#i have since sold that pistol

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

Once I had an Auto Ordnance 1911 fling a casing straight into the air which then landed in the space between my eye and my safety glasses

Have you ever gotten hot brass down the back of your shirt? I imagine the wheelchair makes it especially hard to get out.

Once, I also dumped brass into my crotch shooting a P90. The P90 was worse. After that I wore my shop apron if I knew I would be shooting one

[ghostofreach117]

Guns in Teyvat

I’m back on the worldbuilding grind🙏only reason I stopped was bc I ran out of ideas lmao. Love drawing guns

MONDSTADT

You will never find anyone with a firearm in Mondstadt. They simply don’t have the resources, money, or -most importantly- need for such an expensive product that is essentially useless. It is considered extremely rude to use a firearm when hunting as the sound scares animals away from other hunters in the area and their use is seen as “cheating” by the general population. Since they have such little presence in Mondstadt, there is little to no regulation on anything pertaining to guns (you really have to try to break the law). If you want to obtain one you must import the parts from Fontaine or Snezhnaya and assemble it yourself, and it’s a pain to buy them. If you are willing to go through all that trouble then either someone wants to kill you or you are out to kill somebody else. Probably both.

FONTAINE

Fontaine has mastered the art of mass production. Guns are produced by the hundreds (very impressive for such a centralized nation!) for the Fontanian military. They have been meticulously engineered for the utmost safety of the user. Fontanian firearms are prized for their lack of recoil, lack of tendency to jam, and innovative safety mechanisms, such as loaded chamber indicators and their revolutionary rifle decocker invention. This comes at the cost of power. Most Fontanian rifles and flintlocks/pistols take very low caliber ammunition and do not have the stopping power of larger firearms. They are much more suited for ceremonial use or intimidation as opposed to actual combat. There are a select few exceptions though. For example, Clorinde has had her twin flintlocks especially made for her, and they are known to take ammo she has to commission from an armory in western Fontaine.

SNEZHNAYA

If you were to ask anyone with a knowledge on the subject, they would tell you that Snezhnayan firearms are often exceedingly dangerous. They are known to jam, catch fire, and even explode. Hastily produced by independent armories contracted by the Fatui, they are low in cost and quality. In exchange, these guns are extremely powerful. The Ночной Ветер, for instance, is able to take cartridges of up to .50 (you can’t even purchase ammunition of this caliber outside of Snezhnaya). The gun laws and regulations in Snezhnaya are surprisingly strict, however they are not enforced. Fatui officers are more likely to take the 5000 mora offered by whomever they have tried to charge with illegal possession than actually arrest a lawbreaker. This has allowed an underground firearms market to thrive, especially among those who oppose the Tsaritsa.

Note: Snezhnayan firearms do not possess a safety. Once the gun is loaded, it is ready to shoot. Please exercise caution.

Double note: full auto guns don’t exist yet in my AU (subject to change based on what I think is cool) . I drew childe with an ak47 because it’s so him lmao.

INAZUMA

Inazuma’s strict laws have long forbade any type of firearm from being used, sold, or traded in the country to keep the nation in its eternal state. They have often been seen as useless foreign inventions that make the user weak by forcing them to rely on guns. Guns are also seen by some to violate the strict honor code that many Inazumans live by. Not even gangs or delinquents will use them.

SUMERU

Sumeru has outlawed any weapons that the Mahamatras deem to pose a danger to the preservation of knowledge. Surprisingly, there is little to no pushback on this ban. Those who reside in the desert find that grains of sand clog the inner mechanisms of guns, rendering them useless and forest dwellers dislike firearms for many of the same reasons Mondstadters do. The Corps don’t have trouble with smuggling when it comes to Sumeru natives or tourists, but they keep a watchful eye over the Fatui diplomats, occasionally requiring a search, as their presence often heralds political maneuvering rather than genuine interest in Sumeru’s knowledge. Evidence of this can often be found in the remains of crime scenes, weapons tend to be left in the riverbanks of the forest, and though exceptionally uncommon, there have been reports of firearms bearing Fatui insignias being uncovered underneath muddy outcrops by riverbanks. Though this is all coincidence, of course. It must have been a rouge terroist from Fontaine.

Other notes

I mentioned this previously, but guns and ammo are SUPER EXPENSIVE. The average person would never be able to afford/maintain one.

Guns are extremely difficult to use with a vision. Unless you have your gun created for you by a specialty armory, you won’t be able to channel elemental energy through one.

On the other hand, Guns are very easy to counter if you have a vision or a delusion due to the fact that they require many small, intricate parts working together perfectly to fire. Whether through making the metal brittle with frost or softening it with flame, it’s very easy to neutralize a gun. Best to keep them out of active combat. Swords, bows, and catalysts are much more effective thanks to their simplicity. It’s a lot harder to stop a giant hunk of metal hurling towards you than freezing a gun.

Um. I did not mean for this post to be as much of a yap fest as it was. Lmk if I was confusing or if you have questions I love talking to people 🙏🙏

[eymie]

Billy x fem reader where she likes horses or tends to them and thats how billy and her meet?

i’ve been so so busy i’m sorry this took a while. also i was feeling like writing something fluffy but i might make a part two with smut. ((probably) definitely*)

It’s also been a hot minute since I’ve rode a horse so bear with me.

part two

SWEET TOOTH !

