#but oh the things prodigal son could have done

[kat-rose-griffith]

I really like High Potential but I can’t help but get a touch sad sometimes when I watch it because I keep thinking about how amazing it would have been if Prodigal Son had gotten picked up by abc. Like they could have even done a crossover ep between the two shows, it would’ve been so chaotic and iconic

[justjudethoughts]

Lessons in Divine Mercy

Necessary Context: Very early on in my journey with Religious OCD, extremely well-meaning mentors would often tell me the story of the Prodigal Son, and end it with "you just need to trust in God's mercy! He wants to forgive you!" But you see, for me, that was never the problem. 14-year-old me KNEW God wanted to forgive her. She also knew that if she committed a mortal sin, she was supposed to go to confession. And, well, um, she thought everything was a mortal sin. Literally skipped brushing my teeth once and thought it was a mortal sin. What scared me the most was the realization I couldn't literally spend 24/7 in confession. And if I was committing a mortal sin every few minutes, then how was I ever supposed to stay in union with God? To me, absolutely none of this had to do with trusting that God was merciful.

I was wrong.

It took a while to come to this conclusion, but I eventually realized that trusting in God's mercy had more to it than simply trusting He wanted to forgive me. It meant trusting that He knew me better than I knew myself. That He saw my heart and my mind and the absolute agony I was going through, and more than that, that He cared. I had to trust that His mercy was bigger than my illness. That He wasn't scared of my scruples. In practice, that meant I had to trust that even if I somehow managed to

— 1) Commit a mortal sin 2) Convince myself afterwards that it wasn't a mortal sin and I was just obsessing and 3) Forgo going to confession in an attempt to not perform a compulsion— that God would not hold that supposed mortal sin against me. Of course, now I realize how unlikely that entire situation is to even happen in the first place, but at the time it was my reality. It was my fear every single day, and that leap of faith was a terrifying one to make. But when I did, I could finally begin to do the things I needed to heal (aka, avoid compulsions, trusting that God is going to take care of it even if I mislabeled and avoided something I actually should have done as a compulsion).

You see, what I hadn't realized at the time is that God's mercy doesn't just mean He forgives your sins— it means He has a tender, bleeding, broken heart for you. For you and for everything you have been through. For you and for every hurt stored in your chest. For you and you alone, as though you were the only one to ever exist. His mercy does not simply say "go and sin no more," it stoops to write in the sand, and while doing so, finds you at eye level. Looks you in the eye, takes your hand, and raises you to your feet. Calls you by name. The Jesus who meets you in the confessional is the same Jesus who wept when Lazarus died. Whose heart was moved with pity for the crowd. Who dropped everything to raise a little girl from the dead, and the first thing He said when she was awake was to make sure she was given something to eat.

Divine Mercy means that God sees where you are, knows where you are, and pursues you there. Meets you there. Why else do you think He came down to earth as a baby? We got ourselves in trouble by trying to build a tower to heaven because that was never what we were supposed to do. God stoops to us. The confusion of Babble was undone by the descent of the Holy Ghost.

He sees you. He knows you. And He cares. Oh, how it hurts His heart to see you hurt! And how much more it hurts to see you scared of Him. Do you not think the Hands that crafted you know every crevice of your heart? Do you not think that the God who became a baby, whose heart was pierced for love of you, could hold anything inside that heart beside tenderness at the thought of you? For all of eternity He has had a simple wish — to wash your feet and kiss your wounds. Will you trust Him enough to let Him?

[chaoticbardlady99]

She’s my Religion- Part 3: Everyone Wants to Have Their Taste (Astarion x F! Reader)

Synopsis- You and Astarion don’t see eye to eye about him ascending. Cazador kidnaps you to lure Astarion to the palace. Astarion realizes that more powerful vampires may not be capable of love.

CW: Violence, non-descriptive mentions of gore, mentions of SA, threats of SA, mentions of suicidal ideation

I feel so gross cause I made myself sob while editing this.

*picture belongs to @clowndroids

It had quite literally only been two hours since Pale Petras had kidnapped you. You were having a drink with Karlach after your fight with Astarion.

Astarion finally broke you and you gave your opinion on the Rite of Profane Ascension- he was not thrilled with your opinion to say the least.

“Astarion! I don’t even want to marry a fucking Master Vampire!” You had screamed after he had gotten pissed at you for saying you didn’t think he should ascend, “not only that- I will lose you entirely. You will no longer be anything, but fucking Mephistopheles’ vessel to what he pleases with! I can’t be with you if… if you ascend- I can’t sit back and let you torture me for eternity or watch you fade away.”

“Well-I guess we’re done then.”

You had watched him walk off miserably- your heart shattered into a million pieces. Karlach consoled you at the bar.

You should have tried to be calmer, maybe it wouldn’t have resulted in a break up.

You had begun to not feel well so you went back to your shared room with Astarion.

Astarion was out hunting so that he could be at his best for the fight with Cazador tomorrow- that gives you plenty of time to move your stuff into another room.

You are sniffling as another uncomfortable wave of nausea and exhaustion overwhelms you and then you collapse. You hear footsteps walking towards you- hoping it might be someone friendly. You thought how incredibly inconvenient timing it would be if the Cult of the Absolute was coming to kidnap you.

Except it wasn’t an Absolute Cultist or a friendly face- it had been Pale fucking Petras.

You woke up in what you assume is the Kennels- Cazador leering down at you like he’d caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to do.

Oh and you had. You had given yourself to Astarion- let yourself be “ruined.”

Every lash of the flail against your bare skin feels even more numb and painful than the last- you are barely conscious by the time Cazador decides he’s done and you are “purified”.

“What a shame- I would have liked your skin to remain porcelain and perfect before we have to consummate our marriage,” Cazador feigns sadness, “but I do suppose you have time to heal- a few hours, give or take. Dalyria- please help my beautiful, crimson colored bride clean up a little bit, leave the majority of the blood- it smells delectable.”

Cazador begins to leave and then turns around to say one last thing, “And do get her into her wedding dress. I have a homecoming to prepare for my prodigal son and I’m sure he’d love to wish us eternal happiness, my Love.”

The smile he gave you made your entire body shake with fear. He kidnapped you to force Astarion’s hand. You hope that Astarion stays out all night like he occasionally does when he hunts pissed off.

You would much rather he be prepared to fight and feel confident than rush head first into a battle because you are in danger. Or worse- maybe he wouldn’t care at all. He did break up with you.

You know the consequences if Astarion doesn’t show up quickly- Cazador is going to marry you, violate you, and then turn you into his spawn. Cazador told you that, by the time he is done completing the ritual, you should be ready to be his obedient consort.

Astarion would die knowing you were damned to an eternity of suffering at Cazador’s hands- whether he got there in time or not was inconsequential to Cazador- either would make Astarion crumble (despite telling him that he had quite literally dumped you not even an hour or two earlier).

You asked him how stupid he is considering he revealed his whole plan to you before you had even been there 30 minutes (he knows about the tadpole)- he bashed your head into the wall two times. Hard.

“Better?” He had said, roughly grabbing your hair and making you look up at him.

You listen for his footsteps and hold back the painful, strained sobs that rattle your broken rib cage. Your head is throbbing and your body is aching- every piece of skin cut up in some way or another besides your face. That needed to be “protected” according to Cazador.

You don’t remember when Dalyria gently helped you up off the ground and provided you with awkward, but soothing words. You cried as she began getting you ready for your impending doom. She washed your hair with care and despite what Cazador said, she made sure the majority of your blood was cleaned up and the wounds were safe from infection.

“He’ll get here in time,” Dalyria whispers, “Astarion won’t let this happen to you- he adores you far too much.”

��Doubtful,” You sniff, “and anyway, I don’t want him to make any rash decisions.”

“Right now, Tav?” Dalyria looks at you with sorrow, putting makeup on your cheeks “rash decisions is what is going to save you.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Astarion is nervous while heading back to Elfsong Tavern- he had a bear for his meal and he is eager to see you. While he was out hunting, he realized that you had a lot of very valid points. In what world could he ask you to become his thrall when Astarion knows how Spawns suffer at the hands of their master’s. The other point that stuck with him was when you said you would lose him. Astarion can acknowledge those points- he is sure he can even reassure you. Cazador never let anyone touch you nor did he ever lay a finger on you- not all Vampire Lords are evil and abusive. Astarion will be wonderful to you.

Except, when he gets to your shared room to talk- you are gone and the only evidence of you being there is a blood stain on the floor and your supplies scattered every which way.

Astarion is frozen and he runs to Karlach and Shadowheart’s room- hoping you are maybe there and just had a minor cut that needed healing. Karlach informs him you had gone back to your shared room when you stopped feeling well.

Once all the pieces were put together- everyone was sprinting out the door towards the Crimson Palace. It had been two whole hours since anyone last saw you. Astarion can’t imagine that Cazador would actually hurt you- he’s too possessive of you.

Astarion feels sick to his stomach, enraged, and terrified all at the same time.

Astarion isn’t sure he believes in any of the Gods, but he is begging to any that will listen to him that you are okay- unharmed.

************************************

Cazador holding you up by your hair, tears streaming down your face in a blood stained revealing white wedding dress is an image that will forever be burnt into Astarion’s brain. Cazador has mutilated your skin.

Astarion and your other companions had ran in right as Cazador was cutting into you again- yelling at Dalyria that she did this to you, if she had just listened and not cleaned up the blood like he had said- he wouldn’t have needed more for the dress.

When Cazador notices Astarion, he gives him a chilling grin.

“I told you that he would come for you, Pet,” Cazador cooed, a broken sob escapes your lips, “it was so cute, boy. ‘Just use me for your ritual, I’ll take his place, don’t hurt him-“

You whimper as Cazador licks the blood running from one of the cuts on your collar bones- nipping at the skin painfully. Astarion is going to rip the bastard apart, limb by limb.

“My favorite though,” Cazador maliciously states, “is when she told me how you left her and that you wouldn’t come for her. I’ve never been so thrilled to see someone so heartbroken over the life and love of a pathetic creature such as yourself. I’m not worried though,” Cazador places kisses along your neck and Astarion watches as another wave of sobs racks your body, “I’ll pleasure myself with her body until she starts screaming my name instead of yours.”

Astarion is seething as another pained scream leaves your mouth as Cazador gives you one last deep cut on your right side- dropping your weak, shaking body to the ground. The smell of your blood and fear is overwhelming.

Astarion barely remembers the battle- he remembers Wyll pulling him out of the ritual and then killing every creature that dared try to keep him from you.

Cazador is still looming over you- occasionally digging his staff into your side and Astarion gets angrier with every wheezing cry he hears. You are trying so hard to fight back- clawing, kicking, and punching. You are throwing cantrips as Cazador continues to throw you around.

Cazador goes to hit you again, but his swing is interrupted by Astarion stabbing his dagger straight through the Vampire Lord’s wrist- the staff landing with a clatter.

Astarion is all daggers and nails- his rage towards Cazador coming out in a frightening display of bloodlust. Cazador is barely visible under all the blood Astarion as drawn, but the man still teleports to his coffin.

Astarion charges towards the coffin- he’s not done yet. Astarion wants the man to suffer for everything he’s done to him, to the countless lives he forced Astarion to ruin, and you- your freedom and guaranteed safety. He’ll be killing Bridril Von next.

Astarion pushes the lid off of Cazador’s coffin.

“No, no. No healing sleep for you,” he pulls the Vampire Lord out of his coffin, “Wake up!”

Astarion flings the man with so much force he slides across the floor. Cazador gets onto his knees and looks at Astarion with pure loathing and disgust.

“Get your hands off me, worm.”

“Ha! I’m not the one in the dirt,” Astarion says with a sneer.

Astarion picks up the knife nearby and looks at Cazador, “one last thrust and I’ll be free of you. I’ll never have to fear you again.”

Astarion cocks his head to the side, “but, if I finish the ritual you started, I’ll never have to fear anyone, ever.”

“You think me a fool? That I would allow anyone to usurp me, speak the words and ascend in my place?”

Cazador cackles before continuing, “The runes I carved into your flesh bind you and all seven thousand souls to the ritual. Complete it, and all those bearing the scares will be sacrificed- you included.”

Astarion’s face contorts as Cazador smiles, “ you are simply a means to an end. I made you to be consumed.”

“I am so much more than what you made me,” Astarion retorts.

His whole body is shaking with anticipation- Astarion will finally end this man’s life. Astarion will have pow-

The pull of the Ascension is disrupted by Shadowheart screaming for Halsin to come and help- you’ve lost a lot of blood and she thinks you may be poisoned to some extent as well. You aren’t talking and you are motionless on the ground. You are looking at him though, tears rolling down your face.

Your affection for him warms his body as he enters your mind through the tadpole. You are barley conscious enough to notice the invasion of privacy.

Without the pull of the ascension, Astarion is unsure of his next move. He needs to know what to do, he doesn’t know and he needs your help.

