#and screaming at them like my parents would have

[darkbluekies]

Sneak peaks of oneshots I'm currently working on!!

SILAS:

"Cops" (no name yet) — blurb: the cops come to take darling away

“Silas-”, SIC says from the front door. 

“‘They want what’s in the attic’, you said”, he mutters through gritted teeth before spinning around and screaming: “Then why the fuck did they leave after getting them?!”

SIC doesn’t answer. He lowers his gaze. Silas is shaking with anger. 

“I’m going to kill them”, he breathes out. 

“You can’t”, SIC says. “This is not our enemies, these are the cops.”

“They took my wife/husband! They could be Superman for all I care! I’m going to blow them up.”

SILAS X ARES (no name yet) — blurb: Silas brings darling to his childhood summer house, where his idiotic brother is

He sighs, lifts your hand and kisses it.

“Fine”, he mutters. “I'll behave.”

“No violence. Please. At all.”

He rolls his eyes. “I won't do anything, Ares-”

“You are a thirty-something year old man, you should be able to control your emotions when your little brother nags you.”

He gives you a warning gaze. “Such a smartypant you are when you're let out.”

For once, you’re not intimidated by that look. You know that Silas would never ever step foot in his parents' summer house while they’re there if you weren’t by his side. From what you know, their house on the island of Rhodes is their vacation home, their actual residence is an apartment in Athens, where Silas grew up.

You can tell by the way that his jaw is clenched that he's not looking forward to meeting his family. They had disowned him when they realized what kind of business he's doing. You wonder what they would say about Ares who's scamming poor old people out of their savings.

The hired driver offers a hand to you when getting out the boat, but Silas snarls at him in a foreign language before helping you himself. You thank the driver in english as Silas drags you away.

“You couldn't have thanked him a bit more flirtatiously?” he mutters while starting to walk. “Asked him if he wanted a kiss while you're at it?”

“Silas …”

"Steal your man" (project name) — darling has married, but Silas is not going to let this man take you from him

You could never have imagined that you would find a man like him after what happened last year. You had met a man on the way home from a meeting with a friend, someone that had helped you after the grocery bag you had bought food in on the way home. He had introduced himself as ‘Silas’ and had walked you home, carrying the groceries for you. You thanked him. Silas had asked if you wanted to meet for coffee sometime, and you had agreed. You had gone out with him multiple times. Never actually becoming a couple, but acting like it. You kissed, went on dates. But you noticed that something was weird about him. He never told you anything about his life and when you asked, you noticed that something shifted in his black eyes. As if he tried to come up with a lie. And you finally got to know from a friend who had seen the two of you together. He was a criminal, a leader of a mob, who was more dangerous than you could have anticipated. You had cut contact with him and moved away so that he wouldn’t be able to find you again.

But he did. Somehow, he did.

DR KRY:

part 2 to this — blurb: a continuation where Nadia tries to convince their father to let her sister go

She wants nothing more than for Lydia to come back to school. Just to see Lydia anywhere else than in her bed would be a blessing. But her washed out skin, her dull eyes and weak voice makes it seem like an impossibility. Nadia would look like that too. She can see herself in her sister’s appearance.

“What day is it?” Lydia asks quietly.

“Thursday”, Nadia replies and clears her throat.

Lydia smiles sadly and sniffles. Tears run down her face.

“Gym class”, she whispers longingly. “I loved that.”

Nadia sniffles, voice giving up. “I know.”

Her smile falters. “I miss it all so much.”

Nadia’s entire body twitches with sobs. “I know. I miss you too. People ask for you a-and I don’t know what to say.”

She hasn’t told Lydia that she doesn’t hang out with their friends anymore. She can’t. Not when Lydia isn’t there. She can’t bring herself to enjoy herself as long as Lydia’s here. She hugs her sister and cries into her hair. Lydia hugs her back. They cry together, sobbing in each others arms, trying to get closer.

Lydia pulls away first, wiping her tears and her hair out of her face.

“Crying doesn’t make it better”, she mumbles and clears her throat.

Nadia stares at her with empty eyes. Lydia picks up the mug and takes a few mouthfuls.

“Can you sleep here?” she asks quietly.

JERRY

"Shot" (no name) — darling is shot and it brings back memories Jerry hates thinking about

Jerry sobs. Her body is breaking into pieces, can feel the flesh rip itself apart.

Please wake up, Y/N. Please. I can't do this.

She should have done more to protect you. She should have learned from her mistakes. She opens her left hand. A small Kuromi plush charm rests in the palm of her hand. The other hand holds onto yours tightly. The little plush stares at her with cute aggression. She wants to bury her sharp nails into its face, claw away the mocking expression.

You couldn't leave me without a little bully, could you? When you're not here to tease me, this is.

Jerry looks up at your face and feels her body goes cold once again. You look so small, so breakable. She's afraid of squeezing your hand too tightly, worried that she'll snap it in half.

HEDWIG:

"Vacatuon Huse" (yes that is the actual name it is saved as in the document) — blurb: hedeig takes darling to her vacation house, but darling has a severe case of home sickness

Hedwig breaks out in a smile, touches your face ever so carefully and kisses your lips. It’s a soft and delicate touch that only she can manage to do.

“I’m so excited”, she smiles and jumps up and down like a child. “I’ve wanted to travel with you so badly. Next time, let’s go abroad, just you and me, okay? Can’t we? Please?”

You nod. Hedwig leans against you. Your suitcases stand beside you, just as close as Hedwig wants to be with you. She’s dressed in your hoodie and sweatpants, looking like a teddy bear. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at you, looking at you as if you are the prettiest star in the world.

The train enters the platform and she takes her suitcase and gestures for you to follow her to the first class carriages. You’re sitting by a table. Hedwig has booked the entire table so that no one else will sit with you. The rest of the carriage will have people, but not the table that is exclusively yours.

Hedwig wants you to sit by the window as she takes the aisle seat. She can’t stop smiling. She leans onto your shoulder, nuzzling into you.

ALL 5 — Squid game AU

“Why are you limping?” Silas asks.

“It’s my knee”, you answer shakily. “I-I was in a car accident and it didn’t heal correctly. When i put much pressure on it, like when I run, it can give out. And, it seems like, when I’m scared, it functions even less.”

“You survived a running game.”

“That’s because you helped me. Thank you, by the way.”

It physically hurts to thank a person like him. Silas smiles and pats your back.

“I think it’s good to have someone in here that you can depend on”, he says.

“So you won’t stab me in the back to win?” you ask.

“Geez, what kind of shit have you imagined? You stereotype me without even knowing more than my name. I just saved you from getting killed. I could have pushed you, and with your weak knee, you would be one of those lying out there by now. But I didn’t, because I’m not a dickhead.”

[genderqueerdykes]

For the transmasc voices: (tw suicidal thoughts, transandrophobia)

I'm messaging on behalf of my son. I'm NB, wife is transfem, our child is transmasc. He's only 11. He came out a few years ago, is allowed to freely explore and express, and at home he has a great support system.

But he has ALREADY struggled with suicidal thoughts, anxiety, and stress, not just from cishet classmates but from queer peers. He has ALREADY tried to APOLOGIZE for IDing as masc, due to intracommunity reactionary hate. We are ALREADY doing damage control, we have him in therapy, we make sure to celebrate him and lift him up at every opportunity.

He's fucking ELEVEN YEARS OLD and is already being heavily negatively stressed by our own fucking community. His PEERS are also, only 11-13 years old.

This intracommunity bullshit, this deliberate misandry and transandrophobia, is contagious. The children are ALWAYS watching and the vast majority of them do NOT have parents 'in the know' or even supportive, let alone any kind of digital supervision; they SEE YOU. They INTERNALIZE WHAT YOU SAY. They SPREAD IT and they are MIMICKING YOUR FIGHTS.

And when our community screams 'fuck men' 'men are trash' 'yes all men' 'they deserve this' those little caveats of 'oh but not trans men!!' don't actually do shit for anyone except make y'all pat yourselves on the back for being soooo progressive and inclusive. Worse still when they don't even bother with the caveats and just straight up refuse to ever consider nor allow anyone ELSE to consider the unique intersection (yes!! Intersectional fucking theory have y'all heard of it!!!) of both privilege and oppression experienced by transmascs, which is different from the unique *intersection* of oppressions experienced by transfems, which is still different from the unique *intersectional experiences* of still others, and insist no, actually, they're all only the same and actually only transfems can speak at all about any of this and trans men don't have unique experiences and can't have their own language and blah blah blah blah fucking blah.

I can literally see (and foot the bill for!) the harm y'all are doing to yourselves, each other, and to the next generation of queer kids and allies and I am so fucking tired of it. Reactionary hate is communal fucking poison and it ALWAYS involves friendly fire.

oh my god i am mortified but thank you so much for sending this. first of all, i wanted to deeply apologize for what is happening to your son, i have more to say about and to him later, but i want you to know i am very glad you chose to reach out. this affected me in a very real way. i'm not being funny here. a lot of asks don't really get to me, but this struck me like an arrow to the heart and i seriously need people to very carefully read this ask and internalize it. im serious. even if it makes you cry, please re-read it a couple of times. even if you seriously think it's okay to hate men. read this.

men don't just pop into the world men. they're boys first a lot of the time. would you people seriously fucking rather see dead trans boys than living trans men? because that is what you're doing. your incessant gender essentialist bullshit is legitimately getting trans CHILDREN scarred for fucking life and potentially killed. you are potentially actually for real taking a life when you say these things- but are you so happy knowing that there's childrens' blood on your hands?

your son deserves so much better than this holy SHIT. an 11 year old should NOT be having suicidal thoughts, especially over their GENDER. this is not petty internet drama anymore. this is affecting the real world. this is affecting real people. y'all seem to forget that there's a living, breathing person behind every single account you interact with (aside from obvious bots). there are people behind these posts. and you are genuinely affecting them. sure it sounds like a quirky clapback to say "all men should die" or whatever but what about when you say that to someone and it actually kills a man? what about when you're genuinely responsible for ending a life by what you've said and done?

are you prepared to console that man's family? are you prepared to apologize for what you did? are you prepared to understand that this has real life consequences and can literally tear families apart? are you prepared to understand that many parents, including mothers, love their sons? that many people love their relatives who are men? that many people love their husbands and partners? that this would hurt women in a very real way? whether or not you hate all men doesn't matter, but not all women think like this, and this can and will devastate real people in real time. this will hurt women way more than you think.

i wanted to say that i'm glad he has a good support system with you. it must be very comforting to know he has a NB parent to help advocate for him as a trans child. a child. i can't get over that. he should be living his life carefree. he should be playing with other kids, discovering new hobbies, learning about how other people go about their lives, and having fun, but instead he's getting tortured and mocked? for what reason? he's not a tyrant now. he's a boy. boys don't have any power in society. children are not an oppressive class. holy shit

you are doing a great thing by advocating for him. i will do my best to make sure i can, too. i don't need to know your or his name for right now, but i will make sure that i tell his story, because this is beyond fucked up. people need to understand this isn't about views on tiktok and likes on instagram. this is about real people who are hurting. you don't deserve to have to see your child go through all of this intense therapy and pain and suffering. this needs to come to an end.

if you want to share this part of the message with him, i'd like to address him directly. i just wanted to say, that i'm 32 years old, and i realized i was a trans man when i was about 20. i didn't learn the word transgender until i was 19 years old. if i had an awesome NB parent who helped me learn about it at your age, i would've been out as transmasculine, too! i was scared for a while, but some of the happiest years of my life have been while i've been out as a trans guy. i wear what i want now, i talk how i want to, i present how i want to, i love who i want to, and i don't let any of this invalidate me for who i am as a man. i only talk to people who respect me, and there are tons of people out there who love us and see us for who we really are

you're not going to deal with this forever. people are being really, really mean right now, but it's not going to be like this forever. there are a lot of other transmascs out there. if you find other trans boys around your age, do your best to stick with them if they're good to you. it's okay to be a trans boy and its okay to want to be friends with other trans boys. you're not a bad person. you're not mean. you're an awesome kid who's taking the time to explore gender now that it's something you can understand. that's really cool, why wouldn't that be cool?

try not to let them get to you. they are not confident in how they identify and how they feel about themselves. they're taking it out on you. your life matters, it matters so much. other trans boys out there will be so happy to know you exist. you deserve a long, happy life. there's nothing wrong with being a boy or man. we're not bad people. we're capable and deserving of love just like everyone else. your gender isn't anyone else's business. chase your happiness.

