#dusty warren

[bbsxsaa]

honey wake up, there’s more bird psycho lore 🥺

[warningsine]

[mari-animates]

Man fuck EVERY single one of those kids from under the bridge

[bonkobarnes]

it would be interesting to see if warren and gabe end up being sort of parallels to one another, or maybe rebecca feels for warren because he’s the same age as gabe was; in the book (no spoilers!!) warren seems to be portrayed pretty empathetically and i think the show is definitely leaning towards that as well- rebecca’s first encounter with him being her panic attack at the party and him checking on her, trying to help, and then seeing him at the diner asking if theres a shift he could pick up

I think probably both? I guess we don’t know much about Gabe or Warren at this point but it’s obvious Rebecca sees something in Warren. I imagine Rebecca feels for him and is probably where her interests differ from Cam’s. Cam wants to catch the person that did this and get justice for Reena. Rebecca does too but I think she will see Warren more as a kid than as a murderer

[slvttybvys]

@lonelyheartedheathens [X]

"Maybe. Maybe not. But does it really matter if it's both our temptations" Warren asked with a small grin as he moved closer to the other. "I mean a mutual cure doesn't sound like a bad thing to me."

[lonelyheartedheathens]

“you know, the only way to cure temptation… is to give in to it.” (Warren for whoever would like him)

[ Baldur's Gate 3 Sentence Starters - Astarion Edition ] @slvttybvys

A wide smirk pulled at Dusty's lips hearing that as he gave a soft snort. "Oh is that so?" he teased, giving Warren a once-over. "Sounds a lot to me like you're trying to get me to cure your temptation. Not my own." Was Dusty going to give in to it as Warren said? Probably. But he couldn't not tease the older man, if only a little. Maybe see how far he could push Warren until he was less trying to convince Dusty and more maybe begging him to.

[syoddeye]

the warren, ten - curious

price x f!reader | 3k words | series page | ao3 tags: mine/underground, gaslighting, minor injury, dual pov a/n: john takes you on a trip.🔪

"There she is. Mind locking it behind you, darl? We're closing early."

John doesn't look up from the register drawer. The bills of cash look like monopoly money in his hands. He licks the tip of his thumb and sorts through the stack, the creases in his brow cutting deep. When he's done, he tucks the tender into a scuffed leather envelope.

Embarrassment warms your face as you realize you've never handled this part of the job before. Not even when you've closed alongside him. He must always take care of it, or leave it undone until later. It stings a little. Peels up a sticking corner of your faith. He must not trust you to manage the till. You bite back a comment, shelving it for later. You have enough on your mind, thoughts teetering precariously like a cup filled to the brim, held in only by surface tension.

"Heard you went on an adventure today."

"I did."

"Gotta tell you, love, hate that you didn't ask for a ride," He sets the envelope down and slots the register back into place. He fixes you with a heavy stare, chin tucking toward his chest. "And that you went on foot."

"It's not that far. I've walked further, in the desert." You smile, trying to ease his mood, and remind him you aren't as helpless as he may believe.

But it doesn't work. If anything, your nonchalance hardens him further. 

"Yeah? Are there bears in the desert? Cougars?"

It's strange. No, not strange. This is not out of character. John's been like this since you met. Set in his ways, immovable in his convictions, the master of his domain. However he thinks things should go, how the world should spin, it's only a hair beneath the natural laws themselves. Still, you thought you moved beyond that with him and fell outside his mantle of authority. The slight condescension in his tone and body language? It needles you. Your hackles rise. It makes you think of your dad. Of Dusty. 

"There are cougars, actually. Coyotes, too. Snakes, bighorns…" You fold your arms. "Even met a surly jackrabbit, once."

John stares hard, thumb picking at a sliver of laminate peeling loose. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. When he finally speaks, his face softens, tired lines overtaking the sharp ones. Worry seeps through the cracks like water through stone. "That so? Well. If you've taken on the desert before…"

He pushes off the counter then steps around and into the gap. The offer is clear, and you meet him halfway, pressing a kiss to his lips. It's a quiet thing, your apology tucked between tongues. When you part, you rest your head on his chest. His hand glides up your spine.

"Sorry to make you worry."

"S'alright. Stopped worrying when Soap texted that he ran into you outside the library. Bookworm couldn't wait for her next read, eh?"

That sneak. Soap must've texted when you were distracted on the drive.

Your eyes fall to the tortoiseshell button on John's shirt, rising and falling with his breathing. A loose thread sticks out from it. You relate to it.

"Yes and no," you say, lifting your head. "I woke up curious." You lick your lips, thinking about what you'd told Soap in the truck. How he reacted when you said you might get to know everyone better, should you winter in the Panhandle. "If I'm going to stay here, I want to learn more about the area."

"S'pose the library's the place to learn. Though, you could've asked me, too."

All roads lead back to John, and you'd taken the turn willingly the moment you got on your knees for him. The moment you fell into his bed.

"You were busy."

"You couldn't wait?" He echoes and it purses your lip. 

Your hackles stir again. Your fraying nerves are to blame, not him. You'll feel better once you let it out.

"Are you busy now?"

"Need to make some deliveries. Ride with me."

Another truck, another conversation about madness. You help load the bed with odds and ends. John's occupation as shop owner and local Renaissance man keeps him busy. He points out a lamp he rewired. Hand tools he sharpened. A bicycle, sporting a new chain and front tire.

The comfortable rhythm between you returns, but you feel his thumb at the edges of you. Prying like he did with that bit of laminate on the counter, trying to ease you open. He wants to know what compelled you to walk the miles to Ponderosa, to sit in the library all day.

He knows you well enough to give you space, to make you feel safe before asking. That's one of the reasons you think you might love him.

John drives, you talk. You tell him everything, skipping over Phil's ominous text and the hold waiting under your name. The hold becomes a random book plucked off a library shelf and how its defacement spurred a morbid fascination with the collapse that swallowed nearly a hundred men.

The lie slips out smoother than you'd like. You hate that it's easier now, that you can meet his eyes as you reshape the truth. He doesn't twitch or look over suspiciously. He just listens. It makes it easier to tell yourself that omission and white lies—they're not deceit, not really.

But when you get to the part about your discovery, you waver. You stumble over your words, starting and stopping like burrs catching and pulling at the fabric of your story.

John glances at you then, quick but pointed. You tugged a thread and he felt the give.

Your explanation is shoddier the second time around. 

"...and he looked exactly like Alex. I swear." 

John doesn't respond immediately. He pulls the truck off to the side of the road, stopping in front of a mailbox at the end of a long drive. Without a word, he turns the engine off, climbs out, and heads to the back.

You hear the faint click of the bicycle wheel as it spins, the dull thunk as he pulls it free. Watching through the side mirror, you see him push it to the mailbox and prop it there. He stands beside it for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders slumped.

When he turns back and catches you staring, he gives you a small, uncertain smile, sheepish and laced with pity. You drop your gaze to your shoes.

He thinks you're crazy, too. Perfect.

You're a quarter mile down the road when he finally speaks.

"That's quite the claim."

"I know. I know how it sounds. But John, if you saw him, you'd think the same thing. It's uncanny." You sigh. Every word is a shovelful of dirt. "Soap suggested it was his grandfather or something. Do you know if Alex has roots here?"

"Well, we all have roots here," He smiles a little and reaches over, brushing a hand over your knee. "But if I remember correctly, I believe his family's been here a couple decades."

You nod. That is a comfort. It should be a comfort. It's not that you don't believe John. It's more so you want proof and know you're not sure you want to ask the man in question. Did your grandfather nearly die in a mine collapse?

Frustrated, you lay a hand over John's, tracing the cracks in his knuckles.

"That disappoint you?"

You shrug. "I guess I wanted a mystery."

He chuckles. "Like one of your books, no doubt."

"I suppose so." Though the unease lingers, stitched tight to your stomach lining and unwilling to unwind, you manage to smile. "I heard there's a memorial."

"There is. It's not for—"

"Tourists. Yeah, I know." His lip twitches, and you rush an apology into the gap. "Sorry for interrupting. It's just—who knows. I might not be a tourist in a few weeks. I want to know this place and the people."

That lands differently and with intent. It instantly smooths over your poor manners. His fingers stretch, drumming thoughtfully on the inside of your knee.

"We can visit, if you'd like. You'll see why they don't put in the brochures."

Your eyes widen, surprised he's indulging your curiosity.

"I'd love to. When should we go?"

The truck jerks as he brakes on a patch of gravel, a small spray of rocks pinging against the undercarriage. Dust blooms behind you like smoke.

He grins, a glint of something wild in his eyes. It's conspiratorial like the two of you are teenagers sneaking off to do something you shouldn't.

"Still light out, isn't it?"

~~

The Sawtooth Crest Mine doesn't feel so different from the ghost towns scattered across the Great Basin. A handful of sagging structures, burnt or crushed into rubble by weather and time. Others lean precariously on the verge of collapse.

You pass signs designating offices and a warehouse, bunkhouses, and a rec hall. You scan the empty windows and doorways as if you'll find answers or at least a hint.

The woods creep in, decades of reclamation around you.

After all the effort to get here, the memorial feels like a joke. A slab of stone with a tarnished plaque bolted onto the front. The text is largely illegible, worn down, and that's what's left. It looks like someone took a pickaxe to the rest of it.

You step closer, brushing your fingers over the pitted stone. John stands back, letting you have the moment. It feels intrusive, like standing at a stranger's grave. You suppose you are, in a way. Some bodies are reported unrecoverable.

The thought makes the back of your neck itch.

John waits until you're done, then gestures toward the mine itself. The main entrance gapes wide, its opening barred with iron rods and sheet metal, wired tight like a broken jaw. While you stare through the gaps, imagining further in, John steps to the side, casually working the padlock on the access door. A click, the chain slithers to the ground in a pile, and the door swings open.

"What are you—Isn't it dangerous?"

"Been here loads of times," he grins. "Drinking with the lads, mucking around. C'mon, we won't go far."

The grin isn't much comfort, but when he beckons, you follow. He leads you into the yawning dark, pulling out an emergency light clipped to his keys, throwing a small pool of light that splashes over your feet and up the closest section of wall. You stick close, your shoulder brushing his arm as the daylight behind you fades.

As you walk along, he talks. He points out the skeletal remains of machinery, rusted carts, and tools that have sat untouched for decades. The damp air thickens with the smell of soil and rust. You reach a junction where two tunnels branch off from a central chamber, a lift cage sitting in the middle, waiting.

John points to it, voice bouncing off the walls as he explains how it worked, how the whole system of pulleys and tracks kept the mine running. About the hoist operators, and how they were 'jokingly' referred to as Saint Peter. 

It's leagues more than Dusty ever shared, more than you ever overheard at the company picnics where he kept you in the dark as his smiling but simple wife. The irony isn't lost on you—standing here now, in the dark, learning more about your husband's trade from another man than you had in years.

"How do you know so much?"

John shrugs, his proud smile cast in shadow. "Talking to old-timers at The Fox Hole. They've got stories for days, especially after a few pints." His hand worries the cable like he's feeling for a pulse. "Nikolai's worse than me. The know-it-all." Then, he steps closer, his hand finding the small of your back, pulling you to him. He presses a brief kiss to your forehead.

"Hate to be crass, but I've got to take a leak. Got your phone?"

You fumble it out of your pocket, holding it up. The model is too old for a flashlight, but you turn the brightness up as far as it'll go and point it at the ground.

"Good," He sounds far too at home as if you're not both standing in the belly of a dead mine. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

He glances between the tunnels, making his choice, before he starts down the left passage.

You watch the dark swallow him whole.

"Don't go too far."

There's an answer, but it's more sound than speech and further away than it should be. 

And then his footsteps recede.

The glow of your phone barely lights your shoes. You shift your weight, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the low simmer of unease in your stomach from boiling over into something embarrassing. The flesh clenched between your teeth heats anyway.

John isn't far. He's just around the corner. If you walk down that tunnel, you'll see.

Your feet move, body ahead of your brain, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight up.

Then you catch it—nostrils flaring. Wet dog, mixed with straw. Brimstone and iron. Your shoulders tighten, a shiver running down your arms, goosebumps raising. Folding them across your chest, phone pointed out, you continue, taking tiny half-steps. Shuffling.

The tunnel warms as you go. The walls sweat. Silver flecks reflect the dim light like the creature's eyes you saw out your window.

"John?" You mean to call out, though it shakes out in a whisper. It's like trying to scream in a nightmare, stuck under the thick ice of sleep. You try again. "John?" No better.

Behind you, a metallic creak cuts through the silence. You freeze. Then your feet find full strides, the shuffle turning into a hurried walk. Pebbles slide underfoot, and you glance down, stopping short when you see it—a sandy tuft of hair, coarse and matted, lying just beside your foot.

The phone light trembles as you crouch, about to pluck the tuft from the ground.

And then another noise.

