#Matchbox set ablaze

[divorce-core]

FINE. I'll finally post on this blog!!

A silly Willow outfit I made out of various items, most of which not meant for her. Do I care? NO. She looks awesome. That's all that fucking matters baby and I wear it all the time whenever I play her

My favourite survivors to dress up are Willow and Maxwell, totally irrelevant they're my favourite characters. I enjoy using them as my little dolls to play dress up with. If you don't play dress up with your favourite survivors, you're just a loser (JOKING. I'm JOKING.....mostly.)

BTW KLEI TOLD ME THIS IS TRUE ok

[sylix-royalty]

There’s this song that has been stuck in my head… Let the world burn by Chris Grey

Also I just watched that one episode with the arsonist who was in love with his sister and chased out of his town bc of it. So—

Anyway….

Type: UnSub!Aaron Hotchner, murder fic.

Warnings: Just a weebit of crazy, ya know… stabbing and lighting people on fire.

Aaron couldn’t control how he felt for Spencer. He was obsessed. Watching Spencer every second of every day, as much as he physically could. The genius drove him crazy.

It was a mistake coming to this bar. Watching Spencer have a drink or too, feeling a buzz. Witnessing a couple guys come up and try to flirt, only to back off when they met Aaron’s gaze from next to Spencer.

There was the one guy, through, that wasn’t taking the hint.

Spencer kept giggling, shaking his head fondly. The guy kept touching him, squeezing his thigh, touching his arm. Aaron couldn’t stand it. He was going to burn this bar to the ground with this guy inside of it, listen to his cries for help and do nothing. Clearly there was no other way to handle this dude, or maybe Aaron was just a little out of it.

It didn’t matter.

Thank god JJ came to save him. She pulled Spencer away from the guy, giving some lame ass excuse that they had to leave, and Reid happily went with her after saying his goodbyes to him and Aaron. Aaron said goodnight and watched as the other guy huffed in annoyance but didn’t try too hard to keep him.

They shared a glance, and the dude rolled his eyes. Solidifying his fate in Aaron’s mind.

He watched the man leave out the back door, and Aaron followed him silently, finding him smoking in the back alley.

“Need a light?” The dude asked, and Aaron hummed. As the dude fished out his lighter, Aaron grabbed his combat blade from his back pocket and sliced him through the neck, expertly in the artery. The guy gasp, reaching up to grab his throat as the blood spilled and sprayed.

Aaron grabbed his flask from the inside of his jacket pocket, dumping the contents over him, and grabbing his matchbox and lighting the body ablaze. He walked away from it calmly, avoiding the blood spill and keeping his head down as he walked through the alley’s avoiding camera’s from the main roads until he ended up on another street.

After that, he went home, texting Spencer to make sure he was safe. And once he got a text back, he smiled, cleaning his blade and making sure it stayed sharp for when needed, refilling his flask with lighter fluid and setting it in his closet.

One day, he was going to make the world burn for Spencer. And they’d dance in the flames.

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 13: Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray.

Ao3 Link

Song recs for this chapter:

Summary:

The big battle to defeat the Darkling commences with quite the bang, and with it, Alina is tested in ways that she has never expected to be. Along with Dominik, Nikolai, the crows, her Soldat Sol, she is forced to bring down an evil that has existed for centuries. To survive the fall that it threatens to bring about, Alina must be the strength that she has searched for all throughout her life.

Notes:

Tws: The Darkling is his own warning, battlefield violence, and pain.

Wordcount: 6.4k

Chapter below the cut.

The Fold, that night.

__________________________________________________________

Alina had been waiting and ready for the Darkling since the morning, when she’d returned the sun to its rightful place amongst the heavens. 

Now, she stood atop the place where the Darkling had created the Fold so many centuries ago, clad in her Kefta of gold and green. The matchbox in her hands was held steady. All it would take was a spark, and she’d set the whole place ablaze. At her side, Olga Krylova had plunged into the Fold, the only one of her Soldat Sol to flee the Darkling’s Merzost unscathed. She adjusted Alina’s collar, checking over her infected wounds as Morozova’s antlers continued to fuse to her collarbone. 

Alina shrugged, let the pain pass. Flexing her free hand, she watched the shadows pour from it, grimacing with pain. Unlike the Small Science, which restored her health, the Darkling’s shadows, polluted with Merzost, stole what little she had left. 

Ringing her, weapons of various kinds held aloft, were her crows, and beyond them, the few volcra who’d come flapping to her side. She’d taken them to be mere monsters, but their tattered First Army uniforms told otherwise. They plucked at the hem of her Kefta, squeaked and chattered, clapping their hooked wingtips together to offer salutations. One, a baby, settled at Alina’s shoulder and chirped with reckless abandon. It liked her. She, amazingly, adored it. 

Dubbing the little thing Tselchki, little Star, Alina turned back to examining the matchbox. She needed to sense, however, when the Darkling was close. He’d come into the Fold, yes, but not to her. 

At her elbow, Tamar unsheathed her axes and Tolya his sword. The twins, with their sun-tattoos and heartrender abilities, were her most valuable alarm system closest to her. Olga murmured a prayer to the Saints, while Alina watched Kaz and Inej pacing the perimeter. With Jesper and Wylan arranged for long-range combat at the mid-tier of the multi-leveled platform, they were valuable, but not as much as the twins. 

Alina herself was the grand prize. She settled her shoulders, and noted Inej’s eyes on her. The volcra wings at her back flickered as the shadows shifted and changed to become larger or smaller in wingspan. She prayed to her fellow saints that the girl would not lose her way. The Wraith had to remain Inej Ghafa, or they would all be lost.

Kaz himself would most likely slaughter the Darkling with little more than the oyster knife and the cane in hand. He’d die, but the death would be glorious, a prayer to the altar of love that moved him more than greed or money. Nikolai had called him a true Kerchian.

Alina felt more suited to call him Hades, ever seeking of the sun that was Persephone, yet, unable to admit it to her. For what was love but a tide that required two to swim in its swell? Shaking her head, Alina sighed. She reached for the sword at her side, but stilled her hand. Nina’s hand had gone up in the dim gloom.

There was someone close. Alina popped the matchbox open, and struck. A spark, then the flame bloomed. Snapping her fingers, Alina let the light explode around her in a dome that covered the entire platform’s tiers. The tattered banners flapped in the breeze this explosion cast, and the shifting gray sand at her feet hissed. 

A part of her wondered if this was home to more souls than just the Volcra, and she cocked her head. A shadow, darker than even the darkness itself, was moving toward her. Alina slid the matchbox away, and lifted the lantern of Lumiya Iorek passed her. He was here too, his armor glinting in the glow she cast. 

“Be ready, Sol Koreleva.” The bear murmured, then yelled something that she couldn’t decipher. Isaak would know. Alina missed him. Shaking her head, she forced herself not to think about the particulars. She knew Nikolai was safe somewhere, not dead. Maybe in a church sanctuary, drinking wine and pouring over maps while having Dominik dictate his horrid love poetry.

The thought of him doing all of that shirtless made Alina smack herself in the face. Now was not the time to think of Nikolai Pytorevich Lantsov shirtless. She did, admit, the thought was extremely tempting. That green satin bedrobe had been with her even in her coffin. It’d been her burial shroud, for Saint’s sake. Alina groaned, and rubbed a hand over her face.

“Thinking of Nikolai?” Tamar asked, a cheeky grin on her face. Alina’s volcanic look had Tolya opening his mouth, which Tamar glared shut. “Your pulse-”

“Accelerates when I’m thinking of him. Yes-”

“No, actually. It calms.” Tamar rubbed her hands together. Alina blinked. She shook her head. However, she had no time to reflect on that thought, for the shadows parted to reveal the Darkling in the most ostentatious Kefta she’d seen him wear. Miles of silver embroidery detailed his symbol of the eclipse with the bolts of light. Atop his hair was a crown of black obsidian. A cloak of shadows with two snarling wolves as the mantle-pieces connected by a chain draped over his shoulders.

Alina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, the brooding eternal prince of darkness would wear such dark colors and be so ostentatious as to clad himself in mink fur. She sighed. Casting a gaze to her left and right, she indicated for Tamar and Olga to step aside. 

Tapping her hands to her shoulders, Alina let the kefta of green and gold lengthen out behind her in a solid-gold train of three feet, dusted with sparkling jewels. The centerpiece of the train was a white stag under a Sunne in splendour, the very thing that crowned her braided updo. The train, unlike the Darkling’s, detached. Under it, she wore a gold gown edged in white fox fur. The collar of it was cut so that the antlers poked out in all their glory. Blood flecked the wounds, half dried and still oozing in spots.

Alina wanted him to see the pain he’d inflicted upon her in all its glory. The fetter at her wrist had dug into her skin and the blood caking the broken flesh was grisly, nearing infection. That was held at bay by the constant usage of her Grisha powers. Her upper arm bore the firebird’s feather.

While Mal had been the amplifier, the Darkling didn’t know that. For show’s sake, the feather served as a clever glamor act. Alina’s hands rose to her hair. She let the updo stay as it was. The gown she wore reformed once more into the armor she’d entered the Fold in. Fighting as a soldier was easier when in pants and the gold armor her powers seemed to manifest. But, the cape stayed. 

It flowed down the steps as Alina marched towards the Darkling, casting a glow as she moved toward him. She stopped in front of him, and undid the sun clasps. The cape fell to the ground in a soft flutter. With a flick of her hand, it had disappeared like a mirage in the desert. Yet another trick of the light. The kefta was back, and she was glad for it.

Stretching her arms, Alina smirked.

“Good evening, Moi Sovereyeni.”

“Little Saint.” He spat back, his hand inching towards the sword he wore. “I find it most strange how you continuously survive what I throw at you.” He growled. “If I had had my way with all of this, you would have been brought to the Little Palace as a child, and stayed there to keep you from all this-” He threw his hand up.

“Rabble rousers? Fiendish princes? War?” Alina hissed. “Like it or not, Aleksander, I am who I am, in spite of you.” 

The words Baghra had said to her all those months ago, in the Spinning Wheel the night of her breakdown, rang true. At long last, Alina understood. She had come forward from her own mental illness and fear in spite of what Aleksander expected of her, in spite of what Mal wanted, or what Nikolai desired.

Her strength, all along, had been to be true to herself and to the fact that she had to continually put her foot forward when all she did was plunge into the dark. For she, Alina Starkov, was the light that not Ravka needed, but She needed. In order for the Fold to have come down at all, She’d needed the initiative and the strength to get back up when the world crushed her flat.

She’d done it, again, and again. Keramzin, Balakirev, two years of death at the hands of Aleksander. Even as little as getting out of bed in the morning, whether her own, or Nikolai’s, she’d kept onwards. 

Now, she felt that old power within her build. The hunger was sated, the rage within her snuffed. The bubbling, roaring inferno within her heart now, was for hope. Destroying the Fold would kill Aleksander, and bring her peace. She’d never wanted a simple life on a farm, being kowtowed and at the mercy of some fat Duke. 

No. 

Her power belonged in helping others. After she helped herself first. Helping herself meant becoming Ravka’s queen, opening hospitals and sanctuaries to Grisha persecuted. It meant getting out of bed in the morning alive and to the sight of any children she would undoubtedly bear. It meant living in a world where Ravka would not be war torn, where she could see the True Sea from The Great Palace’s western windows. 

