#the settings and the creatures and the little details

[wisteria-lodge]

“Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true”

An In-Depth Examination of Snape as a Teacher (Part 2 - Book 5)

Part 1 - Books 1-4

Class # 10 - Draught of Peace

This is the first time we really get a clear picture of what a typical class with Snape actually looks like. 

In the first four books, we have descriptions of students weighing and crushing ingredients, and Snape coming in with criticism when someone messes up. But when it comes to his actual teaching style - the most helpful line is from Book 2: “Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors’ work.” SO - I’m picturing a hands-on, results-focused class with students getting instructions out of a book (like Hermione can do with Polyjuice), while Snape walks around and corrects errors. This fits with the way he teaches Lupin’s DADA class -

They sat and made notes on werewolves from the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the rows of desks, examining the work they had done with Professor Lupin.

Also, Snape seems to like putting students on the spot with questions. He does that on the first day of potions, and again in Lupin’s class. 

However, in Book 5 he’s not a textbook guy, he’s a write-instructions-on-the-board guy. (Makes sense, gotta set up that Snape has… problems with the specific textbook Advanced Potion Making.)

"The ingredients and method” — Snape flicked  his wand — “are on the blackboard” — (they appeared there) — “you will find everything you need” — he flicked his wand again — “in the store cupboard” — (the door of the said cupboard sprang open) — “you have an hour and a half. . . . Start."

I’m picturing something that looks very like the technical challenge from the Great British Bake off - right down to calling out timing cues (“A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion,” called Snape, with ten minutes left to go.”) I go into a little more into Snape’s classroom performance here, but basically - his presence/vibe/teaching style makes Harry and Neville actively worse, and they both start doing much better when he leaves them alone. But on the *other* hand, Hermione seems fine with the way he does things: she’s autism spectrum coded, good at learning things out of books, and definitely seems to likes a more structured class (does not do well in Care of Magical Creatures or Divination.) Snape spends the entire fall semester of fourth year going over how to synthesize antidotes, and when Slughorn takes over Hermione remembers how to do this… while Harry has nO idea.

We also learn that apparently Snape is a GOOD teacher, which is totally new information. He talks about “maintaining the high-pass level I have come to expect from my O.W.L. students,” which squares with Umbridge’s comment later on that “the class seems fairly advanced for their level.”

We also see a little more of Harry being an unreliable narrator:

“Potter, what is this supposed to be?” The Slytherins at the front of the class all looked up eagerly; they loved hearing Snape taunt Harry.  “The Draught of Peace,” said Harry tensely.  “Tell me, Potter,” said Snape softly, “can you read?”  Draco Malfoy laughed.  “Yes, I can,” said Harry, his fingers clenched tightly around his wand.  “Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter.” 

Like… is that a taunt? Draco’s being an ass, but I wouldn't say that Snape necessarily is? Harry's Going Through It in Book 5, and is just a raw nerve sitting there clutching his wand - a pretty aggressive little detail. I think this passage is meant to introduce the idea that Harry might be possibly be taking Snape in bad faith - instead of just the other way round. Their relationship is becoming more equal, which will become important for occlumency lessons later.

“Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?” “No,” said Harry very quietly.  “I beg your pardon?”  “No,” said Harry, more loudly. “I forgot the hellebore . . .”  “I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. Evanesco.”

His potion had been no worse than Ron’s (...) or Neville’s (...), yet it was he, Harry, who would be receiving zero marks for the day’s work.

“Your potion wasn’t nearly as bad as Goyle’s, when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set his robes on fire.” [said Hermione.]   “Yeah, well,” said Harry, glowering at his plate, “since when has Snape ever been fair to me?”

So - here we have Snape being an unfair grader, being a little easy on Goyle, and coming down hard on Harry. But… the potion doesn't seem like it was that good. “Not as bad as Goyle’s” is kind of damning with faint praise, when Hermione could have compared it to Ron's the way Harry does, or made a general statement about it's quality.

Also, it’s possible that Snape’s zero was meant as a motivational tactic, especially because it... works? Up until now, none of the ‘threaten extreme consequences’ tactics we’ve seen Snape use have ever actually worked. 

Class # 11 - Strengthening Solution

Snape gives Harry a D (Dreadful) on his homework, and for one it seems like they're on the same page: Harry also “knew he had done a poor job.” Snape also just seems to have been a tough grader across the board - Hermione only got a “passing” grade, which I assume is an A (Acceptable.)

“The general standard of this homework was abysmal. Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week’s essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get D’s.” He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a carrying whisper, “Some people got D’s? Ha!”

Malfoy is over here being a little hype man… and also doing some of the structural work connecting the word “dunce” to Harry. Like that is absolutely an insult… but I don’t think it’s fair to say that Snape is insulting specifically Harry. Or at least not JUST Harry. And if he IS insulting Harry… only Harry knows it. Especially because the only people Snape ACTUALLY puts in detention for being “dunces” are… Crabbe and Goyle.

“I would’ve had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn’t put them in detention!” “Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, for Malfoy’s voice had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres —”

Which is the FIRST time we see Snape discipline a Slytherin!!! (Also gives us the interesting bit of info that if you fail your OWLs the first time around, you’re apparently allowed to retake them).

Harry actually does quite well this lesson:

Determined not to give Snape an excuse to fail him this lesson, Harry read and reread every line of the instructions on the blackboard at least three times before acting on them. His Strengthening Solution was not precisely the clear turquoise shade of Hermione’s but it was at least blue rather than pink, like Neville’s, and he delivered a flask of it to Snape’s desk at the end of the lesson with a feeling of mingled defiance and relief.

Incredibly, it seems that Snape's method worked?

STUDENTS INSULTED: Vague? I’ll give him half a point for Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle, because it was a generalized insult.  1.5 (TOTAL - 1, 11.5) 

(“dunce”) 

DETENTIONS GIVEN: 2 (TOTAL - 2, 4) 

Disciplinary Action #8: The Draco Malfoy Special

Draco’s here to cause problems. First he’s “waving around an official-looking piece of parchment and talking much louder than was necessary” about how Umbridge is letting him re-form the Slytherin Quidditch team. This doesn’t get a rise out of Harry, so Malfoy tries going after Arthur Weasley… and then in a last-ditch attempt (losing your touch there) he goes after people with curse damage - and accidentally triggers Neville.

Neville struggled frantically, his fists flailing, trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a moment, extremely shocked.

Harry and Ron hold him back, which is when Snape shows up.

“Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?” Snape said in his cold, sneering voice. “Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside, all of you.”

And Snape doesn’t know Draco was involved, so… fair.

POINTS TAKEN: - 10 (TOTAL:  - 10, -10, - 157)

Class # 12: Umbridge’s Observation

So Umbridge is here, and we get an absolutely classic Snape moment: 

“You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?” Professor Umbridge asked Snape.  “Yes,” said Snape quietly.  “But you were unsuccessful?” Snape’s lip curled. “Obviously.”

And Harry is definitely engaged… but not in the class…

Harry was very interested in hearing her question Snape, so interested, that he was becoming careless with his potion again. “Salamander blood, Harry!” Hermione moaned, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong ingredient for the third time. “Not pomegranate juice!”  “Right,” said Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle and continuing to watch the corner. 

Unsurprisingly, Harry’s potion does not turn out particularly well. It’s “congealing foully and giving off a strong smell of burned rubber.”

“No marks again, then, Potter,” said Snape maliciously, emptying Harry’s cauldron with a wave of his wand. “You will write me an essay on the correct composition of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you understand?”  “Yes,” said Harry furiously. Snape had already given them homework, and he had Quidditch practice this evening; this would mean another couple of sleepless nights.

And like… I don’t know about MALICIOUS as an adjective there, Harry. He’s giving you extra homework to make sure you understand the lesson. It’s tough, but you know. Understandable. 

Disciplinary Action #9: Gryffindor vs Slytherin Pre-Game Shenanigans

Snape was no less obviously partisan [than McGonagall]: He had booked the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to play. He was also turning a deaf ear to the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Alicia Spinnet turned up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast that they obscured her vision and obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while she worked in the library.

This is interesting. On one hand… Snape is overbooking the Quidditch pitch (very annoying), ignoring the eyewitnesses who saw a Slytherin jinx a Gryffindor by insisting that the eyebrow thing was self-inflicted, and ignoring “attempts” to curse Gryffindors (which is interesting word choice. "Attempts?" very vauge.) And McGonagall’s getting in on the fun by not assigning homework (to only the Gryffindors? Unclear.) Also - Alicia got embarrassed sure, but she’s good to play in the match. Snape ISN’T doing what we see Umbridge do, which is deliberately scheduling detentions at the same time as games. He isn’t even punishing anyone. He’s being sort of annoying, in a way that favors Slytherin. But all in all, he's being framed as - slightly worse than McGongall (who is also getting a bit of a call-out for being "partisan") and much better than Umbridge.

(Alicia's eyebrow-growing incident is treated very differently than than the way Hermione's very similar teeth-growing incident was treated in Book 4, that's all I'm going to say)

Class # 13: “Remedial Potions” (Occlumency)

This is a very interesting class because Snape *can’t* do his usual ‘work in silence from the book/blackboard’ thing. He and Harry are are also now at a MUCH more equal power level. 

So - we start with a reminder of Snape’s reasonable-ness, which (as far as the framing is concerned) puts the reader in Snape’s court a little. 

 In a corner stood the cupboard full of ingredients that Snape had once accused Harry — not without reason — of robbing.

Harry has to be reminded (twice) to call Snape ‘sir,’ and Snape snipes at him: 

“I can only hope that you prove more adept [occlumency] than Potions.”  “You have no subtlety, Potter,” said Snape, his dark eyes glittering. “You do not understand fine distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes you such a lamentable potion-maker.”

BUT - this is also a great example of Unreliable Narrator Harry. He asks about Voldemort’s legilimancy abilities, and Snape pauses (Harry interprets this as something he does “apparently to savor the pleasure of insulting Harry.”) Before Snape says this: 

“Only Muggles talk of ‘mind reading.�� The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing, Potter . . . or at least, most minds are . . .” He smirked. “It is true, however, that those who have mastered Legilimency are able, under certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and memories that contradict the lie, and so utter falsehoods in his presence without detection.”  Whatever Snape said, Legilimency sounded like mind reading to Harry.

Snape has this big long explanation and Harry is just like. “So, it’s mind-reading. Like I said.” Fantastic.

And yes, Snape absolutely gets an insult in, but he’s not really focused on “the pleasure of insulting Harry” during this segment. He’s not really focused on Harry at all (probably why he’s missing that his explanation isn’t landing.) Snape is talking about - himself, basically. He’s talking about his own experience lying to Voldemort, and Harry is not noticing that right now, Snape is actively afraid. It makes sense - he’s taking on a ton of risk in order to teach Harry this, and it makes sense that he’s thinking about how he’s going to lie to Voldemort the next time he sees him. This becomes even more explicit later in the scene, when Snape’s control on his own emotions starts slipping:

“Do not say the Dark Lord’s name!” spat Snape. There was a nasty silence. They glared at each other across the Pensieve.  “Professor Dumbledore says his name,” said Harry quietly.  “Dumbledore is an extremely powerful wizard,” Snape muttered. “While he may feel secure enough to use the name . . . the rest of us . . .”  He rubbed his left forearm, apparently unconsciously, on the spot where Harry knew the Dark Mark was burned into his skin.