[just-a-ghost00]

Mirror, mirror on the wall

What does this connection reflect back to you ? What do you see in each other that either uplifts you or drags you down ?

To find out, select one of the following groups. You can either choose based on the imagery or the number. This reading’s content might be triggering. Read only if you are okay with it. Keep in mind that this is a general reading.

Group 1

5 of swords, knight of cups, Self love, Death rx, Sugilite - Stretch the limits of your imagination - You are not your emotions, Memories comfort us "I seek out happy people who inspire me to be great."

This reading feels very personal. I felt a pang in my chest as I was shuffling your cards. And the more I saw the picture that was being depicted, the more I felt like crying. I feel like a lot of you have spent most of your life repressing your emotions and feelings for the sake of others within connections, whether those were platonic or romantic. Specifically, I picked up on wounds surrounding a masculine parental figure. When interacting with this person, the truth reflected back to you is that you shouldn't have to fight for someone's attention or love. This connection helps you heal a feeling of unworthiness that stems from your childhood. It also reflects the fact that a relationship shouldn't be thriving at the expense of your own well being and happiness. That a connection should be a safe space where you can feel free to be yourself and expand in a way that feels good for you. That you shouldn't have to pretend to be someone else to be accepted.

What you see in this person is that a partner is supposed to uplift you, not hinder you. You see that going after your dreams and doing the things that make you happy isn't a crime. You learn that your emotions are valuable and are nothing to be ashamed of. In this person, you find a shelter. A place where you can lower your mask and shield to be your unapologetical self without fearing retribution. In this person, you see a friend. Someone that is willing to listen to what you have to say and help you see things from a brighter perspective instead of finding every reason why this could go wrong. You learn that your opinion matters. That your interests aren't useless. That it is safe to cry, to be sad or angry, to feel unmotivated or scared or uncertain. That you shouldn't have to apologize for how you feel or for who you are. In them, you find a confidant.

The reality that this connection reflects back to you is that your friends, your family, the people you admire and give your attention to may not be having your best interest at heart. Nor do they provide for you the safe space you need. That they take more than they give and never say sorry. This connection teaches you the importance of your own love and perception of yourself. The importance of re evaluating your boundaries, of being authentic and surrounding yourself with the people that are going to value your true essence instead of trying to dim your light and shape you into something you are not.

Extra - What do they see in you? | Page of cups, The Sage, Black Tourmaline - Protect your light, Relieve the pressure, "I am ready to go big rise up and step into my power."

They see a person with a kind and pure heart, who yearns to love and be loved equally. Someone with big dreams and goals that they never dared to achieve. A soft hearted individual whose potential goes beyond anything they could ever imagine and is afraid to share it with the world. They see a lot of sadness too. Fear even. But more than that, they see a lot of wisdom and grace. A level of maturity that cannot be rivaled. They see someone that has been holding back for far too long and deserves to be able to let go of everything that has been hurting them. Someone that needs protection because of all the pain they've been through. Someone that's tired of fighting and screaming for peace. They see someone who's afraid of opening their heart to love again, who would rather guard their heart strongly even if it meant being alone forever rather than risking getting hurt again. But at the same time, they see how much you crave to put an end to all of that because at the end of the day, you're just like any human. You want that fairytale ending.

Group 2

"I celebrate all the grateness in my life." 3 of wands, 7 of wands, Sunstone - Take back your shine, The Weaver rx, Love rx, Stand up for yourself, Yes!

I get a lot of root and sacral chakra energy from this group, which to me may relate to fears surrounding stability, material possessions, intimacy and the body. In past connections, you or your person may have dealt with a lot of people that abused them either for their possessions, their status or their body. You may also have dealt with people who cheated on you or people who did not accept your differences but still took advantage of you. I don't know why, but I kept wanting to mention the other person instead of focusing on your energy. So maybe you and your person have dealt with very similar wounds and situations in your life. The truth that is being reflected back to you is that being different isn't always a struggle. That in a connection, your boundaries should always be respected. That not wanting the same things as your partner doesn't make you a bad person. That you have the right to say no. You are also learning that you cannot control every aspect of the connection. That sometimes, in order for things to be working, you'll have to let your ego aside and find a common ground that is comfortable for both parties. You're also learning that needing space or going after your goals are things that can be beneficial both to you and your partner, that you shouldn't have to choose between both. You're learning that being on your guards all the time isn't in your best interest and that in order to receive you must be able to give as well. The truth reflected back to you is also that not everyone is out to get you.

In this person, you see a call for the unknown that challenges you but also motivates you. You see an opportunity for change and wisdom. You see an invitation to appreciate life at the fullest and an encouragement to open your heart to the present moment. This connection teaches you to take a leap of faith and walk forward with confidence, even if you do not know what the future holds. It teaches you to see all the little things in life that are worth rejoicing about and fighting for. It pushes you to embrace all your quirks and faults, even those you think your partner wouldn't like. To look at the future with hope in your eyes and disregard any person that might stand in your way or try to get you to doubt yourself. This connection inspires you to stand tall and proud and cultivate optimism. It helps you feel safe in your body and comfortable in your shoes. For some of you, it has opened your eyes about your sexual preferences and your identity. Some of you may have realized that you were queer thanks to this connection. For others, you are healing wounds regarding physical intimacy : you may be learning to embrace the fact that being physical with someone is something that isn't your cup of tea and that there's nothing wrong with it. Some may be discovering and exploring new aspects of their sexuality that they didn't get to try before because they were taught to be ashamed of their body, of their desires. This connection leads you to uproot any belief system that was hindering your light and drive. Also, you are learning to love your body more and cultivate your creativity.

Extra - What do they see in you? | Treat yourself eat whatever you want, 4 of wands, Reflect, Cavansite - Expand your consciousness, "My high vibe thoughts create health in my body peace in my mind and love in my heart."

They see someone with such energy and love for life that they can't help but smile. They also can't help but to recognize your strength and limitless potential. This person sees you as their equal. They see in you someone that has all the qualities in life to be successful but also all the qualities that they look for in a partner. They see your trustworthiness, your ambition, your optimism and creativity and they love it. They admire your wit and communication skills. They see your strength and your ability to persevere though the road is difficult. They see a person that will never give up no matter what people throw at them. And because of that, you have all their respect and support. They see how hard you try to make a name for yourself and embody the best version of you. They see your charisma, your curiosity. Every aspect of you that makes you you, in simple words. They just love all of you and they want that for themselves.

Group 3

"I breathe calmly and easily. I am safe in this moment." Page of wands, The Star, Versatility, Speak Truth, I can only count on myself, Stand up for yourself, Hiddenite - Claim your happy place

Through this connection, you're slowly realizing that you were made to believe that in order to make it through and thrive, you should hide your light and pretend like you didn't exist. Especially for those of you who were assigned female at birth. The truth that this connection reflects back to you is that it is safe for you to exist, make noise and take room. In this case, I am picking up on rejection wounds. You are also learning that you don't have to carry your load all alone. That asking for help is more than fine but more importantly that you don't need others to be told who you should or should not be. For a lot of you, I feel like a parental figure was very controlling around you and didn't let you make your own decisions. They always tried to make you feel less than or lead you to believe that you couldn't succeed without them. You are healing those wounds through this connection. It also reflects back at you your own creative power and wisdom. It shows you that the truth of your destiny lies within you and not outside of you. It encourages you to speak louder and find your voice in life's chatter. To write your own story.

It reflects back to you how people around you trigger your foundations and create a space for you that is unstable, unsafe. How their own lack of discernment and self confidence is affecting you, your dynamics with the world and your power to manifest your desired reality. It shows you that you don't have to abide by the rules to be respected and recognized. Actually, you don't even need to be recognized by anyone except yourself. This connection shows you the value of your own beliefs and desires, and gives you the strength and determination to fight for them.

Extra - What do they see in you? | Ace of cups rx, The Explorer, Turn your tongue 7 times in your mouth before speaking, Sodalite - Deepen your intuition, "I seek out happy people who inspire me to be great."

They see a lot of curiosity and drive to become a better version of yourself. They also see your fighting spirit and rebellious tendencies. They see that you want to surround yourself with things and people that make you feel good. That you are constantly seeking to improve. That you have gathered a lot of wisdom through experience and you're able to use it whenever trouble arises. However, they also see that you've put up walls around your heart that a hard to see through. They are aware that those walls, built to protect yourself, also prevent you from finding true happiness. They see that you are not emotionally available right now and that is a fact they cannot ignore. This person understands your need to protect yourself and admires this aspect of you. But they are also worried that this defense mechanism will stand in the way of your connection. They see that they should have to be very careful around you if they want to be able to earn your trust.

[hederasgarden]

Eternal Devotion (1/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, mildly dubious consent, sexual content, vampirism and all the warnings that come with that (I’m diverging from canon a bit in regards to feeding). This is my attempt at Gothic Romance. A/N:  The reader has always been Friedrich wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her. -Hozier

The room is dim with the curtains drawn tight, allowing only a sliver of daylight to creep through the gap. In the distance, the soft hum of morning activity rises from the rest of the house, the gentle chatter of your two daughters layered over the quiet rustling of the servants preparing for the day ahead. You should rise and follow the rhythm of the world outside this room, but you cannot. 

Friedrich has been gone nearly six months. It feels like a lifetime. The days stretch endlessly, and each one feels like an affront, a reminder that the world refuses to stop turning. How are you supposed to go on living? You know if you had died, Friedrich would have climbed into the casket beside you and his grief would have blotted out the sun.

But there was no casket for him. No body left to bury. He was swallowed by the sea, lost while fulfilling a promise you made, helping Ellen return to Thomas.

Your daughters do not yet grasp the finality of it. No matter how many times you tell them, they speak of their father like he is simply away at work, perhaps, or out on some important errand. And each morning they act as if he’s come to tuck them into bed, kiss their cheeks, and say their prayers like he did before. They look up at you with soft eyes, the very same as his and you must relive the pain of it again and again when you remind them their father is gone.

Sometimes, you wish you could believe your own dreams, the ones where Friedrich slips back into bed beside you. Yet even in those fleeting moments of illusion, something is wrong. The warmth you long for is absent. His touch is colder, harder, his presence not the way it used to be. When his lips meet your skin, it stings, sharp and unfamiliar, and the truth rises within you, pushing against the comfort of the dream. 

It’s not him. And it never will be. Now and forevermore, each morning you will wake to find the sheets beside you cold. Empty.

Everyone told you the grief would abate with time but these past few weeks have drained you more thoroughly than any that came before. Each morning, it feels as though your very blood has turned to sand, your bones to lead. Even the simple act of turning onto your back, to stare up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, takes more effort than you can summon. 