Light bloomed inside her, except this time, it wasn’t filled with anger, or misery. The pain that had fueled her for so long, had finally run dry. In its place, glowing brighter and hotter with each moment, was hope.

“You are nothing without me, Little Saint. I will be endless. You will be a footnote.”

“You forget one thing, Aleksander.” Alina murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek in her scarred hands. She called on the light, and it came in a blinding, earth-shattering burst that flowed from her in a heatwave so strong, it would burn a man’s clothes clean off.

“I am the one who has been prophesied and honored for millennia, since you created this darkness. Saints become martyrs before they are canonized. You have already martyred me, twice over. I will be remembered, when you are long buried in this earth, not because I am a saint, but because all along, in all of this pain and war, I was kind.”

The light built hotter and brighter, and the Darkling began to panic visibly. His eyes blew wide, the obsidian black irises reflecting her in his gaze. Alina closed her eyes, and let that hope within her, like with pandora’s box, fly free.

The light rose up with the strength of a hurricane, and struck blindly. The volcra in her shield chittered nervously. Alina willed the light not to touch them. They would become like Nikolai. Human, but with the darkness still within. Her hand reached to touch Tselchki. It squirmed under her palm. The little beast would be safe, free from the sun’s blazing light. All around her, light filled the Fold. it reached with greedy fingers for the darkness, driving spears into where the shadow was at its heaviest. 

It tore all of the shadows apart with heat, and hope. Alina closed her eyes, and let the amplifiers control the power for her. All around her, she felt the darkness receding. The Darkling was filled with such rage that it made Alina quake in her boots. She stepped back, and threw her arms wide. The light exploded out in a second shockwave.

Over the crackling, she heard a cry. Her eyes snapped open. The Darkling was pulling the Fold back up, drowning her light. The antlers were the first to submit to him. She felt her powers weaken, and Alina screamed. “No!”

“Yes!” Aleksander yelled back. “THIS is the price of punishment, Miss Starkov!” All around her, her light burned out like stars in the night sky, and Alina sank to her knees, weeping. She’d never felt this weak in her entire life. It was as if her very soul had been torn apart and scattered across a jagged floor. Glass dug into her, the darkness within her smothering who she really was.

Fighting did nothing, it only drew the bonds tighter. She closed her eyes, curling in on herself. Through half-lidded eyes, she watched her shield fall, and the volcra she commanded rushing to protect her friends from their brethren. The screeching of the monsters filled the air, and Alina could only watch as Nichevo’ya joined the fray. Their shadowy limbs and wings clawed hungrily for the flesh of those they could reach.

Alina searched inside herself for the hope that had just moments before been her guiding light. Through the small gap in the Fold, she spotted sight of the north star. Then, she brought her arms over her head, and snuffed out her sight. The tang of defeat poured into her mouth. 

Help. She thought blindly. Someone, help me.

Off in the distance, Alina thought she heard a bugle call. But in the shadowy darkness, with Aleksander’s clammy hands at her wrist and throat, what good could she do? She cried out as his fingers dug under the fetter and into the wounds of the antlers. 

“This is the price of resistance, Little Saint. What yours is mine also. Like calls to like, no?”

She nodded limply. She felt like a puppet on his strings. Always dancing to his tune. The thought of her dancing like this made her think of Nikolai, and a hoarse sob filled her throat. He would always be safe, always escaping any trap. Yet, she would be the one to stumble into them.

No, sunshine, don’t think like that. Hold on, just a little longer. 

Alina felt Nikolai’s arms around her midsection, pulling her to him. His lips traced her neck, the collar. His kisses then had been reverent, filled with the adoration of a pilgrim before an altar. She clung to him blindly, sobbing hysterically. 

You exist, in spite of him. Come on, Sunshine. Tighten your pauldrons. This will not be your grave.

Alina sniffled. How? He’s so strong.

He’s weak. He’s afraid. You said it yourself. You will be remembered for your kindness. Let that be your guiding light now. I’m coming for you. He kissed her neck again. Hold on, Alina the Righteous. Just a little longer.

Alina’s gaze turned back to the Darkling. With the last remnants of her strength, she gripped his hand in hers. She’d nearly died doing this back at the Little Palace. But now, she needed to do it. Drawing on the broken tether between them, she pushed Nikolai back, letting his tether with her fade into the back of her mind. 

He let it go, knowing she needed to fight against the Darkling now. 

Eya fyela chi, Moya Sol.

Tears bloomed in Alina’s eyes. Sniffling, she clamped her lips together, and tightened her grip on Aleksander’s hands. “Let me come back to you.”

The Darkling stilled. His eyes widened. Still, it seemed, faith and love to her, weakened him. Alina adjusted her grip on his hand so that it traced his scarred palm. She looked into his eyes, seeing his pain, and love for her. He loved her with the childish blindness that loneliness created. They were so alike, and yet so different.

She would be his little Saint always. A life in the Little Palace would lead to her being controlled by him. It was not something she wished on her worst enemies. So, she tightened her pauldrons, and let her mental shields drop. The tether between them strengthened. She allowed all of that childish love she’d held for them when she was 16 to flow between them. It would blind him, she would play to his weaknesses.

In the back of her mind, she reached for Nikolai. He came without a question from his lips, and gave her an anchorpoint for her powers. If the Darkling tried to kill her, this base reserve in him would keep her alive when all else failed.

Alina turned back to the Darkling once more, and watched him come closer. His powers spilled out in a wall of shadow, as he dimmed the Fold further. In the distance, she heard Tamar’s scream, and her eyes fluttered closed. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

Aleksander clicked his tongue. “Do not weep for the traitors. The volcra will be fattened from them. Doing so wastes what precious energy you have left.” Alina glared at him, what little fire left within her focusing in her eyes.

“Do not weep for the dead?” She murmured, thinking of the red names on the walls of churches along the Vy. He did this. Aleksander Morozova had the blood of millions upon his hands. Yet so did she. It was in that blood that her nightmares came, emerging from it in the forms of those she loved dearly.

But, she would weep for the dead. She would wail and rend the garments she wore, as her pilgrims had done. The Darkling had no cult of adoration. Alina had Ravka at her feet, their hands upturned in prayer. Young and old. They had borne her across this country in a golden litter, offering prayers unto her.

The bugle call rang out, louder this time. With it, a steady chant swirled through the air. 

Sankta Alina.

Alina the Righteous, hold on a little longer.

She had held on for long enough. Now, she grasped the Darkling’s hands tight, and yanked the shadows into herself in one strong and steady tide. The inky darkness nearly snuffed out her light completely, and she fell back onto the sandy ground. 

Aleksander’s eyes widened as he searched within himself. The shadows within him did not obey him. They cried and writhed at his feet, yes, but streamed towards Alina’s crumpled form. She threw her hands over her head, curled inwards, and searched for the eye of the storm. The light within her writhed and snapped at the darkness, but she urged it to calm.

Be steady.

The bugle call grew closer, louder. Her pilgrims were at the gates of the city. The volcra circling above her head screeched to one another. They hungered for her orders, for her edicts. For was she not the Sol Koroleva? The sun queen who had defied death now thrice?

I am.

Raising her head, Alina got to her feet on unsteady legs. Her hand reached for the matchbox. With a strength rapidly fading, she undid the box, and pulled out a simple match. The Darkling was agog in horror as the shadows parted, and in rushed his volcra-fied First Army. Their helm was crested by Nikolai on horseback, claws gleaming, wings erect. In his hands was a banner emblazoned with the red fox and Sunne in Splendour. He looked every inch a king, in his emerald green kefta with the Durast stitching.

Let it burn. She thought, scratching the match to the box’s tinder. Flame erupted, and the light, this time, poured out of her in one scathing, burning burst. Throwing her arms over her face, all turned to white as the heat boiled the very earth. 

Her light, borne from hope and pain, rose up to tear down the Fold. 

Under her feet, the sand turned to glass, and the night sky bloomed in a blaze of gold, red, and white light the likes of which Ravka had never seen. The shadows within her settled, a part of her, as with everyone, but hers to command.

Alina the Righteous, destroyer of the Fold. 

Sankta Alina, Sol Koroleva, former cartographer. An orphan girl, what do you make of yourself?

I make myself who I choose. Alina replied, feeling the shadowy beast within her settling at last. She raised her head to stare up at the north star, and dropped the matchbox onto the sheet of glass under her feet. The pilgrims waited with their simple knives drawn, her First Army with sabers and bayonets. Turning her head, Alina spotted the Darkling limping back, his side torn by the burst of light. 

She smirked, and watched as his few volcra and nichevo’ya surged to his side. Hundreds would rise from him. She had not deprived him of all of his small science, but she had taken a lot of it. 

Raising her hands, she let light and shadow pour from her fingertips. She too, bore the blackened tips of the volcra-fied First Army, and let her teeth lengthen. Being a monster felt rather nice, when one was dealing with the greatest monster of all.

The Darkling unsheathed his sword, and raised it high. Barking a command in ancient Ravkan, his Nichevo’ya moved to throw themselves into the fray. Behind Alina, amongst her troops of the First Army, her friends, and her darling Nikolai, soldiers of light bloomed into existence. Her Soldat Sol had become sun summoners themselves.

But Alina marched at their head, still powerful. Lowering her visor, Alina stopped as a slender white west-ravkan mare was drawn up beside her. Its reins were held by none other than Nikolai, who grinned down at her.

“Fancy seeing you here, Sankta. Need a ride?”

She rolled her eyes, and swiftly clambered onto the horse. “After this, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Nikolai murmured as he adjusted the holster of his pistols. Alina steadied herself on her steed and blinked.

“Who?”

“My half… well, twin sister, Linnea. She’s a Durast, like me.” He gestured to his ornate kefta. “Made me this.”

“It suits you.” Alina bumped his shoulder. “Is she here?”

Nikolai leaned over his shoulder and glanced back at the regiments. He stuck his thumb and first finger in his mouth and whistled a long, high note. From the back, one of his Drüskelle whistled back a warbling tone.

“She’s there. Wearing a Drüskelle uniform and their weapons.” He winked, and smiled. 

“So. This bastard.” Nikolai waved his hand in the direction of the Darkling, who across the glass expanse that was once the Fold was raising his army of shadows. “How do we defeat him?”

Alina withdrew Mal’s old hunting knife and held it out. It was still caked in Mal’s blood. Nikolai gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Did you really keep that for this long?”

“I was buried with it. The pilgrims thought it was the knife that had killed me.” She sighed. “Little did they know…”

“It was the point of three Grisha amplifiers. Saints, it’s powerful.” Nikolai ran a hand through his hair distractedly. She could almost see the gears in his mind whirring at a triple pace. Whatever he was thinking, it was undoubtedly going to be absolutely insane. And, judging by Nikolai’s plans, those worked the most often with the most success.

“So, stab him and get it over with? Seems a bit anticlimactic.”

“Now you mention it,” Alina muttered grimly. “It does. Saints know why he’s still mortal.”

“Anyone else would be dead, but not him. He’s like a cockroach.” Nikolai swung his horse’s head forward as his stallion paced. He shifted his weight backwards and adjusted his booted foot in the left stirrup.

“The other issue is that with him dead is how Ravka recovers. The West could go with Fjerda.” Alina’s brows furrowed. “We’d have to send a delegation within hours of you reclaiming the throne, and what of Shu Han-” Shaking her head, Alina sighed.