A low, guttural rumble rolls through the tunnel. You snap upright, spinning toward the direction you came from, holding your phone out as if it's an actual torch. The light catches nothing, and the growl comes again. Deeper. Closer.

You run.

The light swings wildly as you stumble forward, colliding hard with a set of support beams. They groan and slightly give at the impact, a thick cloud of dust erupting straight into your face. You cough and spin, lunging down the left passage when the tunnel splits again, painfully aware of how hopelessly lost you're becoming.

Something brushes your elbow, and every nerve in your body sounds the alarm. You jerk forward instinctively, your feet sliding on loose gravel. The ground shifts, and suddenly, you're falling, the cold floor of the mine rushing up to meet you in a bone-rattling thud.

~~

You wake to a hand stroking your head. Your cheek rests on denim, rough but warm beneath you, and the rumble of an engine. You realize you're horizontal, stretched across the front seat of John's truck, your head resting on his thigh. The road bumps and jars you as the truck barrels forward.

"John?" Your voice cracks on his name.

The hand on your head pauses, then resumes, gentler. You tilt your head, blinking spots from your vision, and catch his worried glances. His face is tight, his jaw set. "You're alright. Took a spill, I think. Found you halfway down a tunnel in a heap."

You push upright despite his protests, wincing at the pull in your muscles. Your hand drifts to your forehead, where it throbs, and you flinch at a smear of sticky, drying blood. "What…?"

"Just a scrape. I checked it. Must've clocked yourself on the way down."

The truck jolts over a bump, and you steady against the door, staring at the trees blurring past. The sun is dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as John speeds down the logging road. How long were you out?

"Thought I told you to stay put," John chides softly, a nervous smile twitching his lip. "What were you doing?"

The memory floods back. The growl. The chase. Something touched you.

You stare straight ahead, fingers feeling nothing when you check your elbow.

Sometimes our minds play tricks.

"I…I don't know." You force a shrug, licking your lips. "I don't know."

~~ 

John sees to your forehead. He dabs at the wound with a damp cloth, then spreads a layer of antibiotic over it with the tip of his finger. Twice, he asks if you're up to date on your tetanus shot, and twice, you confirm you are. 

When he smooths the bandage on, his thumbs press it into place. He gently kisses it, then tilts your chin and kisses your lips the same way.

"Skittish thing," he teases, though his eyes carry a tinge of regret. "Shouldn't have left you alone."

Before you can respond, he's kissing you again, deeper, his hands sliding down to steady you atop his kitchen table like you might slip away.