But Harry is finally getting a lot of much-needed exposition about his psychic connection with Voldemort, and completely missing how uncomfortable Snape is. 

His first attempt to block Snape actually goes pretty well. Snape recognizes that Harry let off some accidental magic, and says “Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it might have been.” Which is almost a compliment, honestly.

Harry is still confused about what to do, and Snape does re-explain: 

"Repel me with your brain and you will not need to resort to your wand.”  “I’m trying,” said Harry angrily, “but you’re not telling me how!” “Clear your mind, Potter,” said Snape’s cold voice. “Let go of all emotion . . .”

But Harry relives Cedric dying, which seems to trigger Snape (it’s the Voldemort of it all.) He looks “paler” and starts speaking with exclamation points.

“Get up!” said Snape sharply. “Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort, you are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!”

Honestly, I think he’s kind of projecting, and talking about himself here. 

 “Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words — they stand no chance against his powers!” 

That “wallow in sad memories” part… see, I would say that’s more of a Snape thing. I wouldn’t describe Harry as gloomy and wallowing, especially in book 5. If anything he’s sort of avoidant, and could do with processing his grief a little more. And while he is on this hair-trigger, Harry is getting more and more difficult to provoke - as we’ve been seeing with Draco. In THIS exact moment, it’s Snape that’s being “provoked.” Harry’s got himself under tight control.

“I am not weak,” said Harry in a low voice, fury now pumping through him so that he thought he might attack Snape in a moment.  “Then prove it! Master yourself!” spat Snape.

They try a third time, Harry connects the black hallway of his dreams with the Department of Mysteries, says “I KNOW! I KNOW!” - then Snape lifts the spell, which - responsible. Clearly something unusual is happening, and he needs to make sure nothing went wrong.

The lesson ends and Snape tells Harry to practice. He won’t. 

“You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night before sleep — empty it, make it blank and calm, you understand?”  “Yes,” said Harry, who was barely listening.

Harry’s Voldemort experiences will start to get more frequent and worse, something which he (incorrectly) attributes to Snape’s lessons. What is actually happening is that Voldemort has become aware of their mental connection, and is looking for a way to get in. 

STUDENTS INSULTED: Again, vague. I’m not sure whether to include “fools” and “weak people” because I think Snape is actually insulting himself in those moments. HOWEVER, Harry definitely interprets “Weak” as an insult, so in that respect it counts. And something like “I can only hope that you prove more adept [occlumency] than Potions” - is true, but definitely said in an insulting way. There’s enough subtle asides like that, that I think half a point is fair.  3.5  

(TOTAL - 1, 15)

(“lamentable potion-maker”) 

(“or at least, most minds are”)

(“weak”) 

(“I can only hope that you prove more adept [occlumency] than Potions”)

Class # 14: Occlumency, Again

Things are reaching a breaking point. Snape pulls a lot of memories of Dudley’s bullying out of Harry’s head, but the one he focuses on is one of Harry’s Voldemort-memories. (Looking through Voldemort’s eyes at Rookwood kneeling at his feet.) Harry says that this image is just “a dream” - and Snape uses some legilimancy to confirm that Harry is lying. At which point Harry lies again, about how many Voldemort dreams he’s been having.

This is where the two of them have a pretty substantial misunderstanding. Harry is frustrated with his lack of progress in Occumency - and yes he’s not doing the independent work, but also Snape doesn’t know that he’s a horcrux, and that’s the reason he and Voldemort have this intense mental connection. At the end of Book 5 Harry will essentially invent his own way to kick Voldemort out of his head (using grief and love.) I’m not sure Snape’s “clear your mind” method is something Harry can do.

Harry is also frustrated that no one is telling him anything, which is why he does his detective thing and picks over the Voldemort dreams with Ron and Hermione. Snape misinterprets his motives: 

“perhaps you actually enjoy having these visions and dreams, Potter. Maybe they make you feel special — important?”

He's projecting James’ motives onto Harry (Snape does this a lot) and never seems to quite put together that Harry actively dislikes being the center of attention. He’s a little more on-the-money with his second guess, however:

“You are neither special nor important, and it is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is saying to his Death Eaters.”  “No — that’s your job, isn’t it?” Harry shot at him. He had not meant to say it; it had burst out of him in temper. For a long moment they stared at each other, Harry convinced he had gone too far. But there was a curious, almost satisfied expression on Snape’s face when he answered. “Yes, Potter,” he said, his eyes glinting. “That is my job.”

Harry seems to mean “that’s your job” as more of an insult - (ie “I don’t trust you”) - which is why he feels like he might have gone too far. But Snape is “satisfied” - so he’s taking this as validation, maybe a one-up on Sirius. Maybe he’s pleased that Harry is finally thinking about things from other people’s perspective. Maybe there's even a little “he’s finally getting it" here. Because on the next attempt, Harry actually does really well. He breaks into Snape’s mind, and sees some memories from when Snape was a little boy.

Snape was shaking slightly, very white in the face. The back of Harry’s robes were damp. One of the jars behind him had broken when he fell against it. (...)  “Reparo!” hissed Snape, and the jar sealed itself once more. “Well, Potter . . . that was certainly an improvement . . .”  Panting slightly, Snape straightened the Pensieve in which he had again stored some of his thoughts before starting the lesson, almost as though checking that they were still there. “I don’t remember telling you to use a Shield Charm . . . but there is no doubt that it was effective . . .”

Like - for the first time (maybe ever) Snape is pleased with Harry. That’s two compliments. We learn later that the reason the Pensive is here is because Snape has been using it to store all the memories he doesn’t want Harry to see. But he's apparently fine with Harry seeing:

Tobias Snape yelling at Eileen Snape while a very young Severus cries

Severus bored in his bedroom sniping flies with his wand.

Severus not doing great on a broomstick.

What’s really interesting is that if their places were reversed, these are all memories Harry would have problems with Snape seeing. Harry hates listening to people fight, he has a lot of trauma surrounding being bored in his room, and he has a lot of self-worth attached to riding a broomstick. But while Snape absolutely does have triggers, they just aren’t any of these things. He’s not upset right now, which is confirmed later on when he IS upset by Harry’s voldemort-memory.

For some reason, Snape seemed even angrier than he had done two minutes before, when Harry had seen into his own memories. 

But… Harry doesn’t know that.

Harry felt a thrill of dread: He was about to pay for what had just happened, he was sure of it.

Harry has another Voldemort memory, and actually makes it into the Department of Mysteries this time. 

“Explain yourself!” said Snape, who was standing over him, looking furious.  “I . . . dunno what happened,” said Harry truthfully, standing up. There was a lump on the back of his head from where he had hit the ground and he felt feverish. “I’ve never seen that before. I mean, I told you, I’ve dreamed about the door . . . but it’s never opened before . . .”  “You are not working hard enough!” (...) “You are lazy and sloppy, Potter, it is small wonder that the Dark Lord —”  “Can you tell me something, sir?” said Harry, firing up again. “Why do you call Voldemort the Dark Lord, I’ve only ever heard Death Eaters call him that —”

I think the answer to that question is that Snape calls him “The Dark Lord” because he’s afraid of him, and he respects him, and maybe thinking of him that way makes keeping his cover easier. But Harry is responding to Snape’s insult with one of his own: “You can’t be trusted.” 

But this whole interaction is - Harry legitimately feeling kind of vulnerable, which Snape doesn’t pick up on. And then Snape is feeling a little vulnerable (again, scared of Voldemort.) Which Harry doesn’t pick up on. 

Luckily, class is cut short by Trelawney’s firing.

STUDENTS INSULTED: 2 (TOTAL - 1, 17)

("dim though you may be")

("You are lazy and sloppy")

Class # 15: Snape’s Worst Memory

Harry shows up late, fuming about Marietta’s betrayal and lying about having practiced occlumency. Luckily, Draco comes in with an emergency - Montague has reappeared after having been stuck in the Vanishing Cabinet. This sets up Draco’s Vanishing Cabinet plot in Book 6, and also that Draco and Snape have some kind of relationship outside of class. (Snape calls Draco by his first name, which is the kind of thing we see with Harry and Hagrid + Harry and Dumbledore, not Harry and McGonagall.) 

Snape leaves, and Detective Harry  wants to investigate  “information about the Department of Mysteries that Snape was determined to keep from him.” Interestingly, even though he’s in heavy Anti Snape Mode, Harry thinks he’s going to have enough time to do this because Snape is a conscientious head of house who cares about his Slytherins:

Would he come straight back to his office afterward, or accompany Montague to the hospital wing? Surely the latter . . . Montague was Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, Snape would want to make sure he was all right. . . .

Or - at very least cares about the Slytherin Quidditch team getting its captain back in one piece.

Harry witnesses the James Potter pantsing incident, and Snape comes back and absolutely loses it. 

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb. “So . . . been enjoying yourself, Potter?” “N-no . . .” said Harry, trying to free his arm. It was scary: Snape’s lips were shaking, his face was white, his teeth were bared. “Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?” said Snape, shaking Harry so hard that his glasses slipped down his nose. “I — didn’t —” Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard onto the dungeon floor. “You will not tell anybody what you saw!” Snape bellowed.  “No,” said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape as he could. “No, of course I w —” "Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you in this office ever again!” And as Harry hurtled toward the door, a jar of dead cockroaches exploded over his head. 

(the exploding jar is presumably Snape doing accidental magic.)

The last time Snape lost control like this was at the end of Book 3, when he is positive that Harry helped Sirius escape, and Dumbledore is low-key gaslighting him. I want to compare these two segments: 

[Dumbledore] looked as though he was quite enjoying himself. Fudge appeared angry. But Snape was beside himself “OUT WITH IT, POTTER!” he bellowed. “WHAT DID YOU DO?” “See here, Snape, be reasonable,” said Fudge. “This door’s been locked, we just saw —” “THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!” Snape howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was twisted; spit was flying from his mouth.  “Calm down, man!” Fudge barked. “You’re talking nonsense!”  “YOU DON’T KNOW POTTER!” shrieked Snape. “HE DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT —” “That will do, Severus,” said Dumbledore (...) “Unless you are suggesting that Harry and Hermione are able to be in two places at once, I’m afraid I don’t see any point in troubling them further.”(..) [His] eyes were twinkling behind his glasses. Snape whirled about, robes swishing behind him, and stormed out of the ward.  “Fellow seems quite unbalanced,” said Fudge, staring after him. 

So, a similar level of emotion (although Snape is talking in CAPSLOCK in PoA and not in OotP.) We get the same word (“bellowed”) But… the episode in Book 3… like it’s framed as kind of funny/satisfying right? Dumbledore certainly thinks it’s funny, with all that eye twinkling and “quite enjoying himself.” The comedic set up is that Snape, who has spent the end of Book 3 being a problem for Harry, is getting told off by two authority figures. Fudge is normally an over-dramatic character, so it’s funny to see him call Snape over-dramatic. And Dumbledore actually knows that Snape is correct… but is still taking Harry’s side. It’s supposed to feel like comeuppance for all the “Be quiet you stupid girl” and “Maybe the dementors will have a kiss for him too” that we get at the end of Book 3. 