You remain in bed until the door creaks open, and the light sound of footsteps follows. Kerstin’s voice is no more than a whisper as she brushes your shoulder.

“Frau Harding. Your parents have arrived for breakfast. Your father wishes for you to join them.”

The sight of your maid’s pale, worried face is enough to rouse you. You let her dress and prepare you for the day. Although she’s done this a thousand times, there’s something about the way her hands hover over the buttons of your gown, the hesitation before each movement, that makes you feel like a stranger in your own skin. You see how she and the other servants watch you now. Even when they pretend to be absorbed in their tasks, their glances are sharp, laden with worry. They fear you’ll descend into the same madness as Ellen, but it is only your grief, so vast and deep, that’s reshaping you in ways you can’t even recognize. 

When you enter the dining room, your daughters rush to you. You hold them close, inhaling the familiar scent of their hair. Your mother greets you next, reaching out to cup your face in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. There is a deep sadness in her eyes and she glances over at your father with a look halfway between pleading and resignation.

“Come, you must eat,” she encourages, guiding you to sit beside her.

Your father, sitting at the head of the table, offers no such tenderness. His presence is a commanding weight in the room and the deep set of his brow lets you know this is not merely a social visit. You glance at your mother who stares at the hands in her lap and your fingers curl around the richly upholstered arm of the dining room chair. Whatever he has come to say will not be good, you realize. 

“The children are finished with their breakfast,” he announces sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a command. With a quick flick of his fingers, he gestures to the governess. “Take them to the parlor. Their mother and I have matters to discuss.”

Once they are gone, your father doesn’t wait long to speak again. “It has been six months,” he begins, his gaze unwavering. “Long enough. You must remarry, and soon.” 

You blink, momentarily stunned. Six months? Six months since Friedrich was swallowed by the sea, leaving nothing but an empty, aching space behind. Six months in which you have not even been able to make sense of the grief that clings to you like a second skin. How could he even think of you remarrying so soon?

“But… Father, I…” you begin, the words faltering in your throat.

He doesn’t let you finish, his voice growing sterner. “You must think of the future, not just of your own sorrow. The children need stability, and you need a husband. You cannot manage alone, not with the wealth you inherited from your late husband.”

You shake your head, even as you know there is a kernel of truth to his words. The vast estate, the shipyard, and the assets Friedrich once managed all fall on you now. It is a burden you are not prepared to shoulder and one you have steadily ignored these past months. But even beyond all that, the thought of remarrying, of taking another man into your life is something you can’t even entertain.

"I cannot… not yet," you whisper, barely above a breath. And in the pit of your chest, a deeper thought rises unbidden: Not ever.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says firmly. “But even now, men circle you like vultures. They want your husband’s wealth and his business. We must act swiftly and secure the right match — for you, for the children, for our family’s future.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to pass. Your hands move to straighten the cutlery in front of you, anything to occupy them, anything to hold off the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

And then, almost without thinking, you speak. “You never say his name.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Friedrich,” you whisper. “It is always my husband or your son-in-law. You do not… you do not say his name.”

There is a long pause before your father clears his throat, dismissing the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot afford to linger on sentiment,” he says. “Sentiment will not feed the children or keep the business afloat. We need to think practically.”

You stare at him, hearing nothing more than the absence of your husband's name in his voice, the not-so-subtle command that you too must move on, move past this grief, and return to the world of the living. 

“You cannot make me do this.”

"Perhaps not," your father concedes, exhaling sharply. "But your husband has many cousins who would think nothing of reclaiming control over the business." He pauses, taking a deliberate sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Men who would see no value in a widow and her daughters when they have families of their own.”

His words have their desired effect, leaving you feeling small and powerless. Your shoulders slump, the strength in you draining away as your head hangs, heavy with the crushing knowledge of what awaits.

“Now, your mother has already arranged for you and the girls to have new clothes made for your return to society," he continues, his tone cool and businesslike. "We will host a small, intimate gathering. I will invite a few prospective suitors—men I consider promising options. You may, of course, choose which one you wish to pursue."

“How kind you are to offer me a say,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.  

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I know grief has stolen your good sense but you will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” your father warns. 

A surge of emotion rises within you, sharp and unwelcome, forcing its way up your throat. The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unrestrained. “You would not speak to me this way if Friedrich were here.”

Your father shakes his head, rising from his seat to tower over you. “He is not here, my girl. He will never be here again. You are alone in a world that is unkind to women such as yourself.”

The pity in his eyes is more than you can bear. The dam breaks, and the first wave of tears crashes down, unbidden and unstoppable. A  flood that drags you under. You sink back into the chair, helpless as wracking sobs tear through you, a deep, raw ache flooding every part of your being.

Distantly, you hear your mother’s voice chastising your father. Her arms slip around you, pulling you close. She whispers gentle reassurances, her shushing echoing the soothing words you’ve said a hundred times to your own girls, but it feels empty now, a hollow repetition that cannot shield you from the brutal reality.

Friedrich is gone. And with him, any hope you once held of finding happiness.

–

When you step into your father’s parlor, the weight of every gaze in the room settles on you like a tangible thing. The faces that turn toward you are mostly unfamiliar, offering you that sad, understanding smile you’ve grown so weary of. It is a smile that means nothing at all in light of their presence here. Each one of them is complicit in your father’s schemes.

“You look lovely,” your father says. He presses his lips to your cheek in an exaggerated gesture of affection, more a farce than any real expression of love. “The blue truly suits you,” he adds, his eyes dropping to take in your fine silk dress. 

It’s the latest fashion from Paris, or so you’re told. Once, a dress like this would have delighted you—Friedrich always took such joy in bringing you the finest, most exquisite silks and fabrics from his travels. But now, the dress feels all wrong, too tight and too revealing, exposing more of your shoulder and décolletage than you’re comfortable with. 

You smile at your father. Even though it barely touches your lips it doesn’t seem to bother him. He simply sweeps you further into the room, his hand on your arm guiding you forward as he begins the task of making introductions. It’s a performance, and you are trapped at the center of it. But you do as your father and society demand, falling into the practiced motions of politeness. 

You engage in small talk, offering the kind of perfunctory responses that are expected of you, feigning interest in whatever these men have to say. Some ask after your children, while others offer their condolences for your loss. But behind their kindness lies a predatory sort of interest. It is all you can do to nod, offering your own strained smile as you stand there wondering how much longer you can keep up this charade.

When your father finally leaves you for a moment you close your eyes, exhaling. 

“Oh, dearest girl.” 

The unexpected voice makes you flinch. You turn, meeting a familiar pair of brown eyes of Herr Gothrim. Of all your father’s friends, he is the one you think might understand your plight the best. He lost his wife to the plague that swept the city nearly a year ago.

“It is shameful what your father is doing. Forcing you from your mourning period so soon.” He shakes his head. “Though, I confess, had I daughter like you I might be convinced to do the same.” He steps closer, his voice quieting. “You are the talk of the city and beyond.”

“They desire Friedrich’s wealth,” you reply. “Nothing more.”

Herr Gothrim stares at you for a moment before he speaks again, his words laden with something that makes your skin crawl.

“Do not sell yourself short. You are young. Beautiful. You might still bear your future husband a son or two.”

Friedrich had wanted a son. You knew that long before you ever married him. He had spoken of it often, longing to see his name carried on but he never once made you feel like an instrument to secure his legacy. More than that he loved your daughter fiercely, completely. And though it might have been a sin, he loved you even more.  

“I fear you will not have the luxury of time, my dear,” Herr Gothrim warns. “Your father will push forward with his plans, and if you do not make a choice, one will be made for you. Perhaps a familiar one would be best.”

His eyes briefly flick over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze. It rests on his son, Pieter. The sight of him makes a sharp, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up from within. Once, he had petitioned your father for your hand and before Friedrich had made his offer, Pieter had been the one your father had entertained as a potential suitor. 

To your dismay, Pieter seems to take your attention as an invitation, crossing the room to join the two of you. He greets you with an overly familiar kiss to your cheek that lingers, brushing against the corner of your lips. When he pulls away his hand remains on your elbow, tethering you to him. 

“Frau Harding, you look well,” he says brightly. “Or should it be Fräulein now?”

His boldness stuns you but before you can gather your thoughts, he continues, oblivious to the discomfort in your silence. “I must confess, I was both surprised and pleased to receive your father’s invitation. And to see you again after so long. I am eager for a second chance to win your hand.”

It is only the thought of your daughters and the need to ensure their future is safe that keeps grief from sharpening your tongue. You force your eyes downward, focusing on a speck of dust on his lapels to avoid looking at his face. “My father was pleased you accepted his invitation. He has always been fond of you,” you reply hollowly.

Pieter smiles, seemingly unaware of how your voice thins and your words fall flat and meaningless. 

“You look cold,” he observes. “Come, you should warm yourself by the fire as we reacquaint ourselves. My import business has grown greatly since we last spoke.”

His touch feels possessive, demanding even yet you are helpless to do anything more than follow him. You catch your father’s eyes when you pass him. He looks pleased and it turns your stomach. 

Pieter keeps you by his side for the rest of the evening, his words a constant hum around you. Whether he’s wholly unaware of your discomfort or willfully blind to it, you can’t decide. His conversation is a relentless stream of boasts about his business, his wealth, and his success, as though he expects you to be impressed, to be eager for his attention. Each time you try to excuse yourself, your attempts are dismissed with a smile and an insistent push to stay.

It isn’t until your mother comes to collect you at the end of the night that you are finally freed from his hold. You follow her away from the gathering and into the waiting carriage, Pieter’s gaze lingering on you. 

You’re so exhausted on the ride home that the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets and the rocking of the carriage nearly lulls you into sleep. You find your daughters are already in bed when you arrive at the house. Though you loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber, you find yourself drawn to them, compelled to check on them before you can rest. You make your way down the dark hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet the only sound betraying your presence.

When you crack open the door to their room, a cool rush of air greets you, sending a shiver through you. You find their window unlatched, the curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze that has slipped in. Startled, you step further into the room, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You move quickly to reach the window and quietly shut it again. 

Once it is secured, you turn to your girls. The sight of them, peaceful and safe in their beds, eases some of the tension in your chest. Your youngest clutches a slip of fabric in her hands, her tiny face relaxed in sleep. There is something about the cloth she holds that gives you pause. You kneel beside her, gently prying it from her grasp. At the sight of the familiar handkerchief and your own needlework, worn and fraying with time, your breath stutters in your throat. 

It was one of the first gifts you ever gave Friedrich, back when he was still courting you. You had made him dozens more over the years, but still, he carried it with him, even as it began to unravel at the edges. You always assumed it was lost with him and to find it here, tucked in your daughter’s hands, feels like both a balm and a wound.

Fingers trembling, you press the fabric to your face and close your eyes. For a brief moment, you swear you can still smell Friedrich’s cologne, faint but unmistakable. You linger in that moment until your daughter shifts in her sleep and you're brought back to reality. Carefully, you tuck the handkerchief into her tiny hands and kiss her forehead before retreating from the room.

–

Your dreams are restless, an amalgam of fractured images and disjointed sensations. Pieter’s dark, unblinking eyes merge with the black fabric of your mourning gown, and then, without warning, the scene shifts, plunging you into the vast, endless depths of the sea that claimed Friedrich. 

The cold water envelops you, and you gasp for air, but the water rushes in, drowning your cries. In your panic, you thrash wildly, desperate for escape. Just as you feel yourself slipping into the abyss, strong hands seize you, pulling you upward. Your eyes snap open, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The water recedes, and in its place, Friedrich’s face fills your vision.