You don't slip at all. You end up underneath him.

~~~~

While his girl sleeps off the consequences of her walk, his lesson leaking out of her, John summons his Watcher.

Kate is a good woman. Useful. Steady under pressure, keen as her old man, maybe more. She shoulders the responsibility and knows better than to complain. Her father wore his duty like a crown and bore it as a source of pride. Kate treats it as a job. One she always gets done.

But she pushes it.

"Why the fed, John?" she flicks ash from her cigarette. "He was bound to give up and leave."

John picks his teeth. "Didn't like the way he looked at her."

Kate narrows her eyes, dragging smoke into her lungs. "Looking at a pretty woman isn't a crime. There'd be plenty more carcasses if it was." She exhales sharply. "You broke the conditions of the pact."

"The conditions," he sneers, "state I can harvest the unfortunates and ne'er-do-wells. Vagrants. Show me an agent of the state with clean hands, and I'll cough Mr. Graves up right now."

Her lip curls at that, distaste evident. "A technicality, then. Still don't like it. All it got you was one meal, and it invited attention."

He ignores her insubordination. "You got information on the second course?"

"Kyle Garrick. Sent to investigate Graves's disappearance…" Kate reads, stubbing her cigarette on the edge of the counter. "And to look into other disappearances in the area." 

John takes the picture Kate offers and stares at the younger man, oblivious to his new headshot. "He's looking for me, I presume?"

"Naturally, but…"

"But what?"

"He's looking for her, too."

Smoke curls between them. This fed business—it's irritating, inevitable. They've done this song and dance before. No matter the reason, the thought of some young buck sniffing around his doe sets his teeth on edge.

"Let's orchestrate a meeting then," John finally says, peeling the loose strip of laminate off in one smooth go. "Use this curious streak of hers to our advantage."

[fear-is-truth]

Which of the Evans would be into tacky Christmas (bright colours, mismatched decor, nostalgic and warm, etc), and which would prefer the more tidy Christmas (beige 🤢)?

⋆𐙚 ₊ the evans + x-mas decor preference .ᐟ

a/n: yo why you gotta diss on tidy & beige 💔 …

“tacky” decor : tate, kit, kyle, jimmy, warren, peter, colin, luke, stan

“tidy” decor : james, kai, austin, gallant

⟢ 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐍.

tate wouldn’t give a fuck about christmas decor on his own, but if constance insisted on a beige, elegant aesthetic, he’d absolutely go out of his way to sabotage it because he’s a spiteful little shit.

when his mom told him to set up the tree, he’d rummage through the basement for the dusty, mismatched string lights and garlands she’s refused to use for years.

would take silent satisfaction with the clashing colour, obnoxiously flashing lights, and haphazardly placed ornaments… mostly because his mother is pissed off.

tate would prefer the nostalgic, warm vibes in private, though.

⟢ 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑.

definitely a big fan of mismatched lights, diy decor. he’d help the kids make paper chains, paint ornaments, string popcorn garland.

he’d also love doing little things like baking cookies, hanging stockings, and maybe even putting up a silly inflatable santa on the lawn.

he’d smile fondly at every decoration, especially ones with sentimental value—his favourite is a family photo ornament framed with painter popsicle sticks that your kid made in school.

⟢ pre death .ᐟ 𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑.

he’d love the sight of multicolored string lights and as many ornaments as you could fit on the tree.

you go out to pick a tree together and then buy way more lights and ornaments than you’d ever need. “we can always find room for more, right?”

he’d insist on stringing the lights together and would make sure every bulb worked.

kyle would gasp excitedly when he let you plug in the lights and see the tree glow.

⟢ 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆.

you’d have loads of mismatched ornaments, many of them handmade or found in secondhand stores.

he’d have a soft spot for stringing up multicolored lights, especially red and yellow ones.

the blinking lights hold bittersweet nostalgia for him. they remind jimmy of the freak show days—the camaraderie, the makeshift family—but also the pain and loss he’s endured. even so, he’d smile softly while putting them up, his focus on creating happy memories with you.

⟢ 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇.

would insist on a meticulously planned, elegant christmas. the tree would be tall and symmetrical, the lights would never blink, and the ornaments would all match.

that said, if you really wanted a messy, colorful christmas, he’d indulge you because at the end of the day, james would want you to be happy.

⟢ cult leader .ᐟ 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.

would absolutely favour a clean aesthetic, because it’s orderly.

he’d hate colourful, mismatched lights, blaming them for being “distracting,” and his use of adderall would heighten his aversion to anything that felt visually cluttered. you’d hear kai mutter something like, “who can think with this circus lighting? it’s like a fucking rave in here.” (he’s a blue grinch lol)

you’re having beige/white decorations or no decorations at all. despite his outward annoyance, if kai saw you enjoying yourself while decorating, it might mellow him slightly. maybe.

⟢ 𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒.

would prefer tidy decor to match the sleek, minimalist aesthetic of his vacation home.

the tree would be artificial, tall, and perfectly symmetrical, adorned with white lights and monochrome ornaments.

beige, white, and grey would dominate his decor.

⟢ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋.

he’d hum along to cheesy christmas music, snack on gingerbread cookies, wear ugly sweaters and blush at the mention of mistletoe.

would have a soft spot for sentimental decorations. if you had old ornaments from childhood, he’d make sure they were front and centre on the tree.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[pineconepie]

what do each of them smell like?

Octavian - lavender, cashmere, cyclamen

Vincent - patchouli, cedar, leather

Indigo - fishy </3

Magnus - earthy, anise, smoky

Seradiel - clove, vanilla, rose

Kezareth - amber, lime, smoke

Warren - antiseptic, cardamom, saffron

Blair - nothing since she's a ghost,,,,

Solaris - mandarin, ginger, pepper

Cullen - lily, guaiac wood, lemongrass

August - citron, freesia, cinnamon

Castor - clean linen, heliotrope, mint

Ellis - jasmine, raspberry, sage

Hugo - suede, cherry blossom, caramel

Dante - sandalwood, vetiver, gunpowder

Anevra - moss, ylang ylang, kind of dusty just from cave life

Cecil - coriander, maple, dark chocolate

Lux - frankincense, myrrh, charred wood

Winter - pine, firewood, hot cocoa

Spring - rosemary, lilac, petrichor

Summer - sea breeze, sunscreen, aloe

Autumn - pumpkin spice, caramel, nutmeg

Sianet - soap, lavender, clean laundry

Cassian - sweet, burnt wood, petrichor

Winslow - soil, pine, thyme

[crownedinmarigolds]

A Golden Opportunity! - A Gary Golden writeup for @laughatlocksmiths!

A fly flits its way into the den of the spiders. A little red drop of blood cut straight from the vein, slipping down a white arm into his warrens. It’s probably not even aware of how futile its efforts are. Gravity dragging it forward by the toes, a shambling joke in its death throes. Hah. Well, the uninvited guest had managed to shake off the Sabbat abominations that kept he and his trapped. An impressive enough feat, he’ll give the little morsel that. It’s just too bad that the circumstances for meeting are so… tedious. Oh, he knew exactly why this freshly dead fledgling was here. The hotshot young Prince that decided to take a chair, put it up in the tallest tower and declare himself king, was throwing himself a little tantrum. A decorated old box with a dead body inside went missing on the car ride over, a common mistake! Can’t trust any delivery men these days, especially ones that aren’t paid well. Just because he’d been the one to set up the delivery, suddenly it was his fault the product got lost? He'd been tucked in at home, watching old films and having a good cry at the time of the crime! It was frankly insulting to be once again fingered for a burglary they have no proof he was involved in… though we can all be honest as we sit and chat in our heads, can’t we? Now, old Gary didn’t know what use LaCroix had for a corpse (a non-locomotive one at least) but he didn’t expect them to be playing tea party together. So when opportunity knocks, Mr. Golden likes to answer and give it a seat at his table. So he may’ve let slip (through a few channels and voices that weren't his) to a few mafiaso types where the box may be headed, and they made a pick up. These kinds of Kindred were always into the old things, thinking they can scrape off some spirit mumbo jumbo from it, of which he couldn’t care less about. The Prince throws a fit over a lost artifact for a while, but the city will swallow his complaints up and he’d move onto the next dusty object to obsess over. There's some extra funding for his kin to keep the lights on, as well as the added pleasure of annoying some pompous little young Ventrue. Unfortunately the box has been more trouble than its initial face-value worth. The Prince really into whatever it had inside like it was a lost Christmas present - and not to even mention the Kuei Jin and their underlings also starting to feel around with their nasty little tendrils. It makes his clammy skin get clammier to imagine what could even stir their attention, so he had a trustworthy and capable man try and take a look into what is really going on in Chinatown. His man was snatched up, something he should’ve expected to happen given the circumstances. He felt something awful about it, considering this merry band of freaks were his responsibility. There's no safety out there for his kin, and with how hard Los Angeles and its surrounding cities were becoming to navigate in modern nights, old Gary was needing someone to get into Chinatown for him. The Kuei Jin weren’t going to take snoops lightly, and he was already greatly unpopular over there. No no boss, this is a golden opportunity walking down their little tunnel hallways right to his room. The fledgling gets his glory by rescuing the old box from the evil thieving necromancers… with information so generously given by Gary as soon as his man is rescued from the clutches of the Kuei Jin and their kine help. It’s not the most multi-dimensional chess way to go about it, but a classic is always worth a rewatch in his book. Dirt makes way to cobbled stone, then to tile. Ruined shoes tracking mud into his party space. He is cloaked from the mind in the corner, a sharp smile in the dark as the little morsel has no idea what he’s looking for. Theatrics were his specialty, and it was time to make it worth the wait. “By the clack-smack cracking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

Thank you so much to @porcelainseashore for putting together the VTM Writer's Secret Santa event! It was challenging to get into a non-OC character's mindset but it was also very fun once the flow came! I love to write and don't get to do it often so this made me sit down and get to it. I hope I did Gary some justice!

[themonotonysyndrome]

Leftovers and Pushovers

This is a sequel to @madameadelina's oneshot, 'Grill, or To Be Grilled?'

Enjoy~

-

There are three things that the Imperial Baroness of the Coastal Empire loves in this world.

Food. Pink diamonds. Castin Hammer.

"Wha - I'm last on your list!? You killed me, baby. You just killed me!"

Cupcake could only giggle helplessly, her body curling beside Warren's larger form. At the same time, the Intacian Commander, known for his indomitable spirit on the battlefield, dramatically fell to his knees in despair. Disbelief was painted on his face.

Meanwhile, the Baroness hummed happily as she polished off her twelve chicken skewers. Unbothered as her husband falls apart by the very seams on the ground beside her.

"Delicious. Lord Warren, you have a knack for cooking," The Baroness compliments without fanfare or wordplay that she is known for. A very rare occurrence. Despite the warm summer evening, Warren tries not to shiver. "The meat are not only properly seasoned - "

Castin whimpers akin to a wounded dog. Cupcake snorts.

" - but, my, how they melt just so in the mouth. Perfection."

"Goddess! Conquerer! What sins have I committed in my past life for my wife to prefer the meat of others!?"

At Castin's anguished inquiry to the heavens, Cupcake gave up all pretence of a genteel and devastatingly brilliant Councilwoman. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as tears streamed down her face, with Warren frantically holding her shoulders so she wouldn't join his brother.

"Bro! Are you trying to get me killed!?" Warren hisses, suffering from secondhand embarrassment. He's second away from fleeing the scene with Cupcake in his arms. Thank goodness their little get-together is just the four of them. "Get your dusty ass knees up, for Goddess' sake! Her Grace is just joking." He said, glancing at the unruffled woman in question.

The Baroness threw her thirteenth skewer stick onto the bin before patting the corner of her lips with a napkin. Dainty. Elegant. Even after devouring a whole plate of food and side dishes by herself. "I am in a good mood right now. Do not ruin it by putting anything other than this meal in my mouth."

Warren swallowed nervously.

Having enough rolling in the dirt, Castin launched himself onto his wife's lap. Eyes wide with hurt.

"Baby, say it isn't so. Say that you like my meat the best, please?" He pitifully begs.

Cupcake is howling with laughter now. Warren gave up trying to salvage his brother's dignity. Instead, he focused on saving his own skin by passing tissues to Cupcake. She hiccuped and accepted them gratefully. Once she managed to calm down, Cupcake thanked Warren by planting a kiss on his cheek.

The Baroness enjoys the sight of the couple finally at ease with each other and the world.

It's nice.

This is nice.

Juicy satays. A pink diamond ring on her finger. Castin Hammer, happy and safe at home.

The closest heaven on Earth the Baroness could ever get.

"Castin, stop pouting. You know I love you best. Now come closer; let me wipe those adorable cheeks of yours. Dear Goddess, how did you become so filthy so quickly?"

And just like that, Castin did a 180, preening as his wife tutted and doted on him. Without the weight of the military on his left and the lives of his men on his right, Castin can finally be a playful husband and friend, just as he always wanted. And it’s a pretty sweet bonus that his brother is happy with his woman too.

“So what’s the plan now?” Castin asked, curious. Curious about the future that Warren and Cupcake will pave for themselves, and curious as his lady wife attempts to break her personal record by going for another skewer. He and Warren might need to man the grill again if this continues. “Got your eyes on the East? The sailors had been talking in the taverns. Rumours about some great empires and treasures have been going around. Each sounds more fantastical than the last.” 

Cupcake and Warren shared a glance. Goddess, the two are already in sync. He and the Baroness need to step up their game. “We were thinking of traveling nearer, actually,” It’s Cupcake who replies. “A few universities invited me over to discuss the latest studies that I published. For some reason, the world of academics in the Empire is in a tizzy. Your Grace, you don’t suppose…” 

“It has nothing to do with your gender, that’s for certain. I can assure you that us Imperials, regardless of blood, are vicious opportunists. I reckon every professor worth their weight in gold is fighting to be your research partner and have their names printed in future textbooks. And if it is not your brain or papers, it’s your seat that they are salivating over. You might be granted the title of nobility as a means to appease the common folk of Steelgate, but make no mistake, that is a power people will seek to utilise for their own gain. I suggest you find more allies beyond Lord Reyes the moment you land on Imperial soil.” 