But Snape’s emotional outburst after Harry sees his memories is handled differently. Snape is scary, Harry is scared. Physical violence and the threat of phsycial violence is very much there, and when talking about it later on Harry says “he’d kill me! (...) You didn’t see him when we got out of the Pensieve —”

That’s just generally something I’ve noticed about Book 5. The narrative voice wants us to take Snape seriously, understand where he’s coming from, maybe even kind of side with him over Harry sometimes. He’s very different from the comic villain of books 1-4, who exists only to be a problem for Harry.

Class # 16: Invigoration Draughts

Snape… I mean he obviously ends Occlumency classes, but he doesn’t react as badly as he could've, to be honest.

Meanwhile [Snape] seemed to have decided to act as though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course, well used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle Vernon’s favorites, and on the whole was grateful he had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new approach something of an improvement and was pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a flask, corked it, and took it up to Snape’s desk for marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an E. He had just turned away when he heard a smashing noise; Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry whipped around again. His potion sample lay in pieces on the floor, and Snape was watching him with a look of gloating pleasure. “Whoops,” he said softly. “Another zero, then, Potter . . .”

I actually think it’s unclear who exactly did the housecat thing and swiped Harry’s potion on the desk. Might have been Snape, might have been Malfoy. Either way, Snape does seem to be enjoying himself. 

Don’t know quite what to do with this one though, don’t have a category for “uncategorized petty BS.”

Disciplinary Action #10: Harry vs Draco

The battle of the Department of Mysteries has just gone down. Harry and Draco are not doing well.

“The dementors have left Azkaban,” said Malfoy quietly. “Dad and the others’ll be out in no time . . .”  “Yeah, I expect they will,” said Harry. “Still, at least everyone knows what scumbags they are now —”  Malfoy’s hand flew toward his wand, but Harry was too quick for him. He had drawn his own wand before Malfoy’s fingers had even entered the pocket of his robes.  “Potter!” The voice rang across the entrance hall; Snape had emerged from the staircase leading down to his office, and at the sight of him Harry felt a great rush of hatred beyond anything he felt toward Malfoy. . . . Whatever Dumbledore said, he would never forgive Snape [for not helping]. . . never . . . “What are you doing, Potter?” said Snape coldly as ever, as he strode over to the four of them.  “I’m trying to decide what curse to use on Malfoy, sir,” said Harry fiercely. Snape stared at him. “Put that wand away at once,” he said curtly. “Ten points from Gryff —” Snape looked toward the giant hourglasses on the walls and gave a sneering smile. “Ah. I see there are no longer any points left in the Gryffindor hourglass to take away. 

At this point McGonagall reappears, gives points for fighting Voldemort, and Snape takes away his ten. But this is absolute prime Little Shit Harry - he doesn’t care that he’s giving Snape “cheek,” and he's actively threatening Draco. Actually, the way the scene’s staged - Draco and Harry don’t even both have wands out. We have Harry pulling a wand on Draco, who didn’t even insult him this time. Draco has been written unusually sympathetically, calling Lucius the warmer “Dad” when he normally calls him “Father.” So, I think the framing communicates that Snape is actually in the right here. 

POINTS TAKEN: -10  (TOTAL:  - 10, -10, - 167)

STUDENTS INSULTED: (TOTAL - 1, 17) 

DETENTIONS GIVEN:  (TOTAL - 2, 4)

 CRYING STUDENTS - TOTAL - 3)

Snape is very important to this book, and to the next one as well. The way he’s written reflects this. The main way I would describe Book 5 Snape is that he’s much less cartoonish than Book 1-4 Snape. He’s still a petty bastard... but he’s more complicated now, there’s subtext to his actions, there’s clearly a lot more going on under the hood.

I don’t think I can actually attribute this to Harry getting more emotionally mature, because the place where he’s the least emotionally mature is actually with Snape. The text has a lot of fun telegraphing how Harry is actively missing things during interactions, and misinterpreting things Snape will say or do. It plays with the framing in a lot of subtle ways to put us on Snape’s side. He’s more reasonable now than he was during the early books. He’s got more in the way of excuses and plausible deniability when he favors Malfoy and the other Slytherins. He’s no longer making people cry or bullying Neville. When he insults Harry, Harry insults him right back. Snape has also been given some positive traits (his students do well on their OWLs, he’s a conscientious head of house, he makes jokes that are actually funny.) Snape’s just been made into an all-around more complex character, and this trend will continue in Book 6 - the book named after him.

[youmeanmydrumbstick]

"Ms. Stonefyre, a moment please."

Ophelia looked up from where she sat perched on one the courtyard's ancient stone half walls to the sharp, hard gaze of the Headmistress. Not all the Gryffindor courage in the world could have kept Ophelia's stomach from dropping with a look like that on McGonagall's face. It wasn't the usual shrewd, slightly pinched look of a dutiful, educated witch in charge of the Wizarding World's future, but one of concern. Sincere concern, Ophelia felt by the way the muscles around her eyes tensed and her lips thinned.

Oh no, what had she done? Ophelia jumped to attention, knocking slightly into Kara beside her, than tripping over Sam's nearby foot. Luckily for Ophelia though, David caught her arm, preventing her from eating shit in front of her numerous peers who were also using the weekend to soak up some of the last tolerable weather left of the year in the court yard.

"O-of course." Ophelia agreed readily, never one to disobey or deny any of the Hogwarts' Staff. McGonagal turned on her heel, dark emerald robes pf velvet sweeping out behind her. Ophelia followed after quickly, only sparing one glance back over her shoulder to see the concerned faces of her mates most likely wondering the same thing as herself; What had she done to warrant the Headmistress coming to fetch her personally. And with such a serious face. This couldn't be good.

Ophelia began to sort through her previous week wondering where she could have done something deserving reprimanding? She had worked on her last Charms essay with Danny. Was their work too similar? Was she about to be expelled for plagirism? Oh God, and what if she forgot a citation in her potions write up. Did that mean a double suspension? Was double suspension possible or did that just mean an expulsion. NO! She couldn't be expelled? How would she face her parents? Her mother would kill her, and Merlin her poor father, he'd always beleived in her-

McGonagalll stopped short once inside the castle proper, causing Ophelia to walk right into her back. The older witch spun around, a frown on her face.

"You're hyperventilating, Ms. Stonefyre." McGonagal noted with an arched eyebrow. Was Ophelia really the Stonefyre that ought to comfort Gulliver, the Headmistress couldn't help but wonder. The younger of the two was going into shock at having just seen wings tear free from the Weasley girl's back, but even he didn't seem as rattled as the simpering thing in front of her, tears already beginning to brim in the young witch's big blue eyes. Certainly there had to be another option, yes? McGonagall knew her former pupils Eveleen and Coal Stonefyre had a brood of their own set to rival the Weasley's.

"I-I'm sorry," Ophelia apologized, "I just, I-I don't remmeber doing anything b-bad."

Oh.

"You're not in trouble, Ms. Stonefyre, but do follow quickly. I've come to fetch you because, well, it's your brother Gulliver." Explained McGonagal as she began walking again, her pace quick as she lead the way to the Hospital wing.

"Gully?" Ophelia repeated, her voice suddenly steady. Her brother. Her sweet little genius twerp. Worry, cold and hardening, crept down her chest to her belly. "What happened?"

"He's okay. Physically. However, he saw one of his mates have a bit of an. . . accident-"

"Who?" Ophelia asked, as she caught up more fully. She looked into the heavy lines of the Headmistress; face, trying to glean the anwsers from them before the older witch had even spoke. Ophelia knew most of Gully's friends. He had certainly made more since starting his club, but she also noted that he had a solid group; Zander Harrow, Addie Weasley, a fire started, a girl the fire starter liked to kiss, and a small creature that was more hair than witch.

"The Weasley girl." McGonagal answered. Ophelia only had a moment to be sorry it wasn't Zander before that cold worry gripped her heart even harder.

"What did he see?" She pushed for details, feet still moving fast as they moved now to the stairs. The two witched continued rushing up even as the stone staircase, creaked and groaned, swinging itself over to the necessary corridor.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss in great detail as it was a medical situation, but do understand your brother seems to be profoundly affected. It was, to be blunt, a rather bloody and unexpected incident, Ms. Stonefyre. And he had to assist Ms. Weasley as best he could until the matron was made aware."

Ophelia's heart gave a rattling ache as she thought not only of the sweet young girl she had seen chasing chickens with her brother over the summer, but for Gulliver who apparently had had to make adult decisions after something so traumatizing.

"Poor Addie." Ophelia sighed. The two witches finally took the final turn towards the infirmary where they found the doors closed and an angry red hen squawking furiously for entrance.

"That's Nugget, Addie's familiar." Ophelia told the Headmistress. To this, McGonagall finally showed some emotion; exasperation.

"Honestly, forgetting witch's familiar, pure carelessness" McGonagall shook her head and reached for the deeply upset chicken. "Hush now. i'll be bringing you to your master shortly." She reprimanded the chicken as she tucked it under one arm.

"Matron Thomas is seeing to your brother, he should be in the office." McGonagall told Ophelia.

"Thank you, Headmistress." Ophelia said politely as she pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors.

"No! I need to see her! I need to go!' Ophelia could hear her brother's voice, echoing through the infirmary as soon as she had stepped fully inside. The cots that ran parallel along the length of the infirmary were all empty with neatly done white bedding. All except one. Ophelia eyes the cot as she passed, or rather the bloodied bandages and tipped over potion bottles that surrounded it. Red stained the usually pristinely white, uniform sheets, signifying a gorey situation had recently taken place. Ophelia felt that odd tickle of intuition tell her with certainty that it was Addie's blood.

"Gully!" Ophelia called. The door to the Matron's office burst open, with Gulliver barreling out, Matron Thomas hot in his heels.

"It's family only, Mr. Stonefyre, you are not allowed to go along." It was a hard message to deliver, but Matron Thomas did her best to do so softly, her voice gentle as she reached for the redhead who immediately shrugged off her touch.

"Gully." Ophelia said again, her eyes roving over her brother. Blood stained the white of his shirt and left dark streaks on his pants. But it was his eyes that concerned Ophelia the most; they were wide and frantic behind his streaky glasses. Fear shone bright in them, and Ophelia recognized that feeling with disturbing familiarity. Her brother finally looked to her, and he stopped.

"Ophelia, they won't let me go with Feathers to Saint Mungo's." Gulliver told her, his jaw trembling, "Tell them I need to go." But Ophelia didn't respond, instead she crossed the few yards of cold stone floor between them and folded her brother into her chest. She held him securely to herself, one hand at the back of his head, holding it to her neck just like their mother did, as if she could hide him from the world. His arms came around her tightly, as his chest began to quake against her own.

"She needs me, tell them I need to go!" Gully begged, his words spoken under the swaths of his sister's dark hair. Ophelia closed her eyes, her head falling against Gully's as warm fat tears, for once not her own, began to drip down her neck.

