#utter filth iii

[radiation-risk]

Look, hate III as much as I do, but nothing will beat Utter Filth. Such a vibe.

[arandombirdie]

Here's Utter Filth

I'll probably be posting a scene redraw tomorrow or something but for now, have this little guy.

[physicalflat]

i haven't shut up about voicing in ii on other social medias and Tumblr is no exception. have you met It.

[zanestittywindow]

[Inanimate Insanity Invitational Episode 11 Spoilers]

I didn't really lijw how the inani-mates' images on the wiki page were so I sort of went over them to try make them look a tad bit nicer ! Tge sizifn isn't great abd they're all a littel off but yeag!

Montgomery [later Sprinkles 2] ↓

N/A ↓

Sprinkles ↓

Tootsy Wootsy ↓

Flamina ↓

Utter Filth ↓

Diamond Crusher ↓

Nickel Jr. ↓

Quacky ↓

[takaraphoenix]

Shot Through the Heart

Tags: m/m/m, polyamory, Erica Lives, Boyd Lives, Jackson Doesn't Leave, Pack Feels, Spark Stiles, magic, fluff, hurt/comfort, competence kink, m/f

Main Pairing: Chris/Peter/Stiles

Side Pairings: Scott/Allison, Boyd/Erica, Jackson/Lydia

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Chris Argent, Peter Hale, Allison Argent, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd III, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin

@writersmonth Prompts: mischief + mountain

Summary: After the kanima curse is broken, Chris unwillingly lets himself be dragged into pack business so he can protect his daughter. Unfortunately, Stiles proves too cunning and tempting. He's not the only one tempted though and their mutual simping over Stiles brings him and Peter together.

This Story on FFNet | This Story on AO3

Shot Through the Heart

Stiles Summer Stories 2024

Chris had no idea how he had ended up here. A year ago, he'd been a respectable hunter, married to a strong woman, a regular, normal family father. And now he was in bed with a werewolf, who kept whispering filth about a boy who was his daughter's age while the two fucked like animals.

Chris heaved a sigh as he rolled onto his back, resting the back of his hand on his forehead. He never meant to develop feelings for Peter Hale. But then again, he absolutely, most definitely had not meant to develop feelings for Stiles either and, arguably, those were what had brought him into bed with Peter in the first place, which had then led to the aforementioned feelings for the wolf.

It hadn't started out like this. When he had arrived here, in Beacon Hills, with Victoria and Allison, it wasn't supposed like this. And then, one by one, every lie he'd ever clung to crumbled. His marriage with Victoria had been arranged and on their good days, they got along splendidly. As much as a gay man could get along with his wife emotionally distant, anyway. What united them had always been Allison and the hunt. And then they started to drift apart, because Chris started to question the way his family hunted, and Allison sat smack in the middle of it – being groomed by Kate, by Gerard, while also being deeply in love with a werewolf.

But even with every horrid thing they had done, they were still his family. His wife, his sister, his father. And he had lost them all in the span of less than a year. It broke something inside him, something that needed to mend and didn't know how. It was Allison who showed him.

After everything, she was more determined than ever to stand with the wolves, and she dragged him right along with her, because he couldn't lose her, not her. She was his only family left, she was his daughter, his world. He needed to protect her and he knew that taking her away from the pack wasn't going to work, he knew that to protect her, he would have to be there. With the pack.

But first came a bit of healing, for them both. After his father's death, after the way Allison had lost it – Chris had been terrified of his daughter, of what was becoming of his daughter, when she had shot down Boyd and Erica like it was nothing, like they were nothing and it was the final straw, it was his personal tipping point that this needed to stop, they could no longer be the kind of hunters he had been all his life, he could not see his daughter become like them. Hunters ought to be about honor and this had nothing to do with honor, what the Argents had become was a warped and twisted thing of vengeance and pain. He took her to Paris, over the summer. Months away from Beacon Hills, months to mourn and heal (including actual therapy, for the both of them).

When they came back, things between Allison and the pack were tentative, to say the least. She had the unwavering support of Scott and Lydia, but the utter (and deserved) distrust of Boyd, Erica and Stiles. The Hales were wary and not fans of it either. Yet in the end, despite his distrust, it had been Stiles who was the deciding factor and that afternoon had drastically changed Chris' life...

/break\

Chris didn't even know why he was here, in Derek Hale's loft. Allison had been invited to a pack meeting and she had been requested to bring her father along. She'd offered her father the patented princess eyes that he had never been able to deny. All she wanted was to redeem herself, to show the pack that she was trustworthy, that she wanted to be good, all she wanted was to help. And Chris couldn't deny her that, even if it meant going to meet the Hale Pack.

"Why are they here," Derek growled, eyes flashing red.

His fists were balled at his side, Boyd, Erica and Isaac beside him, snarling and flashing their eyes too. Jackson appeared more neutral, torn between the loyalty to his new Alpha and his pack-mates and his loyalty toward his mate – Lydia Martin, who had immediately dashed over to hug Allison tightly. Scott was standing on Allison's other side, growling at the other wolves. Peter was in the back, on the spiral staircase, observing it all with a calculating but intrigued gaze.

"Put the claws away, Sourwolf," Stiles spoke as he stepped between them. "I invited them."

Chris froze, surprised. Partially by the boy's words – he had invited Allison? And Chris? Why? He'd been hunted and tortured by Gerard, he had been right there with Boyd and Erica, why would he ever look at an Argent again? Chris had assumed Scott invited her, wanted her to be involved in all of this – and partially by his action. This sixteen year old lanky human boy just stepped in front of an Alpha wolf whose fangs and claws were out. The guts on that kid were terrifying. But then he'd also faced Gerard down when the man had tortured him, not backing down but rather wise-cracking and pushing Gerard's buttons. Stiles had absolutely no self-preservation instincts and he was braver than he should be. Braver than anyone should be.

"Why," Derek snarled this time, stepping up to Stiles and pushing him.

Stiles didn't back down, but the action did make Scott growl in anger and attempt to lung forward. Chris reached out to press a hand against Scott's chest and push the boy back. The last thing they needed was for an all out fight to break out between the wolves in the room and somehow, for reasons beyond Chris' comprehension, Chris was sure that Stiles knew what he was doing.

"Because there's a pack of fucking Alpha werewolves in town," Stiles snarled right back, holding direct eye contact with red Alpha eyes without submitting. "Not just a pack of evil wolves, a whole damn pack of Alphas. You're not going to take them out on your own, Derek, for fuck's sake. You agreed to accept help. Here's your fucking help."

"Yours and Scott's," Derek hissed back. "That's the help I agreed to."

"Didn't specify," Stiles had that cocky, infuriating half-smirk on his lips that stretched too far. "I told you you needed help, you agreed. I meant me and Scott. And I meant the Argents. Who in this room has the most experience hunting and killing werewolves? You? Your bunch of barely a couple months old puppies who barely saw any action so far?"

Stiles motioned around, motioned at everyone present. Chris couldn't help but follow the motion. A bunch of scared and traumatized teenagers who'd only been turned months ago, who were most likely still learning about their wolves and how to fight. His eyes landed on Peter and he didn't like what he saw on the other man's face. He looked far too pleased and in Chris' experience, that was never a good thing. There was also something unsettling about Peter's focus on Stiles.

"You know Stiles is right, nephew," Peter declared delighted. "I hate the idea of working with an Argent as much as you do, but the threat we're facing are werewolves. And they're werewolf hunters. Now stop trying to intimidate the boy, you know it's not working."

With clenched teeth did Derek back off of Stiles, looking mostly annoyed that his uncle's words were true. Stiles had to be cocky about that too, earning him another growl from the Alpha. Truly no self-preservation instincts whatsoever.

"Look," Stiles sighed, his posture relaxing and his voice softening some. "I know. I get it. I spent a lovely evening getting tortured by an Argent, not exactly the biggest fan right now either. But they have a unique expertise that we're going to need. The Alpha Pack went after Boyd and Erica, they nearly captured them before. If you, Peter and Isaac hadn't found them…" Stiles shook himself. "They've been laying low for months now and I don't have a good feeling about it. Tell me, honestly, do you? Do you believe that they just... up and left and gave up? Or do you think they're hiding and plotting and we're about to be hit with a shitstorm of apocalyptic proportions?"

The Alpha's silence spoke volumes. Derek crossed his arms, aiming a glare at Chris and Allison. Chris noted the lack of red eyes. Apparently, the wolf had calmed down some. Apparently, the loud-mouthed teen was convincing the Alpha to do what he wanted.

"I'm not saying invite them into your pack," Stiles continued. "Fuck, I'm not even asking you to invite me or Scott back into your pack, I know Scott fucked up badly."

Erica and Boyd whined displeased by that, and so did Scott, though for different reasons. The two betas who had been tortured alongside Stiles clearly felt a kind of bond with the boy, most likely wanted him in their pack. And Scott? Chris wasn't sure, perhaps it was guilt, or regret.

"Right now, all of us have a common enemy," Stiles motioned around again. "Your pack as much as Scott and I, and a pack of Alphas isn't going to ignore the hunters in town either. So the best we all can do to survive is work together."

"He's right," Lydia pointed out, holding Allison's hand and Derek's gaze. "You know he's right. There's strength in numbers, and in shared resources."

"From what I gather," Chris spoke up when the silence stretched on. "I agree too. A pack of Alphas? As in, a pack where every member is an Alpha? Stiles is right, they won't ignore hunters, they'll come after us to eliminate a threat. And my best chance to keep Allison alive against a threat like that are you and your pack. A truce, Hale. We don't have to be friends, we just have to keep those we love alive and safe and we're each other's best bet."

He spoke to the Alpha, but his eyes did drift over toward Peter too. Both Hales were thoughtful. In the end, it was Derek who caved, with a heavy sigh, nodding. His betas backed down too. The next two hours were spent talking. Derek and Peter explained about the symbol found on the door of the Hale House, about the Alphas who had tried to go after Boyd and Erica, the concept of a pack made up entirely of Alpha werewolves. It was a lot to digest.

"I'll reach out to the contacts I still have, that I know I can trust, see what I can learn."

Derek nodded his acknowledgment. "Do you… want to… join our patrols? More people mean more shifts. More opportunity for rest for the others."

"Yes," Chris agreed without hesitation.

Not having to patrol on his own, for the sake of protecting Allison, sounded good. Even if he was still reluctant to trust wolves, he was trying to work up to it. Stiles clapped, grinning delighted.

"Wonderful. I am so proud of all of you. Cookies for everyone," Stiles stretched. "It's getting late, let's call it a day. We'll stay in contact, work out a schedule."

"How are we staying in contact? Coming here?" Chris looked displeased.

Stiles typed away on his phone and then suddenly, everyone's phone was buzzing. When Chris pulled his out of his pocket, he saw that he had been added to a Beacon Hills Defense Squad group-chat with… the entire pack, Lydia, Allison, Scott and Stiles.

"How do you even have my number," Jackson asked disturbed.

"How do you have my number?" Peter sounded genuinely baffled.

Chris wasn't going to repeat the sentence, but he was asking himself the same question. Stiles' grin turned just a note of shit-eating as he offered a casual shrug and stuffed his phone into his hoodie.

"Easier this way," was Stiles' only reply. "That way, we can easier organize meetings and patrols, share information and update everyone on how patrol went. Or ask for help in case of Alpha Pack."

The meeting was pretty much over at this point. Allison was lingering in the corner with Lydia, Scott and Jackson, talking softly, looking tense and reluctant. Boyd, Erica and Isaac were in the other corner. Derek stood closer to his uncle – not close though – and Chris was near the door, only waiting for Allison so they could go. Which was when Stiles approached him.

"You're going to give me wolfsbane bullets," Stiles stated.

"What," Chris coughed, surprised by the demand.

The wolves in the room quieted down and turned toward them. "Wolfsbane bullets. You're going to give them to me. I don't want to play the 'your dad tortured me in your basement so you owe me' card, but… your dad tortured me in your basement so you owe me."

"Stiles," Scott's voice pitched in distress.

"No," Stiles cut him off, voice and gaze sharp, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. "This was always about you, I played by your rules because you're the one who went through the painful, traumatic change. Guess what. You're no longer the only one who went through something painful and traumatic. I'm done being the helpless human sidekick, Scott. I got kidnapped and tortured because I was defenseless and I will not be defenseless again."

"But…" Scott's resistance weakened, but his face still looked troubled.

"Remember," Stiles pressed his lips together for a second. "When I said that I'll forgive you, but you owe me for going behind my back and getting us kicked out of the pack? This is it. This is what you owe me, Scotty. I know you hate guns, but I hate getting tortured."

His eyes were cutting like sharpened steel and Scott faltered completely, looking guilty and worried. Chris crossed his own arms over his chest, regarding Stiles with a pointed look. This was not a discussion he needed to have with Scott, he wanted this from Chris, after all.

"I will not give you a gun, Stiles."

"Didn't ask for a gun," Stiles cocked one eyebrow. "I asked for bullets."

"Didn't ask," Peter chimed in, sounding far too amused. "Demanded."

"What would you even do with just bullets," Isaac asked confused.

"I figured I'd just throw them real hard," Stiles' voice was dripping with sarcasm and he rolled his eyes. "I have a gun, I just need the werewolf-killing-bullets to make it effective."

"Why do you own a gun, Stilinski," Jackson sounded mortified.

It was a fair question. Stiles was a minor and he was Stiles. Chris had seen the boy flail and twitch and the thought of his finger on a trigger was utterly unsettling. Stiles looked unimpressed.

"Well, I don't technically 'legally' own a gun," Stiles put actual finger quotes up at 'legally'. "It was my mother's. According to her will, it's going to be mine when I turn twenty-one. It's been collecting dust in the family safe, so I'll just get it out… early."

"That just makes it sound worse," Lydia muttered, one hand clasped over her mouth.

"Yeah," Erica made a face. "Hate to agree with Lydia on principle, but you shooting a gun?"

"You guys make it so hard not to take offense to this," Stiles huffed. "I'm literally the sheriff's son, it's honestly insulting that you people think my dad hasn't taught me how to respect, take care of and use a gun. I was practically raised at the sheriff's station and whenever I got bored – which, if you met me, you know happens fast and a lot – the deputies take me to the shooting range. Also, we literally live in the middle of the damn woods. My dad and I go hunting once a month. So yes, I even know how to hit a moving target."

"I am beyond intrigued," Peter's voice was close to a purr. "I'd love to see that."

"Are you offering to be target practice?" Stiles' grin was all teeth and wickedness.

"I am going to require you actually proving that," Chris pointed out, wanting to interrupt whatever was happening between Peter and Stiles now. "I'll not provide ammunition to a minor just because he's sassing and guilt-tripping me, Stiles."

Stiles shrugged, indifferent look on his face. "Give me a time and a place and I'll be there."

"Oh, I will be there too," Lydia declared with wide eyes.

"Me three," Erica tagged on. "Batman using a gun? I have to see that."

"Aw, a bonding experience for the whole team," Stiles snickered, eyeing Chris.

"Fine," Chris heaved a sigh. "Saturday, ten AM, my house."

/break\

Peter could not picture a place he'd want to be any less than the Argent house. And on a Saturday morning, at that. Like he didn't have better things to do. Alas, his boy had invited himself into the Argent house to prove to the hunter that he deserved to get wolfsbane bullets and suddenly, there were various reasons for Peter to be here.

Stiles was the most interesting this this town had to offer. The boy was clever, cunning, brave, loyal, snarky, stubborn and beautiful. Peter had been intrigued from the get-go. He'd told Stiles that he thought Stiles would make a magnificent wolf, and he had meant it. Stiles fascinated him and that fascination quickly grew into infatuation when he came back from the dead, more sane. More there, more focused. The fact that Stiles had been tortured by an Argent made his blood boil, but his wolf was also howling in awe when he'd heard from Boyd and Erica how Stiles had taken the brunt force of it, distracting Gerard from them, trying to protect them, even getting eletricuted when he'd tried to free them. That boy's loyalty and his dedication to protect those he deems worthy made Peter's wolf snarl and growl with the need to break out and claim that perfect potential mate.