You kept to yourself most the times. Only coming into town when you needed to, soft smiles to people who nodded at you.

Your family owned a farm not too far past town, growing up spending most your time in the barn you became acquainted with the horses. You fed them and tended to them. They were like your closest friends. You were homeschooled by your aunt who used to be a teacher herself so you never met many other kids your age.

When your parents got older you started making more town trips for them, making business deals, the doctors, the bank. Most people in town were friendly with you, many bought your goat milk or your eggs.

You tied up your favourite horse to the fence post. Pulling a sugar cube from your pocket, which embarrassingly enough you always kept on you. They were expensive and your mother would have your head if she found out but you couldn’t help it, horses loved them

You fed your favourite horse, Aspen, a small sugar cube. Scratching in between her ears, kissing her cheek.

“Atta girl, don’t go talking to strangers.” She nuzzled against your shoulder as you walked off into a shop. Your father had asked you to grab a new hammer while you were out so he could fix up a few loose floorboards. You looked back out the window to make sure Aspen was still tied up.

“Oh, hello darlin’” You turned to see one of the ladies who was a loyal customer. She was a sweet older lady, always stopping by for some eggs. “Rarely see you in town.”

“Yeah, I know.” You smiled, admiring the way her clothes were neat and clean. Her husband made good money and her kids were grown. “Don’t got any eggs on me, sorry ma’am.”

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout that, still got plenty. I know where to find you if I run out.” You nodded, going back to your shopping. Usually you had a stand in town to sell your eggs, or some shops sold for you but you had your specialty customers.

You grabbed one of the cheaper hammers off the shelf, walking over to the register area. You placed it on the table, pulling out your cash. As you hand the worker your money you look over to see a man and your horse.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” You quietly thank the worker, grabbing your change and hammer and running out the store. The man turned to look at you, backing off a bit. “What’re you doin’?”

“Oh, nothing miss.” He stepped away from your horse a bit, his eyes darting down to the hammer in your hand. “Not going to hit me with that are you?”

You look down at the hammer in your hand and quickly put it away in your bag.

“‘Course not, m’not an animal.” You stepped closer, he didn’t back away this time. You noticed a pistol in his holster. “You can’t be talking much anyway with that gun in your pocket.”

“I suppose not.” He muttered, lifting his hat off his head. “Got a nice horse here.”

“I know that,” You look down to notice an apple in the man’s hand. You step closer again, rubbing your hand along Aspens side. “Where’s yours?”

“Oh, Lady’s just over there.” He nods to a horse tied up across the road at a boarding house. You thought she suited him quite nice.

“So you just come over introducing yourself to every horse in town.” You ask, admiring his messy brown hair. He had a bit of dirt on his nose but you weren’t going to point it out.

“Well not every horse comes along with a girl as pretty as you.” You blushed, looking down at the dusty ground. Sure a few men flirted with you in the past, but none as handsome as this man in front of you.

“That for her?” You point out the apple in his hand. He grabs your hand, placing the fresh apple into it.

“She looked a bit hungry.” He said, watching as you held the apple flat on your hand for her. He admired as you rubbed behind her ear as she ate from the palm of your hand. “Looks like she’s got a sweet tooth.”

“She sure does.” You smile, feeding her the last of the apple. You rubbed her cheek as she leaned down to get some of the apple chunks that had fell.

“She got a name?” The man asked, tilting his head. He really was awfully pretty, nice too. His arm rested against Aspen, fingers tracing her.

“Not telling unless you’d like to tell me yours.” You never flirted with a man before, you didn’t mean to be now but it came off that way. He laughed a bit look down and then back up at you.

“Billy,” He told you. You liked the way his name sounded, the way if rolled right off the tongue. His name suited him.

“I like that name.” You admitted, feeling almost too honest and blunt once you said it. Your cheeks flushed a bit in embarrassment.

“Mmm, there’s better out there.” He hummed, stepping a bit closer to you. You would’ve backed up if it was any other man you were talking to. If you knew who he was you should’ve been. “Now you gonna tell me or what?”

He was playful with his words, not intimidating or threatening.

“Aspen, but I got a few more horses back at home.” You thought about what it would be like to invite Billy to your farm, show him around the barn.

“Yeah?” He looked up at you, almost like he was asking a question. You looked like the sweetest girl he’d seen in a while, innocent and honest.

“Maybe I could show you sometime, how long you stayin’?” You really did wanna talk to him, knowing you probably wouldn’t be back in town for a little while. You didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

“I’d like that.” He nodded, putting his hat back on his head. The dark brim shadowing his face. “What’s your name?”

“Well that’s a secret.” You giggled, untying Aspen from the post. Billy didn’t have to help you mount her like he would’ve tried with other girls.

“How am I gonna find you without a name?” He asked, looking up at you. You shrugged, and he furrowed his dark eyebrows.

“I better be headin’ home, bye Billy.” You clicked your heels, Aspen backing up a bit. You turned back to look at Billy who was still waiting your name. “I’ll keep my word, promise.”

“I’d hope so.” He tilted his head, nodding you a goodbye. He watched as you and Aspen rode down the dusty road.

“What you doin’ talking to the farm girl.” He turned at the voice, the butcher was leaving the shop purchasing new knives. He was a burly man, usually buying your chickens and pigs if you.

“Farm girl?”

