#i also muted it yet the notifications are endless

[ickypuppi3]

turned reblogs off a post because everyone was annoying me but someone just reblogged it like what kind of a sick joke is tumblr playing right now

[damonrutherford]

Tales of the insanely wealthy and alone...

He got like this sometimes when the clock rolled over to the early morning hours and the high of his evening wore off. When there were no more skirts to chase and no amount of liquor in the world could drown out the dull roar in the back of his head. Hardly meant he wouldn't try to find another outlet though.

So there he sat on the otherwise dusty floor of his mother's tomb–– a vague mental note made to get someone in here to clean more often than the current cadence. A ridiculous luxury considering the subject, but if Andrew insisted that they weren't going to be buried in the ground like everyone else, then the least Damon could do was spruce the place up. Flowers, too. He'd get more of those.

Then, as he did in childhood, Damon rattled off about his day and spared absolutely no details. An odd sight he imagined, speaking so candidly to the walls of this crypt, but if she were still around, Cerys would encourage it. In fact, she'd probably be a bit hurt if he left anything out. Or at least this was how he preferred to think of his mother, despite the three decades since her passing somewhat muddying his memories.

Didn't all kids elevate their mother to a version of sainthood after losing her so young? At least in his case, she actually had been one.

In the middle of recounting his idea for investing in a tech driven hedge fund, the familiar ping of a text notification drew him up short. His phone was an endless abyss of unanswered messages, emails, and voicemails–– most professional, some scathing, most which remained muted to avoid inundation. Only four people had their settings converted to bypass that feature and all but one shared his last name.

It used to be five.

The reminder hit him unexpectedly when he read over Lara's brief response to their earlier conversation. Without thinking, he closed her text and opened his contact list, barely scrolling through the A's before the name jumped out.

On low nights, genuinely deep pits in the midnight hours, he sometimes thought about calling that number just to hear the other man's voice on the recording. Call it personal cowardice or misguided altruism (because what if Revati hadn't turned it off?), Damon could never bring himself to press the button. Not even once in the year since he received news of yet another devastating loss in his life.

Amir hadn’t deserved to go out like that. In his opinion few did, but especially him, regardless of how familial loyalty and complications drove them apart. Now the lack of closure or goodbye festered forever beneath his skin, the burgeoning what ifs would always linger; too bitter a pillow to swallow.

Another message flashed across the unlocked screen, this time a reminder from his assistant.

The Malaysian investors will be in-office soon for your scheduled conference call. 3:00 sharp. I know you're up, drink some water and be ready in 40.

Only six months on the job and already Dana managed the insurmountable feat of both organizing his entire calendar and keeping Damon somewhat in check. Maybe he would take care to not sleep with this one and ensure she actually stuck around long enough to matter, as Gideon so rightfully suggested. Or perhaps he should simply refrain from hiring beautiful women to avoid any future temptation.

Well, the plight of old dogs and all...

"Duty calls, I'm afraid. I'll have to regale my plans for world domination next time." His thumb traced over the inscription of Cerys' name. "Bye, Mum." With that, he turned and departed into the muggy cemetery air.

All at once, his formerly somber expression fell behind the mask of public charisma as he dialed his assistant's number. Since apparently she was also awake at this hour ––enough to send him a cheeky text–– it shouldn't be an issue. “Dana, love, can you send a car to the location I’m about to drop?” Morbid to share like this, but she knew precisely who was buried here. Everyone did.

Answering without apologies nor puttering for her earlier message, Dana only offered to reschedule upon reviewing the address he sent over. Which was precisely what he liked about her, respectful with enough moxie to snap him back to reality.

“No need to cancel, I wouldn’t want to keep our prospective friends waiting.”

[msfbgraves]

Captalists are the real 'energy vampires'

Around Christmastime this year, in a funk of exhaustion too great to be able to sift through the junk on streaming to find something I actually enjoy, I was playing one of those terrible in app purchase bejewelled games.

And I noticed their very vested interest in keeping me playing even when I wasn't buying any of their crap. And that didn't make sense to me. The app was already mining my data wether I played or not. Yet they really seemed to want me to waste time on this.

And then there was a Christmas advertisement about grandparents dimming the Christmas lights because their granddaughter would otherwise get overstimulated.

Those don't seem connected, but overstimulation is of course an energy drain and it has gotten worse since the 90's, I'm old enough to attest.

Then at work I noticed the many activities specifically designed to waste your time. The moral injury of that is a feature, not a bug.

And then I have of course also noticed the paywalling of information and the deliberate enshittification of everything that could make life easier or more beautiful.

And how to find anything not overpriced or utter shit takes work sifting through garbage. And how you can't do that when you're exhausted. And how they're also making it specifically that we have very, very short attention spans.

If you're too exhausted to concentrate, you'll pay more to get your needs met.

You're not going to put in the work needed to advocate for yourself.

You're not going to do any of the boring, mundane tasks that'll keep you healthy and happy.

And since we live in a world that wants us spending more, ever more to gratify company shareholders -

They have a very vested interest in constantly overstimulating and distracting us.

There's some good to be found, or made, among corporate drivel yet. But that requires you to have mental resources -

That they are actively trying to limit in any way they can.

Ads. Noise. Terrible quality food, terrible quality clothing, art. The limiting of access to learning to make things yourself. The pointless "we value your feedback!" e-mails. The notifications. The self-improvement seminars that'll make you skip on a workout. The making it so there is no beauty anywhere you don't pay for, and no way to make it yourself.

There's cash money in you being too depleted to function and too distracted to concentrate.

There's even money in noise cancelling headphones.

And yes, there's a lot of money in all the comfort food or drugs you need to recover from a constant exposure to bad news.

Take care of yourself babies. Rest. Mute. Ration your news. Turn off endless scrolling. Don't install the app. Take the energy that saves you to do something that sustains you and those you care about. Limit perfumes in all your products and put some flowers in your room instead.

[toosicktoocare]

writing a 3-chapter 911 fic set after 911 S4 Ep 3 and 911 Lone Star S2 Ep 3 :) 

Also found on AO3

Buck thumbs at the screen of his cell phone, eyes blurring faintly around the edges. He taps to his messages, working around a yawn as he types out a quick text.

[To: Eddie] made it

Even through the dirt and pollen prickled across his windshield, the apartment complex before him looks nice, modern, and somehow a little out of place. His phone buzzes in his hand, and he frowns when he spots Eddie’s name flicking across his notification bar. It’s late… Well, Buck thinks, looking at the red 3:16 AM time blinking at the corner of his jeep’s radio, it’s actually really early, and Eddie should definitely be asleep right now.

[From: Eddie] Good. I was worried.

Buck doesn’t miss the faint blush that creeps up his cheeks, and yet, his eyes all but sink at Eddie’s text. The warmth flushing his cheeks is superficial; it doesn’t touch his eyes with bright colors, nor does it guide his lips into a smile. It just… hurts. His chest feels tight, and his heart feels too small against a towering, empty rib cage. Sighing, he taps back a message.

[To: Eddie] you’re such a worrywart

The sudden low rumble of thunder overhead scares Buck. He jumps, and his phone flies from his hand, hitting the passenger seat floor with a thump. “Shit,” he mutters, feeling around for it in the dark, snagging it only after it buzzes with a third message.

[From: Eddie] how am I not supposed to worry when you tell me you’re taking a solo boy’s trip right after a 24-hour?

[From: Eddie] I’m pretty sure the single gray hair I found on my head is not because of Christopher.

[From: Eddie] He’s bummed you didn’t take him, by the way.

Buck skims through the messages, shaking his head.

[To: Eddie] tell Chris he’s my wingman for my next 10 trips

[To: Eddie] also go to sleep old man

His phone lights up with a series of emojis, some of which don’t actually make sense, and Buck can’t help but laugh quietly to himself. He and Hen have been teaching Eddie to use emojis more in his texts so he doesn’t “sound like such an old geezer,” as Hen so nicely puts it, and since then, he’s been using every symbol he can get his hands on, unaware of how inappropriate many are. It’s cute, and that alone is enough to have Buck’s smile curving back downward, and the pain that was temporarily pushed back by harmless messages of angry face emojis comes back to the center of his chest, a heavy pressure he can’t shake. His eyes flick across Eddie’s final message.

[From: Eddie] I can hear you groaning from here, so I’ll stop. Seriously though, get some rest, Buck. I’m pretty sure my old man heart can’t take another 20 hours of you driving back on no sleep.

[To: Eddie] will do. night Eddie

He locks his phone, and for a moment, he just stares at the raindrops drumming lightly against his windshield. They mix in with the dust and grime of a twenty-hour road trip, streaking down in inconsistent zigzags that blur the apartment building in front of him. Even enclosed in the car, he can feel the thickness of humidity pushing against his jeep, and he can only imagine how heavy it is when paired with the rain.

This is stupid, he thinks. He shouldn’t be here. Sure, he can give spontaneity a run for its money on many an occasion, but this? Twenty hours in a car on no sleep? Exhaustion doesn’t even begin to cut it, neither does the headache pounding dully against his temples. Still, he knows that if he didn’t come, he’d be spending yet another sleepless weekend alone, with only his thoughts twisting into daggers in his mind.

He works through his nerves, breathing low and deep, focusing on how wide his lungs can expand along his rib cage and not on the fact that he’s sitting in his jeep twenty hours from home ridiculously early in the morning in a different state.

“Come on, Buck,” he tells himself, shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders. “Just go.” He follows his own verbal lead, hopping out of his jeep with a low gasp. The rain is somehow suffocatingly hot against his skin yet cold enough to have him trembling. He curses under his breath, wrapping his arms around himself as he jogs up to the apartment building, whipping past rooms until he stops on the number he’s read everyday in a text for the last three weeks.

He’s tucked under an awning, staring at the door that somehow seems far too large and daunting, just like everything else in this damn state. “Knock.” He rolls his eyes at his own voice and lifts his hand, rapping his knuckles quickly against the door.

It takes a moment for a light to flick on behind the closed blinds, and then Buck can hear locks clicking. His breath goes tight in his throat, stopping just before his lungs, and his shaking slows until he’s impossibly still on this foreign apartment step. The door opens, and he frowns, eyes briefly flicking from the tall, dark, and very shirtless man and back to the number on the door that he knows he got right.

“Hey, man. Can I help you?”

“Uh,” Buck drags out around a nervous laugh. He smiles sheepishly, and on instinct, rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. I was looking for—”

“—Buck?”

The man’s face twists, his jaw tightening into a sharp line, and Buck leans over, looking past the man’s shoulder to see TK walking into what appears to be a combo living/dining room from a dark hallway. He looks tired but openly worried, and Buck can feel what little composure he’s hanging onto by a frayed thread crumbling.

“Woah, wait. This… This is Buck? This is the guy from LA you’ve been texting for weeks?”

TK rolls his eyes, but the furrow in his brow remains, so prominent against his pale face. He pads quickly across the room, squeezing into the doorway. “Stop, Carlos,” he mutters, sharing a quiet look with Carlos before he turns back to Buck, frown deep. “Buck? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Buck can only imagine how he must look: pale, drenched, tired, broken. He can feel his eyes stinging, and he swallows thickly. “Do you remember when I asked you if you wanted to hang out sometime if you’re ever in LA, and you told me you have a boyfriend?” The words are practically spilling from his tongue. He practiced. For twenty hours, he ran through just how exactly he planned to initiate this impromptu visit, but now that he’s living the scenario, his mind’s a jumbled, shaking mess.

“Uh, sure?” TK cocks his head to the side, and for a moment, he holds an expression that shows how lost he is, but then his face softens, and Buck can already hear the apology mixing in with recognition.

“Shit, Buck. I didn’t mean to insinuate—”

“—no, it’s…” Buck struggles with his words, his voice shaking. He laughs again, but the small huff of air cracks, and even though he wishes he can blame the sudden dampness on his cheeks on the rain dripping coldly from his hair, he knows his eyes are overflowing wells he can no longer control. “I just… I guess I’m just really confused, and… I wanted… You seem so confident, and I just—”

“—Hey, it’s okay,” TK tries softly. His eyes, Buck thinks, are endless pools of understanding that tug him in.

“Why don’t you come in?” Carlos starts, stepping aside. “You’re shivering.”

Buck jerks through a nod, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, and he follows TK and Carlos inside, arms wrapping back around his middle tightly, whether to warm himself or keep himself from breaking, he’s not too sure.

“Do you have any clothes to change into?” TK asks, frowning as he plucks at Buck’s wet, short-sleeve shirt that’s clinging to his torso.

“Ah, no,” Buck laughs weakly, eyes falling to the floor. “I didn’t really… I kind of just left?”

“Okay,” TK nods carefully, eyes holding onto Buck’s shaking frame for a moment. “Carlos, do you have something he can borrow?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Buck watches as Carlos disappears into the dark hallway, and then, he just sort of checks out. He can feel that he’s being ushered into a bathroom, and he’s faintly aware that the bathroom is nice. It’s large, open, and for a moment, he’s mutely in awe. But then there’s dry clothes being shoved into his arms, and he stares blankly at them, frowning.

“Buck?”

Buck’s slow to pull his gaze from the clothes to TK, but when he does, TK’s still frowning, and Buck offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry. I’ll just be a minute.”

TK’s nod is hesitant, matching his motions. He stops to pull open the mirror and rifle through it before he slips out of the bathroom, and Buck stares, tired and numb. He’s slow and shaky when removing his wet clothes, but when he’s slipping into dry clothes that, though are a tad short, fit him fairly well, he begins to feel more present and aware.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He paces the length of the bathroom, eyes catching onto his flushed, worn reflection. “Shit,” he repeats, louder, because he’s staring in a mirror in a bathroom in an apartment in freaking Texas.

“Hey, Buck? You okay?”

Buck turns to the knock on the door. “Y-yeah. Coming!” He shakes out his arms again, briefly bends over to splash some water on his face, and then he slips out of the bathroom, feeling an odd concoction of apologetic and embarrassed.

“Better?”

TK’s eyes are mutely narrow, almost to the point that Buck thinks he’s being looked through not at.

“Yeah, thanks.” He steps after TK until he’s dropping down onto the couch after TK motions toward it. “This place is… it’s really nice.”

TK opens his mouth to speak, but Carlos cutsin, slipping from the kitchen and masterfully balancing three coffee mugs between his two hands.

“Thanks. Coffee?”

“God, yes,” Buck all but groans, and he eagerly accepts the mug, his fingers stretching and wrapping around it, leeching the warmth. Carlos drops to the couch beside him, and Buck smiles softly, turning back to see TK sitting down on the edge of the coffee table across from him, his coffee going untouched.

“Look,” Buck starts, clearing his throat. “I’m really sorry. I should have called.” He takes a moment to see that both TK and Carlos are now sporting shirts, but their hair is still rumpled, and though both are alert and focused on him, he can still catch the hint of interrupted sleep in their eyes. “And I should have not shown up stupid early in the morning.”