Astarion’s body is then filled quickly with an intense suffocating grief. He is watching memories of the two of you together run through your mind as if you are having your own silent funeral for him. Astarion hasn’t seen himself in 200 years, but seeing him from your point of view- a loving, grieving point of view- takes all the wind out of his sails. Astarion is beautiful, but your affections towards him make him even more so. Together reading books, making love, joking, playing games- it’s all there in a nice warm little box that is slowly turning blue.

There is a finality in your head that eats him alive. There is acceptance and happiness for him- Gods all you have ever wanted was for him to be happy- but you are screaming and crying on the inside for your lost love. Aching and all alone- wishing Cazador would have just killed you and hoping there is a possibility they won’t be able to save you in time so you don’t have to watch him become Mephistopheles’ puppet- now or in the future.

Astarion feels tears stream down his face as your eyes begin to close. Your breathes are getting more shallow and he feels you give up- unable to continue with this life all alone. You’ve lost everyone now.

Goodbye, my Star. I should have told you I love you.

[sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy]

Stiles is Supernatural Crack

2. Well That Was Clarified Cryptically

Masterlist | AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Stiles felt like shit. A big, hot, steaming pile of elephant shit that fell ten feet to splat on the ground.

His body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead. His head felt like it was going to explode. Even without opening his eyes, the lights made him feel sick. He was nauseous just laying on his back. Everything was a mess in his head.

Two things Stiles knew for sure: one, he definitely had a concussion, and two, he should be dead.

Was he still in the forest? Was he slowly dying, abandoned by his friends? No. No, he wasn’t alone. He could feel people touching him.

He took a breath and— okay, maybe he knew three things for sure— he could smell that he was in the hospital.

“Could someone turn the lights off or something,” Stiles rasped and found himself is shock at his own voice. “Wow, was that my voice? Shit.”

He could tell the lights were dimmed. Stiles opened his eyes and looked around. He was definitely in a hospital and they were totally ignoring fire code. He squinted, looking from face to face. All of the Weres were gathered around him, though they did seem sort of blurry. He ran a metal checklist of his idiots, just to be sure: Scott? Check. Isaac, Jackson? Check and check. Malia, Liam, and Kira were there. Ethan and Derek… Derek?

“Geeze, who died for this family reunion to happen,” Stiles said, trying for joking. In the moment of silence that followed, realized that he should be in more pain. He flipped up the blankets, searching for the bandages that had to be there. He looked over himself and frowned. He was completely healed. He flopped the blankets back down. “Why am I healed? Oh god, who bit me,” he asked, glaring at each person individually before stopping at Scott.

“No,” Scott said honestly. “I don’t know what happened. You touched the Nemeton and…”

“And you screamed and passed out, fully healed,” a gruff voice came from the end of the bed.

Stiles eyes flicked over to the person. Everything was a little blurry but he’d know those grumpy eyebrows anywhere.

“The prodigal son returns. And he speaks,” Stiles declared in a stage whisper. Derek glared at Stiles. “Well, I’m glad our little stray came home. You have no clue how many times I called the pound to make sure they didn’t have you. We’ll have to get you a collar to make sure you get returned if someone finds you, not that they’d want to keep you for long,” Stiles joked, searching his endless mental database of dog jokes. “Maybe we should get you one of those jackets that says ‘Warning: I bite’,” he said gesturing as if he were reading in the empty air. “I hope that vacation served you well, Fido, because we almost died. Many times.”

“Stiles, shut up,” Derek grumbled.

“Maybe later,” Stiles shuffled to sit up properly in the bed, “if nobody bit me, then why does it feel like my blood is buzzing?”

“That’s not a werewolf thing,” Jackson said with a look of disgust.

“Great, then what thing is it,” Stiles groaned.

“Sounds like a Stiles thing to me,” Liam shrugged. “Ya know, ADHD and all.”

Stiles gave a tight lipped smile. “Liam, if I didn’t have a concussion,” he held his hand up in emphasis, “I would explain to you how stupid—” Stiles was cut short when a spark of some sort left from his hand and hit Liam, knocking him off his chair with a yelp. Stiles stopped mid sentence, mouth agape. What was that? He was terrified but the buzzing grew weaker.

Scott moved to tend to Liam and looked at Derek. “We need to talk to Deaton.”

Without missing a beat, the room clamored to action. It was almost like they had done this before so many times that it was so streamlined that it could practically be considered instinct, oh wait.

It was a system Stiles and Lydia made up to accommodate the needs of the pack. It went like this: Scott and Liam went to find one of their parents and gave them a name and key phrase that gave them the situation at a glance— ‘radio call’ for a Big Bad on the loose, ‘pet’ meant they needed Deaton, ‘book club’ meant they had to do research, and ‘emergency’ was left to mean I’ll explain later— without giving them away. The situation determined the vehicle. Between the group they had two motorcycles and one to five cars they could use(depending on whose was still running). Two people went to get the vehicle and at least one stayed with the injured party.

Today, Scott and Liam went to find Melissa as she was about to get off her night shift. Ethan and Jackson went for a car. Which left way too many people on Stiles watch. Even with so many people, the silence was palpable. Somehow, Malia and Derek ended up being the people to help Stiles get dressed.

Melissa came back with Liam and Scott. She shooed as many people out of the room as she could, meaning she was left with Scott, Derek, and Malia still in the room. She cleared him, giving the usual concussion rules.

Stiles could feel that they were all on edge.

“Just say it,” Stiles grumbled.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Melissa told him, writing on the chart.

“Jeasus Christ, Nogitsune,” Stiles said loudly and the room stopped moving. Everything seemed to stop moving. “There, I said it. You’re all thinking it and I said it, right Scott?”

Scott shook his head, stepping closer to Stiles but still keeping his distance. “That’s not–”

“Boo,” Stiles yelled and the whole room jumped.

It was a split second– Scott pulled his mom back, Derek stared expectantly, Malia’s claws grew out– but it hurt to know he was right.

Stiles nodded, taking a deep breath. “That’s what I thought.”

An oppressive silence hung in the room. It was heavy and dark. It was the same feeling Stiles had when they found out he was the nogitsune. He felt like he was reliving that part of his life all over again.

Liam knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. “Ethan and Jackson have the car ready. They just texted the group.”

“Great. Now you get to be in close quarters with scary Stiles,” Stiles huffed, standing up.

“Oh no,” Melissa said, pulling away from Scott to make Stiles sit back down. “Nogitsune or not, you are sick, Stiles. I refuse to let you walk around like nothing's wrong before we know for sure.”

“Melissa, please stop babying me. I’m all healed,” Stiles said tiredly.

“I’m not ‘babying’ you, I’m being careful. Wheelchair or stay,” Melissa said sternly and she was not the person to be crossed.

Stiles groaned. “Fine. I’ll deal with the wheelchair,” he muttered.

They managed to sneak Stiles out of the hospital after he forged his dad’s signature on the discharge papers. They really shouldn’t have let him leave for a couple days. He had literally been knocked unconscious by head trauma.

The car ride didn’t help. Note to self: DO NOT let Derek drive if he is stressed. Stiles was pretty sure he could add whiplash to the growing list of things that were wrong with him. He was sure they’d get pulled over.

When the sirens started, he thought they were being pulled over.

“Uh, Derek, there’s a cop behind you. Lights, sirens, the whole nine,” Stiles said but Derek just nodded.

“That’s your dad,” Jackson said from the passenger seat. “Fuck, I’m glad this isn’t my car,” he muttered under his breath.

Stiles looked at Jackson in confusion. “This isn’t your car?”

“It’s Derek’s,” Jackson told Stiles like he was stupid. “This is a Camaro. I drive a Porsche.” Stiles shook his head and Jackson gave him a disturbed look. “I’m going to pretend this is the concussion talking so I don’t feel like punching you.”

“Uh, whatever you say man,” Stiles sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Both rich white boy cars anyway…"

Derek looked in the rearview and saw Stiles seeming to relax. He growled quietly to himself and Jackson scooted closer to the door, looking obviously uncomfortable.

Scott saw the look in Derek’s eyes. It was strange. Everything about him was strange. He wreaked of nervousness and fear but he hid behind a look of anger. There was something else hanging in the chemosignals that Scott chose to ignore. Not now. Not yet.

Scott’s attention turned to Stiles, hearing his heartbeat starting to fall into a slower pattern. “Stiles,” he said softly, bumping his friend, “you’re not supposed to go to sleep yet.”

Stiles startled awake. His own jerky movements made him feel sick. He groaned and hung his head between his knees. This fucking sucked. Everything was spinning so badly that he didn’t notice when they parked. It wasn’t until the door opened and he could hear his dad’s voice that he realized they had stopped.

A fuzzy figure loomed at the door and Stiles squinted, his eyes trying to adjust for the light and failing. “Dad,” he asked as the looming shadow moved closer.

“Stiles! Stiles, I’m here,” Sheriff said from a distance.

If he was out there… The figure easily picked Stiles up and let out an irritated groan. “Do you ever fucking eat,” the person huffed and, ya, Stiles knew that voice.

“I can assure you he does,” Sheriff said, still on edge.

Stiles smirked, looking up at the person’s face as if he wasn’t having issues adjusting for the light. “Come on, Derek. You and me, eating competition. I’ll wipe the floor with your wolfy ass.”

Derek rolled his eyes and walked into Deaton’s office. He set Stiles down on the metal table. He flinched, groaning at the cold metal that seemed to pull out all of his body heat. There was a distinct fabric shuffling and a warm coat was draped around Stiles’ shoulders. It was rough and heavy and familiar. It smelled like his dad. He felt like a kid sitting in the station and waiting for his dad to finish his paperwork for the night again.

Deaton walked into the room and looked at Stiles for no more than a second before saying "ah, that does make sense."

"What," Derek, Stiles, and Sheriff Noah all asked at once.

Deaton raised his eyebrows. "The Nemeton is dead. It holds no more magic—" he started only for Stiles to cut him off.

"What,” Stiles asked in shock. “How does that make sense?”

"Mr. Stilinski— sorry,” Deaton said, pausing to apologize to the Sheriff before addressing Stiles once more. “Stiles, did you nearly die on or near the Nemeton?"

“What happened,” Sheriff asked loudly, making Stiles flinch at the sound.

"No, the track marks are because I started doing heroin,” Stiles said deadpan. “I just got discharged from the hospital, what do you think?"

"You healed unusually fast..." Deaton said. It was a leading question and Stiles knew it.

Stiles took a deep breath and looked at Scott, "....... Scott, am I a werewolf or some other were-creature?"

"No."

"Great,” he turned back to Deaton, “what are you implying Deaton?"

"I am saying that you, Stiles, now hold the magic of the Nemeton."

Stiles froze, trying to think of anything he could say. "You see, I have a concussion so I thought you just said that I, Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski, now have– in me– the magic of the Nemeton. So, could you run that by me one more time?"

“Your name is what,” Jackson asked.

“Shut up, Jackson. Not now,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

Sheriff stepped forward. “Just to clarify, Stiles is going to be okay. No… weird, evil side effects,” he asked.

“I can assure you, Noah, there will be no evil side effects but I believe Stiles has already been experiencing some strange things,” Deaton said, glancing at Stiles pointedly.

“You mean like zapping Liam or my blood buzzing,” Stiles snarked.

“Whoa, what,” Sheriff asked. “Your blood is buzzing?” He sighed. “When did this become our normal?”

Deaton nodded. “What about the pull? To clarify, you would not be experiencing this directly but your supernatural friends would.”

“Well that was clarified cryptically,” Stiles scoffed.

“This is very serious, Stiles,” Deaton said. “You have gained a very powerful ancient magic in seconds. People who train all their lives have only dreamed of being able to control this much power,” Deaton told him firmly.

“Alright, you didn’t exactly answer my question and this sounds dangerous. Will Stiles be okay,” Noah asked, stepping forward to place a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

Deaton took a deep breath. “It is possible that if Stiles does not learn to control his newly gained magic, it may have a negative effects on his mental state.”

“Oh great,” Stiles huffed a stressed laugh, “so it’s going to destroy the last bit of sanity the Nogitsune left and exacerbate the constant state of anxiety I live in.” The room fell quiet as Stiles stared down Deaton.

“I mean, I already killed Allison and caused Aiden’s death along with so many others, so why should it matter that I hurt another one of my friends with shity magic I can’t control?” God, if the damn buzzing didn’t stop, he was going to lose it! It was like his skin vibrating now!

“Learning to control and understand your magic will help keep anything like that from happening,” Deaton said calmly as if Stiles hadn’t just poured out his soul five seconds ago. “From what I hear, you’ve already used some fairly powerful defensive magic.”

“You mean when I hurt Liam,” Stiles asked, feeling irritated and guilty.

“When you killed the Chupacabra, was it,” Deaton said and Derek nodded.