“I am here, I am here, my love,” he murmurs softly, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand rests lightly on your chest, guiding your breath to match his steady rhythm, coaxing the frantic pace of your heart to slow.  

You stare at him as the world crystallizes around you. Then, you surge forward, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that consumes you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching him tightly like he might vanish if you let go. The kiss is a lifeline and you cling to it with a need so raw it aches.

“Friedrich,” you gasp, reveling in the familiar tickle of his mustache and his strong hands on your body.  

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if this is real, if he’s truly here, or if your grief has finally unraveled, conjuring him from the depths of the ocean to haunt you. But then, as his lips press urgently against yours and the solid weight of him fills your arms, you decide you don’t care. It doesn’t matter if he is a ghost, risen from the sea’s cold embrace. Nor does it matter that death has leached the color from his cheeks and the warmth from his hands. All that matters is that he’s here.

“My love,” you cry. 

“I am here,” he promises, trailing his lips down the side of your throat until his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He lingers there, the sting of his kiss euphoric. You bury your fingers in his thick curls, tugging gently and he all but growls against your skin. With his mouth still on you, his fingers tug at your nightgown, baring your body to his eager hands. They slip between your parted thighs, finding your wet heat, and stealing it away as they work you to the peak of pleasure. Friedrich groans and the pain in your neck flares, sharp and sudden.

When he pulls away, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, leaving you breathless and spent. You stare up at him as your vision shifts, the world taking on a hazy hue. In the dim light, his blue eyes are dark, almost silvery, and something deep within you recoils, an instinctive fear that you can’t quite name. But then, he blinks, and just as quickly the shadow fades. The warmth of his gaze returns, and those same familiar blue eyes, the ones you’ve loved for so long, look down at you with tenderness.

Your fingers hover over his face, longing to touch him again. But a painful realization stops you. 

"You are not real.” The words leave you in a rush. 

“Does it matter if I am?" he asks. "Does this not bring you peace, my love?"

You shake your head, the pain of his absence still raw in your chest. You can’t resist the pull of him, the need to feel close again, even if only in this fleeting moment. Without thinking, you draw him down to kiss you, and the taste of him is sharp, unexpectedly coppery.

"It is a horrible thought," you murmur, breaking the kiss, "but I wish I would not wake when morning comes. I want to stay here with you. In this dream."

A deep frown forms between his brows, and his hand finds your cheek, his touch colder than it should be. His mouth parts slightly, and his teeth, white and sharp, glimmer faintly against his pale lips. 

“You do not wish to find a new husband? To live?” he questions. 

"I wish only for you," you say, voice trembling but sure. "And for our girls."

“My dearest wife,” he whispers, kissing you sweetly. “I will never leave you. I cannot.”

A soft moan slips from you, unbidden, the sound encouraging him to kiss you deeper. His lips move with a possessive tenderness that fills the hollow spaces inside you. “Nor would I ever let you go," he promises. “We are bound even in death.”

[princessfbi]

48?

48. Rampage

Evan Buckley was on a rampage. A stress, anxiety fueled, chronic overthinking headache, probably hangry induced rampage. Not to mention exhausted.

Eddie was just waiting for the inevitable crash to come. He had money on it being in the middle of reorganizing their closet or when he decided to change out the bedding in their guest bedroom for the third time.

The strong arm that curled around his shoulders didn’t have to work very hard to get him to move and he sighed as he let Tommy pull him down until Eddie’s back was pressed to his chest and his arms were wrapped around his middle.

“Should we be concerned yet?” Tommy asked as he pressed a kiss to Eddie’s temple.

The vacuum cleaner blared on again with a whine.

“Not yet. But if he starts muttering about making another trip to IKEA, I get his arms and you get his legs!”

Eddie felt the huff of Tommy’s laugh and sank into his embrace as their legs tangled together.

“When I told you two to make the house your own, I don’t think I was expecting quite so many designs of cutlery.”

That had been an adorable if not mildly frustrating meltdown to watch from Buck as he stressed over which of their silverware to use for dinner as if anyone would be looking. But whenever either one of them tried to mention it, a spoon was wielded at them while red rimmed eyes begged them to be serious. It wasn’t until Tommy had thrown Buck over his shoulder and carried him up the stairs to their bedroom that he managed to get any sleep.

Of course that had been after they��d both taken their turns with him with the mission to make Buck forget the entire English language let alone the word salad fork but the point was he got some sleep.

Eddie would just be glad when the stupid holiday was over.

“I’m surprised you’re not more stressed out,” Tommy murmured in his ear and Eddie drummed his finger on Tommy’s forearm.

“My parents aren’t…” Eddie breathed out a sigh. “I never once questioned if they loved me. My pops and I could scream at each other until we were hoarse and my mom really knows how to just take you out at the knees. But I knew they loved me.”

The figure of his stressed out boyfriend passed the doorway as Buck obsessively vacuumed behind the cabinets.

“He didn’t have that. It was always a question for him. This is the first time he’s going to be the center of attention with them.”

Which was why they were in the middle of an Evan Buckley hurricane. One dinner. One Thanksgiving. One meal where Buck and his parents are sitting down without Maddie as a buffer and they were there for Buck. To see his new home, his new life, his new everything.

Same for Eddie.

It just made sense to get the holiday and the introduction to their new life to their parents. Surprisingly, neither of their parents seemed surprised when they told them about each other and Tommy; about how they were incomplete without the other and it just… made sense. Eddie flat out refused to call them a throuple. It sounded like a stupid Instagram trend. Buck was his boyfriend. Tommy was his boyfriend. Eddie was theirs. Boyfriends. A family, Buck had suggested and neither of them let go of Tommy until that wet sheen over his eyes went away.

Still, Eddie couldn’t help but feel a little bad that his and Buck’s folks were getting special treatment while none of Tommy’s family would be in attendance.

“I am not subjecting either of you to any of the Kinard clan ever if I can help it.” Tommy had said when they’d brought it up and that had been the end of that discussion.

Still, it had been Tommy’s house first. He probably hadn’t meant to invite Buck and Eddie’s familial drama along with their furniture when he asked them to move in with him.

Tommy made a noise that Eddie couldn’t quite place even as his arms tightened around Eddie’s middle.

“He says they’re trying,” Tommy said and Eddie forced himself to push down his own feelings so he didn’t color Tommy’s experience with the Buckley’s.

He deserved to make his own opinions.

“They are… in their own way.”

Still, Eddie had been the one who had seen the way their secret had gutted Buck from the inside out and made him question everything he’d ever known. Eddie had been the one who had heard Margaret tear the nursing staff and Philip into a new one when they suggested she rest while Buck had been in the coma. Eddie had been the one to bite his tongue instead of asking her why suddenly she could care now and not when Buck was conscious and needed to hear it. Eddie had been the one to see Buck question over and over again why he was the one who lived, why he deserved to be there, and all those moments of doubts stemmed from them.

They were trying but Eddie wasn’t sure he was quite ready to forgive yet.

[yllotie]

I don't think John ever physically hurt Dean, like when Dean said in the episode where Sam's heaven is "Flagstaff"(idk what it's even called it's been like 5 seasons since I watched that) that John gave him hell for losing Sam, it would have been John screaming at Dean and abandoning him in a motel to fend for himself with a few dollars and maybe a card, when John abused his sons it wasn't physical, more so he'd leave them in places where they could easily get hurt, and Dean was most likely hurt physically when John abandoned him due to not having enough food/necessities/being left alone.

John does NOT physically abuse his kids, but he does abandon, abuse them emotionally, and treat them like soldiers in an active war. Maybe he forces Dean to train until Dean is wobbly everywhere but you best believe this man does not hit his children (though that doesn't excuse literally anything else he did), it's why Dean and Sam are so complicated on him, no he never physically abused them and in their brain that was "the silver lining" but they were treated very badly in other ways.

Also, sidenote, I think the real reason Dean hits Sam is because he was TAUGHT (by John) that anger is a solution that can be used to burn your flame brighter in battle, battle means punching and Dean's mind accepts that anger = must fight = must hit. John taught him how to fight and Dean just couldnt put it into a code that he doesn't have to fight everything, he's seen how John can get when he's drunk, which is angry and grieving and throwing shit around and correlates that with his idea that he must fight it all if he's angry, and he will (but again, as my point, John doesn't hit his kids when he's drunk (tb to little Sam telling a girl he knows how parents are like when they're drunk in that one episode) but he does throw things around, he does cry a little for Mary, but he never hits his sons. They just know he's mad and should get out of his way, not that this never mentally scarred them)(I am not excusing his actions whatsoever! This is a headcanon! You do not have to agree nor interact! Thank you!)

If anything, John doesn't hit them because he'd rather not, he'd rather never see his sons again, he'd rather just see soldiers

[blacklightwriter]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ - ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ: ɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ

Story Summary: EXTREME SLOW BURN. A woman from war-torn Demacia is transported to Zaun, where she makes ends meet. Her skills in inventing catch the attention of a Piltovan, who extends a full ride through Piltover Academy, which she accepts. Here, her adventure begins. Content Warning: Violence, war. Word Count: 1,9k Author's Note: Here is the prologue for the Viktor fic I've been working on for years now. This story was written BEFORE season two of Arcane, so keep that in mind. I'm new to writing fanfic and what is expected when introducing a story, so if there's something more you'd like to see, please let me know. Enjoy and thanks for reading! Find me on Ao3!

I have always imagined that my life was intimately entwined with the idea of peace, It always seemed wrong to me that people were constantly at odds with one another. What could they possibly take from each other? What caused that burning hatred in them to make them want to commit such heinous acts in the name of victory? Revenge? Ideas of war were always lost on me.

Growing up in Demacia, my family knew war. The battle-ridden kingdom seemed constantly at odds whether it was from invaders from outside or conspirers from within. My mother and father did what they could to protect me from the costs of war the best they could, but even they knew that at some point the veil would be ripped and I would need to see the world for what it was.

My mother was a gentle soul. She spent her days showing me how to sew and the best way to heal wounds, often telling me stories of valor from her time on the battlefield helping the wounded. Other times telling me the consequences of war with a distant look on her face. She told me how she had to amputate a child’s arm because he would die if she didn’t.

I often wondered if that was why I would sometimes hear her scream in the middle of the night.

My father was an inventor and a damn good one. He worked for the king to help find ways to improve the lives of everyday Demacians. The food plow that would collect, wash, and store food? That was him. His idea. When the king took an interest in it, my father insisted that every farmer of Demacia be given one. Other territories could pay for it, but Demacians were who it was built for. The King agreed and ever since then, our family had been regarded highly. We were able to live in the main city if we wanted to, but my mother felt uneasy about it. So, we lived in a small cottage just outside its walls in the Silent Forest.

I spent many hot summers staying with my father in our back shed - his workshop. He taught me everything he possibly could and planted a love for science in me.

“We have the possibility to change anything we want to, vita mea.” He said, his nose wrinkling in displeasure at the contraption before him. “As inventors, our duty is to make the world a better place.”

He fiddled with his tools, moving them expertly across the machine until a satisfying click came and the machine began humming. He smiled, turning a warm gaze to me.

“I don’t ever want you to forget that. This world can be cruel and relentless, but we must strive to do the right thing. Always.”

My mother would always yell at us when the sun set and the trees began tittering with the life of the forest animals around us. Those nights were the best memories I have. Coming home from school and seeing my father and mother in the kitchen preparing dinner, laughing, and being in love. Despite the tension in our flawed kingdom, my parents had hope and remained steadfast that the same peace we had in our home was attainable to Demacia.