"Ophelia," Gully's voice broke over his sister's name, "Tell them. I need to know she's okay. Please, Ophelia, please!" But Ophelia didn't speak, she didn't even move.

Gully could feel it then, the shattering of his insides as his mind began to process the truth of what he'd seen, of he'd had to do to help Addie and the uncertainty of everything surrounding the situation. What had happened to Addie? What was Addie? Would she be okay? Why hadn't he been able to move when the healers from Saint Mungo's came to get her? She had looked so pale in their arms, so fragile and broken and so un-Addie. Even if she'd had a bad few weeks, he knew Feathers. She was sunshine, she was laughing and music and quiet understanding. She was cheeto covered fingers and summers on the beach. She was wind in your hair and the way your heart feels like it's going to beat out of your chest after a good game of pick up. She was part of him, and he was part of her. His best mate. He wouldn't lose that. He couldn't.

Gulliver began to sob onto his sister's shoulder, and he felt all the world like he was six again. The fact he was nearly taller than her didn't matter, and neither did the familiar scent of vanilla and cotton candy trying to invading his sense trying to soothe him. Nothing short of seeing Addie well again would be able to soothe him. The frustration, the fear, his love for his best friend, it poured freely from him, the soft presence of sister uncorking the careful lid he'd been able to keep on his emotions.

"She needs me." Gully sobbed. I need her.

"I know." Ophelia soothed, her hold on Gulliver tightening, "I know."

That ‘Veela’ Shit

The summer had been probably one of the absolute best ones Adelaide had experienced in her life. After that first sleepover with Gulliver, it was like some kind of barrier had been broken down when it came to her parents and they had allowed the pair to hang out more. Most of the time, it was Gully who was coming over, where Louis and Caerwyn could keep a close eye on the pair to make sure there were no shenanigans going on that they wanted to avoid. Gulliver though, proved to be just as behind in his development as Addie and the more the Weasleys got to know him, the more comfortable they became with his presence. Well, Caerwyn and the kids had at least, but Louis was still wary, still overprotective. Sleeping bags were always stuck down to the floor in the living room, musicals were watched, instruments were shared, and sand was tracked into the house stuck in bathing suits. Beside the salted caramel jar in the cupboard, a similarily shaped one of hot fudge had become a kind of staple, Gully’s favorite snack the same way cheetos were Addie’s. It had gotten to the point where Adelaide was asking nearly every day if he could come over or if she could possibly go to his. That had only been allowed the once, Addie spending the night at the Stonefyres home among a multitude of other children who had all piled onto the living room floor in piles of blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags. Gully’s older sister had baked them all snacks, they had gone swimming down in the lake, had a large bonfire where the boy’s many assorted uncles had gladly helped the Ravenclaw learn some new tricks on her violin that had really improved her ability to play it. Adelaide had been sad to leave the next day, even if she was happy to see her own family again. All in all, the pair of young Ravenclaws had ended up having maybe two or three sleepovers a week by the time the summer was over. By the fifth one, Louis had given in and opted for allowing their fireplace to connect directly to the Stonefyres’ over the Floo Network, something he didn’t do lightly, but it was better than constantly taking the Knight Bus to retrieve the annoying little redhead. Obviously, the kids still had to ask permission, but it made it easier for them to see eachother. Addie had written to Sunny to see if she wanted to come over for a night, but the blonde had already been at Willow’s grandmother’s by that point, but they would see eachother when school started back up again. Their reunion had been a bit… awkward. The pair hadn’t spent the entire summer apart after first or second year, but the gap that had been there at the end of the school year had remained. Addie still loved Sunny dearly, still considered her one of her best friends, but there was no pretending that their interests had changed as the blonde embraced puberty and Addie remained behind.

Getting on the train on the first had been a tearful event, but not for the usual reason of Addie being anxious. Rather, she was excited for school to start back up, for the club to get going on their next play and maybe, if she had the balls enough, to perhaps try out for the Quidditch team . She had debated it the year before but decided against it, figuring she wouldn’t be good enough. After playing a pick up game with Gully’s sisters and cousins though, she was feeling more confidant about her abilities and thought, maybe, just maybe… Her Dad had been on the team in school and Quidditch was something Adelaide enjoyed even if she didn’t talk about it nearly as much as she did chickens or music. The tears that had really been shed that day had come from her two younger cousins, Briar and Thistle, who were off for their very first year. They would be twelve soon enough, late fall babies, but being slightly older didn’t exactly fully prepare them for being away from their parents and sisters for the first time ever. Addie had understood, fully, what they were going through and had kept them close throughout the journey, introducing them to other friends, watching them calm even further as Zander joined them in their compartment. Another familiar face. It had been a tight squeeze with all of them actually. Addie, the twins, Sunny, Willow, Zander, Gully, and then M’n’M who had tripped over her robes and ended up in Addie’s lap when she’d finally located them. There had been a lot of joking, pranks, snacks, and games to cheer the two younger girls up and by the time they were arriving, Briar and Thistle were looking a good deal more relaxed. Enough to be smiling, if nervous, during their sorting where they, thankfully, had been placed in the same house. Addie knew it would be a similar situation next year, when her own siblings would both be eleven. Owena would be absolutely fine, but Rhydian was… well, he was already begging to continue to be homeschooled.

The first few weeks of school passed in a blur. Adelaide had not been anticipating their work getting even harder than it had been the previous year when they’d added more classes to their schedules, but now that they had hit fourth year… Well, the professors were already talking about their O.W.Ls that they wouldn’t even be taking until the end of their fifth year! Even so, getting back into the groove of things, of seeing all of her friends, and being in the club room again after being gone for the summer was just as fun as Addie had been anticipating. Professor Mendes had greeted them all with a gentle smile when they had traipsed into the room for their first meeting of the year, though the poor man had been giggled at and informed, point blank by Gully that ‘Auntie Freya got lipstick on you again, Uncle Max.” The professor had turned pink and found a mirror to try and get the bright cherry red lip print off of his cheek while the club had settled into trying to decide what they were going to be doing for a play this winter. They would have three and a halfish months to prepare the cast, the scenery, the music, the props and costumes. There was a great smattering of agreement about doing the pirate show they all liked a good deal, but there was also a suggestion of putting on one of the classic Beedle stories. Before the brunette knew it, they were nearly a month into the school year and the postings for Quidditch try-outs had gone up. She had brought her broomstick along, a hand-me-down from her dad that was still in good condition, and signed up before she could psych herself out of it. Thus, it was on the pitch that Adelaide found herself on a slightly foggy Saturday morning, nerves and coffee coursing through her system due to a lack of sleep caused by anxiety. Her eyes shifted to the stands were she could see the familiar shock of Gulliver’s red hair. Sunny waved to her, a bright grin on her face while Zander locked Gully under one arm, trying to fight him for the piece of toast he’d brought along. Willow appeared, running up the steps, her arms containing snacks to keep them all refreshed while they watched the try-outs. Gully had been the only one not surprised when she’d mentioned she’d signed up, having already mentioned it to him over the summer, but all of her mates had pressed her with encouragement and now, they were here, ready to cheer her on.

Addie gulped, clutching her broom tightly as the Ravenclaw captain marched across the pitch in front of them, indicating where each of them should group up depending on which position they were aiming for. Adelaide joined the other potential Chasers, having the most practice with that particular position, and looked up at the stands again, brow furrowed with a nervousness she couldn’t hide completely behind a cool exterior like her parents might have been able to. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she glanced down at it.

‘You got this, Feathers.’

Addie smiled and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Yes, she had this. The worst thing that could happen would be she wouldn’t make the team and as disappointing as that would be, it wouldn’t kill her.

[kaijutegu]

Alligator Bites Might Never Heal, But Doechii Is Good At Holding Alligators

Doechii won the Grammy for Best Rap Album for Alligator Bites Never Heal, but she also should have won the coveted and definitely not fictitious "Best Alligator Handling" award for the way she held Coconut on the cover!

(Yes, it's this Coconut.)

And the best part? She released a BTS video showing how they shot the cover, meaning that we can see more than just the still image! If a picture's worth a thousand words, video's worth... a lot more. (Sorry if it autoplays I don't think I have any control over that either way)

So, using the photoshoot images and video as evidence, let's take a look at how Doechii handled this alligator very well! I'm going to go into excruciating detail here because I think it's important to know why something is good just as much as it is important to know why something is bad. It's hard to understand alligator body language a lot of the time, so in this writeup, I will address how Doechii's holding the gator and what she's doing right, as well as point out how you can tell from Coconut's reactions that she is not distressed.

Body Support

In the album cover image, Doechii is seated, which is good, because even though she's a small alligator, Coconut is a very strong and powerful creature. That tail is pure muscle! But even in the standing images, you can see that Doechii is giving Coconut great body support and holding her correctly- close to the body, but without grabbing too tightly or being restrained uncomfortably. I think for a gator of this size I would have recommended pinning the back foreleg against her body for a little additional support and movement restriction- but I don't think she had to restrict movement because Coconut seems quite relaxed!

In the seated image, Doechii has one hand under Coconut's chest, supporting her sternum and head. The other hand is on top of her tail, and her knee is under the pelvic girdle. This type of hold lets the alligator feel safe; remember that these are aquatic and terrestrial creatures. An insecure hold that risks dropping them is going to stress them out and make them uncomfortable. By holding the alligator gently against her body and not squeezing, she's avoiding any uncomfortable pressure.

Head and Throat Support

In all of the images, Doechii is bringing her hand under Coconut's neck, creating a cradle with her hand so that the alligator can rest her head. But what she's not doing is she is not squeezing or grabbing the throat. The throat is one of the soft bits of an alligator, and squeezing it too tightly is very uncomfortable for them. But the way Doechii is supporting her gives her several degrees of freedom to move her head if she so chooses.

Body Language

Another indication of good handling is that it's clear that Coconut is not uncomfortably stressed. Alligators express displeasure with being held in a lot of ways, including struggling to get away, hissing, and holding their mouths open. (If you want to know more and see my sources, you can read my post on alligator body language. LOTS of info there, including peer-reviewed ethology sources that explain what alligators do and why they do it! Go get your data-driven answers!)

But Coconut isn't doing that; she's calm and alert. You can see in the BTS video that she's active on set. She's not shut down, and when she wants to walk around, she's not restrained. Obviously the video is an edited timelapse, and it's not the whole story- but when people show alligators in media, they usually don't know enough about them to edit out any uncomfortable body language. So I think that if she had been upset, we would have seen that.

We can also see in the video that Coconut is unbanded, meaning her mouth was not held shut. I thought they might have banded her and then edited the band out for the cover, but no, there was nothing restricting any distress cues. Banding is usually done for public safety, but the facility Coconut's from... doesn't do that, so I'm not surprised she's unbanded. At least it gives more evidence that she's not trying to gape!

One more good indicator that Coconut was comfortable is that she's got her eyes open, which you can even kinda see in the video if you zoom in. Reptiles will often squinch their eyes shut to avoid distressing stimuli or signal distress, and albino alligators have even more reasons to do this. They're much more sensitive to light than their pigmented counterparts. But it looks like her on-set work was completed quickly, meaning that she didn't have to be around bright lights for long.

