hear the end of it.

Worst of it all; a small, reckless, idiotic part of him really did think you were the one for him – you, below all the wrongdoings in your life. Brave and strong and determined and confident.

Some of your traits reminded him of… He shook his head and cleared his throat as he hurried down the jet's ramp in front of the Avengers Compound. You had turned off your location device again, so Steve had no idea of how to find you; he would be forced to consult Tony on the matter and admit his inability to keep you in line. In the elevator,  he went over what he would tell Tony in his head, though when the ding sound came and he stepped out, Steve's eyes landed on you. Not hurt, not gone not a thief – well, perhaps a little bit of a thief – but happy, drink in hand and laughing together with the billionaire himself. And by the looks of it, you had gotten your shower, too.

When your gaze landed on him, a sly smirk spread on your lips. You whispered something to Tony so low that not even Steve's enhanced hearing could pick it up before you emptied your drink in one swig. Pushing off the bar stool, you sauntered over to him. "Congratulations, you found me."

"Where is it?"

Flicking your hand, the chain fell from your sleeve, which you swiftly caught between your fingers. "The Amulet of Abaddon." You tossed it to him. "Useful for teleporting." Smiling you turned, striding past him and up the small set of stairs leading to the private quarters.

Tony snorted into his glass of scotch, taking a delighted sip. "Seeing how much of a sucker you are, is genuinely painful, Cap." He gulped down the rest of his drink. "Anyway, I gotta pick up Pepper. Date night." Showing off his pearly whites, the billionaire came up to him. "We're flying out to Tokyo. Maybe I can get someone there to make you a life-size puppet of her. No back-talk, how about it?"

"Stark," he warned with a sigh only to receive a few dismissive slaps on the shoulder in passing. After telling FRIDAY to notify Natasha of the artifact's safety and call Damage Control to come pick it up, Steve went to find you in your room. Your empty room, as he found. Rolling his eyes at you for being intentionally difficult, he made his way to the training hall. From afar he could hear some song playing that he didn’t recognize.

You stood inside, in front of a counter filled with blades in various shapes. Where Natasha preferred her gun and Clint his arrows, you found the simpleness of a blade and its swift deadliness to be the weapon best fitting for you. Steve swallowed as he took notice of the curve of your bare neck and how low your shirt was hanging in the back, giving him a view of the heavy scarring. Still, he couldn’t help but want to be able to explore every other inch of you; discover what else you were hiding.

"Took you long enough," you teased, picking up another throwing knife and eyeing the other dozen of them already sticking out of the human-shaped target.

"What were you thinking?"

Clicking your tongue, you hurled the knife at the target with such force the tip bored itself into the handle of another, right between the target's eyes. You gave an idle shrug. "Damn, that's hella shiny. Imma take it."

He sighed to himself. By now, he should have been expecting such answers from you. "You said you would tell me everything you knew about it. So, tell me."

"I did," you countered and leaned against the counter, looking at him. "It's called the Amulet of Abaddon. It teleports stuff."

"What else?"

"I have no idea, Steven. Why don't you play with it a little and find out?"

"You said it wasn’t dangerous!" He barked. "Now you're telling me you don’t even know what it can do!"

You hummed and scrunched up your nose. "You sure about that, Steve? 'Cause I don’t remember saying anything like that." Grasping another knife from the table, you brought your body back to face the target. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I just told you to stop being silly." The knife was picked from between your fingers as you made to throw it. You huffed; your flat hand slapping against your thigh in disappointment. Whirling around, you were ready to wring the knife from him, though you halted as you detected him in such near proximity. Silly you found yourself to be as your breath was close to hitching in your throat at him towering over you.

"I'm pulling you from the field."

With a clenching jaw, you bit your tongue. "Fine. But if you think that’s going to keep me from searching, you are wrong."

"You can’t just—"

"I can, Steve." Frustration zipped through you as your fingers found your scalp. "Why is it that nobody questioned Natasha when she went after Dreykov? I'm trying to do the exact same thing!"

"No, you aren't. You are killing people without regard for what is right or wrong."