“Focus on what matters now - saving Ravka.” Nikolai gripped her hand in his and turned it over to kiss her wrist. The feeling of his lips there calmed her, and she focused forwards. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, and she let light bloom around her in a halo effect. withdrawing her sword, she flipped the visor of her helmet down. Nikolai tightened the strap of his kepi and withdrew his own sword, a blade of fine titanium. Raising it, he turned his head back towards the ready and waiting troops. 

The Darkling had a whole wall of volcra and Nichevo’ya. They would tear them to pieces. Alina settled herself in the saddle and took the banner Isaak handed her. Her hand reached up to soothe Tselchki, and the little monster whined as she slipped it into her kefta’s breast pocket. 

“For safekeeping.” She murmured, and grinned sidelong at Nikolai.

“First army, rifles forward!” Dominik growled, sitting astride them on his own steed, a destrier of a warhorse. He held a cavalry saber in one hand and the other clutched a vial of something noxious. 

Behind him, Alina heard Kaz shout to Wylan for something. The boy reached into his pocket and brought out a fragile vial of some substance. Alina noted the goggles around many of the volcra soldiers' necks, and realized this was powdered Lumiya. 

“Saints-”

“Flash bang.” Nikolai readied his horse, and reached out for the vial. Dominik handed it to him. Then, he threw it forwards. Up and down the line, spread three miles wide, the sound of shattering glass rang through the night air. 

“On my signal, Alina.” Nikolai raised his sword and yelled a single phrase that Alina had heard from battlefield to mess tent to field hospital. 

“Ne Ravka!” 

Then, the calvary broke through the lines, and Alina could only watch in wide-eyed amazement as her Soldat Sol burst forward. The Lumiaya around their feet exploded in violent bursts of light that crackled like miniature fireworks. Grenades and mortars rained down on the Darkling’s shadow soldiers, and above it all, the roar of artillery tore through the glass floor the Fold had once been.

Alina was swept into the tide of men, horses, and guns. She raised the banner high in her hand. Her Soldat Sol gave a mighty cry of Sankta Alina! And swept forward in a tide of light that blinded volcra, many of whom lashed out wildly with clawed appendages to whatever they could reach.

The stench of blood and screams of the dying filled her ears as Alina urged forward the second line of troops. Dominik’s signal had the infantry moving forward under the feet of the first line calvary, leaping from trenches as the artillery bombardment stopped and men began to hold significant positions.

“Melt the glass! The horses and men will be cut to pieces!” Kaz yelled over the roar of the guns as he stabbed his cane-head into an advancing volcra. Alina complied, and with a yank on Nikolai’s wrist, had melted the glass down into sand once more. The sand packed together and solidified into sandstone, ensuring the dunes did not drown them.

Still, despite the screaming and dying, Alina rode onwards. Blood splattered her horse’s muzzle, its front, and yet, she continued. The banner held high in her hand rallied her troops time and again. Distinctly, Alina was reminded of Richard III’s last charge against Henry Tudor, and the words of the play came unbidden into her mind. She’d read it one morning in the Little Palace between her lessons and now could think of nothing but the opening stanza.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious by this sunne of york. And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds/To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber/To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

 She would slaughter the darkling where he stood. She wouldn’t let him get inside her head anymore. Leaning low in the saddle, Alina let her mare carry her forwards. The banner in her hand was wrenched from her grasp by a greedy volcra who tore it in half. Alina’s rage exploded.

A blast of light rocked the earth as she sped past Nikolai, who was embroiled in fighting off a whole horde of Nichevo’ya, ignoring their fangs in his arms. His pistols were going off in a continous stream of bangs. At his back was Jesper and Kaz, who fought like Demjinns. Nikolai’s Drüskelle were pressing a good advantage in cutting off the western flank of volcra who were descending like a heavy artillery barrage. 

The roar of the guns started up again and Alina watched in wide-eyed amazement as shells soaked in lumiaya sailed through the air and exploded in wide, star-bright bursts of light that burned Nichevo’ya to ash and cut through swathes of volcra with the hundreds of tiny fragments that whistled through the air. 

Yet as each volcra fell, three came to replace it. The 28 regiments of the First army fought like a pack of wolves, yet even Alina was beginning to wonder if a strategic retreat was a good idea. Dominik had evidently thrown out the idea of bite and hold, which was a poor idea. She spun in the saddle and watched in horror as an officer was shot through the temple and the fellow bandaging him was ripped in two by a volcra. 

Focus on what’s important!

Alina’s head snapped up as she watched Nikolai take down two volcra at once, then heard his scream as a Nichevo’ya tore into his left shoulder. He ripped the beast off him, and tore its head from its shoulders with his clawed hand, then hissed. His black eyes were fully in place, and his wings burst forth. Amongst all this bloodshed and misery, he looked like some dark angel cursed to reap the souls of the dead.

Alina reached for her banner, remembered its unsightly end, and cursed. She raised her hand and brought forth a beam of light that refracted off her helmet. The beam surged out in a burst of holy light that caused her Soldat Sol to look up. Amongst the bloodshed and horror, Alina was a saint who came to bring the victorious to paradise. She reined in her horse and stalked towards the Darkling, who was gutting First Army soldiers and rogue Grisha with no care for their allegiance. Briefly, Alina caught sight of a flash of ginger hair and cringed as Harshaw was torn in half by a volcra, and she spotted the flash of black hair.

Zoya. 

Reaching down in the saddle, Alina scooped Zoya out of harm's way, even as the Grisha squaller hissed and spat like a wild cat. 

“I had him!”

“No, you didn’t!” Alina shouted as an artillery shell careened off course and plowed into a farmhouse three miles east. The fire from it turned Alina’s hair orange. Glancing up, she let out a sharp whistle to Dominik. 

“Aim the guns north! You’re off!”

He saluted her, and raised a series of detailed flags in swift succession. The bursts that followed were sharper in their targeting, and began to go after the Darkling’s command lines. Soon, screams filled the air once more, and Alina dropped Zoya with Isaak, who growled. 

“Keep an eye on one another.”

He saluted her, and bowed. Alina nodded her head in acknowledgment and raced back into the fray. She cut down enemies left and right, offering prayers for those slain on either side, waiting with barely bated breath for the Darkling to come onto the field properly. Alina’s eyes narrowed and she sat forward in the saddle as he mounted his black horse and stepped onto the battlefield. Alina raised her hand and made sharp movements to Dominik, who raised a flag. The First Army fell into swift lines of men and checked their rifles, loading clips and handing each other cigarettes and extra grenades. The crows adjusted their weapons, and Nina finished killing a Volcra with Matthais’s rifle.

22nd regiments remained. An entire 6 lay on the battlefield under their feet. Alina glared at the Darkling. Her Soldat Sol fanned out, and she caught sight of Tamar and Tolya directing them. Good, let them command her army. Alina settled herself in the saddle once more and raised her visor. 

Accepting the canteen of water from a blood-soaked Olga, Alina sipped it and handed the canteen back. She tore off her gloves and stuck them in her belt. The Darkling settled into his own saddle, a mere sword-thrust from her. A truce was beginning to take route, perhaps?

Behind her, Dominik ordered a pause in the firing. Nikolai repeated the snarl in Ravkan and his troops fell into line. 

Aleksander grinned, showing teeth.

“Good to see the Little Prince and Little Saint fight like the demons they both command.” He cocked his head. “But I am shocked, you willingly threw your entire army against me. Why?”

“Because you’re a scourge!” Zoya yelled from where she stood at Isaak’s side.

“Zoya…” Aleksander purred.

“Shut up!” Genya yelled. “You’ve done nothing for this country, for us! You deserve this!”

At that moment, Alina could’ve hugged her old friend. Genya, with her eyepatch and wicked fabrikated bayonet, looked particularly fierce. David and Wylan were discussing something in hushed tones. Jesper had one arm around Inej, who clung to Kaz’s gloved hands. Kaz’s eyes were wild with bloodlust and he breathed sharply through his nostrils.

“I do not deserve this, Safin.” Aleksander snarled. “I was merely trying to bring Grisha safety and peace from persecution! You do not know the centuries in which I have lived!”

“We know enough!” Genya retorted, stepping forward. She parted her hair and revealed her scars in all their glory. “I am ruination, yes, but you are a cancer that has festered in this land’s earth for time immemorial. And it is high time we return you to the grave from which you never deserved to emerge.”

Aleksander jerked back, almost losing control of his steed in his fright. Something Genya had said had alarmed him. Alina decided to press the advantage, and rode closer, breaking the rank lines. She dismounted from her horse and paused, watching Aleksander do the same.

“Tell them, Alina. Tell them what good I bring.” He begged, hoping against hope that she would listen to him, that the tether’s taking hadn’t all been for naught. He prayed to the saints he had venerated in childhood to listen, just this once.

“It’s true. Some of your things bring merit.” Alina replied, signaling to Nikolai and Dominik to be ready. She heard the sharp gasps of air from those listening and did not cringe. “But it is how you went about delivering them that has made you a villain.”

Aleksander scoffed, nervously. She’d called his bluff. He moved to form the Cut, but Alina watched his wavering hands. He was too weak too. Are we not all things? She thought, and gripped Mal’s knife tighter in her hand, hidden under the fold of her Kefta’s sleeve. 

“If I am a villain, yes, what has kept you from killing me, little Saint? All of these years, and I have been here. Able to be destroyed.”

“No.” Alina shook her head. Let him dupe us into thinking himself mortal. But he is a god. As long as he lives, he will have followers. 

I must be the one to end this.

She stepped forward, crossing to him. Then, she knelt and bowed her head in supplication. Nikolai’s eyes widened and he gripped Dominik’s hand in a lock grip so tight the other man’s hand turned white.

He was terrified. All of them were. Not a noise broke the stifling silence. Alina rose her head at last, and tugged the Darkling down to his knees with a well-timed yank on his Kefta’s lapels. He crashed to his knees.

“What are you playing at, Little Saint?” He growled as she brushed back his inky curls and pressed a hand to his stone-cold cheek. She’d never noted in all this time how cold he was. She gave him a hint of a smile. Anything to keep him from running.

“Kiss me.”

The First Army strained at the bit, an outcry pouring from their lips. The Soldat Sol shifted uneasily. The grisha growled low in their throats and exchanged frightened glances with one another. But, Alina did not waver. Hope had not escaped Pandora’s box yet. 

She watched the Darkling’s eyes widen, and smiled to herself as he leaned forward and captured her lips in a dark, seductive kiss. However, where she had once swooned against him with the same hunger, she remained cold and still. The blade in her hand glittered.

“Oh, Little Saint, how good it is to kiss you-”

He never finished the sentence, for Alina drove the blade that had killed three amplifiers into the Darkling’s heart. He gasped, groaned, and blood poured from his mouth. Alina jerked her head back as the blood splashed onto her face, and she collapsed back. The knife went with the Darkling, and she could only watch in shock and wide-eyed horror as his body began to decompose before her very eyes.

Soon, he turned to rot, and then turned from there to dust. Eight centuries of borrowed time had come to pay their debts with interest. For the knife too went with him, as did the kefta. Suddenly, all around them, screams filled the air.