“Yeah, she lives with her family on that farm on the edge of town.” Billy nodded, knowing just how he could see you again.

masterlist

[linxuelian]

Anime Fest Plus 2024 Convention Experience Log - With Photos!

Hi, hello! As I've recently (as of this post, yesterday morning) attended Anime Fest+ 2024 at Tropicana Gardens Mall, Petaling Jaya, Malaysia, I've decided to write an experience log about my day there! While I will be posting a few different cosplays here, since my blog is currently primarily about MDZS, TGCF and SVSSS at the moment, most of the cosplays I'll be sharing will be from these three titles. To add to the fun, I'll also have commentaries on them!

To preface, the largest anime convention in Malaysia is Comic Fiesta, an annual mecca with 70,000 attendees as of the year 2023. Anime, games and comics are popular in this country, so there are smaller cons dotted throughout the months.

Anyway, the crowd wasn't as large as Comic Fiesta. As the structure of Tropicana Gardens Mall is rather narrow, you'd technically have to file through in two to three lines to be able to walk in and out of the place.

The exhibition hall at the fourth floor hosted all performances as well as cosplay booths. You'd have to ride one of the two escalators up to the hall - plebs without a ticket are doomed to be stranded at the bottom of said escalators, unable to sop up the merriment held exclusively above.

Here are some pics though, just in case you were a pleb that day, or just didn't attend the event:

Main hall programs and booths featured mostly Hololive and sexy pretty girl cosplayers and figurines, given the regular, expected fare when it comes to the anime consuming demographic (yes, I'm calling you out, my anime-watching brothers). I didn't take pictures of the doujinshi market out of respect for the art sellers there, but I did buy a beautiful print and got some lovely free stickers from that ONE vendor who sold BL stuff among the throngs of moe girls/Genshin Impact.

Yes, there was only one stall. But that one vendor made my day! Bless your heart, sister!

Now, I'll move on to the highlight - the cosplays. Nothing fills my heart with more joy than seeing happy people wearing colorful costumes and having a blast just being part of the convention scene. To be honest, it's so common to be wearing cosplay outfits nowadays that folk don't even notice you when you're dressed up - and I say this from experience; nobody noticed at all that I was in costume (or they were far too polite to laugh at how shitty I looked LOL, I didn't even dare take pics of myself). These events usually become scavenger hunts for me, to identify the ones from series I know or my tribe (fellow MXTX fans aha!).

First up is an oldie that's a goldie - Mr. Spock from Star Trek (credit: FaceBook user Yasuhiro Orihusay):

Honestly, I did NOT expect to find any Star Trek cosplays there. My dad's a Trekkie, so this was one of the first pics I sent him at the con itself. Live long and prosper, Mr. Spock!

Next, a furry OC:

I wasn't able to get their social media account as they were waiting in line for an autograph by a cosplayer, so unfortunately I'm unable to credit here.

Furries are currently still a new thing in Malaysia - but I'm glad to see them appearing more frequently at our cons, since they do diversify our pop culture scene quite a bit. Furs Upon Malaysia (FURUM) is held annually in Kuala Lumpur. The tickets are always sold out within an hour, so it's definitely growing and also contributing to tourism (Indonesian and Singaporean furries gather there too).

Also, they're fluffy. I love fluffy things. Much thanks, furry fandom, for being fluffy!

Moving on, here's a group cosplay of Jojo's Bizzare Adventure's Six Pistols (Mista from Golden Wind's Stands, if you're wondering which season it's from):

Vibrant and very spot on! I was unable to get their social media account due to the crowd and disorientation on my part. Do try to look them up, though! They were pretty popular, so I'm sure someone would have shared some info if you're interested.

Anyway, here's a White Mage from Final Fantasy (credit: https://www.instagram.com/yari_hayashi/):

Final Fantasy's one of the older franchises, but it's definitely rising again due to the new FFVII remake. I thought he was Garnet until I saw the blond wig. Bless the mages, healing power plus!!

Next in line is one of my all-time favorites, Sailor Moon (credit: https://www.instagram.com/jiahuab0719_cos/):

I'm a Moonie so seeing a Sailor Moon made me pretty excited! I don't see too many Sailor Moon cosplays even in Comic Fiesta - cosplays at our conventions are pretty seasonal and tend to follow trends, from what I've seen. She definitely caught quite a bit of attention with her wings, too. I saw her getting stopped quite a bit, so I'm glad I got a pic before a line formed!

Aaaand! I've saved the best for last! I'll be showcasing the MXTX stuff now. To start off (with a bang), here are two cosplayers of the number one seasonal love interest of the BL world, Hua Cheng a.k.a. San Lang Didi (Grown Up Version):

Credit: https://www.instagram.com/karry.1213/ (donghua version) and https://www.instagram.com/kopiii_cos/ (manhua version)

Remember how I said cosplays at Malaysian conventions tend to be pretty seasonal? Well, the current flavor of the month for the BL world is definitely TGCF - and the hottest flavor is now San Lang didi. You're going to get stopped for photos pretty often for dressing up as this flashy guy, and for good reason too. Donned in striking red, Hua Cheng is the Ferrari of the danmei world.

I overhead Kopiii_cos' friend saying so many people have been asking for photos! Viva Fafa!