Patience, he'd whisper to his wolf. Stiles had killed him and he had plenty of reason to resent him. Peter, upon coming back, had vowed to make himself worthy, to charm the boy, show him how alike they were and how perfect Peter was for him. Which included protecting his boy.

And that was why Peter entered the Argent house, together with the rest of the slowly growing Hale Pack. Peter's eyes wandered over Derek and the reluctant betas. Isaac was standing closer to Scott than he was to Derek. Boyd and Erica, they had left the pack. They'd returned only because of Stiles, because of the bond those three forged that night was what kept them here, what made them return. Well, Peter knew that him, Derek and Isaac coming to get them after Stiles told them, that had helped too. It had mended some things between the two betas and Derek. But, again, it was Stiles who had been the deciding factor here, the one to even let them know they had to find and save the two betas. Then there was Jackson, the first Derek had turned… and then abandoned to a horrible fate. A very strained relationship, even though Jackson had joined the pack.

Peter knew Derek was doing the best he could, he knew Derek was trying. And part of Peter did feel for his nephew, the part from before the fire, the uncle who had always been there for Derek, the beta of the Hale Pack who'd seen the wide-eyed kid trailing after his Alpha mom. Derek was never meant to be an Alpha and the way he had become Alpha was warped and twisted too. Killing his uncle, after his uncle had killed his sister. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Lydia and Stiles were the first ones to enter the house after Allison opened the door. Lydia immediately linking fingers with her best friend. She made her alliance quite obvious, even if her mate was part of the Hale Pack, she was not going to join the pack without Lydia. A similar sense of loyalty as Stiles'. Peter wondered if an Argent could, or would, ever join the Hale Pack.

"Come," Chris spoke gruffly, leading the way to the garage.

He looked supremely annoyed and Peter got some sense of delight from that. Annoying an Argent. What could he say, he had to find joy in the small things in life, since he was no longer allowed to kill Argents. The three aggressors, the ones that had personally hurt the Hale Pack, were dead. His instincts had wanted them all dead, blind rage still gripping him even with his clearer mind. Once again, it boiled down to Stiles. Chris had gotten Stiles home when the hunters had let him go and then he'd returned and freed Boyd and Erica too. That bought him a lot of leeway with Peter right now. Allison, Peter wasn't a big fan of, too easily influenced by her murderous family, so quick to flip on the wolves and hurt them. However, she was Scott's mate so killing her would upset Scott – which, in itself, wasn't the problem, but an upset Scott would upset Stiles.

"I set a target up for you," Chris side-eyed Stiles warily. "But before I let you shoot anything, you're going to show me that you know your way around a gun. Take it apart."

He motioned at the table where a gun was laying. Peter had no idea about guns but it looked average to him. Together with the rest of the pack, as well as Allison, Scott and Lydia, did Peter stand there, watching. Was he the only one in the room who had confidence in his boy? Did they really all come to watch Stiles flail and fail? Pathetic.

"You don't have to be here, Scotty," Stiles spoke softly as he sat down on the chair.

"What is the problem anyway?" Jackson asked, motioning between them. "I have never seen you two disagree I thought you shared a brain-cell, that Stilinski usually has custody over."

Stiles snorted and flipped him off, but he didn't answer. He just looked inquisitively at Scott. The other boy shifted a bit nervously, looking very uncomfortable. In the end, he nodded reluctantly.

"Scott's father is an FBI agent," Stiles replied, his gaze on the gun. "We were… small. Playing around. Sure, Rafael kept the gun in his gun safe. But c'mon. If you use your son's birthday as your code, of course is his best friend going to crack that safe. We were both kids of law-enforcement so of course did we want to play cops and robbers."

Something on Stiles' face twisted and he grabbed his shirt, pulling it up to show a scar on his stomach. "We were five. We had no idea what we were doing, or that the gun was real."

There were gasps and Peter couldn't help the growl. Chris next to him shot him a sharp look at it.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," Scott sounded small and miserable and looked so unfathomably guilty that even Peter felt the need to comfort the pup. "I shot my best friend. And… And Stiles nearly…" Scott choked on air and shook his head. "I hate guns."

Stiles pushed his shirt down again and sighed. "You do. But I don't. Because after that day, my dad made it his mission to make sure this never happens again. He taught me to respect a gun, to take care of it and once I hit thirteen, he started teaching me how to shoot."

With that, he sat down in front of the gun, taking it into his hand with a small grin, his eyes landing on Chris. "You want me to take it apart to earn shooting it? I could do that with my eyes blindfolded. Well. Actually. Why not."

The small grin turned into something wicked and cocky as Stiles held direct eye-contact with Chris while his nimble, long fingers took the gun apart and placed all individual parts neatly next to each other. Peter stood right next to Chris, the hunter staying more away from the pack, so Peter was most likely the only one in the room who could smell the sudden and intense spike in arousal coming off the other man. Peter's gaze snapped over to Chris, eyes intense, sharp and vicious. A snarl formed on his face, before he saw the look on Chris'. The hunter looked as surprised as Peter felt. Mh. Interesting. So the prim and proper hunter, the loving father and grieving widower, wasn't all that, after all. It would be amusing if it wasn't aimed at Peter's boy.

"Now put it back together again," Chris ordered, voice and eyes firm.

His arms were crossed over his chest, drawing attention to his bulging biceps and the way his shirt spanned over his chest. Peter didn't have to like the man to appreciate the view. But his attention was needed elsewhere. He needed to see those elegant fingers work again. It took him a lot of self-control to not flash his eyes in hunger and to not show his own arousal. Born wolves were better at masking their scents and controlling what kind of chemosignals they gave off.

With as much easy and just as quickly did Stiles put the gun together again. "Satisfied?"

"And a little turned on," Erica said, fanning herself. "Damn, Batman. You do have a secret identity."

Her mate next to her didn't seem jealous, he just huffed out an amused grunt, looking impressed and nearly fond. The bond those three had forged deeply fascinated Peter, because it was the first time he got to see proper pack-bonds ever since the fire. Which was only more intriguing due to the fact that Stiles wasn't even pack, technically. A technicality Peter was set to change.

"Prove that you also know how to use it," Chris instructed.

There was a target set up and a set of ear-muffs and protection glasses laid out. Stiles looked utterly pleased with himself, and that look suited the boy, as he got ready and grabbed the gun. Peter's eyes wandered to Scott for only a moment. His inner wolf found itself worried for the pup. The thought of accidentally nearly killing your pack-mate, your brother, and as small, defenseless children, it stirred something in Peter that he hadn't felt in many years. He could feel the side of himself that used to be a good uncle, that used to care for the pups and protect them. But Scott seemed okay, where he was standing by Allison's side, his mate providing him the comfort and support

Peter stepped closer to Chris, who had subconsciously – or maybe even intentionally – taken more steps away from the pack. Oh no, that wouldn't do. Peter was going to watch like a hawk. Or rather, smell like a wolf, because his eyes were needed on his boy.

And what a view. Stiles looked so comfortable and at ease as he aimed the gun at the target. He took three shots, before he put the safety back on and laid the gun down on the table. The coil of arousal from Chris was even more intense this time, when they looked at the target. One through the heart, one right between the eyes, and the third directly through the throat. Vicious little vixen.

Was it possible to fall even harder for the boy? The murderous intend, the capability. He'd found everything about Stiles appealing already, but he hadn't been sure how far Stiles was willing to go. Sure, he'd killed Peter, but that had not been planned, it'd happened in the moment. This? This showed that Stiles was willing to aim to kill. And it made Peter's wolf purr in delight.

"Well, Mister Argent, do we have a deal?"

Only Stiles could make a respectful address sound this mocking. Peter smirked pleased, watching how satisfied with himself the boy was. Yes, this look did suit him. Sure of himself, of his abilities.

"We have a deal," Chris heaved a tired, defeated sigh.

"What," Isaac sounded surprised. "I mean, I saw him do all that too, but I still didn't think you would give bullets to a minor, to be honest."

"I'm going to do more than that," Chris ground out as he went to grab a couple boxes of bullets to place them in front of Stiles. "Keep the gun, Stiles."

"What," Stiles raised both his eyebrows. "I told you-"

"That you would steal a gun out of your family safe that your father knows about. The last thing we need is for anything to be traced back to your father and you ending up in foster care because they blame your dad for your access to a gun," Chris' voice was firm, not leaving room for an argument. "Keep the gun, Stiles. It can't be traced back, not even to me."

"You're giving a gun to a minor," Peter sounded more amused than surprised.

"Stiles is right," Chris said this and Stiles looked so pleased and smug at it. "Out of everyone here, most have claws, fangs and super-healing. Me and Allison, we have our training and our weapons. Stiles and Lydia are the most vulnerable and the most defenseless. If Stiles actually knows what he's doing and knows to take it seriously, I don't see why he shouldn't have a gun to protect himself even when there are no wolves around to protect him."

"Which, actually, brings me to my second request," Stiles aimed a shit-eating grin at Chris. "I need you to teach Lydia how to defend herself so she never gets mauled by an Alpha again."

Ouch. Low blow. Peter tried not to bristle. It was a fair low blow, but still.

"Done," Chris shrugged. "She's Allison's best friend. She's an innocent. I'm not against teaching you to defend yourself. However, you're going to be a part of that too, Stiles. You won't always have your gun at hand, you won't always be in a good position to shoot. You need to be able to defend yourself without your gun too."

"Not going to protest to that," Stiles smiled, more genuine this time.

/break\

They were on their way back from the Argents together, walking slowly. Stiles knew how sensitive Scott was about guns and he got it, he really did. He had the scar to prove it, after all. But things had gone too far. He'd tried, he really had, for Scott's sake. And then he got kidnapped and tortured and had to see his pack – his friends – tortured alongside him. He would not be put into that position again. He refused to be helpless, to be useless, ever again.

"I'm sorry, Scotty," Stiles sighed. "I wish there was a better method, but there isn't. What else am I supposed to do? Try and fight Alpha wolves with, what, a baseball bat?"

He snorted and Scott sighed. "No. I… I do get it. I want you safe too, dude. You're my best friend. When you… after you… I got really scared when you told me what happened."

Stiles gently bumped his shoulder against Scott's, trying to sooth the young wolf. Still, Scott kept giving him side-eye looks like there was more he wanted to say. Stiles could wait.

"You smelt like grief and regret, at the meeting, when you brought up that I owe you for getting us kicked out of the pack," Scott spoke evenly, like he was trying to sound serious. "I thought… I didn't think that you cared. When we joined the pack, I suggested it and you followed along and I only did it because Gerard forced me by threatening my mom and I didn't want to, I didn't want to stay, so I left. And I just assumed that you felt the same way. But you don't. Why not?"

Stiles stumbled a little at that, staring at his best friend in surprise. This wasn't the first time they talked about the Hale Pack, but usually Scott's voice was a frustrated whine and there was pure stubbornness in his eyes. This was the first time Scott asked with genuine interest and with a look in his eyes that showed he was paying real attention. He actually wanted to know.

"Derek has saved my life multiple time in the past year," Stiles started slowly. "When I couldn't reach you because you were on a date with Allison – don't look so hurt, I'm not saying it to hurt you, I'm stating a fact, this is what happened and we can't change the past – he was always there. He came and saved my ass when nobody else did. I trust him."

A pause, Stiles took a deep breath. "And you should too. You say you only joined his pack because you got forced to, but Derek accepted you into his pack willingly. When we were at the rave, when he heard you were in distress – when you called for your Alpha – he came running. And he saved your life, without hesitation. Without Derek, you would be dead now. Even before that. Sure, he was… not as forthcoming as he could have been, but he has been helping us with all of this, he's tried to protect Allison from you back during your first full moon, to make sure you don't hurt the girl you love, even though that girl is an Argent. He didn't have to do that, but he did."

Scott looked nearly uncomfortable, staring at the pavement beneath their feet as they walked. "I… I guess you're not wrong with that. He just… pisses me off so much. You say he could be more forthcoming but he has put us in danger with his lack of communication."

"Oh, he pisses me off all the time, if I physically could, I absolutely would punch his smug face twice a day," Stiles snorted amused. "Doesn't mean I don't trust him with my life though."

"But the betas-" Scott started to argue.

"You are literally spending nearly as much time with Isaac as you are with me," Stiles pointed out dryly. "And don't wince, you know I'm right. You've grown attached. I don't mind, he's a bit of a bastard, I find that charming. But what Boyd, Erica and I… What we went through. Nobody else will ever understand it, not really, because nobody else was in that damn basement with us. It… I can't explain this to you, Scott, and I'm honestly a little glad you don't understand it. You don't understand it because you haven't had to experience this kind of trauma bond and I hope you never will. But yeah. We have shared a trauma and it… brought us closer."

Scott heaved a frustrated sigh, nearly defeated. "There's Jackson and Peter too."

"They're different now," Stiles offered a half-shrug. "Jackson… Fuck. What he's just been through? I don't like the guy but I feel awful for him. I wouldn't want to have to go through that, being robbed of my autonomy, having someone else puppeteer my body, using me to kill? That's terrifying, Scott. And I think it changed him. It, and the isolation from it, changed him. He'd not exactly nice and friendly, but he's not been hurling insults. Besides, the whole… the reason why he became the kanima is because he didn't feel like he belonged and… doesn't that hit you too? We were both always lonely and outcasts, but we had each other. Jackson, who seemed to have everything, including the gorgeous gay best friend and the gorgeous girlfriend, was still so unfathomably lonely that he didn't turn into a wolf. Doesn't that fuck you up too?"

"...Yeah, it does," Scott admitted after a moment, voice soft.

"Peter's changed too," Stiles continued, more careful this time. "He was feral. When he turned you, he was fully feral. He'd been isolated and packless for six years. Derek showed you an omega, didn't he? Peter was an omega. Only that it was even worse because he was locked into his own body. And all that after he watched his family burn alive. I can't imagine what I would be like after that. And I'm not a werewolf. That doesn't excuse what he did to you, but it explains it. And he's changed, dying… I don't know, but it was like a reset, like it helped him heal."

"So you… really wouldn't mind? Being in a pack with him, and with Jackson? With them all?"

"Mind's the wrong word," Stiles tilted his head. "I liked being part of the pack. There was this… pull. When we were at that rave, I… I could do something I've never done before. And when I was working with Erica and Isaac inside, we worked together well, they listened to me, they respected me, I felt protective of them in a way that… was natural. Instinctual. I liked who I was when I was part of the pack. And I like them. Flaws and bullshit and asshole behavior and all. Fuck, who am I to judge. I'm a flawed asshole full of bullshit myself."

Silence stretched on between them, Scott's eyes intense on him. They were also thoughtful though. Because he'd really listened to what Stiles was saying and Stiles appreciated that.

/break\

Stiles entered his bedroom and nearly had a heart-attack when he noticed the glowering, glaring Alpha wolf in the corner of the room. Yelling loudly, he flailed and grasped his heart, while landing on his bed. Derek didn't even twist, just continued glaring.

"Fuck," Stiles gasped. "Why are you trying to kill me."

"You should have shot me," Derek frowned. "You have a gun with wolfsbane bullets now. When you come home to find a wolf in your bedroom, your instinct has to become to shoot."

"Then your instinct has to become to use the fucking front door," Stiles ground out. "Besides, I literally just got that gun an hour ago, excuse me for not being instantly trigger-happy."