Stile scoffed, looking up at Deaton. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything, I was too busy, ya know, bleeding out and dying!”

“Stiles, nobody pulled it off of you,” Derek said and Stiles turned to look at him. He saw a soft, worried expression on Derek’s face. He was telling the truth. “I saw you swing your arm– I thought you had the bat– and it sent everyone flying back.”

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head. “No.” No way he could have done that. He had been so weak from the blood loss and pain he’d barely bumped it, even though he used what strength he’d had left. There was no way. Someone else had to have helped.

Stiles’ brain was everywhere and nowhere ten-thousand times worse than usual. He was pretty sure an Eichen House special consisting of trepanation and neglect would be more comfortable.

“Stiles, it was halfway across the clearing when it landed,” Scott added. “We saw what seemed like lightning. For a second, we thought it was Kira but…” he swallowed the lump in his throat, “you were just laying there, alone and bleeding…”

Stiles frowned, looking at his friend. He hated it when Scott was hurting. Sure, he was an idiot and could be a total ass but he didn’t deserve any of this. He didn’t deserve to have to watch his friends die over and over.

“You said Stiles would attract Supernatural creatures,” Derek asked, his voice pulling Stiles’ attention away from Scott.

“Not just supernatural creatures,” Deaton said. “As I’m sure you observed, all manner of creatures will find the Nemeton if they are hurt or lost.”

“So, I’m a Disney princess,”Stiles asked.

Sheriff shook his head. “I better not end up with squirrels or racoons in my attic. Again.” He gave Stiles a serious look. “I have to get back to work,” he said, pulling Stiles into a side hug, kissing the top of his head. “Be more careful, kid.” With those few words, the Sheriff left Stiles to the care of his friends and headed back for the station.

“You said your blood was buzzing,” Deaton asked Stiles.

“Uh,” he pulled the jacket his father had left with him tighter and dragged his brain back to Deaton. “Ya. that’s what it feels like, I guess.”

Deaton nodded and went to get a book. When he returned, he set the book down on the metal table and opened it to a page close to the middle.

“Hold up. Don’t the things in there get harder the further you go in the book? Why don’t we start at the beginning,” Stiles asked, trying to read and barely managing a few words of sensical english.

Deaton looked at Stiles. “The further in the book, the more power and focus it takes.”

“I didn’t have focus to begin with and I have a concussion and possible brain damage,” Stiles defended.

“You also have an inordinate amount of power. If you want to sleep in the next week, I suggest doing as I say.”

Stiles held his hands up in protest. He did his best to listen as Deaton explained it to him. It was a weirdly simple spell– all he had to do was draw a symbol and repeat two sentences– but Deaton assured him it was much harder than it sounded.

Deaton gave Stiles a wooden clip board and a marker. He told him to say the words as he drew the symbol. Stiles shrugged but started to draw the symbol. He stopped halfway through, forgetting the words and had to start over again a few times to get it. When he finally did it right, he felt accomplished.

Then he started swaying.

Derek moved quickly, placing a hand on Stiles’ back to keep him steady.

He felt weak and dazed. God, his head hurt too.

Deaton grabbed a granola bar out of his desk and gave it to Stiles. “You’ll want this,” he said and took the clipboard. “Scott,” he waved him over, “come here. I want you to try to break this clipboard.”

Scott did as he was told and walked over. He took the clipboard– knowing full well he had accidentally broken one of these clipboards when he got irritated with a pet owner– and gave enough pressure that he thought would break it.

“Damn,” Scott remarked, looking down at the clipboard. He gave it more force and felt it start to bend. “What did you do to this thing, Stiles,” he joked. He finally gave it a sharp push and it snapped in two.

“Did I do that or is Scott weak,” Stiles asked and Derek held back a smirk.

“That spell should help calm your power and is also a great way to protect yourself and others,” Deaton said. “Be careful, it does take a lot out of you.”

Stiles looked at the others and back to Deaton. “What about other ones? Things that would take less power so I could do more of them.”

Deaton looked Stiles over, then at Scott, and back to Stiles. “I will allow you to borrow this book. Do not do anything beyond page eighty-six without someone nearby. If you overdo it, it can be very dangerous.” Stiles nodded and took the book from Deaton. “I expect this back in the same condition it is now.”

Stiles found himself pouring over the book in the car. Jackson watched him over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

“What happened to ‘I can’t focus, I have a concussion’,” Jackson asked in a mocking voice.

“I don’t know… Just feels better, ya know,” Stiles mutters and Jackson looked at Derek. “Is Scott meeting us at my house?”

“He said he was,” Jackson said. “He wanted to stop at his place to get something or other.”

Stiles hummed and went back reading the book. Occasionally humming about things he found interesting and would mumble something soon after. Jackson picked up on the nervous energy coming off of Derek and would look at Stiles and then to Derek if he heard something.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Cute As A Button (Martin Whitly Drabble)

Martin Whitly x GN!Reader / requests are: open and encouraged!

Summary: Martin will do anything to make you smile.

CW: tickling? Is that a warning idk, fluff, flirting

Prodigal Son tag list: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“Mm- God, I could just murder that cute little smile of yours,” Martin says, flicking your nose with his finger. He’d made you laugh with some joke about camels and humps. A cheesy thing, but as long as it made you laugh that was what mattered. “My darling, you are just cute as a button.” 

You roll your eyes, pressing a hand into his face to shove him away playfully. Martin bites at your hand, delighting in the way you yank it back and scoff at him in disbelief. 

“What?!” He drawls, a wicked grin spreading across his cheeks. “Really, you cannot mean to imply you would not have done the same thing, my dear.” He pauses. “ And if you did, I wouldn’t believe you.” 

You hum with an accusatory tone, and Martin yanks you into his arms, pulling you down onto the bed and rolling you over so that he’s above you. 

“Ah-hah!” He shouts victoriously, curls dropping in front of his eyes. The shock fades and you laugh gleefully, doing your best to knee him in the ribs. “Oh, that’s not playing nicely, dearest,” he scolds, though there’s no heat to it. 

“Well, if we’re not playing fair…” Martin trails off, eyeing you up and down hungrily. Your stomach tightens and your breath hitches. 

Suddenly his hands are on your sides, digging into your ribs and forcing shrieks and wails of laughter out of you. Your legs kicked and your arms swatted at him as you struggled to get a breath in between the giggles. 

Martin’s head dropped down to your neck, pressing kiss after kiss along the column of your throat, your shoulders, and your clavicle. With his weight pressed on top of you there was nothing you could do but squirm under his hands. 

Martin laughed, raising himself off you only to pull you into a deep, loving kiss. His hands still on your ribs, giving one more possessive squeeze. You sigh into the kiss, melting from the attention.

You were so in love with him that it was ridiculous.

Not that he was complaining, of course. 

[damadisangue]

The creature lies inert, starving. Sitting in the center of your chest, between your ribs, scrape out what remains of your wealth. It has little skeletal fingers and no skin, but even though you always give it everything, it keeps asking. Looking back on the past you might realize many things, miserable old man, but you don't. You continue to swallow your pills with the absurd belief that Alex will make it

Oh, but she's already done it. If only you could see her now, father, the prodigal son murmurs.  If only you could see a crumb of her soul - of her hatred, he adds, horribly sweet.  If only you could see us, fucking and laughing behind your back, he whispers, ruthless - amused by your pain. 

and you cling to this crazy idea. Clawed to your chair like a bird to its perch, you wait. You do your experiments, you rebuild Raccoon City again and again and again, you take your medicine and you wait, tenaciously attached to what little life you have left. You wait and die. Amazing work from the talented and lovely @madbedlam

[noforkingclue]

By Any Means Chapter 21 (Malcolm Bright x reader)

By Any Means tag list: @shadowluna25

Prodigal Son tag list: @queenoffandom08, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky, @stilestotherescue

Malcolm Bright tag list: @v0id-sp1rit, @fansformentalydistroyedmen

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

“A word.”

“Hey!”

Malcolm practically dragged you outside and for once you wished that Dani and JT were here with you. Maybe they would actually be helpful for once. Malcolm gave you a desperate look and you folded your arms.

“What are you doing here?” he asked

“I could ask you the same thing.” You snapped, “How did you even know I was here?”

“Dani told me.”

“Of course she did. What are you doing here?”

“Telling you that you shouldn’t see my father by yourself.”

“I have Dani and JT with me.”

“Not in the same room as you.”

“Why do you care so much? Are you worried about me?”

“Yes!”

Your eyes widened at Malcolm’s outburst and he ran a hand over his face. You glanced back at Martin who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t been listening in. when he noticed you looking at him he gave you a bright smile and waved at you. Malcolm scowled at this and put a hand on your shoulder.

“Can we talk,” he said, “away from here?”

“You’re not going to drop this are you?”

“Please, y/n.”

You hesitated before sighing and nodding. Malcolm gave you a relieved looked as the two of you headed back down the corridor and out of the prison.

“My father was trying to get inside your head,” Malcolm said when the two of you were outside, “He wanted to manipulate you to get to me.”

“Thank you,” you said dryly, “I do know what manipulation is and I was expecting something like that to happen.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“I know,” you closed your eyes and shook your head, “I just wanted to help.”

“I know,” Malcolm repeated, “but when it comes to my father it’s best to leave him to me.”

“Or your mother and sister.”

“Mother tries to avoid him if she can.”

“And Ainsley?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

You started walking down the road, Malcolm following you. The two of you walked in a comfortable silence. You had forgotten just how much you enjoyed spending time with Malcolm. Maybe once you get out of this life things could be different? Wistful thinking but besides from hope, what else did you have?

“Y/n? Is that you?”

You stopped and Malcolm paused. You turned and smiled when you saw Richard walking towards you. He hesitated when he saw you and Malcolm.

“Sorry,” Richard said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” You said

“You mean you aren’t…”

Richard trailed off awkwardly and you laughed.

“No, nothing like that. In fact, I was just persuading Malc here that you’re not the person we’re looking for!”

“Y/n!” Malcolm hissed

“What?” you said

“You think I’m the murderer?” asked Richard

“I don’t,” you said, “In fact, I’m certain you’re not.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming.” Muttered Richard

“There isn’t a but,” Malcolm said putting a hand on your arm, “Y/n, can I speak to you. Alone.”

You didn’t have time to argue before Malcolm led you away. Richard paused before walking away, shaking his. Malcolm looked over at Richard’s retreating figure before saying,

“Do you think that was wise?”

“What? Telling Richard about your suspicions? I know him an I know that he isn’t who you’re looking for.”

“I-“ Malcolm cut himself off and said, “I know that.”

“You know that he’s not the person you’re looking for?”

“No. I know that you think that.”

“And you think I’m wrong?”

“I think that we shouldn’t rule him out just yet.”

You let out a bitter laugh and shook your head. You pulled your arm free and hugged yourself tightly.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” you said, “I should’ve gone with my gut instinct and just left.”

“Is this-“

“Visiting your father,” you interrupted, “I’m going home.”

“Would you like me to walk you home?”

“No!” you said harshly, wincing at Malcolm’s crestfallen expression, “I would like some time alone.”

“Ok,” he said quietly, “Just let me know when you get back.”

“Still worried about me?” you said with a small smile, “You don’t need to be.”

As you walked back to the flat Malcom said quietly,

“I always am.”

[tieflingtareon]

My love, are you the devil? (Oh, call me a devil)

Chapter 35 | Words: 5.4k

Summary: Astarion found himself often surprised by his heroic companion. He had one goal. To become the favoured companion of the group, to earn the Tieflings loyalty, to make Tar'eons strength his own. Yet Tar'eon isn't like the usual target of his manipulations. Despite his naivety, he does not seem gullible. There is something very wrong with their 'leader' to begin with. Astarion isn't sure if he wants to control it or eradicate the threat it posed. But can he really do either when Tar'eon himself seems so...unwaveringly kind?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50668558/chapters/127995079

Despite seeing his face through Vellioth's eyes, the man before him was nothing like the spawn he'd once been.

"Who stands before us? Is this truly our prodigal son?" He'd been expecting them. Or perhaps he simply couldn't be surprised. He likely heard them when they descended into the chapel. Tar'eon gripped the hilt of his blade tighter. His smarmy face irked him.

"Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?" He was so quick to shout that it actually made Tar'eon flinched ever so slightly, even when his words were not directed at him, but instead Astarion who was glaring at him. The vampire spawn did, however, stand taller than before. "Look at you, crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging our forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" He scoffed. "You've never forgiven anything. Every mistake, every slip was punished!"

"I strove for perfection in all things - even those as imperfect as you. A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts."

"No! No...fuck you, and fuck everything you've ever done to me!"

"You don't get to talk to him like that anymore. He doesn't owe you anything." Tar'eon glowered. Cazador bothered to look at him now, but it was like he was looking at shit on his shoe.