With that said, the Baroness finishes the last satay.

That makes 50 sticks. A celebratory dessert is in order. 

Cupcake and Warren are stunned at the revelation, although suspicion coloured the ex-gladiator’s expression. Given the extensive explanation that the Baroness had lectured him on Cupcake’s importance as a scientist and member of the Council, he suspects the same. 

“B-But I only published two journals! Two! And both were on the effects of alchemy in herbalism and the ethical aspect of it.” Cupcake splutters, adorable eyes wide. Warren rubs her knuckle, quietly comforting her. “And besides, my position within the Council isn’t as important as the others. Surely, I can’t be worth the hype?”

“Are you kidding me? Cupcake, you’re literally amazing! You survived schemes that would’ve killed an average politican while still conducting experiments like a boss. By the way, I’m so glad those old fucks are enjoying their retirement behind bars,” Warren says, empathically. Maliciously. His grin is near feral and its dangerous edge sent tingles down Cupcake’s spine. But he’s not done yet. “Not to mention that you held your own well against the Underground and its people. Granted, you had me showing the ropes and I’m a pretty awesome teacher…” 

Cupcake scoffs but some of her tension melts away like the large batch of tiramisu that Castin unraveled. Warren counts that as a win, doubly so when the Baroness’ full attention is onto the dessert. 

He softly kisses Cupcake’s forehead. 

Castin coos. He squawk like an affronted parrot when Warren throws a used napkin at his face. 

While the brothers are busy roughousing, Cupcake quietly thank the Baroness for a plate of her own. “Would you be amendable for tea tomorrow, Your Grace? If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to discuss on my preparation to the Empire. Of course I expect no charity and is willing to compensate for your valuable time.” 

The crackling of the fire and their lovers’ rambunctious bickering fills the silence between the women. It’s welcoming for it gives the two some time to ponder. 

The Baroness polishes her dessert before offering a boon that Cupcake could never have predicted.

She delicately dab the corner of her mouth with a napkin and proclaim, “My calendar is unfortunately pack until the end of the social season. Merchants and nobles are at their worst during this time. Oh, do not look so dishearten, my Lady. I adore you too much as a friend to let you wade the shark infested waters of the Empire without any guidance.” 

Cupcake immediately perks up. “So you’ll help me?” 

“I shall do you better. Give me your hand.” 

The next few moments had Warren and Castin stops their brawling to witness the Baroness removing the pink diamond ring from her hand and slide it onto Cupcake’s finger. Specifically, her index finger. The physical weight of the ring is equivalent as a plain pebble on the bedrock of a nearby river but the implication as well as the meaning is a toll that had Cupcake’s jaw onto the floor. 

As the rarest gemstone in the current world which no sufficient price could be attached to, pink diamonds tells a story that only the worthy may bear it. The Imperial Empress who fashioned it upon her crown as the Mother of an Empire. The young fashion designer whose intellect exceeds her peers and is only match by her bravery to travel even the most remote of regions in pursuit of her craft that endear herself to her patroness. The Imperial Baroness who owns the mountain where the gemstones are mined. 

Pink diamonds are a status symbol that grant it’s bearer immunity against all reproach and commands every respect due. To receive ire from one of the bearer would mean receiving the attention of every women who also carry the gemstone. 

The Empress, the Baroness and the fashionista. 

“Y-You… wait, wait. Your Grace, I-I simply can’t - ”

“Make no mistake, my Lady. This ring is merely a loan. I shall like it to be return by the end of the social season with an interest.” 

“And that interest would be?” Cupcake warily inquires. 

But the Baroness simply smile. It has an impish quality to it. “A story. I would greatly enjoy hearing about your time in my homeland pair with some good scones and tea,” She leans back against her chair while their men returns to their side. Warren is eyeing the ring carefully while Castin help himself to some tiramisu. He gives a shaky Cupcake a reassuring thumbs up. “The Empire has a way of testing oneself. I look forward to see who will join my table in the future.” 

With the Baroness full support, there’s no way the people of the Empire would see Cupcake as a pushover. That should give her and Warren enough time to consolidate their allies and network with the right people without the fear of being taken advantage of or pulled into some noble’s intrigue. 

The Coastal Empire isn’t prepared for Warren and Cupcake. Castin and the Baroness are excited for this new show. 

[howdyjourney]

Sing Your Body Electric

- chapter 1 -

who: William H. Bonney x Original Female Character

genre: western romance longfic (multiple chapters)

tags/warnings: This fic is Explicit / 18+ only. Minors, please step off the porch.

(not exhaustive):
Oral Sex • Handjob • Face-Sitting (f)—“from behind” / bent-over hay bale • Rough Sex & Soft Sex in equal measure • Praise Kink • Body Worship • Protective Billy • Scar Kissing • Mild Restraint • Gunshot Injuries / Recovery • Period-Typical Violence & Racism (historical context) • Runaway Heiress • Found Family Outlaws • Slow-Burn to Very Hot-Burn

Ride at your own risk—the trail gets dusty, the thunder gets loud, and the smut gets downright electric.

(lmk if you want to be tagged)

Prologue

Next chapter

Chapter one

The veranda boards were warm beneath her bare feet, soaked through with sun from the day before, though dawn had barely begun to break. Eva Fairchild stepped out silent and slow as a shadow, letting the screen door creak behind her without latching it shut. The light hadn’t come up fully yet, just a faint gray smear over the cotton fields, thick with mist where the low ground dipped beyond the orchard. The air hung heavy—wet with honeysuckle and night sweat—and the magnolia branches over the porch hadn't stirred once, not even a rustle.

She stood there in her linen shift, arms crossed over her chest, watching the rows of cotton disappear into fog like a dream trying to forget itself. Her hair, dark and wavy, was still uncombed, and the hem of her shift brushed just above her ankles, catching a stray splinter when she leaned against the rail. She didn’t curse. She never cursed aloud, though she had a fondness for them, low in her throat. Learned from Delilah, mostly, and a few others who dared whisper in the kitchen yard when they thought she wasn’t listening.

She was always listening.

Her father’s voice came through the walls of the house like distant thunder—low, sharp, commanding. Major Warren Fairchild didn’t know how to speak gently, only how to issue orders as if every room were a battlefield and every servant a soldier.

“Tell Pike we double the pickin’ count this week. Don’t care if they drop in the rows, I want them wagons filled come Friday.”

A pause. Then glass clinked. Brandy, she guessed. He took it neat after sunrise.

Eva’s shoulders went tight, the way they always did when he barked. Some part of her—the dutiful daughter in silk slippers—wanted to shiver at the tone and obey. But a newer part, a sharper thing blooming slow beneath her skin, held still instead. She let her back rest against the wood post and stared into the morning haze with a face gone quiet and unreadable.

Beneath her linen, the faint seam of a scar itched between her shoulder blades. It was pale now—three months healed—but still tender in the rain. The welt had split her skin clean open the day Pike caught her handing a warm roll to a boy no older than twelve who’d collapsed in the field, too starved to lift his basket. She hadn't cried then, not even when her father made her kneel and thank the Lord for mercy before the switch came down. She’d just bit her tongue, swallowed blood, and learned.

Not how to obey. No. She learned to be careful.

A bullfrog croaked from the reed ditch beyond the field. Somewhere behind the sugar house, roosters began their ragged chorus. The wind hadn’t picked up, but already Eva could feel the press of another hot day bearing down, thick with sweat and obedience and the smell of boiled linens.

Her fingers curled against her upper arm. That scar would never fade entirely. It had been deep enough to leave a groove, like a thread pulled too tight in fine cotton. Sometimes, when she washed, she would run her thumb along it—not to pity herself, but to remind. Of what she didn’t yet have words for.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew the house she lived in was beautiful, at least in the way money made things beautiful. Marble steps. Parlor imported from France. Twelve-foot mirrors and bone china tea sets with roses hand-painted at their rims. There were girls in Vicksburg who would’ve sold their souls to sit at Eva’s supper table, wear her Paris lace, read her letters written in embossed gold.

But none of those girls had stood behind the sugar house and watched a boy whipped until his back split open like butcher’s canvas. None of them had seen their best friend hauled by her hair for laughing too loud when she shouldn’t. None of them had scars on their back for sharing bread.

They didn’t want her life. They simply didn’t know the cost of it.

A moth drifted toward the porch lantern. She didn’t shoo it. Instead, she watched it flutter against the glass, beating its wings in that slow, mindless panic all trapped things shared. Even in beauty. Especially in beauty.

A voice drifted from inside the house—her father again, demanding someone “get that girl dressed proper before breakfast.” Probably her aunt or Miss Bessy. She didn’t turn to go.

Eva tucked her hair behind one ear and stepped down off the porch, barefoot still, onto the dew-slick grass. She walked to the edge where the dirt met the cotton rows, the white bolls only just starting to fatten. In a month they’d be worth their weight in blood.

She wrapped her arms around herself, pressing her fingers to the scar she could barely reach. It wasn’t just a mark. It was a map. A line carved deep to show the way out—if she could just find the courage to follow it.

The sun hadn’t crested the trees yet, but the sky was warming from gray to gold. In a few minutes, the bells would ring, the overseers would holler, and the world would start spinning again in its same brutal rhythm. But for now, she stood still in the hush.

She didn’t pray. How could she? But she did whisper under her breath, not a name, not a plea, just a wordless hum Delilah had once taught her—low and tremoring, like sorrow trying to lift itself.

Behind her, the door banged open. “Eva!” someone called—probably Miss Bessy again. “You’re to be dressed!”

She didn’t answer. The mist was lifting, and already, the weight in her chest was pressing toward unlikely mischief.

**

The heat had bloomed by midmorning, slick and syrupy, clinging to the back of Eva’s neck like a guilty hand. She slipped out of the house with a basket tucked tight against her hip, a white linen bonnet slung low over her brow, hoping to pass for a shadow. Her slippers made no sound over the brick path as she made her way around the east wing of the house, past the herb garden where sage hung heavy with dew and out toward the separate building that served as the kitchen.

Voices floated through the open shutters—low, rich, laughing voices, spiced with the clatter of tinware and the soft thud of kneading dough. The sounds of life, real life, not the parlor’s measured tedium with its brittle tea laughter and embroidered small talk. No one was watching. She slipped through the screen door without knocking.

The scent inside the kitchen was an intoxicating riot—yeast and garlic, cinnamon, sweat, ashwood smoke. A long wooden table ran the length of the room, its surface a battlefield of bowls, boards, biscuit tins, and one half-plucked chicken left to rest. Near the back, a fire roared in the brick hearth, flame licking up from beneath a blackened pot.

And perched like a queen on her usual stool, with her sleeves rolled and her skirts tied high, sat Delilah—seventeen, slight but wiry, her skin deep and smooth as polished pecan, and her hair wrapped in a vibrant green scarf that looked like it had been tied with a dare.

“Bringing me tributes again, Miss Highborn?” Delilah called without looking up, snapping the end from a green bean with a sound like bones breaking.

Eva grinned and held out the basket. “They’re apricots from the southern trees. Cook said the rest were going for jam but I snuck these when she weren’t lookin’.”

“Which cook?” Delilah’s smile curled sly. “The new one with the limp or that mean old crone who says your voice gives her headaches?”

“The crone,” Eva whispered like it was a scandal. “She was yellin’ about someone burnin’ her cornbread. Thought I might as well use the chaos for good.”

Delilah snorted, took the basket, and plucked one of the blushed orange fruits free, tossing it from hand to hand like a coin. “And what great and noble purpose shall this bounty serve?”

Eva perched herself on the opposite end of the table, legs swinging, the air already warmer here despite the cracked windows. “I thought you might be hungry. And I missed you.”

Delilah paused just long enough to let that softness land, then tossed the apricot to Eva instead. “You just want me to finish your chores again.”

“Only if they’re bean-related.”

They settled into rhythm. Delilah handed her a pile of green beans and a bowl, and the two of them snapped side by side, bean after bean, until the pile began to shrink. Their hands worked quietly, but their voices did not.

Eva told her about her father’s morning fury, about Miss Bessy’s attempt to lace her corset so tight her ribs clicked, and about Aunt Louisa’s little dog vomiting on the parlor carpet during a guest visit from Reverend Tibbets. Delilah cackled at that one, her laughter full-bodied and unrepentant.

“And what did your dear aunt say?” she asked, grinning.

Eva mimicked the shrill voice with theatrical agony: “‘Fetch the silver vinegar basin! Someone fetch the basin!’ Like the thing was sacred.”

Delilah wheezed. “Vinegar ain’t even good for dog sick! That woman’s dumb as a headless hen.”

“She has three canaries and they all hate her.”

“Wise birds.”

They fell quiet for a while, save for the rhythmic snap-snap-snap of beans. Sunlight slanted through the shutters in warm, golden strips. Sweat gathered along Eva’s spine, but she didn’t care. Here, in this kitchen, she wasn’t Miss Eva Fairchild of Rosemead. She was just a girl with raw fingers and a friend who made her laugh until her stomach hurt.

Delilah hummed low under her breath, a tune with no name but a rhythm that felt older than the house they sat in. Something low and aching, soft at first, but thick with memory. Eva stopped snapping. “That one again,” she whispered.

Delilah’s eyes didn’t open. “You always ask about this one.”

“Because it sounds like home. Not Rosemead. Real home.”

“It ain’t happy.”

“I don’t mind. Teach me?”

Delilah’s lashes fluttered. For a moment, something hard crept into her expression. “You sure?”

Eva nodded.

So Delilah sang, slow and low, the tune barely more than a murmur over the popping firewood. She taught Eva the notes, and Eva followed, hesitant at first, then stronger, letting her voice dip into minor keys her piano lessons never taught her. The melody curled around them like incense—grieving and proud, born from pain but not surrendered to it.

By the time they finished, the beans were nearly done, and Delilah leaned back, wiping her brow with the crook of her arm.

“You sound better when you ain’t trying so hard to sound proper,” she said. “You got a voice in there somewhere.”

“Think I could make it in the Jubilee choir?”

Delilah gave her a long, dry look. “You got more chance of surviving the hog pen come sloppin’ hour.”