“Well,” Carlos drags out, leaning back against the couch and propping his feet up on the table. “You’re here, so let’s hear it.”

“What?” Buck knows what, but the question’s quick to slip from his tongue.

“What you said at the door,” TK clarifies softly, leaning forward to pat Buck’s knee. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Buck pulls his gaze to the mug still wrapped tightly in his hands, his eyes watching the dark liquid, the steam still billowing faintly up, breaking at the rim. “How’d you know?”

“That I’m gay?” TK supplies, and Buck nods, keeping his gaze trained downward.

Laughing, TK leans back. “It’s kind of just something I always knew. I just never thought of women the same way my friends did.”

Frowning, Buck pulls his gaze up from the cup, working TK’s words around his head, new gears slotting into a stuttering machine. “What if I like women, and I thought I only liked women, but—”

“—then you met someone, who happens to be of the same sex, that you click with so well that it’s almost scary how right it feels?” Carlos interrupts, and Buck whips a wide gaze to him, nodding quickly.

“And you think maybe you’re just really great friends with this guy, but then you start to think about how you can’t imagine what your life was really like before him, and you really don’t want to imagine what your life would be like without him.”

“Holy shit,” Buck breathes, nodding still. “Yeah, all of that. How’d you…”

“Have you considered that you may be bisexual, Buck?”

Buck turns back to TK, frowning. “No? I mean, maybe?” He groans and leans forward to set his coffee mug down before he throws himself back against the couch, running his hands down his face. “I guess I haven’t really tried to label it? It’s not something I really thought about before—”

“—Eddie?”

Buck drops his hands to his lap, sighing, his entire body deflating against it. “What gave it away?”

“Every other text you send me has something to do with him or his son,” TK supplies, and Buck nods, a weak smile trying at his lips.

“Sorry about that.”

TK shrugs. “It’s cute. You two seem really close, and it’s obvious his son thinks the world of you.”

Buck smiles again, and though small, it feels natural, real, and he stops looking at the plush carpet as if it’s the most endearing thing in the world and pulls a slow gaze back up to meet TK’s present, encouraging eyes.

“You haven’t told him.”

It’s not a question, but Buck still shakes his head anyway. There isn’t a single inch of his entire being that doesn’t want to tell Eddie, that doesn’t want to open up to Eddie, to tell him that he’s the only constant that makes complete sense in his life. It’s maddening, enough, apparently, to drive twenty hours to Texas to confide in people he’s really only just met.

“I don’t know how,” he mutters, his voice cracking. His eyes are stinging again, and he doesn’t try to blink back the tears. “I’m so… scared,” he adds, his hands smoothing down his thighs. “I almost ruined everything between us once—I can’t… I don’t want to risk that again.”

“At some point,” Carlos starts, leaning forward and clapping a hand to Buck’s shoulder, “you’ll have to tell him. Not for him, but for you. You go on like this, and you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

“Plus, while I don’t know Eddie personally, from what you say about him, it sounds like he’ll be understanding regardless of how he ends up really feeling.”

Buck’s gaze, though blurry, shifts between TK and Carlos, back and forth, two warm, kind faces that encompass him. He knows, deep down, that they’re right, that Eddie will understand no matter what because that’s just the type of person Eddie is: impossibly kind and endlessly forgiving. Still, since he’s accepted that something’s wrong, that his heart’s sporting some cuts and bruises that’ve been building over the years, he’s afraid. He’s scared of what will become of his own mind if he tells Eddie how he really feels because of all things he faces on a daily basis, his thoughts are the most frightening.

“I just,” he tries, a hushed sob ripping up his throat. “Sorry. I just… I’m not usually this—”

“—emotional?” Carlos finishes at the same time TK cuts in with “feverish?”

“What?”

“I second that,” Carlos starts, frowning. “What?”

TK grabs the ear thermometer he snagged from the bathroom minutes before, waving it before Buck’s face. “Your skin’s warm to the touch, and people aren’t usually chilled after running around in humid, Texas rain.” TK leans forward, pressing the thermometer into Buck’s right ear, and Buck can only frown, pressing the back of his hand to his own cheek and sluggishly equating his headache to the heat that brushes against his knuckles.

“101.4,” TK mutters when the thermometer beeps. “When’s the last time you slept?”

Buck cocks his head to the side. “It’s Saturday morning, and I worked a 24-hour Thursday to Friday, so Wednesday?”

“Jesus, Buck!”

“You drove here after a 24?” TK spits out, slipping to his feet and crossing his arms. “With a fever?”

Wincing, Buck makes to get to his feet, slipping until he’s perched only on the edge of the couch. He’s heard this disappointment before, always after he’s done something others deem too reckless, and he’s found the best remedy is to remove himself from the situation, to reflect alone, work through his own, warring thoughts. “Sorry, I’ll go—”

“—what?” TK stammers at the same time Carlos almost growls “you most certainly will not.”

Buck blinks slowly. “Sorry, I’m confused?”

“Buck, you’re definitely not leaving this apartment to venture out into a state you’re unfamiliar in with a fever.” TK softens his tone, and his expression follows suit. “Sorry for yelling; we’re just worried.”

“Oh,” Buck mutters, his lips rounding. “I’m probably just tired.”

“I wonder why,” Carlos teases, and Buck laughs around a yawn.

“Are you guys sure, though? I can find a hotel—”

“—Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.” TK cocks a brow, and Buck smiles, sheepish and small but real.

In minutes, he’s set up on the couch with blankets and medicine already pumping into his system, and in the short time it’s taken to get him settled, he must have thanked the two, at least, forty times, stopping only when Carlos slammed a pillow into his face. He assured the two, repeatedly, that he’d wake them if he feels worse, and once they were sure he wasn’t lying, they slipped off to the bedroom, leaving Buck alone.

It’s nearing four in the morning, and Buck’s already nodding off, the weight of exhaustion and the heat of the fever pulling him down, but when his phone begins buzzing, he jerks forward, squinting at the name: Eddie’s (Dumb) Landline.

Eddie doesn’t call from the landline; he specifically calls from his cell phone. Christopher however… Buck can’t press the answer button fast enough.

“Chris? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is your dad okay?”

“Hi, Buck.”

“Hey, Bud,” Buck says, voice tight, worried. “What’s going on?”

“I had another nightmare.”

Buck’s face falls, and he gnaws lightly at his lower lip. “Yeah? How come you didn’t wake your dad?”

“He’s tired. He said you’re on a trip.”

“Ah, yeah,” Buck mutters, smiling softly. “I drove to Texas to visit some friends.”

“How come you didn’t take me?”

“Because,” Buck draws out, “I had to make sure they were prepared to meet the single coolest person on the planet.” Christopher laughs on the other line, and then he tries to hush himself, mumbling how he has to be quiet, and Buck smiles wider.

“You should go back to bed, Chris. It’s really late. Remember what we talked about: you’re stronger than any nightmare.”

“I’m stronger than any nightmare,” Chris parrots back, and Buck nods, more to himself.

“Night, Buck. Love you.”

Though Buck’s heard it countless times, hearing Chris so openly express himself to Buck never ceases to catch Buck’s breath, to spread warmth across his chest, press band aids against wounds only he can see.

“Love you too, Christopher.”

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 24)

Notes: Chapter 24 - can you guys believe it?! I have brought you a lot of angst in the last few chapters, but there is a lil fluffy moment in this chapter which I hope you enjoy. Plus protective Cassian (one of my personal favourites).

As ACOSF draws nearer, I wanted to ask you guys a question. I initially was hoping to finish this fic before it came out, but I just don't think it's going to happen. So if you would still read E&L after ACOSF comes out, could you let me know? It will help me to make a decision on whether I need to start wrapping this all up sharpish, or whether I can continue to move along at my current pace.

Enjoy :) And I hope you all are having a lovely festive period.

p.s I’ve been having issues with tagging blogs lately. Let me know if you get a notification?

Chapter 24 Nesta

Nesta was drowning.

Drowning in the dark; in the unfathomable cold that bit at her ankles and dragged her down by invisible, insistent hands and sharp, pointed claws. Down, down, down Nesta went, into the inky blackness that sung of ancient horror, fighting for a breath that she could not take.  

Inside her head, Nesta was screaming; the sound an echo, as if she were detached from her body and she were listening to someone else. It was a scream of rage and unmeasurable pain as her body was torn apart and rearranged: her bones cracking and reforming into solid steel; her ears stretching into points; her limbs elongating. And with that fire a burning cold that was deeper than the gap between stars. Nesta screamed from the agony of it, but cold water rushed into her lungs and stifled the sound. Pain licked at her skin like the flames of a fire, until her blood was bubbling with rage and a thirst for revenge that ran so deep it became woven into the very fabric of who she was — of who she was being moulded into.  

Nesta should have passed out from the pain but instead she fought to remain conscious; wholly awake and wholly a witness as she tore at the edges of the blasted Cauldron. The sides were made of nothing but canvas, Nesta’s nails ripping through it as the Cauldron bucked and shrieked, like an animal caught beneath her paw.  

Bright light poured through the gaping holes, blinding her new born eyes that had not yet seen.  

She felt the power of it, the piece she carved out for herself in fury and with revenge singing in her blood. She made it hers, let that power sink into her bones, her skin, as they snapped and cracked and reshaped themselves…

The Cauldron continued to thrash and struggle. The water took on a thicker quality like tar, but Nesta did not relent. She ravaged that power until it was a part of her; stolen and consumed. Impossible to take back.  

And then Nesta was no longer drowning but falling.

The pocket of air hit her with such force that Nesta found herself with the irony that she could not breathe, even though it was what she needed more than anything in the world. But then her lungs were spluttering, her stomach lurching, and inky blackness — ancient death — was regurgitated onto crystalline rock. Nesta heaved until her stomach had no more and she was gasping for breath — cold, bracing fresh air that tasted like freedom — before she rolled onto her back, her hair plastered to her face.

She shivered from the cold and the unquenchable fury that would not see her yield.

Above her was midnight black, the stillness of what Nesta wanted to believe was sky but she knew was only an illusion. It brought her comfort even though she wanted to hate it; wanted to sob and scream until she was so exhausted that she couldn’t muster any more strength.  

And she should have been terrified but she also felt deathly calm, even as a voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice that was ancient; old and superlunary with a strength that whispered of unimaginable power for better or worse.   “I have been waiting for you, Nesta Archeron.”

Words like ice fire. Of steel and reserve. Of power beyond Nesta’s wildest reckoning.

It hurt to move but Nesta scrambled to her feet, slipping on loose rock and craggy stone. The sound that beat in her ears was an insistent, terrified rhythm, and it took Nesta a moment to piece together that it was her heart, throwing itself with a repetitive boom against strips of bone — a flimsy cage for something so fierce.  

Whirling around, Nesta tried to source the voice but found only that endless stretch of deep velvet, and in the near distance, a towering shadow that rose up, up, up into the darkness until it blended into the canvas, like something disappearing into the clouds.

Nesta made herself take stock. Made herself stand still. To dampen the terror and focus on that spiky, deep-set anger that still consumed her. Her back stiffened, her chin rose, and when she spoke for the first time with her new lungs, Nesta did not let her voice shake.

She clenched her fists until her new nails bit into the meat of her palms.    “Where am I?”

A sensual laugh as smooth as marble echoed around her — perfectly rendered. “Do you hear the wind? It moans your name, Nesta Archeron. Your twin can hear it. They’ve always been able to hear it. Your history written into the night sky where you only need join the dots. So easy to ignore until now.” A pause and Nesta felt that being move. Her head snapped around as the voice mused from behind her, “And your destiny: a sacrifice and a gift in the same moment.”

Nesta tightened her fists in an effort to ground herself and willed herself to lean back into   that odd sense of being rather than the fear that was making her heart race. She felt her nails break through her skin with a pop. She scented blood; metallic and salt. She was so cold she wanted to shake until her teeth chattered, but Nesta would not show weakness. She would not break down.

So Nesta rose up tall and made her voice ice cold; strong rather than brittle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another long, sensual laugh. A caress akin to a brush stroking the softest of bristles over her skin. “No, you don’t,” the voice agreed. “Not yet. But you will.”

A moment in time stretched out, the pause pregnant and awesome. Then a soft light in the darkness above, growing in size: a fleck, a star, a luminescent ball of light…

“What do you want, Nesta Archeron?”

“I want revenge,” Nesta replied, her voice full of a sudden vigour as vengeance lashed out on a forked tongue.

Again, more soft laughter that licked over Nesta’s body in a shiver. “You have already got that, have you not? Do you not feel that deathly power in your veins? That hum of primitive power that you have stolen, that has been woven into who you now are.”

“I will end him. I will end everyone who has caused my sister harm.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. But what will that take from you?”

Hysterical laughter wanted to burst forth from Nesta’s lungs, as if she could only feel the sharpest of emotion and everything else were muted.

“Everything has already been taken from me,” Nesta spat, balling her hands into harder fists, her nails digging into her crescent shaped wounds.

Pain flared, fresh and sharp but Nesta paid it no heed. She was no stranger to pain and she would rally. Every. Damn. Time.

The light above Nesta continued to grow until it became distinct; a fiery palm emerging out of the dark. Nesta did not flinch. Did not scream or back away. Did not bow or yield or grovel. She only let pearlescent fingers close around Nesta’s own, the touch like a near-scalding bath that settled only when your blood thrummed beneath raw, pink skin. 

“So much sacrifice,” the voice pondered, turning Nesta’s hand. Nesta’s fingers unfurled from her palm without her willing it, until her palm lay open, the half-crescent moons bloody tears in her otherwise new skin. “But what about a gift?” the voice asked. “A gift for the girl who lives with such anger and guilt. The girl who sees the world in all its terrible glory and feels too much. What do you say to that?”

“I only want revenge,” Nesta repeated, her mind assaulting her with images of Elain as she was pushed under the inky water, as she emerged drowning and wholly new — wrong.  

No laughter this time. Only that hand rising, fingers coming together until they were pointed and pinching something out of the dark.  

A pearl of pure light hovered millimetres from those shining fingers, as if it were attached by an invisible string. It sung with such radiant brilliance that Nesta wanted to look away: it was the pure, unfathomable brightness of a midnight star. A melody that sung of promise and hope.

“What is revenge worth if it does not emerge from the desire to protect?” the voice asked, letting go of that drop of light. It did not fall like water; it floated down slowly, until it nestled in the crook of Nesta’s palm like a pearl that shimmered as it caught the light.  

Nesta remained deathly still, staring at the drop of possibility in her palm.  

“Revenge is choice, Nesta Archeron. It can be a wish for death and pain or to protect and defend.”

“Both,” Nesta said fiercely. “It can be both.”