Derek continued glaring at him. Stiles rubbed his face with a sigh and got more comfortable on his bed. Kicking off his shoes, he stared at Derek. Waiting. There usually was a reason for any wolf in his bedroom. Also, there were decidedly too many wolves in his bedroom. At least considering that none of them were having sex with him. Well, he didn't want to have sex with half of them. Boyd and Erica meant too much on a different level to him, Scott was literally his brother. But Stiles has had a crush on Jackson since he had developed his crush on Lydia and hate-sex was supposed to be really good, while Derek and Peter both appealed to his liking-older-guys thing that he was steadily developing, plus, ridiculously smoking hot, these Hale genes were unreal. He didn't have an opinion on Isaac either way, if he was being honest. Maybe a little making out?

"Stop being horny, Stiles, it makes it really hard to try and have a serious conversation with you."

A grin spread over Stiles' lips and shrugged. "Dude, you broke into a teenager's bedroom. You don't get to tell the teenager not to be horny in his own bed. Wait, serious conversation?"

"I heard what you and Scott were talking about after we all left the Argents," Derek admitted.

"Oh," Stiles couldn't help the faint, embarrassed blush. "Listen, don't take it the wrong way, okay?"

"I don't think there is a wrong way to take this," Derek's eyebrows did something complicated and he stared at Stiles so intensely. "You didn't know what Scott was planning. It's been bothering me, when you said it at the loft yesterday. That's why I followed you earlier, because I wanted to talk to you about it. You didn't know. I assumed…"

"Yeah, well," Stiles huffed and propped himself up. "Common misconception is that Stiles and Scott are one person but we are, in fact, two separate entities who, at times, make different decisions and choices. He made his choice. I didn't get a choice."

Derek looked at him, long and honest. "Stiles-"

"No, nope," Stiles interrupted him right away, holding a hand up. "Don't ask me. Please don't ask me. Because if you ask me, I'll say yes and… I can't say yes, not without Scott. I can't leave him all alone, Derek. I can't make that choice. I can't choose to abandon him."

To his surprise did Derek simply nod. The Alpha even looked as though he understood. Maybe he did. What Scott and Stiles had, it was a pack-bond. And he couldn't betray it. Still, Stiles couldn't help but smile a little at the fact that Derek would have offered.

"If I can make him see reason…" Stiles faltered. "You don't have to. You don't owe it to him. What he did to you was… it was really fucked up. I don't think he realized just how fucked up it was, he didn't think that far ahead. That's not an excuse-"

"It's an explanation," Derek finished with mild bemusement. "You're good at these. Explanations."

"I'm good at a lot of things," Stiles offered a crooked grin. "It's about time people realize."

"I would," Derek offered after a moment. "I was listening to you both. And I didn't just hear your side. I also heard the way Scott was listening to you. If you manage to explain to him what it means to be pack, if he'll come to me and mean it… I would accept him back. Both of you back."

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded. But when the Alpha turned around to leave, Stiles stopped him.

"You need to bond your pack," Stiles told him, seriously. "It's frayed. Jackson doesn't have a place in it yet, it's the three Musketeers vs him. Boyd and Erica still don't fully trust you. And you're losing Isaac's loyalty more and more with every day. Peter is… Peter. You need to… invest into pack-bonding time, you need to make them a united front. Because a frayed pack is easy to pick apart. Don't let the Alpha Pack pick your pups off one by one."

Derek hesitated at the window-sill, hand on the window, not looking at him. "I… don't know how."

Stiles couldn't fight the small smile. Not even mocking or teasing this time, just genuine. "Do something with them. Something fun. Not training. A project, a trip, pack-nights."

"Pack-nights," Derek echoed, sounding nostalgic. "I… could do that."

The small smile turned into a broad grin. "Can't wait for the first pack-night I get to join."

/break\

Chris ground his teeth together when Peter Hale sauntered into his house like owned the place. The wolf was followed by the beta pups. If Chris wasn't so surprised, he would have stopped them.

"They need to learn how to fight," Peter offered. "I can teach them how to fight like a wolf, but we are fighting wolves. So they need to learn how to fight against a wolf. Our glorious Alpha told me to drop the children off at class, teacher."

Frowning, Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. It made sense. He hated that it made sense. Stiles and Lydia were already here, sitting together with Allison and Scott – who had come as moral support for Stiles and also to sneak some time with Allison, much to Chris' frustration.

"Backyard," Chris instructed in frustration.

Trained wolves were safer for him than untrained pups. It was, mostly, the Peter Hale that bothered him. The man had spent all day last Saturday staring at him with such a calculating and smug gaze, because he'd smelt Chris' reaction to Stiles. Chris hadn't seen that coming either. But then competence had always spoken to him. It was a common ground he'd found with Victoria too. Even if no romantic or sexual attraction, he had admired her competence, skill and ruthlessness.

"Okay. You guys are going to pair up," Chris regarded his 'students'. "Stiles and Jackson. Boyd and Scott. Lydia and Isaac. Erica and Allison. Don't groan at me. We're going to repeatedly switch up partners, when I'm done with you you'll have sparred with everyone in this group. You'll learn each other's bodies, weaknesses and strengths. This will aid you in fighting side by side too. You'll learn to rely on each other. Hale, you're with me."

Peter looked genuinely surprised at that. "I'm just dropping off the pups-"

"No, you're not," Chris shook his head. "I can teach them better by demonstrating and that works better with a partner. I wanted to take Allison, but… they ought to learn how to fight werewolves. You're a werewolf. Besides, why should only I put in the work? Most are your pack."

Displeased and annoyed looked good on Peter. Chris preferred it to smug arrogance. He smirked at the wolf. This was going to be fun and maybe a bit cathartic for the both of them.

/break\

The first time Peter and Chris fucked was when Stiles killed an Alpha with a couple very precise wolfsbane bullets. The two had been dancing around the boy for months at that point, glaring at each other, growing more possessive and protective of Stiles and somehow figuring that they had to protect Stiles from the respective other. Yet at the same time that yearning and that need to keep Stiles safe, they also united Peter and Chris. If something threatened Stiles, those two could fight like one well-oiled machine with deadly efficiency. Turned out they worked the same way in bed too, much to both their pleasure. Stiles had killed an Alpha who'd tried to force Derek into killing Boyd – and everyone knew that Stiles was particularly protective of Boyd and Erica, so he took that twice as personal than any other attack on their pack. It had been the single hottest thing Chris and Peter had ever seen and in lieu of pinning Stiles against the nearest wall and ravishing him, somehow, the two of them ended up in bed together. It was rough, violent, there was no gentleness or soft edge to their touches, pure, raw need to satisfy an urge.

"This…" Chris panted as he rolled over onto his back.

"Was a one time thing and will not happen again, I agree."

It happened six more times before they stopped pretending that it won't happen again.

It happened eight more times after that before they realized that on multiple occasions, they'd slept with each other without Stiles being the one that got them horny. This was considered a problem by both of them, because there was not supposed to be any attraction between them. They were simply trying to compensate for their attraction to Stiles and the need building up in them both.

And that brought Christopher to this moment, laying on his back in his bed, hand on his forehead, staring at the ceiling and contemplating how he'd gotten here, in only a couple months. He got pulled out of those thoughts when Peter rolled out of bed and got up.

"I'll shower first. No shared shower today, darling. Our boy is due in an hour and we would… not be decent if we shared," Peter offered him a wolfish grin. "Get coffee started."

Chris grumbled beneath his breath but he still obeyed. Getting bossed around by Peter Hale in his own home. Where the wolf was feeling far too at home by now. Coffee was ready by the time Peter joined him, hair still a little damp, but properly dressed and awake. The wolf brushed a kiss against Chris' cheek in passing when Chris headed to the bathroom next. These gentle moments were what felt the most jarring. It had all started with rough fucking, more fight than sex really. And now Chris would hold Peter's hand when the wolf got that far off gaze that indicated he was lost in terrible, traumatizing memories. Peter would scent-mark him with a gentleness and frequency he had only had reserved for Stiles. They'd fallen asleep on Chris' couch last Monday and hadn't even gotten to the sex. It was feeling more and more like a real relationship and that terrified Chris.

The cold shower helped Chris focus his thoughts somewhat. When he reentered the kitchen and found Peter comfortably leaning against the counter, drinking his coffee, it made him feel warm. Giving in to the urge, Chris walked over to brush a kiss against Peter's cheek this time, making the wolf smirk a little, but Peter had the decency to not comment on it.

The doorbell rang and within moments, Peter was out of the kitchen to let their boy in. And hadn't that been the biggest giveaway? That Stiles had become their boy, in his mind, no longer his boy.

Every Saturday morning, Stiles came over to the Argent home to work with Peter and Chris on their unified bestiary – a collection of Gerard's personal bestiary (that Stiles, Scott and Allison had apparently stolen before the man's death), Chris' bestiary and the Hale bestiary, as well as any new information they kept gathering from the various books Chris and Peter kept buying. It had been Stiles' idea and both Peter and Chris had leaped at the opportunity to spend time alone with Stiles. On account of nobody else wanting to do research. Even Lydia had given him a displeased look and shook her head, claiming that pack meetings and training sessions were already eating enough of her time, if Stiles wanted to spend what little free time they had in dusty books, that was his choice, she still had a boyfriend and a social life to attend to.

"Morning," Stiles sounded chipper as he followed Peter toward the living room.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Peter purred pleased.

Pack meetings were Sundays, training sessions were Friday after school – and Saturday, Saturday Stiles was all theirs. It had started out with just the morning, a couple hours. But Stiles' ADHD had him dig his teeth into something and made him fully unwilling and unable to let it go until he was done with it. Neither Peter nor Chris were complaining whenever Stiles stayed until sunset, but they did make sure their boy ate in between. Either they'd order in, or Peter would cook something for them. The wolf was, admittedly, a decent enough cook.

Stiles kept giving them looks, until Chris grunted. "You two do know that… if you don't want the pack to know about you, you gotta be more subtle though."

Both froze, Peter the first to regain his voice. "Whatever are you talking about."

Stiles made a show of rolling his eyes. "Please. You two have been fucking for months. But you're getting more… careless. Your hair is literally still wet, Peter."

"Maybe I showered before I came here, Stiles."

"You used Chris' bodywash," Stiles countered with a deadpan.

"You know what Chris' bodywash smells like," Peter raised one eyebrow. "And, for that matter, what my bodywash smells like, if you could tell I didn't use mine."

"Running in a pack of wolves makes you rely more on your senses, "Stiles shrugged. "But yeah. If I can tell, the wolves will be able to tell too. So, either… come out and actually say it, or… get better at hiding it again. Just, a fair warning. You're slipping."

"You… bring your own books," Chris noted, trying desperately to change the topic.

The kind of books they worked with were expensive. Which was why Peter usually bought them, if they needed – or wanted – anything. Stiles plopped down on his spot on the couch and book the five heavy, large books he'd brought with him down onto the table.

"Mh," Stiles tilted his head. "Not technically mine. I, ah, borrowed them."

"...Did you rob a bookstore without me?" Peter actually looked offended. "You know you are supposed to tell me when you commit a crime so I can bring popcorn and watch."

"You're a horrible human being and an even worse influence," Chris said dryly.

"Not a bookstore, would never rob a bookstore," Stiles rolled his eyes. "Stole 'em from Deaton."

"You… just walked out of the vet's clinic with a stack of books as high as you?" Chris asked.

"No," Stiles paused and there was a shift, the snark and joke left his face, he looked near guarded. "I've been… taking them one by one for months now."

He caught his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it until it turned from gentle pink to dark-red. Stiles was distracted enough with his thoughts to not notice but Chris saw the hungry way with which Peter's eyes flashed ice-blue. That mouth had been a topic of discussion many times during sex. It was very inspiring to them both. Chris walked over to sit down opposite Stiles.

"Talk to us," Chris prompted the boy. "You say months. But you bring them here now."

Stiles dragged his lip between his teeth torturously slowly. His knee was bounding, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. Peter made a curious noise in his throat as he took a seat next to Chris.

"There's…" Stiles swallowed hard. "So there's something that I haven't told anyone yet. Not even Scott. I don't… I don't know, I guess saying it feels stupid because what if it's not as big a deal as it feels to me and then whoever I tell will be let down and what If I just-"

"Nothing," Peter interrupted him in a firm voice. "Nothing you tell us could disappoint us, sweetheart. If this is something that's been worrying you for months, then please… tell us."

And oh, Stiles had even gotten a please out of the wolf. Those were rare. Chris was still trying to figure out how to get one in bed. Hadn't found a method yet. Maybe Stiles could.

"I have magic," Stiles blurted out the next moment. "I'm not… I don't know how much or where it came from or what it means or really what I can do but… Yeah. I have magic."

As if to prove it, he lifted a hand and gave a little wave, curling his fingers in one by one. He turned his hand palm up and then unfurled his fingers, revealing a small pile of mountain ash that hadn't been there before. Chris swallowed hard and Peter made a deep, primal sound.

"You're a Spark," Peter pressed out between clenched fangs.

Chris' head whipped around to pin the wolf with a surprised stare. A Spark? He'd heard whispered rumors of them but hunters usually dismissed them as werewolf fairy tales. His attention went back to Stiles and there was something akin to recognition on his face.

"That's what Deaton said," Stiles frowned. "I mean, he said a lot of convoluted things wrapped in a weird metaphor that barely even made sense, but in there somewhere he said that I had to be the spark, that I had to believe and then I could do it. So… So that wasn't just metaphor? That was… That is something? That's… what I am?"

He sounded so small and fragile that it made Chris' heart clench. Stiles, stripped off all cockiness and snark was something so vulnerable and beautiful that Chris wanted to shield him so nobody aside from him and Peter would ever get to see this side of their boy.

"That…" Peter swallowed hard. "That indeed is something."

"And what?" Stiles narrowed his eyes, a defensive edge to his posture. "I made mountain ash appear. Big whoop. But you immediately knew when I did it. Is that, like, the only thing I can do? Are Sparks just… mountain ash dispensers?"

Peter barked out a laugh that startled Stiles into giving him those big, brown doe-eyes. The ones that riled Peter's wolf up, made him want to chase Stiles thorough the forest and then ravish him once he caught his little prey. Chris appreciated the mental image.

"No, Bambi, it's…" Peter shook his head. "Big whoop. You created mountain ash and you say big whoop, like it's not a big deal. You baffle me."

"I mean it's not," Stiles blinked those big eyes at them both. "I literally just did it too. Sure, the first time, I took a couple moments to actually focus and get the hang of it but then it just… appeared."

"Stiles," Chris interjected, voice careful not to spook their boy. "You have magic."

"Yeah, that's…" Stiles frowned. "The whole point of this conversation? Keep up, Christopher."

The boy's sass made Chris grunt in exasperation. "No, Stiles, you have magic. That's what makes you special. Humans don't have magic. Magic is borrowed and bargained for. Witches, druids, mages, they don't have magic. They use nature to filter out its magic by creating potions and rituals, they have to make sacrifices in exchange for magic, use catalysts like spells or runes to access magic. Magic lives in nature, not in people. Humans don't have magic."

"Creating something – anything – out of nothing is… incomprehensible," Peter continued, still staring at Stiles' hand with the mountain ash. "Human magic users have to give something in exchange to get something, to be granted access to the magic inherent in nature. Sparks don't have to do that, because they are magic, they carry magic inside them. They're the only born magic users. You… are… incredibly powerful and rare, sweetheart."

There was a moment of realization, Stiles' eyes widening and his cheeks flushing. "...Oh."

Peter chuckled and shook his head while leaning back against the couch. "Yeah, oh."

Even without being a wolf, Chris could tell the moment Stiles' heart-rate was picking up with anxiety. He's become an expert at reading their boy. Reaching out, he took Stiles' hand, letting the mountain ash fall onto the ground. The physical touch relaxed Stiles a little.