But, like most dreams, we had to wake up eventually.

When the King died, we all mourned. Not only for the loss but for the end of an era. People were unsure what would happen now. There were already talks of the noble families saying the King’s son, Jarvan, wasn’t fit to rule. This made Jarvan tense and he sought out my father, demanding that he make weapons to defend the Great City from the war he knew was coming.

Despite my father knowing his duty as a Demacian citizen, he also knew he had a duty to his family. Building weapons of war would put a mark on our backs and since we weren’t in the protected main city, it was too big of a risk. So, my father said no.

This angered the new king, no doubt out of fear of losing his newly gained title, and he demanded my father do his bidding or he and his family be put to death. War had found our small slice of peace, and my father made a choice.

He came home that day crying, I remember, a mysterious man shrouded in a dark cloak to his side. He and my mother spoke tearfully. He hugged my mother as she sobbed loudly. Finally, they came to me, telling me what had happened and how it was time for me to say goodbye to Demacia.

“This man is a magician, Vannah. He will take you somewhere far away from here. Somewhere you will be safe.” He explained, packing things for me frantically. There wasn’t much time.

The panic hadn’t set in yet, nor the realization that this would be my final moments with my family. I think about it a lot. Most of the time with a tinge of regret.

“Magicians aren’t supposed to do magic here, though, pater.” I said, my eyebrows pinching in confusion. “They can’t even do magic because of all the petricite, I thought.”

“I can only do one of you.” The man said with indifference, his dark figure looming in the corner.

“Wait, one of us? As in…?”

My whole world began shattering. My home, my family, my life. All of it was slipping through my fingers. Just an hour ago I was sitting in a chair across from my mother, reading her my favorite play, joking with her about how I was going to be a famous actress one day.

My father whirled at me, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders, his face contorted with sorrow. “There is no time, vita mea. We must pack.”

I stepped away from his grip, shaking my head, feeling the tears forming. “No! No! I will not leave! You can not ask me to leave!”

My mother stepped forward, tears falling freely down her face, her arms wrapping around me tightly. “We aren’t asking, lux mea.”

I began sobbing, hearing my father continue to pack as my mother and I held each other, engraining our touch into each other’s minds so we would never forget. I felt her tears dampen my hair and she gingerly ran her hands up and down my back in a poor attempt to soothe me.

She pulled away a little to look at my face when my father stepped over to us, moving my hair out of my face and placing a kiss on my forehead.

“I want you to have something, Vannah.” My father said, sticking his hand in his shirt and pulling out his necklace of petricite. He had gotten it as a gift from the previous king for his service to Demacia. A proud reminder to him of what happens when you do the right thing.

He pulled the necklace from around his neck and placed it softly around mine, the stone feeling too heavy on me. Like it didn’t belong there. He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me to him so our foreheads touched, his eyes glassy with sorrow.

“Remember what we have taught you, vita mea. The world will do what it can to tear you down, but we must work to make it a better place. Whenever you doubt that you will look at this,” He pulled up the stone, revealing a protection rune carved into its surface. “And you will remember.”

“I don’t want to leave you, pater.” I whispered.

“You won’t. Not now. Not ever. And we will never leave you. We will be with you now and forever.” He pulled my mother and I into a tight hug, both of them whispering hushed goodbyes and I love you, but the hole in my heart had begun forming. For a brief and horrifying second, I understood how people gained that burning hatred for one another, but I pushed that thought aside.

“They are coming.” The magician whispered, moving to the center of the room and pulling out shimmering blue crystals.

My mother and father pulled from me, handing me my bag of what I could take from my home and my heart shattered at the loss of their warmth.

My father gently took my cheek in his hands, wiping away my tears, a sad smile on his lips. Suddenly a burst of wind and a glowing blue light erupted from the middle of the room. I turned and saw a blue circle of light. Loud knocks were coming from the front door.

“What’s going on in there! Open the door this instant!” A voice from the other side called.

Thunderous wind roared through the room as the portal pushed everything in the room to the walls, breaking the windows in the cottage. Screams could be heard from outside.

“You must come! Now!” The magician yelled, stepping through the circle of light and disappearing.

“Go.” My father said, his hand dropping from my face as he and my mother rushed to the door, pushing all their weight on it to keep whoever was outside from coming in.

I nodded, looking fearfully at the booming and breaking door. I took careful steps back, never once facing the portal, only facing my parents.

As I was mere steps away from the portal, the door burst open, and Demacian guards rushed in, immediately pushing my mother and father to the ground.

“Go, Vannah!” My father yelled, gesturing wildly as a guard grabbed his arms viciously.

“Using magic, eh, scientist? Traitor!” The guard yelled, raising his sword up above my father.

“No!” I tried to run towards them, but I felt a hand grab my wrist and pull me back towards the portal, blue light engulfing me as I watched the sword plunge into my dad’s back.

Suddenly, the light was gone. All light. A terrible smell filled my lungs, but not enough air. I collapsed on the ground as my lungs burned, gasping and coughing for air.

“I would suggest getting used to it, kid.” The magician taunted, his small form bending down in front of me, a smug smirk on his face.

“Wh-Where am I?” I gasped, clutching at my throat. I looked around hoping to find something familiar, but all I could see was a grey haze.

People who were around us glared at us with threatening sneers. Crumbling buildings stood low to the ground and there wasn’t a sky, just more grey haze.

“Your pops wanted you somewhere safe. There’s no place safer than here. Welcome to Zaun, kid.”

I coughed, my mind having a hard time forming a coherent thought from the lack of oxygen. “Z-Zaun?”

“He wanted Piltover, but he couldn’t afford it.” The man said with a shrug, standing up straight. “I’m sorry for your loss, kid.”

With that, he turned on his heels and began walking away.

“W-Wait!” I called, coughing once more, tears streaming from my eyes as my lungs burned.

He let out an annoyed sigh and turned to face me, his eyebrows raised in frustration. “What?”

“What am I supposed to do now?” I whimpered, black spots dabbling my vision.

“How am I supposed to know? Your dad paid me to get you here, not escort you around. You’re old enough to figure it out yourself, so do it.”

I didn’t have it in me to argue. I clutched at my throat, hoping the air would miraculously appear. Black spots started filling my vision and soon, the world faded into nothingness.

[colourfultears]

frank iero guitar yap post

hello...i am still trying to figure out what the hell i am doing with this blog because i truthfully am so super new to tumblr and don't really get what i'm doing.. BUT i know a lot about guitar so i will scream into the void i guess!

i'm gonna put a cut because i think this will be long and its mostly just for me anyways LOL

so i've been playing guitar for around like 8-ish years because my parents put me in lessons really young, but i started off playing classical (nylon strings, tchaikovsky arrangements, the whole shebang), but i really didn't improve at all because i simply didn't give a fuck about the instrument until i became an epic teenager

but i moved music academies, moving to electric guitar and starting piano around 2 years ago. so fun!

anyways, all of this prologue to say that essentially guitar, piano, music, as a whole has become my entire life and the only thing i really spend my spare time fixated on.

a few months ago, my teacher suggested that i get a new guitar because i had grown out of the shitty $200 (AUD hahahah) strat i was playing on, so i looked towards some higher quality options and after playing almost every guitar in the shop, i eventually ended up buying an epiphone les paul custom in the ebony colourway.

HERE IS WHERE IT GETS RELEVANT LOL: ray and frank are huge proponents of the epiphone LP lines (in that, they play them live and in recording) which i always found so fascinating because, why not the better...higher-end...gibson...original??

for anyone that might not know but might care :P, gibson (a guitar manufacturer) were the original producers of les paul style guitars. epiphone (another guitar manufacturer) produces REPLICAS of gibson guitars. the biggest difference?, the price (some would argue quality, but that price tag is pretttyyy crazy to me..). gibson guitars are handcrafted in america, and are therefore much more expensive, selling in australia, typically, for upwards of 5-6k, but reaching bounds of like 9000 dollars :O WHEREAS,,, epiphone LP's are mass produced in china, retailing for a USUAL max of 2-3k, but very possibly lower than that.

but yeah, frank's famous 'pansy' guitar is an epiphone les paul custom in the alpine white cw. it's important to note that there are literally only two colours available for this particular guitar.

i know that frank owns both colourways of the lp custom, obviously the pansy guitar, and i'll link some pics of the ebony one he owns too!!:

i looooove the sweet sweet joyous whimsical beautiful pansy, but i am such a sucker for this colourway, and i accept my ultra bias because i own it LOL.

when it comes to ray, he owns epiphone LP's but he seems to lean towards the standard line instead of the custom line, for a more classic kinda feel. you can definitely tell his personal taste in guitars especially through the finishes he chooses like hahaha i wouldn't be caught dead playing a cherry burst, but he absolutely fucking rocks it. it reminds me a lot of him in that one interview talking about how his roots in playing guitar are in metallica, pantera, and whatnot and. maaaaaann you can feel it in how he plays but also in the guitars he picks.

in my personal taste, i would literally kill to have frank's collection but also i HAAAATE the SG body shape and he owns a couple (i think..) like...stop...before i get violently ill. i find them so incredibly ugly, sorry patrick stump! abysmal collection, i still love u tho king xx

ANYWAYS THERE WAS NO POINT TO THIS IDK I DON'T UNDERSTAND TUMBLR OK THANKS BYE

[fangel]

could we get a sneak peek of what you're cooking up ?? love yours fics !! 🖤

OMG yeah of course ! ( ;´꒳`;) i literally have an update queued for tomorrow but thank you for asking :D !! i haven’t been very active so i thought ppl would forget about me lol

preview snippet of my next story under the cut :3 a little over 4k words. lil slice of the cake or lick of the frosting ? idk but the intro before the main story

　You’re not sure what life in your small town was like before you were born. You can imagine it’s not too different from what it is now though. The thing about old country towns is they never seem to change. Open fields and miles of farmland. A few gas stations, one grocery store, a few family owned vegetable stands or in-home produce product shops. Only one notable neighborhood where the majority of the townspeople lived if not hidden somewhere else in the countryside. And too many churches to keep track of if the abandoned ones were included in the count. 

You like to think your parents were happy before you too. Hopeful and optimistic when offered to take over your uncle’s farm. Excited for the next step in their relationship after their marriage. They were the ideal family dream coming to life: high school lovers, engaged after graduation, married, a career handed to them through family with a large property of land and beautiful farmhouse. All that was left was to grow that family. To have children to not only help tend the fields and animals but run around barefoot, all smiles, and wide eyed. 

You were positive that it was something they wanted. 

But life couldn’t have been that easy for them; it would’ve been too gratuitous of a blessing.

The day you were born, your father knew there was something greatly wrong with you. He claimed that on the day you ripped your mother open, screaming and crying, that God spoke to him for the first time. He called it divine intervention. Believing the birth of your soul was a red-herring of all that was set to come but God would show him the light, the truth: that you were nothing short of evil and needed saving. 

That year on the farm there was nothing but death. It only furthered your father’s harsh thinking of you. The crops and produce either died or rotted before it had the chance to grow or ripe. The animals were dropping dead from unknown illnesses. Every female livestock that gave birth passed in doing so. Barely any profits were made that year. Taxes were rising and so were the prices of nearly everything. It was a huge toll for your family, especially when raising their first child. Before you were even conscious of the situation everything was already deemed your fault. 