“Multi-faceted and complex, as all decisions are,” the voice agreed. “And there are so many strands in you, aren’t there? Already you have felt one of them, although I do not think you have truly placed the puzzle pieces together. But here is another choice; something to cherish and use wisely on those who are worthy. Everything is cyclical. Day and night, birth and death, love and sacrifice…”  

The luminescent hand closed Nesta’s palm, but rather than the drop of light bring dampened by shadow, it sank into Nesta’s skin, until it too became a part of her.

“I don’t want a gift.”

But even as Nesta spoke she knew she did not truly mean it.  

She also knew it was too late. She felt her blood spike and thrum as that light channeled into her, twining around that deathly power that she had already stolen and forced into her remaking.  

A low hum vibrated the ground beneath Nesta’s feet. “Don’t want it or do not deserve it?”

And then Nesta was drowning again with such startling speed that she hadn’t the time to take a deep breath. Terror gripped her, and with it power sung in her blood, the sensation like boiling water, as if her very skin were bubbling with it even though that dark water bit with a cold akin to the fiercest frostbite.

As if fear had summoned it, silver fire began to glow at Nesta’s palms. Water rushed into Nesta’s lungs and with it, that power surged.

Up, up, up Nesta went, like an arrow unsheathed from a bow until the inky black was no longer concrete and colour swam on the surface.

Everything tilted as the Cauldron tipped, jerking the water and Nesta out onto the cold flagstones of reality.  

Nesta took a desperate, ragged breath through the gag that was suddenly back around her mouth, and cast a look around the room: to Cassian who was sprawled unconscious on the ground, his arm outstretched and his wings in tatters; to Feyre who was kneeling in her own vomit tucked into Rhysand’s side...

And on her sister’s face, Nesta could see what she was: ravaging, deadly, awesome. A face and figure to stop males and females in their tracks. A face and figure that would make humans and fae alike think twice.

But that was nothing of the forged steel in Nesta’s bones, in her blood, as she scrabbled across the floor to Elain on her long, unnatural limbs and tore the gag from her mouth.  

It was a steel that no-one could see but that they could all sense as Nesta locked eyes with the King of Hybern, that promise of death still swimming in those mercury eyes that moved.

She would have her revenge. Of that, she was sure.

***

Nesta gasped.

Her hands flailed, her body screamed with agony, her lungs were hoarse and raw, her abdomen set with a pain that went so deep she knew something was gravely wrong.

And through her veins… no whisper of her magic. Not a drop.

It was that which made her thrash, her lungs suddenly unable to breathe from the agony that wrangled through her body.

She heard her name. Again and again; the high-pitched desperation of a female. Feyre. But then something much lower. A caress. A rumble that quelled her fear and kicked the breath back into her with a force that had her gasping.

Nesta’s hand found a rough, calloused palm across the mattress. Fingers curled unbelievably gently around hers. She heard the rustle of wings. Smelt pine and musk and the bracing fresh air of the Illyrian skies.

“Nesta. You need to take your medicine. The morphine has worn off.”

Cassian.

Even with her eyes submerged in the dark, Nesta knew that Cassian had turned his head to murmur something in low tones to her sister — her senses heightened in the wake of the fear that was still bitter on her tongue.

Then light retreating footsteps. The click of a closed door.  A large hand on her temple. A wet rag against her lips. Nesta opened her mouth despite the foul tasting tincture which burned her throat and flooded her tastebuds; swallowing it down, begging it to soothe over the pain which she could not describe for its wrongness, even though she had been told that she would heal.

Frawley had come to visit her the last time Nesta had resurfaced. Had explained why she was there and what had happened. That Nesta had the gift of healing. That she had over-healed Mas's traumatic injuries and moved on to older ones. That she had sacrificed her wellness for someone else’s. That she would have died had Cassian not got her to stop.

Another power Nesta needed to train. As if she didn’t have enough to wrangle under control.

Nesta did not remember much after dropping to her knees at the widows camp. She remembered the click of a lock inside of her; the way her power had flipped from silver to startling, brilliant white. That she had known what to do as she lifted her hands over Mas and started to use her magic for something wholly good.

“What did you feel for your power came to the surface?” Frawley had asked before she took leave.

Nesta had bitten back a whimper of agony as she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. She had been swamped in heavy blankets and consumed in Cassian’s scent.  His bed not hers. But the scent of him… it comforted her. She was too tired to rally against it. Had woken knowing that she was immeasurably safe even though memory tried to persuade her that she was not.

Eventually, when she realised that Frawley’s second eye had come to rest on her along with ice blue, Nesta had supplied, “I felt grief.”

“And what else?” Frawley had urged, her ice blue eye glowing with intensity.

Nesta had been too tired to answer. Her eyelids heavy from the sedative she had been given, despite the energising tea Frawley had administered to attempt to speed up the act of replenishing her magic. To fight the fatigue one felt when they had been drained of power.

And now she was waking again and Frawley was gone.

Braving the light, Nesta cracked open an eye. Her head throbbed, as if her brain were growing in her skull and it was pressing against bone.

Cassian was hovering over her, a crumpled frown twisting his brow as he dripped the medicine past her lips. He caught her eyes opening a fraction too late and she catalogued worry slide into relief before it was pushed back and a light was forced into those dark irises. When he smiled at her, it was too tight and anguished to ring true. She must have been in a bad way — very bad — for him to lose sight of his tendency to arrange his expression into that casual playfulness. For her sister to still be here, hovering by her bedside unsure how to act or how to behave. For her mate to be in the room next door, his star-blessed magic permeating Cassian’s bedroom even through stone and plaster and wood. She could even sense Azriel’s shadows moving like an agitated fog.

No Amren. No Mor.

Something to be thankful for.

“Mas?” she asked. Her throat was dry despite the tincture and the word came out scratchy and raw.

Cassian pressed a glass of water to her lips.

She drank.

“Mas has left to help relocate the widows and orphans,” Cassian told her. “I had her checked over by Madja and Frawley. She is perfectly fine. Roksana too,” he added when Nesta frowned. “Mas hasn’t flown yet,” he continued. “She wanted you to witness it.”

Something tightened around Nesta’s throat. It was not panic but… deep twisting affection for the housekeeper. It must be agony for Mas not to launch straight into the skies. Yet… Nesta was touched beyond imagining that she would wait for Nesta to witness something so precious. A moment in history that was not tainted in blood and death but joy.

Cassian had paused as if he were checking himself. He had moved away from her, to the dark dresser to the left of the bed. There was a clink of glass which Nesta supposed was him stoppering the medicine. “I know you do not like it here and I understand that. You were given no choice and Illyria is…” he trailed off, as if he were searching for the right word. “It’s brutal, in both harsh reality and its beauty. But the widows and orphans… they will not forget what you have done for them — how you fought for them. Mas has been shackled in so many ways throughout her life, but her wings… You have given her freedom, Nesta. She will never forget that ,and neither will those females who witnessed you healing her.”

When Cassian turned back to look at Nesta, his eyes were glowing with such intensity she did not know what to say. He seemed to understand that, breaking their gaze to stare out of the window.

It was snowing again. The scent of it was in the air and on Cassian’s clothes, from where Nesta imagined he’d been in the throng of it all, establishing order where there was chaos. She imagined that was why his family was here.

“Azriel has some information about the kerits,” Cassian said. He remained staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the snow falling from the thin sheets of grey cloud strung in the sky. “About where we think they came from. We would like you to be a part of the discussion.” A pause. “If you would like to be, that is.”

Nesta held back a snort partly because she knew it would hurt too much. “I don’t think your High Lord wants me to be a part of any discussion.”

“Rhys specifically asked me to fetch you before we began,” Cassian replied, not flinching at her ice-sharp words. Nesta supposed he had become immune. “You are integral to the conversation.”

Noise caught in the back of Nesta’s throat. “I thought I was just a stain you all wished you could rid yourself of.”

No, not immune. Cassian flinched as if he had been burned, his wings spreading instinctively before he could catch them. He retracted them back in with a slow huff of anger. It was not a disparaging or exasperated sigh, more… defeated, as if it were a remark that brought him pain.

Still he did not turn to her. If anything, his focus became more intent on the scenery outside. At the bustle of Illyrians as they fought against the flurry of snow that promised to kiss everything white at the worst possible time.

Cassian’s jaw feathered. “If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.”

Nesta blinked at the coarse words that held no lightness, no mockery, no teasing. That were honest and unhappy. Twisted with a rejection which hit her to the bone.

You rejected me first, Nesta wanted to say, as she watched the taut muscles in Cassian’s back. They were vibrating with an energy that usually told Nesta that he needed to fight with his fists until his body was sated.

“We believe the attacks might be orchestrated,” Cassian continued. “Azriel went to scout the perimeter to see if there was any evidence. He has only just arrived back.” Finally, those amber eyes rested back on her. They were burning with a rage that had been purposefully dialled back, but Nesta knew how much Cassian cared about his people. “Will you come?” he asked.

Shock wound through Nesta at the confession. At the brutality of what Cassian was suggesting. Anger spiked through the exhaustion with such ferocity her magic should have been roaring, but it only remained quiet. Yet… a determination solidified in her mind. She did want to be a part of the conversation. Not just to be useful, but because Nesta cared about the widows and orphans. She longed to hold Roksana close and see Mas fly. To lay the dead to rest, to check in on the injured. To see if she could use her healing magic to mend their wounds. To show that she was not an observer but a fighter - a protector. That she would lay her life on the line to protect the females who had nothing and were helpless against every threat, just as she had once been.

She did not say all that. Instead, she just said, “Fine.”

A short nod as if Cassian understood. “We can do it in here or out there.” Cassian jerked his chin to the living room. “Frawley said you are not to move if it can be helped, but something tells me you’d sooner have died than be crowded on your sick bed.”

There. A small lace of lightness that had not been there before. Forced, maybe, but there all the same.

Nesta scowled. “You thought rightly.”

“It will hurt,” Cassian warned her. “For me to lift you.”

“Then do it gently.”

A soft snicker as he moved off the many, many blankets, and then strong, corded arms slid beneath her body.

Cassian’s voice was rough in her ear. “You’re the most stubborn female I’ve ever met.”

Gritting her teeth, Nesta tried to overcome the sharp, deep-set pain that made her want to cry out.

The way Cassian gathered her to him was pain-achingly careful but it was still too much, her wounds too fresh and Nesta gasped a high-pitched cry, digging her fingers so hard into his tunic that she knew they must have bitten into the skin of his shoulders. Cassian did not indicate that she had hurt him, he only cradled her closer to the hard planes of his body, his huge wing curving around her as if he could partition off the pain and keep her safe.

The glow of the membrane was not unlike that of rusty, glowing embers. Beautiful.

Cassian remained stock still, waiting for the pain to ebb and then, slowly, as if he were hesitant to do it, his forehead came to rest on the top of her head; a bowing gesture that was almost like a confession, folding her into a protective cocoon that smelt of pine resin and warmth.

If Nesta could move without crying out, she would have traced a finger down his wing, following the spider webs of his capillaries. She had never had the opportunity to study them this close up. They were as mesmerising as fire flames as they danced their way up into the sky; as captivating as woodsmoke as it were tossed about on a breeze.

“I thought you were going to die.”

Cassian’s voice was a low, deep rumble that she felt in the pit of her stomach. In her bones. In her heart.

“Not yet,” she replied drily, but the hoarse words were muffled by the embrace.

She knew what he was trying to say. Had felt it before. The way in which history had tied the two of them together. Had made them terrified not just of dying, but without the other. An immeasurable panic that clawed at her throat and tore at her lungs.

To end up on death’s door without her lying over him was unimaginable. They had vowed to go together and even now, when they were separate rather than entwined, she would still lay her body over his broken one and refuse to live.

“Don’t say that,” Cassian clipped, his voice suddenly sharp. Broken.

Even though it hurt to move, Nesta rolled her head to press against his chest, shifting his forehead so it was lower, his lips almost brushing her skin. Nesta could not bring it in herself to care. Cassian smelt just as his sheets had — pine, musk and untamed air. Comforting.

Hesitantly, as if she had surprised him, Cassian’s large hand came to cup her head.

For a moment, they stayed like that, until the burning question that had hung in the back of her mind became too much. “Why am I in your room?” she asked.

“I had to put Mas in your bed,” Cassian confessed. She felt him smile small against her — a promise of mischief. “It’s not the way I imagined I’d first have you beneath my sheets, but I guess I should just be thankful you’re alive.”

A quiet snarl from Nesta had Cassian lifting his head to laugh. The sound was a low rasp which did not hold its usual vigour.

He was still worried. She could feel it. The sensation was relentless as a crashing tide.

“Reign in your worry,” Nesta snapped weakly. “I can feel it and it’s making me nauseous.”

Another laugh, stronger this time, and then Cassian’s emotion vanished, as if it had been carried away on a sea-kissed breeze.

“I’m going to move now,” he informed her. “Best brace yourself for the pain, sweetheart.”

It was agony. The pain so awfully deep that Nesta could hardly breathe, even as Cassian moved as smoothly as possible. She wanted to cry out, to whimper, but she would not show weakness in front of her sister’s mate.

By the time she was settled on the couch, Nesta had broken that vow; distressed sounds escaping through gritted teeth as she panted desperately for breath. With a click of Rhys's fingers, the nest of blankets that Nesta had been swaddled in appeared on the couch, just in time for Cassian to lower her onto the cushions.

Nesta did not have it in herself to be angered that Rhys had helped.

At the sound of her sister's stifled shouts, Feyre rushed out of the kitchen. She was holding a steaming mug in her hands, which Cassian plucked from his High Lady and planted straight into Nesta’s palms.

Feyre allowed him to do it without a word of protest, anxiously wringing her hands as she studied what Nesta imagined to be her too pale face, the sweat that had broken out on her forehead…

They had not spoken properly since the attack, but Feyre had been there, hovering on the periphery; anxious and sick with worry that she did not know assaulted Nesta until she too became nauseous with it. Nesta’s icy guard had been down since she had dropped to her knees beside Mas, and she hadn’t the power to stack it back up. Not when she was as exhausted as she was, her power utterly diminished and her body focussing on healing.

Finally casting a glance around the room, Nesta saw that the flames in the log burner were raging mute. She wondered who had magicked them to become silent. She hoped it was Frawley rather than Rhysand.

Rhys was positioned to the right of the fireplace, and when Nesta’s gaze purposefully passed over him as if he were little more than part of the furniture, she felt his violet eyes flick to her, his expression no doubt hard and unyielding. But Nesta was too tired to battle today.

Cassian was watching her too, glaring with such intensity at her hands that Nesta was surprised they hadn’t moved involuntarily to raise the mug to her lips. Wanting him to stop, Nesta took a slow sip of tea even though it hurt to swallow. It didn’t work; those hazel eyes remaining unwaveringly fixated. He was standing right by her head, scrutinising everything she did, his wings spread as if he were contemplating launching into flight.