"That motherfucker," Stiles spat, all of a sudden, eyes filled with heat and hatred. "He knew. I have no idea how, or how long, but he knew. And he only told me when it became useful to whatever twisted plans he has, but even then he didn't tell me, he just told me as much as he deemed I needed to know. Fuck, I should have stolen more of his books."

"You can still do that, sweetheart," Peter offered lightly, smiling at their boy. "But how about for now, we focus on the ones you already have? I'm assuming you stole them to learn how to use your magic. And you… came to us…"

Well, on that one, Peter and Chris were equally lost. Stiles had admitted he hadn't even told Scott, so why would he come to them? They exchanged a brief look before focusing on Stiles again.

"Research," Stiles replied, motioning at the books. "Technically also valuable for our project. But even beyond that, we've found a real good groove when it comes to research so I figured…"

"You want our help figuring out what you can do," Peter looked delighted.

Chris grunted his agreement, crossing his arms over his chest. "Let's read up on it first – this is new territory for me too. Hunters… We're taught that Sparks are fairy tale creatures, like unicorns."

It got him a brilliant laugh from Stiles and then the three of them dove into the books.

/break\

The first pack bonding activity that Stiles, Scott and Allison got to join as official pack-members was a trip into the mountains beyond Beacon Hills. It had made Stiles grin smugly at Derek the whole way there, to the point that Stiles was fairly sure the Alpha regretted accepting him into the pack. And yet. All he got was a near fond eye-roll because damn it all to hell, Derek was… Derek was his best friend, after Scott, at this point. He trusted the man wit his life, with the lives of those he loved the most. And Derek had become a good Alpha. A really damn good one.

It had been the abduction of Chris, Melissa and Stiles' dad that had been the tipping point for Allison and Scott. Derek had gone against his girlfriend – and oh boy, more trauma for the poor guy, what did Derek do to not deserve a happy relationship just once – when she'd turned out to be the darach. He hadn't doubted Stiles, not for a second, had sided with Stiles, Allison and Scott against her with no hesitation and if not for him, and Peter, they may not have found their parents in time. That was the final straw that both Allison and Scott needed to realize that Derek was a good Alpha, that it was good to be in his pack, that it was a place they should want to be in.

Apparently, the Hale Pack still owned a lodge, on the other side of the mountain, nearer to the next town over than to Beacon Hills, really. Gorgeous view down the mountain and to the lake that gave their neighboring town its name. It was breathtaking, it was special and Stiles knew it was all to celebrate the newest members of the Hale Pack because the big, grumpy Alpha was just a big, soft marshmallow on the inside, full of mush and love for his pack.

He smiled softly as he looked out the window and at the silver glistening lake. The mountain wasn't inhabited, the next lodge or cabin was over an hour away and wasn't a permanent residence either. Which meant the wolves could run and how freely, the wolves and hunters could hunt. They'd had deer for dinner today, hunted by them all together. Lydia had not been pleased by the dead animals being dragged into their temporary home, so Stiles had sent her out before grabbing a butcher's knife with glee. Some of the betas were a little disturbed by it, but he once again held Peter and Chris' full and undivided attention as he took the animals apart, with Chris' help (which did worry Stiles because he thought Chris' attention should be on the butcher knife in his own hand while taking apart their dinner, not on Stiles). It had been an absolute blast.

Voices, hushed and filled with joy and teasing, drew his attention to two people coming down the stairs. Raising an eyebrow, Stiles watched how Chris and Peter stumbled into the kitchen and, a few minutes later, came out with… the can of whipped cream in Peter's hand.

"Well, I guess I don't have to ask why you are still awake," Stiles stated dryly.

They'd come out as a couple to the whole pack a few weeks ago. It had been cute how nervous Chris was about Allison's reaction, just for her to roll her eyes and declare she'd known for two months and figured they just had a mutual agreement to ignore the werewolf sneaking out of the other's bedroom (which had caused Scott to yelp and flush embarrassed). The couple froze, both staring at him much like the deer had when their group had cornered them. It was cute and very flattering for Stiles that he could put that expression on a hunter and a werewolf. Delightful.

"Sweetheart, why are you still awake," Peter asked startled.

Stiles shrugged and turned back toward his laptop. They, of course, didn't accept that answer. They walked over to him, Christ resting a heavy, large hand on Stiles' shoulder, causing him to take a shuddering breath through his nose. Damn them both.

"Okay, but if this traumatizes you, do remember that you insisted," Stiles tilted his head back to look up at Chris. "I have been sexiled by my roommate and your daughter."

They were all paired up, two sharing a room. Chris and Peter had been the only couple allowed to share because they were adults and them and Derek refused to spend a week in a house where three horny teen couples were going at it like bunnies. So Stiles had, naturally, paired up with Scott, Lydia with Allison of course, Erica with Cora, Boyd with Jackson and Isaac with Derek.

"Retrospectively, I should have seen this coming and should have called dibs on Derek," Stiles glowered. "Let Isaac deal with Scott and Allison. Or better yet Jackson. They could have just switched rooms with their partners instead of having to throw one of us poor, pathetic singles out."

The two men exchanged a couple looks that must have spoken volumes to them but meant nothing to Stiles yet. Their couple language, Stiles was still working on deciphering. It was thrilling.

"Up," Peter ordered, grabbing Stiles' upper arm and hauling him off the chair.

"Woah, hey, I thought we were past the kidnapping-Stiles-phase of our relationship, Peter!"

Peter simply rolled his eyes at him, pulling him along. "You're not going to sleep down here. You're coming with us, you can stay in our room."

"Why, are you inviting me to a threesome?" Stiles gave him an impish, shit-eating grin.

Mischief danced in his eyes even though it was what he wanted most in probably the whole damn world. His heart squeezed a little. He'd spent months flirting with them both, even before they got together. And then they did get together. How bad must he suck at seduction that the two men he was flirting with ended up together, with each other, instead of either of them with him…?

"To sleep," Chris heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. "We won't let you sleep at the table. And don't deny you would. I have seen you sleep sitting upright at my own damn kitchen table."

"First of all, that only happened once, secondly, I didn't have coffee yet, and thirdly it was like five AM after a research binge," Stiles defended himself with a flustered glare, before calming down a little. "Look. I appreciate the offer, but I'll be fine. You were clearly not going to bed to sleep and I don't want to ruin your night. I'll be fine. Stop glaring at me, Christopher. If you're so insistent about me sleeping in a 'bed', I'll crash with Der and Isaac! Heck, wouldn't even be the first time I'd lseep in the same bed as either of them."

Stiles stumbled right into Peter when the wolf suddenly stilled. "What."

Blinking confused, Stiles stared at him. "Isaac's been like breaking into my bedroom for months now. We… We ran into each other at the cemetery, when we were both visiting our moms and… Yeah. He's been crashing at my place whenever he misses her too much."

The sharp look on Chris' face softened so unfathomably much that it took Stiles' breath away. Next to him Peter didn't look entirely satisfied just yet though, his eyes remained narrowed.

"And Derek. My grown, adult nephew," Peter inquired.

One unimpressed eyebrow cocked did Stiles look him dead in the eye. "We fuck like animals."

Holy shit. Stiles jumped and nearly hit his head against the wall at the near feral growl ripping from Peter's throat. What the fuck. Grasping his heart, Stiles tried to calm down.

"God. Damn. It. Hale," Stiles hissed. "The fuck was that. I was mocking you! For making weird insinuations about me and our Alpha! Christ! I kept falling asleep at the loft after research binges during the week and at one point, he started taking pity on me on his couch so he let me crash in his bed. It's not like it's weird, we're literally pack? What even was that reaction. You nearly act like you're jea…" Stiles blinked repeatedly at the way Peter tensed up. "A… Are you jealous?"

Peter actually flinched a little at that and what. Stiles' eyes flew over to Chris who looked conflicted but not… disgusted or appalled. So he'd known about this. Whatever 'this' was. Shaking his head, Stiles grabbed them both by their wrists and dragged them over to their bedroom, shutting the door behind them and pinning them both with a withering glare.

"Are you actually fucking kidding me?" Stiles spat irritated.

This time, Peter flinched properly. And okay. Not a reaction he ever thought he'd have on any wolf. Both Peter and Chris looked at him like… Wait. Closing his eyes, Stiles took a slow, deep breath to calm down a little, and then he looked at them again and yep. They looked like he held all of the power in the room, like they expected him to hurt them. They were expecting a painful rejection.

"You are two of the smartest men I know, how can you be this dense and stupid?" Stiles whispered, utterly exasperated as he leaned against the closed door. "I have been flirting with you two for months now, even before you got together, but none of you ever acted on it and I started to think that Chris was just politely pretending he didn't notice to not have to explicitly let me down while Peter just… flirts like other people breath air so he didn't notice."

"You… what?" Chris' voice cracked a little.

"I wasn't being subtle!" Stiles yelped, throwing his hands up in the air. "I took apart a gun while intentionally making direct eye-contact with you, did you think that was a platonic thing? I could not have been less subtle if I…" Stiles snorted out a laugh. "I was about to say 'if I crawled into your laps', but I literally actually did that, damn it. What did you think that meant? Did that look or feel in any way No Homo to you? That was All The Homo, damn it."

"I mean… You… have been seeking more physical contact with the whole pack," Peter argued. "You just said that it wasn't weird that you slept in the same bed as Derek!"

"Because it wasn't," Stiles frowned at him like he was stupid (because he was actively being stupid here). "The act of just sleeping in a bed together is in no way romantic or sexual? I used to crawl into my parents' beds all the time as a kid. When Scott was over for sleepovers we slept in my bed together until we got too big to both fit in them. Sleeping isn't sexual, Creeperwolf. But there is… very little platonic angle to crawling into someone's lap and wrapping your legs around their waist."

Stiles gave Peter the most pointed glare he could muster even as he started to feel incredibly exhausted. He hadn't thought they were too dense to notice. He really, truly had not been subtle. Both men stared at him in utter bafflement, like this was a fully new revelation to them.

"I thought you were just being clingy," Peter sounded like a pouting child. "I didn't want to assume. You are too precious to us to push you away by making greedy, wrong assumptions."

Stiles' heart jumped into his throat at the sincerity in Peter's voice. "What."

"Stiles," Chris huffed out a sound that was close to a laugh. "The reason why Peter and I even got together in the first place was because you were driving us both wild with desire. And we were the only ones who knew about what the other wanted. We were… united in our want for you. Granted, it did escalate from thereon out into something that wasn't… inherently about you anymore."

His eyes drifted over to Peter and his look was so loving and gentle that it caused the wolf to make a soft sound. Oh. Stiles swallowed hard, unsure what to do with this information.

"Why did you never say anything?" Stiles asked desperately. "I mean, fuck, I know why I didn't say it! You're the dad of one of my best friends. I didn't need to make things awkward if you weren't picking up what I was putting down. I didn't want to say the words because I didn't want to hear you say that you're 'flattered but you're just too young for us, kiddo'."

And he spat the word 'kiddo' out like it was poison. He knew, okay. He knew he was seventeen and they were more than twice his age and he didn't need to feel patronized about his feelings.

"You could have considered that your age might be why we didn't say anything either," Chris offered, raising both his eyebrows. "You're younger than my daughter, Stiles. Do you not think I spent months feeling guilty and wrecked and wrong for how much I want you?"

Stiles swallowed hard, again, his eyes going to Peter, who just shrugged. "Oh, I don't have morals. That wasn't my issue. You killed me, sweetheart, and I kept trying to seize just how much of your trust and affection I could gather in that time and how much you still resented me for what I did to Scott, and to Lydia. You are terrifyingly good at compartmentalizing. You can work with people you dislike, you worked with Jackson when you still resented him, so it's hard to… get a read on you."

"Oh," Stiles furrowed his brows. "Those… Those are both good arguments, I guess."

He crossed his arms over his chest. Not looking at them. He had no idea what would come next. What could come next. All of a sudden, he felt raw and vulnerable, naked in front of them. It was all out in the open now. What he wanted. What they wanted. And he didn't know what to do and it was quickly making his anxiety rise, his thoughts spiraling.

"Stiles," Chris' voice cut in, a careful hand touching his arm. "Hey. Stay with us, doll."

Doll. Stiles gave a genuine, involuntary whine at the nickname. Holy shit. Like Peter's constant sweetheart and Bambi didn't already get to him. The latter more so than the first though. He flushed embarrassed by the noise he'd just made. The look Chris gave him was pure hunger.

"I, uh, think like that pet-name," Stiles offered with a half-shrug.

"I think we could both tell," Peter snorted out an amused laugh.

Stiles flipped him off with a glare. "So. Are we… What is this now?"

"We want you," Chris spoke, voice honest and warm. "If you'll have us. Though…"

"Though we should maybe not go on public dates until I'm eighteen because every deputy in this town looks at me as either their kid brother or their surrogate son," Stiles raised his eyebrows.

"And you would be fine with that?" Peter frowned concerned. "Hiding? Lying to your father?"

"Didn't say my dad," Stiles tilted his head. "We have an agreement. When I lied to him, it… broke our relationship and it nearly got him killed. So we have an agreement now. Where I tell him the truth, all the truth, regardless of what it's about, and he, in return, doesn't judge or hold it against me, because otherwise I can't keep being honest with him and he can't… go on with me lying. So. He is not going to be the biggest fan of this, but he's also not going to kill you for sport. Well. Unless you break my heart, of course, so… just don't do that."

He offered the smallest, most teasing smile to them, filled with mischief and joy. And then he took a step forward, toward them, with all the intend he could muster and all the confidence he wasn't quite sure he had. He rested a hand on Peter's chest and one on Chris' chest and then he leaned in. First, to press a gentle kiss to Peter's lips and, just as the wolf wanted to deepen the kiss, he pulled away to instead also kiss Chris. Both growled at him after the kisses.

"That's teasing, sweetheart, I'm sure we can do better," Peter's eyes flashed blue.

Before Stiles could even open his mouth, he was pulled into a kiss deeper and more filthy than anything he could have imagined. It left him panting and gasping, mouth open and dizzy. He wasn't given a chance to regain his bearings because Chris' hand in the back of his head pulled him into the next kiss. Much less filthy but no less hot. Chris was dominant even in his kisses, strict. It made Stiles moan into the kiss, fingers curling into Chris' shirt.

"Okay," Stiles forced out once he could breath again. "Definitely gonna be doing more of that."

"Yes?" Peter grinned, nearly a leer, his hand gently tracing over Stiles' chest.

Stiles caught it at his naval. "Not now. First of all, I am so not losing my virginity while my best friend is literally two rooms over. Second of all, I'm not that easy or desperate. You guys gotta put a little effort in before I put out. I demand to be romanced first."

There was a near feral sound from Peter at the word 'virginity' and Chris' eyes also darkened, but to their credit, neither of them touched him or tried to change his mind. Instead, Chris looked amused.

"We're not going to pressure you into anything, sweetheart," Peter assured him, sounding more honest and serious than Stiles had maybe ever heard him. "We've both waited long for you now and we're more than happy to take everything at your pace."

"Okay," Stiles nodded pleased, even though he hadn't expected anything else. "Good. So. Bed? That offer still standing or do I have to go knocking on Dere-"

Peter growled and grabbed him by the waist, dragging him to the bed before he could even finish the sentence. Okay so Peter was seriously jealous of Derek. Stiles may or may not have to use that to his advantage – provided, of course, that Derek would be fine playing along (and considering what an absolute little shit Derek could be when he wanted to be and how much he delighted in tormenting his uncle, Stiles saw a good chance of it).

"Jealous wolf," Stiles muttered, slapping Peter's chest lightly.

"Yes," Peter grunted, a glare on his face and his arms around Stiles' waist, tugging him close.