In conclusion:

Doechii's album cover is an example of good alligator handling. Yay!

That said, please note that this is only about handling and is divorced from any other issues surrounding this particular alligator. (Read the body language post if you want more on that.) These are not issues I'm touching in this post, because that's not the point! I simply want to point out an instance of good handling and how you can identify relaxed body language in an animal that is notoriously hard to read when posted on social media.

[syluses]

𝄞 bloodhound

𓍯𓂃 hybrid sylus x female reader

(10k wc) ✦ summary: demanding, old, hostile— just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesn’t matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet he’s more wolf than dog. more… man than wolf.

✦ content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,

✦ sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection 🙂‍↕️ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good ol’ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know he’s scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] 💕 ALSO sorry. he’s not feline this time… >_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it it’s quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy 😖 ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boy’s gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D

With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.

By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.

In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.

You don’t think he’s gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but you’re not wholly convinced you’re safe, either.

And to be clear, it’s better to be that than sorry: You’ll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.

Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.

Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.

I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? ♡

Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.

Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is… amiss.

That outfit from yesterday.

With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-

Sure enough, the lid is open.

✦

“-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with ‘em all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them won’t even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.”

The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.

The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, you’re in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like you’re walking into a dungeon.

The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.

You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.

What an awful place, you think to yourself.

…But coming here had a purpose.

Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.

Dogs in their cages— some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.

To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.

A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, you’re giving him very little as well.

“-I mean, some don’t even eat at all. Picky things.”

Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.

Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.

It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:

Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog you’d recommend for prot—

Clack, clack… Clack.

You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesn’t.

“Heh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-“

When he notices you’re not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.

“Ma’am?” He turns.

“That one,” you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.

For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.

When he looks at ‘that one’ in question— a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wall— his eyes almost bulge from his skull.

A sharp laugh.

“Ah, little lady. Don’t wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-“

As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.

He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite ‘cowering’- no, he’s a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like… brooding.

…Yet you wonder all the same if that’s what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.

Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.

If you could, you’d clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- that’s not possible.

In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, he’d have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.

Thoughtfully, you blink.

As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you can’t help but marvel at him.

Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say you’ve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.

It warrants a raise of the brow, just what he’s doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or… was he just pulled from the street?

And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?

“So,” he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, “Honestly, Ma’am, he’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for.” Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.

“We do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely won’t be here for long. Uh… this one here, though,” he snickers. “He’s unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more ‘cause he’s still hungry... tsk,” he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, there’s no mark there, but you think he’s imagining one that could’ve been.

“He’s on the older side, too. Can’t teach him any new tricks. And… big, as you can see. With his temperament, he’d probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?”

Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the pooch’s unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if you’re not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.

“He’s…”

“Yep. Like I said-“

“Perfect,” you breathe, falling to a crouch.

The man beside you coughs on his own spit. “What-? Uh, little lady, I seriously don’t think— hey, watch the hands! Don’t stick ‘em through!”

“-How much?”

You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animal— to his defense, he doesn’t lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.

No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.

Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.

Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.

As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but it’s also an investment worth your while. There’s no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow he’ll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.

A word relieves you of worries for naught.

“Nothing.”

…Wait- No, that can’t be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?

“E-Excuse me?”

He sighs, exasperated. “You’d be doing us a favor,” is all he gives as an explanation. “You can have him for free.”

Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, you’re met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost… human.

“But, are you-“

“Haaaaah. Maybe it’s for the better. You’re like his savior, you know,” he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, “he oughta be thankful for you coming in here.”

And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twisting—

“Too much longer and we would’a had to put him down.”

A squeeze of your heart.

Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.

“When can we get him out of this cage?”

You ask without looking his way.

The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beast’s chest swells in. It’s like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.

“I can get you sorted right now,” he quips, helpful, “Just… You might wanna back up.”

Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.

He’s a good boy, you’re sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things here— just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And you’re positive, if nothing else, he’ll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.

It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how he’s just a whit more cooperative today.

“Thank you,” you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you can’t deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.

Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- “careful,” a snigger- and—

The ground beneath you all but gives way.

“Oh, sir- one more thing! What’s his name!”

He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and you’re rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.

However, you do catch him shrugging.

“No clue.”

✦

A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.

You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; he’s bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that you’re not entirely sure an animal can understand— but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.

This is your house.

This… was your house. Maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.

Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you don’t harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, aren’t animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?

What is he spotting in you?

Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush you’d bought days ago. It’s seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- it’s only now starting to settle.

Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you could’ve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if you’re batshit crazy.

But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while you’re gone are all proofs of that.

But that’s changed, now. If your dog hates you, he’ll hate an intruder even more.

You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.

He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.

Not quite.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the pound’s hands— for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. You’re irate. On alert. Scared. And it’s making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.

The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.

Your heart stirs.

Tiredly, you offer a small smile. “You are perfect, you know,” folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know he’d take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.

He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. “Even if you don’t like me, that doesn’t change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath… I’ll let you sit on the couch, deal? I’m sure it’ll be comfier than what you got now,” you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the table— for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you he’s completely rejecting you, he’s avoided it.

Yes, he’s just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.

Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.

You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. And I’m sorry, I just…” Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize you’ve reached a watershed here— one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.

And you’re terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.

“Nevermind. Goodnight, boy,” you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.

Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, “Sleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-“

A labored sigh.

Nails clacking behind you— and for one awful second you fear the worst: You’ve turned your back to a beast.

Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- you’re mistaken.

There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. He’s like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:

One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)

He’s tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, it’s with expectance.

Oh, and then three—

When you don’t respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.

✦

He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.

To your surprise, he lets you.

Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.

With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), you’re given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.

Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that you’re deluded enough to believe he’d allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.

Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he… cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.

None of your limbs are missing. That’s a small miracle in itself. You’re thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like you’re walking uphill all the while.

He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.

If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, you’d have no right to be surprised. None at all.

Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling that’s a iffier place for him. You’d respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that you’re finally making headway with him (and yes— his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), you’re encouraged.

Besides…

Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.

Ahem.

It’s late.

Tomorrow, you’ve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not you’ll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldn’t stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.

The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.

You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.

“You’re a good boy, you know,” you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.

From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesn’t.

Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, “You are. You are a good boy,” as if it’s come as an epiphany to you- made realer as it’s spoken.

Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing it’s ridiculous because your words aren’t coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten ears—

“Hey… I could tell you didn’t really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but… what about…”

A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.

“Sylus.”

Before dozing off, you’re fairly certain- for his sake- you’d left the lamp on that night.

…But when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.

✦

You blink and autumn is in full throttle.

You blink and you’re trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.

Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodex— yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.

You worry for him when he’s home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- ‘he’ll tear a hole in your walls’- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.

Of course, he can’t speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when you’re gone.

Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who don’t make you want to rip your hair from the root.

Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you’ll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.

Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, you’re grateful for it now.

At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on you…

Potential witnesses if he does.

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you can’t help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons that’s just not possible.

Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.

You can’t escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.

You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself it’s fine.

…It’s fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yours—

A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, you’re more or less alone.

You wet your lip where it’s dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.

It’s okay. You’re almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes you’ll be crooning to your ‘puppy’ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasn’t hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.

Yes, that’s right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because you’re toying with your watch to calm yourself)- you’ll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine you’ll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend you’re financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.

…Even Sylus, the creature who doesn’t understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.

Then-

Tap tap tap.

Your heels- “Hey baby, wait up- where ya going?”- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was grounded—

You don’t even turn around. You don’t reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because you’re not sure you have the luxury to.

By the sounds of it, he’s already close.

“Oh no you don’t. Come on, baby, just let me fuckin’ talk to you!”

-Closer and gaining still.

Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isn’t enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.

You’re in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.

“Stop-! I haven’t even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when you’d get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!”

No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesn’t matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you won’t so much as glance behind you. After all he’s done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you don’t think he deserves it.

You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like you’re running in a dream, you’re so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.

You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.

As the reality of what could’ve been settles, you’re horrified. Cold in the face.

Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.

“Sylus-“

You breathe with relief, but you don’t linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roof— no, it’s a separate beast entirely.

Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, you’ve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That he’ll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.

Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, go— or simply staying back to ‘defend.’

You turn the corner and blanche.

Someone’s in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and he’s naked.

And then, everything you’d been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both… As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the door— it all shifts.

The bottom falls through.

The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because you’re sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriend’s nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.

✦

“Relax,” he grouses with a tsk, “I’m not gonna bite.”

With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- that’s hard to believe.

The blade he���d taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you don’t make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.

“Y-You’re not my dog.”

One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible. He-

That can’t be Sylus.

For a moment you believe he’ll agree. Nod his head and say, no, I’m not your dog- I’m a person; because that’s certainly how he looks. But he doesn’t.

“I simply changed forms,” he explains. “Not who I am to you.”

With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. “N-No. You’re not Sylus.”

That pulls a soft huff from him, “Oh, kitten,” he grins a tenuous grin, “I’m wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didn’t you? Sylus.” He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for something else, then… Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?”

D-Dragonfruit? How does he…

The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.

…Yet he’s just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyes— massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is… familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.

“Y-You’re not-“

Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I won’t try to convince you,” he states, “I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.”

…What? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) can’t seriously think you’ll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. He’s not your dog. He’s- he’s not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.

Not in your tiny apartment.

“N-No. You- you’re crazy. You have to leave. You have to! I’ll- I’ll call the cops!”

Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.

Sure, the department wasn’t having your stalker drama- but an intrusion you’re actually witnessing like this can’t be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?

He all but rolls his eyes, saying like it’s obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, “I’m on your side, kitten. Don’t get all…” he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart that’s more than just fearful— it’s self-conscious. “Hissy now.”

You punch out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,” you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- you’re just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you don’t even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.

But then… why the hell would he leave? He- He’s never done that until now!

You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize you’re no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but he’s not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.

“But my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not… you.” That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.

Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.

The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)…

And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.

Sylus, it all says.

But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.

He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. “Your dog is more than just some animal,” he huffs. “Don’t tell me after all you’ve experienced with the stalker that you’re… frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?” His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.

Frightened? No… that becomes a more distant word. You’re more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.

“Well, how about this,” he offers at your silence, waving his hand. “Let the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if I’m real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart… You…” he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.

“You can even decide if you want me to stay.”

He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. “Deal?”

And if you say no? If, on the off chance you’re wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?

Your mouth wavers. “I- I don’t believe it.”

You do believe it. But it’s crazy.

He almost snorts. “You’d better start. But with that pest taken care of now… I think you’ll catch on quite fast,” he grins. “I’m here for you, kitten. Isn’t that what you wanted me for? Protection? Don’t tell me once I serve my use you’ll throw me out?” He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.

Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mind— ‘he’s on the older side, so naturally he’s a bit grumpy, snippy’; really, you shouldn’t gasp at his temperament but with your current situation it’s a little hard not to when he clips out-

“So? Do we have a deal or not?”

And, well, what’s the harm in giving him your couch for one night?

Or several.

✦

A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.

It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.

Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, you’ve woken before your alarm- meaning you’ll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.

…As do your bones.