They laughed together, heads bowed, cheeks flushed with heat and sweetness and something else—unspoken but shared between them, old and deep. A love that had no name, not the kind in books or sermons, but fierce and loyal all the same.

Then the kitchen door swung open with a slap.

Eva startled, but Delilah didn’t. She had already straightened, back stiff, hands vanishing into her lap.

It was Miss Alberta, the elderly cook who ran the kitchen like a general’s tent. She gave both girls a look that could peel paint. “Y’all best scatter. Overseer Pike’s makin’ his rounds, and he don’t fancy the sight of Miss Eva slumming it near the cook pots. Nor you, Delilah, laughin’ like you own the place.”

Delilah muttered, “Ain’t laughin’ now.”

Miss Alberta’s frown deepened. “Don’t sass me, girl. I mean it.”

Eva stood, the weight of the Fairchild name suddenly sagging back over her shoulders like a wool shawl in July. She took the last apricot from the basket, turned it in her hands. “I’ll come back later.”

“You always say that,” Delilah said softly.

“And I always do,” Eva replied, and pressed the fruit into her friend’s palm.

Delilah held it a moment, then nodded. “Go on, before he sees you.”

Eva ducked out the back door, bonnet sliding into place, eyes already scanning the yard for signs of Pike’s sharp figure. Behind her, the kitchen’s warmth disappeared like breath off glass. But the song clung to her lips, hummed low against the noise in her chest.

The day had turned cruel already—and the real heat hadn’t even begun.

**

The bell in the yard had just tolled twelve when Eva picked her way down the wagon track, skirts kilted in one hand and a wooden yoke balanced across her shoulders. Two tin canteens hung from each end, sloshing warm water that would taste of metal and well mud but still feel like salvation in this blistering noon. The sun had climbed straight overhead—patient as judgment—bathing everything in a glare so white it seemed to strip color from the world. Even the tallest magnolias at field’s edge offered only slivers of shadow that squirmed like dying things in the dust.

Cicadas sawed at the air, relentless. Eva’s linen bonnet stuck to her forehead, beads of sweat rolling down the nape of her neck to trace the faint ridge of her healing scar. She ignored the sting. Her eyes were fixed on the endless rows where cotton leaves wilted under heat and hands labored slow, bent into shapes pain had carved over years.

She reached the first picking gang—women in patched calico skirts, fingers raw as butcher’s twine. They paused only long enough for quick sips, murmuring their thanks without meeting her gaze. Not gratitude, just courtesy, the brittle etiquette of survival. Eva offered a smile she wasn’t sure anyone saw and moved along.

Farther in, she spotted a lone boy straggling behind the line. Couldn’t have been more than eleven. His sack, half-full, dragged like an anchor; every step looked heavier than the last. Suddenly a tall figure strode toward him—Overseer Travis Pike, boots slicing dust, rawhide whip coiled like a shimmering curse in his right hand.

Pike’s voice cracked across the rows: “Move, Jonah! Sun’s wastin’.”

The boy flinched, knuckled sweat from his eyes, tried to straighten. But weariness dragged at him. His next handful missed the sack entirely, cotton drifting to ground like torn clouds.

Pike’s jaw twitched. “You deaf, boy?”

Eva’s stomach knotted. She quickened her pace, canteens clinking, but stayed on the carriage path—protocol demanded it. She told herself water would help the boy. Water, she had. Authority, she did not.

Pike grabbed a handful of Jonah’s shirt, jerked him upright. The boy’s knees buckled. Pike shook him once, twice—head snapping like a rag doll. Eva heard herself gasp.

“Sir.” Her voice emerged thin, carried by a gust of sweat-scented air. Pike’s head turned, eyes narrowing beneath brimmed hat. Eva forced her feet closer, throat tight. “The boy looks about spent. Let him drink.”

Pike’s lip curled. “Afternoon, Miss Fairchild.” He tipped an imaginary hat with the hand still gripping Jonah’s collar. “Your daddy know you traipsin’ out here on your lonesome?”

“I’m delivering water.” She tried to keep tone polite, measured—delicate threads her father insisted she spin whenever she addressed “the help.” “Jonah’ll pick faster with a swallow.”

Pike released the boy with a shove. Jonah staggered, catching himself on the stalks. Eva knelt, easing a canteen to his lips; he gulped greedily, eyes bright with gratitude and something else—terror, maybe hope.

A shadow fell across her shoulder. Pike hadn’t moved away. He loomed there, whip idly tapping against his thigh. Eva felt each breath he took; smelled whiskey, sweat, and the iron tang of impatience.

“That’s enough,” he said when Jonah had taken three mouthfuls. He yanked the canteen out of Eva’s grasp so hard it splashed her sleeve. “Back to rows.”

Jonah obeyed, head ducked. Eva stood, wiping her hand, anger trembling beneath her ribs—but no words would come that might not cost someone skin.

Then movement flickered two rows over: Delilah abandoning her sack, weaving through cotton like a shadow. She crossed the dust strip between rows, dusting leaves from her skirt. When she reached Jonah, she placed her own half-filled sack on his shoulder and murmured, “We’ll share weight. Keep steady.” The boy’s eyes watered anew.

Pike saw. “Delilah!” He barked the name like it tasted foul. “That your quota you just dumped?”

Delilah’s chin rose, proud. “Sir, he’s near collapse. Can’t pick if he can’t stand.”

“Not your concern.” Pike stepped forward, whip sliding free with a hiss. “You worried about weight, you can haul double after supper.”

“That ain’t right.” The words left Delilah before caution could stop them. Even from yards away, Eva saw her friend’s shoulders stiffen at her own audacity.

Pike’s eyes glinted. He coiled the whip slow, deliberate, like a man savoring a cigar. “Report to the post after sundown, girl. I’ll set your rights straight.”

The row fell silent. Even the cicadas seemed to hush. Delilah’s jaw worked once, but she said nothing further, only nodded—short, sharp—then turned back to her row. Jonah watched her, mouth trembling, before bending once more to his own cotton.

Eva’s pulse thundered. She wanted to shout, to throw the water in Pike’s face, to smash the whip beneath her heel. Instead, she forced her legs to carry her the remaining length of the path, doling out the rest of the canteens like a ghost.

When her basket was empty she returned up the track, Pike’s figure shrinking behind her, whip glinting now and again like a sunlit serpent. Each step away felt like a betrayal. The bonnet’s ties cut into her throat as if reminding her who she was, what she was allowed to be.

At the field gate she stopped, pressing a hand to the scar beneath her shift. The lash-line throbbed, phantom pain echoing Delilah’s coming punishment. She tasted bile and dust. Not again, she thought. Never again.

She looked east, toward the kitchen yard hidden behind the gin house roofs, and west, toward the smokehouse where Pike kept the post and the cat-o’-nine. The sky was a bleached, pitiless blue.

Her father’s voice rattled in memory—Softness will ruin you. Maybe softness would ruin her. Maybe refusing softness, letting that whip fall, would ruin her more.

Eva Fairchild turned back toward the big house, canteens clanking empty, and somewhere in her chest a decision settled sharp and cold as a freshly ground blade.

Tonight, she vowed, Delilah would not face that post alone. Not while Eva still had breath in her body.

**

The light had turned gold and heavy by the time Eva slipped through the door of her bedroom, pressing it shut behind her with a slow, purposeful hand. A distant bell was tolling second supper for the field hands—six sharp clangs that rang flat against the porch columns—and the house had fallen into its usual quiet hour, that odd hush between day’s labor and night’s rituals.

Inside her room, the air was still. Still and scented—rose powder, rosewater, starch. A ribbon of dust hung in the slant of window light, and her lace curtains stirred faintly in a wind that barely reached the floorboards. It was a beautiful room. Always had been. Every bit of it curated like a story told to distant guests: the cherrywood bed carved with garlands and lyres; the velvet fainting couch no one ever used; the bookshelf with unread volumes arranged by height.

Eva stood a moment, arms folded across her middle, staring not at any of it but at the tall armoire in the corner. Her mother’s. Ivory-washed mahogany, floral scrollwork at the corners. She hadn’t opened it in over two years—not since the funeral.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the handle.

The hinges groaned like a waking ghost. Inside, the scent of cedar leapt up, bitter and faintly sweet. Her mother’s gowns still hung in a row—faded silks and southern taffetas, their sleeves limp with disuse. Between them hung a wide-brimmed mourning hat with a crumpled veil, the kind ladies wore to show their grief without letting it show them.

Eva parted the dresses. At the back of the armoire, behind a stack of hatboxes and an old music folio, sat a shallow velvet drawer—hidden, unless you knew it was there. She had watched her mother open it a hundred times, searching for pins or scent sachets or the tiny flask she thought no one knew about.

It slid open with a sigh.

Inside lay a handful of trinkets: a pearl comb with three teeth missing, a dried corsage from some long-dead ball, two hairpins wrapped in black ribbon. And tucked at the corner—almost forgotten—was a small linen pouch, drawstring long gone. Eva took it carefully, feeling the weight shift in her palm.

She opened it and tipped the contents into her hand. Eight coins. Gold and silver both. Enough, maybe, to bribe a guard or buy a map. Enough to begin.

Underneath the pouch, wrapped in oil cloth, lay a harder object. A clasp-knife, no longer than her palm. Plain bone handle, dulled from age, but the blade still snapped open with a sharp little whisper.

Eva stared at it a moment. Not even with awe. Just a slow-burning certainty, as though the steel had always been waiting for her fingers.

She slid the knife into the pocket hidden in her petticoat seam, re-tied the coin pouch, and slipped it down her bodice. It rested just above her ribs, warm already from the heat of her skin. The place her heart lived.

The mirror across the room caught her reflection like a trap.

She turned slowly to face it.

What stared back looked like a girl anyone might mistake for harmless—a young woman of leisure, skin unweathered, lips soft and parted as if she were about to ask someone for a dance. Her hair, dark and thick, had been combed out that morning and still bore the soft, domesticated waves her aunt liked to enforce with hot tongs and sighs. Her dress was pale blue with ivory trim, clean and pressed, no dust at the hem yet.

But she saw what they didn’t.

She saw the scar, just visible over her left shoulder where the fabric dipped. A curved, pale welt like a question mark carved into flesh. She touched it, slowly, two fingers pressing until the skin beneath remembered pain.

She saw her eyes—not her mother’s soft hazel but something flintier, closer set, darker. Eyes that watched too closely. Eyes that didn’t know how to look away anymore.

“I am not his daughter,” she whispered to the mirror.

Not anymore. Not the Major’s sweet girl. Not the obedient shadow of Rosemead. Not a name scrawled in cursive on a dance card or a prayer list or a headstone.

Something inside her had broken open in that field when she saw Pike name Delilah for punishment. Something had cracked, and it wasn’t just anger. It was grief. And something older than both. A raw, pulsing thing that wanted to defy—not for sport, not for attention—but for mercy. For love. For justice.

If she didn’t act now, if she let that whip fall again tonight… she’d never look in this mirror again without tasting ash.

Eva stepped back from the glass. Crossed the room. Reached beneath her bed for the canvas bag she used when they went traveling. Into it, she packed three handkerchiefs, a jar of honey, a tin box with lye soap, and a coil of rawhide twine. Nothing loud. Nothing pretty. Just tools. Just truths.

By the time the shadows outside had stretched long and the crickets began their song, she was dressed in a plain muslin dress with an old cloak folded under her arm. Her boots were scuffed, her braid tight, her resolve set like a nail driven deep.

She would be there at sundown. Not to plead, not to beg.

To stop it.

**

Rain began as a hush, almost kind—pinpricks tapping the corrugated roof of the gin house, darkening the dirt in small, hesitant constellations. Heat still lay thick over the plantation, and each droplet lifted a ghost of steam from packed earth, filling the air with the smell of wet clay and old blood. Thunder rumbled a warning somewhere out beyond the cypress brake.

Rows of field hands stood in enforced silence, backs bowed, pick sacks empty now but shoulders still aching from the day. They’d been herded here under Overseer Pike’s bark, told to watch. Eyes—tired, wary—moved from the looming whipping post to the sky, as though weighing which fury might crack first.

Delilah was already tied—wrists high, cotton rope digging into dark skin that glistened under the first sheen of rain. Her green head scarf was gone; Eva had no idea where, but without it Delilah looked smaller, younger. Her dress clung damp to her spine. She held her chin high, though Eva could see the pulse hammering at her throat.

Pike paced in front of her, whip coiled in his left hand—a cat-o’-nine with knots like teeth. Water beaded on the lacquered handle. He looked pleased. The kind of pleased that made Eva’s stomach curdle.

Eva pressed herself against the far corner of the gin house wall, hidden by shadow. The knife—her mother’s—rested cold in her bodice. Her palm itched to hold it, but she waited. Lightning spidered distant across a bruised sky, and the field hands shuffled, some murmuring a prayer under breath. Others stared flatly ahead, the way people do when they’ve seen too many horrors to cry at one more.

Pike turned to the crowd. “Let this be lesson,” he drawled. “Slow hands cost coin. Back talk costs hide.” His gaze fell on Jonah—the boy Eva had watered—standing shake-kneed between two older women. Jonah stared at the mud.

Then Pike lifted the whip. Rain fell harder—thick drops, warm as bathwater. The moment stretched thin.

Eva’s heart slammed once, twice. Then she moved.

She stepped from shadow into the half-circle of watchers, cloak flaring like a storm bird’s wing. Mud sucked at her shoes. Someone gasped—she didn’t know who.

“Stop.” Her voice cracked on the first try; she cleared her throat and tried again. “Stop.”

Pike’s head snapped around. Surprise flickered, then annoyance. “Miss Fairchild.” He dragged the syllables slow, oily. “Best go on back to your supper.”

She kept walking until she stood between him and Delilah. She could feel Delilah’s breath behind her—shallow, fast. Eva pulled the knife from her bodice, blade catching a sliver of lightning, and leveled it at Pike’s chest. Rain seethed on the steel.

“You won’t touch her.”

A ripple of shocked whispers rustled through the crowd. Pike’s eyes narrowed. Rain drummed louder on the tin roof; thunder rolled nearer, a deep-throated growl that vibrated the ground.

Pike took one step, whip dangling loose. “Put that toy away. This ain’t a parlor tiff.”

Eva tightened her grip until the ivory handle bit her skin. “My mother’s,” she said, the words trembling but steady enough. “It will do.”

He laughed—short, nothing warm in it. Then his hand snapped out, faster than she’d expected, and caught her wrist. Bones ground together. Pain lanced up her arm; her fingers loosened. The knife tumbled, skittered across wet dirt, landing near a pair of rough boots. Gasps rose, then hush.

Before she could find breath, Pike’s free hand struck—backhand across her cheek. Stars burst behind her eyes. She reeled, mud splashing her hem, taste of iron flooding her mouth. The lash-line on her back screamed phantom pain.

“Stay down,” Pike hissed.

She didn’t. She caught herself, shoulders squaring. A fine trickle of blood slid from her split lip. Rain washed it down her chin, tasted of copper and hard feelings.

Pike lifted the whip again.