"You have no idea, doll," Chris chuckled amused.

"If anyone, anyone, ever touches you in the wrong way, I will tear them apart."

There wasn't a word for the emotion that Stiles felt at this declaration. Hurt, pain, anger, grief and fear all twisted into the face of Gerard Argent and for a second, Stiles couldn't breath at the memories. And then he imagined Peter tearing the man apart and all that was left when all the dark emotions were torn asunder was warmth. Blinking away tears, Stiles leaned in and placed the most gentle kiss on Peter's lips. He was strong. He could fight, now, he had his gun, he had his magic. But a part of him would forever be that helpless kid getting tortured in that basement.

"We know you can protect yourself, Stiles," Chris noted softly. "But we'd still like to protect you."

A small smile spread over Stiles' lips as he turned toward the hunter and he could see by the conflicted look on Chris' face that he knew exactly where Stiles just went in his mind. So Stiles also pressed a loving kiss to Chris' lips, conveying without words that he didn't blame Chris for it.

"How about," Stiles spoke gently as he snuggled in between them. "We protect each other?"

"Yeah," Chris smiled a little. "I think we could do that, doll."

~*~ The End ~*~

[coloredscribbli]

So What The Hell Does Utter Filth Represent?

<Medium-ish III Spoilers>

On your left, an average Silver Spoon. And on your right, the ordinary Utter Filth. Apparentky paired with one another based on Mephone's views on Silver.

So why the fuck's it this thing? One of you are asking that. One of you. I believe I can explain! While Leo/need's Stella blasts my eardrums.

The first main evidence we get is back in episode four, The Overthinkers. Or 'Wow Silver, You Could of Had a Happier Thumbnail Debut'

To my memory, either Paintbrush or OJ describe him as the following: Lazy and slippery. Let's look at Utter Filth for a moment:

While it's rather close to the rotting ice cream, note it's not fully getting all close like how Quacky is. Just using its tongue to save time, not moving. Being all lazy.

Is that all I got? Of course not, silly.

In general, Utter Filth's appearance also represents Silver in a way. I think one horn being full is almost like his royal persona, and the cracked one is his more true self. Maybe the (what I only hope is) mud is for whenever Silver slips up and is neither quite royal nor his proper self?

Altefnatively, Silver is a mess is general - he has his anxiety going on, overall game stress, and probably feels conflicted about himself. I feel he's been bouncing between how he acts a little as of late.

So his messy headed, lazy self was paired up with Utter Filth thanks to all that. A mess for a mess, eh.

Sincerely,

Colored, who thinks too much.

[neil-gaiman]

How Did you come up with the first eve in the story about adams wives? I haven’t been able to find anything about her after I read it and I want to know if she’s an actual biblical character or just someone you made

She's from the Midrash. I learned about her as a 12 year old, from my barmitzvah teacher. There was a point in there, long after I'd put her into Sandman, where I was starting to think I'd imagined her, when I ran across her in Robert Graves's Hebrew Myths....

Excerpt from: The Hebrew Myths by Robert Graves and Raphael Patai (New York:  Doubleday, 1964), pp 65-69

Chapter 10: Adam's Helpmeets

(a) Having decided to give Adam a helpmeet lest he should be alone of his kind, God put him into a deep sleep, removed one of his ribs, formed it into a woman, and closed up the wound, Adam awoke and said: 'This being shall be named "Woman", because she has been taken out of man. A man and a woman shall be one flesh.' The title he gave her was Eve, 'the Mother of All Living''. [1]

(b) Some say that God created man and woman in His own image on the Sixth Day, giving them charge over the world; [2]  but that Eve did not yet exist. Now, God had set Adam to name every beast, bird and other living thing. When they passed before him in pairs, male and female, Adam-being already like a twenty-year-old man-felt jealous of their loves, and though he tried coupling with each female in turn, found no satisfaction in the act. He therefore cried: 'Every creature but I has a proper mate', and prayed God would remedy this injustice. [3]

(c) God then formed Lilith, the first woman, just as He had formed Adam, except that He used filth and sediment instead of pure dust. From Adam's union with this demoness, and with another like her named Naamah, Tubal Cain's sister, sprang Asmodeus and innumerable demons that still plague mankind. Many generations later, Lilith and Naamah came to Solomon's judgement seat, disguised as harlots of Jerusalem'. [4]

(d) Adam and Lilith never found peace together; for when he wished to lie with her, she took offence at the recumbent posture he demanded. 'Why must I lie beneath you?' she asked. 'I also was made from dust, and am therefore your equal.' Because Adam tried to compel her obedience by force, Lilith, in a rage, uttered the magic name of God, rose into the air and left him.

Adam complained to God: 'I have been deserted by my helpmeet' God at once sent the angels Senoy, Sansenoy and Semangelof to fetch Lilith back. They found her beside the Red Sea, a region abounding in lascivious demons, to whom she bore lilim at the rate of more than one hundred a day. 'Return to Adam without delay,' the angels said, `or we will drown you!' Lilith asked: `How can I return to Adam and live like an honest housewife, after my stay beside the Red Sea?? 'It will be death to refuse!' they answered. `How can I die,' Lilith asked again, `when God has ordered me to take charge of all newborn children: boys up to the eighth day of life, that of circumcision; girls up to the twentieth day. None the less, if ever I see your three names or likenesses displayed in an amulet above a newborn child, I promise to spare it.' To this they agreed; but God punished Lilith by making one hundred of her demon children perish daily; [5] and if she could not destroy a human infant, because of the angelic amulet, she would spitefully turn against her own. [6]

(e) Some say that Lilith ruled as queen in Zmargad, and again in Sheba; and was the demoness who destroyed job's sons. [7] Yet she escaped the curse of death which overtook Adam, since they had parted long before the Fall. Lilith and Naamah not only strangle infants but also seduce dreaming men, any one of whom, sleeping alone, may become their victim. [8]

(f) Undismayed by His failure to give Adam a suitable helpmeet, God tried again, and let him watch while he built up a woman's anatomy: using bones, tissues, muscles, blood and glandular secretions, then covering the whole with skin and adding tufts of hair in places. The sight caused Adam such disgust that even when this woman, the First Eve, stood there in her full beauty, he felt an invincible repugnance. God knew that He had failed once more, and took the First Eve away. Where she went, nobody knows for certain. [9]

(g) God tried a third time, and acted more circumspectly. Having taken a rib from Adam's side in his sleep, He formed it into a woman; then plaited her hair and adorned her, like a bride, with twenty-four pieces of jewellery, before waking him. Adam was entranced. [10]

(h) Some say that God created Eve not from Adam's rib, but from a tail ending in a sting which had been part of his body. God cut this off, and the stump-now a useless coccyx-is still carried by Adam's descendants. [11]

(i) Others say that God's original thought had been to create two human beings, male and female; but instead He designed a single one with a male face looking forward, and a female face looking back. Again He changed His mind, removed Adam's backward-looking face, and built a woman's body for it. [12]

(j) Still others hold that Adam was originally created as an androgyne of male and female bodies joined back to back. Since this posture made locomotion difficult, and conversation awkward, God divided the androgyne and gave each half a new rear. These separate beings He placed in Eden, forbidding them to couple. [13]

Notes on sources:

1. Genesis II. 18-25; III. 20.

2. Genesis I. 26-28.

3. Gen. Rab. 17.4; B. Yebamot 632.

4. Yalqut Reubeni ad. Gen. II. 21; IV. 8.

5. Alpha Beta diBen Sira, 47; Gaster, MGWJ, 29 (1880), 553 ff.

6. Num. Rab. 16.25.

7. Targum ad job 1. 15.

8. B. Shabbat 151b; Ginzberg, LJ, V. 147-48.

9. Gen. Rab. 158, 163-64; Mid. Abkir 133, 135; Abot diR. Nathan 24; B. Sanhedrin 39a.

10. Gen. II. 21-22; Gen. Rab. 161.

11. Gen. Rab. 134; B. Erubin 18a.

12. B. Erubin 18a.

13. Gen. Rab. 55; Lev. Rab. 14.1: Abot diR. Nathan 1.8; B. Berakhot 61a; B. Erubin 18a; Tanhuma Tazri'a 1; Yalchut Gen. 20; Tanh. Buber iii.33; Mid. Tehillim 139, 529.

Authors’ Comments on the Myth:

1. The tradition that man's first sexual intercourse was with animals, not women, may be due to the widely spread practice of bestiality among herdsmen of the Middle East, which is still condoned by custom, although figuring three times in the Pentateuch as a capital crime. In the Akkadian Gilgamesh Epic, Enkidu is said to have lived with gazelles and jostled other wild beasts at the watering place, until civilized by Aruru's priestess. Having enjoyed her embraces for six days and seven nights, he wished to rejoin the wild beasts but, to his surprise, they fled from him. Enkidu then knew that he had gained understanding, and the priestess said: 'Thou art wise, Enkidu, like unto a godl'

2. Primeval man was held by the Babylonians to have been androgynous. Thus the Gilgamesh Epic gives Enkidu androgynous features: `the hair of his head like a woman's, with locks that sprout like those of Nisaba, the Grain-goddess.' The Hebrew tradition evidently derives from Greek sources, because both terms used in a Tannaitic midrash to describe the bisexual Adam are Greek: androgynos, 'man-woman', and diprosopon, 'twofaced'. Philo of Alexandria, the Hellenistic philosopher and commentator on the Bible, contemporary with Jesus, held that man was at first bisexual; so did the Gnostics. This belief is clearly borrowed from Plato. Yet the myth of two bodies placed back to back may well have been founded on observation of Siamese twins, which are sometimes joined in this awkward manner. The two-faced Adam appears to be a fancy derived from coins or statues of Janus, the Roman New Year god.

3. Divergences between the Creation myths of Genesis r and n, which allow Lilith to be presumed as Adam's first mate, result from a careless weaving together of an early Judaean and a late priestly tradition. The older version contains the rib incident. Lilith typifies the Anath-worshipping Canaanite women, who were permitted pre-nuptial promiscuity. Time after time the prophets denounced Israelite women for following Canaanite practices; at first, apparently, with the priests' approval-since their habit of dedicating to God the fees thus earned is expressly forbidden in Deuteronomy xxIII. I8. Lilith's flight to the Red Sea recalls the ancient Hebrew view that water attracts demons. 'Tortured and rebellious demons' also found safe harbourage in Egypt. Thus Asmodeus, who had strangled Sarah's first six husbands, fled 'to the uttermost parts of Egypt' (Tobit viii. 3), when Tobias burned the heart and liver of a fish on their wedding night.

4. Lilith's bargain with the angels has its ritual counterpart in an apotropaic rite once performed in many Jewish communities. To protect the newborn child against Lilith-and especially a male, until he could be permanently safeguarded by circumcision-a ring was drawn with natron, or charcoal, on the wall of the birthroom, and inside it were written the words: 'Adam and Eve. Out, Lilith!' Also the names Senoy, Sansenoy and Semangelof (meanings uncertain) were inscribed on the door. If Lilith nevertheless succeeded in approaching the child and fondling him, he would laugh in his sleep. To avert danger, it was held wise to strike the sleeping child's lips with one finger-whereupon Lilith would vanish.

5. 'Lilith' is usually derived from the Babylonian-Assyrian word lilitu, ,a female demon, or wind-spirit'-one of a triad mentioned in Babylonian spells. But she appears earlier as 'Lillake' on a 2000 B.G. Sumerian tablet from Ur containing the tale of Gilgamesh and the Willow Tree. There she is a demoness dwelling in the trunk of a willow-tree tended by the Goddess Inanna (Anath) on the banks of the Euphrates. Popular Hebrew etymology seems to have derived 'Lilith' from layil, 'night'; and she therefore often appears as a hairy night-monster, as she also does in Arabian folklore. Solomon suspected the Queen of Sheba of being Lilith, because she had hairy legs. His judgement on the two harlots is recorded in I Kings III. 16 ff. According to Isaiah xxxiv. I4-I5, Lilith dwells among the desolate ruins in the Edomite Desert where satyrs (se'ir), reems, pelicans, owls, jackals, ostriches, arrow-snakes and kites keep her company.

6. Lilith's children are called lilim. In the Targum Yerushalmi, the priestly blessing of Numbers vi. 26 becomes: 'The Lord bless thee in all thy doings, and preserve thee from the Lilim!' The fourth-century A.D. commentator Hieronymus identified Lilith with the Greek Lamia, a Libyan queen deserted by Zeus, whom his wife Hera robbed of her children. She took revenge by robbing other women of theirs.

7. The Lamiae, who seduced sleeping men, sucked their blood and ate their flesh, as Lilith and her fellow-demonesses did, were also known as Empusae, 'forcers-in'; or Mormolyceia, 'frightening wolves'; and described as 'Children of Hecate'. A Hellenistic relief shows a naked Lamia straddling a traveller asleep on his back. It is characteristic of civilizations where women are treated as chattels that they must adopt the recumbent posture during intercourse, which Lilith refused. That Greek witches who worshipped Hecate favoured the superior posture, we know from Apuleius; and it occurs in early Sumerian representations of the sexual act, though not in the Hittite. Malinowski writes that Melanesian girls ridicule what they call `the missionary position', which demands that they should lie passive and recumbent.

8. Naamah, 'pleasant', is explained as meaning that 'the demoness sang pleasant songs to idols'. Zmargad suggest smaragdos, the semi-precious aquamarine; and may therefore be her submarine dwelling. A demon named Smaragos occurs in the Homeric Epigrams.

9. Eve's creation by God from Adam's rib-a myth establishing male supremacy and disguising Eve's divinity-lacks parallels in Mediterranean or early Middle-Eastern myth. The story perhaps derives iconotropically from an ancient relief, or painting, which showed the naked Goddess Anath poised in the air, watching her lover Mot murder his twin Aliyan; Mot (mistaken by the mythographer for Yahweh) was driving a curved dagger under Aliyan's fifth rib, not removing a sixth one. The familiar story is helped by a hidden pun on tsela, the Hebrew for 'rib': Eve, though designed to be Adam's helpmeet, proved to be a tsela, a 'stumbling', or 'misfortune'. Eve's formation from Adam's tail is an even more damaging myth; perhaps suggested by the birth of a child with a vestigial tail instead of a coccyx-a not infrequent occurrence.

10. The story of Lilith's escape to the East and of Adam's subsequent marriage to Eve may, however, record an early historical incident: nomad herdsmen, admitted into Lilith's Canaanite queendom as guests (see 16. 1), suddenly seize power and, when the royal household thereupon flees, occupy a second queendom which owes allegiance to the Hittite Goddess Heba.

The meaning of 'Eve' is disputed. Hawwah is explained in Genesis III. 20 as 'mother of all living'; but this may well be a Hebraicized form of the divine name Heba, Hebat, Khebat or Khiba. This goddess, wife of the Hittite Storm-god, is shown riding a lion in a rock-sculpture at Hattusaswhich equates her with Anath-and appears as a form of Ishtar in Hurrian texts. She was worshipped at Jerusalem (see 27. 6). Her Greek name was Hebe, Heracles's goddess-wife.

[bridgetstandson]

Memento Mori

Story, Prologue I, Prologue II

Prologue III

In a matter of seconds, her hands shot out. A burst of green pushed the approaching men back several feet.

Before they even had a chance to stand another burst of green and flames slowly formed coiling around them.

Wildfire.

A roar of flames spread through the men. They didn't stand a chance. The bannerman held their breath as they watched thousands of men began to burn. A chorus of screams rang through the air. It was the kind of scream that bypasses the ears to go straight to the heart, as they screamed, the fire wrapped tighter around them, their bodies became swallowed by a luminous green fire. A fire that could only be found in the bowels of hell. In a matter of minutes, the destruction settled.

Then came the silence again.