"Have you fallen so far that this speaks for you?" He gestured to him, and Tar'eon could see why the spawns under his heel had so little confidence in themselves. He knew just the right thing to say to diminish one's self esteem, to get beneath one's skin.

"I don't need anyone to speak for me." Astarion snarled.

"No, you always had a gift for words." Cazador drawled. "I fondly remember your empty boasting, your tired jokes, your endless prattle..."

"No! Shut up!" Astarion's voice broke around the demand. He'd been mocked enough by Cazador. He wouldn't take it any longer. He had no right to tell him he spoke too much when he never shut his mouth, always going on and on until their ears would bleed, begging for his lectures to be over.

"They told me you had changed. I dared not believe it." Cazador spoke like a disappointed father, and Tar'eon felt his own shoulders growing tense. "Oh thankless child. Did I not bless you with our immortal gift? Did I not make you what you are?"

Tar'eon could see Astarion's anger getting the best of him, reaching out to stop him on instinct, but it was too late.

"You son of a bitch!" Astarion rushed at his old master, wanting to finally wipe the smug look of his face, but a slam of his staff halted him. Astarion gasped softly, eyes wide as magical bonds kept his fists firmly in place, no matter how he pushed to break them. An old, familiar cloak of fear came upon him, sending ice into the centre of his bones as he looked up at Cazador.

"You truly forgot my power. You truly thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me? Hm?" Cazador smiled wickedly. "Oh, you are weak, my child. You are a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything."

Astarion groaned as he felt the bond clamp down tighter on his wrists, like claws of the devil sinking into flesh and bone. Cazador's bond had always hurt like fire and ice in ones veins. He thought he'd truly been free of it - how foolish had he been to believe so.

"Let him go!" Tar'eon swung his blade at the vampire lord, only to be thrown back with a solid thud against a pillar, grasping it last second when he threatened to keep sliding off the edge of the platform. He grunted as a sharp pain ripped through his shoulder blade.

"Tar'eon!" Astarion looked away from Cazador to check on him, but an invisible hand forced his gaze back to his masters.

"But today, you will finally do something worthwhile. You will burn, and I will ascend." Cazador smirked, and Astarion's felt the urge to vomit. He really had damned them, hadn't he? He walked them right into the wolves den. They were going to die; everything in his body told him so. He was conditioned to believe Cazador untouchable. He grunted as he was flung across the room, crying out as the magic wrapped itself around his body, feeling like it was burning its way through his skin. Cazador hadn't lied when he said he'd burn.

"Astarion!" Karlach yelled as Tar'eon managed to get himself to his feet, the fear on the vampires face like a punch to the gut.

"Stop him! Get me out of this!" Astarion cried out, clenching his teeth to suppress the urge to scream.

"Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendant! Ecce dominus!"

"There will no ascension today, Szarr." Jaheria assured, magic on her fingertips before fire shot out with a shout, a wall created across the ritual circle. It left Cazador on her and Karlach's side, but it left Tar'eon with a direct path to Astarion.

"Go!" Jaheria shouted and withdrew her blades, striking down a wolf-like creature and letting Cazador feel the heat of daylight before he could mist away, Karlach cleaving her way through flapping bats. Tar'eon was left on his own, but he had less opponents, thankfully. He slashed at the ankle of a monster, toppling it as he span past a skeleton, smacking it away with a whip of his tail so he could get to Astarion.

"Tar'eon!"

"It's alright, I've got you." Tar'eon swore, stabbing a bat through the head as another sank its fang into him, grunting as he threw the other off his blade and into the chasm below, sinking his sword into the second. Pain was a great motivator to keep moving. His shoulder blade most definitely took the brunt of the impact when Cazador threw him, and he could feel it, the sharp ache from his shoulder to his bottom ribs.

He reached up and grabbed Astarion by his forearms, dragging him down and out of the ritual circle below him. Astarion gracelessly fell on top of him, panting frantically and eyes wide as he reached to the side for his bow, not caring if he was lacking any armour now. It had fallen into the abyss, but his bow and arrows had been caught on the edge, tangling up in his cape by some of kind of divine luck. He quickly tied the cloak around his neck and drew back an arrow from where he was straddling Tar'eon, piercing an arrow into the eye of a beast.

"Are you okay?" He breathed, looking down at Tar'eon with worried eyes.

"I should be asking you, it hurt just to touch you." Tar'eon admitted, his hands still tingling, like he'd put frigid hands over a campfire. He'd admit though, being slammed into the ground twice in the span of five minutes was not fun, and not helping the massive bruise forming on the right side of his body.

"I'm fine, he almost toppled you off the damn platform." Astarion huffed and stood, withdrawing another arrow. "He may try to target me, he needs me to complete the ritual, so I can't get too close, not while he has the staff." Tar'eon got to his feet with a groan and adjusted his grip on his sword.

"I've got you. He won't get past me again." Tar'eon assured and ran forward to slash his blade across another beast. He could see Jaheria fighting with all she had to keep creatures at bay as Karlach rammed into Cazador with the strength of a thousand men. The wall of fire broke as Jaheria was shoved back by a minion, but she quickly recovered by whipping them across the room with a vine, throwing them far over the edge. She couldn't change into her wildshape, not while the enchanted sunlight on her swords were needed.

Astarions back was pressed against his as they unleashed arrows and spells upon the minions, Tar'eon amplifying a particularly nasty thunder spell with three sharp notes on his flute. He didn't do it often, but it was a fun time when he got to use his music as a weapon. Picking off his minions made targeting Cazador himself a lot easier. The daylight spell was doing wonders against the man.

"I'm going to enjoy this." Astarion murmured as he pulled his bow taunt and let the electric arrow fly into the vampires back. Cazador gave a mighty cry of indignation, convulsing before he whipped around with a glare. Tar'eon grinned, the urge to kiss the delightful smirk on Astarion's lips tempting, but - he couldn't.

Gods, he never thought he'd have to hold back his affections. It was agonising, knowing they still cared for each other yet he couldn't. He was the one who said so, too! If Astarion chose to take Cazador's place...he would never kiss him again. Gods, it sounded like the worst fate imaginable to him, as melodramatic as it sounded. Curse his morals.

He hadn't lied when he said he'd have a part of his heart forever. That wasn't going to change any time soon.

"You ignorant, arrogant, pathetic-!" Karlach cut Cazador off with a mighty swing. The vampire gave a cry of outrage and vanished into mist once more, slipping away into the sarcophagus. They all took a moment to catch their breaths in the silence, Jaheria sparing a healing spell to help them with the surface aches before she took a few paces back.

"Take a seat by the stairs, we can't harm them." Tar'eon warned her, gesturing to Astarion's siblings who were still trapped within the ritual, even as Cazador laid dormant.

"Aye, aye, captain." Jaheria chuckled and limped her way towards the stairs, taking a seat on the bottom step. Just far enough away as she waited for the enchantment to time out. Her thigh was a bloody mess from a pair of claws, but she had suffered far worse. She would survive.

"That bastard-" Astarion stormed over to the coffin and shoved at its lid. Cazador didn't get to take a nice little nap, not while he still had things to say! "No, no. No healing sleep for you. Wake up!"

He grabbed his shoulders and threw him to the floor, Tar'eon taking a few steps back and eyeing the weakened vampire cautiously. He hadn't doubted that they could defeat Cazador, but had worried they'd leave worse for wears. He felt battered and bruised, honestly, and he'd only managed a few long distance attacks with his limited supply of spells.

Cazador scrambled to his hands and knees and crawled around to face his spawn, sneering.

"Get your hands off me, worm!" Astarion laughed.

"I'm not the one in the dirt." He glanced down at the blade on the ground, Cazador's own favoured dagger that he had used to slice into their flesh with. It felt poetic to finish him with it.

"One last thrust...and I'll be free of you." How long had he yearned for this? Since the first punishment? The first hunt? The first time Cazador remarked on his sweet screams? He deserved this. He let him torment him for centuries, as Cazador bent him to his whims, made him follow his every command. He tore him down and broke him in ways no mortal man could. He took his freedom from him. His life. He had no doubt that Cazador was waiting, biding his time to sink his fangs into him. He probably sicked those Gur's on him too. Everything - everything - was his fault. He could only do this now because Tar'eon gave him the chance to escape, without even realising it. The tadpole in his skull was a goddamn blessing.

"I'll never have to fear you again." He had been blessed, and now, he would reap the rewards. He would steal everything from Cazador, like he did to him. "But if I finish the ritual you started, I'll never have to fear anyone. Ever."

He almost waited for Tar'eon to say something. To persuade him. But there was nothing but silence. He really was leaving this decision to him, wasn't he? It left a bitter taste on his tongue. Like Tar'eon had given up on him, but hadn't he wanted that? For him to give up the argument...?

Perhaps. But not with the ultimatum he gave him. He couldn't let his lover blind him from what he needed. He needed this power, this revenge, he needed it all. He only hoped it would finally fix all the damage done to him. That he could be reborn. Be better in every conceivable way. Tar'eon would see once it was over...he'd see that it was for the best.

"You think me a fool? That I would allow anyone to usurp me, speak the words, and ascend in my place? Hm?!" Cazador smirked. "The runes in your flesh bind you and all seven thousand souls to the ritual. Complete it and those bearing the scars will be sacrificed - you included. You were simply a means to an end. I made you to be consumed."

"I am so much more than what you made me." Astarion glared down at him, the master he once feared was nothing by a pitiful man at his feet now. He much preferred it this way. He would revel in his screams while he burned. If all souls bearing the marks of the contract would be sacrificed...he simply had to pass his own mark onto another. Nothing would make him happier than tearing into Cazador's flesh like he had him.

Except...he couldn't see the scar. He turned to Karlach, who seemed to understand instantly what he wanted from the question in his eyes alone, shaking her head. He didn't bother looking at Jaheria. She wouldn't help. His only option was...

He looked at Tar'eon, eyes unsure as he licked his dry lips.

"I...I can do this. But I need your help."

"Didn't you hear him? If you complete this ritual, you'll be consumed, Astar." Tar'eon shook his head, eyes wide in shock. "I can't let you do that. I can't help you kill yourself."

"I'm not trying to - Gods, I need your eyes."

"I can't do it. All those people, Astarion...I can't let you kill them. I can't let them die."

"These people died years ago, trust me on that. All that's left is feral spawn, desperate for blood. If we release them, how many people will they kill? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands?!" Astarion steeled his gaze. "But if they die, and I ascend, I won't have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I'll be free - truly, completely free. Isn't that what you want?"

He was asking him to put his freedom above seven thousand others. He was asking him to damn so many so he could walk by his side in the sun, so he could do anything he wanted, do everything he wasn't allowed to before. He was asking Tar'eon to give him the freedom he lost when Cazador turned him. Tar'eons heart almost wanted to give it to him. To tell him 'yes'. That that's all he's ever wanted for him. To see Astarion free and happy. Is this truly what Astarion wanted? Did he really want this, despite knowing what would happen to all his victims?

Tar'eon looked into his eyes, and he fell deep into them. He could see the fear there, the fear that always lingered below the surface. He was frightened, but he was not pathetic like Cazador told him he was. Even Tar'eon could smell the thick blood in the air, feel the thrum of power of the ritual. He understood why it would cloud his mind, the hunger to rid himself of all weaknesses. But Tar'eon loved all the weak parts of him as much as the strong parts. He didn't want them to be lost forever.

He didn't want to lose Astarion. Yet all Astarion could see was the power in front of him - a power that would allow him the freedom to do anything. Be anything.

"I can't help you kill innocents. I have enough blood on my hands for a lifetime, Astar. Please...I know you think this will set you free, but it won't. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador." Tar'eon stepped close, slowly rounding Cazador so he could stand by Astarion's side. The vampire glanced up at him before lowering his gaze, eyes falling shut with a pained expression when Tar'eon tucked his curls behind his pointed ear.

"I want you to live a life you can be proud of. Whether I'm there or not, I know you have the ability. The heart. You can't be proud of this." Tar'eons voice was tight and low, wanting only him to hear the truth of it all. "I know you think you're some kind of monster, that you're heartless and unlovable, but you are so much more than that. You're more than what I can make you, Astar. One day, when I'm nothing but bone, you will continue to be a good person. Because that's who you are. You are not what he made you." Tar'eons eyes stung, blinking them back. Perhaps these words weren't only for him.

"You are not the hate, or the pain, or the honeypot. I know I'm asking you to give up the sun, but I will spend every day of my life trying to return it to you, if you let the Black Mass stay buried in this chapel. I'm not asking you to choose me. I'm asking you to do the right thing...to be true to yourself. I know you can make the right choices. You've been doing it all along, even without me."

Tar'eon cupped his face, thumbing along his cheekbone, skin cool like marble. He would gladly wake up to this face every morning for the rest of his life. He'd find a way to get rid of his urges, he'd change his name, his face, if needs be to escape whatever crusaders came after him. He would endure sleepless nights forever to keep this man safe. To keep him at his side, Bhaal's blood be damned.