“Hold!” A new voice—sharp as rifle crack. Every head turned.

Major Warren Fairchild strode into the yard, hatless, greatcoat snapping in the storm wind. Candle-glow from the house windows haloed him in harsh yellow, making his silver hair gleam like a blade. Two household guards trailed him, rifles cradled.

Major Fairchild’s gaze swept the scene—the gathered workers, rain-sodden, eyes wide; his daughter, mud-splattered, bleeding; the overseer with whip raised—and settled on Eva with a glare that might have turned steel.

“Explain,” he barked.

Pike straightened, whip lowering in salute. “Your girl’s interference, sir. Thought to stop discipline.”

Eva drew a breath. “Father—”

“Silence.” The Major’s voice bore no tremor. Rain pelted his shoulders, but he did not seem to feel it. He eyed the knife glinting in mud. “You bring a blade to my yard, daughter?”

Eva lifted her chin, though her knees shook. “I won’t let you flog her.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That girl belongs to this plantation. Your sentimentality does not override order.” He turned to Pike. “Finish it. And if she gets in the way again…” his gaze sliced back to Eva, “you finish both if need be.”

A collective gasp rippled. Thunder crashed overhead, rolling like a cannon. Pike nodded once, lips thinning. He stepped forward, whip uncoiling.

Time slowed, as if the storm itself held breath.

Eva stood rooted, eyes locked on Delilah’s—glinting beneath rain, wide with terror and plea. Pike’s arm drew back, whip tips rattling.

She tasted lightning on her tongue.

And then—

**

The cat-o’-nine snapped forward—rainwater flinging from its knots like silver seeds—and time cracked open with it. Eva moved without thinking, a wordless surge of body over thought, stepping sideways to cover Delilah, arms flung wide—

—too slow.

The braided tails hissed past her shoulder and bit deep across her back, diagonal from left nape to right hip, eight separate teeth in one burning kiss. Sound vanished. Only white fire filled her skull, bright enough to blind. Then, dragged behind the pain, came sound: a wet thwack, the gasp torn raw from her own throat, the answering roar of thunder rolling over the house roofs.

She didn’t fall. Her knees buckled, but the post was there; she caught herself against it, breath jagged, copper flooding her mouth. Rain struck the fresh wound, each drop a needle. She heard Delilah cry her name—“Eva!”—hoarse, disbelieving.

Pike’s shadow loomed again.

But Delilah wrenched her wrists, rope scraping wood; some miracle slackened and she slipped one hand free. She spun, shoved Eva aside with more strength than panic should grant. Eva stumbled, vision star-spotted, hands slick with her own blood. She turned just in time to see the whip fall a second time—this one square across Delilah’s shoulders.

Crack.

Delilah flinched but didn’t scream. A third lash followed, then a fourth, each report syncopated with thunder’s distant roll. Red bloomed on calico, rain spreading it into dark blossoms. Workers wailed, a woman’s high, keening moan slicing the downpour.

“Stop it!” Eva’s voice shredded on the words. She lurched forward.

An old man—a house butler named Isaac, gray hair plastered to his brow—moved faster. He caught Pike’s raised arm with both hands, fingers digging into the overseer’s slick sleeve. “Enough, sir,” he rasped. “She’ll die.”

Pike snarled like a dog and backhanded Isaac with the whip handle. Bone met bone; Isaac went sprawling, cheek split, mud splashing up his spotless livery. The overseer turned back, readying for another strike.

Eva lunged. Her vision tunneled, but she reached Delilah, threw herself against her friend’s frame, arms shielding already-torn flesh. “No more,” she begged, voice ragged, “please—no—”

A fist closed in her hair. Not Pike’s—her father’s.

Major Fairchild yanked her bodily away, iron grip at her scalp. Pain flared anew along the fresh welt, knees skidding through mud. “You damn fool girl,” he hissed, breath whiskey-hot in her ear. “See what softness brings?”

“Mercy isn’t softness,” she sobbed, clawing at his wrist. Rain mixed with blood, streaking her vision. “It’s—”

He shook her once, hard enough to rattle teeth. “Mercy ruins order.” He shoved her toward a guard. “Get her inside and cleaned. Pike—finish your lesson.”

But Delilah was finished already. The ropes had slipped free entirely; she slumped forward, eyes glazed, lips moving around a prayer too quiet to hear. Her knees folded, body hitting the mud with a soft, awful sound—like wet cloth dropped on a floor.

For a heartbeat the world went still. Even the rain seemed to hesitate, every droplet caught between sky and earth.

Eva stared, helpless, as two crimson streams braided down Delilah’s spine. “Delilah?” Her voice cracked. No answer. Something inside her—something final—split wider than the lash had split skin.

She lunged again, but the guard pinned her arms. “Miss, don’t—”

“Let me go! She’s—” The mud blurred; she couldn’t tell rain from tears from blood.

From somewhere far off came the muffled rush of boots—servants, maybe field hands breaking rank despite the guns. Pike’s whip hung limp now, its knots dripping red into the puddled earth. Even he looked shaken, as if the storm’s roar reminded him how small a man is beside lightning.

Major Fairchild’s fingers dug into Eva’s upper arm. “Look at her,” he growled in her ear, forcing her gaze to Delilah’s crumpled form. “Remember this when your bleeding heart itches to meddle again.”

“I will remember,” Eva said, voice low and scorched. “Every time I look at you.”

His grip tightened, then released. A spark—maybe shame, maybe fury—crossed his weathered face before rain washed it clean. He turned, barking orders for a doctor, for stablehands to carry “the girl” to the quarter infirmary, for Pike to stand down.

Eva sagged in the guard’s hold, strength sluicing away with the stormwater. Her back burned, nerves aflame, but the pain was a small thing compared to the hollow blooming under her ribs.

Delilah lay motionless, lashes spidered with rain, lips parted as though still singing that half-remembered spiritual—soft, minor-key, unfinished.

Thunder shuddered again, closer now, echoing in Eva’s bones. She knew, in that rattling moment, the scar on her back would never heal right. Not because of flesh, but because of what had broken beneath it.

And she knew, too, that tonight’s lash would not be the last traded for mercy on this land—unless she learned to wield something sharper than pity.

Major Fairchild strode toward the house. The guard half-dragged Eva in his wake. Behind them, Pike knelt over Delilah, pressing fingers to a pulse, calling for someone—anyone—to bring rags, for God’s sake hurry.

Lightning forked the horizon, throwing everything into stark silver: the whip abandoned in mud, the overseer’s pale face, Delilah’s blood shining like spilled ink.

Eva’s vision tilted. Before darkness closed in, she whispered the only promise her lips could shape:

“I will not be your daughter anymore.”

Then the world went black and the storm swallowed the yard whole.

**

The rain had broken into a fitful drizzle by the time Eva slipped from the shadow of the smokehouse and skirted the lantern-lit corner of the big house. Her cloak clung to her back, damp and stinging over fresh bandages, but she paid the pain little mind. Two guards dozed on nail kegs outside the carriage shed, rifles across their knees, hats tipped to keep mist from their faces. A half-empty bottle of corn liquor loitered between their boots—courtesy of the kitchen, she’d heard. Bribery had its uses.

She moved silent as smoke, barefoot, each step a whisper over puddled gravel. The shed doors stood ajar, lantern glow pooling across the threshold. She slid through the gap and eased it back until only a sliver of night peered in after her.

Inside smelled of iodine, hay mulch, and the copper tang of drying blood. A single oil lamp hung from a harness peg, its flame low and trembling. Two cots had been unfolded beside the carriage wall. One lay empty save a folded blanket. The other held Delilah.

Eva’s breath hitched.

Delilah looked smaller than she remembered—diminished, as if the lash had stolen inches as well as blood. She lay on her side, back bandaged with torn muslin, skin gray beneath fever sheen. A kerosene stove sputtered at her feet, failing to warm the drafty space. Cicadas hummed in the trees outside, and every so often a raindrop popped against the tin roof like musket fire.

Eva knelt beside the cot. “Lilah,” she whispered, using the childhood shortening she’d rarely dared in daylight. No response. She reached, brushing damp curls from Delilah’s forehead—curls already dull without the bright green scarf.

At the touch, Delilah’s eyes fluttered open—brown gone watery but still sharp enough to know. “Eva,” she rasped, voice paper-thin, yet relieved. “They said you near bled from that cut.”

“It’s nothing.” The lie tasted raw. “Don’t fret me.”

A faint smile curved Delilah’s cracked lips. “Still bossy.”

Eva’s throat burned. She dipped a rag into the water basin, dabbed Delilah’s brow. The lantern threw their shadows large against the carriage’s lacquered flank—two girls huddled in half-light, fugitives from every comfort in the house a stone’s throw away.

“Why’d you step between?” Delilah asked after a silence. Each syllable cost a breath.

“Because mercy’s not softness,” Eva answered, echoing her own vow. “Because I couldn’t bear it one more time.”

Delilah studied her, lashes heavy. “You gonna run, ain’t you?”

Eva swallowed. “Yes.”

A spark of relief crossed Delilah’s face. “Good.” Her gaze drifted to the wall, where an old bridle hung unused. “Help Jonah… and Mercy. The others. They ready.”

“I’ll get them north,” Eva promised, though the words shook with weight.

Delilah’s hand crept beneath the blanket, emerged clutching a crumpled scrap of parchment—stiff with sweat and maybe a little blood. She pressed it into Eva’s palm. “Map,” she breathed. “Eli drew it from talk he heard… safe route through the Cypress, station marks after.”

Eva unfolded it with shaking fingers. Rough charcoal lines—river bends, a swamp cut, three X’s like breadcrumbs. At the edge, a crooked star marked “Ol’ Quaker Widow.” Hope etched in haste.

“I can’t read his chicken scratch,” Eva tried to joke, but tears blurred her vision.

“Follow the creek… keep moss on your right.” Delilah coughed, pain lancing her voice. “Carry them north… sing low for me.”

Thunder grumbled—farther now, rolling toward some distant parish. Eva realized she was humming—the minor-key tune Delilah taught her—soft as breath. The melody filled the shed, settled against rafters, curled around them like smoke.

Delilah’s eyes fluttered. “That’s it…” Her gaze softened, unfocused, as if looking past the rafters to some cleaner sky. “Tell the wind I’m comin’, jus’ takin’ the long way.”

Eva clasped her hand—not the demure grasp taught at finishing lessons, but fists entwined, desperate. Rain tapped the roof like a ticking clock.

Delilah’s last breath slipped out on the tail of a sigh—so gentle that for a beat Eva thought it was only sleep. She waited, counted one, two… nothing.

The lamp guttered. A gust rattled the rafters, and the flame steadied again, but Delilah’s chest did not rise.

Eva bowed her head to their joined hands, a silent wail swelling in her chest but refusing to breach her lips. Tears slid, hot on her cheeks, salt on her tongue. She kissed Delilah’s knuckles once, then rose on trembling legs.

She moved about the shed with a ritual’s gravity—closed Delilah’s eyes, tugged the blanket to her chin, placed the green scarf, found earlier in a wash bowl, across folded hands like a flag. Then she slipped the crumpled map into her own bodice, alongside the knife and coins, where it fluttered against the raw welt on her back. A compass made of paper and pain.

The cicadas droned. Outside, the guards shifted in their sleep, oblivious.

Eva stepped to the door, looked back one last time at the girl who had been laughter, song, sister. “I’ll sing low,” she promised the stillness, voice hoarse. “All the way north. I swear it.”

She slipped into the night. The door sagged closed. And behind her, the lamp continued its lonely glow over the carriage wheels and the quiet body beneath the blanket—testament to a friendship and the debt now written across Eva Fairchild’s heart.

Rain began again, slow and steady, washing the blood from the shed threshold as if trying—futilely—to make the world clean.

**

The slave quarters squatted in a horseshoe of lean-to cabins beyond the smokehouse, lamps doused hours ago to avoid the overseer’s eye. Moonlight bruised the clouds, but beneath the eaves only a single stub of tallow candle glowed, its flame smothered beneath an upturned tin mug with a hole punched in one side—just wide enough for a sliver of light.

Eva slipped through the back door of cabin three, closing it with a breath of air. Inside, seven faces swiveled toward her: worry, grief, resolve all braided into one silence. The candle’s pinprick beam sketched hollows under cheekbones and turned sweat to glass on foreheads.

Isaac—the old butler, cheek swollen and patched with rag—sat in a ladder-back chair, spine straight despite pain. Ruth, broad-shouldered and calm-eyed, rocked baby Samuel against her chest, the infant’s soft hiccups filling pauses between thunder grumbles. Mercy, her younger sister, dabbed Samuel’s nose with a scrap of muslin. Jonah huddled by the hearth, arms hugging his knees, eyes huge. Lanky Eli—Delilah’s cousin and map-maker—stood near the door, one hand hidden in his coat.

All talk stilled when Eva stepped fully into the dim. Mud streaked her skirts; blood, dried now, freckled her collar; her back burned beneath the cloak, but she didn’t shake. She carried Delilah’s map, her mother’s clasp-knife, and a small linen pouch heavier than fear.

Isaac cleared his throat, voice hushed. “Miss Eva—word’s out ’bout Delilah.”

Eva set the pouch and map on the crude table. “She’s gone,” she confirmed, throat raw. “And they’ll do the same to one of you next. We leave tonight.”

Murmurs—half prayer, half shock. Ruth’s eyes brimmed but she held them wide, rocking Samuel. Eli stepped forward, candle-slit catching the determined line of his jaw. “You sure ’bout this, Miss?” He unfolded his hidden arm—cradling a battered Colt revolver. Only two cartridges rattled in the cylinder. “Ain’t no turning back once we bolt that gate.”

“I was sure the moment Pike’s whip fell,” she said. She flattened the map between calloused palms. Charcoal rivers smudged her fingertips. “Eli, you guide, I steer. Forty miles west through Cypress Run. There’s a Quaker widow with a lantern on her porch and a cellar that opens north.”

Jonah swallowed. “That swamp full o’ cottonmouths.”

“Cottonmouths don’t hunt at night if we keep to the high ridge,” Eli replied, voice steadier than his hands. “Moss stay on the right.”

Eva untied the linen pouch, poured eight glittering coins onto the wood. “This buys food when we reach the widow. Guns if we make Vicksburg. Until then we live on what we can carry.” She turned to Ruth and Mercy. “Cornmeal, lard, dried apples—quiet as shadows.”

Ruth rose, baby balanced expertly on hip. “Already hid some in the wash kettle.” Her voice was low forgiveness, though her eyes never left Eva’s face.

Isaac lifted his bandaged hand. “I’ll fetch the mule cart. Old Sorrel’s slow but sure. We lay Samuel in a cotton bin—cover him right with that blanket.”

Mercy produced a vial of laudanum from her apron. “For his cough,” she whispered. “Just a drop. Keep him sleeping.”

Eva nodded gratitude, then knelt by Jonah. “You still got heart to run?”

The boy chewed his lip, gaze flicking to her bloody collar, then to Eli’s pistol. At last, he nodded once, fierce and fast. “For Delilah,” he said.

“For Delilah,” Eva echoed.

Thunder pounded closer, rattling the plank walls. Rain rekindled, drumming steady, cloaking sound—merciful curtain. Eva reached into her bodice, drew the clasp-knife, set it beside the coins. “Steel for anyone who corners us.”

Eli peeled his coat, revealed a burlap sack of extra cartridges stolen from the rifle shed—only a handful, but worth more than gold. He slid them next to the knife. “Bullets for the rest.”