Next, we have the ever beautiful WangXian couple cosplays:

Credit: Wei Wuxian (https://www.instagram.com/purple_384/) and Lan Wangji (https://www.instagram.com/anson1510/)

WangXian's a staple when it comes to the MXTX fandom. There's nary a person who doesn't love these two soulmates, and with these elaborate costumes, they've certainly stolen the show! They were the first couple I saw at the entrance of the exhibition hall, which makes sense since there was an OTP contest going on that afternoon.

Moving along, we have the main character of his story, the Crown Prince of Xian Le, Xie Lian (credit: https://www.instagram.com/arkutagwa/):

I gotta admit that this Lian's the sweetest of the Xies so far. Had a field day calling each other cute (what can I say, we both had cute personalities)! Gotta love that charming dimpled cheek, bless!

Speaking of cute, there's also this whole cute pose thing going on with certain attendees (credit: https://www.instagram.com/chzesin/):

I won't lie - I didn't recognize the character at first. But with the dark-gray-to-white ombre, black and red colors to tell you that's a Wei Wuxian, I'm just going to take a gamble here and deduce that yes, that is indeed a Wei Wuxian and include it. Let me know if you don't think it is.

Last but not least, we have our MXTX OTP group:

Credits: https://www.instagram.com/ayafvrvv/ (Luo Binghe) and https://www.instagram.com/close0402/ (Lan Wangji) - the rest didn't share their social media accounts but they did say you can find them through each other's accounts.

Turns out they're a group who'd entered the OTP contest that afternoon. If you're wondering, no, Binghe isn't paired with air (this is Bing-mei, not Bing-ge). There was a large number of attendees that day as it was Sunday, so their Shizun was still looking for parking. I'd gotten lucky since I'd arrived there just as they'd opened up Basement 3 so ZOOM I parked near the escalators with plenty of space to spare. Until today I chalk it up to being last-minute dressed as Xie Lian, the god of good luck for hobos like myself (or, according to popular belief, Hua Cheng's blessed every Xie Lian cosplayer out there no matter how much we look like we've just stepped out of a jungle). I also had plenty of space to sit for a lovely lunch of salad and green tea!

Granted, there were actually a few other Xie Lians there as well (he's the current flavor as well), but I didn't want to chase after them from afar since the flow of human traffic in this particular mall wasn't too conducive for trying to get pictures, unlike KLCC's garden. Usually, more fans are dressed as the two main characters, Wei Wuxian and Xie Lian - or the shous/bottoms in popular danmei. Surprisingly, I actually saw quite a number of gongs/tops this trip round.

So as a bonus, here's a pic with all our dandy gongs/tops together:

A dashing lot, aren't they?

Anyway, this wraps up my experience log as an MXTX cosplay hunter! Hope you enjoyed it! Bless!

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰᴇʟʟᴏᴡ, ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴ'

Summary: When trouble in paradise ruins your otherwise perfect life, you find yourself fleeing in a rented car and heading off into the sunset. Stopping for a quick bite to eat along your journey in a dusty roadside diner, trouble finds you there too. And things quickly take a turn for the worse.

Notes: Around 11.4k words. This is a prequal to my first fic, Stripped Bare, but you don't have to read it for this one to make sense. Caleb remains turned and everyone lives AU.

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, death, blood. Severen is NOT nice in this. He sees the reader as prey and treats her as such until right up at the end. He gets a little nicer. The reader does not like Severen in this, apart from mild flirting in the beginning, but all those feelings quickly go out the window due to regular Hooker clan antics. The reader goes through it in this. Violence such as biting at and aggressive hair pulling is committed against her, so please don't read if that is triggering to you.

Part II

You should have known it would have turned out this way. It was doomed from the start, feigned interest and superficial attraction embellished underneath plastic "I love you's" and planned kisses. What hurts you the most is how blind you were to it all. Force fed lies by everyone in your life, Sam, his father, your friends- hell even your own parents had told you that you were just making assumptions. Being paranoid.

That all of the late work nights, the impromptu business meetings, the abrupt hushed phone calls throughout the day. They were perfectly normal things. Nothing to be concerned about. "It's just business, muffin. " Your father had told you once, reading the morning paper while sipping coffee from a ceramic mug. " He has to make money for all those pretty dresses you wear somehow." 

God, you had been so stupid. You had let everyone blindfold you and muffle your ears because you were too afraid of the truth. Too scared to accept the fact that the man you have loved since you were nineteen had turned his back on you. He spat on your three-year long relationship like it was nothing. All for his secretary . . . And that cute blonde maid at his father's country club. 

You can't help glancing away from the cracked backroad to sneer at your left hand that clutches the steering wheel in a death grip. Your ring finger is now startlingly bare, no longer shackled by the thick band of yellow gold and the obnoxiously large sapphire diamond - a horrid caricature of princess Diana's engagement ring. Lack of originality is what it was.  And to think you had been so overjoyed when he had gotten down on one knee and proposed. But you do still feel some satisfaction to know that the ring is gone. Sold off in some greasy pawn shop off the street corner back in Scottsdale.  About 90 miles behind you. You technically didn't need the money. You had your own little stash of savings despite Sam's insistence that you didn't need to worry about such things. That he'd provide for you. Yeah, right. Initially you had been tempted to flush it down the toilet. The less petty side of you had even contemplated simply leaving it on the table next to his side of the bed. But then you had a thought- why give up all of that free money? It is technically your ring. It was bought with you in mind, right? You could at least get something out of it. 