Nesta wanted to hiss at him, but then Feyre sat close beside her, and that made her want to hiss more.

At his place to the left of the hearth, Azriel’s lips twitched. He had been standing as still as a statue, like marble carved out of the finest stone, his shadows stolid, but now he shifted to face her.

Nesta guessed the shadowsinger could sense her emotions with her guard down completely.

She supposed there had to be a first.

When Nesta took the last sip of her drink, Cassian’s hands were immediately there, taking it from her, his siphons winking in the firelight. Nesta barely noticed. She only felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the first whisper of silver and brilliant white that twisted through her veins like two coiled serpents; intertwined yet separate.

Easing backwards with the intention of settling into the cushions, Nesta tried to ignore the pain that suddenly stabbed through her as her stomach muscles tensed. A sharp gasp escaped her, her breath knocked out of her lungs, but then cool, shadowed hands gripped Nesta’s shoulders. They took the weight off of her abdomen, slowly lowering her backwards until she was resting comfortably.

Behind her, Nesta heard Cassian’s wings snap in and out, clearly agitated at her pain.

When Nesta turned her head to Azriel, he dipped his head to her in acknowledgement. Black tendrils of shadow whispered back to him, curling around his arms and face, waiting patiently to be bent again to their master's will.

Then  the shadowsinger turned to Rhys, as if seeking the order to begin.

“Thank you for joining us, Nesta,” Rhys said tightly. “Especially given the circumstances.”

Nesta did not reply, could not find it in herself to do it, but she finally stared at their High Lord with unflinching determination.

As always, Rhys was irritatingly immaculate, leaning against the hearth as if he owned it. Already Nesta felt like he was tainting her space — her sanctuary — and although she wanted to spit at him to leave and not come back, she only gave a stiff nod.

It would appear both of them were going to be forced today. Circumstances that were greater than their feud were at work, and neither of them was going to be petty enough to undermine that.

“Feyre allowed me to view her memory of the kerits attack,” Rhys said. “Three males flew over the mountain minutes before it happened. They can’t have been a part of the usual patrol as they weren’t doing the scheduled circuit. Instead, they flew straight over the mountain pass. Do you remember that?”

Nesta frowned, reaching back into the far depths of her memory… The three dots that coursed across the sky, the winking flash of silver from steel.

Sharply, Nesta craned her head to look at Cassian, not thinking of her injuries. She gasped. The movement had twisted her abdomen in a way she was not ready for.

Cassian’s large hands fell briefly to her shoulders before he moved to perch on the left of the U-shaped couch, close to the corner where he had lain her down.

“Ragar—” she started.

But Cassian only shook his head, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his broad thighs. His wings were held in high and tight to his spine. “Accounted for,” he told her. “And his friends. They were in the sparring rings with Devlon and countless other witnesses.”

His smile was grim. “It’s one of the first thing I checked,” he confessed. “But it made us start to wonder if perhaps the attacks have been orchestrated. One attack can be passed off as a freak accident, but three attacks across three different camps is suspicious, especially given that kerits do not venture into populated areas.”

Nesta’s expression sharpened. “You think somebody purposefully led those beasts to the widows camp?”

Rhys’s nodded. “We think it’s a possibility.” He pinned his brother with those violet eyes. “What did you find scouring the perimeter, Az?”

The shadowsinger’s expression did not physically change, but Nesta felt his shadows chill. “Carrion,” he said coldly. “A trail of it leading to the mountain pass. Morsels of it. Not enough to feed a starving pack, but deliberate enough to tempt them out of the depths of the mountains.”

“This winter has been especially punishing,” Cassian interjected. “I bet food supply has been scarce. They struggle to survive as it is. The sounds they made as they hunted probably alerted other packs who joined the hunt.”

Feyre sat forward so she was hovering on the edge of the couch. “That would be why they were so vicious. They knew they were competing with other packs for food.”

Nesta’s stomach turned as she thought of how the widows and orphans had been seen as as a meal. How they had huddled to the Eastern point of the camp with nowhere to go and no means of defending themselves.

“The carrion was well hidden,” Azriel continued with a nod, his voice as smooth as cold marble. “Frawley examined the remains. They weren’t killed with siphon magic and there were no visible wounds to the bodies. We also found boot prints in the mud; different prints ranging in size in two separate locations within a miles range of the camp. They were fresh.”

Everyone’s expression tightened.

Nesta didn’t ask if the carrion was human or animal. She didn’t want to know.

“Frawley has taken samples to analyse them,” Azriel added. “She said she will show her sisters, as well. To see if they can sense an insignia.”

“So that means the attack was orchestrated,” Feyre said. “Someone deliberately led those beasts to the camp?”

Rhys nodded. “The attack was certainly pre-meditated,” he replied, pinning Cassian with a look. “The real question is who would arrange an attack on three separate camps.”

Cassian snorted. “You know what the lords are going to say. What all of the Illyrian’s at Windhaven are going to say.”

“That it’s an attack from another war camp,” Azriel supplied, his voice chilled midnight.

“War lords usually have no issue in taking responsibility if they played a part in an attack,” Rhys countered.

“I know that,” Cassian interjected, impatience lining his voice. “So will the lords when they stop to see sense, but the moment we tell them that we suspect wrong doing, all hell will break loose. We can’t afford to lose any more lives to petty feuds. We’re still reeling from the loss of males since the war and the Rite is already looming over the camp.”

Rhys nodded to show he had heard. Nesta wondered if he mourned the loss of lives like Cassian did. The High Lord looked tired, as if he had been torn away from his mate for too long. Yet nobody looked as ravaged as Cassian did. Nesta did not know if his brothers knew of his recurring nightmares, but she hoped they learnt of them. Sometimes Cassian looked so exhausted that Nesta vibrated with a concern she could not shake. In the past, she had bitten her lip one too many times to prevent herself from ordering him to go to bed.

Nesta knew how awful it was to force someone to do something they desperately wanted but were too fearful to surrender themselves to.

“We will manage the lords,” Rhys assured Cassian. “We can decide how we are going to play that consul, but for now, we need to get to the bottom of how the kerits managed to get past Windhaven’s patrols. You and I both know how meticulous Devlon is when it comes to security around the camp. Those males shouldn't have been able to pass over the camp without being stopped by the warriors on patrol.”

“Whoever they were, they must have known that Cassian wasn't going to be in the camp today,” Azriel offered, the spymaster in him coming to the forefront. “The only good news is that they clearly had no idea that  both Feyre and Nesta would be at the top of the mountain and able to fight. And," he added after a beat of consideration, "they certainly underestimated Nesta’s ability to slay the pack if she had been alone today.”

If Nesta hadn’t been white from pain, she would have had to freeze the blush that dared to grace her cheeks at the shadowsinger’s compliment.

An abrupt snort came from Cassian. When he spoke, his voice was brimming with anger, “Of course they underestimated Nesta. Even though they have witnessed her fire daily and sensed the enormity of her magic, they still can't fathom that a female could be more powerful than them. It has to be Illyrian’s at the root of it. Only they would be chauvinistic enough to fail to see what is right in front of them.”

“Which,” Rhys interjected, “has worked unwittingly in our favour. Rather than fuel hatred towards the Night Court and cement the growing opinion that we do not protect the Illyrian community, we had two High Fae slaughtering the pack well before any warriors arrived on the scene. And then Nesta brought Masak back to life — someone who the Illyrian males in this camp do not see as worthy to live amongst them.”

Through the exhaustion, anger heated Nesta’s blood. She felt her magic whisper. If Nesta looked inward, she could see the two strands. Could now sense the promise of healing magic in her veins amongst her silver fire. As if she had been granted the key in the face of Mas’s death and she had turned it over in the lock, setting that power free.

Yet, even as Nesta grazed that healing power, it was her silver fire that promised to roar.

“I didn’t do it to stop a Civil War. I did it to protect the females who cannot protect themselves,” Nesta snapped weakly. She was too tired to muster enough vigour into her words, but she was annoyed at the false implication behind her actions. That she had not done it out of love for the housekeeper, but because of politics.

“That may be,” Rhys said, his voice forcibly light, “and what you did was honourable, but we cannot ignore how the Illyrian’s might interpret the action.”

“What Rhys is trying to say,” Azriel interjected smoothly as Nesta’s nostrils flared, “is that the females already respect you. The way you defended them today will not strengthen the dissent, only highlight that there are fae outside of the Illyrian communities who have their best interests at heart. You, for example.”

“You know they like you,” Cassian said quietly. He did not look at Nesta. Instead, he remained fixated at the hands that were clasped tightly in front of him, his elbows resting on his broad knees. “You know they have accepted you since you defended them against the males.”

“I protect them because nobody else seems to bother,” Nesta said coldly. “How many innocent females died because of the cruel intentions of males today? How many were injured?”

“Thirteen dead, thirty plus injured,” Cassian told Nesta quietly. “It would have been many more if you and Feyre not been there. You moved so quickly you managed to slay the majority of the packs before they reached the females.”

Nesta’s expression hardened as she thought of the trailing guts that had glistened in the grey light of day; the way Roksana’s hands had slipped in Mas’s wet, sticky blood, and how she had croaked for help. Her first word aloud since Nesta had met her.

“That is still too many,” Nesta insisted, her voice betraying her — shaking with the anger and horror of it all. “Why would they target the widows first? Why not lead the kerits down the other side of the mountain pass where they would could reach the main camp and weaken Windhaven’s forces?”

“Perhaps the kerits were never intended to weaken Windhaven’s ranks at all,” Rhys mused. “Perhaps they were intended to prove a point.”

A shocked, prolonged pause.

“Are you saying,” Nesta said, her voice shaking, “that you think the rebellion could have orchestrated the attacks. That they might have specifically targeted the defenceless females because widows are seen as disposable, but their deaths would be enough to fuel dissent amongst the camps?”

Rhys stared at Nesta for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side, in the same way that Cassian’s did when he was trying to puzzle her out. But Nesta barely saw it. All she saw was the twisted body of the kind cook who had fed Nesta every morning… Of lovely Durkhanai, with her beautiful curly hair and bright green eyes. A female who had been dealt the harshest of fates. She had not deserved her end. None of the females had. 

Feyre’s hand crept over the blankets to Nesta’s. Her sister’s slim fingers wrapped around her own. “Surely they wouldn’t kill their own race?” Feyre said, her voice shaking. Nesta wondered if she, too, was thinking of the discarded limbs and pools of blood. “There were children in that camp. The females didn’t even have weapons…”

But her sister did not understand just how harsh the camps were. Unlike Nesta, Feyre had not lived amongst the widows for months. She did not know just how willing the Illyrian’s might be to offer the widows camp as a sacrifice for the sake of politics.

“I would not put it past Illyrian’s to see widows as a necessary sacrifice,” Rhys admitted eventually after a long, pregnant pause. His violet eyes had softened with grief. “If this is orchestrated by the rebellion, I suspect that by targeting the widows camps Kallon was hoping to fuel the anger amongst the Illyrian’s that they are not protected. That the Night Court does not care for Illyrian’s and offers them no protection. The widows would have been seen as a necessary sacrifice. They are outcasts in Illyrian society with no families to mourn their deaths.”

A ringing sounded in Nesta’s ears. The noise tuned out the room around her. It took her a while to realise that it was fury. It burned. It was not hot, but cold - enough to give her frostbite - as if her magic was not replenished enough to fly but was trying its best to rally itself. Inside of her chest, something cracked. It sounded like bone. With it, came creeping fingers of light, reaching towards her...

With all her strength, Nesta clamped down... until shadows ate away the approaching light and the room righted itself.

When she came to, Cassian was growling low in warning, his wings stretching as far as they could without hitting her square in the face. At who, Nesta did not know. Did not care for his territorial display when there were bigger matters to discuss.

“And why isn’t there protection?” she asked.

Nesta’s words were as cold as the chill in her veins. Rhys stilled, and with it, his magic trembled. The growl was still rumbling from low in Cassian’s chest — deeper even — and he sat forward, bracing his weight onto his thighs as if he were getting ready to launch himself at… someone. Nesta wasn’t sure who.

Feyre was still gripping Nesta’s hand tight, her grip firm enough to hurt. If Nesta had cast a look to her sister’s face, she would have seen that tell-tale glaze over Feyre’s eyes. It was the kind of far off look which told Nesta that her sister was speaking to her mate mind-to-mind. Or trying to, at least.

“Why was there no protection around each of the Illyrian camps given that there had already been two kerit attacks?” Nesta continued, ignoring the rumbling sound that had her heart wanting to beat that little bit faster. “I have seen the protective shields the fae used in war — around your City of Starlight. Why is that courtesy not extended to the Illyrian communities?”

A long, drawn out silence of star-kissed eternal and a whisper of ancient silver.

“I have offered protection numerous times to each of the war lords,” Rhys replied eventually, his voice too measured to be casual. “Each of them have turned it down. They see it as a criticism on their duty as warriors to protect and defend.”

Nesta’s snort was harsh but the hard quality to her eyes did not change. “They are stubborn Illyrian bats. Get them to change their minds. Or are you not their High Lord?”

A flicker of amusement passed across Azriel’s face, his shadows lightening the sharp, beautiful angles of his face. “Nesta is right,” he said, causing everyone to turn. “The war lords don’t have the luxury of turning down our help when it looks as if there will be more kerit attacks. There shouldn’t have been a gap in today’s patrol. Windhaven has always prided itself on its security — all the camps do. Have we found the soldiers who should have been patrolling the perimeter? I think it wise to consider that they may have been compromised by whoever tempted the kerits to the camps. Recruited, even. They could well be the males that flew over the mountain pass.”

“Nobody can find them,” Cassian growled. “We have males out looking for them as we speak. As soon as they are found we will interrogate them.”

“Cassian and I will interrogate,” Rhys told Azriel as a rare flicker of surprise fell across the shadowsinger's expression. “I need you to visit your most trusted contacts in the camps and tell them that we believe the attacks might not be random. We need all eyes and ears to the ground to find out as much as we can, not least to anticipate where the next attack might be.”

A tense nod, but Azriel folded into shadow and disappeared.

Cassian’s fists curled into fists on the tops of his thighs. “We need evidence. We cannot assume this is the rebellion without it.”

“Of course not,” Rhys admitted smoothly. “Which is why we need you to try and snuff out as much information as you can when you and Nesta go to the Solstice luncheon next week. Accept the offer to stay overnight.”

Nesta hadn’t thought Cassian’s expression could turn any stonier, but it did. “No.”