Third— Sylus is not on the couch like he’s been for the past few months. He’s with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.

Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned down— both wet. Sticky with- with you.

You gasp. “Sylus-“

You’ve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasn’t for months.

He snarls.

“Quiet. I’m eating.”

Protective. Territorial. That isn’t your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasn’t just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting tray— no, it’s his.

He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesn’t work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.

‘Good try’, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- ‘that’s it, kitten.’

“Good girl,” he practically purrs.

He’s got a big appetite. You’ve known that.

Not as much as you do right now.

“Sylus, wait wait wait,” you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.

But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.

But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilities—

“Hush,” he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what you’re thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.

“Just take the day off.”

Grudgingly, you lie your head back. It’s… not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.

“O-Okay.”

As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.

So you glance down.

He’s handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all along— and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles he’d seen.

He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you don’t care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didn’t he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.

Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.

That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.

You could’ve lost him. He- He could’ve been gone forever hadn’t you showed.

…But you did show. For the shitty time you’d been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.

Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. You’ve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:

Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.

Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.

“Good boy,” you breathe. “Y-You’re perfect.”

He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.

“You taste delicious,” he whispers. “Sweet girl. I can-“ a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. “I can smell how much you want it…. You’re soaked.”

You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation ‘til you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. He’s naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants you’d bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.

And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.

His cock is somehow bigger.

Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. He’s daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he won’t be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.

Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.

Point is- he’s insatiable.

You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brain— rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.

In your imagination, he doesn’t pull out when he comes.

…What really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.

Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long he’s been at this, you don’t know.

“Sylus-!” You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. “Wait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!“

A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.

Challenging.

He’s hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so it’s surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tight— the need to fuck and take and mount— but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.

It’s the least he can do.

“Take a guess,” he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. “It’ll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.”

Your eyes bulge from your skull.

His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.

From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, you’re focused entirely on what he’s doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- it’s all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.

When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of it— you lie back down and gulp.

Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed… Feeling so sore and feverish after he’s fucked you into pyrexia that you can’t even move an inch without being reminded of it.

He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and he’s tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.

You hope he’s primed you. You pray he’s done good to prepare you for what’s to come. Because oh, it’s coming. You know that.

“Now,” he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell he’s not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. “To the good part.”

You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.

He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, “Oh, so sensitive… Don’t pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.”

You’re shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. There’s no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.

Oh, you love him. You really do. He’s endearing in all the places he shouldn’t be. He’s charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you don’t care if he’s a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. He’s yours.

Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, “It’s better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I won’t be easy to stop.”

And you’d be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isn’t massive. And fuck if you aren’t a little scared for it.

So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust he’ll take care of you.

The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube you’ve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and that’s when there’s some turbulence.

Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.

He’s gorgeous. Even when he looks like he’s ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- he’s nothing less than charming through your lens. But you’re thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.

Frankly, if he intends to put his knot inside— and he fucking won’t, there’s just no way— the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.

For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. You’re sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he can’t tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that it’s gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.

He supposes, right then, you’ve always been very hospitable.

Sylus curses. “Ngh, you’re tight... Loosen up,” he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize he’s worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. “Sweet, and soft. And a very good girl. I’ve got your back. You know that, don’t you?” Then, he draws his hips back and—

Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.

He won’t put it inside. He won’t. You’re sure of it. Mutts only do that when they’re mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, and….

“Mmm,” an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.

With some difficulty, he continues. “You’re naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, so— f- uck— let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?”

Void of words, you nod.

The reindeer-patterned bedsheets aren’t enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.

Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.

The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.

He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.

You’ve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around here— but never that.

He whines, words strained, “Think you can take my knot? Hah… Nod your head for me, kitten- because I don’t think that I can stop it. I can’t wait any longer. I need you to…” he shudders, “take it.”

One moment you’re nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next he’s nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.

With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass and—

His knot pops inside with a gasp.

Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.

He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.

When he comes, it’s so hard his ears ring.

The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he can’t even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.

You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.

You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what he’s been taught.

Evidently, he doesn’t trust himself.

Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. He’s barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup you’ve made of his brain- but he manages.

Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.

“It… hurts. So good…” he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. “You’re doing so well, though… Just-“ He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.

“Fuck. Stay still, sweet girl,” he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. “I want it all inside. Don’t wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?”

“Y-Yes,” you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.

Yet, you can’t help but ask with a slur, “Sylus- when- when will it be over?”

He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.

“It’s too big,” you cry.

“No,” he quips. “It’s just right.”

As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, you’re spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesn’t), he couldn’t.

There’s nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- he’s all yours.

“We’ll wait it out,” he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it can’t be easy for you. But the world— that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yours— needs to understand where your heart belongs. There’s no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.

And you—

(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)

Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that you’re his.

Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.

“It’ll subside soon enough,” he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, “So long as you don’t move or stir me up, we’ll be fine.”

Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- there’s that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he… won’t.

With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.

His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feeling— happiness, he hopes, contentedness— to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.

You don’t mean to pout, “why won’t you-“

“Not yet, Kitten,” he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, “What, do you not want me?” Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.

“Really, kitten? …What, should I give you an equally stupid answer?”

Oh, you’d tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-

“Of course I want you. Can’t you tell?” He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.

“So. Did you like it..?”

“Y-Yeah…” you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. “But, I just… I thought you’d really do it, I thought you’d really tie us together-“

He chuckles richly. “We’re already tied together, kitten,” peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. “I’ve belonged to you for some time now, haven’t I?”

Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s right.

“I- I guess so. Yeah.”

“So no more whining,” he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.

“I’ll do it when we’re both ready. When…” He pauses to swallow.

In that short frame of time before he next speaks, you’re drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you don’t see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten into— but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.

“When I know it’s manageable.”

If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain… civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring about— then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.

“Okay,” you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“But you’ll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- you’re perfect-“ Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.

“…Hush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to pull out.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[lemonlover1110]

I'm currently obsessed with royalty AU, enjoy this Sukuna drabble

Sukuna, the troublesome eldest son, the prince that’s supposed to take over his father’s position one day; but anyone with a pair of eyes can see that he means chaos. The moment he takes charge, he’ll wreak havoc around the place. The job was better suited for his twin brother, alas, rules are rules.

The troublesome prince that’s set to marry– However, he has no maiden since he runs them off within a matter of hours. He’s got all the tricks needed to scare them away. Women are easy creatures, he’s got them all figured out. He’ll make sure he never gets married.

Marriage is for fools, he shouldn’t be married to become king. He can wait till the old man’s ultimate demise to take over.

Yet, there’s a woman that he can’t get off his back. A stupid noble that’s set on marrying him. An ambitious goody-two-shoes that’s set on becoming queen.

No matter what Sukuna does, he can’t get you off his back. He’s tried to make you uncomfortable in all imaginable ways. He’s ruined what feels like hundreds of dresses, started rumors about you, made out with servants right before you, badmouthed you to anyone and everyone— And yet you choose to stick around.

His last straw is when he sneaks up to your room half naked, set on ending it once and for all. Either you’ll lose your honor and he’ll hold it against you, or you’ll be too uncomfortable to continue this stupid game.

“What are you doing here?” You look at him with pure disdain in your eyes, your voice radiating annoyance. You roll your eyes watching as Sukuna lays comfortably in your bed, pretending to read one of your books.

“I want to spend some—“ The smirk on his face fades away when he looks at you, finally noticing the one detail that he’s glossed over. Too focused on his freedom, he failed to notice that you hold little to no respect for him. You don’t like him, on the contrary, you hate him.

He won’t end up making you uncomfortable, he’ll end up fueling the hate that you have for him. His heart… skips a beat?

You berate him, and in a matter of seconds, Sukuna realizes that you’ve done the impossible. You’ve made him fall in love.

[unikhroma]

we need to talk about ramb [analysis/theory]

MASSIVE shoutout to my friend mycringefactory for ripping his sprites

ramb! he's the power strip darkner in chapter 3 that runs the stand in the green room and introduces you to the set of games that leads to the chapter's unusual secret boss.

weird attention to detail with his sprites, telling kris that he knows they want, dismissing their concerns that something might be up, having a page of the sweepstakes ARG named after him instead of the location it's showing, directly introducing kris to a rendition of the weird route and saying that it's "REAL fun".

seems like if it were some other character, these would be ringing more alarm bells. but i knew, i Knew there was something up with him. he is the secret boss, it's just not in a way we're used to. strap in, cause this is long as fuck <- not an exaggeration i've been writing this for the past three days.

ramb is the shadow mantle enemy.

ramb wants kris to have fun and enjoy the games he's provided! no he really wants kris to have fun and enjoy the games. he mentions it a lot, and keeps saying that he knows kris and what they want. in the context of a game about the weird route no less.

and all this is much like the shadow mantle enemy. it says outright that it thinks a part of kris isn't getting the shadow crystals because it'll get what they want, instead it's that they're just enjoying this, like ramb keeps saying is the case for them.

it wasn't there to stop kris: what it wanted was to see kris play, said plain as day. i believe the flickering red comment is about kris' eyes, that it wanted to see them really get into playing the game.

it's hard to believe that this is all just a parallel when it lines up So Closely. i feel like you don't just have two characters speak almost exactly the same and with such an emphasis on the same things, with the only difference being an accent in one of them. not to mention that there's an NPC tells you who ramb parallels.

can't find footage, but m-chromatic says this is from a pippins NPC

the shadow mantle enemy also further emphasizes its interest in kris having fun with a secret room in one of the games:

"Having fun?"

it feels like such a personalized message to them, and whether kris is having fun is something that ramb is very concerned with.

something particularly notable is what happens the first time you get proper dialogue from the mantle enemy. after the board is cleared, kris asks ramb about someone being backstage, and he denies it and says he's been there on security the whole time.

also i find it odd that the first line is one of the few times that expression of his shows up. in the second line he turns his head away in a smile

another thing:

and this bit might be a stretch but it's worth mentioning: the little creature that the mantle enemy turns into does happen to have floppy ears like ramb does.

once again shoutout to mycringefactory for ripping these sprites

alright, so ramb may have control of this game, probably from the wide variety of controllers in the backstage (though i have a personal theory that he can go into the game himself). but why do i think he has anything to do with the game itself? well, this ties into a sub-theory:

MANTLE/MANHOLE is a dragon blazers romhack made by ramb, and is what tenna unknowingly built his game off of.

in case you're wondering why i'm giving it two names. i personally think it's manhole cause it ties into other things

tenna's game vs the original game. "some big ol' blasted line from A to B" vs "the ORIGINAL game where YOU decide what to do". the parallel of regular route vs weird route is a lil on the nose. in this game, you're made to do a re-imagining of the weird route in chapter two and something beyond that. but the game wasn't always that.

the spamton sweepstakes is how we know this. the d_a_m_n_y_o_u_t_e_n_n_a page and noelle's icepalace_glaceir blog teases MANTLE/MANHOLE and ties it back to ramb. clicking the TV will change the screen to be static-filled (like the game cuts to when the controller isn't plugged in), and the lowest point of the page contains static squares, one leading to a neon blue screen and the other leading to ramb's page.