They stood in a circle around the feeble candle, faces carved in amber—runaways and one planter’s daughter, their worlds stitched together by blood and rainwater. Eva swallowed the ache in her chest.

“Swear it,” Isaac said, voice gravel but unbowed. “Each one hold to the others. Live or die together.”

They linked hands—Ruth’s warm, Mercy’s trembling, Jonah’s small and cold, Isaac’s calloused, Eli’s shaking but steadying, Eva’s slick with sweat but determined. Baby Samuel murmured in his mother’s kerchief, little fist finding Ruth’s thumb.

Thunder rolled again—closer, like a drum roll before curtain rise.

“For Delilah,” Eva whispered first.

“For Delilah,” the others answered, six voices and one newborn breath mixing with candle smoke.

They broke apart. Ruth handed Samuel to Mercy, dove for the hidden meal sack. Isaac slipped out the back to fetch the cart. Eli wrapped the pistol in oilcloth, tucked it in his waistband. Jonah gathered bed linens, ripping them into strips for bandages.

A montage in hush: corn cakes wrapped in clean rags; bacon fat scraped into a tin; Eva wiping blood from her neckline with a damp cloth; Mercy cutting a cedar branch to brush tracks behind the cart; Eli blowing out the candle and plunging them into watery darkness save the moonlit crack beneath the door.

Outside, guards laughed at some joke about lightning and cheap liquor—voices slurred, attention drifting. Rain thickened, turning yard mud to syrup—good for covering footprints.

Eva retied her cloak, felt the map flutter against her broken skin like a heartbeat.

Forty miles. One swamp. Six souls and a baby.

Insanity.

She cracked the door. Night pressed cool against her face. She drew a breath deep enough to hurt and stepped into storm, the others falling in behind—coins jingling soft, a newborn’s sigh, and somewhere above, thunder still singing Delilah’s name like a drumbeat to march them north.

**

Night had thinned to a bruise-blue membrane by the time the mule cart nosed into Cypress Run, wheels sucking at the churned mud. Torchless, they moved beneath a vault of moss-draped giants—cypress knees jutting like drowned gravestones, their reflections quivering in black water. The air felt closer here, thick as boiled molasses, and every exhale came back damp against the skin.

Eva walked at the mule’s head, one hand on the rope halter, the other pressed—almost unconsciously—over the fresh welt that cut diagonally along her back. Damp linen stuck to the wound; every step pulled the scab, set a lattice of fire crawling beneath her shoulder blade. She bit the inside of her cheek and kept on.

Behind her, Isaac guided the cart’s tail, boots sinking ankle-deep. Ruth and Mercy trudged flank-side, Samuel nestled in a cotton bin padded with blankets and hush-songs. Jonah carried the makeshift cedar switch, sweeping prints from the softer ruts as Eli scouted ten paces ahead, revolver hidden beneath burlap and faith.

Thunder grumbled far away—muffled now by swamp and distance but still enough to raise gooseflesh. Spanish moss swayed overhead like tattered veils in a chapel no god claimed.

“Log root,” Eli called, voice barely a breath. His hand flashed a signal: stop.

They did, the mule snorting softly. Eva lifted her lantern—shuttered tight so only a knifepoint of light stabbed downward. Mud rippled, then parted around a ridge of bark submerged just beneath the inky water. She shifted the halter; the mule planted careful hooves, climbing over the obstacle with a splash that sounded cannon-loud in the hush.

Eva followed, the sudden cold leaping up her calves and slapping the lash wound. Stars burst behind her eyes. She swallowed a cry, steadying herself on the bridle. Sedge brushed her thighs; unseen things moved in the water—maybe perch, maybe worse. Cottonmouths, Jonah had said. She told herself they were only rumors. Told herself none of them hunted courage.

Samuel gurgled—a baby’s half-dreamed protest. Isaac reached in, stroked his cheek with work-scarred fingers, whispering, “Hush now, little man.” The infant quieted, though Eva could feel the tremor in Isaac’s voice—a man unafraid of pain but terrified of noise the swamp might carry.

Wind rose, tugging moss strands; lightning pulsed beyond dense tree walls, turning the water’s skin momentarily white. Fireflies answered, sparking green gold along the bank, their brief lanterns bobbing like souls seeking exit.

Eli slipped back to them, boots dripping. “High ridge yonder,” he murmured, pointing to a faint rise crowned by palmetto. “Dry ground. We rest a blink, then push.”

Eva nodded, teeth clenched. She led the mule up a gradual slope where roots tangled for footing. The cart lurched but held. At the crest, the earth firmed enough for them to breathe easier.

Ruth dipped a ladle into a canteen, wetting Samuel’s lips. Mercy checked the food bundle, counting biscuits by feel. Jonah sagged to one knee, shoulders quaking with fatigue he tried to hide. Eva wiped sweat from her brow, gaze sweeping the trees behind them—expecting eyes in the dark.

She didn’t see eyes. But she heard them.

A distant baying—dogs.

Three short barks, one long, then silence.

Every heart in the circle tripped.

Jonah dropped the cedar branch. “Bloodhounds.”

Isaac’s jaw flexed. “They took the old skins from the smokehouse, no doubt. Keepin’ our scent fresh.”

Eva’s pulse hammered so hard her wound throbbed in time. She turned to Eli. “How far to the river cut?”

“Two miles,” he answered. “Water’s swift—might break the trail.”

Ruth tightened the blanket around Samuel. “Then we run.”

Eva stepped to the mule, stroking its neck, whispering gratitude for its quiet stoicism. She felt blood—warm, slick—slide beneath her bodice. No time for pain. She tugged the halter, urging forward.

They plunged off the ridge, deeper into the swamp. Bulrushes slapped ankles; frogs chirruped alarm; lightning stitched the sky, each flash carving grotesque shadows of cypress knees and Spanish moss. The air smelled of rot and life intertwined, thick as gospel.

The lash wound tore wider; she felt the trickle curve under her ribs. Still, she kept pace at the mule’s head. Each breath summoned Delilah’s last words—Carry them north… sing low for me. So she sang, under her breath, the minor-key hum threading through the splash of water and the chuff of the mule. Soft. Low. Almost lost beneath thunder.

Ahead, Eli raised his arm—the fork where swamp water narrowed to a creek, silver in starlight. Beyond that, a ribbon of higher earth and, past the next bend, the river that might wash their scent clean.

Behind them, the hounds bayed again—closer now, the sound rolling like drums over black water.

Eva pressed her hand to the map beneath her dress, felt its damp crumple, and willed her legs to move. For Delilah. For Jonah, Mercy, Isaac. For baby Samuel’s first taste of sky unsalted by overseer’s wrath.

The night swallowed their shapes, fireflies bearing witness, while thunder spoke judgment far overhead—and the swamp road uncoiled before them like a dark promise that freedom, like pain, could bleed across skin and still beat on inside the heart.

**

Dawn bled pale over Pine Ridge, turning mist into peach-colored gauze that clung to the treetops. Eva squinted through it, guiding the mule onto higher ground at last. Behind them the swamp receded into a shimmer of black water and dangling moss. Ahead, a narrow dirt track ribboned west between pines, still wet from night rain but blessedly solid.

They were near spent. Eva’s lash wound had soaked a hand-sized blot into her shift; Jonah’s jaw fluttered with each breath; Ruth’s arms trembled round the baby. But the river lay behind, and with it—Eva hoped—the hounds.

Eli scouted twenty paces ahead, revolver tucked in his waistband, map folded in his fist. Sunlight broke through a gap, glinting off the pistol’s cylinder—a single bright wink.

It was that gleam that drew trouble.

A crack of brush, then three shapes stepped from behind a deadfall oak: scarecrow men in sweat-stained hats, coats a patchwork of army blue and buffalo hide. Each carried iron—one a scattergun sawed to the nubs, one a Spencer carbine, the last a revolver with halves of pearl set crooked in the handle. The tallest—red beard, trench coat—spat a rope of tobacco juice into the mud.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes sweeping the ragged party. “Morning harvest come early.”

Eli froze mid-step, hand drifting for the revolver. The man with the carbine shook his head, lazy smile. “I’d think twice, boy. Trigger’s half-cocked already.”

Eva tightened her grip on the mule’s halter. Isaac hissed under his breath, shifting to shield the wagon bed where Samuel slept. Jonah clung to the cedar switch, but his gaze darted like a cornered rabbit.

Red Beard sauntered closer, clicking his tongue. “Runaways, looks like—worth ten, twenty a head if you’re healthy. And what’s this?” His gaze fell on Eva, traveling from her mud-spattered bonnet to her worn boots. “A lily trapped among weeds.”

“Let us pass,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “We have nothing you need.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” He drew a folded broadside from his coat—poster ink smeared but readable even in dawn’s half-light: $25 per runaway brought alive to Vicksburg Market. Red Beard tapped the page. “Math adds up sweet. And you, sugar?” He leaned in; she smelled whiskey sweat and stale lard. “A little dove like you fetches a different price.”

Eli moved then—quick draw, hammer cocked—fired. Shot went wide, puffing red dirt at the scattergun man’s boots. Carbine roared answer-fire; Eli jerked, a red bloom opening on his shoulder. He went down hard, pistol skidding into pine needles.

Chaos burst.

Jonah dove for the revolver. The scattergun boomed, shredding bark inches from Mercy’s head. Isaac hurled a feed bucket, clanging off Red Beard’s hip. Eva saw a fallen pine limb thick as her wrist; she grabbed it two-handed.

Jonah cocked the revolver—click—jammed. Wet grit clogged the cylinder. Red Beard snarled, backhanded Jonah with his pistol barrel; the boy crumpled, blood spattering pine straw.

Eva swung the branch. It connected with scattergun man’s forearm; the gun thumped into mud, firing a useless blast. She swung again—crack against his temple. He staggered, cursing. She raised for a third strike but a fist—huge, meaty—caught her side. Pain punched through wounded flesh; her breath fled.

The brute—earless, with a neck like a bull—wrenched the branch away, tossed it. Another jerk of his arm and Eva’s knife flew from her belt, landing point-down in the track. He slammed her to her knees. Lightning flashed behind her eyes; warm wetness spread down her shoulder blade.

Nearby, Ruth screamed as carbine muzzle leveled at Samuel’s blanket. She froze, hands up.

Red Beard spat again, brushing dust from his coat. “Enough.” He kicked Eli’s pistol into the brush. “Tie ’em.”

Rope appeared—from saddle packs, from bedroll straps—like conjured snakes. Hands were wrenched behind backs, wrists bound until blood darkened hemp. Isaac’s lip bled anew; Jonah wheezed shallow, knot rising under his eye. Eli clutched his shoulder, teeth buried in his sleeve to dam the groans.

Eva fought until the earless brute wrapped a forearm round her throat and squeezed just shy of blackout. Rope bit her wrists. Pain fired down her spine where lash and fist converged. She tasted dirt, blood, failure.

Red Beard inspected the captives like cattle. “Six head for Vicksburg,” he tallied. “Baby’ll fetch extra on account of he’s young.” He paused before Eva, fingers lifting her chin. “But you, blossom, too fine for the pens. Broken Yoke’s got a dove-house run by a madam pays top coin for fresh white lace.”

Ruth lunged, screaming wordless wrath—but the scattergun man, now steady, clipped her with the butt stock. She fell, still shielding Samuel in her arms.

Red Beard returned to Eva, voice silk-rough. “Count yourself lucky, darlin’. You’ll sleep on feather mattresses, not straw.”

She met his gaze, hatred solid as iron. “I’d rather die on straw.”

He shrugged. “Your choice to make—after she buys you.”

Lightning spidered along the sunrise horizon—quiet, relentless. No thunder, just the silent threat of it.

Ropes lashed captives into a coffle behind the mule cart; reins changed hands. Red Beard mounted a sway-back mare, turned west toward Broken Yoke. Eva stumbled as the line jerked forward, lash wound tearing anew. She looked back once—map still pressed to her breast but useless now, knife abandoned, pine limb splintered. Cypress Run lay behind like a dark promise broken.

She squared her shoulders. Delilah’s song haunted her lips, but she did not sing. Not while chains still rattled. The road ahead smelled of dust, cruelty, and some fate she could not name—only resist.

Morning sun climbed, indifferent, as Pine Ridge swallowed them—and the path to Billy Bonney’s uncertain mercy began.

**

The sun climbed toward its cruel throne, bleaching every color from the world except the red-raw pulse of heat. Dust plumed under the mule cart’s wheels, drifted back over the captives, settled in open wounds and the cracks of chapped lips. Eva trudged at the end of the rope line, wrists lashed to a wagon rail by a length of hemp that rasped skin raw each time the cart lurched over a rut.

Her dress—once pale blue—hung in ribbons, dark with sweat, darker still where the lash wound seeped fresh through linen. Each step tugged the cut; each breath grazed broken ribs. Still she kept pace, chin lifted enough to deny the slump Red Beard wanted to see.

The map lay warm and damp against her chest, hidden in the hollow between stays. She could feel its edges softening with blood and rainwater, ink likely smearing. But it was there. Proof of a road not yet closed. Proof Delilah’s last gift still mattered.

Ahead, Jonah limped beside Ruth and Mercy—women flanking baby Samuel like shields of flesh. Isaac walked nearest the cart shaft, one hand steadying Eli, whose shirtfront crusted with dried shoulder blood. The old butler’s other hand clutched Jonah’s elbow in wordless support. None spoke. Breath was too dear.

The outlaws rode at angles around the procession—scattergun man nursing a bandaged ear, carbine man scanning the horizon, and Red Beard out front, reins slack in one hand, revolver across his thigh. They muttered about water holes, about brokers in Vicksburg versus those in Broken Yoke, about “premium flesh” and “paying extra for quiet ones.” Every so often they glanced back to be sure the coffle still moved, like cowhands checking calves.

They would stop soon, Red Beard had said, at a creek near the state line where cottonwoods leaned over alkaline water. There they’d water the mule, gag the baby if he cried, and push on through the night. No fires. No songs.

Eva licked dust from cracked lips. Her tongue tasted of iron and grit. Behind her teeth, a hum stirred—quiet as first wind through oats. The minor-key tune Delilah had coaxed from her days before. She let it rise, the melody slipping into the rasp of her breath, low enough that only the woman ahead—Mercy—could catch it. Mercy’s shoulders twitched. After a beat, she answered with the second line, under her breath.

Together they stitched the tune between them, a thread of sound too thin for the outlaws to notice but strong enough to keep feet moving. Jonah heard next; his small voice joined on the hum, vibratoed by exhaustion.

Eva closed her eyes for half a heartbeat—saw Delilah’s smile, saw the whip descend—and opened them to the road stretching blank into noon glare. She tasted tears but did not let them fall. If she let them fall, she feared she would never stop.

She fixed her gaze on the far western horizon where cloud towers bruised the blue—thunderheads marching slow, promising rain and maybe lightning’s sharp justice. The rumble reached them, muted by distance, but enough to lift dust from the road in nervous little spirals. The same storm, perhaps, that had watched Delilah die.

“I will never see Rosemead again,” she whispered, shaping words so small they dissolved before reaching Red Beard’s ears. “Not alive, not dead. My grave’ll be farther than my father’s hands can reach.”

No one answered. She didn’t need them to. The vow filled her chest—hotter than fever, steadier than pain. Each step after felt like a nail driven into that promise: north, away, onward.