“Light!” Alina shouted. Lanterns burst into light to chase back the darkness, and with these tiny wavering suns, the First and Second Armies watched as the Darkling’s creations died and withered, screaming. The shadows within the volcra-fied First army faded too, with nary a cry from any man. The chaos of the battle had stilled already, but the silence that followed was strangely eerie.

Off in the east, Alina could see dawn beginning to break on the horizon, and smiled faintly. A new day, a new millennia. She wavered on her feet for a moment, and then felt the darkness of a fainting spell come over her. The darkness swooped in, and once more, all faded to black.

But they had won. The Darkling was dead, and now the work of rebuilding could begin in earnest. 

_____________________________________________________________

End of chapter 13. 

[saphscorner]

a pixian drabble? cottage core? pretty please?

anything for you pookie 😍😍 (and also anything for #pixianrevolution2023 ;D) we recently had the first snow here, so i went with some wintery vibes! word count: 801 words pairing(s): pixlriffs/grian warnings: none general tags & vibes: domestic fluff, winter, cottagecore

With the days growing shorter and the nights colder, winter was fast approaching. Grian readjusted his scarf over his nose and mouth, long dead leaves crunching under his boots as he walked. He came to a stop at the woodshed, admiring the piles of firewood stacked high from floor to ceiling. With a cold winter incoming, his and Pix’s work from over the summer should surely pay off to keep them warm in the coming months.

For the first time that season, Grian pulled on his leather work gloves and began to stack firewood into the wheelbarrow, piling it high before setting back in the direction of the cottage. As his scarf slipped below his mouth, he watched as an exhale of his warm breath billowed into the frosty air. 

It really is that time of year, he thought. 

Grian finally parked the wheelbarrow outside the back door to the cottage, then collected as much of an arm load as he could carry before heading back inside. 

Warmer air and the smell of simmering root vegetables greeted him as he made his way inside. He hadn’t realized how dark it was becoming outside until the warm light from the kitchen spilled onto the front porch. He paused to wipe his boots on the doormat, kicking them off and leaving them by the door. “I’m back, Pix!” he called as he headed into the living room. 

The sound of running water from the kitchen came to a stop, followed by some shuffling as Pix appeared in the doorway to the living room. “Welcome back,” he said.

Grian smiled as he set the pile of firewood into the hearthside log holder, then stood back up to go give his partner a kiss. 

Pix hummed, smiling into the kiss as he pulled away after a moment. “You’re freezing.” 

“It’s cold out!”

Pix reached down, taking Grian’s hands to ease his gloves off, laying them down over the back of the nearby sofa. He brought one of Grian’s hands up to his own, kissing the backs of his knuckles. “Good thing we’ll have a fire tonight. And a good warm meal, dinner’s almost done.” 

“You’re spoiling me, Pix.” Grian leaned up to press another kiss to Pix’s cheek, before taking his jacket and scarf off and returning to the hearth. “I’ll go ahead and get this started. Do you mind grabbing me the matches?”

“You mean these?” Pix pulled the matchbox out of his pocket, giving it a shake before tossing it over to Grian.”

Grian’s smile widened as he caught the matches from him. “You always are thinking ahead, huh?” 

Pix just shrugged. “Dinner in here tonight?” He asked. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

With that, he returned to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. 

Still smiling, Grian shook his head. He set the matches down on the hearth, before retrieving a large basket of fire starter and kindling wood from the mantle. He arranged dried pine needles and small sticks into a careful teepee, striking a match to set the structure alight. He then piled on a couple logs, brushing off his hands and putting the kindling basket back up on the mantle. Once the fire was steadily ablaze, he took to putting away his outerwear and tidying the living room up for dinner. 

Once dinner was ready, Pix brought everything into the living room on a tray as promised. He laid out two steaming bowls of stew and two cups of tea, then took a seat on one of the cushions laid on the floor. “Nice fire,” he commented. 

“Nice dinner,” Grian complimented in return, sitting down across from him. 

Pix smiled. “I feel like winter came so much sooner than last year.” He nodded vaguely towards the window, the view outside nearly pitch black. 

“I know,” Grian agreed. “I mean, this feels more like January than November, right?” 

“Yeah,” Pix agreed. “I’m not mad about it though, we worked hard all summer and we’ve got more than enough to last us comfortably through winter.” 

“Speaking of which, is this from the peppermint we dried last month?” Grian took a sip of the tea Pix had brought out for him. 

“It is. I haven’t tried it yet, is it any good?” 

“The best I’ve ever had.” 

Pix took a sip of his and then nodded. “I think you’re right.” 

Grian settled in, sitting cross legged as he unfolded his napkin. “Honestly, there’s something so cozy about all this,” he said after a moment, “I love the summer, but there’s just something about this time of year.” 

“There really is,” Pix agreed. “Especially spending it with you, I’ve got nothing to complain about.” 

Grian smiled and took his hand from across the table. “I think we’re in for another good year, Pix.” 

“I think so too, Grian.”

[potatoesandsunshine]

tagged by @afaramir and @storybook-souls a couple days apart for the top 5 songs i've been listening to lately :) that means i'm allowed to do like 8 songs as a treat. i listen to a lot of songs. also i like looking at the lyrics so now i'm gonna make everybody look at them

Haunted House, Sir Babygirl: This party's just another haunted house! I can't wait to lose all my friends tomorrow! something about how anxious this song is... i like to play it really loud in the car on my drive home and scream along it's like a release valve

If You're Gone, Matchbox Twenty: If you're gone, baby you need to come home, come home / there's a little bit of somethin' me, in everything in you 'anna do you just unironically listen to exile on mainstream all the time?' yes. this is a good album. sometimes i cry to this one

Soft, Amaya Pena: far, far from home / sleep with you, wake with you it's soooo dreamlike and gentle. genuinely eases something in me when i listen to it.

All out of Tears, Z Berg: I'm not your baby, you did forsake me / and made me crazy for seven years the other end of the spectrum. gets me motivated to move again :) i think this song is so fun

Korean Bird Paintings (The Jordan Lake Sessions Volume 3), The Mountain Goats: Mobiles of the galaxy and mylar baloons / everything we'd saved up in one room at the same time this is a scream-along song in the car as well. something about it. my brain explodes a little bit

Strawberry Blond, Mitski: I love everybody because I love you! am i a 'true fan?' no. i know like two mitski songs. but i love this song so so much i think it's so incredible <3 it's on the jams playlist. i remember when people got mad about this song getting big on tiktok but i don't have a tiktok so that doesn't affect me 👍 i recommend this strategy. it seems like people are super weird to her at her concerts?? stop that???

Dangerous, Big Data: You understand, they got a plan for us / I bet you didn't know that I was dangerous this song fucks. bassline i love you

Matchstick, American Royalty: Strawberry field, I'll set ablaze / I can see god, here in your gaze it's sooooooo good listen to me it's so good i swear and it makes me crazy i know i used lyrics from it for like a keyleth oneshot forever ago but listen. it's so good.

anyway. i love music.

[lizzemea]

In which Oncie summons a Demon:

A whisper on the air A call from within Infinite riches if only I made a small sacrifice I didn't know what to expect when I burnt that bloodstained one-hundred dollar bill it was late at night, I had been alone for weeks, traveling towards a dreamland with just my noble steed Melvin by my side. Feeling desperate, I opened a thick letter from a rich great-uncle, who had passed away shortly before writing it. Among his many possessions, I had somehow ended up with this sealed package, with handwriting noting to open it: "whenever you are truly alone and need someone like you by your side, for guidance and support in all matters" Within the paper confines torn apart by my shivering hands, a few items slipped out First, a tiny matchbox with two matches Second, a dirty red pen knife Third, a one-hundred dollar bill And lastly, a note with a set of instructions on how to "deal with loneliness" via creating some sort of demon I looked around. In the desert I was camping in, there wasn't a soul for miles. Melvin was sound asleep and even then he was just an donkey. I wanted to feel something besides homesickness and isolation. So I followed the directions. All it took was a drop of blood, and the willingness to set the bloody cash ablaze whist looking into my reflection What happened next, I couldn't believe.....the most handsome sight, appeared before my very eyes....

[staticmono]

No Children

Wilbur stared out over a burning city that he set ablaze. He was balancing on a thin fence, guitar on his back, trench coat swaying in the wind. He knew this would make an amazing painting, maybe an album cover. He took an inhale of smoke from his cigarette. He had the cancer stick in one hand and a matchbox in the other. He had more cigarettes in his pocket but he doubted he would want another.

To him there no cares in the world, nothing could stomp down the only positive feeling he’s had for months. None of the smoke, cigarette or not, bothered him in the slightest. Neither did the city crumbling around him or the fact that he could go tumbling off the fence at any point is he wasn’t careful. He dangerously danced on the feeble fence, no fear in falling. No fear at all. His boots sometimes caught on the posts but that just added to the fun. Dancing with death. He was swaying to the tune his father, the angel of death, sang to him in youth but he had twisted the lyrics to make it sound more tragic.

Funny. He was a child born out of death and yet he had a mostly joyful childhood. Sure his father went on adventures for months at a time, leaving him to fend for himself. But that just made the moments with his dad all the more sweet. He always pretended not to be bitter when his father favored some random kid he found on one of his adventures more than him. He just smiled and welcomed the new friend with open arms. Sure they barely got to see each other as kids since he could go adventuring with dad even though Wilbur was older than him. And sure they literally tried to take over the world and he had to stop them as a teen. At least he got to see them.

Some people would call Wilbur lonely, a couple months ago he wouldn’t agree but now… Now he was the loneliest man in the world and everyone knew it. He knew that everyone was plotting against him, waiting for just the right moment then-... he didn’t know. He hadn’t thought that far. He normally had a plan for things like this but now, well now there was no need. He had all he wanted. A smoke, a burning city, and his guitar. He almost dropped his cigarette to play it, that would be poetic right? Maybe throw a match right below him and sing and play while burning to death. He decided against it.

There was no rhyme or reason to what he did anymore. When he ruled a country, oh so many months ago, every little breath he took was carefully thought out. There was no point where he did something carelessly. But now he can be free. Now he can do whatever the hell he wanted to with no repercussions cause well, he's gonna die today. He could kill someone if he so pleases. He’s not going to, there's no point. But the only point is that he could. There's limitless possibilities. He already committed arson and treason against the country he helped to found. Imagine that in the history books. The founding father of a country also destroyed it. Burned it to the bloody, war scarred ground. He knew the country shouldn’t exist anymore. It's too far gone. He’s too far gone.

Ever since he got exiled from his own country he hasn’t been the same. His vice president saw that. The teen knew that Wilbur was absolutely off his rocker. He had gone to a place of no return. He invited the child to join him. Get rid of this godforsaken country once and for all. He had declined like Wilbur knew he would. He knew that his vice was too attached to it. He got attached to things very easily. Discs, a cow, a bench, Wilbur. He knew that would be the younger’s downfall, there was no way it wouldn’t be. He’d get attached to the wrong thing, the wrong person, and screw himself up. Maybe one of the things he is already attached to will fuck him over, maybe those discs. He was already in a tussle over those and gave them up to the tyrant that was fighting him for it for the country that is burning.

As he looked back at the burning city and lit the final match. He threw it under him, so the wood fence he was standing on would surely burn.

Wilbur closed his eyes and accepted this, falling into the burning brush beneath him.

He was finally free.