the neon blue screen (similar to the title screen of MANTLE/MANHOLE) can be scrolled up to show what looks like a representation of the ice area in the old game where you use the ice key. the door on the page leads to noelle's icepalace_glaceir blog, where she describes an oddity in dragon blazers that lines up perfectly with an area in the old game.

this cross area in the old game is accompanied by a track named GLACEIR. on noelle's blog, she writes that she's currently listening to a song from dragon blazers of the same name. it would make sense that if she's writing about that area and feeling nostalgic about it, she'd be listening to the song from it as well.

the choice of word for what her mood is.. i can't help but think of how that one weird ass expression of ramb's is called "nostalgic"

with all that in mind, i feel like it's pretty clear that that "old thing" tenna says he based his game on was intended to be dragon blazers. except that "original game" was clearly tampered with. it's not a coincidence that this game has a rendition of the weird route's beginning, it was put in there by someone. tenna is bothered by MANTLE/MANHOLE's contents as well:

another clue on the game being modified by ramb is, despite it being dragon blazers, the third board isn't a non-specific RPG location and is instead based on cyber world, specifically cyber city and queen's mansion's basement.

ramb originates from cyber world and while tenna may have known things about cyber city due to his connection with spamton, it's highly unlikely that he's seen the mansion basement, so it had to be ramb who modded it. ramb mentions people who live in queen's mansion like he knows them well.

another thing.. think about the names associated with him: his name is ramb. like RAMb. to put it simply, RAM is any data in a computing device that can change or be modified, and it's implied that he modded dragon blazers.

his name is misspelled as ROMb in-game and in the sweepstakes page regarding him and the old game. the track that plays in the S-rank room and thus when you speak to him about the game is called "Dump". to mod a ROM, you'd have to dump it from the hardware first (though i don't think that's necessarily what ramb did since we're in a fantasy world).

the dump thing is interesting to me also cause as mentioned before, the spamton sweepstakes has a page for ramb, but it was first accessed by clicking "[scrap heap]" in one of the prize descriptions. another allusion to him and trash... btw i feel like it's worth stressing: HE'S HAD A PAGE NAMED AFTER HIM THIS WHOLE TIME!!

oh and there's these two lines from him that absolutely implies that he had some kind of hand in the games backstage. the "HIS" would not be emphasized like that if the old game was impersonal to ramb.

so why is ramb like this?

why'd he want kris to play his fucked up snowgrave game so much? what's all this talk about fun? and then after all that, asking them if opening the fountain was that good of an idea... after all, doing so would cause him several darkners to turn to stone.

he's a power strip. like outlets, power strips can have a large variety of things connected to them: fans, chargers, TVs, video game consoles.. the key difference though, is that they can have multiple things connected to them at once and they're portable.

ramb shouldn't turn to stone because, unlike that zapper that turned to stone because its likely to be for catti's TV and isn't compatible with the dreemurr's, he's not bound by that kind of restriction. in fact there's a lot of uses he can have, multiple at once even. he's also directly relevant to TV world as being able to provide power to tenna himself.

but ultimately, in the same vein as tenna, he stopped being used. and getting kris to play these games, when his purpose is "letting you play your games", might've been a way to keep himself alive. "Without play... the knife grows dull." i think this line from him as the shadow mantle is also in reference to how without him being played, he'll turn to stone (grow dull).

i don't think this is just that side of himself being un-petrified because of the light. the light is enveloping him entirely, you can see it go well past him. i think he needed to be as close in proximity to the game as he could since it's tied to his purpose. more on this later.

selfish actions aside, i do think ramb cares about kris. but he was also suffering from being outcasted both socially and by lightners including them, so i think he was preparing for a fountain opening and the opportunity to convince kris into spending time with him again.

he was really done dirty by his fellow darkners man

he projects onto kris so much: he wants to have fun too. he misses those times. an opportunity to meet an old friend in the midst of loneliness and to relive those good memories he holds onto so much? well, he had to do something.

...and the something he did was steal the shadow mantle and create a fucked up game for this kid because he missed seeing them have fun and thought that all that fucked up shit was what they liked. (i think it's implied that kris plays video games in a bit of an aggressive way? unfortunately struggling to find specific scenes about it)

the thing about how he was already stone on the inside makes me wonder if that's a way of saying that he died inside a while ago and the loneliness broke him. part of me thinks he's intended to represent mentally ill people who fall through the cracks cause they don't "seem" like they are. this power strip needs therapy and medication man

the implications of him modifying the game to show the weird route in particular though... is he trying to encourage it? is it a warning? was learning about the weird route the thing that made him spiral and turn to doing this? it's very likely yes, since similar things happened to jevil and spamton.

how does he know about the weird route and what happened to him?

awesome first question: i don't know. it's possible that, because he's meant to parallel tenna, that he too was contacted by the knight, and they told him about it. however, it may not be that one-to-one. since spamton's forbidden knowledge came from someone outside of the in-game universe (we presume gaster), he could've gotten it from that.

and what's up with all the DEVICE_FRIEND appearances in his romhack? ..honestly can't explain it either. but since he depicts queen's mansion in it, i get the feeling that he's been down there and he saw it. maybe it's something that really stuck with him, or he had extended contact with it.

now as for his fate.. after the sword route is complete (meaning all three boards of his game are finished), the rabbick in the S-rank room expresses fear over something that happened with ramb.

so what the hell happened to him to freak this rabbick out so much?

most likely: he parallels tenna, so maybe he was also enlisted by the knight, and his job was to keep the shadow mantle out of kris' hands. because he failed to do so, he got taken or hurt by the knight as punishment.

less likely but more interesting to me: let's address the rabbick saying that kris already went past. we saw the pixel kris leave the backstage, so that seems to be what they saw. the pixel kris escaping the game may mean that the game will technically never be turned off, making it so that ramb is always being "used" and thus not fated to turn to stone while the fountain is still open

so the rabbick might've been frightened by a darkner that shouldn't be alive coming to life again (..thoough i have a theory that he might be able to shapeshift and that freaked them out but that's for another post)

either way, if you completed the sword route, ramb is somewhere else now. isn't that fun?

so! now with all of this information about him in mind: do you see why i'm insane about him. there's more evidence for some of my points (like ramb knowing you missed the ice key and having another creepy message for kris in a secret room) and evidence for potential counterpoints, but this post is so fucking long man.

thinking about exploring other things about him like his beef with tenna but we'll see. because this took a lot out of me LOL. anyway:

THANK YOU FOR READING!

oh and by the way, if there's a little man who doesn't fit with the other darkners telling kris to do some weird out-of-the-way shit and telling them that that's what they really want and he's talking about freedom, you should be asking questions

[maydaymadier]

Lay off my buddy the sknull (skull snail), one of my favorite little guys

It's INCORRECT SKELETON SEASON, folks!!

[fanaroff]

DP x DC: Downed Danny Prompt

The Justice League are enlisted/hired by the GIW to capture and contain a dangerous ecto-entity. With the media blackout of Amity Park, the JL only have Constance’s input on these types of creatures. Since dangerous beings of the Infinite Realms, ones with intent on destruction, are the ones known to leave the Realms, the JL believe the GIW and begin to work with them on a plan.

The GIW have a ghost contained as bait. A big white creature covered in fur and ice, not unlike descriptions of yeti. It growls and howls at anyone that happens to come near or make eye contact. It speaks in what seems to be a mix of Esperanto and static. What is understood from it tends to be along the lines of “destroy you if you-“ before whatever is said is lost to ear-splitting static.

The creature is all claws and danger and does little to make the JL think that the entity they are after is not a villain. It only makes it seem more likely.

With a trap set far north, above any human civilization that could get caught in the crossfire, and following the tracking path the entity seems to be taking (following the bait), they wait to enact their plan. Drs. Jack and Maddie Fenton work with them to create the weapons and containment unit that can burst on with the press of a button.

When the entity appears, the JL do not expect it to look like a child. At least, not this much. All lanky limbs and awkward posture, it almost seems the perfect image of a teenager. Until one notices… the uncanniness. Bright, wild, green eyes that reminds Batman of one of his sons. Untamed white hair that drifts without a breeze. Claws. Fangs. It’s not human.

It barks something that strange screeching mixed language at them. It’s angry and has spotted the bait. It says the same thing, this time it’s hands light up green. Demanding. Its stance changes. It’s looking for a fight.

The yeti says something back that seems to only anger the entity further. Its fangs seems to grow longer, nails sharper, eyes brighter, and it aims a hand in the general direction of those present, outside of the yeti.

This is “Phantom.” The ecto-entity the GIW have been after for its destruction on the living plane for years. The one that seems hundreds of years old with pottery and paintings and crafts backing up the claim. It needs to be stopped. So the JL don’t hesitate.

The skill sets of ghosts were explained early on, so each member is ready with a Fenton-made weapon. Phantom’s eyes only harden when they aim them towards him.

Rather than immediately fight, like they assumed it would do, it flies straight towards the yeti. And suddenly, it’s falling.

None of the JL took the shot, but one of the Fenton’s (bundled in ghost proof arctic gear and holding the strongest hitting weapons), did.

Phantom goes down, hard.

The yeti flips out, growling and pulling at the exit chains that bind it. It’s making horrible, gut wrenching sounds and pulling towards the downed ghost until the binds break and it’s leaping towards it. The GIW slam on the ghost shield containment unit and the two are trapped together.

It’s only when the yeti is making mournful cries, holding a small shape as close as it can, green spilling and staining the white, white snow does the JL think that maybe, just maybe, they fucked up. That they should have done more research rather than blindly trust a group that convinced them that they only have humanity’s best interest.

*Feel free to use or add to it. I may make a full detailed one-shot of it soon too

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

[selineram3421]

здраствуйте можно сделать реакцию на ревность аластора

Translated:

Hi, can I get a reaction to Alastor's jealousy?

Yes.

Jealousy Headcanon 1

Alastor X Reader

Warning! ⚠

⚠ platonic to romantic, violence, all caps in bold italics = SOUND EFFECTS, implied torture/murder, gore? eyeballs, possessive? Alastor wants all of your attention ⚠

Alastor has never felt jealous! How absurd of you to think that! Hahaha! Ha... Who is that demon taking up your attention?

He always had your attention.

You could be talking to the Princess but still focus on him.

Hell, you could be checking in a guest and still keep up with his tale of the day.

But now it was quite odd.

There was a demon coming by the hotel, not to see if they were interested in the cause but to use up his friend's precious time.

Even now the beastly thing walked up to the check in counter and started up a conversation with you.

He watched from the bar.

"Hey! I see its dead as ever in here.", the dragon demon grinned as they leaned on the counter.

"Not true~", you had replied. "I checked in four new guests!"

Yes, you had a knack of persuasion. Able to convince many to do almost anything. Sometimes even him.

"Oh yeah? How many sinners walked in?", the scaled creature leaned close.

Far too close for his liking.

"I just told you how many.", you replied and placed a finger on the dragon's snout, pushing them back as well. "Personal space."

He didn't like this demon.

Everything about them set something off. Their manners, their way of speaking, the way they move-

"Oh come on, I don't bite sugar cake~", the beast took your hand and kissed their way up to your elbow.