“The more time you spend at Ironcrest, the longer Nesta has to pick up any untoward emotion, especially surrounding conversation about the camps. It gives Frawley time to look and identify the origin of the sword, and it gives you and Lorrian time to pry out any information. Insist on you and Lorrian overseeing the aerial and ground units that next morning, it will ease away any suspicion. A trip there is long overdue but it is time to act on this rather than gathering information, which we have been doing up until now.”

Cassian blew out a long, steadying breath. Then he conceded,  “With the Rite meeting been moved forward to that afternoon, it shouldn’t be hard to extend our stay."

Rhys nodded. “Good.” Then his violet eyes rested on Nesta. “You are willing to go with Cassian?”

A raised chin. Defiant. Strong. Despite the pain and exhaustion that wanted to pull her down, down, down. “Yes.”

“Then we have a plan,” Rhys said with another nod. “Azriel will continue to train you. If he is not available,  I will travel to the camps and train you myself .”

At the edge of her periphery, Nesta saw Feyre’s eyes widen. In her stomach, Nesta felt Cassian’s surprise, a sensation which grew as Rhys said,  “Welcome to the Court of Dreams, Nesta Archeron.”

*** 

By the time the meeting was over, Nesta was drained; her eyelids unbelievably heavy, her limbs aching. She desperately wanted to sleep, so she took the tincture Feyre brought her without comment and didn’t protest when Cassian carried her back to his bed rather than hers; agony fogged the rational part of her brain.

She was practically asleep as Cassian lay her onto his mattress. She felt his fingers coax hers away from where they were clutching his leathers. Blankets were pulled over her, the weight a comfort. A sedative was dripped into her mouth.

And then she slipped under.

When Nesta next woke, the taste was still bitter in her mouth but the room was dark; the light having receded even from the gap between the curtains.

In the armchair beside her bed was Feyre, her feet curled up beneath her and her freckled nose buried in Love in Velaris. A bobbing faelight hung overhead, willed by her sister’s magic. It illuminated the pages.

From the dent Feyre had made in the book, Nesta guessed she had been asleep for hours. Beyond the room, the bungalow sat still — the way it did when Cassian was not home — as if it too were sleeping, waiting for its owner to come back and breathe life into the rooms with his presence.

A few seconds passed until Feyre noticed that Nesta was awake. It gave Nesta enough time to catalogue the concern etched on her sister’s pale face; the tight expression which made Feyre’s sharp cheekbones even more prominent.

Nesta did not usually see the similarities between them, but now, as Feyre’s serious steel-blue eyes snapped up at the rustle of blankets, Nesta knew why others had said they looked alike.

“You’re awake.” Feyre spoke slowly — unsure — as she unfurled her long, lithe legs. When Nesta winced as she tried to get into a more comfortable position, Feyre jumped up and moved to the dresser. “Here,” she said, pouring some tincture onto a silver spoon.

Nesta hated the way she needed assistance to lift her head, but she allowed Feyre to do it in a rush of pear and lilac. Nesta was not proud enough to deny that she needed the tincture to smooth away the pain. And whilst the pain wasn’t as agonising as hours prior, it was deep-set enough for Nesta to consider whether she could persuade Feyre to allow her to swallow down the whole damn bottle.

After some water to chase down the foul taste, Feyre stepped back. “How are you feeling? Frawley seemed to think she could speed up the healing Madja did, but you were so sick…” Her sister trailed off, setting back to examine Nesta’s face. “You look a little less pale...”

“I’m fine,” Nesta said hoarsely.

Feyre opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she were contemplating what best to say. The action annoyed Nesta. She wanted to be alone and quiet. To fall back asleep and wake when the pain was gone and she no longer felt helpless.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” Nesta asked tiredly, turning her face to bury it into one of the pillows. It was a few seconds reprieve to calm the irritation that had started to hum through her.

Slowly, Nesta breathed in the scent of pine, musk and air that was so fierce Nesta felt as if she were almost a part of it. She had no doubt this was the pillow Cassian rested his head on. The scent soothed her, smoothing over that spiky, dangerous anger of hers to leave bone-lead weariness in its place.

“I wanted to be here,” Feyre told her. There was a subtle stubborn lift to her chin that Nesta knew Feyre had copied from her at a young age so many times that it had now become a part of who she was. “I wanted to look after you. To make sure that you were healing.”

“Well, I don’t need you to take care of me. You heard it yourself, I should be out of bed tomorrow. I just need to sleep.”

Nesta had intended to say it icily, but she was not well enough to muster the strength.

Feyre’s expression tightened, and for a moment, Nesta thought she might snap. But then she just straightened with determination; her tall, lean body rising to a height that called for attention. “Then let me say what I want to say and I will leave you alone.”

A long, stony silence and a blank, impenetrable mask that Nesta hoped with desperation conveyed the message she wanted to snap: Go away.

Instead, Feyre seated herself on the armchair and reached for Nesta’s ice-cold hand. “Nesta,” she started, the word practically a plea. “I know you and I - I know that our relationship has always been rocky. And you are right, there are many things that I hadn’t considered, not least when I sent you here. But… you almost died today and it’s made me realise what is important: I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you that before, but I always have. Even when we were younger and we were both so angry and bitter at our lot in life and we spent our days fighting. And I know you love me, too. Hiring someone to take you to the wall to find me told me that…”

Feyre let out a long, shaky breath and when she next spoke, her voice turned softer, dropping into a confession, “I forgave you and Elain a long time ago for when we were starving, Nesta. I want you to know that. I don’t — we were children. It was father that failed us, not you. I never saw it as your job to care for me and… I’m sorry that you were there when mother asked me to take care of you…. That must have been a horrible thing to overhear and… well, I would have felt resentment towards me, too, if I were you.”

More silence. Nesta would not allow herself to speak for the barbed words she knew would spill forth. About her sister’s mate and how whilst Nesta had tried to make amends, Rhysand’s obvious dislike of her had not disappeared with Feyre’s supposed forgiveness.

“I also want you to know that what you did in the war — you saved hundreds of lives. I know you witnessed unimaginable death and horror, but fae and humans are walking on Prythian because you struck down the male that promised to wreak havoc on our world. You did all of that and I never thought to thank you. And then I was so swept away by my duties as High Lady and recovering from Rhys’s near death that I did not give you the time I should have-”

Such careful tiptoeing around their father’s death. How Nesta had watched the life bleed out of his eyes, until they were nothing but glassy and wholly unconscious.

It was that which made Nesta cut her sister off. Even now, she had no desire to discuss his death. “I am not a burden you need to add to your list of priorities. I didn’t want your help. I explicitly told you to go away and instead you continued to force me to socialise when all I wanted was to be alone.”

Feyre let go of Nesta’s hand. Something akin to loss flashed through Nesta, piercing through the exhaustion and the pain in her abdomen.

“I think communication has always been an issue for us,” Feyre admitted, not backing down from the conversation. “I have spent time thinking over what you have said and you are right, I have not truly listened to you. But I was so scared for your safety I adopted drastic measures—”

“It is not your place to decide what is best for me,” Nesta said coldly. “I am not yours to command. And,” she continued with as much iciness as she could muster, “I do not think that an Illyrian camp is a place of safety.”

A deliberate pause to highlight how she were in bed suffering from major injuries.

“I thought if you were with Cassian that you would be protected,” Feyre said, her expression anguished. “I thought if anyone were to hold their own in an Illyrian camp it would be you. You are so strong, Nesta—”

“You thought a fae male could protect me when the protection I was promised by males has failed over and over again?” Nesta countered. “He is not even here all of the time. Sometimes he is away for days on end and I am left alone. You banished me to this awful place in front of an audience with no care for my feelings.”

But as Nesta spoke, something scrabbled in the back of her mind. Because it wasn’t fair to criticise Cassian for both leaving her and crowding her. Because Cassian had given her space and yet he had also been there, on the periphery if not right in front of her. Taunting her and encouraging her, but with so much space to grow. He had not made her train with him, dragging her spitting and screaming into the sparring ring. He had not thrown her out into the camp each morning and forced her to work or make friends. He had given her choices that she had more often than not denied over and over. And when she had done that, he had bought her more books or figured out the foods she liked to make the days a little less boring.

Cassian had not just protected her but allowed her to grow stronger. Had given her the space to decide for once in her life what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. True, she might have been stuck in Windhaven, but she had never felt truly trapped. The skies made her feel unencumbered. The mud beneath her feet rendered her a part of nature rather than apart from it. The craggy mountains were a physical depiction of how Nesta was starting to see herself; sharp and angry but resilient and strong.

Outside the bungalow, Nesta heard the unmistakable crunch of boots in the snow. The low murmur of male voices floated through the bedroom window, which had been cracked open to circulate the stale air.

Feyre’s face crumpled in sudden irritation, and Nesta guessed that her mate had tried to speak mind-to-mind with her mid-conversation. From the way Feyre’s expression quickly cleared, Nesta got the impression she had banished Rhys completely or told him to go away.

The click of the magical lock from the front door rang through the bungalow, but Feyre’s attention was only on her. “Adjusting to the role of High Lady has been… a struggle,” her sister admitted. “Cassian, Rhys, Amren and Mor are my friends as well as my trusted advisors. But you are right, I spoke to you as a High Lady not as a sister when I told you to come here. I thought that using my new status would make you listen because my role as a sister had failed. It was a last resort and I knew… I knew that Cassian would look after you.”

Feyre stared up at the ceiling, as if the memory caused her pain. “As soon as you left I knew the way I had summoned you was wrong.” Feyre looked back to Nesta and sincerity swam in her eyes. “I did not consider that I had imprisoned you. I was selfishly only thinking of forcing you to be well.”

More silence.

Feyre got to her feet, her expression pained.

She waved a hand to the window, gesturing to the scenery outside. To the craggy mountains that stretched for miles and the sea beyond it. To the world that existed beyond Illyria. Beyond Prythian. “When you are healed, if you wish to leave Illyria you can. I don’t want you to feel imprisoned any longer.”

There was a finality to the words that rang true. Her sister meant them, even if it was obvious they caused her pain.  Yet… Nesta did not want to leave. Not now, not when she had promised to attend the Solstice luncheon to see what they could discover about the sword and the kerit attacks. Not when the females here were so vulnerable. Now when they needed help rebuilding their community — to mourn for the losses that Nesta had vowed would not go unnoticed.

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Feyre halted at the door.

“And your help is invaluable,” Feyre said slowly, “but you are not obligated to do it. So if you wish to leave, you can. Just… please tell someone before you do and let us know where you are going.”

Feyre looked weary and Nesta wondered if she had even bathed since everything that had happened. Her body was clean like Nesta’s… but her leathers were crumpled and her hair dishevelled. Nesta’s own body felt like it was covered in a film of oil and invisible dirt. Her skin itched at the thought and she longed for a bath, even though she knew she would not be able to manage it without more rest.

When Nesta closed her eyes, Feyre’s blood-streaked face swam into view. She remembered how Feyre had gripped her hand in the midst of battle and told Nesta to lead the way to the Eastern side of the camp, even though they were in the thick of danger. Her sister had not hesitated or balked. She had only been fierce and unwaveringly brave, ready to put her life on the line for those who needed protection.

For all of their problems, when the two of them had been fighting side by side, it was the first time that Nesta felt as if she truly belonged with her sister. For a brief moment in time, their issues and past mistakes had bled away, as if they were inconsequential.

“I’d love for us to start afresh,” Feyre continued quietly from her place at the door. “We have both made errors, but I do not care about yours. I hope that with time you might be able to forgive me, and if you do, I’d like to start over, you and I, with a blank slate.”

Tags:

@arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @hatemecozuaintme @lovelynesta @melphss  @nestalytical @nestable @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @sjm-things

[psych0midget]

Secret Stan Account AU Part 2

Part 1

It doesn’t take long for people to figure out that A. Minyard’s book is dedicated to Neil Josten. NEIL FREAKING JOSTEN. Like Neil Josten, the one and only exy player who can play every position? He’s a formidable backliner, a precise dealer (though he hates the position, fiercely) and one of the most promising strikers of the exy panorama? That Neil Josten? Oh. My. God.

Neil has thousands, millions of fans out there. But he had seriously underestimated it. It doesn’t take long for his fans to put two and two together, realise that he has a secret stan account and start looking for it.

It also doesn’t take them long to find it, not when Neil didn’t have the foresight of using a fake name on twitter. There are only so many book twt accounts run by someone called Neil.

Most of his fans are excited about it. Some are not. Especially when they realise that his account is also a Kevin Day stan account.

It’s a pr nightmare, that’s what Allison tells him as soon as he picks up the phone. She tries to keep everything under control, but by the time Neil’s done with the meetings, the interviews and all the unnecessary drama, he opens up Twitter only to find out that his stan account has been deleted.

And so has Drew’s.

Neil curses. He hadn’t had time to text Drew and tell him that he’d seen the dedication. And Drew, or rather A. Minyard has no official social medias. He’s fucked, he’s well and truly fucked.

The only source of info is the website of Drew’s publisher. But there’s a just a short bio saying that A. Minyard is a 27 year old author from Columbia. Has three cats and knows how to use knives, he swears the fight scenes in his books are all real. There’s also a photo and it’s the portrait of a blond man with eyes the color of honey staring impassively at the camera. And It’s the only thing Neil has left of Drew.

Jean Moreau gets back home only to find his roommate looking at his laptop, tabs and tabs and tabs open on his desktop. There’s a cup of coffee on the ground, a half-eaten sandwich on the rug (!!!) and a phone book (he had no idea those things still existed in 2019) on the sofa.

Jean ushers Jeremy inside the apartment, closes the door behind them and sighs. “Have you tried calling your uncle yet?” he asks. “I tried, but it’s 3am in the UK, he’s not picking up.”

Jean had meant it as a joke. A joke. Jean will kill Neil if the FBI doesn’t kill him first. “You tried calling the British mafia just to find your internet boyfriend? Are you nuts?”

Neil, the bastard, doesn’t even look sorry.

Jean almost starts shaking as he tries NOT to throw a chair at Neil’s, but Jeremy wraps his arm around his waist and rubs slow circles on his hip till he calms down. God bless Jeremy, god bless Jeremy especially when he says “You know Minyard’s doing a book tour right? He should be in Chicago next week, you could always show up there?”.

And Neil, Neil who’s lost his fucking mind for a guy he became friends with on twitter, finally relaxes his shoulders and looks at Jeremy like he’s hung the moon. (Jean is going to murder Neil if he keeps staring at his boyfriend like that.)

Neil goes to the M&G with Minyard in Chicago. He pretends he’s not nervous, but he is. If the endless queue in front of the book shop is any indication, this won’t go down well.

And in fact it doesn’t.

It doesn’t because the fans recognize him, they start asking for selfies and autographs and all hell breaks loose. When Minyard finally appears he just glares at him, at the caos around him and tells him to fuck off. Nothing more, nothing less.

Jean welcomes him home with a bottle of vodka and Neil doesn’t drink, but he’s with Jean and Jean knows everything about him. He downs more than half a bottle before he finally passes out on the sofa.