[vinyls-and-valentines]

Silent static crackles throughout the Lobby, on a night where only the moon seems to be out anymore, looking down with its cold detached gaze like it’s seen a hundred horrors and mourned for a thousand lives. Fliers line the walls, torn off and washed out by the bright neon lights- a silent call to arms for the new romantics with their weapons of mass-creation, for the kids in the gutters with hot iron pumping through their veins and for the matchbox saviors that want to set the world ablaze in purifying flame.

Then, in a brilliant strike of technicolor sound, the streets come alive with a cacophony of music and people cheering, as they file out of the cracks they’d been hiding in and flood the streets. Tomorrow’s newspaper will call it a riot- a wild beast subdued by brave white suits with toy guns clutched tight, in hand- but tonight? Tonight it is a celebration. Juvies decked in their best attire grin wide for the cameras as they leave trails of reckless neon in their wake as they run down the streets of the district.

Inside, droids are waiting. Huddled in club dressing rooms, hiding abandoned basements and stairwells with broken access doors leading to the roofs, they all try to keep themselves busy as they pretend not to hear the commotion outside. The celebration is not for them and neither are the colors that have become more of a curse than a hope for salvation in the company’s pursue of commodifying everything. The droids just keep quiet, waiting for the storm to pass and things to go back to normal again.

Juvies don’t want a revolution. They want a fucking lightshow

[angcrmanagcmcnt-moved]

@dolcetters​ replied to your post “@dolcetters said: “uh.“ a pause as he squints in the direction of a...”

his frown deepens, and his eyes momentarily flick back to the fire. whatever she'd burned, most of it was beyond saving. and what stuck around was clearly nothing but garbage. he sees a matchbox nearby but nothing that looks like accelerant... he looks back to her. "y'mean aside from the stench of burnin' trash and plastic?"

A shrug is the reply given. “I dunno,” Anger says, blinking a couple times. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’m not about to burn down the bar.” She’d made makeshift campfires a few times in her little life--a little pile of trash being set ablaze wasn’t hard to manage.

“I can put it out, if you want.” Besides, what she needed burned was already gone--and she hoped that Dolcetto wouldn’t ask about what it was.

[lokis-lady-death]

Bake-tastic One

Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Lady Death: I tagged anyone I thought might be interested! Just a simple two part story about a girl meeting a man and baking some cupcakes.  I did this by request for a super awesome mutual’s birthday! @kcd15 I hope you enjoy it, I’m so sorry it’s late but you get two parts for being so patient <3 Hope you enjoy!

Bake-tastic

Step One: Introductions

“Don't Stop Believin’  by Journey,” you recognized immediately. “Good choice.” There was no hiding the delight on your face as you laid back in your chair, slipped on your sunglasses, and sang along to the tune.

You couldn't help but think this is how everyone should spend a day off, lounging on a balcony in California, dazing in and out of a mid-day nap to the sound of soulful tunes on the perfect playlist.

It was such a cliche spring morning, really. The sky was that bright shade of blue with sparse clouds, the breeze blew just enough that it kept the air at the right temperature. The city was even more peaceful than usual, with birds chirping, kids playing and hardly any cars passing by your condominium. The only real sound you heard was the music emanating from your neighbor's place above your head.

The main reason you enjoyed these days? Frankly, you needed the distraction. You were a full time barista at a local big bakery that catered to the cupcake-addicted southern L.A. day walkers and all you wanted was to unwind. Bake-tastic, despite its horrifically punny name, was actually an up and coming hangout spot that was making a name for itself among the baked goods industry.

The only problem?

You weren't baking.

Growing up in the south, you had loved everything about baking since you were a little girl in your grandmother’s kitchen, playing in her aprons and sneaking off with her cookbooks, but it wasn't until when you sister asked you to move to move to Cali  that you decided to act on your passion.

But, as it turned out, if you want to bake here, you needed experience. Experience no one was willing to give you. All you had managed to do was make coffee and take orders for cakes and other treats you weren’t allowed to actually create.

That honor was left to the owner of the bakery, a man whom, in your months of working there, had never once come in during the day shift. You never met the mysterious baker, but couldn’t deny his talents the first time you tried his mixed berry tarte. Everything he created was a miniature masterpiece all their own. You wanted desperately tk meet him, or even more, bake with him, but that was a quickly squashed dream. He kept to himself, prefering to come after closing to bake everything throughout the night. The next morning, when you and your coworkers would arrive, all you would need to do was set out the new baked goods and make coffee. The others were fine with the remedial tasks, but you were not.

It wasn’t necessarily living the dream, but the music had a nice way of dulling out the disappointment.

If your sister had been out there she would be complaining about it, but truthfully you enjoyed your little free concerts. It required no work on your part and in today's world, you could use some mindless way to unwind. It wasn't long before you recognized a pattern in when the music played: usually in the afternoons of week days, stopping promptly at seven, Saturday morning and most of Sunday. Not particularly meaning to, you began to plan breaks outside around when the neighbor would have their music on. It had become a sort of ritual: weekdays when you got off work you would shower, throw on your bathrobe, and come lounge until seven. On weekends, you spent your mornings sipping coffee in your pajamas.

This Saturday was no different. Right at six in the morning, the neighbor's sliding door opened, releasing a symphony of classic rock music out into the world. Here you were, ready to soak it up as you sang out the stress of your week through lyrics of musical geniuses with a cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly made strawberry Danish in the other.

It was around thirty minutes later, as you were going along to Matchbox Twenty’s 3am that your tone began to carry. By the second verse you had gotten a bit carried away, singing along and dancing in your chair as the words you had known by heart for nearly two decades came pouring out. You had become some enamored by the words that you didn't even notice the music had been turned down.

When the next song began, you took in one last deep breath of spring air, stretching your arms up above your head until you heard that satisfying pop of your shoulders. You had been rejuvenated and were ready for whatever the rest of your Saturday brought.

But just when you turned to walk back into the apartment, you heard someone ask, “Oh, are you going in already?”

There was no stopping the loud curse word from escaping your lips as you tried to pull yourself back into your skin. Whipping around, you expected to see a man to go along with that sharp comment.

Yet you were alone, left only with the sound of a haughty laugh.

“I'm terribly sorry, I certainly didn't mean to frighten you.” You distinctly noticed the smart British accent as he went on, “It's just that I had been listening to you sing so I thought I ought to say something….”

Your face felt it had caught fire by embarrassment of someone, a stranger- a possibly handsome British stranger- had heard you singing. A hand slapped over your mouth to stifle a gasp.

You were so mortified you could scream, but there was also a part of you curious how much he had heard.

When you still didn't respond, the englishman went on, “She's gone and I'm here talking to myself, aren't I?”

“No,” you couldn't help but laugh nervously, “I'm still here.”

“Good. I'd look rather mad out here going on to an invisible woman, wouldn't I?”

The two of you shared a laugh, followed by an unfortunate silence before he added, “It seems we have a similar taste in music. You know just about every song I ever play.”

Again your cheeks went ablaze.

“I mean, it's not like I just come out here and listen to you, that would be absurd. It's just, you come out here nearly every time I turn on my ipod, surely you noticed?”

You realized it was the same neighbor who played the music every day. Biting down on your lip, you stopped from admitting you planned your free time at home around when he turned his tunes on. The two of you were starting to sound like either a cheap romance movie from Hallmark channel or a murder documentary off Investigative Discovery .

When you still hadn't spoken up, he rambled on. “That possibly came across a bit awkward, I didn't mean it as though I'm just out here listening to you…” he corrected. “I only meant I enjoyed what I've heard.”

At that you had to smile.  His tone was sincere enough, even a tad cute as he tripped over himself, but with that accent alone he sent a flutter through your stomach.

‘Is that what I'm reduced to?’ you wondered, ‘Pining after men because of accents?’

“I haven't heard you leave, does that mean I didn't completely ruin this first impression?”

At that, you couldn't keep quiet. “Your first impression was actually Bruno Mars That's What I Like,” you teased, almost annoyed with how airy your voice came out.

Maybe it was because he wasn't in front of you or maybe it was because his voice just oosed with charm, but there was something else that just pulled at you.

“Well, was it a good impression?”

Your smile widened. “It's improved.”

He let out a roar of a laugh, even clapping his hands at the retort. “That's good," he paused," I don't suppose you'll be back out today?"

The question struck you, making you bite down on the inside of your cheek.

“We'll see,” you said finally. “It'll depend on what you play.”

“I suppose I'll have to make the playlist extra special then, won't I?” he returned, a touch of smugness etching into his tone.

You smiled again, opening the door to step back into your apartment as you tried to answer as nonchalantly as possible, “I suppose you will.”

As soon as you closed the door, you bolted to your sister's room to wake her up.

You threw her door open as you called out, “Steph? Hey, Steph, do you know the guy that lives in the upstairs apartment? Steph, wake up!”

She rubbed her eyes, letting out a deep yawn just before stretching out her back like a cat. “What guy? The loud one?”

Your eyes rolled back while you grunted, “Yes! Do you know what his name is?”

Her shoulders shrugged, her eyes lulled in a half sleep, half hungover state. “He is simply known as Loud British Jerk.”

Your brow creased, “How do you not know his name but you know he's British?”

“Because he talks, like, super loud and always has his doors open.”

Reasonable answer, but your sister was also one of the single most nosey women you had ever known. You leaned in, pressing on, “What else do you know about him?”

“Nothing? Jeeze, y/n, I don't eavesdrop on people anymore. What's gotten into you, did he play a song that got your panties all ruffled? You wanna go bake him granny's old apple turnover and tell him you like his butt? ”

“First off that's not even the phrase you think it is, second I think a simple yes or no would suffice.”

Going to stand up, sure that it was a waste of time to expect her help, Steph took your hand.

“Geeze, sorry, didn't realize you were so worked up. Come on, sit.” You sat down on the side of her bed while she scooted up on her pillow to better reach her cellphone. “Look, I'll text Lexi, she works down at the pool, she knows all the hot guys who live here.”

You couldn't help but scoff, “Thanks, I guess?”

“So you know what that means? If she doesn't know his name, he's not hot.”

She offered you her cheesiest, exaggerated wink she could muster, earning a short snort out of you before you shook your head. “I need to go take a shower, I guess let me know if she says anything.”

“Alright, and I'll see if I can pull him up on social media.”

You walked out to the pleasant sound of Steph texting her friend, knowing soon you might have a name to go with that voice you couldn't get out of your head.

*****

Tom had been outside listening to you for over thirty minutes before he had mustered up enough courage to actually say something to you.

It wasn't something he had particularly planned, though he had meant to speak to you sooner. The thing was, he wasn't from around there and there were certain normalities he didn't quite understand.

Certain ones were less socially involved, such as driving on the wrong side of the road, the use of American made cars verses the German models he bad grown up with.

But it was earlier that week when Chris, his Australian work friend, came by to go over a project they were collaborating on that he noticed his social cues might need some help.

They had just been discussing an upcoming book deal they were working on together when Tom suddenly quieted his friend before reaching for his Ipod to turn the music down.

“What are you-”

“Shhh,” Tom instructed with a finger pressed to his confused friend's lips. “Listen.” He held a hand to his ear, cut his eyes towards the open balcony doors and smiled. “Don't you hear it?”

Chris furrowed his brow but did what he was told, just a bit less enthusiastically. After a minute he finally answered, “Singing?”