The way they t̵̬̥̻͂̿̈́ȏ̴̒͠u̸c̷̈́̊̆́̓͘h̷e̴̖̖͒̓͂͋̎ḑ̴̣̋͜ you.

"Nope!", you yanked your arm away and held it close. "None of that.", you laughed nervously with an uncomfortable smile.

It looked wrong. Your smile should be a happy one.

"I said I don't bite!", they laughed and tried to grab at your arm again. "You know I'm messing! When's your break?", they leaned over the counter, still trying to get at something to pull you closer. "I know a good bar to go to, or we can go to the club! I'd like to see your ass in something a little less-"

"Ew, no.", you rejected and backed away.

"Come on!", they started to climb on the counter. "Its just one time! I'll even help you get in and out of your clothes.", they grabbed onto your sleeve.

That's ENOUGH!

He quickly shadow traveled and snatched the wrist of the dragon.

"I believe they said no."

The beast growled with a sneer before looking at him, freezing up once realizing who had their wrist.

"I was just joking man. Haha..", the dragon looked between him and you. "I understand! I'll back away. The slut is yours."

"Excuse me!?", you said angrily.

His antlers grew, the low static that hummed now raising up in volume.

"₵₳ⱤɆ ₮Ø ⱤɆ₱Ɇ₳₮ ₮Ⱨ₳₮?"

"The slut-"

SNAP

He held the demon's snout shut as they screamed and cried over their broken wrist.

"Now, there is a no killing rule in the hotel.", he said and then grinned menacingly. "But that doesn't apply outside."

His smile widened after seeing the panic in their eyes.

"Dear.", he turned to face you. "Has this guest overstayed their welcome?"

You stared at the beast with such a terrifyingly hateful glare.

"Yes they have.", you replied, crossing your arms. "I'd like to keep a souvenir, for memories."

And then you gave him that lovely smile.

"Alastor, do you think you could get me a dragon eye or two? I hear they make nice details to things."

"I'll make sure to get them.", he released the demon, only for his tendrils to take hold of them. "I won't be long.", he reassured, lifting up your hand to kiss the back of it.

He saw you blush before he 'escorted' the demon outside.

After finishing up (and calling Niffty to clean up), he returned with two freshly picked dragon eyes.

You thanked him with an odd little gleam in your eyes. No doubt your mind jumping idea to idea of what you could create with them.

Now with the pest gone, he would have your attention again.

Just like he wanted

"Thank you Alastor. I'll be able to make something interesting with these."

"I can't wait to see what you make this time."

Perhaps he'll ask you that question sooner than later.

Of course he has to prepare everything to properly court you.

I am using a website to translate requests. Please let me know if I have translated anything wrong.

~Seline, the person.

Taglist@

@willowaudreykeyes @biromanticboba @kiraisastay @pooplyface1423 @ducky-died-inside @scary-noodlesblog @lbcreations-blog @c4rved-pumpk1n @stolas-thebirb @+?

ML for Alastor🎙

[mwphisto]

Speaking of little trinkets… you know who would whole heartedly support your addiction to little trinkets?

SnowCrow.

Now, I think all LaDs men would support your love of plushies and trinkets and blind boxes and yada yada. But Sylus and Zayne? Oh they give you shit while fully funding your little journey of collecting all the little guys.

“Why does it have balls?” You huff a laugh as Sylus pinches your new Sonny Angel between his thumb and pointer finger, eyes narrowed at the odd tiny detail. “Because it’s a cherub! They’re always depicted in art as naked babies.” You say it so confidently that Sylus just nods along. “Did you get a duplicate?”

Zayne takes a seat beside you, setting down a drink in front of you and then Sylus before sipping his own. “Nope, this is a new little guy.” You grin as you pluck it from Sylus’ fingers, showing it off to Zayne like a fine jewel.

When you find a new love in blind boxes like the infamous Labubu? Sylus is actively on business calls with the company trying to negotiate you get sent a box set of each because he can’t take another night if you struggling on the live streams. “I’m serious, kitten. I’ll delete the app.”

“That’s a little harsh.” But Zayne is aware of Sylus’ scheme, and struggles to hide his smile when you pout.

“I’m going to get one, one day I swear!” But you’ve clicked the screen so many times just to see seas and seas of grayed out reserved boxes. Zayne just chuckles, your head bouncing from where it resides on his chest.

“Maybe sooner than you think.” Sylus mumbles as he plucks the phone from your hands, clicking it off so you’ll finally go to bed instead of losing sleep over the little creatures that have become such a hot commodity.

This is so ridiculous but I just had too LMAO

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Lacrimore

gothic fantasy

a medium travels to a mysterious island to do final rites for the aging scholar who lives in the sole crumbling mansion but finds him still alive

she decides to stay until he dies, hoping that the ritual will bring her the answers she’s been searching for since she lost her wife in the epidemic that swept the mainland

but the house’s few residents are unfriendly and the labyrinthine house itself is hiding dark secrets…

[ozzgin]

On the topic of shameless monster fuckers… Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance

The Monster under your bed loves haunting you. You see, scaring someone is an art few can master. One has to apply just the right amount of fright in order to have the poor human on their toes, yet perpetually clueless. Too much, and one risks unwanted exposure. Too little, and it wouldn’t be fun.

So, he settles for humble, yet efficient tricks. Creaks of the floor, a faint scratch underneath your bed. Did something touch your leg just now? He cackles in delight every time you jolt, or gasp, or bend over to check for the source of all these mysterious sounds. Useless.

Tonight he returns for his routine. The room is pitch black, and he drags along his grotesque limbs in skillful silence. As he lowers himself, his smirk abruptly falters, eyes wide in disbelief.

You’re lying in his very own spot, pillows strategically scattered, fingers joined together like a maiden about to say the lunchtime prayer. An impertinent smile crosses your face, cheeks dusted hot pink.

“Finally. I almost fell asleep waiting for you”, you declare, batting your eyelashes.

Was his long-standing, methodical approach flawed? Could it be? The shadow creature omitted one vital detail, one absurd possibility: that you could reverse the roles. Very well, now what? Have you come to seek your revenge? Do you truly believe you have the slightest chance against an ancient, unholy being of no creation or beginning?

Here’s another mistake - assuming your intention was that of confrontation. Thankfully he is quick to catch his own fallacy. He notes your circumstance: defenseless, curled in a tight, cramped space, with no escape. You have set yourself for failure. Before he can consider your reasoning, you pull him underneath, your small hands holding onto the cold, rugged surface of his blasphemous body.

Tonight you won’t be getting much sleep, yet for different reasons.

[More Monsters]

[cakypa120]

Danny didn't tell Dani that he was dating. Jazz told Dani who Danny was dating. Dani was upset with Danny for not telling her that he was dating Captain Marvel. So she came up with a little scam.

Dani: *flies into the meeting room* DAD! DAD!

Heroes: *watch in shock as the girl hugs Marvel, continuing to call for her dad*

Billy: *blue screen of death sound*

Dani: Daddy! Father won't let me go to Africa!! *starts crying loudly*

Marvel: *starts calming her down, although he doesn't understand what the hell she's saying* Hush, hush, I'll talk to him.

Dani: Really? *looks at Marvel with big puppy eyes*

Marvel: Really, really. *pats her on the head* I'll talk to him after the meeting. Come home, otherwise he'll worry.

(He's in a panic, he doesn't understand what he's saying, but the girl looks like his boyfriend. Danny said he had a clone. Billy will play as long as necessary)

Dani: But I want to stay with you. You come home so rarely because of work.

Marvel: Honey, you know it's not easy being a hero.

Dani (didn't expect Captain to play along): But you don't have time for me.

Marvel: I have all the time in the world for you.

Dani: *hugs Marvel* I love you daddy.

Marvel: I love you too, honey.

The League: *stands with their mouths wide open, staring at this picture*

Danny nearly has a heart attack when Dani and Billy tell him everything. Dani is grounded for a few days. Billy is terrified as his communicator is blowing up with emails and calls from his colleagues. Everyone wants to know more details. So Billy does what a normal person does. He goes on a two-week mission to another world, leaving Fawcett to protect Danny.

Flash: Who are you and where is Captain?

Danny: Marvel is in another world. He wrote to you.

Superman: You look a lot like that girl.

Danny: *sweats* Of course. That's how it should be.

GL: You're her father!!

Batman: What kind of creature are you? And how old are you?

Danny: I'm a ghost. I died when I was fourteen, but that was a long time ago! A long, long time ago! I just look like this.

Diana: How did you meet Marvel?

Danny: *keeps a straight face while screaming inside* You know, it just...happened? You know, like Penelope and Odysseus? Exactly the same! Yeah!

Batman: You're protecting the city instead of Marvel?

Danny: Yeah, and I'd be glad if you left. Magic City and all that crap. Fawcett still doesn't like me.

GL: The city is alive?

Danny: He's definitely more alive than me, so leave before he sets some magical parasites on you. Marvel won't be happy if he finds magical lice on you.

And eventually everyone comes to the conclusion that Marvel and Phantom are married.

Billy:*bursts into Danny's room* Why do they think we're married?!

Danny: How should I know?! They're your coworkers!!

[disarraydoodlez]

For the Christmas doodles how about Shifty and Quiet (or any of the vessels and voices really,) setting up a Christmas tree? Or making a snowman. Pick your poison :)

THE POISON IS PICKED!! Had loads of fun with this one including a whole different version that felt a lil too stiff. Kinda went with a Bell from Beauty and the Beast's styled outfit for the princess. Absolutely love the goobers goobering about.

Not sure if we'll be able to get to all of y'alls doodle suggestions before christmas, but this is why we don't make promises baybeeeee. Having loads of fun with princess and the creature, but don't be shy anyone from our other fandoms for Christmas-y ideas.

Anyways now we also have a design for our hero! He's a little more detailed than the rest of our voices (most of which need a redesign or a design at all) but I think that works given he is a lot more prominent in the story. Also, just look at this lil guy! So much birb!

[ineffectualdemon]

Shen Qingqiu decided he wasn't going to spend the next 5 years moping!

He had the author up talk to! He could finally ask all the world building questions and get all the monster details he wanted!

With that in mind he grabbed his favourite bestiary and walked elegantly to An Ding.

He definitely did not run like a little kid eager to talk to their friend about the latest power ranger episode.

He let himself into the other's leisure house, ignoring the disciples who tried to stop him.

"So," Shen Qingqiu began setting the bestiary in front of a very startled Shang Qinghua, "I have questions." He continued as he opened the bestiary to an illustration of a creature made of darkness and tentacles. With too many mouth and even more teeth.

"Ah" Shang Qinghua began after squinting at the page "Would."

He smiled up at Shen Qingqiu as if he was happily playing a game.

Shen Qingqiu meanwhile went completely still. His face blank and his fingernails digging into to the wood of the desk as that word bounced around his suddenly void of a brain.

They say the cry of "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WOULD'!?!????!!!!" was heard all across the peaks and even into the foothills.

The sight of the Xiu Ya sword chasing the An Ding Peak Lord all across An Ding was reserved for the disciples of that peak alone.

They would have interfered but their Shizun didn't seem in any real danger and judging from the cackling was actually enjoying himself for once.