A vulture circled overhead, black wings carving lazy figure eights beneath the sun. It croaked once, the sound echoing like laughter over empty land. Eva tipped her head, met its shadowed stare, and hummed louder into the thick air.

Storm clouds stacked higher. Lightning echoed silent in their bellies, bright veins against charcoal. Somewhere beyond those clouds lay Broken Yoke, and a saloon called The Cherished Dove—and a man with thunder in his blue eyes who would, in a matter of hours, trade his horse money for a girl with blood on her hem and rebellion in her pocket.

But for now there was only the road, the rope, and the song threading between bruised lungs.

Eva’s voice—cracked and dust-raw—held to the final note, let it tremble, let it live. Thunder answered distantly, a base-note promise that the sky, at least, had heard her oath.

And the coffle marched on, westward, into the waiting storm.

[slasherslittlesimp]

Jason Voorhees- Safe

Your friends decided to take a trip down to Camp Crystal Lake despite it being closed for the season. Of course, they begged you to come along despite it making you uncomfortable. It's technically breaking and entering and you've never broken the law before. However, being a bit of a people pleaser and a pushover, you eventually gave in.

The drive down was uneventful and boring since none of the others really talked to you. You didn't really mind since you had headphones with you in order to listen to your favorite music. It was still boring though. That boredom quickly turned into nerves as you all pulled up to the camp. Your friends were quick to hop out and grab their things, excited to explore the place. You lagged behind a bit, grabbing your duffel bag last before following them towards the cabins.

"I say couples each take their own cabins." Austin suggests, likely just because he wants to have alone time with his girlfriend. The others are quick to agree. This, unfortunately, means you'll be in a cabin by yourself since you're the only person in the group not dating anyone.

"Let's put our things away and then meet up back out here." Izzy is the first to move towards a cabin with her boyfriend Warren following. The other couples split off as well leaving you with the last pick. Sighing, you make your way towards a cabin near the end of the row, surprisingly finding the door unlocked. Whoever owns this camp must not really care about trespassers if they didn't bother locking the place up.

Your duffel bag is plopped down on the bottom bunk of one of the beds near the door. The place is a bit dusty but other than that it seems fine. You look around a bit more, giving the others time to settle in before you head back out to where everyone said to meet. They're all gathered close to each other, quietly whispering about something. The second they notice you approaching they quiet down, shooting you smiles as they wave you over.

"Hey (Y/N)!" Warren greets you, throwing his arm over your shoulder in a friendly manner. "What do you say to taking a quick dip in the lake?"

You open your mouth to shoot the idea down only to let out a startled yelp as you're suddenly picked up. Warren holds you by your arms while Austin holds your legs, their grips firm despite how much you're struggling to get away. Fear and adrenaline pump through you as you beg them to put you down. They ignore you as they carry you closer to the lake. Once at the end of the dock they swing their arms back before launching you into the air.

You scream as you flail through the air before harshly hitting the freezing water. Panicked, you try your best to stay above the surface but more water than air is entering your lungs which makes it harder by the second. It doesn't help that you were never taught how to swim. Within minutes you're under the water, sinking slowly to the bottom as your vision fades to black.

On the dock your group of so called friends are laughing and cheering, high-fiving each other at their successful plan. None of them truly liked you, having pretended to be your friend for quite some time because they found fucking with you to be entertaining. This entire trip was planned around finally getting rid of you despite how messed up it seems. You had no idea this trip would end in your death.

Well, at least it was supposed to.

The second the group returned to the cabins you were pulled from the water, unconscious and freezing to the touch. Jason tries his best to get you to breathe again, even going as far as pulling his mask up a bit to give you mouth to mouth. He pushes air into your lungs every so often as he gently yet firmly gives you chest compressions. It feels like forever until you finally sputter and cough, water pouring from your lips as your body forces it from your lungs.

Unfortunately you remain unconscious but at least you're alive and breathing. Jason quickly scoops you into his arms before traveling into the woods to his own cabin where he gently lays you on the ground by the fire place. He gets a fire going to warm you up, draping a blanket over you as well. After that he grabs his machete, giving you one last glance before heading back out.

His rage towards what the group did to you surpasses his anger over them trespassing which makes him especially brutal. He shows the group absolutely no mercy as he slaughters them all, going especially hard on the two boys that threw you in the lake. By the time he's done the bodies are barely recognizable and he's drenched in blood. He wastes no time at all, quickly getting to work on cleaning up the bodies and all the blood, making it look as if nothing ever happened. He throws everybody's belongings into the vehicle before sending it deep into the lake where it will likely never be found. Before returning to you, he goes into the cabin he saw you enter earlier to grab your own bag to take to you, knowing you need to change to avoid getting sick.

Jason's a bit surprised to see you awake when he returns, sitting up and staring into the fire with dull eyes. He was expecting you to be out for a while since your body would need time to recuperate after the stress it went through. However, it seems you're physically fine for the most part. Mentally is a different story.

The killer awkwardly stands in the doorway as your turn your head to look at him, surprisingly not looking terrified at his large masked figure. He examines you from afar for a moment before lifting the bag and nodding towards you. Since he can't speak he can only gesture and hope you understand. It seems like you did since you stand up, dropping the blanket to the ground as you move to take the bag from him.

He watches you go into a different room to change before moving to sit in front of the fire as he waits for you to return. It doesn't take very long until you're back, plopping down right next to him in dry pajamas, rewrapping the blanket around yourself. You both sit in silence for a while, simply watching the crackling fire.

After a bit you glance over at him before speaking up in a slightly raspy voice, your throat still sore from choking on so much water. "Thank you for saving me."

Jason looks towards you, nodding his head once as a way of saying you're welcome. You return your attention to the fire, slowly shuffling closer to him. He stiffens slightly as he feels you rest your head against his shoulder, not quite sure what to do or how to react. He eventually relaxes before reaching up to wrap his arm around you, gently patting the top of your head. The two of you sit like that for hours in comfortable silence, only moving when the sun sets and the fire dies out.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Saturday, April 26

BUFFY: I'm sorry, okay? DAWN: Broken record much? BUFFY: You can't even take an apology. You always do that. Ever since- I just had a bad day. DAWN: Well, join the club. BUFFY: Can I be president? DAWN: I'm president. You could be the janitor.

~~BtVS 5x05 “No Place Like Home”~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Coffee Over Tea, For Once (Giles/Jenny, T) by waterintheshadows

Promise Kept (Spike/reader, E) by kittenofdoomage

At the End of All Things (Xander/Jesse, T) by arcanedreamer

beneath her fingertips (Anya & Tara, G) by Greensword101

Movie Night with Ms. Calendar (Dawn & Jenny, G) by AnnieInWonderland

[Chaptered Fiction]

Shadowed Suspicion Chapter 372 (Jojo's Bizarre Adventure xover, T) by madimpossibledreamer

Chasing the Light, Chapter 8/? (Angel/Lindsey, E) by CloudSeeker

Cherry Teeth, Chapter 3/7 (Buffy/Spike, M) by Splitterregen

The Alchemist, Chapter 4/? (Buffy/Spike, Spike/Drusilla, E) by noripori

Corrigendo Tabulam, Chapter 47/? (Willow/Tara, not rated) by lyrical_echoes

undone with you, Chapter 2/8 (Buffy/Giles, E) by guin_ramble, TheScholarlyStrumpet (equipoise)

This Saturday (and Every Subsequent Saturday for All of Eternity), Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Maxine Eden

Our Little Secret, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Spikelover4ever

Restructuring Reality [Series Part 3], Chapter 13 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Ragini

Once More,With Fangs, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only) by Cazzy

Exquisite Conflagrations: Part I, Chapters 1-3 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by yellowb, fortes775, Kanita, bewildered, DarkVoid116, MillennialCryBaby, ClowniestLivEver, VoronaFiernan, EverythingElse

Rewind the Rebound, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Tikiriaaa

Exquisite Conflagrations: Part II, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by yellowb, Holly, the_big_bad, EllieRose101, JayeMaru, SzmattyCat, flootzavut, Soulburnt, cawthraven, Maxine Eden, Tikiriaaa

Ouroboros, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by werehorse

Tequila Sunrize, Chapter 8 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Pyewacket

Can't Get No Satisfaction, Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Melme1325

Uninvited, Chapters 6-7 Complete! (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Melme1325

Renaissance, Chapter 2 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Holly

What Happened On Saturday, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by thehuntress

This Saturday (and Every Subsequent Saturday for All of Eternity), Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Maxine Eden

You Have Died of Dysentery, Chapter 3 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Girlytek

Enchanted Dawn, Chapter 10 Complete! (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by VeroNyxK84

Sojourns in Heaven, Chapters 2-3 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by elements

the Eyes, Chapter 17 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Dusty

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: [Drawing of Spike] (partly bare chest, worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Another drawing of Spike] (partly bare chest, worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Drawing of Buffy] (worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Portrait of Spike] (worksafe) by isevery0nehereverystoned

Artwork: [Drawing of Faith] (worksafe) by djmanemihi

Gifset: Every Tara look: S6E14 Older and Far Away (worksafe) by lovebvffys

Artwork: [Drawing of Spike/Drusilla] (worksafe) by foundinthevoid

Artwork: When Andrew gets to pick the movíé (Andrew/Warren, worksafe) by garscrucible

Artwork: Hospital AU (Fred/Cordelia, G) by Kittenwritings

Artwork: Grocery Shopping (Fred/Cordelia, G) by Kittenwritings

Artwork: Ivory and Obsidian: The Better Bond (Warren/Andrew, M) by GarsCrucible

[Reviews & Recaps]

ReWatch Review: Angel - S4, E16 by sweetcritique

ReWatch REview: Angel - S4, E17 by sweetcritique

ReWatch Review: Angel - S4, E18 by sweetcritique

ReWatch Review: Angel - S4, E19 by sweetcritique

More Buffy rewatch thoughts: “No Place Like Home” by disquietiswhatitis

Buffy and Angel get POSSESSED! (A Becoming Buffy crossover event) by All Bronze, No Brains

Rewatch: Prophecy Girl Part 2 by Re-Vamped with Juliet Landau

PODCAST: S5. Ep12. You're Welcome by Investigating Angel

[Fandom Discussions]

btvs s5 au where angel came back not too long after leaving for LA and now there’s two awful and pathetic vampires overly attached to the summers women by xaeyrnofnbe

yo 5x07 is so good by professeurm

i think it’s so funny how both spike and faith are so bad at disposing of bodies by greenteacology

i think it’s quite obvious that the major difference between buffy’s happiness levels in the early seasons and the later seasons is not because of her romantic partners at the time by moistvonlipwig

I wonder if the “superstar” episode would’ve worked better in season 5 or 6 due to its final message by femmedefandom

there are two ways to be a short guy. either you’re Jonathan [...] or you’re Oz by femmedefandom

Part of the tragedy in episode Smashed is Spike no longer aspiring to be a better man by desicat-writer

I have many problems with the BTVS fandom but my biggest one is the insistence that Buffy was mad at Faith when she woke up from her coma by jarlskona-evilyoyo

thinking about how, post-mystical universal retcon, Dawn was 11 during Season 2 by lost-in-frog-land

Things you would change by FallenAngel00, multiple posters

The Cheese Man. by Big-Restaurant-2766

Do you think Joss and the team knew Tara was thought to be part demon as far as S4 e14? by DamonAlbarnFruit

If you could put any Buffyverse character(s) into the episode "Halloween", who would it be and what would they turn into? by Big-Restaurant-2766

Hypothetical "Conversations with Dead People" idea I had. by Big-Restaurant-2766

Who is your fvorite “bonus” Scooby and why? by potatoesandmolases_

I just finished the “canon” comics… if you enjoyed any part of them I’d love to hear which ones by Russkiroulette

Fan Theory: Tara was chosen to be the secondary protector of Dawn and has known about Dawn this whole time. by WriteImagination

Anyone not like the Angel series??? by 8HED

Which Buffyverse character(s) do you think about the most? by Big-Restaurant-2766

Do people in the Buffyverse who act with extreme malice/lack of remorse have their souls damaged or reduced in some capacity? by SafiraAshai

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Join the editor team :)

[henghost]

it is my firmly held belief that somewhere, on some dusty forgotten hard drive, wildbow has a document that explains exactly how 9/11 was prevented on earth bet. this is his lost literary masterpiece. as delillo writes in libra, "the warren commission is the book james joyce would have written if he moved to iowa"--this is the quality mr. mccrae's occult modernist masterpiece will have. all political mysteries of the parahuman universe--and indeed of the events of september 11th, 2001--are revealed, up to and including bin laden's trigger event (in which i feel certain the cia was involved). it also contains a steamy romance between members of cauldron. i will find this document. it will save me. my holy grail.

[daisyjonesgf]

Literally do not worry about answering quickly, i get it trust.

okay, so starlet’s a certified pillow princess, but she’ll willingly suck dick, ONLY if it’s coated in flavored lube that way she doesn’t have to deal with any odd tastes, so if warren wants his dick sucked he is coating that shit up.

-❤️‍🩹

yes, she's a spoiled queen, who does not want to do any of the work and she's always been like this (I think she's a bicon tbh, who definitely had a reputation for sleeping with costars in projects before she met warren 😭) and she notoriously does not like doing work for it, she sucked a guy's dick one and it was gross and she hated it, and with girls she did not want to bury her face in anything, she's not built for that I fear 😔 (plus she already had the bad blowjob experience)

she will NOT be getting on top EVER, she wants to lay there and she wants to relieve. once her and warren are like locked in she's all "well I WOULD suck your dick, but..." and recounting her whole experience with some dusty musty guy

and warren is like, "what if tasted like strawberry?" (starlet is a strawberry girlie don't @ me)

and starlet is like, yk what? hell yeah. and so if warren wants head, he's gotta have his dick strawberry lubed up (she literally also won't try other flavors 😭)

but the man is pretty happy to be burying himself in her pussy so 🤷‍♀️