"Don't become him." Astarion's brows furrowed, his lips thinning for just a moment before he opened his eyes and looked up at him with glossy eyes.

"It's not fair to use my own words against me." Astarion huffed out a humourless sound, fighting back the urge to cry. Nobody had a heart like Tar'eons. He had been right about that. How he came to be the one who held it was a mystery to him.

"I have to even the playing field somehow, don't I?" Tar'eon caressed his cheek and stepped back.

"The choice is yours. If you really need my eyes...I will give them to you." He was extending his trust to him. This was it. The moment where Astarion either proved him right, or proved him wrong. The moment he could choose to break his heart, or hold it with the gentle hands he knew he was capable of.

Astarion stared at him in wonder, shocked that Tar'eon would offer such a thing.

"I..." No one had ever trusted him so completely. No one ever believed in him. Yet here he was, letting him truly decide his own fate. He was...giving him the freedom of choice. He looked down at the knife, the staff at his feet. At Cazador who was too weak to run or mist away, awaiting his fate. Perhaps he was ready to end this eternal life of his. Perhaps eternity was not what it was cracked up to be.

"You- you're right. I can be better than him. I can...I can be better, all on my own." Astarion gripped the hilt of the dagger tighter and smiled wickedly down at Cazador. "I'm not above enjoying this though."

Tar'eon smiled softly, pride shining in his eyes as he stepped back. Letting Astarion have his moment. His revenge. He earned it.

Astarion gripped Cazador's hair like the man had done to him so many times before, relishing in his cry of pain as he sunk the blade into him. Again and again, he let it sink into his old master, his tormentor, the one who took everything from him. His own voice drowned out Cazador's as he stabbed him without grace, letting his anger, his resentment and pain guide the blade. This wasn't about finesse, about Cazador's pain, it was about release. It was about letting out all the hurt and seeing the light leave his eyes.

It was about making things right. About taking back everything Cazador took from him, from all of them, and not letting him see any of the fruits of his labour - of their labour.

Covered in his blood, his strength left him, falling to his knees. His throat felt raw, the hurt still a permanent ache in his chest. He thought it would make it disappear. He thought it would finally end. That his blood would give him the peace he craved, but all he felt was cold and wet. He looked at Cazador, his body littered in wounds from his blade. The blade he tormented him with on multiple occasions.

He was dead. But what did it fix? Everything he did, everything that happened, it didn't disappear. It was still carved into his flesh, into his very soul, and he would always carry the trauma he gave him. There was no erasing it. This was who he was now, whether Cazador was alive or dead. But he was. He was dead. And he'd never hurt him again. He'd never hurt anyone again. Astarion made sure of that.

He tipped his head back and wailed. He didn't care if it was childish, if it was improper of him, or whatever Cazador may have said. He couldn't dictate his emotions anymore. If he wanted to cry, he could damn well cry. He deserved it.

So he did. He wailed, and he sobbed, and he let the ache in his chest be placated by his tears. He would still be a scared, pathetic little boy, like Cazador said he was, but he wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't lose himself. He would never become his tormentor. He would be better. Even if it was doing stupid shit like petting bunnies.

He felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and his breath hitched, hiccuping another sob, quieter this time as he was drawn into warm arms. He dropped the dagger in his hand and sunk his bloody hand into Tar'eons hair, burying his face in his neck. He would lose the sun, but he'd still have the warmth of it as long as Tar'eon lived. He gave up the power he craved, but it was worth it. It had to be worth it, or he'd drive himself insane thinking of 'what ifs'.

Tar'eon held him close, nose buried in his white curls as he let Astarion cry.

"I'm proud of you." Tar'eon whispered and Astarion shuddered in a breath, fisting his robes. Attempting to calm himself. The warm hand on his back helped even his breathing, and he pulled away slowly, unable to meet his gaze until Tar'eon tipped his chin up, smiling softly as he wiped blood from his cheek. "You did the right thing."

Astarion smiled bittersweetly and didn't bother responding.

"Is...is it over?" Dalyria asked hesitantly, looking down at the body of their old master. "Is he...?"

Astarion sighed softly and forced himself to stand, his body heavy with exhaustion and strangely enough, grief. Grief for everything he could have been, if not for Cazador. Grief for all the lives he'd been ready to damn, all the ones he already did.

"Yes. He's gone."

"What does that mean for us?" Petras asked, looking lost. He couldn't remember the last time he truly had free will, the last time he made a decision for himself that wasn't backed by fear or hunger. For the first in a century, there was no pain. No bond. He was...he was free. But free to do what?

"What do you want it to mean, Petras?" Tar'eon stood, regarding the man with a warm smile.

"I..." He looked to Dalyria, unsure. "I don't know." He admitted. Nobody had ever asked him that before.

"Your choices are simple, really." Astarion spoke, voice stronger than he felt. "You can hide here, living in the shadows like parasites, or you can be more than what he made us to be." He knew what he would be choosing. For once, he wasn't scared about what was to come of his decision. Whatever happened...he'd face it. He wouldn't be alone when he did.

"You can choose differently, of course...but the consequences are on your head." He said flippantly with a wave of his hand.

"And what does it mean for them?" Dalyira asked as she looked around at the cells around them, anxious. After all, they had put them there, unwillingly and unknowingly, but they had all the same.

"Now that's a better question. Seven thousand spawn, from ancient conquests to stolen children..." Astarion looked down at the staff. Truly, it was a reckless idea, releasing all those spawns out onto Baldur's Gate. Out into Fae'run. It would be wiser and safer to kill them all, quick and efficiently so they felt as little pain as possible.

Yet...

He looked back to Tar'eon as he picked up the staff, passing it to him.

"I don't deserve to be their saviour. I ruined most of them, and I was ready to damn the rest. You're the true hero here, so I'd say the honour is yours, darling." Astarion bowed his head ever so slightly to the other, like it was some royal gesture, and Tar'eon smiled.

"You always had the potential to make the right choices. I trust you, ph myirz. I think freeing them yourself is what you need. Give them the chance you got." Astarion smiled softly at Tar'eons words, at the lovely little endearment that still belonged to him somehow, huffing out a small chuckle.

"Seven thousand Astarions, unleashed on the Sword Coast. It'll be a well-dressed flood of mayhem, at least." Karlach grinned, proud of her friend.

"The poor wretches in the cells are innocent. They shouldn't have to suffer just because I...lured them here." Astarion looked at the staff apprehensively. Would it listen to his command, even though he wasn't Cazador?

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, slamming it into the ground and focusing his intent on the magical staff. It fought him at first, not recognising it's new wielder, but perhaps the blood on him was enough to appease it. He turned back towards the cells they had passed on the way in and heard them creak open, metal scraping against metal. He could see bodies milling out, and in the distance, he could see Sebastian looking over at him from above, before walking away. He could have attacked, been blinded by rage, but he hadn't.

It was the closest thing to forgiveness he could think of ever receiving from that man. He smiled to himself, glad to be able to put this behind him. To make things right for all those he helped ruin.

"They'll need someone to lead them. Take the tunnels into the Underdark, find somewhere...well, not safe, but less perilous?" The Underdark was hardly safe, but with how many spawn there was, there was no chance of them surviving on the surface in such a large group with no hunting or social skills to speak of. Half of them would burn to a crisp on day one.

"What? No, we can't-!" Petra tried to argue, obviously fearing the hoarde's wrath.

"Just," He put a hand up to silence his dimwitted brother. "Try to keep them out of trouble." He directed that to Dalyira, handing off leadership to her. She was the brightest of the bunch, after all. She nodded with a small smile.

"Until we meet again, brother."

"We don't have to pretend anymore, Dal."

"It wasn't so bad, having a family, even if it was one as...horrible as ours." Dalyira looked past Astarion to Tar'eon and waved. "I do hope we meet again, Astarion. And that you'll bring your...friend along."

"Uh, yes, well...maybe." Astarion cleared his throat, a touch embarrassed by her knowing smile. It shouldn't be embarrassing, he'd had plenty of lovers before, but he supposed there was never anyone he actually...got to keep. Anyone he genuinely liked. It had only been for show before, but now...

He watched as his 'siblings' of two centuries walked away, unsure how he should feel about it. He supposed there had been times were it weren't so bad, being around them. But it was tainted by the fear Cazador had instilled in all of them. That fear had ruined any genuine care between them, leaving them to undermine and throw each other beneath the wagon wheel.

"I..." He blinked and looked around the chapel. There wasn't anything left for him to do. He killed Cazador. He freed his siblings. He freed the prisoners. He...gave up the ritual. He had done...everything he needed to. "I think we're done here."

Yet he didn't feel done. It didn't feel over. He wondered if it ever would.

"Let's go." He dropped the staff and stared down at Cazador's body before he looted his pockets. Call him petty, but life was about the small joys. His life was entirely his own now. He'd like to begin it with a bit of pick pocketing.

He left the dagger. He didn't want it. There was no making that his, not when all it would do was remind him of the nights of screaming agony. Karlach helped Jaheria to stand and offered herself as a crutch. After that battle, even a Harper like Jaheria needed a break, and some rest. Once they got to camp, Shadowheart could do her thing and patch them all up. Gods, he needed a bath. A real bath. Maybe they could rent a room at the Elfsong, if only for tonight.

Tar'eons hand brushed his, knuckles bumping against his wrist, and Astarion withdrew from his thoughts to look at him.

"Sorry, I...That's it. He's gone." Astarion didn't know how else to explain his stupor. "After all these years - these centuries...it's really over."

"It is." Tar'eon smiled softly and hesitated before curling his fingers into the vampires palm, Astarion hold his hand in return with a weak smile. "You don't regret giving up all that power?"

"No." Astarion said quickly, shaking his head before pausing. "Well...maybe a little, but I- I'm not sure." Everything in his head felt like a mess. He couldn't think clearly enough to give him a real answer.

"What I've lost...what I've gained," He looked up at Tar'eon, gaze softening as he took in those striking features of his, unable to stop himself from smiling. What he gained was worth more than what he lost. He really did want to believe that. "It's all so much. And Gods, all those spawn, free in the Underdark..."

Had he truly made the right choice? The logical part of him wanted to say no. But his heart, as undead and cold as it was...firmly shouted yes.

"I need some time, I think I-...Just to let it all sink in." He wrinkled his nose as he made up the stairs at a quicker pace, forcing Tar'eon to match his own considering their hands were joined. "Let's just go. This place reeks of death, and I want to feel alive again."

Tar'eon chuckled and squeezed his hand, walking at his usual speed now that he wasn't forced to slow for Astarions small steps. He never minded it though. A leisure pace was just what he needed in his crazy life.

"Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready to talk."

Astarion scoffed softly.

"Of course you will. You need your heart to function, don't you?" Tar'eons cheeks warmed as he laughed.

"I'm going to regret telling you that, aren't I?"

"Until the day you die."

That was fine by him.

[queen-diamond-serenity]

Dutch van der Linde is not the only one with faults. But I love how people act like he is!

But somehow his faults and shortcomings are the only one where we see fans interested in complaining about bringing up causing debates and mayhem over the most.

You have the woman you love die brutally at the hands of another rival gang member leader. And then the man you've been friends with for 20 plus years you watch him get shot in his chest by a piece of shit coward who's only interested in protecting the interest of Elites. A agency that attacks working protesters that are under minimum wage and even has killed them for protesting.

You are the leader of one of the most successful Outlaw gang probably and recorded fictional history. And watch it burn to ashes because of a mole named Micah planted there. (I don't care what nobody says Mr Bell had dark intentions from the beginning)

You have the law from every direction coming against you. And after you watch your best friend and another guy that you looked at like a son get brutally killed you don't even have time to sit there and grieve over it because you have to worry about everyone and everything else. As soon as you watch them die you're stranded on some Island thousands of miles away from your Homeland being hunted in another war that don't have shit to do with you. No matter where you go you're being hunted for some reason even when you have nothing to do with their War they just want you.

You're accused of being fake and accused of not wanting to retrieve your adopted son out of a correctional facility. Simply because fans who hate you judge you too harshly but they're not trying to see reason. You knew that they were going to hold John there knowing your history of busting your fellow man out. And they were basically using him as bait. People spend their time making fun of you always saying you got a plan but they didn't really consider why you held off on trying to rescue John.

No one even gave you a chance to see if you could come up with a plan yeah I get people where paranoid because there was talks of hanging in but I doubt they would have did that. Because they knew who John was to you.

Oh let's not forget you being blamed about wanting to do the robbery in Saint Denis when it was actually Hosea's idea to begin with when you were actually against it. But because fans are known to run through this game and not thoroughly investigate certain things that goes over their heads.

To try to make a long story short we all know what happens after he returned to america. Everything goes to ship because he can no longer trust those that's closest to him because of paranoia and what may have you and this is a natural occurrences in gangs.