Through the harrowing struggle, your father’s optimism turned to resentment. He claimed that bringing you to the farm was not like bringing a daughter home, but a corrosive parasite. He believed that you were the reason for the life being sucked away from their perfect farm life. So, he turned to the only thing that he could trust to save the family from your curse: God. Begging and pleading through prayers every morning and night to the sky for a better season. 

He studied religion here and there before taking over his brother-in-law's farm but with the farm failing for the first time, he took a change of career paths. He was already well known among the locals, close with the church goers in the community. And somewhere along the way, he managed to start preaching himself. Nearly every christian in your town moved churches to follow where he went. Like sheep to a shepherd. 

If only they knew what you did, what he was truly like behind the closed doors of your home. How his devotion was turning to violence. Day by day, becoming uglier. 

While your father busied himself with his new found family, often away from home on the farm, the crops and animals began to thrive again. Slowly but surely, growing and regaining health. He would say it’s God’s doing, a small taste of His salvation. 

Your early years were mostly troubled by the relationship of your parents. Too young to fully understand their disputes, drawing at the kitchen table with their yelling sounding the house. It was always about you, that much you knew. Because you watch and you listen. Quick to learn that they tried for another child but never had any success. They wanted someone else to be their baby. Something that felt more like a blessing than you. Your father constantly spitting in your mother’s face that you were the rot to the fruit of her womb. And then he would always end up leaving by slamming the door and your mother would always join you at the table with tears and a bottle of wine. You always just watched, listening in silence. Perhaps just born resilient.

Growing up was different for you compared to most of the kids in your town. You never had the opportunity to make many friends being homeschooled. The only time that was spent around others your age was kindergarten. Kindergarten was short lived because of your behavior; the teachers at school were concerned about you. How you were mean, rough, and sinister with your actions towards others. Picking on the kids you were simply interested in because of how different from you they were. Drawing pictures of gutted cattle or dead, half developed baby chicks still in their shell and giving them as gifts to the teachers. Sharing to classmates the cruelty of farm life and why it was pretty with a smile. 

Your father loved to find out about this, you could see it in his eyes. The way they were wicked and screamed I told you so to your mother. You didn’t understand why it was bad or caused trouble. You were only having fun for the first time. The way the kids ran away crying or the teachers wore faces of shocked horror, it made your insides light up in joy. A new feeling—a sense of excitement. You didn’t know it was sick. And of course, it was taken from you. You were removed from school and your mother became your teacher. Your classmates became stuffed animals and the real ones in the barns. It was hard for you to find that joy you briefly felt with others. 

Sometimes you had a glimpse of it again when your father would punish you. But even that you grew sick of. The mess, the stench of it all. Sticky and red, worse in the heat of summer. He drilled the sick moto for his actions into your head, “I know no punishment, only mercy.”

Father took you both to church more often after that. He had a false image to uphold afterall, one of a happy, God loving family. In his ego he had to prove that his preaching and prayers could fix you, save you. But that was only admitted at home, loud and scary to your mother. Your poor mother, weak and defensive of you, eventually waved her white flag. You wished she kept fighting for you and that she wouldn’t begin to see you the way your father did. 

Childhood and adolescence was a string of questions about yourself. Never quite finding out what made you so bad to be seen as devilish when all you thought of yourself was curious. Perhaps just unlucky to be correlated with negative happenings on and off the farm, always gone without a chance of understanding. Despite it all, you knew well enough the way your parents talked and looked at you was without unconditional love. 

On your 17th birthday, the family dynamic made the biggest shift to be experienced. 

At this age, you had such a strong sense of independence and with the lack of parental guidance and monitoring, you would leave town when you could. Ride your bike down the long road to the bus stop at the center of town and take the bus into the city over. Your mother was generous with allowance and you saved your money well, only spending it on books or trips to the movie theater. A form of escape that allowed you to learn more about the world and all the things your parents tried to keep hidden from you. A way to learn how to be human. 

So when your father was tearing your room apart in search of the same gift he re-gifts you every year, he found some things that made his stomach churn. Every year for your birthday he rewrapped the same, first ever, bible he’d given you. Funny enough that he gave you anything at all considering he never even referred to it as your day, only his day of revelation. And to his disgust, on his sacred day, he found books and journals of explicitly detailed copulation and debauchery. 

He almost fainted. Stumbling over his own feet, hands shaking as he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the words on the pages. That was the only time you smiled on that day. Just for a second. And then a glimpse of hell broke loose. 

In a rage, he destroyed everything. Your mother stood next to you in tears, telling him to stop and stop. Her hands covered her face but she saw everything through her fingers. You only watched in silence, hands balled in fists by your side. A silent hatred and anger coursed in you. He called you names that no man of God should, especially to his own daughter. 

“You’re a disgraceful deviant of Satan! I should’ve known. My own day of revelation is a curse!” You watched him rip pages apart, his voice booming through the house. “Years spent praying for you and this is how you turn out?! Succumbing to nothing but a dreaming whore?!”

A part of you liked his mean words. It was so rare for him to use such colorful language. 

You knew what would come next. He was going to have you ‘cleansed’ by a lamb. Something he always did when he discovered something new and sacrilegious of you. 

But it didn’t come. Because there was no dying, old lamb on the farm at the time. He did make a promise to not forget though. A promise to have you washed in sacrificial, blessed blood on a day you least expected. 

Your father left after that, leaving you and your mother behind. He moved to the city to continue his preaching at a larger church. He became known as the closest reverend to God for miles and miles. Lost in his ways, he only made visits when he needed to sort things out for the business of the farm.

You were content with his departure, yet couldn’t quite understand why your mother missed him. As far as you’ve seen, he was never kind towards either of you. 

　But now, it’s several years later. And although you’re free of your father’s heavy presence and homilies, he still makes his trips to the farm. You can feel the air change whenever he does, as if you’ve gained a sixth sense for his coming. Naturally intuitive to things having spent your childhood walking on eggshells in your own home. 

And today, the air feels particularly chill for summer. The breeze sweeps in through your open window. The forecast called for nothing but sunshine all week, yet there’s an angry, dark cloud hanging over your farm. A foreboding feeling shivers through you, and you know he’s going to fulfill his promise today. You sigh and slide out of bed. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spend the morning doing your usual routine. Brushing teeth, washing your face, then dressing in farm work attire. Your breakfast consists of tea and your mothers homemade strawberry scone. Next is tending to the animals. Your mother usually takes care of the crops and gardening. It’s a quiet and early morning, as most are. The both of you keep to yourselves, just doing what needs to be done day by day. 

The sound of a car is heard coming down to the long dirt road and you know who it is by the sound. It’s a fancier vehicle than the one he left this property with years ago. A meaner part of you likes to think his greedy hands got into that mega church’s donations but you’re too self aware of the successful farm your family owns. 

Your father parks in front of the house and your mother is quick to rush over to him, presumably with many questions: How have you been? Are you hungry? Thirsty? What brings you here so early in the month? 

You roll your eyes at her desperation to cling onto the relationship that clearly ended when you were a child. 

You place a hand on your hip, leaning your weight to the side that isn’t carrying the heavy bucket of chicken feed. Walking away from the coops and back towards the shed by the house, you make eye contact with your father despite only taking a glance. 

He watches you with narrow eyes from the lowered window of the car he’s still sitting in, very much not listening to a word your mother is saying. 

He calls your name before you can open the shed. Spinning on the heels of your boots, you turn around with raised brows of questioning. 

He mouths the words sacrificial tree as he exits the car. Your mother sees this. She wears pained disappointment as she scurries away. Presumably to the barn where the sheeps and lambs are kept. She might as well be a sheep too, you think. 

The bucket slips from your fingers and drops to the patchy dirt grass by your feet with a thud, spilling over in a mess that will be cleaned later. 

You don’t bother giving him a nod of understanding. You just turn around and begin your walk to the tree line where the man made path is. Knowing it would take some time for his preparations, you walk to the lake that’s hidden behind the farmland. 

It’s a brief walk through your familiar woods. Once at the short wooden dock, you sit down at the end, taking in the gloomy summer scenery. A light fog hugs over the water. You bring your knees to your chest, in your sitting position, and hug yourself the same way. 

This is your favorite place out of all the land your family owns. It’s serene, mostly. Always quiet. You’re the only one who comes here. And it’s nice to swim with when the weather warrants it. There’s a feeling here that’s hard to feel anywhere else you find yourself. Sometimes you imagine what it would be like with someone else, but you doubt it would be as nice. Trouble has a way of following you, it seems. You frown at the thought. 

It’s silent like this for a few minutes, just you trying to find a sense of calmness before the impending chastisement. Then you hear some rustling of leaves, heavy footsteps following. You don’t turn around yet, you only wait for the call of your name. Your time of tranquility is too brief. You sigh before giving yourself a squeezing hug. 

“It’s time,” the reverend calls out loudly, “quickly now, we have new farmhands arriving soon.” The sound of his feet walking away is when you stand. You wave a goodbye to the foggy lake before parting ways. Your feet move unconsciously, taking to where your body knows to go. 

Leaves crinkle underneath your boots and twigs snap. The trees’ branches sway in the gentle morning breezes that pass. 

In the mix of the small forest, man made crosses of sticks or plywood are spaciously scattered. Most small but one large. Old rotted wood that stands crooked and begging to fall over right next to the largest, strongest tree. Your eyes, that are trained to ground, move upwards the cross and then to the tree. Your father stands there with a large knife in hand. Your mother waits cautiously not too far away. Her demeanor is frightful as if this is the first time. Coward.

An old lamb hangs by its hind legs from a sturdy tree branch. Unmoving and defenseless. Big beady, dumb eyes look in all directions but you. You think it must feel the same guilt as yourself, sorry that its life purpose is to embarrass you, make you hate what you are. 

“God told me to make a sacrifice to prove my faith. He guides my hand in washing your soul clean of sin. So here I am with our blessed, dying lamb.” He’s said this every time. His voice is always miserably rehearsed and preacher-esque. 

You thought long ago that this was their, the lambs, only use on the farm. It’s a shame. All that devotion has made him so ugly and violent. 

You make small steps closer to the lamb. It’s whining in bleat baas and mehs. Does it know what’s happening? Is it scared? You like the lambs. Pure white, soft, and docile. They never fight back. They just take it. I doubt they need restraints. You could hold them above me just the same and they’d never resist. 

“Move faster, for the love of God. Yeah, stand right there underneath like you know how to.” He instructs you, annoyed. His patience running thin as the distant sounds of a truck makes way down the dirt road to the farm property. 

“Okay…” You don’t fight him, with arms crossed behind your back and a hand squeezing around your own wrist, you move closer. Maybe you’re a lamb too. 

Maybe all your father really was is the executioner. 

He raises the knife as he begins to speak, it slides over its cotton, white throat but does not cut, “Revelation 7:13-17 Then he told me, ‘These are those who come from the great tribulation, and they’ve washed their robes, scrubbed them clean in the blood of the Lamb. That’s why they’re standing before God’s Throne. They serve him day and night in his Temple. The One on the Throne will pitch his tent there for them: no more hunger, no more thirst, no more scorching heat. The Lamb on the Throne will shepherd them, will lead them to spring waters of Life. And God will wipe every last tear from their eyes.’” He slits its throat in a quick, harsh movement. The blood spills just as fast, squirting spurts of red before it comes pouring down onto you. “Face up,” you obey even though it brings you rage, “it ought to cleanse those unholy thoughts I know that are still in there.” 

Head raised to the sky with eyes and mouth squeezed shut, you let it consume you. Warm, thick and wet washes down from your head onto your clothes then down to your feet. The smell of animal, metallic iron covers you. It’s sticking to your hair, eyebrows and lashes. You can already feel your clothes clinging to your skin in the dirtiest ways. 