And so that afternoon, you had found yourself standing behind the glass case of a pawn shop. Scanning the numerous arrays of items from the safety of the display case. Everything from antique pistols to frosted bracelets, passing the time while the man on the other side of the counter examined the ring you had proudly worn only a few hours ago, squinting at it through a loupe magnifying glass, delicately turning it this way and that. 

"I'll give you five thousand for it," he suddenly speaks, pulling your attention away from a velvet tray showcasing old war medals. You can't even contain the scoff that leaves you, all decorum and self-restrain completely ran thin after the night before. "That's nearly a twenty-thousand-dollar ring." You counter, eyebrows pinching with poorly disguised frustration. 

He chuckles with a loose shrug that telegraphs his opinion better than his words ever could. Not my problem, it had said. His stained dentures peeking out from behind his lips when he goes to bite in a horridly dry looking donut, flakes of the glaze chipping and falling onto his button up. 

"That's my price. Take it or leave it." 

As previously stated, you didn't technically need the money. You had your cheque book, but not all places took cheques. You had your bank card, but a lot of places outside of big, wealthy cities still didn't have the machines to even use them. You needed the cash. And despite the fact that the man is woefully skimming you on the price, five thousand is still five thousand. 

So, with a great amount of swallowed pride and defeat you managed to grit out a stiff: "Fine. I'll take it." 

And now you're driving down a desolate road, seated inside a rented Ford Escort, with long stretches of the vast desert on either side of you. It's a boxy little car that Sam would have absolutely turned his nose up at. Good. Both of the front windows are completely down, letting the warm summer air tunnel inside the cabin of the car and tussle your hair around. The radio is on full blast, with a random rock music blaring out the vehicle's speakers without care. You tried to find a steady station earlier but had quickly given up whenever the music would dip down low and speckle out into static every time you drove through a patch of slopping hills. It was gorgeous, you have to admit. The way the landscape shifted from soft creams and rich rusted oranges and browns, with saguaro cactuses looming across the expanse of the dry desert floor like tall watching figures. 

But what struck you the most was sunsets. The ones you got back in New York were often dull. Muted by layers of pollution and the glow of the city lights, blocked by the sheer scale of the skyscrapers that blocked out the sun. It couldn't compare to the sheer vibrancy that painted the sky out here. 

With the sun dipping low, just barely peeking over the horizon, splashing shocking shades of pink and gold across the faint blue. It was also a painful reminder that this was all temporary. That eventually your little joy ride would have to come to an end. You would have to return to New York and face reality. Listen to the barrage of questions and accusations that would no doubt be thrown your way like stones and rotten tomatoes. You couldn't wait for the disapproving glare your mother would give you. The disbelief and disappointment. The excuses from Sam and the arrogant satisfaction that would waft from his parents. They never liked you anyway. Luckily, you still had your own apartment. Thank God that past you had the foresight to keep it and drag your feet on it giving up. That at least means that you won't have to stay with your parents or burden one of your friends by laying up in their place. You're not sure if you could stomach that honestly. 

Up ahead you notice a glint of a red light shining in the growing dark from a muted outline. It takes a few more minutes for the building to take shape, but you're quick to recognize it as a quaint little diner. The first thing you notice when you pull into the gravel parking lot is that the roof is in shambles, the old tiles cockeyed and skewed looking like they might take off in a good storm, and a red neon 'open' sign flickers unsteadily from behind a window - the only thing that would let you know that the building isn't abandoned, if not for the couple of cars scattered about out front. And there's a random statue of a horse standing next the dusty glass entrance. It looks like someone tried to paint it brown some time ago, but the paint has begun to chip from years of enduring open weather, exposing the grey base underneath. 

It's . . . cute . . . in a rustic sort of way. But you could hardly care about the aesthetic. Your legs could use a stretch and you honestly haven't eaten much today apart from a hastily grabbed bag of potato chips the last time you were at a gas station. And you should have a decent amount of distance put between you and your fiancé - ex fiancé. 

The bell above the door chimes when you enter, announcing your arrival. But the first thing you notice is how empty it is. Not that you were expecting it to be packed full and brimming. The lighting is a tired gray tone, which does nothing to combat the cool tones of the white walls and you can hear the light fixtures buzzing with electricity, almost competing with a low energy country song playing in the background. You don't notice any staff, but you do spot an older couple - the only customers apart from yourself - sitting at the first booth to your right, the pair leaning conspiratorially over a collection of post cards spread over the tabletop. Old love birds probably here to see the Grand Canyon and Tombstone. You wonder how long they've been together. How they've managed to find love in someone over all the years.  "What do you think about this one, Curtis?" She's asking, tapping a glazed card with a manicured nail. "Do you think he'll like this one?" 

You turn away from the private exchange to perch yourself at the L shaped counter, sitting on the tearing and stiff vinyl of the stool cushion and notice a sheet of pale paper sticking out against the faint yellow of the counter. The bold letters atop proudly declare that it's the menu that you notice as the standard font from a computer and the page is laminated with thick strips of packing tape. The low effort does have you wondering if you might be risking the chance of food poisoning, but with the combination of a shitty few days and a rumbling stomach, you can hardly find the energy to care. 