Aadya grinned. Her lips pulled back, her canines gleamed in the light provided by the fire. She turned the bottom of her dress flared around her feet. She set her gaze on her husband. This was no longer Aadya Romulus, in front of them was Aadya Kcreden, the Wicca of old Valyria.

Words had left him. Never had Titus seen such a display of power from his wife. He knew who she was, he was not ignorant. Her family had a long sordid history with sorcery. The Wicca of the deserts. But the sorcery had long died out throughout the lands, Valyria was thought by many to be the heart of sorcery and when it was destroyed in the Doom, sorcery to was destroyed. But here she stood, able to conjure such feats of power. He had seen her make her remedies, little things like concoctions to help the gardens blossom during winter or teas for small ailments. But never this. Titus turned to her. Staring at her, his eyes set with disbelief. As if underwater his movements were slow, he grabbed her face his eyes desperately searched hers......... waiting.

" How could you?" He breathed out. She looked up at him, her hand reaching for his heart she placed it softly on his chest.

" How could I not Titus?" She asked softly. " You left me no choice. when I married you I took your name, your history and the responsibility of ensuring our legacy".

"A legacy that you and your father failed. Those scum would have never, NEVER had the courage to challenge us. But they did because your father didn't do what he was supposed to do- he failed to show them what happens when you cross us and you are failing too.

Someone had to do it. You were too weak"

Titus stared deeply at her. " Are you mad?" he let go of her face, staring between her and the ashes that were left behind. Giving her a final glance, he uttered to his king's guard. " Ser Linus, please escort Her grace to her chambers, she is to remain there until further notice".

There it was again.

Silence.

No one moved, Linus didn't make a move to follow his order. Whether it be out of fear of the queen or disappointment. Instead, Linus stared at his king. A king he once admired, a king born into the great and formidable dynasty. A king who was about to throw Dormus into the hands of the usurper. A man that murdered innocent children and sort to kill every surviving dragon. a man that hated everything he and his children were. How disappointed he felt. It was clear Titus Romulus was not worthy of the name and so his time was over.

Titus moved to turn to Linus and in quick fluid movements, knife met flesh, soft flesh.

Titus gasped.

A blade was stuck deep in his chest. A hand twisted it, sinking it deeper and deeper. Until the metal had disappeared inside his heart. He released a cry, guttural chokes mixed with an agonising whine. The blade was pulled out, he sank to his knees and looked deep into the eyes of his killer.

And in that moment of betrayal, he forgave her.

Titus was dead, eyes fixed and vacant.

" Take his head, send it to his beloved stag" With that Aadya left swiftly, soft murmurs of " Your grace" followed her as the men bowed to their new Queen Dowager.

-Kings Landing-

In the throne room, Robert sat, a newly crowned king. By his side, his bride. Not Lyanna, no she was dead. His bride hailed from the west, the prettiest girl in Westeros they called her, the light of the West.  Cersei Lannister.

The court before him was full, the room crowded with nobility from all over Westeros, all chattering amounts themselves softly. All except the raging Martell, who still sat in Dorne still furious over the death of Elia. Had Robert had it his way her would have summoned them to court but was advised against it by his mentor, understand how volatile the tension was. The day instead was spent with houses pledging their loyalty and praising him for the freeing them from the dragon's tyranny. The dragons were gone, he made sure of that, well not all. West of West, housed another dragon, the shadow dragons. Filth the whole lot of them Robert thought bitterly.  He had wanted so desperately to go west and show them the same fury he showed the Targaryen's. In his eyes a dragon was a dragon, they were not different despite them trying to distance themselves from the Targaryen's. But of course Ned Stark and Jon Arryn fought against it, refusing to supply men to a 'pointless war' as they called it - " The war is won, Lyanna is avenged, It is done" Ned had told him. They didn't understand his need to get rid of them all. So he turned to the Romulus' enemies- the Juvient's and Lannister- none hated the Romulus more. Tywin a man of ambition, set to ensure that his legacy lived on. After the rebellion, no one would forget what it meant to be a Lannister. Pledging ten thousand men, Tywin was sure that Dormus would fall into the hands of his family. A land far richer than their own. The Juvients, a foolish house in his opinion, simply wanted the Romulus' death and claimed they were happy to bend the knee should Robert claim the country. Though Tywin doubted that all they wanted, but once the Romulus was removed, the Juvients could be easily handled. The country would be easy to take with how weak the current Romulus' had become.

So now they stood awaiting a word of their victory, awaiting the arrival of the Romulus on their knees. Robert was determined to not only destroy one dynasty but two.

It was at that moment the door slammed open, echoing through the room. Two men carried a chest, arriving dead centre of the room, they set the chest down. They stood proudly, trapped in their armour, red and black for all to see.

Their voices filled with amusement the first spoke. "Robert Baratheon a pleasure to meet you, Queen Aadya has sent us to congratulate you on obtaining the throne and wishes to give you a gift"

" I'm going to take that fact that you are here, that House Romulus is accepting of the negotiations " Robert utter, a sense of apprehension beginning to grow. Demanding the Romulus to bend the knee was risky, but it was a risk he would take. If there is one thing he knew about Titus was that he is naive and easily coerced. Titus would never wage war, just like his father he sorts out peace and resolution.

"No" the man Dormusian man stated.

"Dormus was built from the ground up by the Romulus, the great structures and lands were forged with the help of their shadow dragons. Dormus know no other king"

Slamming his hand down, Robert's grew instant frustrated. "Where is Titus!?"

Bending down the second man kneeled by the chest slowly opening it. As if carried by strong winds, a smell wafted into the room. The smell many recognised as burnt flesh. And there It was.

Nestled in a bed of ashes Titus Romulus head sat for all to see, a single rune carved onto his forehead. Silence.

The court stood in silence, each trying to understand the implications of the chest. Taking their leave the soldier walked out the throne. No one moved to stop them. Instead, they started at the rune.

At that moment a reminder rang out, death now loomed over them all.

The rest of the story found on WATTPAD

[stay-natural]

In 1906 the Liberal party, which was pledged to relax the law, came to power. In 1907 they passed an Act with a Conscience Clause, which enabled members of the middle class to obtain exemption by making a mere declaration, the magistrates being deprived of their power to refuse exemption. The very poor, especially those dwelling in remote villages, were not benefited by this law. Due to the active educative propaganda of the Anti-Vaccination League, vaccination declined to less than 50% of births. Naturally, the bigots repeated the same prophesy that they put forth in the case of Leicester. But the laws of Nature paid no regard to those idiots. As sanitation improved, smallpox became less and less and finally disappeared, just as it did in Leicester. Thus we have the verdict of history on vaccination. Smallpox mortality began to decline from 1780 and continued to do so till 1853, when the first compulsory law was passed. Then it began to rise again and reached its peak in the epidemic of 1871 — 72. It began to decline again after 1907 when the Conscience Clause was enacted: It was sanitation that abolished smallpox. Vaccination was proved an utter failure, especially by comparison between towns like Leicester and Sheffield; the former, as we know, had given up vaccination, while the latter continued to rely on it, neglecting sanitation, and suffered accordingly. The basic assumption made by the provaccinists, that one attack of smallpox protects against a second one, was never proved. It was disproved by Prof. Adolf Vogt, who showed by calculations that second attacks are 50% more than the first ones, and that their fatality is very much greater, in some cases even 20 times. Now we have to look at the silent change effected in the vaccine substance. It is known that among the innumerable disasters of vaccination, infantile syphilis was one. The statistics showed a great increase in deaths from this cause, which was traceable solely to vaccination. The medicos fought against this, even slandering the parents as the source of syphilitic infection, but ultimately the parents were exonerated, and vaccination was proved the culprit. (..) In one case before the magistrates, a father was being prosecuted for not having his youngest child vaccinated. He brought into court another child, four years old, who had been blinded by vaccination. A doctor, who was sitting on the bench as one of the magistrates, got down and testified that the blindness was indeed due to vaccination. One of the numerous ways in which vaccine kills is by what is called ���generalised vaccinia’ or ‘overflow of vaccination.’ This is a horrible and severely painful disease. A healthy child of a few months old was vaccinated on March 19th, 1918. A fortnight after vaccination, small white spots developed around the principal vaccination place. The doctor to whom the child was shown was not at all alarmed, but only gave the usual treatment. But the sore would not heal. Other white spots appeared elsewhere, and some of them became larger. Then the doctor realised that it was an ‘overflow of vaccination.’ The child suffered so much that it could not sleep. Inflammation of the throat set in, so that the child could not swallow. The arm swelled enormously, so that it seemed to be joined to the body, and the inflammation spread to the middle of the chest. The child got weaker and weaker and died on April 26th. The death was certified as due to ‘generalised vaccinia followed by pneumonia. Not all children die of vaccination. But it is always a gamble, which the medical conscience is unable to realise for what it is. Innumerable such fatalities have occurred and are still occurring. How such highly toxic filth could be claimed to be ‘beneficial’ or capable of saving life is impossible to imagine; we must set it down as medical perversity or monomania.

Practical Nature-Cure (9th Ed.) by K. Lakshmana Sarma, 1956 Chapter: III Disease Prevention - Smallpox Vaccination

[annerbhp]

I loved your last Molly POV outtake! I would love to see her perspective on the moment she tells Ginny that loving Harry also comes with a cost. Did she know that Ginny didn’t fully understand what she meant yet? Love your writing! Thank you so much!

Look what you made me do. :) It doesn’t perfectly answer your prompt, but I hope you like it all the same. This kind of feels like third in what’s becoming the Molly series. The first would be The Kitchen Table and then the one from this week about Molly’s Reaction to Ginny’s Tattoo.

part iii:

The first time Molly stumbles upon one of Ginny’s secrets, she’s almost lost another one of her sons—not one of her body or blood, but close enough that it doesn’t matter because the pain and fear live in her all the same. And to nearly lose this brave, bright young man in a supposed time of peace, after facing so much… They are all still silently reeling with that near miss, dragging up with it still painful memories of other losses. But this time, they do not have to bury anyone, do not have to leave any more seats empty, never to be filled.

Everything is just beginning to settle again when Molly comes downstairs early one morning, peering into the sitting room to see if Harry is still asleep. He’s been having a hard time falling asleep and staying asleep as he’s been weaning off the pain potions.

This morning though, as she looks in on him, he is sound asleep. He lies on his back, his face relaxed in a way she has rarely seen since the curse that nearly claimed his life.

Lying next to him is her only daughter, on her side facing him, their hands entwined in the narrow space between.

Molly considers the scene for a long moment before turning for the stairs and going back upstairs, giving the ghoul a good solid prod as she passes.

Molly didn’t want Ginny to go to Ireland, to pursue a career as dangerous and untested as Quidditch. By mostly, she wasn’t ready to let go of the last of her children. It took her ages to realize her misstep. Ginny is not one to be contained or dictated to, and it is this very part of her that has kept her safe for so long. The same way she keeps things so tightly held to her chest, the way there is far more that she hides than she shares.

And so with great effort, Molly lets things lie, knowing Harry’s near death experience and Ginny’s budding career are complications enough.

Well, she pokes gently now again, just to judge reactions. She trusts them, that doesn’t mean she isn’t curious. But she has also learned the hard lesson of alienating her daughter, and isn’t eager to face that cold distance again.

As the weeks pass, nothing reveals itself, Harry back to his home and Ginny off far away to her dreams. Molly’s just begun to believe she read too much into it when it all finally breaks.

It starts with a book, if such a word can even be used to describe a pile of filth and lies held together with a binding. She reads it, mostly because no one is going to badmouth her daughter without her having something to say about it, but also because Ginny never talks about that year, and she’s curious.

When she finishes, she wishes she never picked it up in the first place. Because even if they are lies, there is a truth lying under all of it that wears the stoic mask of her daughter’s face, and some things begin to click painfully into place.

Ginny smiles and makes self-deprecating jokes that are honed with fine sharp edges that belie their ease. I’m fine, she says, smile fierce and dangerous.

Even when the ministry turns its hungry eyes on her, Ginny just lifts her chin and dares them to try.

This is when it finally all falls apart.

Ginny walks into the garden one evening, only to be followed a moment later by Harry, a grim look of determination on his face. To Molly’s surprise, Harry grabs Ginny’s arm, pulling her around, and for a moment it looks like he may yell, but instead he pulls her in to his body with something like ease and familiarity and kisses her.

Here we go, Molly thinks.

It’s awful watching Ginny tear him apart, shatter his poor heart right there in front of everyone, but what’s worse is the utter hopelessness in Ginny, these feelings she’s hidden so well from all of them.

*     *     *

Molly watches as Ron and Hermione speak furtively to each other in low tones, their topic clearly Harry. Agreement eventually made, Hermione disappears off after Harry, Ron joining the rest of her sons at the table where they currently squabble over the drama they all just watched unfold.

“What happened with Crabbe?” Molly asks, crossing over to stand at the head of the table, Arthur silently just behind.

She watches her children all glance at each other, as always, trying to decide how much to protect each other.

Ron shrugs. “No one actually knows. But fifth year he supposedly fell down a flight of stairs. He was in the infirmary for a week.”

“Wasn’t that right around when Ginny broke her collarbone?” George asks.

Ron nods. “A rogue Bludger, she always said.”

They look at each other, something passing between them.

“He was a bully,” Percy says, looking a little uncomfortable to be speaking that way of the dead, but clearly keen to exonerate his sister. “Even when I was at Hogwarts.”

George nods. “He hit Harry with that nasty late Bludger. The game we got banned. Remember?”

Ron nods.

Bill frowns. “So we’re saying that Ginny did something to Crabbe in revenge? Something that ended up putting him in hospital for a week?”

“He no doubt deserved it,” George says, valiantly trying to defend his sister, but Molly knows it’s probably more than that, to judge from the way Ginny spoke of it. The way she threw it on the ground in front of them all as if she herself were troubled by it still.

“We all make mistakes,” Molly says.

Hermione appears with a pop, walking back into the garden.

Ron pushes to his feet.

Hermione shakes her head. “He wouldn’t talk to me. He’s locked himself in his room.”

“Did he say something?” Ron asks, clearly noting how stricken she looks. “Anything?”

“About Ginny? No.”

“Did you two really not know?” Bill asks.

“He said they’d been together for three years,” George points out. “Kind of a hard thing to miss.”

“But that can’t be true,” Ron says. “I mean Cass. And didn’t Ginny date Michael?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’ve only suspected for a couple months.”

“A couple months?” Ron says, sounding outraged.“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t certain. I only suspected. I mean, they’re never together, and she’s over in Ireland, so I thought maybe…”

“I can’t believe you never told me!” Ron rails.

“Clearly Harry was going to great lengths to keep it a secret. I assumed they had their reasons. And I didn’t…” She falters, eyes filling with tears.

“What?” Ron says, his anger seeming to instantly soften as he touches her back.

“I didn’t want to make him mad at me again.”  

“’Mione,” Ron sighs.

“I mean Cass. If I’d known I would never—”

“We didn’t know,” Ron says.

She nods, still looking miserable. “He was really…upset. I haven’t seen him like that in a long time.”

Ron’s jaw tightens, like maybe he has some idea what that may have looked like, pulling her into a hug.

“Should someone check on Ginny?” Percy asks, glancing up towards her room.

“Go ahead, if you feel like getting hexed,” Bill says.

Molly lifts her wand. “Leave your sister be. We will eat dinner, and let this sort itself out.”

She gets some mulish looks, but no one argues.

Only once all of her sons have gone back to their homes does Molly finally climb the stairs to Ginny’s room, finding her sitting and staring at the wall like any movement would be far too painful.

The puddle on Ginny’s floor is littered with glass, but her face is the shattered, dangerous thing.

Molly tells her to come down, trying not to be alarmed when she acquiesces without a fight,mechanically eating.