You stand there, drenching in the lamb’s blood. Your father speaks again, firm and slow, “Say it with me now, ‘I know no punishment, only mercy.’” All you feel is the animal’s rain of life flooding you.

You open your mouth to speak but are quick to spit and cough out the blood that manages to get into your mouth. Smack. 

“I don’t have time for this,” his voice sounds like an echo, your head is ringing from the harsh swing of his hand. The skin of your cheek stings. He hits like a bitch, you think. “Say it with me now, dammit!” You can feel him wipe his bloodied hand on the side of your shirt. 

You step back from under the red shower. “I know no punishment, only mercy.” Your words align with his in the perfect paced harmony you’re trained to do so. Enunciated, slow and strong, through gritted teeth.

There’s a beat of silence before the sound of your parents footsteps walking away. 

Standing there in red, yet to open your eyes, you breathe out a shaky sigh of defeat. It sounds more like a growl. With the mostly clean hands you kept safely behind you, you bring them up to wipe the blood from your face. You don’t dare to look at the dead animal in front of you. Being covered in it is enough alone to make you feel sick. 

You think of going back to the lake, jumping in and letting the blood wash off you there, but knowing you’d either walk back with further drenched clothes or naked didn’t seem like options you wanted to deal with either. So you just head back to the house. It’s a slower walk than need be, but you just felt like avoiding the eyes of the newcomers, hoping they’d be off in the fields or in a barn by the time you walk through. You feel numb. 

You’re wrong though, by the time you’re passing the barns and coops, the group of new farmhands are already lined up outside the horses’ stable. Your mother is talking to them, although not all are paying attention. Only a few pairs of wide eyes follow you. Catching the sight of you must really shock them but you can’t blame them. Something about this makes you excited. You stop in your tracks and look around to see if your father’s car is gone. It is. The realization feels like a wave of relief and it suddenly feels brighter outside already. 

You take a glance down to your disheveled appearance. Shirt, pants, and boots painted like the barns. You look back to the group, brushing the soiled hair back from your face. Some pieces stay stuck, in the early stages of drying against your skin.

It’s safe to have a little fun. 

You begin a slow walk over to the group. You take a headcount and there’s five of them. Two younger men, closer to your age. The other three look a bit older, not by much but definitely older. Your mother is yet to turn around from whatever rundown she’s giving them. Too dense to even recognize that now none of them were paying any attention to her. 

You creep up beside her and open with, “Hello,” your voice is louder than even you’ve heard it be in a long time. It’s nice to be heard, noticed. You usually avoided the farmhands, but this summer was going to be different. You decided this on the walk over. 

Being cooped up on the farm for so long made you different, it’s obvious to anybody. Not properly socialized in your developmental years caused you to be an anomaly to the ones who did come across you. Enigmatic from far away and up close. Now isn’t the greatest example though, the situation is too clear as to why. 

Your mother turns to you, gasping and jumping back slightly in the shock of your gross state and sudden introduction. “My goodness, girl, whatta ya doin’ here like this?” Her voice is hushed, clearly unsettled with the situation. 

They all just stare at you, open mouthed and bewildered. You take the time to get a good look at each of them up close. Your eyes follow their faces individually down the line. And then they stop. 

At the end of the line is a man more beautiful than the ones you’ve seen in the movies. You feel stuck in time, left with parted lips, staring at the man before you. And far too intently for your character. He stands tall, sharp, pale, and elegant. What is a boy like this doing here? He averts his eyes from you, clearly uncomfortable by what’s before him. He looks uneasy, shifting his weight foot to foot with his hands behind his back. His pretty eyes glance around from you to your mother to the other men and the ground. He simply doesn’t know what to do with himself. You find it dangerously darling of him. 

You don’t even realize the small smile that takes your lips. You step closer to him and he steps back, now looking at you with wide eyes of small fear. You extend your hand to him, it’s coated in drying blood. He gulps and the sight, his adam’s apple bobbing in such a biteable neck stirs something in you. This will be far more fun than you intended. 

You say your name softly for introduction and step a little closer, “Nice to meet you," you feign cuteness as much as you can, looking up at him through your blood clumped lashes. It’s clear to everyone there is something off; there’s little to no real emotion behind your voice and face. 

Your mother eyes you suspiciously as you corner the handsome man, but she says nothing. Sometimes she fears you too. 

He looks from your eyes to your hand, having an internal battle with himself on what to do, “Ah, I am Sunghoon... Nice to meet you too.” His politeness must be stronger than his frighteness, because he takes his hand in yours and shakes it gently. His hand is large in yours, nearly covering it entirely. You squeeze it hard, your eyes never leaving his, trapping him in the scene. 

He wants to look away, to hide somewhere. The way his skin crawls tells him he’s a prey already in the mouth of a predator. And you know he’s nervous under your intense gaze because your hand feels like a lamb is still bleeding above you. His palms are sweating, and it’s nowhere near hot enough for that yet. Your smile grows to a smirk. 

Although you’re wearing the lamb, having Sunghoon’s hand in yours made you feel like a wolf. 

[callme-naomi]

Faced up, cold heart, no longer by my side now

Warning: angst, manga spoilers

Summary: the graveyard has a lot of stories to tell, if only anyone would stop and listen. However, some stories are best kept hidden from the living.

You may have heard stories, gossips, rumours, from the living. But even the graveyard has a lot of stories to tell, if only anyone would stop and listen.

Yes, you read it right. The land full of the dead has more to tell you than anyone else could. It has been a silent witness to countless events, the silent listener to tears shed at night, and the flowers showered in the morning, and words of regret and longing spoken.

It will tell you the story of the boy with pink hair, who comes by in the morning, and spends hours. It's not that he has a lot of time to spare. It's because he has a lot of people to visit. To tell them he misses them, to tell them he's sorry he couldn't do more.

Even the birds stand still as the happy-smiley boy lets down his defences and goes to his grandfather's grave, then his teachers', then his brother's, and so on, all the while his face being washed with tears while he lays down a flower. The very air halts to carry his whispered words,

"Grandfather, I miss you."

"Sensei, nothing's the same without you."

"Nanamin, I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. I promise, I didn't take the easy way out."

"Choso, I wish we had more time together."

And he wondered if the words he spoke were heard by anyone but him.

The graveyard will tell you the story of the spiky-black-haired boy, his steps masked in the darkness of the night, his heart heavy as he walks towards the family he never had, and the family that slipped through his fingers. Regarded as one of the strongest of his age, all his powers left him as he crumbled to the ground, eyes emptily staring at the graves holding pieces of his heart.

He lived for them, and now that they're gone too soon...

He conflicted between screaming his rage and pain out, and simply crying as his gaze roamed over his parents' graves. Guilt and grief seeped through him as he approached his sister's grave, the girl who, despite having no powers, chose to protect him, always.

And then, at his teacher's grave, who cared for him like his own, despite not being obliged to, not caring for the family rivalry, and still loving him till the very end. He hated himself as he looked down on his hands, stained with the invisible blood, and even though he knew he was powerless to stop this death, and it wasn't his fault, for him, it didn't change the fact that his father figure was gone too soon.

And the man who, despite being heavily injured and losing an eye, put himself in the way to save him, who fought till the very end and even in his last moments, prioritized others over his self. Who left the world with unfulfilled dreams

At this age, when children go to the park with their families, this boy goes to the graveyard, with a burdened heart, to his family six feet under him, but still too distant.

Leaving behind a mere idea of what could have been.

And the graves will also tell you the story of the young doctor, her eyes rimmed with dark circles, her hands heavy with the uncountable lives she saved, who comes to lament the lives she failed to save, and the people she used to think would be with her forever, but left her alone in this cruel world.

The doctor, tired, allows a sob to escape as she stands in front of the graves of her classmates and juniors, reminiscing over the joyful memories they made, the trips and rules they broke together, and the beautiful sunny days of their friendship, not even having once thought that nobody will make it to this day. That one day, there might be no one left with her to remake those memories.

She hated all of them for leaving her alone, yet she loved all of them for making those few years of her life worth living.

The graveyard has more to tell, but some stories are best kept secret from both the living and the dead bodies.

What it can never tell you is the story of two best friends, separated by the harshness and cruelty of the world, united in death, mere one year apart.

What it doesn't know is the story of the man with the broken dreams, who is now at peace, with the joy and freedom he struggled all his life to find. Who is now united with the best friend he lost all those years ago.

It doesn't know, either, the story of the sisters, who lost their lives trying to bring back the father who saved them once, and are with him together, forever.

Nor does it know the young girl, who was her younger brother's entire reason of living, but was ruthlessly killed in a violent turn of events, who is free from the world where she was never wanted.

Some things are best kept secret, as the best friends and the man with the broken dreams, and the girls and twins look down upon the people they left behind. Their students, their brothers, their friends, the living, who do not know that the dead see their acts of love and remembrance, whose love for them will never diminish, who are always so proud of them and can't wait to see them again.

But if it means they get to live the life they never did, then not knowing is best, after all. If it means they won't end their lives to end their wait, then they can wait a bit longer.

[zzhhbloom]

love story

≡ᶻᶻ༄ synopsis: it’s your after-graduation high school party, your entire batch is here. love story by taylor swift starts playing and everyone, regardless of their cliques and previous histories, are arm-in-arm, shoulder-to-shoulder, screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs. some people are long gone wasted, barely able to keep their eyes open. others, like you, have had a drink or two, just enough to feel the electric buzz simmering beneath your consciousness. and others, like sunghoon, have the audacity to remain seated. in your tipsy state of confidence, you rush over to where they are and pull him to his feet, dragging him to the center of the crowd...

≡ᶻᶻ༄ genre: sunghoon x gn!reader || high school crush

≡ᶻᶻ༄ warnings: alcohol, tipsy kiss, not 100% proof-read

≡ᶻᶻ༄ word count: ~1.7k words

≡ᶻᶻ༄ a/n: BEEN A WHILE!! this was in the drafts collecting dust and spiderwebs but i'm feeling chancy. this is a strangely specific fic don't read into it too much

≡ᶻᶻ༄ disclaimer: this does not in any way shape or form represent the real people whose names are mentioned, this is just a kpoppie doing something fun :)

We were both young when I first saw you

I close my eyes and the flashback starts

I'm standin' there

On a balcony in summer air

See the lights, see the party, the ball gowns

See you make your way through the crowd

And say, "Hello"

Little did I know

Nobody in your high school batch would have expected their award-sweeping, model student, perfect attendance valedictorian to be fucking it up at the club four hours after throwing their caps in the air, and yet there you were. You were a great student, but now that you’d graduated and you weren’t going to be a student for the next three months, you were going to give yourself the freedom you deserved.

After the after party (held in school, with everyone’s parents around), a few of your batch mates had spontaneously planned an after-after party at a club nearby. Being invited to go, you decided—why the hell not? After four years of ceaseless working and model behavior to your batch mates and underclassmen, this was the final thing on your high school bucketlist. You had gone to parties before, you knew your alcoholic limits, but you’d never gone with this particular group of people. Who cared? You had no obligation to be the perfect student anymore. And, once you got home, there was no guarantee you’d ever see your fellow graduates ever again. You had chuckled to yourself getting into your friend’s car to head to the venue; why not give them a show?

So that’s how you ended up with your feet hurting, still wearing your fancy shoes for the ceremony, cocktail in hand, jumping with your friends and batch mates. You were a couple drinks in, not drunk enough to pass out and forget everything the next morning, but tipsy enough that you probably shouldn’t be making any life-altering decisions. You were about to go sit down at the table your group had reserved when Love Story by Taylor Swift came on. Your friends instantly dragged you back to the dance floor.