Suddenly there's an exchange of yelling coming out from past the serving window that peers into the kitchen, making you pause in your examination of the menu. You can hardly make out the words thrown back and forth, but the tones are heated. It sounds like a man and a woman, and the latter is confirmed when a frazzled woman comes barreling out of the kitchen, leaving the swinging door to slam up against the bar, rattling the glass cake displays and napkin dispensers. And based on the name tag - Rachel it read - she seems to be the waitress. The man's voice must belong to the cook . . . or maybe the owner then. She looks mortified when she sees you, face flushing pink and you do your best to reassure her with a soft smile. 

" I'm so sorry you had to hear that, " she tries to laugh but it's strained and short and not at all convincing. 

"It's alright, " you replied with a light shrug. "I could hardly make out what was said. And I think the pair behind me are too engrossed in their post cards to notice." 

That seems to settle her a bit, shoulders relaxing. Her eyes notice the menu in your hands, and she nods her chin. " You see anything on there you'd like?" 

You glance back down on the back, going back down the quaint list available with a hum. "Just a cheeseburger with cheddar and a side of fries is fine. And a coke. "

She's quick to give you your drink before she leaves with your order, slipping back into the kitchen to deliver it personally. And you can't help but feel bad for sending her back into the hypothetical lion's den. You take a moment to breath and really focus on events of today. How you wound up in a dusty diner in the middle of nowhere after spending the first few days of your vacation alongside the country clubs pool in a sleek hot pink two-piece bikini, drinking mixed drinks and enjoying the sun while Sam spent his time playing golf with his father and new colleagues. 

And that's how you found him. After days of trying to get him to go out, to go on a date like a normal couple, and him deflecting, saying that he was busy with his father's business friends, you found him balls deep in the young housekeeper that you had seen pushing a maid cart down one of the halls a few days before. She was moaning in that exaggerated way that porn stars do. 

For a moment you all you did was stand there. You didn't know how to react, water soaking the carpet from your damp feet, still wet from your recent swim in the pool. And there was a nasty voice in your head telling you that it was your fault. That it was all of your paranoia and insecurities that had drew him away from you. That it had probably made you distant and cold and you were too caught up in your own fears to see the strain you had put on him and your relationship. 

But it wasn't your fault. You weren't crazy. You were right the entire time. All of those little glances that his assistant used to send him, the looks that would linger a bit too long. Like the time that you had showed up to his office to surprise him. You had known how stressed he was at his job, the workload pilling up with no end in sight and so you figured you'd pop in and see him. It was after hours but the guard knew you and let you in regardless. And when you were rounding around the corner of cubicles the door of his office had swung open and she had walked out, tugging at the edge of her skirt to smooth it out. And when she had saw you, her body visibly stiffening while she blurted out a quick hello, quickly followed by a hasty excuse for her rushed leaving. Something about being late for something. 

When you had entered Sam's office, he looked put together enough, except the first few buttons of his shirt were undone and his tie was on his desk. It was the first red flag that you had avoided, slipping on your rose-tinted glasses. And the worried phone calls to your mother did nothing but convince you that you were trying to make something out of nothing. "You're just nervous about the wedding, " she had said, " Sam is the best thing that's happened to you. Don't go and ruin this opportunity over some cold feet." 

And then there you were last night. Him and the maid. She had screamed when she noticed you standing there, nearly kicking him with her foot and sending him off the bed. She was up faster than you could blink, snatching up her clothes and taking a linen sheet with her as makeshift cover, rambling apologies under her breath, saying that she didn't know as she slipped out of the room leaving you to numbly stand and stare at your naked fiancé. 

He had tried everything to get you to stay. A pathetic amount of 'I'm sorry's" streaming out of him. Claiming that it wasn't you it was him, it was stress from work, that he didn't mean to, that he'd never do it again. You had spent the night in a separate room, and you were gone in the morning without as so much as a note. 

The bell above the door chimes, too cheerful for its gritty environment, and you boredly look over your shoulder to see what other wayward soul has stumbled in. It's definitely an interesting band of characters to say the least, a family you'd assume. With a platinum haired woman ushering a young boy in by the shoulders who looks less than enthused about being guided to a booth on the left side of the diner, openly grumbling under his breath. They're closely followed by a lithe, stoic looking man who looked about as friendly as the mean dog that your old neighbors had chained out in front of their house. The one who would lunge at the fence and snarl whenever you'd walk past to get to the bus stop. The glare he had cast across the room felt like the blade of a cold knife running across your skin. And there was a young couple behind him, the young man's arm curled around the girl's shoulders while she tried to lean into him as they walked, whispering secretly to each other like they were the only people in left in the world. 

Young love. They'd be at each other's throats soon enough. Or maybe you're just bitter. 

And despite the clear dynamic between the group, the sense of family that comes from them you can't help but feel like you're looking at something odd. There's a faint chill that runs down your spine like some quiet subconscious part of you is trying to get you attention. You feel a bit of guilt gnaw at you. You had no right thinking about a random group of strangers like that. 

And you nearly look away but then a hand is catching ahold of the door before it can swing closed and someone else is stepping inside with the sound of jingling accompanying each step. It takes you a second to notice the spurs strapped to the heels of his scuffed cowboy boots. Your eyes continue to trail upwards, past the glinting silver of his belt buckles - two belts? - and up the expanse of his torso, taking in the black leather jacket, decorated with badges and medals and other little embellishments like the tiny metal longhorn heads that decorate the edges of the coats collar. There's a beaded necklace around his throat in a pattern of yellow, red, yellow, and black. And it reminds you of that little rhyme you heard a long time ago about how to tell if a snake is venomous or not. 