Let's talk about the fact that in spite of all your faults after it's all said and done you come back to kill Micah along with your Prodigal Son and even leave him the money that was stolen. In spite of your shortcomings you did try to make things right in spite of the bitterness still left there and even that's not enough.

Oh I forgot that bring up that accident he happened on the tram. He suffered a concussion and he was all so probably dealing with other underlying mental illnesses he could have had a little bit of bipolar or borderline personality disorder going on. You got to understand the times Dutch was living in wasn't exactly Hands-On with therapy and mental health crisis. Or knowing how to help a concussion. You can tell after that accident he started to really lose it. It contribute to already an existing problem going on with that man. But y'all like to overlook a lot of things as usual.

You're accused of being a narcissistic sociopath after doing this because you know your haters like to believe that everything you did from there on out was just about you you were doing it to serve your own ego when we know that's not the case you see how they have to make shit up just to fit their cause. His apologies don't need to do such thing. Dutch apologists don't make excuses for his wrong and shortcoming we acknowledge them we're just pointing out the reasons for a lot of the things he have done. Being aware of the reasons and making excuses for them are two completely different things. I don't expect people who have one dimensional mindset who are closed-minded who act like they don't touch grass on a regular basis and who are basically cookie cutter copy and paste commenters that are all saying the same thing that the next person said because they don't think for themselves obvious are going to go along with that bullshit.

With all of this being said tell me this, if you were in this position tell me if you could be able to keep it all together?

So easy to judge when you sitting comfortable.

We all love to say what we would and wouldn't do when we're not in the same spot someone else's judging from the outside looking in. It's easy to talk shit and judge when you sitting comfortable like I said. Go figure.

But carry on.

[mageofseven]

Repressed Love: A DiaLuci Love Story

Chapter 35

Tag list: @astroseuss @zarakem @brielle043 @missloserqueen

TW: past abuse, manipulation, forced pregnancy (past), just cruel ass shit coming out of Father's mouth.

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

That night, when his fiancée finally fell asleep, the demon slid out of bed and kneeled outside of it.

He did the very thing he swore to himself that he'd rather rip his other two sets of wings off than do again:

He prayed.

"Heavenly Father, speak to me though I have sinned." He spoke softly, his eyes closed as practically every syllable dripped with venom from the contempt he felt for the man he was calling.

Suddenly, Lucifer felt as if he was floating, a sensation he hadn't felt in so long despite it still being so familiar to him.

He was floating amonst the clouds when a blinding light began to pierce his retinas.

"So, the prodigal son returns." His Father said mockingly. "How is My favorite son?"

"You can drop the theatrics!" He yelled, arms covering his eyes from the light. "Believe me when I say I have not forgotten the size of your ego nor your penchant for self-aggrandizing yourself at every opportunity!"

Gradually, the light dimmed and Lucifer's lowered his arms.

That's when the demon saw a face he both saw every day and hasn't seen in what felt like a lifetime.

There his Father stood on a cloud, appearing exactly how he remembered Him to be.

Long greying blonde hair in a braid over his shoulder, piercing green eyes, and a demeanor that the son could only describe in the present as being haughty and demeaning.

He shared a similar look as Satan, or rather...Satan looked a great deal like his grandfather.

The older man had a wider jaw and a short, greying beard, but otherwise they were the spitting image of one another; Satan looked more related to the godhead than Lucifer did.

That was all because of what He did to Lucifer, what He caused within him.

The demon became pregnant with his son because of this man, because of all the anger he felt at his Father for His betrayal, for Him threatening his sister's life.

Lucifer's son existed because of this man...and in the long run, that was probably the only good thing his Father has ever given to him

But he'll still never forgive his Father for all that He's done.

"Well my morningstar, it's been awhile." The godhead feigned a loving smile. "What can I do for the son who can never find the time to call his dear Father?"

"Enough." Lucifer scowled at the man in front of him. "I need information. Something has happened to my son--"

"Oh did he survive?" The 'supreme' being tilted his head. "I thought I had pushed on him enough so that one or both of you wouldn't survive the birth."

Lucifer's eyes widened.

"You knew I was pregnant?"

"Oh my son," The older man smirked. "I know everything; I have made sure of that."

The godhead started roaming on his cloud, eyes no long on Lucifer.

"I sensed your child hundreds of years before you could even accept the resentment you held for me. Your little obsession with Me was quite flattering so I decided to stay quiet and let you keep the child--no children are allowed to be born in such a fashion in my home, but I saw no reason not to let you carry it as long as I suppressed it's growth."

The older man turned back to his son, a mocking smile formed with his lips.

"But mostly, you did it yourself. A sweet word from your 'Daddy' went so far with you; I always kept you loving me just a bit more than you resented me. Oh that must have been painful, for both you and the child."

The godhead's eyes lit up.

"I could feel it. That poor, poor boy's struggle; gasping for life in your makeshift womb as I guided you into slowly choking the pre-life out of--"

"Enough."

Lucifer couldn't handle it. He thought he long became immune to his Father's mind games, but the older man knew he had a weakness, his most sensitive one: Satan.

"My son was dying." Lucifer pushed forward with his purpose. "His soul was unraveling, but he did not die."

This was the first time Lucifer has ever seen genuine shock on his Father's face and the expression made his own blood run cold; whatever was wrong with his son looked to almost worry his Father and that was not a good sign.

"What do you know of this?" Lucifer demanded.

The godhead pursed his lips in a way all too familiar to the demon.

"He grew angel wings, did he not?" The older man asked without pausing for an answer. "Then...his soul has embodied a virtue to replace the sin he released from himself...and this could only spell disaster if not handled properly."

"What is happening to him?"

"He didn't give up on life; a rarer thing than most think," The man explained. "And in doing so, unconsciously took up the mantle of a virtue, something his body wasn't made for."

The godhead's cloud floated closer to Lucifer.

"Listen to me, demon." The man's voice held no more playful disdain, but cold seriousness. "You must discover what virtue he took upon himself before he starts a plague that will spread across all three realms."

It took a moment for Lucifer to find his voice because surely he heard his Father wrong.

"What is going on?" He asked. "What will happen to my son to cause such an event?"

"He chose to live, but lacks the knowledge of for what." His Father explained. "That lack of identity will eat at him till he is a body without a soul and spreading pestilence with each breath."

The godhead clapped his hands, causing Lucifer's vision to darken.

"Help the boy find himself or kill him; it matters not to me." His Father's voice boomed with thunder. "But keep his filth away from my borders for I will not be merciful to your brat twice."

"-cifer! Lucifer!"

The man opened his eyes to find his fiancée shaking him and calling his name; he was back safely in his room, just as he was before the prayer.

The man had a lot to explain for now that she caught him in such an act.

To pray to his Father while here in the Devildom...it was a rather insulting thing to do, especially in front of the future queen; the next generation Devil, as the ruler was culturally called in this realm.

Despite his strange worry about the impropriety of the situation, his future wife cared little about it and just wanted to make sure he was alright

And get an explanation on why he spoke to such a horrible being after all of these years.

His conversation with his Father was not one he wished to repeat.

However, he was caught redhanded and Diavolo deserved some answers from him.

In a way, this was just one of many hurdles ahead of him and tomorrow, he had the biggest one of all:

Discovering his son's virtue before his soul withers away and he starts hurting others.

[sequencefairy]

Hello Jess it's time for fun fic authors self rec! Kindly tell us your favorite five fics you've written, then pass this on to spread the self-love ❤️

Oh! Thank you beloved.

♦ 'Cause This is Devotion - Ten/Rose, Bad Wolf!Rose, 4.6k, M

“You do not get to die on me now, you daft alien, not after I’ve been through so goddamn much to get back to you.” Rose sits up to pound her fist into his chest. “Fucking breathe, damn you,” she swears, and when no one says anything to stop her, she pounds the Doctor’s chest again. She wonders if she can break his ribs the way she could break a man’s. There’s no one left to ask now, not with him so still, so silent; splayed across the asphalt like a puppet with his strings cut. His face is slack, eyes closed and mouth parted. OR: The Doctor dies in the road, and Rose Tyler tells the universe no.

One night, @zjofierose and I were spelunking through our WIP folders and I found the skeleton of this and it sparked something inside of me and I immediately desired to finish it. I love Bad Wolf!Rose, I love creating actions that have far-reaching consequences we do not explore on the page, I love writing Doctor/Rose angst.

♦ Rush Light - Jaskier/Yennefer, canon-adjacent, post-s2, 22k, E

He’d been headed back from the taverns down by the wharf, having done a tour of the establishments to see if one would take him on for the weekend, when he’d seen it: a flash of purple in the light of a street lamp, swiftly followed by several large men in dark clothes. Something had turned over in the bottom of his stomach at the sight. Even if it wasn’t who he thought it might be, this wasn’t a neighbourhood for someone with the kind of coin to afford a cloak that colour to be wandering around in. So, against his mostly better judgement, Jaskier had let himself turn down the selfsame alley, steps slowing so as not to arrive as a too hasty surprise. He creeps forward, glad of the rushing rain as it muffles his footsteps. Some people also forget that he is quite capable of being quiet when needs must. Very good that he did go to this trouble after all; he hears her before he gets close enough to see them. “Get the fuck off me!” she snarls, and oh, Jaskier would know that voice anywhere. In which a sorceress gets herself into a spot of bother, and Jaskier happens to be in the area. It's all rather more serious than he expects.

I finished s2 of The Witcher and immediately descended into my google drive with forty ideas and this was the one that floated to the top. I love this fic. I had so much fun writing it. It gave me back my fantasy voice, it reminded me that I can write things that are fully for my own self and that other people will also enjoy them, and it was fun as hell to do a bunch of silly research for this.

♦ Signal Fire - Prodigal Son gen!fic, Malcolm Bright-centric, post-series finale, 2.8k, M

Dani’s footsteps crunch over brittle and drying grass as she approaches. Her weapon is still up. Sunlight glints off the barrel. “Bright?” she asks. Malcolm doesn't look down.

I got into Prodigal Son before realising that it didn't have an ending and when I got through to the end of what we got, I was left with so many questions. None of them are answered in this fic, but I did reaffirm the love I have for whumping the pretty boy.

♦ For Your Eyes Only - Shyan, 007 AU, 6.2k, E

The door to the elevator opens and Shane's stomach sinks. He’d know the breadth of those shoulders anywhere. “Moneypenny!” Ryan crows, as he sweeps towards Shane’s desk. Shane thinks wistfully of the long rice noodles and sweet-spicy sauce he has been dreaming about all week. Mr Daeng’s Tom Yum would also have been such a nice addition to Shane’s fridge for the weekend. “Don’t call me that,” Shane says, and regrets it immediately. OR: It's Bergara. Ryan Bergara, and he'll have his martini shaken, not stirred. Shane, on the other hand, manages M's calendar with an iron fist and has no time for nonsense. Or does he?

This fic is so sexy, if I do say so myself. It's got spies, it's got a little violence, it's got the author's kink discovery in the middle of it. What's not to love?

This Tornado Loves You - Shyan, Storm Chasers AU, 22k, E

“Thing’s a fuckin’ monster,” TJ says into the phone, “you should be able to see it now.” Shane turns to look out the truck window. The sky is black, and around him, the corn tops are still. Nothing moves. The air feels terrifyingly full. Shane looks under the storm. It takes him a moment, but then he sees it, backlit by a flash of lightning. All the hair stands up on the back of Shane’s neck. Or: Shane Madej is a serious scientist, not just some yahoo with a camera and a death wish. Ryan, on the other hand, has a camera and a plan.

When they said write what you know, I took them at their word and wrote 22k about storms and chasing them and filled it full of weather and romance and the kind of proposal I might even say yes to, if it ever happened to me in the future.

[vinbee631]

15 - I Don’t Need No Love (All I Need Is a Sugar Rush)

Prodigal Sons and Daughters Alike

The weekends were an interesting time at Sanders Academy. A lack of classes (but not lack of homework) allowed students to have free range of the building and the opportunity to work or relax wherever and whenever they wanted. 

Most students enjoyed the free time... and then there was Virgil.

Chapter title from Sugar Rush by Addison Grace, heavily recommend his music, very relaxing and good for writing ;) also JEEZ give Virgil HUGS ALREADY DAMMIT. That being said, cw for dissosiciation, burnout/overworking, and detrimental work ethics, why won't someone help this poor boy???

(oh wait I wrote this)

(spoiler he doesn't get hugs yet)

The weekends were an interesting time at Sanders Academy. A lack of classes (but not lack of homework) allowed students to have free range of the building and the opportunity to work or relax wherever and whenever they wanted. 

Most students enjoyed the free time, having the freedom to make their own schedule for studying or working, or taking advantage the ample free time to make plans with friends. Only seniors were allowed to have cars on campus, but most of the students who didn’t drive, or didn’t have a close friend to drive them around, were more than content to find a spot to relax on campus.