"God," you laughed and shook your head. "You know what, Steve, let's see who these people really were that you were so concerned about, yeah?" You slipped out from between the table and him, going for the large screen on the wall. Locking into the right accounts and checking the data you had prepared, you pulled the information out on a hologram. "Let's start with the two that I let live. Dimitri Petrov and his brother Mikael both Russian military and both bombers of hospitals and airports. Arseny Fedorov, whom I had to dig really deep for and the first person whose throat I slit back there, is known for flaying his victims alive." You noted Steve growing uncomfortable behind you, shifting and flinching as you pulled up the next file. "That one you're gonna like. Makar Belov, also known as The Oculist." You turned to glare at him. "You wanna know why they called him that?"

He stared back at you. "Fine," he grumbled. "What do you want me to do? Apologize?"

At his question, your glare fell from his blue orbs to the damn perfect curve of his lips. You felt your heart rhythm pick up as his gaze traveled across your face as if it was the first time, he was allowing himself to do so. Before you knew what you were doing, you were on your tippy toes with your lips catching his. Your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him in closer, as his hand fell to your hips, gripping you tightly against him. His hands found a trail downward before he lifted you with the ease of a super-soldier.

He took a few abrupt steps forward, causing your back to collide with the cool wall. You gasped in surprise but his lips were back on yours in a messy kiss, tongue grazing over your own. Your hands fell off his shoulders, hastily working to tug at the zipper of his uniform, longing to feel the strongness of his body against yours. In every fiber of your body, you could feel his want echoing as if it were your own.

The thought slipped from your mind as your hand slid under his uniform to push it from his body. For a moment his lips strayed from yours, one arm beneath you and the other pressed against the wall next to your head. Your back arched trying to get closer to him as his lips traveled down your cheek – down your neck until he pulled you off the wall and walked down the hall with precise steps. Upon crossing the threshold of his bedroom, you stopped caring where he took you. You didn’t care that only minutes prior you were close to stabbing him out of anger and didn’t care that this was merely an attempt for the both of you to relieve the tension that had been lingering in the air ever since you had met.

Your back hit the soft mattress, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. He stopped and turned his questioning gaze on you. You gave a nod, making his eyes drop from yours as he swiftly pulled the fabric from your legs. Your fingers found their way into his freshly cut hair, while his rough fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh. Locking your legs around his, you gave a forceful shove to turn him onto his back.

You had spent many years training to throw around burly men as though they were nothing more than play dolls; a super-soldier was only a small challenge. You bent down, kissing him before pulling back with a grin. "Do you like it," you hushed against his lips, "When I kiss you, Captain?" Not granting him the pleasure once more, you hovered over his lips, waiting for him to give in first – testing him. He sat up then, hand grabbing your thigh as he guided you closer. Your chests were pressed together as you bumped your nose against his, eyes falling from his to his lips.

He lunged forward them, to lock your lips together in a heated kiss, groaning into your mouth when feeling your tongue gliding heatedly against his. His large palms groping their way along your body sent arousal creeping to your core. You couldn’t help but move against his hardness, your core hot and aching for some kind of relief. He groaned, causing you to repeat your actions, pressing down more firmly this time. His rough hands slid from where they had been gripping your thighs to your behind, encouraging you to grin down harder.

You gasped against his lips, pleasure zipping from your center to the tips of your toes, grinning as he growled lowly. "Do you want me, Cap?" You teased. Instead of answering, a hand locked around your throat, pushing you off him and into the mattress. Surprised your hand went to clutch his wrist as he lifted you by the neck to press another kiss to your lips. His other hand traveled to the hem of your panties, ripping them away as if they were no more than a thin piece of paper.

He carelessly tossed the broken garment aside, leaving you completely exposed to him. Kisses were placed up from your stomach to the skin between your chest until he reached your lips again. He took his time to enter you, leaving behind a stinging sensation brought on by his size. His body moved against yours, muscular abdomen tight against the soft flesh of yours as you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer.

You leaned towards his ear and smiled. "Where are your morals now, Captain?"