Red and black, safe for Jack. Red touching yellow, kill a fellow. 

You can't help but wonder if it applies to him as well. Then you get up to his face where an all too wide grin sits. Like a jack o' lantern, you muse. But despite the unsettling quality to his smile, you can't deny that he's an attractive man in a rough and wild sort of way. He looked like someone you'd see mentioned in a Rolling Stone publication or in a messy pop culture magazine discussing rockstars. 

" Looks like we struck gold again!" He hoots sarcastically, either completely unaware of the volume of his voice or simply not caring and you take note of the southern drawl that honeys his words. His eyes scan over the room, trailing over the older couple in the corner who have since looked up from their cards to squint at the man causing all the noise. He winks at them in a cheeky sort of way, completely shameless. "It's gonna be slim pickins' tonight!" 

Before you have time to evaluate that little remark, the waitress is pushing the kitchen door open, carrying a plate holding a burger and fries in one hand. It's either the sudden sound or the weight of your stare that has the stranger looking over in your direction and the hold of his eyes on you seems to siphon the air from your lungs. Blue, the thought rings across your mind, they're a stormy sort of blue. 

You turn away from him, like a scolded child who got caught doing something that they shouldn't have and focus down on your plate, the hollow pit of your stomach reminding you why you're even here. To eat, not to ogle at strange men. No matter how handsome they may be.  

"Well, they sure are a colorful little group, aren't they," Rachel whispered in an amused sort of way, watching as the family piles into the booth. With the mother, her son and the father filling up one side and the couple on the other. The cowboy straggles behind, instead opting to stay outside the table, leaning over it and propping himself up on both hands while the group discusses something amongst themselves. But you see a bit of unease flit across her face, and it gives you some pause. Surely, they couldn't be that much different from the other types of people that frequent this place. It makes you wonder if she felt what you had. The feeling that came with crossing paths with something dangerous. Like walking into the grocery store and seeing a bear ransacking the shelves. 

"I'm sure they aren't as bad as they look, " you encourage before biting into a fry. And she nods along like she's trying to amp herself up. " A customer's a customer. " She replies in a worn but robotic drone, like the words have been drilled into her head. Probably by management. And then she's dipping out from behind the counter leaving you to enjoy your meal by yourself. You nearly moan at the first bite of your burger. It's nothing show stopping. But it's good. Good enough to quell the empty rumbling in your gut with a couple of bites. 

"What's a sweet thing like you doin' in a shithole like this?" That sugary voice breaks out across the quiet. And it takes a moment for you to realize that the question is even addressed to you. And you're twisting around on the stool with a mouthful of food bulging from your cheeks while your mothers voice scolds you from the recesses of you mind for having such bad manners. You come face to with a chest covered in a worn white wife beater that's definitely seen better days and you're swallowing the bite of food as your gaze continues upwards until it locks with a set of piercing baby blues.  

The rockstar.

"I was hungry," you respond bluntly. Cut and dry. You figured that would have been enough to give him the hint that you weren't in the mood for idle chit chat or mindless flirting, but he doesn't remove himself from the way that he leans against the countertop, suspending his weight on a single elbow and cocking a hip. "Well, shit darlin' I've ate better slop from the inside of a jail cell," he chuckles at his own joke, and you honestly can't tell if the comment was a joke or not. Firstly, the food isn't even that bad. A bit greasy but not bad. Worse case you'd probably get a stomachache, which is pretty small in terms of how awful your past few days have been. 

"I'm sorry, are you trying to flirt with me?" you ask, huffing incredulously. "Because, if you are, most guys like to leave out the fact that they've been arrested. " 

He doesn't take offence to it like you'd expect, but instead little hiccups of laughter bubble up from his chest like it's the funniest thing he's heard in a while. " Oh, those? Just a coupla thievin' charges." He admitted airily, like he was talking about something casual. Like work or he was commenting on the weather. "Plus, that was years ago. " And he's waving a hand in the air, gesturing like it isn't important, and all you can do is watch him, smiling from disbelief - not amusement - while you rove over his features like they might be the answer to the oddness of the entire situation. 

"What is your plan exactly? " You ask, sipping from the straw of your coke without looking away from him. "I mean, you're here with who I assume is your family. Probably on vacation. So, what was the goal? That you were going to sweep me off my feet and we'd grind one out in the bathroom?" You shake your head. At one time you would have had more tact. You would have chosen your words carefully and danced around the topic. But not tonight. You look away to read the clock that hangs above the serving window, silently reading the minute and hour hand. 8:13 it told you. You should probably get a move on in a bit and find lodgings for the night. Hopefully the next town over won't be too far over, but everything is so spread out on the west coast, less compact and huddled than the east." Classy." You remark without any sense to cover your scorn. 

"Shit, girl what kinda John's are you used to? I was just tryin' to make a bit o' conversation," he laughs, combing a hand through his hair as he turns just a notch to look over at his family and Rachel is standing in front of their table, no doubt trying to get their order, but she looks tense and rattled. But then again. you've practically known her for five minutes and that seems to be her default state. "I ain't that bad, am I?" 

The group doesn't answer verbally instead chortling at the question like a pack of coyotes yipping at the joy of a successful hunt and it gives you the feeling that he might be worse. 