Neil wakes up to the sound of his phone pinging and pinging and pinging. There’s phone calls, texts, more phone calls and hundreds, probably thousands of twitter notifications. Apparently, drunk Neil had tweeted “a mynyard s a douche” from his official account. Neil groans. Allison is gonna kill him.

Turns out that it’s Kevin Day who tries to kill him.

It goes like this.

When Neil had said that Kevin Day could punch him in the face and he’d thank him, he hadn’t meant it l i t e r a l l y.

And yet he’s at the Christmas gala with his team in South Carolina. He’d thought the 12-hour drive drom Chicago to Columbia would be the worst part of it. But apparently Kevin Day is set on changing his mind.

Neil doesn’t even get to say “Hi” to him before Kevin grabs the collar of his shirt and hoists him up against the wall. He almost chokes him. But it’s the words he utters that really do the thing. “Don’t you ever insult my brother again.”

It’s Nicky Hemmick, the Seakings’ physio, who picks him up off the floor as soon as Kevin leaves. “What the fuck’s wrong with him?” Neil asks while Nicky’s busy checking Kevin hasn’t seriously hurt him. “He’s just a protective asshole.” “But I don’t even know who’s his brother.” “Ever heard of A Minyard?”

And that fucker winks at him, he winks at him.

Neil tells himself that Nicky deserves it when he pushes him away and makes a run for Kevin. If he runs fast enough, he should be able to get to him before Kevin leaves the building. The problem is that, when he catches up to Kevin, he doesn’t even think twice before shouting “I didn’t know he was your brother, but in my defence he really is a douche.”

This time there’s nobody who can help him when Kevin punches him in the face and knocks him out. Sometimes Neil wishes he was born mute.

Things only escalate from that moment on.

Neil wakes up on a hospital bed, Minyard staring down at him. Maybe it’s the painkillers. It must be the painkillers. But he’s pretty sure he hears Minyard saying “if it wasn’t for Andrew, I would’ve left you to die and blamed Kevin,” before he blacks out again.

The second time he wakes up, he just thinks he’s still hallucinating (or maybe he’s dead?) because he sees double. There’s two Minyards staring down at him. He doesn’t even try to make sense of what he’s seeing, he just closes his eyes.

The third time he wakes up, he sees Kevin on his bedside and Neil tries to fake his own death. The ECG beating next to his bed betrays him, though. “I’ve been told I have to apologise if I don’t want a knife between my ribs.”

Kevin begins telling him that he is the adoptive brother of Drew, also known as Andrew Minyard. Who also happens to have a twin brother, Aaron Minyard, neurologist by day and fake-Andrew by night. Who didn’t really like the idea of anyone lying to his twin. That’s why he’d been rude to him in Chicago.

And would he please, please, talk with Andrew because he’s become insufferable since Neil had stopped texting him? He’s been threatening to kill Aaron at least twice as much as he used to.

“He even said that he’s miscalculated everything, you had a crush on me and didn’t like him at all -“ “Fuck’s sake NO, I wouldn’t touch your pompous ass with ten feet pole.”

And it’s at that point that Andrew barges into the hospital room telling Kevin to shut up. Looks Neil in the eyes, says “you just because of what you said to Kevin” and then he kisses him. He kisses him.

Years and years later, after some more pining, thousands of kisses and a key to an apartment in Chicago, Andrew would say that he had not done such a thing. But he had, oh he had.

Years and years later Andrew would also admit that the main character of the Tragic Waste of Skin saga was actually inspired by Neil. Apparently, he’d seen Neil’s face on one of Kevin’s sports mags, he’d read the transcript of the interview that had made a goalkeeper cry on tv and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.

Years and years later Andrew would write the final book of his saga. The dedication would say: “To Neil, Marry me? Yes or no? Drew”

Years and years later Neil would tweet from his official account “a minyard’s still a douche”. Attached to the tweet a photo of Andrew glaring at the camera with his hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, a wedding ring on his finger.

[lunaofthevalley]

The Little Mermaid of Manhattan

Peter Parker x Reader.

Plot: Peter is saved by a mystery girl one day in the park, and he will stop at nothing to find her.

Growing up in New York City, Y/N had seen more than enough strange things in her lifetime. Aliens, giant centipedes, killer robots, superheroes etc. But besides all that it was New York City, a place that wasn't a stranger to weird things happening all around. But luckily enough Y/N had never experienced these strange things first hand, although she had dealt with a knock off Elmo at least twice, but no aliens or superheroes.

That was until one day at 7 am on a Saturday morning during her run in Central Park.

She was running her usual trail, one not many people took, which to her was good, meant she was away from prying eyes that could possibly judge her on the terrible running she did, which in reality wasn't that bad at all. She was running past the small lake she usually passes when a blur of red caught her eye.

She was going to ignore it and continue running but a splash and the sound of terrified ducks made her stop. She pressed pause to her music and took out the one earphone she was using before turning her attention to the lake. There in the middle bobbing up and down was what appeared to be a person. Y/N couldn't really make out what it was until she stepped closer, and upon further inspection she recognized it to be Spider-Man.

Y/N panicked, she didn't know what to do. She couldn't leave him to drown, nor could she just run off and ask for help, no one appeared to be close by and it just so happened she was also a selective mute. So that only left her with one option. She started by removing her electronic devices, then her jacket, followed by her shoes and socks.

She then jumped into the really cold water and began swimming towards the figure. As she reached him she couldn't help but give a silent thank you to her father for having her enrolled in those swimming and lifeguard lessons during past summers. What she though would never help her in anything was quite helpful at the moment.

She reached out and grabbed onto him in a way that would permit her to swim to the shore quickly. The lake she had always considered small now seemed like an endless sea. Once they were both safely on shore she softly dropped him on the grass before dropping down beside him, she had been tired enough as is due to her run, but was now even more so due to the impromptu rescue mission.

Once she recovered her bearings Y/N turned her attention back to the superhero. He still had his mask on and she didn't know if that was a good thing or not. She knew she would probably be breaking the most important superhero rule there was at trying to remove his mask, but she considered at that moment that air was more important than keeping his identity a secret. She looked around and found no possible way of removing the mask, it seemed to be connected to the suit.

She started feeling around his neck area and upper chest to see if that would help in removing the mask, but her efforts seemed useless. It was as if the suit understood what she was trying to do because next thing she knew the mask was gone as it has retracted.

That's when Y/N took a good look at his face and almost screamed because she knew him. She knew Spider-Man. She knew that head of messy curls, that nose, those lips, that bone structure. How could she not when she had spent almost everyday of the last 2 years looking at it.

Out of everyone in the world the last person Y/N had ever expected to be Spider-Man was Peter Parker, but here she was, staring down right at him.

After calming down and assessing the situation she noticed that the suit had kept the water out, which meant he was never in any real danger of drowning, but that the force of the fall had made him pass out.

She quickly retrieved her stuff, putting on her shoes and jacket, thankful that the cool may air was already drying her wet clothes. She then went back to look at Peter, not yet wanting to leave him alone. She sat beside him, looking down at his figure. As creepy as the situation was Y/N was honestly quite concerned for his well being, who knew how long it would take him to wake up.

Some time had gone by, Y/N wasn't sure, she just knew it had been a while due to the position of the sun. She was playing with the grass, being so lost in thought she had started singing a song to herself, something she only did when absolutely alone. It was an old song her mother used to sing to her before she passed. It was a Fleetwood Mac song, Songbird.

Her mom also used to call her that because Y/N loved to sing, but after her death, Y/N stopped singing and after some time she stopped talking, she was already shy enough as is, but after what happened to her mom she became so scared of what people could do she developed social anxiety as well, becoming not only silent, but an outcast as well, someone so shrouded in mystery, people tended to keep their distance.

She came back to the normal world when she heard grunting and some shuffling. She looked down and noticed Peter had woken up and was looking at her. She had gone into such a panic that she was frozen in her spot. She knew she needed to get out of there but her body wasn't responding to what her brain was telling it to do.

"Who-who are you?" Peter asked suddenly, squinting up at her, trying to make out a face against the bright sunlight.

That's when Y/N bolted. She couldn't afford to have Peter know who she was, nor that she had saved him. She went and took cover behind a tree, close enough to see and hear him but not for him to see her.

After a couple of minutes Peter sat up and looked around in confusion, looking at the lake, then down at himself and then in the direction he thought the mysterious girl had gone in. It was then that loud sounds invaded the calm area and next thing either of them knew an Iron man suit was landing beside Peter. Peter quickly stood up as he saw Tony exit the suit.

"What happened kid? I was calmly working in my lab when I got a notification from Karen that you were in trouble."

"I-I don't know Mr.Stark," Peter stuttered, "I was just swinging around and then I hit something and I fell and next thing I know I'm waking up right here with a girl looking down at me."

Tony gave Peter a questioning look, "A girl?"

Peter nodded, "Y-yea she was...she was sitting right beside me, singing this song, I don't know the name, I just know I've heard it, but she saw me wake up and then ran." He explained. "I think she dragged me out of the water, even though I couldn't make out her face because of the sun I could tell her hair was wet."

"I don't know how likely that is Kid, no one comes down this part of the park. I'm pretty sure there's no one even near here."

"I swear Mr.Stark there was a girl! And she saved me."

Tony patted Peter on the shoulder, "last time I checked Mermaids weren't real Kid."

"What?" Peter looked up at Tony confused.

"Saving you from drowning, singing a song, mysteriously disappearing. You sure her name wasn't Ariel?"

"What?" Peter repeated.

Tony rolled his eyes, "You should know this Pete, you're the pop culture expert and last I heard you were on a Disney movie splurge."

It took Peter a moment before he got what Tony was talking about. "Are you talking about the Little Mermaid."

"You probably watched the movie not long ago and the fall probably made you take quite a good hit to the head, so it's very possible you imagined the whole thing, it tends to happen."

"No Mr.Stark, she was real, I swear."

"Yea and I got a date with Ursula the sea witch." Tony fired back, "Now come on I want to take you back to the Tower and see how much brain damage you caused yourself."

Peter only huffed in annoyance before letting his mask cover his face again, and in the blink of an eye both him and Tony were gone. Y/N sighed in relief and came out of her hiding spot.

She was glad she hadn't been caught as she had no idea what she would've done had that happened, and she just hoped Peter would eventually believe Tony in thinking this was all a hallucination he had due to hitting his head upon impact with the water. Things would be different from now on, Peter Parker would no longer be the nerdy boy no one pays attention to.

She has seen him for who he truly is now and she would not forget it.

Part 2??

If you would like to be added to the tags for the story or my general tag list comment or send me a message and I'll ad you to the tag list.

[fuwafuwagem]

Bloom Chapter 1 - Yu-hwa

Just for you lovelies that may not have discovered it on Archive of Our Own, here is the first chapter of my Mystic Messenger fic Bloom, featuring my baby my OC Yu-hwa Lee ^^

You can find the ongoing fic here. I am updating regularly and have chapters prepared to upload, so I won’t leave you hanging ^^

Hope you enjoy it! The first chapter preview is under the cut <3

TW for sexual threats and references.

Yu-hwa Lee sat in her favourite seat at the café close to her apartment block, nursing the cheapest thing on the menu; a small white tea. It wasn’t as good as the coffee her body craved, but it was all her purse would allow her to have. She flicked through the pages of the application form she had on the table in front of her. There was no way she was qualified for a job at C&R, but it was the only place she could find that was currently hiring, and she was getting desperate.

She filled in a few basic details; name, date of birth. Address? She sighed. The landlord was on the verge of kicking her out.

This is depressing.

She put down her pen and picked up her phone. The notification icon showed that she had one new email, and she prayed to all the gods she could think of that it was a job offer.

You have been invited to test out…

She sighed, quickly scrolling through the message. It looked like junk mail, but she thought that maybe it was something she could get paid to do. At the end of the message was a link, which she pressed hoping that it wasn’t a virus.

Installing…

Oh shit!

She closed the email, hoping that it would stop whatever she had just started, but when she checked her phone menu she saw a new icon was installed there. She knew that she should probably delete it immediately, but curiosity got the better of her. She opened the app.

A chat room opened.

Unknown: Hi! Finally, someone to talk to, thank god…

Yu-hwa bit her lip and tugged at a strand of her dyed pink hair nervously. Unknown? Is this a chat-bot? These things seem to be popular lately.Tentatively, she typed her reply.

Yu-hwa: Hello

Unknown: Hi. Nice to meet you ^^ Yu-hwa… I’ve been waiting for you. Hope I didn’t surprise you. Don’t be nervous, I’m just an ‘ordinary’ person~

Yu-hwa felt her blood turn cold. The app must have accessed her personal data as her name and profile were displayed for Unknown to see. But what did he mean by he’d been waiting for her, and…

Yu-hwa: Why are you emphasizing the word ordinary…? It’s making me even more nervous

Unknown: You’re funny lol

Yu-hwa sighed and sipped her tea. Funny? Yeah, my whole life is a joke. She looked back at her phone. She knew that she should probably leave the chat before he asked her to send nudes or something, but she was a little curious too as she continued to read his message.

Unknown: But I can’t really say I’m extraordinary when I’m introducing myself. Shouldn’t I be humble and modest?

Yu-hwa couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t the only comedian.

Unknown: In fact… I’m really excited. Cuz the first person to come in is you, Yu-hwa!

She cringed again at her name being used by this stranger she knew nothing about. He was being too familiar.

Unknown: I was so worried that no one would come in as I was making this app.

Yu-hwa’s eyes widened. So this guy is the apps creator? That explains some things I guess. She tapped at her phone.

Yu-hwa: What’s this app for?

Unknown: I was about to explain, but before that, can I ask a favour?

Yu-hwa inhaled. Have we finally arrived on Planet Perv? Her thumb hovered over the exit chat button.

Unknown: I know that it’s too much to ask from a stranger, but there’s something I really want you to help me with.

She chewed on her lower lip, moving her thumb and typing-

Yu-hwa: What is it?

She glanced at the application form in front of her. A few white lies might get her to the interview stage, but how far could her personality carry her? She rubbed her forehead as she felt the stress headache beginning to build, then glanced back at her phone.

Unknown: Well… This app isn’t just a messenger app, it’s a messenger game app. I wanted to ask if you could test it out for me. Game concept is chatting with pretty guys ^^

Yu-hwa: Why don’t you test it out yourself?

She didn’t have time for playing a game. She needed to find a job.

Unknown: It’s difficult to gain an objective view because I’m the creator. I want to know what others think of this!

He was persistent, but Yu-hwa knew she didn’t have the time. I just need to politely decline when I get the chance.

Unknown: The chats aren’t everything. There are also hidden stories… Amusing stories that will stir your imagination!