At this point in the evening, your group had split off to different parts of the room. But somehow, you all found each other in that crowded club for the song that ran in all your veins. Right next to the DJ, arms over shoulders, all of you singing, even you singing your heart out to the lyrics. Who knew a little alcohol was all it took to bring out the inner Swifties in all of you? To your right was the girl from your math class you’d talked to only once—but now you were laughing together with her arm around your neck as if you’d been close for years. In front of you, the popular group of guys you tended to avoid, were shouting the loudest and jumping the hardest to Ms. Taylor. You found they were a lot more courteous and watchful over your female batch mates in the public club than you thought them capable of. You scanned the circle of your highschool peers, realizing how close you’d all become, even if you’d sit on different sides of the canteen. You glanced back at your shared table and locked eyes with the one person sitting out the song—

You could deny it or change your answer as much as you could, but for the last two years you’d had the biggest crush on Park Sunghoon. What made it worse was you were friends for even longer. You weren’t super close, but you would say hi in the halls, tease each other about assignments, fail to get group projects submitted on time due to your bickering, and play online games together with a few other people. He had his own circle (two of which were standing in front of you now, drunkenly jumping along to Ms. Taylor’s banger chorus), and you had your own. You’d gone back and forth for years wondering if what you felt was romantic or not, the inner debate always ending with the conclusion that you were content as long as you were in his life, one way or another.

So I sneak out to the garden to see you

We keep quiet, 'cause we're dead if they knew

So close your eyes

Escape this town for a little while, oh oh

Well. You were both going to different countries for university now. Who knew if you’d even come back to this town for the breaks? Who could guarantee that you’d stay in touch and meet over the holidays? If you were no longer in his life, could you have lived with yourself?

You were tipsy enough to probably not be making life-altering decisions. But there you were.

“Y/n, where you going?” your friend asked as you pulled out of the circle.

“I’ll be right back,” you yelled back, gesturing to the table. They nodded you off as you made your way through the crowd.

—

You came to Sunghoon like a burst of light and laughter. He had been watching Jay and Jake make absolute fools of themselves, fresh highschool graduates in the center of a club at one in the morning. He’d caught your eye earlier, your brilliant, joyous smile framed against the dark of everyone’s silhouettes. You glowed. And now there you were in front of him.

“Hey,” you were breathless from fighting through the press of bodies. You crouched down so he could hear you. A few other of your batchmates were there, a couple too far gone to even stand, another tending to them. “You doing okay?”

Sunghoon held up his can of cola with a cheeky grin.

Before he knew it, you had pulled him to his feet and were dragging him to the dance floor. The song had reached its second chorus and the entire club—highschool graduates, college kids, weird guys way too young to be legally allowed in, actual weird creepy guys, and people off work on a Friday night—all jumped along to the song, as if they were all born with the lyrics of this song imprinted in their hearts.

You had both Sunghoon’s hands in yours as the two of you danced in the center of all your friends. Even in the multicolored lights he could tell your cheeks had an alcohol flush, but your eyes were clear and bright. Before he knew it, he was jumping along with you, ignoring the off-tune shouts of his friends. When he tagged along to their parties he was always the designated driver; the one to make sure everyone was okay and alive, but also the one sitting out on the side. He never felt the need to down a drink, and he felt enough of an energy surge just watching everyone sway and shout. People had tried to get him on his feet before, but for some reason, when you pulled him up to dance, he felt like he had been waiting all his life for that moment. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. You were just his friend—the one you said hi to sometimes, the one who knew his secret favorite song, the one he had a tiny crush on in middle school but not anymore. Obviously, not anymore.

Sunghoon felt like he was dreaming, spinning around in that circle of freshly minted high school graduates with both of your hands in his, the two of you jumping in unison. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, even if he wanted to.

“What?” he shouted, thinking you’d said something. Then you realized you were singing the lyrics of the bridge. To him.

Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Is this in my head? I don't know what to think

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

—

You had no idea what you were doing. Did you really just drag Sunghoon up to dance? Were you really holding his hands right now? Were you really this close? You could see the colored lights in his eyes. His cat’s fang smile peaked out at you as you practically shouted in his face the bridge of the song.

And then Park Sunghoon was singing back. You had to be dreaming. Things like this never happened in real life. You’d dream of him holding your hand or kissing the top of your head, and then you’d wake up and go to school and you weren’t even able to hold his gaze. And now you somehow got him to stand up, hold your hands, and now he was singing with you and gazing into your eyes as if you were the only people in the room. You wanted to scream.

And said, "Marry me, Juliet

You'll never have to be alone

I love you and that's all I really know

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes"

Before the song was over he was kissing you. You heard cheers around you, whether from the high of the song or because of the two of you; but you didn’t care.

—

Sunghoon didn’t care about the hoots and whistles. All there was was you. Your breath on his lips, slightly sweet from the alcohol, your arms around his neck. The song ended, but you were still there, pressed so close to him he felt weightless. Don’t let go. Sunghoon thought at you, circling an arm around your waist. Someone clapped his shoulder, but he brushed them off. All he cared about was this. You—right here, in his arms, with no space in between you.

When the next song started playing, another cheer went up around the club, and the bliss of the after-kiss was left sacred to the two of you. Your forehead was still pressed against his, your fingers playing with the back of his head, sending chills down his spine.

“Wanna get out of here?” You said to him. You were so close he could hear you even over the booming bass and whirls of lights.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Sunghoon reached for your hand at his neck and tugged you towards the exit.

------

[steampaul]

Okay, so, my mom grew up around that time and her theory is that one of the main reasons why east Germans are like that is because of the way that kids got taken care of.

The main problem with the that kindergarten and pre-school stuff is (usually) handled today is that it's usually about 5 or so adults looking after about 20 kids.

And the way these kids are looked after is usually just to have their physical needs met, meaning that they're safe, fed etc.

However, due to them all having to actively search for the adults' attention, the emotional needs of the kids can very easily be neglected.

And since the job of the adults is just to look after the kids and not to raise them, they are also usually not very well equipped see if a kid needs attention or even to handle the emotional needs of the kids that seek it.

Today, the kids usually get home when the parents are done with work and get to spend time with their (usually tired from work) parents, they still have some chance for some emotional care, provided, of course the parents are able to do that , but that's not relevant right now.

Now, back in the day, west Germany handled child care pretty similar to today. Perhaps a bit rougher, but I don't really know the details too much about that.

East Germany however handled it a bit differently: about 30 or even 40 kids being looked after 2 or 3 adults, with the kids usually only seeing their parents during the weekends or holidays. This of course means that the problem with today's method was about five times more intense.

Now. These kids started being taken care of in this way when they were about 3 years old, all the way until they were ready for school with 6 or 7 years.

These are very important years for kids to learn how needs are met. Kids that go hungry often in that age are more likely to develop eating disorders and so forth.

If you then consider that these kids basically learned from the start that care is a finite resource (if an adult takes care of a problem of another kid, they don't have the time/energy to do the same for you) and that the only way to get is to shout the loudest (getting attention first to get the most/best care), then it is nit really that surprising that people from Eastern Germany gravitate towards right-wing ideologies, since their whole thing is screaming about how taking care of others means you don't get taken care of.

Also, they probably still think that eastern Germany is better than western Germany because them over there are just degenerates.

Here's a little anecdote about my mother, that hopefully explains a bit about the attitude of east Germans to west Germans in that time (thanks to propaganda, obviously):

I forgot how old she was, probably around 8, when she was sent to some sort of weekend camp in eastern Germany.

I don't know the specifics, but I think it was quite similar to an American summer camp.

She was sent there because my family originated from southern Germany (around Stuttgart I think) and my grandma was visiting relatives in the area and thought visiting a camp like this might be nice for my mother.

There was something called the Jungpioniere in eastern Germany, essentially something like the cubscouts in America (or the Hitlerjugend during ww2), who where connected in some way to that camp.

That meant that they organised some games for it, with the older kids (i.e. teens) supervising the younger ones.

These games were the usual type that you'd play there like scavenger hunts or whatever.

They also played Planspiele; games designed to be smaller versions of real life.

One of these games was a wood car assembly line, where each kid would do a different step: cutting off the wheels fro a dowel, screwing them in, painting the car, etc.

Well, they actually had two assembly lines: one east German and one west German.

The kids in the east German line were promised that they could take home one of the cars they made together at the end, while the kids in the west German line were told that they could not.

This was meant to show two things:

How much better the communist utopia east Germany was than the evil capitalist hellscape west germany

And how the 4-jahres-plan worked, a concept in east Germany where the idea was that everyone would be getting a new car after four years of work. (This didn't really happen)

My mother was in the west German assembly line and remembered a record my grandma had: das auto blubberbumm.

This was a musical (I heavily recommend to anyone understanding or learning german, it's on yt) the story of this musical follows a few kids who tour a factory where cars are made in assembly lines, and how the workers who get fed up with their boss' bullshit organize a strike.

As you might have already guessed, this situation was quite similar to the game my mother participated in, so when she was told that she wouldn't be able to take home one of the cars she was about to help build, she did the obvious and called for a strike.

This of course halted the game, but mostly because she had to stop and explain to the teens supervising the game what a strike was, and more importantly that it was not only legal but a right in west Germany to perform a strike.

Needless to say, she did not get to take home a wood car, because she organised a strike on the manufacturing process, but she did educate a bunch of kids about the importance of striking. At 8 years old.

Now. I told this anecdote with the purpose of illustrating the attitude of east German propaganda towards west Germany: that east germany is the best possible way of governance, that you, a east German should just listen to what we tell you and that west Germany is an evil, corrupt nest of degenerate capitalists.

This is obviously quite simplified and filtered to a few stages of anecdotes and memory and also a severe lack of factual education (the only topic in our history classes was ww2 and I was really bad at history and never got around to educating myself), but apart from being a bit exaggerated, this is, imho, a quite accurate representation of the deep emotional feelings of the people who grew up under east German propaganda without reflecting upon it.

Ostalgie (eastalgia- east German nostalgia) is a thing for a reason.

But whatever. I hope the two points I made somewhere buried under my ramblings show why I (based on my mother's histories) think that people in eastern Germany are way more susceptible to right wing rhetoric.

Can any German followers explain why East Germany is so much more reactionary than West Germany?

Like obviously is goes back to the post-ww2 split, but what caused the Marxist East Germany to end up being more amenable to the far-right?

[lilyofthevalleyys]

it’s terrifying when the abused becomes the abuser

[anna-scribbles]

they should've been at the club(infertility treatment centers)

[pushing500]

Welcome to Sparks, Ivy. Kwahu has been looking forward to meeting you properly, and don't worry about Mechi. I'm sure he'll warm up to you in time.

Ah yes. Babies cry and vomit. Delightful. At least little Ivy has been healed of her grave infant sickness now! Thank you, Healer Mech Serum!!

Kwahu carried his new ward to her lovingly constructed bedroom and fed her some of our yak's milk. No more lattes for a little while, sorry boys. You understand how it is.

Ivy is going to settle in well here, I think ❤️

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[bvckbiter]

i love shamelessly yoinking fantasy-action ideas from other media. ethan fights with a whip like trevor belmont. silena has hot pink iron gauntlets like the zag aspect of the twin fists. kelli has claws and hair that can extend and harden like drolta tzuentes. alabaster has geralt-sized swords despite probably being half the weight and can also move it telepathically like [insert any xianxia cultivator here].