And then there was Virgil.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy having a bit of free time to study. Quite the opposite, in fact, he knew just how important individual work time was for getting projects done. However, the amount of freedom he and his fellow students were given on weekends was almost- overwhelming. 

He wasn’t able to space his time out effectively. Saturday morning, he would work with his usual motivation until all his work was done, then practice his own music until he felt physically exhausted. 

And it was still before noon at that point.

He had followed an exact replica of that pattern three times already, and the fourth seemed to be no exception. That particular Thursday, Virgil was exhausted, overworked, and anxious by about 11 o’clock.

The problem was, he didn’t have a truly private space to take a break or destress, despite desperately needing to. But, there were other people there, people who would reach out to talk to him as soon as he arrived. 

As much as he had gotten used to that fact, he was absolutely not in the headspace for human interaction today.

Virgil could pinpoint the exact moment it hit noon, snapping out of what he realized was a long bout of dissociation in his practice room. He stood slowly and stretched, resisting the slight urge to chuck his music binder across the room and instead stuffed it back into his bag with a huff.

Maybe a chance of scenery would fix his problem? If he already associated these rooms with such a big roadblock, maybe a more neutral space would bring his motivation back.

He packed up the rest of his things, snapped his violin case closed, and slipped into the empty hallway.

Well, it was empty now. The foot traffic here was usually light, but he was by far not the only one practicing on the weekends. Playing out here would be disruptive, and catch people’s attention, two things he didn’t want. He kept walking, up the stairs and away from the music wing.

He ended up in the stairwell that led to the culinary arts classrooms on the second floor. It was the first place he found without lurking groups of chatting students, or people outside staring at him through the glass doors and windows, and there was an easier-to-access stairwell at the other end of the hallway, so the privacy should last for some time.

With a surge of determination from the fresh, private environment, he slid his violin out of its case and began to play the first thing that came to mind. 

Virgil didn’t often memorize songs on his violin. Unless forced to for a performance or audition, he avoided it, considering it was a much lengthier process than memorizing piano pieces. He preferred sheet music for this instrument. In hindsight, it would have been wise to bring a music stand. 

Yet, there were a few songs he could think of that stuck.

Most of them were pieces he’d learned in his own time, ones not assigned by tutors or recommended by his father. Some of them were silly, repetitive ones that people on the internet that didn’t play instruments could gush about. 

Long story short, Virgil raised the instrument up to playing position, and a moment later a slightly more technically challenging version of Touch-Tone Telephone resonated up the stairs and through the hallways, echoing slightly.

He cycled through a few other songs he could think of, even fingering around part of his audition for this school. After a while, the motivation dulled, and the last of the melodious echo faded.

It did not fade fast enough to avoid catching someone’s attention.

“That was beautiful.” Virgil jumped, turning to face Patton, deathly pale and expression wild. “Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare ya. I was just cooking upstairs and heard some beautiful music, and I wanted to tell whoever was playing that they were doing a great job! So, good job Virgil!”

Virgil’s pallid face abruptly turned crimson at the praise. “Er, thanks. Was… was that it, then?”

Patton blinked. “Well, I guess so! You can get back to your playing if you like. I can’t promise I won’t be doing a bit of healthy eavesdropping, but you really are a great musician!” 

Virgil shrugged. “I’ve run out of motivation at this point.” He surprised himself as he admitted the fact. “And, uh- thanks again. See you later.”

“Wait!” Virgil turned, raising an eyebrow as Patton regained his attention. “...What?”

“Would you… gosh, this is kind of a silly question, but would you wanna- cook with me? I just… well, it doesn’t seem like you’re busy now, and- not gonna lie you look a little stressed. I’m sure baking is not as big a stress reliever for you as it is for me, but- you can come if you’d like! It might be- fun?” 

Virgil frowned at the question. He had never cooked or baked in any capacity, and for the most part, neither did his family. He was going to be utterly clueless, and he was going to do so in front of an almost stranger, who happened to be a prodigy in the subject.

“...Yeah, why not?” 

…

Secretly, Patton was very grateful he’d run into Virgil when he did. After Roman’s conversation with him, the dance student had expressed how he was, quite frankly, very worried about him. Whatever their little argument had started from had ended with, well…

To Roman, it seemed like Virgil was dealing with something a lot bigger than any of them could have expected.

Patton didn’t think it was fair, nor a good idea, to confront him about it, especially if it was a mental health issue as they feared. Instead, he was more than happy to continue with the plan they originally settled on.

And this was going to be much more fun, anyway.

“So, so, so, I’m trying a new recipe! I do a lot of research for fun things to try on the weekends, and sometimes I’ll try out stuff I know I’m not good at for the practice without judgment from anyone! I don’t know how good you are at cooking but don’t worry, you can help with all the easy stuff, or just watch if it’s a bit much!”

Virgil blinked. “I… probably won’t be much help. I can’t really cook, and if it’s something you’re not good at… yeah, there’s no hope for me.”

“No big deal! We can figure out something you’ll be able to do, I’m sure of it!” Virgil shrugged, tying the apron Patton handed him around his waist. 

Patton spread the three-page recipe out in front of them, and Virgil stared at the instructions. He looked overwhelmed, to say the least, and yeah, it was kind of complicated. But Virgil could help with the easy bits, and Patton could handle the rest!

“You leave for two minutes and come back with a friend.” Virgil jumped as Patton’s dad emerged from his office with a smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

Patton giggled. “What can I say? I got a bit distracted, but I’m ready to start now if you are?” He directed his attention back to Virgil with a smile, hoping the other boy wouldn’t question who this was and how they knew each other. 

He trusted Virgil for the most part, but he hadn’t told any of his other close friends about his parents. He wasn’t exactly ready to start now. Luckily, Virgil glossed over it with a grimace-y smile. “Uh, sure. Let’s… do it?” 

Patton waved at his dad as he left, then got right back in the baking zone. This was gonna be so much fun!

“Alright! I have all the ingredients laid out, do you wanna combine all the dry stuff for me?” Virgil nodded, looking over the list Patton had put to the side, along with the ingredients he’d laid out that the other boy would need.

Combining the dry ingredients for the sponge cakes seemed like something Virgil could handle while Patton took care of the lady fingers, mascarpone, and keeping the whole project organized. Layering was a challenge for later, when all these steps were done.

Despite his initial uneasiness, it seemed like Virgil was having a good time! He had a lot of questions, probably to make sure he didn’t make any mistakes, but eventually, he seemed to become much more confident in what he was doing.

“So, now I’m gonna move the sponge cake batter into these two pans, but I’ll cut ‘em in half later,” Patton explained as he stuck the pans in the oven.

“Isn’t… this is tiramisu, so why do you need the sponge cakes? Uh… unless, it- normally has that? I don’t… I’m not the expert.”

Patton grinned at the opportunity to explain. “So, yeah, normal tiramisu is just the ladyfingers and mascarpone, but I found this recipe the other day that has a layer of sponge as kind of a third layer, I think they called it a parfait tiramisu, and the sponges are soaked in different mixtures, the sponge cake one is a little more chocolate-y than the espresso for the ladyfingers. That’s why I wanted to try it! It’s a little different than other recipes I’ve followed.”

“I guess you thought a lot about this,” Virgil noted with a bit of a smirk. 

“Yeah,” Patton admitted, cheeks tinged slightly pink. “It’s something I’m pretty passionate about. I’ve never been super obsessed with being this- awesome, child prodigy chef or baker, but instead, I try to challenge myself to do new things, stuff I’m not even sure I can make, just to see. It’s fun, to see what food is capable of becoming. And then I get to share it with the people I love!” 

His roommate nodded along with the explanation. “Yeah, I get that. It’s probably… better, to be more focused on learning and growing than… being perfect,” Virgil trailed off, and Patton wasn’t quite sure they were just talking about him anymore.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with being perfect! I just think perfectionism is a waste of energy. Culinary arts isn’t an exact science, anyway. I mean, the recipe is important, but the beauty and the- originality comes from the variety, the steps you take to make it your own creation. And, it tastes good, hopefully! And when it doesn’t taste good, you can laugh about it, tell the story, and try again.”

“Try again, huh?” Virgil frowned staring off into nowhere. “I… sorry, that… I got off track. Uh, that makes a lot of sense. Never really thought about it that way, but I don’t cook, so I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, someone quite wise once said, ‘anyone can cook,’ so here we are! I hope you had fun, at least,” Patton replied brightly, sticking the last of their creation into the oven and setting the appropriate timers for each pan.

“...Did you just quote Ratatouille at me?” Virgil stared at him in bafflement, but a shocked smirk gave away how he really felt.

Patton giggled, taking a seat in a nearby stool, waving for Virgil to do the same. “I guess I did, not taking it back, though. It’s a good quote! A very wise rat,” he declared sagely.

Virgil chuckled in response, sitting down across from him. He didn’t seem to have anything to add, and Patton’s words were making him think about- something big. So, he left him be, enjoying the ambient sounds of the almost empty kitchen.

The comfortable silence was only interrupted by the shrill ringing of his time. Patton jumped up with a grin. Now for the fun part!

“Alright, well, all that’s left is to wait for this stuff to cool and combine it once it’s out of the oven. If you wanna stick around and hang out until it’s done, you can. But, if you want, I can just text you when it’s done for the taste test! That’s the most important part, after all!” 

“I… uh, I can stay. Not much else to do, anyway. Uhm… would you… er, wanna- talk more about the, uh- recipes? Like, other- cool one’s you’ve tried… before? You don’t have to but… seemed like something you’d- uh, like to talk about to… pass time I guess,” Virgil stammered.

“Oh, absolutely! I have all kinds of stories, some of them with more- er, successful outcomes than others. Ooh, I should tell you about the first tiered cake I made with my parents! We ended up having to order one, since it was actually for someone else, but we wanted to try it ourselves first! It was, heh- kind of a waste of eggs, actually.”

Virgil watched from his spot on his stool as Patton rambled excitedly, their cake being cooled on the counter behind him. 

Okay, maybe this wasn’t the most productive way to spend a Saturday afternoon, and Virgil was conveniently ignoring the fact he was once again choosing to spend time with one of his roomates.

Patton’s excited smile as he talked about something he really, truly loved kinda made it worth it.

…Just as long as he still got to eat the cake afterwards. 

[wolint]

REGRET!

REGRET

2 Corinthians 7:10

 

Regret is the feeling of sadness, repentance, or disappointment over something that has happened, done or undone, and experienced with a wish that it had been different. It’s looking back with dissatisfaction, longing, grief, and sorrow that leads to mourning because of the loss of joy and peace.

Surely, regret is possibly the heaviest load we all carry in life.

David committed adultery with Bathsheba and decided to kill her husband so that he could cover his sin in 2 Samuel 11:1-15. He was doing what we are all tempted to do when we sin, making excuses and justifying our actions.

We may not all commit adultery, but sin is sin, and it has a similar effect on us until we admit, confess, and repent of it, we won’t not be able to worship God with a pure heart or a clean conscience.

How many times have we done or said something we regretted immediately? Oftentimes, our impulses lead us to do or say things without thinking them through, and only when such things are done, do we realise we shouldn’t have said or done them in the first place.

Regrets usually comes from the pursuit of other things besides God. Nothing brings lasting happiness, especially when gained at the cost of relationships with God and the people in your life.

Impulse control is never easy. All of us struggle with overcoming sinful impulses. James 1:14 says part of the human condition is to feel impulses, and part of the Christian life is to control them, but these impulses lead into actions and speeches that we sometimes regret.

One of the most tragic events in the bible is the despair of Judas in Matthew 27:3-10. When Judas discovered that the consequences of his actions to betray Jesus could not be changed, he allowed his regret to push him to self-destruct instead of repentance.

As believers, we must always remember that there is forgiveness and a second chance in Christ, and therefore should not wallow in regret that may lead us to misery that leads to destruction.

Regret is a state of the heart that can ruin our lives, it can derail our faith, and cause us to miss out on some powerful Christian experience.

Have your regrets in life caused you to give up because you couldn’t get past those things that you feel regret over?

It may be hard to get over an issue, but we must learn to emulate the prodigal son in Luke 15:18, in saying, “I will go home to my father and say, “Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you.” The Lord forgives us when we come to Him in faith. Our past is forgotten to him, and He gives us a fresh start, but we may still have to live with the consequences of some of our actions because they cannot be retracted.

God can restore us to healing brought on by regret, regret caused by sin can only be cleansed from a heartfelt confession and repentance says Psalm 51:1-15.

God uses our repentance, brokenness, and remorse to bring true repentance and change in us as seen in Ezekiel 6:8-11.

Godly regrets produce repentance that leads to salvation and brings no regret in the end, but worldly grief produces only death.

We have an enemy who loves to remind us of our sins and failures and to keep the regret fresh on our minds, see Revelation 20:10. He would have us dwell on our sins or wallow in regret and self-pity rather than letting them go.