He’s really trying hard. She drank down the rest of her tea as she looked at the image of the characters he sent her. Cute, but not real. She rolled her eyes. I can’t keep a real boyfriend, I’m not going to spend my time chatting to artificial ones!

Yu-hwa: No thanks. Not my style.

She winced as she realised how harsh she might be coming across, but she was starting to get tired of the conversation.

Unknown: Just a little… Couldn’t you try it out for just a little? Decide whether it’s your style or not after trying it out.

She frowned. He seemed so desperate. She hoped that he wasn’t in a similar situation to her. Just imagining such a thing made her heart ache.

Yu-hwa: Fine. I’ll try it out.

Unknown: WOW! Thanks You’re a lifesaver… ^^

I hope you don’t mean that literally, she thought.

Unknown: I think it’ll be better to talk over the phone about the details.

The waitress took away Yu-hwa’s empty cup. “Anything else?”

“Um… no,” said Yu-hwa. Her purse was empty.

“It’s just… we have paying customers…”

“I get it,” Yu-hwa sighed. “I’m going.” She grabbed her belongings and rushed out of the café, red-faced. She glanced at her phone as she began to walk home.

Unknown: Don’t freak out when you see an unknown number and answer the phone plz ^^

The phone instantly started to ring. Yu-hwa inhaled deeply, her anxiety peaking. She closed her eyes and pressed answer

“Hey.”

The voice on the line was soft, but she could hear the excitement in his tone.

“Hi, umm, how did you know my number?” Yu-hwa asked.

“It’s automatically collected when you log-on to the messenger,” replied Unknown. There was an awkward pause. “Oh ummm, don’t get me wrong. It’s only dialable within the messenger app.”

Yu-hwa sighed. It was a relief to know that all she had to do was delete the app and she would never hear from him again. But there was something about his gentle voice that she liked. She kept listening.

“As I mentioned in the chat room, I called to explain to you about this app.”

Yu-hwa rolled her eyes. The sales pitch.

Unknown explained the concept of the game, which was chatting to the characters he had created and becoming the party coordinator of a fundraising group called R.F.A.

“It’ll be much faster to understand by playing, instead of listening to all this,” he said eventually. “Oh, but the game hasn’t been released yet. To perform the tests, you have to come over here.”

Yu-hwa pressed her lips together tightly. Yes of course random stranger I’ve talked to for five minutes. I’ll trust you not to do who knows what to me. Of course I’ll come over, pop the kettle on!

“Just send me the file,” she said, trying to remain polite.

Unknown sighed. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s protected by a date leak prevention security system. Even if you download the file, it’s uninstallable. I need to directly install it to your smartphone. Please understand. And I also want to meet you in person before you play the game.”

Yu-hwa gripped her bag, feeling uncomfortable. He was insistent, so she knew that she had to be firm. “No, I’ll just pass.” She didn’t know why she felt so bad saying it. The guy was being weird, and he was a complete stranger. But she had also sensed a desperation in him, something that was all too familiar to her.

“Why?” Unknown whined. “Weren’t you interested? It’s an app just for you where you can chat with pretty guys. Others can’t play this. Only you can.”

Pretty guys? They’re more trouble than they’re worth, and I can do without!

“It’s not even real,” she said firmly. “I’m not going.”

“For real?” His voice was filled with sorrow and disbelief. “Then how about this? If you come here and test the game, someone real might be interested in you. For example, me.”

This is pathetic.

“I don’t need it. No thanks.”

“You don’t need me?” He sounded broken. “Ha, haha… haha… Sad. I’m so sad…”

Yu-hwa felt her heart pounding. He was crying. Was he so desperate?

“I really believed you were going to make my dream come true… Believed you were the one I would go to paradise with…”

Yu-hwa reached her apartment and pulled out her key just as the landlord stuck his head out of his door. He’d clearly been waiting for her.

“Paradise?” she sighed.

“The place I was trying to take you to,” said Unknown, his voice soft but filled with sadness. “That place is paradise. Where there’s no pain or sadness, just endless happiness. I’m the angel that will lead you there. You’ve let go of my hand… but don’t worry. I don’t plan to let you go just yet.”

The landlord stood beside her, breathing down her neck.

“Rent’s due,” he said as she pushed the door open.

“I want to see what kind of face you’ll make when you’ve truly been saved. I want to see it with my own two eyes.”

The landlord snatched the phone out of Yu-hwa’s hand and hung up.

“Hey,” she gasped as he shoved it back at her.

“I said your rent’s due,” he snapped. “Actually, it was due last week, but I let you off because you’re cute. Now I want my money.”

Yu-hwa bit her lip, muted.

“Fuck, you don’t have it?” he asked, then smirked. “There are other ways of paying,” he said as he advanced on her. “It’s been a while since I got my cock wet.” He stepped back. “Think about it. You give me head, you get to keep a roof over yours.” He laughed as he left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Yu-hwa hurried and locked the door, collapsing on the floor in tears.

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 6

You can read Chapter 6 on Ao3 Here

Check out my Patreon Here and support my writing! Every bit helps :)

Chapter 6: Flashbacks (The Writer’s Gimmick)

           He went to the mountains again, after he ensured no one else was around. As long as one wasn’t too much trouble, park rangers left well enough alone, and he figured that he had more than enough ability to keep quiet while he gathered his thoughts. That was the name of the game, he figured, as he picked his way along a small hiking trail. He needed to gather his thoughts, cast every which way as they were.

           The bodies were gone, but the scene remained. The bloodstains remained. Despite the fresh air, the death remained.

           Will sat down in the pine needles where he’d fallen just days before, and he stared at the space around him. The muted glow of his red headlamp ensured that he wouldn’t spook wildlife, although it did absolutely nothing to lend the space a lighter air. The bloodstains didn’t look as terrible in the red light, though. They could have been the remnants of spilled water, if his imagination hadn’t already repainted the bodies displayed with care and utmost purpose.

           He inhaled the taste of madness, and he decided that it was a meticulous sort of madness to be.

           Calculating. That is what he’d call the Chesapeake Ripper. Intelligent, calculating, and amidst his delicate reveling in the macabre, there was the soul of a poet.

           Will wondered if the Chesapeake Ripper was a writer as well, in his spare time, or if his artistic renditions were only best displayed with the use of flesh and blood.

           He stayed there for far longer than he meant to; time, for all of its clever uses, escaped him as he inhaled the scene where Mary Mai used to be. In its dips and sways, he wondered at her life, run as it was with the notifications on her watch. His own watch was quiet, keeping time with the digital face muted to a lowlight.

           It wasn’t until the sound of a raccoon behind him startled him from his reverie that he realized he’d accumulated dew along his skin and clothing. He blinked once, then rapidly to dispel the strange sense of time slipping away once more, and he stood, bones complaining and creaking from holding his pose for so long. The clock read 4:23 A.M.

           He didn’t leave Mary Mai behind on that mountain; rather, he took her with him, to better keep him company as he stayed awake the rest of the night, wondering at the care the Chesapeake Ripper took as he painted the world around him a lurid shade of red.

-

           He went to the alleyway where the homeless man tried to trip him. It was a long shot for him to still be there, but when Will saw him hunched next to the same broken crate of what he could now identify as tomatoes long gone bad, he figured he was more than just a homeless man.

           “How much?” he prompted.

           The man peered up at him, tilted his head so his fringe covered his milky eyes. Huddled into his jacket as he was, he gave the impression of something old, decrepit.

           “How much?” Will prompted again.

           “For him, twenty,” the man finally said through chapped lips. “For you, thirty.”

           Right. Will fished thirty bucks out of his wallet and handed it over. The man counted, then counted again. Satisfied, he tucked it up into the ski cap on his head and scratched lousy hair.

           “What do you know about the man from before?” Will asked.

           “What do you know about the man from before?” he replied.

           “Not enough. Not a name, not an occupation; you know something, though. He paid you to keep you here to wait for me.”

           “Did he?”

           Will scowled, motioning towards the ski cap where his money now lay.

           “He did,” the man said, relenting. He rubbed his stubbly jaw, mulling over Will’s shabby suit and tie done in only a half-Windsor. “He’d never dress like you, that’s for sure.”

           “Upper class?”

           “Very upper class. Socialite.”

           The Chesapeake Ripper was a socialite. Will nodded, mind turning at that. It would make sense that he’d have that sort of affluence, able to blend into the crowd where no one would ever suspect him. The rich had a way of doing that –being just aloof enough even without their dirty secrets. A socialite that liked their home private and untouched wouldn’t be questioned the same way a poor man with odd, eccentric tendencies would be.

           “He’s not American,” Will said.

           “European.”

           “Not English.”

           “Not French.”

           They considered one another, and Will sighed. “What did he tell you to give to me? Information? A riddle?”

           The man reached into the many jackets on his frame and retracted a letter, stained by fingers turning it over and over and over again. Not the Chesapeake Ripper’s fingers, but the hands of the man in front of him, one curious but not dumb. The wax seal on it was unbroken. Rather than the plain white copier paper of his riddles, it was a thick, rich material that felt like cloth fibers had been woven into it rather than just tree pulp.

           “Is that all?”

           “He said to say, ‘Good luck, Will Graham.’”

           Will started to walk away, then stopped. He glanced back at the man that watched, eyes yellowed and skin faded, wind-chapped. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

           The man laughed, stood up, and walked away from him.

           Seated at his desk, Will turned the letter over and over in his palms, getting a feel for the weight of the paper and just how expensive it was. He knew a guy that could probably find out which store it was purchased at, maybe find someone who’d let him look at the cameras and see what he could see.

           That would probably require him to be sociable, though.

           He opened the letter, slid fingers along the dried wax and withdrew the paper inside that was of equal thickness and weight. It matched, like he’d found a bargain set, something aged and faintly reminiscent of parchment.

Dear Will,

           You haven’t taken this to Jack Crawford. It’s also not an assumption that you haven’t informed him of our tête-à-tête –I know enough about you to be able to presume such things. No doubt now you’ve ruminated on the loss of Mary Mai for long enough that you have decided that you’ve been cheated something, and you’re going to see to it that I’m found and held accountable.

           I’m looking forward to this.

           You don’t recall how we met. I will remind you, if anything to remind you that there is someone in this world that sees your capacity for endless possibility. Two years ago, a man stumbled into me, drunk, shoving his way out of a bar with glasses askew and tone slurred. I hadn’t been looking for my latest victim; I’d satiated my hungers and curiosities for the time. There was just enough force in your violence, though, that I decided to see just what would become of you. I hadn’t yet decided if your end would be by myself or something else –alcohol poisoning? A mugging? –but I was curious. The human condition, rife with its imperfections, foolishness, and greed, is a curious thing.

           You found your way into an alley where a man with knife mange on his arm stopped you and demanded your money. Any other would have tried to console him or fight him. You did neither.

           Instead, you laughed.

           Your glasses, something I’d thought to be crooked from your inebriation, were straightened, and you met his eyes and bared your teeth like a wild animal. Crooked by forced appearance, by nothing more than the desire of an aesthetic to make you seem far weaker than you were.

           ‘Your hands are shaking from withdrawal, and the pale skin on your finger tells me a recent end to a rather serious relationship. Are you desperate, or are you merely stupid?’ you asked him. ‘That prison tattoo is fresh, probably infected. No doubt you thought I’d be an easy target for some quick cash, but you’re going to have to kill me to get it.’

           ‘I’ll kill you,’ the man promised you.

           ‘The roughened, hairless skin on your arm says yes, but there’s a look in your eyes that says no,’ you continued, unheeding of him. ‘Maybe because you’re looking in my eyes and seeing I’d rip your throat out with my teeth before I die. If you’re unsure if what you’re seeing is correct, I promise you it is. You’ll try to stab me, I’ll twist to the side, and I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.’

           ‘Just give me your money,’ he pressed. The knife shifted, a shaky hand from withdrawals, as you’d surmised.

           ‘No, no, haven’t you already realized? You’ve lost.’

           Before he could speak, before he could lunge, the knife was no longer in his hands but yours, and the smile you drew across his guts with the acutest precision cast blood every which way, across your hands, your own stomach, your feet. In the dim light of the alley, Will Graham, I watched you smile as you eased him to the ground, a cold and detached hunger in your eyes as he gasped for help, hands holding his stomach in.

           You took the knife with you and cleaned it meticulously on your shirt as you went.

           I saved him, not because his life was of any form of intrinsic importance, but because as one that once worked in the field of medicine and surgery, I felt a responsibility to at least try. You, though; I decided that you would live. Not because of anything in regards to borrowed time, but because you were savage enough to steal it.

           You’ll be happy to know that he lived, and clearly no charges were filed against you.

           How banal was it for me to realize, finding you sometime later, that your life was not all such excitement and near-death experiences. You didn’t toe the line and let adrenaline and desire be your guide. You worked at a second-rate news agency that specialized in tacky miracle cream ads on the back page beside the rather sour words of a writer whose descriptors of chiffon fell flat. You followed the demands of your watch, beeps informing you of when to eat and drink. You wore glasses, not out of a need to see but a place to put your gaze rather than focus on anyone else around you. You were quiet. You were subdued.

           So much untapped potential you held to create art in your very hands, wasted.

           I’m curious about you, Mr. Graham. I am well aware of mankind’s capacity for violence –cruelty is a trait learned from our human ancestor’s, not our animal predecessors –but there was something so utterly dark and inhibited as yours. Upon reaching your home, did you realize your actions after waking to the sticky, dried substance coating your hands and lips? Did you panic, scrubbing it off into a sink stained with hard water, try and tell yourself it was a dream? Just what had you internalized that made you take it and return in full?

Do you fear that aspect of yourself? Do you fear your own Becoming, allowing that aspect to take hold and Make? I think that by the time this is all done, you won’t.

                                                                                                           -Chesapeake Ripper

           Will read it once, twice. On the third time, he absentmindedly gathered his things, informed Charlie that he had to do some footwork, and left Tattler News, buttoning his jacket against a crisp Fall wind that turned cheeks pink and noses red. The longer he walked, the faster his steps until he found himself not-quite jogging but not-quite walking, a pace that led him farther and farther away from the office until he found himself standing in front of a small pond where ducks paddled lazily through green water.

           He wheezed out a breath, staring at the ugly, questionable green moss and algae before he slid off his jacket, dropped his things, and promptly jumped in.

           The cold was a shock to his system, and it made his heart pound in every joint. Underneath the water that held a tinge of slime, he kept his eyes closed tight and held his breath, letting it soak down deep into his skin. When he could hold his breath no longer, he broke the surface and gulped in air, treading water. Just across the way, a father and daughter pair stared at him, hands full of bread crumbs.

           He swam back to shore and climbed out of the water as casually as he was able. In the face of their still gaping expressions, he explained, “I dropped something in there.”

           “Did you get it?” the daughter asked.