“Yes, but more than that. What else?”

“Well she clearly doesn't know the words to Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

“No!” Tom corrected sharply. “Can't you hear it? You can practically feel her soul coming out in these words. It's just so real, so… Refreshing.” His back turned and he began filling his mother's old kettle with water, going on, “She does it every day, just goes outside and sings along to my music. It's the most peculiar thing.”

“I sing along to the radio all the time, you never say nice things to me about it?”

“Yes, but this is different. She's coming outside to sing to MY music.”

“And?”

“And? And?!” Tom three his hands into the air, going on, “And, he says.” There was a silence between the two of them as the song cut off and the singing stopped. Tom set the kettle on the stove and turned back to face the still creased-browsed Chris. “I don't know, it's just nice to me, I suppose.”

It was now time for Chris to speak and he really just didn't know where to begin. “So you interrupted me telling you how much money we are about to make on this cookbook deal because you were listening to your neighbor sing to herself?”

“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“That's exactly what it is!”

“Oh no, it's not like that. She does it all the time, it's kind of like our thing.”

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose and Inhaled sharply. “Your thing, eh? And who is this lucky young lady that you eavesdrop on a daily basis?”

“Eavesdrop?” he laughed but wasn't smiling. “I'm, no, I'm not eavesdropping, I'm just simply appreciating someone else's ability to let go. It's no different than listening at a karaoke bar. ” His confidence lessened when he quietly remarked, “Also, I don't know her name.”

“Have you even spoken to her?”

“No, we haven't the chance…”

“You know she's outside every single day, what do you mean there wasn't a chance?”

Tom's mouth opened to oppose but no words ever materialized. Slowly he closed his mouth and swallowed a lump in his throat. “I should talk to her then?”

“In the very least introduce yourself, what harm would it do? You never talk to the hot girls I hire for you at the bakery, the least you can do is talk to one that for whatever reason you started stalking her. Talk about music.”

Fast forward to the day he actually managed to speak to you. Now, after making a complete arse of himself, he didn't know if you would ever come outside again and what was worse he didn't even remember to tell you his name.

"Perhaps that's for the best," he reasoned, "I could still mend this first impression."

After he knew you had left, he bolted inside to find his phone. He texted Chris what happened and waited impatiently for him to respond with:

~Actually, about that neighbor girl, I got a REALLY interesting call from Lexi you may wanna know about~

Tom’s brow furrowed at the comment, curiously asking what he heard.

He called him and  nearly fell out of his chair at the news.

*****

The steam of your shower had filled up your room by the time you came sashaying out. With a towel around your waist, you planted yourself down at your desk and opened up your laptop. Just as you opened the web browser, Steph can barging in.

“Y/N!”

Your hands went up instinctively to cover your chest, cursing out, “What the hell!”

“I got it!” she exclaimed, “And you are just gonna DIE!”

“His name, you got his name?” Your grin stretched from ear to ear as you pressed further, “Well? What is it?!”

“I can do one better,” she teased, holding her Tiffany blue phone out for you to see. “I found him on Facebook, and Look!”

You had to lean back for the up close image to fully resonate with your retinas, but when you got a good glimpse, you took the phone from her hand and stared.

It was his profile picture, a face to go along with that voice. The image only showed him from the waist up, dressed in jeans and a white button up, but to you it showed enough. His eyes stood out immediately, a striking seafoam blue that sparkled along with the toothy grin he offered the camera. His hair was a strawberry blonde that was neatly trimmed but still long enough to curl. High cheekbones, sun-kissed skin, along with the more than sunny backdrop of his photo painted a portrait of an outdoorsy, fun loving sort of guy. Looking at him while imaging that velvety English accent sent a shiver down your toes that you couldn't hide.

“A total babe, right?” your sister beamed. “And judging by his profile, he's single!”

You swallowed hard. “That, yeah, that's awesome.” It felt like he was staring back at you through the photo, and finally you made yourself scroll over to see his name. “Tom,” you said out loud with a smile.

Steph reached over and took her phone from you, offering you, “I haven't even told you the best BEST part. My friend is dating his friend and guess what?”

You stared at her, blank faced. “What?”

“He’s the guy who owns Bake-tastic! This is the guy you’ve been pining over since you moved here!”

You looked over at your laptop, thinking about how many times you wondered what the mysterious baker must look like, googling and yet failing to ever find any remnants of him. Judging by his way with sweets, you honestly expected a thicker, maybe older gentleman, not someone worthy of being a model.

But that’s not what you saw.

Looking him over, taking it all in, realizing it was his playlist you had been listening to all this time, his pastries you had been idolizing, you wondered if maybe this was a sign.

“You know what you gotta do right?” your sister asked with a playful grin.

“What?”

She scoffed as if the answer was obvious. “You gotta go bake with him!”

At that, you made a sour face, shaking your head at the very notion. “No, he doesn’t like teaching and he certainly wouldn’t want a novice messing up a days’ worth of work. No, I’m not doing that-”

“Oooo, that’s too bad,” Steph ached, her face not reflecting the sympathy her voice tried to persuade. “Because I definitely told my friend to ask about you helping out in the bakery.”

“You WHAT?”  

As it turned out, Steph’s friend Lexi was dating Chris Hemsworth, a well known heir of the Hemsworth Lodging hotels. His image was the only one you could ever come across in your searches for Bake-tastic's ownership. He made donations to various organizations and raised money for charities, but what wasn't oublically as well known was his investments he made in his friends.

Tom just happened to be one of those friends, a baker in need of a bakery. So, Chris forked up the money and Tom got straight to work, building a name for himself in L.A. while Chris managed the business side of it. The only issue for Tom was he felt very out of place in such a large city, even as diverse at it was. Nothing about it ever quite felt like home, so rather than branch out into the world, he worked late hours and insisted on solitude.

It felt bizzare hearing the story from Steph, but it made you feel better when she assured you Chris and Tom didn’t know all the details about you.

“I just said my friend’s sister is an aspiring baker and would love to, like, shadow Mr. Hiddleston or whatever. I gave them your name, but only because you work at the bakery,” Lexi assured when you called to ask exactly what happened. “Chris was more than happy to ask Tom if he was willing to show you around his kitchen and he said for you to come tonight.”

“Tonight?” you exploded, realizing you hadn’t the mental preparation needed to meet the British bombshell of a baker  after that awkward balcony encounter. “What if he knows it’s me?”

“He’s never met you, just listened to you sing a few lame songs. How would he know it’s you?”

*****

“Oh, it’s definitely her,” Chris repeated over the speaker phone to Tom. “See, here, I’ll forward you her info.”

Tom stared blankly at the Facebook page, gazing into your eyes as he matched it with the voice he had heard earlier that day. His phone dinged as he received a forwarded email from Chris containing your original job application to Bake-tastic as well as a copy of your driver's license.

“That is just too much of a coincidence, surely you’re pulling my leg?” Tom snipped, shaking his head. But looking down at your image, he hoped it wasn’t foolish to want it to be true. “And she wants to bake with me?”

“Lexi made it clear, she came to California to be a baker and she loves everything you make in the shop. And the best news? She already has a serious crush on you! I’m telling you, if you want to make a better first impression on this woman, you need to let her work with you tonight.” When he didn't immediately agree, Chris added, "I already told her to be there at six, all you have to do is show up and be charming."

Tom inhaled sharply, staring at the image a bit longer before finally conceding.

*****

You had gone through numerous outfits while you tried to figure out what you were going to wear. Jeans, skirts and leggings were all thrown around your room, shirts crumbled up on the floor, shoes spilled out of your closet as you tossed pair after pair aside.

Your sister had finally come and picked out something for you: a loose fitting blue t-shirt dress with gray closed toe wedges. "Not too dressed up to work in a kitchen, but nice enough to hopefully get a callback from your impromptu date," Stroh said, stepping back to admire her creation. "AND IT HAS POCKETS!"

"It's not a date, it's a baking lesson if anything," you corrected, though after you put your hands in the pockets and did a twirl, you had to admit your heart was fluttering at the idea of an all night cooking session with Tom.

However, when it was finally time for you to leave, you started choking up. "I can't," you started spatting off over and over." I can't, this is a bad idea, what if I mess up one of his recipes? What if I embarrass myself? What if I use salt instead of sugar?" your eyes widened, "What if he doesn't like me?"

"You'll be fine, just do what you always do!" When you still looked unsure, she went on, "You're great, y/n, and he'd be an idiot not to see it. A beautiful, British idiot. " Steph offered you a sincere smile, enough to spur you on. "And for the love of everything decent, please flirt!"

You swallowed hard, did one last look over in the mirror, then grabbed your purse and made the fifteen minute walk down the block to the bakery.

When you arrived, the main store front had the lights off, but from the kitchen door you could see a faint illumination.

Tom was just beyond that light.

Repeating, "I can do this," to yourself, you walked through the front door, setting off the gentle ding of the bell that alerted staff of a customer arriving.

“Hello?” you called out, unsure if you had the right time. Looking down at your phone, you were only a couple of minutes early so rather than wait in the doorway, you went on in. Your mind began urging, begging, pleading for you to turn back. It’s not too late, it said, go ahead, high tail it out of here.

‘No. I have to do this,’ you pushed on. ‘I have to know what’s beyond that door.’

Mustering up the courage, feeling something in the pit of your soul tell you this was right, you called out again, “Hello? Mr. Hiddleston? I'm here to, uh, help for tomorrow's set up?"

A loud, disembodied voice came from the kitchen, “Yes, come into the back! And lock that door, won’t you? Don’t need anyone walking in off the street.”

You swallowed, feeling your heart begin to pound as you set the lock. Slipping your phone in the pocket of your dress, you tucked your purse under the cash register before walking back towards the kitchen.

Like my garbage? Read more of it! Master List

All Tags:  @socialheartbreak @kcd15 @maladaptive-ninja-returns@nephalem67 @jessiejunebug @woodyandbuzz20-01@lokislilslut@bambamwolf87 @kitsuneharo12 @yzssie @j-u-s-t-4@lokilvrr@lokixme @macbetheliza @lou-makes-me-strong@wolfsmom1@noplacelikehome77 @unicorniorosacomefrutillas @justiceiswater

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day One Hundred Seventy-Seven: Under Control ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Hyūga Hanabi, Uchiha Itachi, Hyūga Hiashi, Uchiha Fugaku ] [ SasuHina, blood, death, vulgarity ] [ Verse: Divine Light ] [ AO3 Link ]

The raids have been happening for decades. 

Anyone of el’ven blood is at risk. While most have gone into hiding after the collapse of the elemental council, some don’t...or can’t. Their el’kor cousins - those without the blessings of the elements incarnate - far outnumber them. While many find obscure lands in which to hide and eek out a feral living...not everyone can follow in their footsteps.

Hinata’s family had been living in a coastal city. Her father, employed by an el’kor fisherman, worked under the radar: his secret for his skills. Few other ships could manage the catches of their vessel with a mage of water aboard. And while some grew suspicious, they kept hidden for a number of years. 

The sisters’ mother, Hanako, kept them closely guarded at home: not the beautiful manor they’d had before the Rift, but a step above squatting in a shack. Hinata and Hanabi were content most days - both were far too young to remember the time before the fall. This was all they had even known.

This went on for years...until the guard caught them.

Dragged back to his home, Hiashi was forced to his knees, blade at his throat as the squadron of soldiers confronted the family.