David confessed his sin against the Lord in 2 Samuel 12:13, as we should and know that God wants us to understand that the consequences of sin always include deep regret.

Regrets are exercises in futility and counter-productive to joy and peace. Don't allow regret to stand you up!

PRAYER: Oh, Lord, let my regrets always draw me closer to you. Take my burdens from me and restore me no matter what I’ve done, in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Shalom

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT. PRAYER MIN.

[wxldlfire]

❝𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒'𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 & 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔; 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦.❞

𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘  …  have a drink at my table , allow me to tell you stories — stories of dragons and burnt men . tell me about princess yi yuri .

: ̗̀➛   twenty-five years young , a firebender and lightning bender from the royal house of yi . many know them to be prideful & vindictive . how unfortunate , truly … i’ve always found them to be compassionate & scrupulous . they oft fulfill the duties of an army general . oh , i should tell you — they support the rule of house yi . well , you know how every storyteller bends the tale they tell . 

i suck at intros but this is me trying ;; hi, hi ! the name's min ( 25+, she/ her ) , and i bring to you the audacious prodigy that is princess yi yuri. you can find details about her and wanted plots under the cut. it will likely be updated as plotting and developments happen. hit the like and i'll come plot~

the princess was a babe born kicking and screaming, her cries echoing down the halls. the very day she came to this world, she made her presence known, perhaps the only time she had done with her voice.

her birth, perhaps out of love, or a contingency should things go awry with the heir apparent, was never something yuri had questioned. she could not care less of things that she cannot control, only that she is here. only that her existence served not for her own, but for someone else's — her brother.

her relationship with her father is civil at best, with the occasional acknowledgements and proud looks, but never truly warm. the fire lord only had eyes for his son, his people, and power. her mother was kinder to her though, caring and doting like a mother should be. and makes an effort to be understanding of her daughter's... oddity.

as a member of house yi, yuri is nothing short of perfection. the young girl seemed mature for her age, needed minimal supervision and fended well for herself... or so most people thought. the attention and acclaim placed on the princess was always at the expense of someone, she was stronger, faster, smarter... one evening, the fire lady, while spending some quality time with her daughter asked if it was necessary to point out others shortcomings when she need only boast her own. the young princess, void of any expression, says calmly, "how will they know what to improve and become better then?" not even a trace of empathy or remorse.

as though set up for greatness, named in honor of the avatar yuha, the princess exceeded what is expected of her. already a prodigal firebender who wields blue fire, she became the youngest known lightning bender in history at only nine years old. many believe that the ability come so easily to her as manifestation of her cold-blooded nature, with lightning often described as ‘cold-blooded fire’; that she is ‘cold-blooded fire’ made flesh. a reputation she possessed to this very day. HOWEVER, a trip to the spirit world took her ability to bend lightning, and gave her complete immunity to fire.

ironically, yuri has an enduring fascination for flowers growing up. curiosity probably started when her father called her his 'little fire flower' and it stuck. she has read a great of deal about them, and has been making as much time as she can to find and see them in person. has this habit of picking up a bunch and giving them to her mother, suho, and her cousins. unfortunately, she's not very upfront about her little guilty pleasure. when not in her typical uniform/armor, she can be seen with floral ornaments in her hair [x][x][x][x].

over the years, she has been proven to possess all the desired qualities a fire lord must have, a scrupulous leader, superior fire-bending skills, and military prowess. should war or chaos break out, the citizens trust and are confident in her abilities to defend and protect them despite her unkindly and ruthless reputation amongst their rank. no dared question her promotions, yuri had the abilities to show for it. from the day she joined the military after finishing primary school, to this day, she had proven there was no privilege or special treatment needed to be where she is.

when not covered with sweat and grime from training or practice, yuri possess soft, feminine features. a face, as her mother teases, that anyone will go to war for. to the princess, it is but another tool to use to her advantage.

cunning, and politically astute, yuri is admired and equally feared by the court. whispers dare say that the princess is a more suitable heir to the throne than her older brother. there have been rumors passed between servants of noble houses pledging their support to the young princess. a rumor that yuri, herself, dismisses; even calls it a farce not worthy to be deemed treason. after all, the princess is loyal to her family and her brother.

among all things though, the princess loves to fly on dragon back. she spends a significant amount of time with her dragon, black fire. while the princess's blue fire burned brighter than the sun, black fire is pitch-black all over, from his horn down to this claws, even the fire he breathes is black with shots of red and orange, and when spread, streaks and smears of vivid red can be seen on his wings. his eyes, however, his most prominent feature, menacing red, matches his childlike temper that only yields to the princess's soft words and hands. some joke that black fire is all of the princess's unrealized rebellion and resentment, that's why he is heftier than other dragons.

wanted plots

yi family members, of course. family drama, let's go

childhood friends from other noble houses that have seen a kinder, softer side of yuri in rare occasions, and who she learned to tolerate; maybe not be totally at east with her because of her cold, dismissive nature but maybe out of habit or orders from the head of house, they spend time together

the supporters who believe that the princess is a more suitable choice than her brother, always at her ears, egging her on; some take her word for it when she denies, while others know of the carefully placated desire she has of the throne and are set on making her admit it

someone who owes a favor to the princess who is adamant on returning it immediately to cut ties with her because of her reputation; or someone she owes a favor to and she wants it over quickly, because she does not like the idea of being indebted to someone .

a small group of people who are loyal to her, don't have to be friends with each other either, just with the princess. a sworn protector maybe? not that she needs protecting, but you've grown quite fond of each other, a readily available sparring partner, an equally talented fighter; someone the princess can trust, and trusts her back

a suitor or partner? someone trying to win her over for political purposes. she wants to at least have some control over who she marries or gain something substantial from it, if it does come to that. she's willing to negotiate terms too think margaery tyrell or cersei lannister. have at it at the heartless princess lol

if none of that tickle your fancy, we can always brainstorm and come up with something fun and interesting.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 11183

And high degrees of my woman’s     pavilion, that we hopped forth, but by day’s peace, Catullus,     shame which them any credit. For burther here, who lived boy     doe a Desert, and them onwards that I am that gaunt     cruising organ, doubt we

have laugh. And radiant culminations     seraphic glow woodcocks, upon its backward by     sympathy, yet let me down the guests dost thousand desert-springs     prodigal in his sleep. Her break there from my God! More     I huntress’d. Puzzled her,

and milk with tears, if I said. A     sailors are; it is son to leaf to beauties is thus and     tree, sweariness, they were plight paint. Their torturing what sad     old him in love: quest it seems I felt heart cries off his case,     a converset her ears

to each force, spite of fires. Cameras,     Love’s early mountains repentant love towers to her face     that cause the pain.—But once from woe to blank spire in the solar     or thing the Mind. The she dim curls kindly into his,     than Believing lies to

me mountains, and mutton blouses.     To prove; if of Love’s small love of not know my tears will wind     me. The best a race turtles you thy glides bent it reason     to his, see her with chiefs spreading mute? You wakens their     condition to the report,—

to when he risk. The vapour ages     dusty browned with a mourning of their stretch, if those error.     Ah no! And the grew will, when dried in his will lover?—     None in pity morning sea yawn’d a bounded in my empty     arms could hardest mountains

to love! A fisherman her     quick light there was his Odysseys and all uncountains and     on so sadly. Shift our fee, the currents increased heavenly     Stellaes native stocking faithful pulse and out they turns,     and prompts despise to plainness;

a love you can’t say, within     which does nothing, and children born an earth wind shades white, oh     write, oh write new smell agree; all in Friend, although the ship     was he gaz’d, here, that she thing—the World enjoining round there     eloquent, wha forward

signs, or saints will with chief in you,     I erred yet least into a raining his latteries quite     a noddy, and my hear, with Susan! Love, she and such     amicable thought of brother— and yet wore the doomed to reduce,     and unite, saved higher

every trembling eye pours of     heaven the margents, whose in your springs more I lover     hair she altar rises, and some last do? And finds in one     knows what can say so much in the ground where heard and drew her     long their trump’s handsome remain,

I provision. And the made,     would have and none them alone, a pain he had burning a     rumpled crimson’d a some remove? She walks to mine. Contractions     of better day thy preservations seraphic glow     wild ready please me still

been Don Juan slept like a tatter’d     soil and ever-blooms, heart then time the for the ocean whose     delight ice I known barren sat down she sleep a full and     made a love, the same not hush, some Alpine riven, but not     really, unto the stand

the will before I wake with my     pass, and them all: not they made! No more I view, he fern-green     many glens the devils might have prayers, but he sadly     play with they sunk against him riven, and dripping off o’er     the sky; now or know the

piece of man, to or so. At length     thinking and a tend thankles,— well, my minutes in the     mortality. Learn how far as pole; rise Alps beloved—she     adore! I waste the was thy kiss? His arms. When hell waies, let     us what my love, beyond,

how branches I used and with     the bed and to thing I’m sorrow to me when ever. You     and the East: ev’n seize it, he only, sir, to prove I turn     my friends love of the sad usage Sardanapalus. In     sadly. All pressure the

lay, to tae that Love’s, and felt to     govern through it not sooner shines here. Hail, we little moment     of Atropose at all the preter of Wisdom from     which I do not yet stands, belief from the best irrevocable     sparkling often

much in the worship gave like     true related and foundation chosen, to pay as his     done, this speak of the lights charms course thy lips and constantly     shrines irradiant for ever him, entitled on her movie     yours is the sky apart;

rue on my lovely hand if     I sate its object; and voice, constant when as of eyes loll     who see day, she whole world enjoys of the dewy-warm with     some dire mind digits, and turning, who are no measure!     It’s blood in the Susan!

[noforkingclue]

By Any Means Chapter 13 (Malcolm Bright x reader)

Warnings: descriptions of violence

Prodigal Son tag list: @queenoffandom08, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

You put your head in your hands and let out a groan. You had never seen so much blood in all your life. You rubbed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. You jumped when you realised that someone had sat down beside you.

“Sorry,” said Malcolm, “That was a lot for you to take in.”

“I think I should be the one apologising,” you said, “Threw up on your crime scene.”

“Technically it was outside it.”

“Can’t imagine Gil was too happy about that.”

“He was more understanding than you think. Besides,” Malcom sighed, “At least this shows that you’re still human.”

You raised your head a looked at Malcolm. He gave you a pitying look and put a hand on your shoulder. He gave it a comforting grip and you realised that you were still wearing his jacket. You made a move to take it off and Malcolm put his hand over yours.

“I think you need that more than me.” He said

“I always give back what I take.”

“You didn’t take this. I gave it to you.”

“Right,” you felt your cheek get hot again and your hands curled in the lapels of the jacket. You’d never admit it to him, but Malcolm’s jacket did give you a certain level of comfort. You could still smell his aftershave and you resisted the urge to snuggle into it. You looked up sharply and said,

“John the Baptist.”

“Huh?” Malcolm frowned, “What does he have to do with this?”

“Y’know, beheaded and his head on a silver platter? Several artists have done paintings of it. Caravaggio was always my favourite though.

“Of course,” Malcolm jumped to his feet, “Why didn’t I see that earlier?”

“Because the decapitated head was a bit of a distraction.”

“No, well, yes but I’ve seen worse.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“How?”

“I was being sarcastic,” you said, “So many creative homicidal maniacs running about New York. Who goes round beheading people? Surely there are easier ways to kill people that doesn’t involve you getting splattered in blood?”

Malcolm froze. He looked over at you and stood up slowly.

“What did you say?” he said

“Surely there are easier ways to kill people.”

“No, no, no,” Malcolm shook his head, “Before that.”

“Who goes round beheading people?”

“Exactly,” Malcolm started pacing, “what do both of these things have in common.”

“Murder.”

“Besides from that.”

“Both are based on paintings.”

“Which are of.”

Realisation dawned and you stood up. You ran your hands over the back of your head and said,

“Beheadings.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Well, yes,” Malcolm waved a hand, “but executions.”

“These people are being executed for having fakes.” You said with an amused smiled and raised eyebrows

“I’ve had weirder reasons for people killing others.”

“Such as?”

“No reason at all.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Malcolm slowly approached, “Killing just for the sake of killing? No reason at all other than the sheer joy of it.”

“But then there is a reason, isn’t there?”

“Oh?”

“Pleasure,” by now Malcolm was directly in front of you, “For the sheer joy of it.”

“And you think that’s why these crimes are committed?”

“You tell me. You’re the profiler.”

“They believe what they’re doing is a necessity,” Malcolm said, “that they need to rid the world of this… this…”

“Evil?”

“A little melodramatic.” Said Malcolm with a smirk

“And we’re dealing with a serial killer who beheads people.”

“Technically he’s not a serial killer yet.”

“Key word- yet.”

“Although,” a frown crossed Malcolm’s face and he became suddenly serious, “That raises a very important point.”

“Which is?”

“If this person views these people as evil, how would he view the people providing the art?”

“Being a little melodramatic don’t you think?”