           “Oh, yes,” he said absently. He gathered his things and walked away, dripping water in sporadic splashes across the concrete.

           The taxi driver only let him in after he laid his jacket down across the seat.

           Upon arriving home, he showered and scrubbed himself, checking his watch to ensure nothing had happened to it. It was waterproof up to so many meters, allowing for quick dips in city ponds and long showers, and it responded to his lazy taps and prompts as he blinked hot water out of his eyes.

           As he dressed in another shabby pair of slacks and a button-up, his hands found their way to a knife in his sock drawer, and he turned it over in his hands as he slumped onto his bed and swallowed so hard he could audibly hear the gulp.

           Will Graham had a problem.

           He didn’t remember that night, written so prolifically on what felt like vellum with a rather thin nib from an elegant fountain pen.

           He did remember the next morning, though.

           He woke curled up on his bed with a knife cradled to his chest. He didn’t realize it was a knife, at first. Upon waking, his primary focus was the way liquor churned with his stomach acid, threatening mutiny of the most violent kind.

           He’d have probably kept it down, if the smell of blood hadn’t been so strong under his nose.

           He didn’t manage to make it to the bathroom, and after everything else that morning he, in the end, threw away his blankets and sheets stained with the aftermath of a terribly blurred night. Sitting dejected in his own vomit while his skin was hot and clammy, Will Graham stared down at the knife clenched in his fist, and he dropped it when he realized that it was stained with blood.

           As was the rest of him.

           He stripped the bed, as well as his clothes. Huddled at the bottom of the shower, he scrubbed blood from under his nails, off of the scruff of his face. A whimper passed his lips as he tried frantically to remember what had happened –nothing. It was not the blank wall that people described as memory loss, but more along the lines of an ocean wave, aspects of the evening sliding into place with ease, dipping into shallow spaces of sand to stay, other aspects wiped smooth, decimated with the force of just how much he’d consumed.

           He stayed in the shower until the water went cold, until he was shivering. No memory. No recollection. No idea.

           He thought to go to the police. After vomiting up bile and stomach acid, nothing left inside of him to give, he thought it was only right. He should have realized that subconsciously, he’d already decided to do anything but that as he washed the knife and scrubbed it with bleach, an old toothbrush he’d discovered at the back of a drawer the perfect tool to get into all of the fine places to reach.

           When he sat in his front room for a long time after, trash bag with his sheets and blankets by the door, he finally acknowledged that he was most certainly not going to do anything about it. Whatever it was, it could stay a mystery.

           He turned the knife over in his hands, admired the gut hook on the back. It was a hunting knife, something aged and loved tenderly with a leather-wrapped handle and a freshly sharpened edge. He never used it, tried often enough not to think about it, but every so often he sharpened it.

           According to the Chesapeake Ripper, it was because he’d used it before.

           It could very well be a lie, but he didn’t think it was. The day after that night had scared him, shocked him with the realization of just how capable he was of violence –violence towards what, he hadn’t known, but there’d been enough blood he’d assumed it was bad.

           He tilted the knife, scraped the blade along the hair of his arm. Hair fell against the sharp edge, broken with little effort. It made his skin pink, a half a breath’s pressure from breaking. Knife mange, the Ripper called it. A man with a knife tried to mug him, and in his most intoxicated of states, he’d laughed.

           The Ripper saw Will’s capacity for darkness, and he liked it.

           Where did that leave him?

-

           It left him with an odd taste in his mouth, and he reached out to Todd in marketing to help him track down where the paper came from. Todd was a quick, nervous man whose hands twitched and tapped too much. It didn’t take someone like Will to know it was because of cocaine, although the why behind the addiction was always something that intrigued him.

           He wasn’t quite sure if it was the journalist in him, or if it was the empathy disorder. Probably a bit of both.

           “It’s nice paper,” Todd said, feeling up the envelope. Will hadn’t thought it wise to give him the letter where his most sordid secret lay. “Real nice. Like rich cat nice.”

           “Like boutique nice?” Will wondered. He watched Todd’s fingers tap, and it made his own hand drum idly on his leg.

           “Like Staples couldn’t get their hands on it nice,” Todd said. “I could find it. What for, though?”

           “They sent donation money for the Mai family with no other information. We have to file something for donations, and I just need the name so that I can put it on record when it comes time for tax season,” he lied. Will realized that he was actually rather good at that.

           “So you find the place, find the name?” Todd nodded. He’d not yet reached the level of paranoia where he was suspect to the statements of any person. He was at a rather malleable level, all things considered. Impressionable. Usable.

           Will wasn’t sure how he felt, analyzing Todd and finding his addiction weakness to be of use to him –there was knowing it could be of use and actually taking advantage of it. He had to find The Ripper, though. He’d do what he had to.

           “Can you do it?”

           “What do I get for it?”

           “I keep Charlie out of here when you go to your stash that you keep down by the printers.”

           “Got it.” That was no debate. Charlie’s stash was sacred, and Will didn’t have to fork out extra cash just to get something.

           He walked away feeling a little dirty but ultimately hopeful.

           At Beverly’s desk, they looked over a few things, art references to the loving rendition of Birth of Venus, the cold and meticulous Wound Man, the archaic 100 Years of War. Of course, they were not the prints of such paintings –did that make them something other than art? He wasn’t sure. The bodies were placed with such care, such devotion, heads turned in supplication, hands grasping sticks made to look like crude swords. Heads bowed over the paper, Beverly seemed just as mystified as he was. When he looked up to her face, though, all he could see was disgust.

           “What do you think?” He tried not to sound like he was worried for her answer, unsure in the face of her expression.

           “This guy thinks this is art?” she asked.

           “…In his mind, it’s art. It’s a recreation, it’s…” He pondered over a word that wouldn’t make her nose scrunch up so high. “It’s uplifting, in a way. He takes them and makes them more.”

           “Makes them more?”

           “Immortalizes them.”

           “Huh.” He wasn’t sure what kind of ‘huh’ that was. Their heads bowed back down over the photos Freddie had managed to take. His stomach soured that she didn’t quite see what he could see. He knew what that said about him, that his empathy could somehow reach even these people in their final stages of life, recreations of something beautiful, somehow made More.

           “He used to be a doctor,” Will said quietly. Beverly peeked about to make sure Freddie wasn’t lurking.

           “You think?”

           Will knew, but he wasn’t going to say anything like that. “These people are being mutilated, but they’re also missing organs inside, right? Surgical trophies, taken out with skill and precision. There’s research to try and know how, then there’s going to school and actually knowing how to remove organs so well. It’d be messier if he wasn’t.”

           “So?”

           “What if he knew these people? What if he’d spoken with them, interacted with them?”

           Like he’d spoken with and interacted with me, apparently.

           “You think maybe he found some of them while working in the hospital?” Beverly asked. “Or maybe all of them?”

           “There are no other ties to one another, I looked. Maybe medical records?”

           “Maybe online records?” Beverly suggested.

           “Do we have a way of finding out?”

           They let out curt sighs in unison, and Will’s watch beeped. Time for a water break. He stood, walked over to the water cooler, ruminated on his theory. It made sense for the Chesapeake Ripper to have once been a surgeon –he’d said he was once a doctor. Did they all go to the same hospital? The same doctor? Similar injuries? As much as people liked to create fear with the idea that there was no rhyme or reason to his choices, there had to be something. For some, it was hair color; others, foot size. Even faint, even obscure, there had to be something that made them stand out to the Ripper.

           He finished his water and tapped the icon on the watch. That was four waters for the day versus four coffees. The fact that the watch had an app so that he could see just how much coffee it took for him to function versus water for him to stay hydrated made him wonder just how many other people in the world were like him, slaves to a device that made them appear relatively normal.

           There was Mary Mai, at least. Maybe others used schedules, notes, agendas, or were rich enough to have a secretary do it for them. Just how many people were there like him?

           At the very least, he figured the Chesapeake Ripper was somewhat like him. Normal enough for no one to question. Normal enough that as he tied and stitched tabards onto the bodies of his victims, no one thought to look in the creases of his palms to see the blood.

-

           He got home late; his watch’s reminders were furious, insistent that he’d missed dinner and his evening water. It did congratulate him, however, on his steps for the day. Countless trips to and from his desk to Beverly’s ensured that he hadn’t by any means doubled his step goal, but he’d at least made a good headway.

           Do you want to increase your step goal to match your current records? The watch asked.

           “No,” he replied out loud, and he dismissed the notification. There was supposed to be something satisfying about meeting a goal so well that they wanted you to create a new one. He still hadn’t found an app to care about things like that.

           He did care, however, when he looked up from his watch to see that dinner had been laid out for him, rich and decadent smells wafting from a plate whose intricate filigree on the side boasted something far more luxurious than his dinnerware within his shabby cupboards.

           It looked like lamb; certainly it smelled like lamb. Laid out alongside something that appeared to be mashed cauliflower and parsley in a dark, savory sauce, it gave all indications that it was definitely lamb.

           Will wasn’t entirely sure of that, though.

           Next to the plate was a glass of wine and a glass of water. Propped up beside the glasses, a note lay. It was the same material as the letter that Todd was now investigating, written with the same, careful hand. Will dragged a pinky along one of the curling ‘T’s and bit his lip.

           You should be more particular about the things that you put into your body, especially if you’re going to try and catch me. Enjoy.

           There was no guarantee that it was lamb. Will eyed it with extreme prejudice as he sat down, and he dragged a finger through the sauce before he tasted it. Heady. Flavorful. A hint of thyme and basil. He glanced about the room, but it appeared that nothing else had been tampered with; no Chesapeake Ripper lurked to surprise him with another dinner-for-two.

           If anything, it was entirely likely that this was Mary Mai, laid out in the most exquisite of ways for the Ripper’s amusement, just to see what Will would do.

           Which begged the question: what was he going to do?

           He should call Crawford and try to see if they could glean any prints from the plate or the glass. He should throw the meat away, disgusted with the idea that it could potentially be human meat on his plate.

           And yet…

           In the silence and loneliness of his shabby, rundown apartment, Will Graham picked up a fork with curved, silver tines, and he grasped the matching knife in his other hand. With no one to witness his actions, no one to hiss censure in his ear, he deliberately cut a piece of meat and took a bite, savoring the taste on his tongue.

A special thanks to my patrons, @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @sylarana @starlit-catastrophe Duhaunt6 and Superlurk! <3

[morrisbrokaw]

What Cutting Down on Screen Time Taught Me About Creativity

I begin and end my days like so many of us do: scrolling through my phone. The act feels far from mindless: if I’m checking emails and my bank balance in between spending hours looking at memes on Instagram, it means I’m being productive, right? Apparently not, according to the numbers.

A few months ago, Apple rolled out their new Screen Time feature, which allows users to see how much time they spend on their iPhones, including the specific minutes they allot to each app. My numbers were harsh: nearly three and a half hours on Instagram daily, totaling up to a full 24 hours a week. I was spending a full day of my week just on Instagram — and that’s not even considering all the time I spent taking and editing photos for Instagram, texting and emailing, and wasting other endless hours with my eyes glued to my iPhone screen.

After asking around to see how much time other people were spending on their phones, and specifically on Instagram, I decided it was time to make a change. My boyfriend, who does social media work primarily on Instagram for two separate accounts for a living, spent less time on his phone and on Instagram than I did. So I immediately limited myself to two and a half hours a day, an amount that now feels laughable given that I currently cut off at an hour a day.

It’s even more comical given the fact that for the first week or two that I set limits for myself, I kept pressing the “15 more minutes” feature that pops up when you’ve met your Screen Time limit for the day. At times I even chose to press “Ignore for today,” which got rid of the pesky limit altogether.

Screen Time is a bit flawed in the way it measures time you spend on your phone. The only way to cut back on the total amount of Screen Time is through limiting “All Apps & Categories.” You can create exceptions for certain apps, but there isn’t a way to remove an app from being considered within your daily total.

I spend anywhere from half an hour to an hour and half a day on Waze, which I use to navigate myself to work or elsewhere and avoid as much traffic as possible in Los Angeles. It’s a must for me when I’m driving, but it feels silly and punitive that I can’t exclude it from my daily total. For me, it’s separate from the hours I spend wasting time on my phone, and it’s frustrating that a day spent driving around town running errands will dramatically shift my daily total of Screen Time.

Realizing this made me take stock of where exactly I’m wasting time. I deleted Facebook, Messenger, and Twitter off my phone months ago, so I was spending most of my time on Instagram, Messages, and Mail. Looking at my daily totals made me realize I needed to stop opening up the Mail app just to refresh it — it’s unnecessary since I have notifications turned on for the app, and opening it up is just something I do mindlessly. In other words, it was time that was easily reduced, and becoming aware of that helped me utilize my phone more mindfully.

I didn’t feel the need to cut back on the time I spent on Messages — it’s how I communicated with work or with loved ones, which is literally the point of having a phone if you think about it. My only real problem was Instagram.

I took note of when I used Instagram the most — another thing the Screen Time feature allows you to understand visually, with bars going up on a timeline, showing you how much time you spend, divided up by time of day. Once I realized I spent most of my time scrolling through my feed right when I woke up and right before I went to bed, I decided to cut those down. Looking through my feed really does wake me up and prevent me from falling back asleep, so I let myself look at my phone first thing in the morning. I just stay mindful of how much time has passed, and after a few minutes, I put my phone down. In the same way, I also genuinely enjoy looking through posts, stories, and photos on my discover feed before bed — I just don’t need to do it for an hour to fall asleep.

I’m wary of the rhetoric that time spent on your phone is automatically bad. Though I hear many friends talking about how time spent on social media can feel toxic for them, I don’t necessarily feel the same way for myself. I am much happier without Facebook and Twitter on my phone — those feeds really do feel draining, and I’m happy to no longer be inundated with notifications. But while Twitter is a platform I am on for work, and Facebook is a habit I have yet to kick, Instagram is my space. Unlike with other platforms, I am very mindful of who and what I follow on Instagram. I unfollow often, and mute accounts when doing so is more appropriate. Instagram is where I go for updates from accounts that share local to international news; friends and family whose photos and videos I look forward to seeing, especially those from loved ones that live far away from me; and creatives that inspire me both visually and verbally. As someone hoping to grow as a cook, interior designer, visual artist, and writer, many of the accounts I follow are professionals in those realms that inspire and educate my amateur self. So while I won’t be spending a full day a week on my feed, I’m happy to spend some time enjoying inspiration where I find it.

Image via Who What Wear

Virali is a writer, frequent plant killer, and burrito enthusiast based out of Los Angeles. You can find some of her previous work at The Ringer and Girlboss, and follow her adventures here.

    The post What Cutting Down on Screen Time Taught Me About Creativity appeared first on Wit & Delight.

What Cutting Down on Screen Time Taught Me About Creativity published first on https://workbootsandshoes.tumblr.com/