But it wasn’t just soldiers that came. Among them were beady-eyed, callous-handed men who stank of filth and spirits.

...slavers.

Too desperate for her husband’s life, Hanako did not fight. And her daughters, young and untrained, were easy pickings. 

“Hm…” Taking the woman’s hair in his fingers, the obvious leader ignored her shiver of disgust. “She’ll fetch a fair price at a brothel. Get her bound and take her to the docks.”

“No, please - my daughters, I -!”

“They’re no longer your concern,” he cut in, lip lifted in a sneer. “They’re a bit young, yet...and if they’re aqua mages, they’ll have their uses...we’ll take them inland, sell them to someone who needs their ven.”

Two of them then moved to grab the girls. Both took to kicking and screaming, desperate to get away. “Mama! Mamaaa!”

“Quit your yappin’!” the ringleader barked, taking Hinata’s wrist in a painful grip. “Little bloodbinding’ll get you under control…!”

Teary-eyed with fear, Hinata couldn’t suppress a scream as a knife cut into her palm. Dipping a pricked finger into the blood, he drew a strange symbol on her inner forearm.

It burned like hot iron, glowing a bright white, then fading to black...then to nothing.

“There now…” Giving a cruel grin, he spat, “Sit!”

Like her legs were cut out from under her, Hinata sank to the floor with a painful thump.

“Good, good...now, the younger brat.”

Hanabi’s shrill shrieks of pain and terror soon followed, both girls branded with their own blood. Huddled together, they watched, shaking as they moved to Hiashi. His head was bowed, heavy with the weight of his family’s fate.

“Now...you were making your employer a sound profit with that ven a’yours,” the slaver muttered. “I reckon someone else’ll pay handsomely to have you. Make back what we gave that bastard to sell you out, eh…?”

Looking up with icy eyes, Hiashi had no retort.

“Bind him.”

Bringing the blade from his neck to his arm, another slaver made to cut Hiashi’s flesh. But that left his captor vulnerable for just a moment. With a roar, the patriarch summoned a wave from the nearby harbor with all the strength he had in him. It crashed against the dingy seaside home, bursting through windows and crumbling parts of the wall.

Though both daughters screamed, it did not reach them.

Struggling to control the element, Hiashi made to drown his foes...but they were many. Though swept aside, a few guards behind him through the doorway made to regain their footing.

One was wielding a pike.

With its longer reach, he struck the steel through Hiashi’s back.

Giving a cry of agony, his hold on the water was lost, seeping back to the ground and slithering to the sea. Around him, several of the slavers were already drowned...but the leader remained, sputtering and hacking.

“That whoreson…!” he retched, shaking water from his form as Hiashi struggled to cling to life on the floor. Giving the el’ven a furious kick to the ribs, he spat on his body. “Just cost me my profit, you bastard! You’d best hope your daughters fetch me some shiny gold pieces, or they’ll repay me in other ways…!”

Choking through blood, Hiashi stared past the slaver’s legs to his daughters huddled in the corner. Unable to speak, his apology went unuttered, shown only in the regret in his eyes.

Shivering and sobbing, they watched as the life left him.

“Get them in t’fucking cart! We’ve wasted enough time.” Stepping over Hiashi’s corpse, he made to leave, his remaining man hauling a girl up under each arm.

That was a week past.

Sitting in the rear of the cart with several other el’ven children, Hinata holds Hanabi to her side, gaze distant and unseeing. They’ll soon reach the city where they’re to be sold. All she can hope for now is that they’re bought together: a matching set. If she loses her sister…

Hanabi dozes fitfully, twitching and whimpering. Sparing a hand to pet at her hair, Hinata has little else to offer against the nightmares. Even now the visions of their mother being hauled away, and their father’s murder are fresh in her mind.

She doubts they’ll ever fade.

But before she can ponder anything else, there’s a desperate whinny from the horses. The cart jostles, stirring the children from their collective stupors. Shouts break out...and Hinata can smell smoke.

“Nata, what do we do?!” Hanabi cries, clinging to her sister.

“Just...h-hold on!” Holding her close, she moves to the back of the wagon with the others. Abandoning the moving matchbox, they get a full view of the scene.

Fires scatter over the roads, other carts in the caravan ablaze. The slavers wield bows and blades, attempting to fight off people in the trees that line the road. Fiery arrows are shot with deadly accuracy: hitting both human and wooden targets.

Then several people come from the trees, wearing masks and clothed in cloaks. Fire bends to their will, and Hinata can’t help a gasp

Those are igni mages…!

The children huddle together, joined by others from the remaining carts. While the ambush plays out, several figures move toward them: the same masked, cloaked people. Two women gesture for calm. “Don’t worry! We’re here to get you out! Stay still and quiet, little ones - you’ll soon be free!”

Holding her little sister tightly, Hinata can only watch as the fighting slowly comes to a stop. Bodies litter the road, great black plumes of smoke rising from the carts, horses scattering as they’re cut loose.

“Sasuke?!”

Among the children, one boy cries out. “Brother!”

Another el’ven, barely older than the eldest among them, races forward to meet one of the children. Alongside him, one of the women kneels to embrace them both. She must be their mother.

Others then gather, removing their masks to reveal faces set with red eyes. “Keep calm, children,” a square-jawed man rumbles. “We will gather the bodies, and use the blood to undo your seals. Patience.” He then joins the reunion, and Hinata can’t help but guess: they must be the leaders of this band of rebels...here to free one of their own that was taken.

If not for him...they surely the rest would…?

Identifying their sealers, the children are, one by one, released from their blood bonds. Cries of relief fill the air as Hinata and Hanabi join those unbound.

“We will do our best to find ways to get you back to your families,” the leader, called Fugaku, announces. “Those who have none to return to...we will find you new homes.”

“Please, sir,” Hinata inquires in a hoarse whisper. “Our f-father, he was...he was killed! And our mother was taken, I k-know not where!”

“Stay calm, little one. We’ll do what we can. But for now, we’ll all retreat to our camp. You all need food, and water...and rest.”

Nearby, the one called Sasuke sits closely with his brother, clinging to him as Hanabi clings to Hinata. Noting the parallel, she hesitantly approaches. “Are...are you all right?”

He gives a weary nod. “...I knew they’d come for me…I knew they would…”

Looking to his brother softly, the older then lifts his ruby gaze to Hinata. “...you are disciples of Auquiana, are you not?”

“Y...yes.”

“Then surely you came from the coast...there are few of your kind here.”

“We have to find our mama!” Hanabi cuts in, earning a sympathetic glance.

“...we’ll try to help you find her. But first, we must organize. We did not expect so many other children to have been captured…”

“So...we’ll stay with you…?” Hinata dares to ask.

“For a time. Our resources are limited - we hide here, in these woods. We must be careful. But our scouts will try to return those we can home. Anyone else...we will find new homes for.”

“But our mother -?”

“May be difficult to find. Our kinds are trafficked all over the lands,” Itachi cuts in firmly, but gently. “...we will do our best. For now...you should rest. The next few days will be trying. Stick close to us. We’ll keep you safe.”

Doing her best not to cry, Hinata settles down beside them, holding her sister tightly. They’ve escaped one tragedy...but can they escape the rest?

                                                        .oOo.

     Welp, this...isn't really what I wanted this to be, but I'm honestly exhausted @~@ I had a really...not great day, and writing just isn't really happening well today. But I tried.      So in another era of my original fantasy verse...this happens. The elves are forced into hiding, and many are captured by humans and forced into slavery of various forms. The era I've written up until now with this challenge is a long time after this - decades and decades, when things are again beginning to change. I've wanted to do some pieces with this particular setting. I just...didn't get to do the best job of it this time around OTL Sorry, guys.      Anyway, it's not exactly...shippy, but I might be able to do more another time to get more into that. I try not to let these get too long, and I'm too tired to do so tonight anyway. But either way, I hope you enjoyed it - thanks for reading~

[itscelestefromnm3217]

Critiquing a Design

Description: 

This is a Cover Design Concept for the book Fahrenheit 451, designed by Elizabeth Perez.

It’s a simple, plain-white hardcover book. On the front, the title of the book, Fahrenheit 451, is printed in a large font, and below it is the author’s name, Ray Bradbury. Aside from these, there are no additional details. A simple black, white, and red colour scheme is used. Consistent tones and flat colours are used, along with a modern Sans Serif font.

The book’s spine is screenprinted with matchstriking paper, and a single match replaces the ‘1′ in the title’s ‘451′.

Analysis: 

On the cover, ‘451′ is in the largest and boldest font, drawing immediate attention from the viewer. This contrast brings the viewer to notice the match, and soon after, the book’s matchstriking spine. 

Perez has eliminated all nonessential details on her concept cover, and achieved a very clean, simplistic design. The cover lacks any gaudy details or embellishments, only including the title and the author’s name with her and and matchbox.

Interpretation: 

With her minimalistic design, Perez is able to communicate a lot, by using very little. Without distractors, she distinctly expresses the theme of book burning through her main visual elements, the match and the honeycomb patterned matchstriking paper built into the book itself. 

Perez doesn’t tell the audience the plot of the book through a lengthy synopsis, rather, she shows them. Fahrenheit 451 is a classic sci-fi novel, set in a future in which books have been completely outlawed. In this world, firemen are tasked to burn any remaining books found. With Perez’s book cover, she literally provides the audience with the tools necessary to light a fire, so the book itself can be set aflame. 

In fact, the audience is immersed in the storyline; they’re no longer a bystander observing the events from afar. By interacting with the physical form of the book, so easily set ablaze, the story is brought to reality. (It’s even more apt that the book Fahrenheit 451 itself has been widely banned)  

Judgement: 

I really like this design. I think it’s creative, it’s simple, and it gets its point across without being too overwhelming on the viewer. Those familiar with Fahrenheit 451 would be left in awe, and those new to the book would have their curiosity piqued. It sparks a very intuitive, immediate understanding, only elevated by contextual knowledge of the book’s contents. 

Fahrenheit 451 is set in the year 2049, but was written in 1953 by an author envisioning a far future. Thus, there’s a tension here between past and future; should Fahrenheit 451 be ‘futuristic’ or a vintage ode to the past? 

I don’t have many notes against this concept cover. However, if i were to redesign it, I’d like to play with this concept more. Perhaps different fonts aside from the Sans Serif used could further emphasise this tension, reflecting a certain era. 

Alternatively, we could alter the book’s minimalist design, referencing designs of the future by people in the past (e.g. a Jules Verne, steampunk type aesthetic) or expanding into the vintage, old matchbox theme, instead of limiting to just the spine. Though I do wonder whether this would truly improve the design, or take away from the benefits of simplicity.

[rhawkseye-blog]

"i did my best, but maybe that's not enough."

send me memes 🅱️lease // accepting // @fiuehrer

          The nights were the hardest , they say . The howls and shrieks of daylight extend to fill out the emptiness left behind , the deaf echo of the aftermath . The mind busies itself with fruitless chatter , incessant thoughts of what and where and when , but mostly why . Why him , she wished to ask , to manifest all the questions in a single , simple word :

                                                                 Why. 

