#NO TITLE)

[casualist-tendency]

[violetmuses]

@lady-phasma 😳

1973

Two bloodthirsty monsters have cornered your presence in this darkened home.

This apartment burns without sunlight.

“Who is this?” Armand questions Louis.

“Her name doesn't matter.” Louis just continued speaking. “She's around for you.”

“Some harlot?” Armand then revealed his darkly magical voice.

“No, but that woman is more fascinating than you'll ever be.” Louis walked back and forth while explaining details. “Just don't ruin her happiness.”

“I want nothing to do with this stranger!” Armand shouted near Louis once more and you grabbed belongings, rushing to escape alive.

Just when your hand might turn that front door knob, you squeal when Armand nearly tackled you to the floor.

“I thought you didn't want her?” Louis stands over tangled bodies as Armand smiles against your exposed skin.

You fight and struggle to escape until Armand laughed softly, reaching the back of your head.

Your trembled voice silenced, allowing himself to bite you as his eternal partner.

[guessimdumb]

The Russians - No Title (1980)

No Title is the actual title. This is another one of those Power Pop/New Wave tunes lost to time. Very catchy with vocals by the wonderfully named Julie Rebelowitchz.

[bewitched-bullet]

Here you go @helloliriels ! This is only the part I finished tweaking

Actually, I always regret everything I do but I do it anyway 😅

(Working title: To Pull a Spider’s Silk)

Chapter 1

The labyrinthine streets of London were currently being slowly devoured by tendrils of thickened mist, offering an ethereal backdrop to the slow moving traffic and passive pedestrians. The eerie false twilight, gave a distinct pull -longing- for a fit of exploring.

‘Wanderlust’ He mused absently, letting the curtain fall back over the window.

Within a comfortably cluttered apartment of haphazard style and sense, a tall and lean figure moved across the room with unnatural grace, grabbed a grubby poker, and jabbed at the inoffensive logs in the fireplace. Small sparks from the fire spat out into the living room in protest. He carelessly flung the metal poker to the side with a clang and spun back around. His sharp, piercing gaze darted across the intricacies of case files spread like cryptic mosaics on his desk. Loose leaflets and some torn pages were taped, pinned, and a couple times -nailed- to the closest wall. Not his fault he ran out of tape. The air around him seemed to vibrate with intensity as he paced in front of his handiwork. A faint smile played unbidden upon his lips as he visually scoured the data.

The fire in the fireplace popped and snapped as it’s fuel shifted, casting wild shadows across the room. He remained unmoved and suddenly stilled, narrowing his ice-blue eyes. Quick as snake, he snatched a paper off the wall and with a final unimpressed once over, tossed it into the flames.

“Aaaargh, I need more information!”

He whipped out his phone from his back pocket, thumbs flying over the digital keyboard.

<< Get me more. SH

His foot tapped as he stared at the screen, waiting. Two minutes later, a ding.

>> Get stuffed.

‘Ugh!’

Annoying, but not unexpected. He tossed his phone to a chair, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. Can’t go to the crime scenes without being invited (ridiculous), not allowed to step into the station without a case (see point 1) or near dead (unlikely, though appreciated), and not allowed to directly call unless near dead. He snatched the remote from the mantle and switched the small telly on.

The lastest press release of the murders suicides was being hosted by his associate (are they associates? He does associate with him in the verb kind of sense), Lastrade. Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards as he watched the stress-grayed haired man give his little speech about the case. Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully. He may not be allowed to call but nobody couldn't tell him he can’t text whoever he wanted. He quickly retrieved his mobile, tapped a couple times on the glass screen, and confirmed ‘send all’ in a group message. Wouldn’t be able to trace it back to him anyway.

A soft knock at the door disrupted the room's stillness, the arrival of a visitor momentarily drawing his focus. He swiftly crossed the room and opened the door. His landlady, had brought the mail. He greeted her with raised eyebrows.

"Good evening, dear. It's quite chilly out there," she remarked, handing over the letters with a pat on his arm. "Do make sure you get yourself a nice cuppa; it’s going to be cold tonight."

Sherlock’s demeanor softened, and he offered a quick peck on top of her curls. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied as he took the mail, his expression a mix of appreciation and distant contemplation. “Perhaps, you should make sure I do.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled warmly. "Oh, Sherlock, you do need to take care of yourself,” she said in mock astonishment. “I’m not your housekeeper, you know.”

Sherlock rapidly sorted through the envelopes, tossing them carelessly to the floor. His flurry of movement was soon stilled. He tilted his head, catching something unusual in the pile in his hands. One letter stood out from the rest, its appearance distinct with swirling black ink, sealed with wax, and marked with a unique emblem. He dropped the rest to the floor as he weighed it in his palm, eyes narrowed.

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock with mild worry. “Ah, perhaps I’ll check on you later anyway. I’ll bring a good meat pie.”

“Mmm…yes, very good,” Sherlock murmured as he turned away from her, sliding his thumb carefully under the seal. He barely registered Mrs. Hudson carefully closing the door behind her as he analyzed the stationary. He gingerly removed the creamy, heavy-weighted paper from the satin-like envelope and unfolded it, scanning it quickly. His frown deepened, and frustration simmered beneath his calm exterior as he re-read the message.

Tiptoeing the lines for the past two years to remain a free agent had been a delicate and frustrating balance. Most of the time, he could believe in the illusion it provided. However, every now and then, reminders of how fragile that "freedom" was came knocking. With a low snarl, he snapped his wrist, and the fancy stationery spun into the fireplace It quickly caught aflame green tinted tongues lapping at it greedily, curling the darkened edges. He remained like stone till every bit of it disintegrated into ash and embers.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

(Next will be John’s part)

I really hope you like this tidbit!