Arthur speaks, and Molly reminds her this was a war they all fought.

Ginny sits at her table and bends, and Molly sees that she’s somehow talked herself into believing she doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve anyone’s love. Because the war may not have made her into a monster, but it made her believe it all the same.

*     *    *

Molly has to find the deepest well of patience within herself to sit in that courtroom and not hex every so-called responsible adult in that room. She focuses on her daughter, the intense pride she feels because there she is, under the calm surfaces and dangerous words: her reckless, brave, ruthless, beautiful child.

Even more telling, she thinks, is the way so many people rally to her side. So many young people, showing devotion to each other, refusing to be bullied or to budge no matter the authority of the court, and this is the thing to give Molly faith for a future better than the endless wars she has fought. The losses they have paid.

“Alright, dear?” she asks Ginny after she is released, the inquest and the book behind her, but gaping wounds still ahead.

Molly had stood in the hall and watched Harry and Ginny fight, rail and thunder against each other yet again, but also the way Harry was fighting for her, not against, that he will not be driven off by the things in Ginny that Molly herself has always struggled with. And Ginny, who seemed to shove him away with both hands almost as steadily as she held him close.

“No,” Ginny admits. “I’m not all right at all.”

That small truth tells Molly that she will be though, makes her believe it more than anything else.

*      *     *

Molly sits at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, the house quiet and empty. Not hollow, but simply waiting.

“Ginny never came home last night?” Arthur asks as he comes to breakfast, clearly alarmed at having found her bedroom as empty as it was when Molly first checked.

“It’s okay,” Molly says.

Arthur frowns. “How is that okay?”

Molly points to the family clock. Ginny’s hand isn’t on traveling or gallivanting about or even mortal peril. Instead, it is firmly pointing to one destination.

Home.

Arthur makes noise about Ginny hiding somewhere in the Burrow or the old clock needing a tuning.

Molly just smiles into her tea.  

[pamphletstoinspire]

September 15 - Today is the feast day of Our Lady of Sorrows.   Ora pro nobis.

Stabat mater dolorosa iuxta crucem lacrimosa, dum pendebat filius.

(At the cross her station keeping, stood the mournful mother weeping, close to Jesus to the last.) Jacopone da Todi (1230-1306)

We pray today to Our Blessed Mother, that through our joining with her sorrows, we may find the joy of eternal salvation with Jesus Christ, Our Lord. We look to Mary as a model of forbearance and endurance, obedience and meekness, love, patience, and joyful suffering.

OUR LADY OF SORROWS Fr. Francis Cuthbert Doyle, 1896

I. One of the Wise Man's most pathetic exhortations is, that a son should never forget the travailing and the sorrows of his mother. In order, therefore, that we may bear in mind the bitter anguish which lacerated our Lady's heart, we must reflect today upon that scene of woe in which her seven-fold sorrow culminated, in which the waters rose up around her, and closed over her head in a sea of anguish, such as never before flooded the heart of mortal man.

Jesus hung on the Cross, the outcast of His nation–a mark at which the vile rabble, and their still viler leaders, hurled their bitter taunts, and aimed their clumsy scorn. A galling wreath of thorns circled His head; His eyes were filled with blood; His hands and feet nailed tightly down to the cruel wood. The wickedness of a sinful world pressed heavily upon Him, and its ponderous weight well-nigh crushed Him Who upholds the universe. During His death agony, men scoffed and jeered at Him, taunting Him with impotence, and blaspheming Him most vilely; and all the while there stood by that death-bed of shame, Mary His Mother! He was Her Child; her blood flowed in His veins; her heart beat in unison with His. Those sacred features, now so sadly bruised and disfigured, were the exact counterpart of her own. That head, now crowned with thorns, had often nestled in her bosom. That tongue which now and then spoke through the darkness, had been taught by her to lisp its first accents. Between Him and her there had passed all that interchange of fond affection and tender love which takes place between a mother and the child of her bosom. Add to this the intense love with which she loved Him as her God, and we may truly say, there never could be love between mortal man and God greater than the love which existed between Jesus and Mary.

If, then, the natural effect of love is union, and if the greater the love the closer the union, we may form some idea of the agony which the sufferings of Jesus caused her heart. The thorns which made His temples throb with acute pain were as a circle of fire upon her brow. The nails which pierced His hands and feet fastened her also to His Cross. The foul language, the revilings, the scoffings, the blasphemies uttered against Him, were as a hail of fire upon her heart. Verily she was filled with His reproaches, and the revilings of them that reproached Him fell upon her. To what shall we compare her, or to what shall we liken the sorrow of this Virgin daughter of Sion? It is great as the sea. Who shall heal it? ‘O! all you that pass by the way, attend and see if there be sorrow like unto her sorrow.'

II. As we look at that ocean of sorrow, the bitter waters of which inundate her soul, we are forced to acknowledge that human words are but faint and inadequate symbols by which to indicate its depth and its breadth. Yet, though we may not be able to do this, we may at least turn our eyes with compassionate tenderness upon her, as she stands beneath the Cross, to see how she bears herself under its crushing weight, that so we also may learn how to suffer.

There are some to whom misfortune deals a blow so terrific that they are stunned and dazed by it. The insensibility which its violence produces, shields them from feeling the poignancy of the pain. It was not so with Mary. Though the magnitude of her grief surpassed all other human sorrows, yet she did not allow it so to master her as to make her swoon away, and thus be unable to feel the keenness of the sword which wounded and tortured her. Her grief, being calm and self-possessed, was on that very account all the more terrible, all the more bitter, because her mind fully adverted to all the circumstances which aggravated and brought it home more closely to her heart. Not one circumstance of those three cruel hours, during which the Saviour of the world slowly died before her eyes upon His Cross of shame, escaped her notice. Her chalice was indeed a deep and bitter one, but she drained it to the very dregs. She stood beneath that Cross!

Yet she was neither hard nor insensible. She sighed and wept, and would not be comforted; but her grief did not overwhelm her. Strong men had fled away from that spectacle. Some had turned away their eyes, that they might not witness the terrible anguish which that mutilated Victim endured. But Mary stood by Him to the end, and her tearful eyes looked up into His pallid face as it sank in death upon His breast.

O broken-hearted Mother! by the grief which then wrung thy maternal heart, by the fidelity which made thee stand by the Cross of Jesus, and bravely associate thyself with Him in His hour of ignominy and of pain, pray for us to God, that our hearts may be torn with true contrition for our sins. Mayest thou stand by us in the last hour of our life, and give us courage to pass through the portals of death to the feet of Our Judge.

III. From the sorrows of the most holy Mother of God, learn that all sorrow is the effect of sin. The first tears that ever dropped from the eyes of man were wrung from him by the bitter loss which he sustained on account of sin; and every tear that has since fallen, and gone to swell the tide of human woe, has had its origin in sin. Mary had never been guilty of sin. But sin seized upon and murdered her only Child; and therefore sin made her weep, we might almost say, tears of blood, upon the place dyed with the blood which she had given to Jesus Christ.

Look back at your life, and call to mind the numberless times in which you have sinned against your Lord. Each of these sins had its share in causing Mary's bitter tears. They helped to strike down that thorny wreath upon the brow of Jesus; to wield the cruel scourge; to dig through the delicate hands and feet; to murder Him upon the Cross. They gave nerve to the executioner's arm, and malice to the hypocritical Scribe, and words of scorn to the rabble that screamed and yelled around the Cross.

When, therefore, you contemplate the sorrows of our dearest Mother, fall upon your knees before her, look up into the face of your Saviour, smite your breast, ask pardon for having been the cause of His and of her sufferings; and promise that by resisting evil for the future, and by living a holy life, you will endeavour to blot out the evil of the past. If the merciful but just hand of God should chastise you for your sins by sending you sorrow to wring your heart with anguish, and to draw bitter tears from your eyes–Oh! lift up those eyes to the Cross on which Jesus hangs, beneath which Mary stands, and learn patiently to bear the trial. Weep with her over the work which your hands have done. Those tears are a sweet balsam to the wounds of Jesus; they are a consolation to the heart of His Mother; they are a health-giving fountain which will wash away the filth of sin, ‘and heal the stroke of its wound.' 

The Seven Dolours

Different sorrows of Mary have been honored in the Church’s history, but since the 14th century these seven have commonly been regarded as the seven dolours (sorrows) of the Blessed Virgin Mary:

The prophecy of Simeon The flight into Egypt The loss of the child Jesus for three days Meeting Jesus on the way to Calvary The crucifixion and death of Jesus Jesus being taken down from the cross Jesus being laid in the tomb. Manual of Devotions Translated by Fr. Ambrose St. John , 1861

Devotion to the Sorrows of our Blessed Lady dates from Calvary. The Apostolic Church clung round her whom Jesus had given to be its Mother, and ever remembered that it was amid the pains, the Blood, and the agonies of the Passion, that it had become the child of Mary–literally “the child of her Sorrows.” The chief characteristic, then, of the Church's first love to our Lady was a deep, tender, loving, and child-like devotion to her Sorrows, and the Apostolic age bequeathed this exquisite feeling to succeeding times. But it was reserved for the thirteenth century, in many respects the grandest period in the history of religion, to develop this intuitive aflection, by giving it, as it were, a form, and uniting those most attached to this devotion in a confraternity, strongly recommended by the Church, and richly endowed with indulgences, and other favours by the Supreme Pontiffs.

It was in the year 1234. that seven holy men of Florence, retiring from that city into the cloister founded a religious Order, under the name of the Servites, or Servants of Mary, whose especial object was to honour the Sorrows of the Blessed Virgin; nor was it long before Heaven miraculously proved that our Blessed Lord, the Man of Sorrows, was well pleased with this afifectionate devotion to her who had the most nearly and bitterly shared in His Passion.

This tender sympathy, and the consequent graces richly bestowed by Jesus and Mary, were however not to be confined to the cloister. A lay affiliation of the Servites of Mary was soon established; the habit, or scapular of our Lady of Sorrows, enriched with numerous indulgences, was eagerly sought after by thousands of all ranks. The Crown or Rosary of the “Sorrows” began to emulate the Dominican Rosary; in short, the Confraternity of the “Sorrows,” like the great Society of Mount Carmel, spread through Christendom, was in like manner encouraged by holy Popes, and in like manner drew down the favours of God, and the blessings of Mary, on untold thousands of rich and poor.

The great object of this Society is to nourish a loving sympathy with our Blessed Mother in her sufferings, and with her, and through her, to unite ourselves with Jesus bleeding and dying for us.

Those who wish to practise this devotion may be divided into two classes:

1st–Those who wear the black Scapular and receive her Crown or Rosary, and join from time to time in the Offices and devotions of her Sorrows.

2nd–Those who, in addition to the above, become enrolled members of the confraternity, with a good intention of regularly observing its rules.

It is with sincere pleasure, and heartfelt gratitude, that we have seen this beautiful devotion established in this country. It has lately been regularly organized as a canonical Confraternity at St. Patrick's, Soho, London, where the first Feast of the Seven Sorrows has been solemnly kept. Of this we are certain, that in proportion as we, the Servants of Mary, compassionate her sufferings and meditate on her great Sorrows, while thus our love for her grows daily “more and more,” so also will our love for Jesus crucified still more continually increase. Private devotions will multiply, public Offices will be more regularly and more devoutly attended, and, as we confidently believe, Mary will show us a grateful love, and, with her own most marvellous blessing, will bless those who, by compassionating her Sorrows, show themselves the most truly to be her children, and give the sweetest consolation to her afilicted heart. 

[witches-and-weirdos]

Rise of The Purgator (WH40K)

A Dalish woman, Irilla, lived the first quarter of her long life in the hazardous jungles of Atephis III, mastering the art of survival and training in the ways of the warrior, as all her tribe’s members had to. She hunted, both for beasts and intruders, and partook in raids and ambushes against humanity.

One spring, strange and troubling news reached the patriarch about malevolent spirits manifesting all across the sector as the highest ruling class succumbed to some ungodly form of corruption, and sure enough, by summer Atephis III had too been reached by the crisis. Rifts opened into the warp and spewed forth demons with slaughterlust as cultists and traitors began to topple the humans’ rule. The terrible might of this new common enemy loosened the hostility between humans and Dalish, and on occasion, they even united to fight the horrors.

On one such occasion, as they fought cultists side by side, the human troops reported a warp rift’s opening to their officers, then communication broke. Yet when the rescue team arrived, all they found was a passed out Irilla among the slaughtered bodies, and no rift at all.

She was taken into custody and was questioned, but she barely remembered the fight, and if not for the mysteriously disappeared warp rift, she would likely had been executed there and then. As the fortress’ masters debated what to do, chaos attacked, and a rift opened behind the walls as fire rained from the sky. A desperate fight began, and Irilla was locked into her cell, so as to not cause even more harm. The demons slaughtered unstoppably, and when they broke into her cell, in a defensive attempt, she directed her psychic mind at them. The creatures screamed and writhed, and returned to the warp.

She stared as the memories slowly sank back, moment by moment, and a single guard gazed at her as if the God Emperor himself had sent her to save them. In his awe, the guard allowed another beast to charge him, and with an extended hand, now confident and determined, Irilla banished it. The guard jumped from the demon’s screech, and watched it dissolve into nothing, this time, not the only witness. “Please, save us...” He uttered, and Irilla, walked out her cell. “I will do what I can. Just see to it that your lords won’t kill me.”

She ascended from the fortress’s dungeon and walked through its halls, banishing every horror of the warp at will, followed by the growing mass of awestruck troops she saved. “The Emperor’s mercy! She’s a saint he sent to save us! The God-Emperor’s angel had come for us!” The soldiers praised, and seeing the heights this brought their spirits to, she refrained from shattering it all by asking just who this ‘Emperor’ was.

When she was finally outside, the rift rippled with malevolence against her, and she approached it. With hands grabbing at air and pulled together, the rift too had shrunk, and with a righteous scream from her lips, the wound in reality was sealed, and all who witnessed had bowed. “I will fight for you, but I am no saint. Just a Dalen.“ But of course, the humans wouldn’t listen, their minds had already been made up, and over the following years as more and more of them began to follow her and obey her commands, they only became more and more sure of what she denied. Soldiers and officers deserted to join her, mere citizens came to follow, and soon enough, she found herself standing before large maps in a war council that lead its own army and held its own strongholds. Though she never knew true and all-consuming determination until a sleepless night’s visions plagued her.

It was nothing new, seeing small fractions of possible futures and instinctively feeling how likely they were to turn real, but the things she saw had marked the true start of her crusade. For she beheld what chaos would turn her world into, a demon world lost to darkness forever, where humans and Dalen alike were merely resources to forge unholy war machines from and playthings for the horrors of the warp, where searing blood rained from blackened skies as souls writhed and screamed in agony at the hands of demons, and where every man, woman and child was flayed and ripped to little bits alive, only to be reborn the next day and suffer the same again.

At morning, she called her council with emergency and told them of these horrors. A will and determination burned in her like nothing they’d seen before, and The Purge was declared. She worked from then with an obsession that put human efforts to shame, and through blood and sweat, the planet was purged of taint and its traitor governor was executed by Irilla herself before the cheering masses.

“We are safe, but this only begun! The entire sector suffers the same plague. You have followed me for years to save your homes and families from these horrors, and now I ask you to keep following! We will go from planet to planet and purge this horrid filth from our neighbors! Let us all stand as one and march against the darkness! Will you follow?!“

And all those before her and who watched in broadcast roared!

[ghuletteintraining]

Random question.. how did you and @girlwiththepapatattoo come to write Chiarascuro together? You guys obviously make a great writing team!

Oh thank you SO much!! @girlwiththepapatattoo​ is literally the best writing partner ever, and I honestly could not have done any of this without her!