           It fills her mouth , claws her throat raw when she attempts to swallow it , to silence herself . It swells , an intangible mass trembling , threatening to rip the world apart - again , and again , and again . They sought the answer under the pulse of a naked lightbulb , amidst blood-soaked sheets of paper , scattered across the floor in a blind forshadowing of what was to come . They sought the answer in the footsteps to the phonebooth , to the dangling receiver , the lifeless body , the small polaroid beside it . And now they seek the answer at the bottom of a glass , in some empty , abandoned bar at the periphery of the world - forgotten , wishing to forget . 

          Can she fit comfort in the sharp edges left behind by grief ? Was grief not that - a sinkhole inside another ? Can they douse it in liquor and set it ablaze ? Her fingers bargain with the cold crystal , with a certain ease which her lips struggle to find . Her thoughts feel blurred around that one question ; what language can she give him in the absence of meaning ? Emotions build hierarchies within her , small matchbox- sized expressions of grief , anger , denial , hovering in the ashes of death . 

          ‘ You speak as if it’s over ,  ’ her voice sounds foreign to her , one timbre away from being obscured back into silence . ‘ But this is only the beginning , Colonel ; the only thing we can do is try harder . ’ 

[pyrophvbia]

@hxroic-wxlls​

continued from here.

Pyro silently took out a matchbox, sliding it open and pulling one little match out of its interior. Striking it against the box’s abrasive side to set it alight, they approach a nearby haystack and toss the burning match on top of it, setting the pile of wheat ablaze in a matter of seconds.

As soon as the inferno grew in size, the Pyro dropped the matchbox and let loose a series of muffled giggles, clapping their hands excitedly as the haystack continued to burn in front of them.

[naijaexploit-blog]

Graphic: Girl, 17, sets self ablaze over fiance’s inability to pay N17k dowry . . Aisha, a 17-yr-old girl living at Albarkawa, Gusau, Zamfara state, on Sunday, set herself ablaze due to her fiance’s inability to pay for the N17,000 dowry demanded by her father. . . According to Daily Trust, she decided to commit suicide after she learnt that her fiancé, Umar, who dated her for quite a long time, has no money to pay for dowry in preparation for her wedding. . . A neighbor was quoted as saying: “She brought a gallon of petrol and  a matchbox.  She got her self drenched in the petrol and struck a match stick and within a second she got engulfed in flames. . . Even before  setting her self ablaze, her younger sister had tried hard to stop her from taking the dangerous decision by flinging the matchbox from her hand as  any time she attempted to strike the matches the younger sister would stop her until when she became tired of stopping and went away. . . The girl then ran outside the house screaming for help until some good Samaritans arrived and put out the raging flames tormenting her. . . The girl’s father said he had no money to take her to the hospital as he could only boast of N750 at the time the incident happened.” Aisha  is now being treated with Orthodox and other traditional medicines at  home. [Swipe to view graphic image] #Naijaexploitblog https://www.instagram.com/p/B2O-KH7g3Zu/?igshid=1timww78rgwfz

[imagine-buckycap]

An old record player- Bucky Barnes X Reader

Prompt: Steve drops off a box full of Bucky’s old belongings, and inside Bucky finds an old record player and you two make fools of yourselves dancing around in your pajamas

Word count: 1906

Warnings: none

A loud knock sounded at your front door, you put down the spoon you were using to stir the cookie batter and looked over at Bucky, who was in the middle of wiping some batter off his cheek, his “kiss the chef” apron covered in flour. He just shrugged at you, not knowing who was at the door either. You padded down the hallway, grabbing one of Bucky’s sweatshirts off the back of the couch and pulling it over your thin pajama shirt. You looked through the peephole to see Steve waiting patiently on the other side of the door, bouncing on his heels slightly. You opened the door, Steve offered you a big smile.

“Hey [Y/n], sorry to bother you on such short notice, but I was cleaning out my closet and found this box of old stuff that used to belong to Bucky before, ya know,” Steve explained, offering you a big box, “BUCKY’S THINGS” was written on the side of the box in big,thick, black lettering. You took it, realizing it was a lot heavier that it seemed.

“What’s in here bricks?” you wheezed, resting the box on your knee to keep from dropping it. Steve just smiled, shaking his head lightly muttering something about a record player.

“Steve do you want to come inside for a minute, me and Bucky are making cookies,” you offered.

“Na, me and Sam are heading out to go see a movie in a bit, I still can’t get over the special effects on some of those, they sure are something else,” Steve remarked. Silence hung between the two of you. A loud clattering come from inside, telling you Bucky was inside making a mess of the kitchen.

“Ok, well thanks for the box, I’m sure Bucky will be excited to go through these things. Drive safely!” you thanked as Steve headed back down the path to his running car parked in your driveway. You backed up into the house, being careful not to let the box slip from your grip, you closed the door with your foot, hopping to regain your balance. You waddled down the hallway, the box blocking half of your line of sight.

“Hey who was at the- what is that?” Bucky inquired as you stumbled into the kitchen and set the box down on the table with a big thud.

“Steve brought over this box filled with stuff that used to be yours, before the war anyway,” you explained. Bucky froze and looked over at you, setting down the measuring cup he was using to scoop dough onto the baking sheet.

“Do you wanna open it?” you asked, wondering if his life before the war was something he’d rather not talk about. In fact, you knew virtually nothing about his life pre-war. He set the bowl of cookie batter down, licking his finger clean of the sticky dough. His eyes danced over the box, curious and unsure.

“Yeah, let’s open it,” he decided rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He stepped closer, untying his apron and tossing it onto the counter. He looked at you, smiled and took the lid off the box, a puff of dust erupting into this face. He waved the dust away, looking down into the box. There were a few books, the covers torn and the pages yellowing, a slinky, a razor and some really old shaving cream, and three little brown matchbox cars, just to name a few items you could both see at first glance. Bucky began taking things out and setting them down on the table, looking at each object carefully, turning them over in his hands slowly before putting them down. You stood next to him, watching him carefully, trying to read his emotions. He laughed quietly upon pulling out a rough sketch of him making a funny face, you could only guess that was drawn by Steve. Bucky’s mind was ablaze with vivid memories from his past, they were all coming back as he pulled one thing after another from the box.

After pulling out a pack of gum, an old torn baseball cap, and a few old yellowing photos, he gasped lightly.

“Oh my gosh,” He whispered, slowly reaching both of his hands down into the box, pulling out what appeared to be another box. This one was leather and had a handle on one side, it looked almost like a briefcase. He set it down on the table gently, you peeked over his shoulder to see what he was so surprised about. He clicked open the clasps on each side of the handle, lifting the lid up to reveal a black turntable and a bunch of knobs and switches. It was a record player, one that had obviously been enjoyed by its users. The corners of the box were beaten and dirty, and there were a few rips in the leather on the top of the box.

“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe he kept this old thing. This was falling apart in the 40’s, I can’t believe it’s still in one piece,” Bucky chuckled. He looked back into the box, his cheeks stretched into a wide smile. He pulled out four or five records and set them on the table alongside the player. Those were the last things in the box. He set the box on the floor. His smile was wider than ever.

“Let’s see if this old thing works,” he proposed, wiggling his eyebrows at you, carrying the player into the living room, trying to find an outlet into which he could plug the cord. He eventually found an outlet by the coffee table, setting the player down and plugging it in.

“Here Doll, pick a record for us to listen to,” he instructed, handing you the pile of records, all the covers were ripped at the edges from years of use. You rifled through the pile, settling on a record by Frank Sinatra. You handed the record to Bucky. He smiled at your pick.

“Great choice, Doll,” He mused as he pulled the the record gently from the sleeve

“Ok. Now let’s see if I remember how to do this,” He muttered, placing the record gently on the turntable, he then pushed the needle flush against the record and flipped the power switch. He sat back on his heels, looking at the player expectantly. Suddenly the first notes of a song floated out from the box and bounced around the lofty living room. Bucky’s face lit up, a small gasp passing by his parted lips.

“Ya know Doll, I used to dance to this song every week at the dance hall,” he told you, his eyes focused on the floor, reminiscing a time since passed. He shook his head, and stood up, offering you his hand. You glanced down at his gesture, knowing he wanted you to dance with him. You took his hand and he pulled you flush to his chest, his feet beginning to move to the rhythm of the music floating about the room.

“Disclaimer, I have no idea how to dance to this kind of music,” you informed him, stepping on his foot.

“Sorry! See? I told you I have no idea what i’m doing,” you huffed.

“If you can jump around and bounce up and down at one of Tony’s parties to what you guys now call a sad excuse for music, you can surely dance with me to this kind of music,” Bucky assured.

“I am offended, the music of our time is not sad, it’s revolutionary,” you defended, trying to sound matter of fact. “Whatever you say, Doll” He chuckled, letting go of your hand and backing up away from you, beginning to hop and sway, his dance moves getting worse by the second.

“What in the hell are you doing?” you asked, a laugh threatening to spill past your lips.

“Dancing, what does it look like,” he retorted, flailing his arms about, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

“And what exactly is the purpose of this horrendous dancing,” you pondered.

“To prove you can too dance to this kind of music,” He answered, continuing to snap his fingers and flail his arms. You burst out laughing and reached for your phone to take a video of your boyfriend dancing like a fool.

“Oh no ya don’t, Doll,” he chastised, grabbing your hand and twirling you around the living room. Your phone falling from your grip, landing softly on the couch. A giggle escaped from you as he continued to spin you around the room. He then let you go. Your head spun and butterflies flittered around in your stomach, you had never seen this side of Bucky before. He was lighthearted, and his demeanor was carefree and spirited. His chest rose and fell with his labored breathing as he jumped and swayed around the room, totally engrossed in the music playing, not a care in the world. Locks of dark hair fell into his eyes, and he sang loudly to the song playing, despite the fact he wasn’t all that great. He threw his head back, his mouth was wide open as he sang, his lips curving up into a smile as he finished the last note of the song, his head still turned toward the ceiling. You smiled at him as he turned toward you, the next song was starting.

“C’mon, dance with me,” he instructed jumping up and down like he was at some sort of rave. You sighed and joined him, jumping up and down, singing off key (along with the songs you knew anyway, many of them were too old for your to know), and pulling funny faces at each other. You two danced like this through most of the records until finally Bucky set the last record of the pile onto the turntable.

He grabbed your hand and gave you one last twirl, pulling you close as you came out of the turn, he slowed his dancing to match the music. You two swayed and drifted along to the music fluttering around through the room. You pressed your cheek to his chest, his heart galloping against his ribs, you could feel every beat against your cheek. His heart slowly calmed, the beats becoming regular, steady and calming against your cheek.

“See? I told you that you could dance to this music,” Buck stated matter of factly. You smiled.

“Oh I knew that all along, I just really wanted to see you make a fool of yourself dancing like an idiot,” You sneered. He sighed, biting back his smile. You two continued to step and sway, your foot coming down hard on his. He gasped, gritting his teeth to keep from cursing.

“Who’s making a fool of themselves now?” He taunted, his words reverberating around in his chest, his laugh vibrating against your cheek.

“Shut up…”

You two continued to dance until the record ended the repeated soft scratching was the only sound in the room. You looked up at Bucky in the silence, he looked down at you, smiling as wide as ever. He pressed a quick kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Don’t forget to remind me to thank Steve for dropping this box by,” Bucky spoke, pulling you even closer to his body. He was thankful for you, and you were thankful for him, terrible dance moves and all.

Masterlist

@tiffany-lester72

@shamvictoria11

@derpycp