[vane-sya]

No Title by Ehsan-safavie

[sseeseww]

Kuku

[thecultoflove]

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

WIP Wednesday

“Dude! Those aren’t for you!” Peter said, making a quick grab for the four large shopping totes. With very little thought he snagged the Santa hat as well. “And what are you? The Grinch? Why are you stealing things while wearing a Santa hat? “

Rather than answer, the currently Santa Hat-less Grinch Guy pulled a knife out of nowhere. Peter’s senses lit beneath his skin and before he knew it, he’d dropped half the bags and had caught a decent sized pocket knife by the handle. He looked down at it and grinned beneath his mask. “Awe. Are we exchanging gifts?” he asked. “That’s so sweet! I think I’ll give you a concussion!” He swooped forward and punched the guy in the face before webbing him securely to the wall. 

[outtacontextlitwtc]

“I would’ve told a kid that fentanyl is in his future”

.

[zeiktreats]

thinking about old things

[corpseflwr]

[succubus-interactivefiction]

I liiiiied

Okay not really, but while I was taking a break from grinding levels in ESO and staring at my sparkly new keyboard and its lights I lost control and started typing and the story idea I posted earlier got it's first page. Still not planning on actually focusing on this, but since when have my plans ever worked out?

It's over, it's finally over. After twenty years of constant fighting, constant war, constant death, it's over. It's taken twenty years and millions of lives but you have finally defeated the greatest enemy your family has ever known. The cliff you find yourself sitting on overlooks what remains of the battlefield, the land for as far as the eye can see is a decimated hellscape, ash blankets the crater strewn ground, fires continue to rage, and the bodies dotting the fields and forests burn along with everything else, there will be no burials.

You watch as the remnants of your army scour the battlefield for any sign that the enemy remains, but despite your assurances that it can not possibly remain the leaders of the various forces that make up your army insist on making sure. But there is a problem, one you know is coming. That problem is you and as you hear the sound of a dozen approaching footsteps you know the time has come. With a heavy sigh you stand and turn to face the only people left in your life that you consider friends.

It is General Ganzorig who makes the first move as he takes a step closer. His formerly brilliant green scale coat is stained with blood and mud. He was the first to swear his loyalty and forces to you and is by far your oldest friend. "Ma'am, we need to talk."

"Seriously Naran, when are you going to use my name?" The faint smirk that comes to his lips would be hard to see, but you have had plenty of time to learn his quirks. "I know what this conversation is about. So go ahead and say it'' Your smile fades and you turn your attention to the rest. "I know Naran is hesitant to say what's on all your minds, but some of you have no such issue."

"You're damn right we don't" Blace, High Queen of the Amazon Tribes, has never been one to keep her thoughts a secret. "Just what the hell have you been doing this entire time? Was it always that vile magic at your fingertips?" She pauses for a moment to give you a chance to answer but you have nothing to say. "By the Gods! Fifteen years, fifteen God's damned years at your side fighting this war and you spent the entire time lying to me, to us!" She sweeps her arm out at the assembled group. They all look uncomfortable at the idea of your lies, some more than others.

"What is it, what darkness have you let into your heart?" Lillian von Winter, possibly the most devout woman you have ever met looks as though her heart is breaking as she stares into your eyes, your silence all the proof she needs that you have delved into magic that her church views as the greatest of heresies.

[[Sanguimancy, blood magic, the counterpoint to necromancy and the ability to control and manipulate the living.|pp2][$magic to "sanguimancy"]] [[Necromancy, returning the dead to a semblance of life as mindless slaves and the ability to kill with a gesture.|pp2][$magic to "necromancy"]] [[Daemonology, summoning the foes of humanity into the world to do your biding and the ability to control fire.|pp2][$magic to "daemonology"]] [[Abyssal magic, calling on forces incomprehensible to the human mind, driving enemies to madness and rending reality asunder.|pp2][$magic to "abyssal"]]

[mncgrt]

ꨄ︎

i have a trouble letting people get close to me. whenever they do, i immediately pull back, isolate myself, and push them away. it also happened when i and my partner began dating. we went on dates for 40 days straight, and by then i had begun to open up more, talking about the past, the future, and the depths of my mind. the only reason the 40-day streak stopped was because i recognized how close he had gotten to me, and i immediately ghosted him. i even pondered breaking up, but i held back because there was no valid reason, and i also didn't want to break the friend group we were in.

that's my problem. so my "friends", or more specifically, "acquaintances", just come and go. they don't stay long enough because i never allow it, and they don't have the patience for it. most of the time, i forget about them as time passes. however, that is not always the case. see, i am a woman with a way with words. i enjoy words, as well as other types of art. it's an important aspect of my life, therefore if someone drew a picture of me or wrote a poem with the image of me in mind, i couldn't forget it. it'd be etched in my mind and branded on my heart. i'd rather have a poem about me than a designer bag any day.

yet, people rarely ever write or draw me, regardless of how many words i've written about them, with tenderness, adoration, devotion, and sometimes, solemn. funny enough, the closer people are to me, the less i'd be seen through their art. perhaps that's not in their nature, perhaps i'm just simply not that important. i don't know, and i'd rather not delve deep enough to find out why, given how pointless it would be.

however, there are also half-strangers. they would give me such wonderful words, full of loving sentiments, that a single sentence would bring me to tears. i would never hate anyone who used to write or draw for me; i might be angry with them for years, but "hate" is not a term i would use. for there is still a part of me that yearns to be someone's inspiration, to be someone's moonlight reflected in the water, to be someone's fleeting dream that they crave to revisit. that portion would always love them dearly.

what a shame.

[randomargirl]

When you have a lot of characters but no plot

That's a problem

[sseeseww]

1. Episode