Every so often, one of us would throw out a prompt in the course of our thirst-ridden discussions of Papa III, and we would respond back and forth, a couple of sentences or paragraphs at a time, creating little vignettes of filth -- all of which were short, quick, fun little drabbles (most of which we will eventually post at some point!). And Chiaroscuro started out the same way -- one day, toward the very end of 2017, I texted her with something along the lines of “I volunteer to be the filling in a Papa/Johannes sandwich, please and thank you.” She responded, then I did, and we started creating this incredibly hot scene (it eventually became part of chapter 4, I think) and then ... it just didn’t stop. Unlike our other drabbles, this one just kept going. About a week or so later, I finally asked her something to the effect of, “where do you see this whole thing taking place?” And that was our first serious brainstorm session where we started hammering out an actual plot and realized that we were actually creating a whole smutty paranormal fairy tale. Within a month or so, it became obvious that this story was turning into a beast -- and what a beast it has become! We love it so much, and we are so happy and thrilled beyond belief that other people enjoy it too! Honestly, Thursday nights we still scream at each other in utter joy and amazement every time we get a new comment, either here or on ao3 -- it never gets old! Thanks for the ask!

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Dreaming Bitter Darkly Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Odyssey Characters: Alexios | Deimos Warnings: Implied child abuse, implied sexual abuse, implied gratuitous violence Parts: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII |  VIII | IX Summary: It starts when Deimos is a boy. He dreams of an island Kephallonia, a man Markos, a bird Ikaros, a girl Phoibe--all things that the Cult says don’t exist. This is a lie.

It starts when Deimos is a boy. He dreams of an island named Kephallonia, of a man named Markos, and a bird named Ikaros. He dreams of mishaps and misadventures and the multitude of foolish things Markos gets up and into, including some skirts and some wine and possibly a child or two that results from the union, no one is ever quite sure. He dreams of sorrow and bitterness and loss—of a mother who doesn’t abandon him, but of a father who does kill him which leaves things all the same as much as he wants otherwise.

Deimos makes the mistake of telling Chrysis of his dreams only once and his reward is pain and pain and more pain. He is beaten black and blue, is bled and burned for his folly. Chrysis touches his hair and strokes her fingers along his back as he cries through the pain, through his ever so lovingly given gift.

“There is no Kephallonia, there is no Markos, there is no Ikaros,” Chrysis tells him, and Deimos takes it to heart. “These are foolish dreams, Deimos, designed to tempt you away from your fate. Do you hear me, my son?”

Deimos fights down his sobs, utters, “Yes, mater,” and speaks no more of Kephallonia, of Markos, of Ikaros, of the name Alexios—of Kassandra. Deimos bottles his dreams up and away and focuses instead on the pain, on his birthright. A little part of him dies that day, and every subsequent day after as the dreams continue. They taunt him and torture him and reinforce the idea that Chrysis is right. The world is pain, and pain is his birthright. He will wash the world in pain and pay it back tenfold.

This, Deimos utters in the dead of night, he swears. The world will pay in sin and blood for the pain it gives him. Every lesson Chrysis imparts from here on out Deimos takes to heart so completely, so utterly, that it leaves the rest of the Cult of Kosmos breathless. He hears them whisper on the days he is drawn into their meetings, where they shed his blood as quickly as they shed the blood of their enemies, and he grits his teeth and bears it. He bears the attentions of the Eyes and of Elpeanor, who helps Chrysis as she demands it. He bears the attentions of the lesser beings and bottles it all nice and neatly away.

Eventually Deimos ceases to think of a mother that loves him and remembers the mother that abandons him. He ceases to think of a father that throws him from a cliff-face, of a baby sister that does not exist. Soon he ceases to look at the skies and wish for an eagle of his own, granted by Zeus, like the one in his dreams. He starts to hate eagles after the fifth sacrifice Chrysis makes in front of him, and he begins to kill each and every eagle he sees after the seventh.

Eagles are worse than sin, Deimos decides, and his want of one is worse than being worse than sin. He is a god in living flesh; he has no need for favors of Zeus. In fact he welcomes Zeus’ wrath, let the god come and fight him—let him show them all what fools they are and kill them for their sins and greed, the stink of their filth and sex and how they leave behind children to be broken by fools who claim to be mater and pater.

Deimos does away with mater and pater when he is ten. He dreams of a girl named Phoibe who lost her family, who follows him that is twenty around and Markos that still drags him into trouble with whims and fancies. Deimos is ten but twenty and his heart beats Kassandra the baby sister he loses, the baby sister that doesn’t exist and never will exist because Deimos is ten and not twenty and when Deimos becomes Deimos he’s a babe anyway. His sister isn’t real, and Deimos accepts that like he accepts everything else in his life which is not really at all.

He is ten, though, when he beats Chrysis black and blue and shows Elpeanor why he’ll not accept another hand upon his skin. He is ten when he fights back and Chrysis cries; she cries of joy and pain and it disgusts him. He is ten when he terrified Elpeanor until the man flees and he only ever sees him during nights of gathering at the temple of Delphi. Deimos is ten as he shows the Cult everything they’ve ever taught him and the eldest’s of the group whisper about how they’ve created a monster, a horrifying terrifying beast, and isn’t it wonderful?

Deimos is ten, he bears his teeth with blood while Chrysis sobs on the ground before him and Elpeanor fights for his life as his life’s blood flows from wrists and broken heads, and rejoices as the Cult moves in fear. He is ten and he is a God and these dreams of a girl named Phoibe, the nightmares of Phoibe in Chrysis or Elpeanor’s grasps, remain right where they belong. They stay behind his lips because he is ten and not twenty and Phoibe doesn’t exist like Kassandra doesn’t exist. Kephallonia doesn’t exist. Markos doesn’t exist. Ikaros doesn’t exist.

Then at fifteen Deimos learns this is a lie and he kills the fool to tell him.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Atrocity Exhibition

Snapshots of the life and death of Savage Opress, from seventeen different angles. Drabble collection.

1.7k | also on AO3

I.

The body lies empty in the plaza, half-naked and with twin charred holes in his chest that must’ve done him in and already spotted with purplish death-bruising, and yet, he looks oddly peaceful. She kneels in respect: there is no doubt in her mind that Savage died to protect her Mand’Alor. He tried to, just like the soldiers that Death Watch has already found in the throne room, and just like them, he fell victim to the silent menace none could defend against.

“I’m still alive, but you are dead,” Rook Kast whispers. “I remember you. We will find Maul.”

II.

Her baby is a boy. Kycina had prayed for a girl, not for the sake of his sire, waiting captive in her rooms and soon to be killed for the deficiency in his seed, in the way of her mother and all women before her; but for herself. The boy, Savage, she will give into the care of his tribe, and when he has grown and been taken she will close her ears and weep his death. A girl, she’d have seen grow up, would have delighted in her every move.

A girl, she would have cradled to her chest.

III.

An obstacle, that’s all he is, or—an opportunity. Maul loves him. That long-discarded wretched failure of a traitorous apprentice has thrown in his lot with another of his species, a dumb brute with even less promise than Maul ever had, and he loves him. This is delightful. Sidious makes sure that Maul is fully conscious again by the time he slaughters the animal. He allows them their little goodbyes. It would take long to find physical pain that Maul hasn’t yet suffered, and he is well-acquainted with emotional abuse, but this: this loss, it was worth flying out for.

IV.

Always a step behind Maul, never in front. A trusted lieutenant, because he’s not the leader, not by a long shot, not with the shorter man’s arrogance in play. A shield, instead. And: a loved one. Pre Viszla sees it, in the way Savage stops the knife aimed at Maul, and in the total lack of flinch. Never a doubt he’ll intervene, and it’s mutual, certainly, what with Maul’s easily exploitable concern after the rescue.

That’s why, despite certain security concerns, he gives the order to lock both brothers inside the same cell. This is Mandalore, and family is honored.

V.

The young nightbrother has grown strong, Brother Viscus notes with silent helpless pride. On the field, Savage is straining muscles and cocky grins and there’s nary a yelp when the lance of his training partner strikes true, and then he wrestles the other teenager down and helps him up again. The boy is the very picture of a son of their tribe, powerful and kind with children and someday, Viscus thinks with a rend in his hearts he cannot seem to rid himself of, someday he will make a fine mate for the Sister who wins him as Her prize.

VI.

This new acolyte was a mistake, Darth Tyranus decides. He’d visited the Nightsister tribe in the belief that one of their males had been powerful and cunning enough to murder his own former Padawan, and he’d gone there despite the pain and disgust he feels whenever he thinks of the now-dead Darth Maul’s deed. He found: utter disappointment. Ignorance. Imbecility. Abjection. This is the kind of creature that dared best Qui-Gon?

On the floor, Opress whines and curls and begs for his brother—for the murderous beast that once enticed Tyranus—and so he gifts him another lesson of pain.

VII.

The enemy rushes onto the battlefield, cutting off that brother’s arm in a bright spray of arterial blood and choking this brother with massive claws, and right then Spotlight knows he was wrong. He’s been wondering, see: maybe they’re not so different, him and the Separatist flesh grunts. They look scared, before he shoots them, and Spotlight himself certainly wouldn’t be fighting this war if he wasn’t made to do it. No-one gets anything out of war but the civvies. But the beast has this wild look, like he’s karking enjoying it, and Spotlight was wrong. This is the end.

VIII.

Traitor, the droids name the Sith beast, and they shoot it instead of taking aim at him or Obi-Wan. Frankly, that’s fine by Anakin. He’d like to get a good chop in himself—somewhere, he is still that nine-year-old kid huddled on Naboo who was told that Qui-Gon Jinn was never coming back, that he’d been slain by the Sith, a kid who wanted to beg Who’ll be my Master now and couldn’t—Anakin wouldn’t mind taking on Dooku’s animal, but there’s no reason to risk entering the droid’s blaster-hail. Opress roars out a shockwave and flees. Next time, then.

IX.

It’s terrifying, even with his big brother beside him, and Feral can’t imagine how much worse his first trial would be, alone. Although. He shivers: being killed by the pale Woman, or accidentally by one of the other unlucky sods beside them, that’s bad (and it would already have happened, if Savage hadn’t interceded), but compared to… to being taken (Savage puts himself between another blow and Feral’s body) compared to being taken by the Sister, death is fine, and so’s being struck lame; but Savage will never let Feral get hurt. How are they gonna get out of this?

X.

The Sith looms. Angry growls and quick strikes and then—he shouldn’t be this strong, Adi Gallia thinks frantically, shouldn’t be able to overpower her this easily when she is a General and a Jedi Master and a Member of the High Council to boot, and it gives her terror for the future. He shouldn’t, because the Jedi triumphed and routed the Sith once before and hunted them to extinction; but they have returned, and the force favors them. Opress smacks her against the ship and spears her when she falls, and there is no death. There is the force.

XI.

What a moron. Looks strong—looks like mounds of juicy juicy meat, more like—but with all those nice muscles there’s not much space left over for brain, it appears, because, after that shitty strangling, the offworlder’s actually following Morley meekly to his doom. If he didn’t look as delicious or was a little less of a humorless prick, and what kind of catchphrase is Where is my brother? anyway… if Morley wasn’t so hungry, then he might even find it in him to feel bad for the ugly meathead. As it is: maybe Master will leave Morley some entrails.

XII.

He’s gonna kill her. This dude is actually going to kriffing kill her, not in a pervert way but in broad daylight, in the middle of the restaurant, grabbing her and holding her up and strangling her and everyone’s screaming, and Mikjoo was just going to look at his weird glowing amulet, that’s all. She was gonna make conversation, with a man who looked slightly sad and very lost and like he’d potentially give decent tips.

It’s not murder, in the end; he throws her to the floor and runs off, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a total psycho.

XIII.

Her creature drags himself to the table, drags himself home, bruised, a failure and: still alive. It’s a testament to Talzin’s craft that the bespelled nightbrother was able to return, and the result of her own shortcomings that Dooku yet lives. No matter. When young Asajj returns, another path to her vengeance shall be found. As for Savage Opress… in the crystal, Talzin sees her Maul, once stolen by Sidious and finally located, and there’s none more suited to fetching the boy than this durable, obedient tool. She speaks comfort and helps him up. There is further use for him.

XIV.

Her mate—or he would have been, if this was a normal coupling—he washes himself in the sink of the sister’s house where Asajj is staying, for this step in the grand plan of her revenge against her former Master. Trembles wrack his glistening bruised body, and she ignores them, according to her wishes and—she is sure—also his own.

Shock laces through him when instead of a kiss, she presents him to Mother Talzin, that and naked relief; but when he stands after the ritual, what’s left is not a mate. Not a nightbrother. Only—an instrument.

XV.

The foolish apprentice looks up from underneath Maul’s clawed foot, all thoughts of brazen challenge forgotten. There is no pain, not yet. This should be cause for further correction, Maul remembers, should result in screams, writhing and terror, but—a face, a familiar sort of face if Maul remembered his own and more still now he doesn’t, leads him from out his trash cave and into the light. A low voice rings through the nightmare. A hand offers meat. Safety. The apprentice looks up. The brother loves, despite everything.

Maul extends his hand. He doesn’t care to interrogate the instinct.

XVI.

Two brothers and a smoldering pile of corpses, that’s what Obi-Wan finds on Raydonia. Violence, senseless and vile, evident in this carnage and in the shaping of its perpetrators, for he’s visited their village, knows of enslavement and degradation and forced breeding, and knows that none should ever arise from such filth as exists on Dathomir and feel any compassion. Both were doomed from the moment of their birth.

He ignites his lightsaber and faces them. Unlikely though it is, he prays: for victory, but more still, for the chance to extinguish this cycle of violence with both their lives.

XVII.

He wrings his hands around Feral’s neck, or he doesn’t: he is watching his fingers kill, is looking down at them, and they’re not even the right size. A plea, silent, disembodied: they don’t look like his fingers. It’s only the perspective that does it, making them out to be his own body; that, and the self-aimed revulsion. Stop. They don’t, of course. His hands don’t belong to him anymore.

Afterwards, he won’t remember the Mother’s intrusion. He will see nothing but his own flesh, by his own will, killing his own brother.

Afterwards, Savage will only see: a monster.

[anotherbadmovie]

The finale of 31 Days of Halloween III - Spooky Edition! Hocus Pocus (1993)

Dir. Kenny Ortega

Follow for more horror, cult and genre movies from AnotherBadMovie.

So what did we end on this year? What better way to get back to basics with some childhood classics that what has really become a Halloween cult film at this stage, Hocus Pocus.

This always comes up this time of year but truthfully I haven't seen it since I was maybe 7 or 8 and frankly it scared me on last viewing!

Watching it now I can see why, there’s a lot of stuff that you wouldn’t expect from a PG film - not least Sarah Jessica Parker being utter filth! I’m pretty sure 12 ratings were only brought in for UK home ratings in 1994...

I think if I’d seen this only a year or two later it would have really been a favourite as all the darker elements would have been right up my ally. Watching as an adult however this i a cracking film. The visual style of it is really to be applauded and catches, in an artistically impressive manner the feeling of a haunted house or ghost train and really embodies the Halloween period.

It also embodies the hell out of the 90s too, so it’s no wonder why every bums this film now. 90s kids forever and always.

Great performances, especially from Better Midler and the inimitable Doug Jones as everyone’s favourite zombie Billy, and non stop entertainment with a light-heartness darkness (or a dark..hearted.. lightness?) make this a timeless Halloween classic. I’m glad to have caught up to this one. As this year has shown you don’t always need gore on Halloween, sometimes you need something witchy and...

Thanks for joining me for Hallowe’en this year. I tried my best god darn it! I will be adding a master post and a list of the Halloween nostalgia rides I didn’t get around to for safe keeping.