"You're about as welcomin' as shit on someone's doorstep, " the kid sneers, and you can't help but gawk at the language that comes out of his mouth and how openly he insults an adult and assumed relative. But what is even more surprising is the way that his mother doesn't make a move to scold him. Instead, it's the cowboy that speaks out, leaning forward like he might leap across the distance that separates them and throttle the kid, hissing out a strained " shut up, Homer before I tan yer hide," between his teeth and then he's turning his attention back to you, the irritated scowl that he wore was now gone in a flash, like a switch had been flipped he was smiling like the exchange hadn't happened. "Aw, shit darlin' - I've seemed to've left my manners at the door. The name's Severen," and he's extending his hand for you take. "Do I get a name to go with a pretty face?" 

You let go of the hold you have around your plastic soda glass to accept his hand, exchanging a firm shake. You really don't know why you're even entertaining this random stranger. Severen. An odd name if you've ever heard one. It defiantly fits the leather cowboy rockstar aesthetic he has going on. Sure, he seems a little shady, but he has a sort of magnetic charm that keeps you from tossing a few bills on the counter and leaving the diner all together. It also helps that he seems to be a complete one-eighty of Sam, who was all forced politeness and feigned confidence. His words always seemed a bit too rehearsed, like he was a part of a scripted play and was forced to do improve on the spot. He was always trying to sell something, even outside of the office. Whatever dominate personality was in the room he'd mold himself to imitate it like a chameleon. An old business trick he had told you. And maybe it was. It had certainly worked on you. The empty promises, the constant stream of expensive gifts, the vacations to private islands and resorts. They were all just pretty distractions to keep you blind to his awful personality. 

But this random stranger carries himself like time operates on his whim. Like he could tell the world to stop, and it'd quit breathing entirely until he gave it the okay. He was the kind of man that your mother warned you not to go near. The type you'd see hanging outside of seedy bars on the nights that you and your friends would sneak out of your homes to go wander around town, sipping from gas station slushies and gossiping near the old train tracks. And your mother was right to warn you all those years ago. Guys like him can be dangerous. Maybe it's all your bent out emotions getting the better of you, but you kind of like it. 

And truthfully, it feels a little validating to have a guy - especially one as attractive as he is to approach you and strike up a conversation. After Sam's betrayal and the menagerie of twisted and self-depreciating emotions that came with it, it feels good to know that you're still wanted. Even if the attention is coming from a random man in a lonely roadside diner that ultimately won't go anywhere. You've never been the type to entertain men. Granted it's mostly due to the fact that you and Sam had officially put a label on your relationship when you were twenty-one, so your experience with flirting and one-night stands are quite limited. But this wasn't something that was going to go anywhere. It was simply something to pass the time before you set off and head back out on the road. Two strangers sharing a conversating before going on with their lives. It was harmless. So, you tell him your name and he parrots it back like he's trying to memorize it and it shocks you how much you like the sound of it dressed under his voice, sweetened under his southern drawl. It's Texan you think. 

"A pretty name for a pretty lady." 

"You lay it on thick, don't you?" 

"Well, I've never been one to skim it when it comes to the truth. " He flashes that charming grin again, and you glance down at the fries and shuffle them around the plate to distract yourself from it. You hate the heated flutter that fills your stomach at the sight of it. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" You shoot back at him, not word for word but you can tell by the twinkle in his eyes that it amuses him, nonetheless. 

"About what you said, family vacation. Sightseeing and all that. " You nod along with him, thumbing at the straw of your drink while you meet the dark blue of his eyes. The conversation fizzles out. But not in an awkward or uncomfortable manner. It feels completely natural; the silence that falls over you both. And you just barely register the outside noise. The soft, idle chatter of the elderly couple, the hum of the old lights, the dull drone an energetic rock song, but then a sharp abrupt sound is breaking the spell that fell over you. The sound of someone clearing their throat. Not in the way you might do to dislodge something from your throat but in a way that demands attention and both you and Severen are looking back over to the booth where his family sits. It's the older man who fixes Severen with a stare. Firm and a little chastising. There's another quality to it that you can't make out and it has a cold shiver trickling down your spine. Severen doesn't verbally respond, but the exasperated look he gives the man seems to carry words of its own, the two of them seemingly having an entire conversation with only two heavy stares. It makes you feel awfully singled out. The shift from the flirty banter and light energy to a looming, heavy air happens so quickly that your brain is still struggling to comprehend it. It's like you've been foolishly stumbling about and have suddenly walked into a room that you shouldn't have, and then there's a cold nagging feeling that you need to get up from the stool and leave the building. But you don't. 

"We gotta get a move on now, Severen." His voice is resolute and fixed, holding no room for argument and despite the fact that his attention hasn't shifted from the man standing next to you, you feel just as affected by the piercing tone. You just so happen to glance down on the table, noticing the lack of drinks or appetizers on the counter and for some reason it flares up a little red flag in your brain. 

Severen sighs in an exaggerated way, like a kid who's been told they couldn't have something and then his attention returns to you, but it feels too stifling. The playful warmth that was once lighting up the blue is now gone. His eyes are sharp and burning with laser focus and you feel like a rabbit caught between a lethal maw. "Sorry to cut our time short darlin,' " he purrs out from an almost manic grin. " You've been a real treat." 

It's all a blur then, cuts of color and streaks of light, and you think that you can hear someone screaming, shrill and pained, but that can't be right, right? There's a white expanse above you, stained with water marks and muted from years of being exposed to cigarette smoke. It's all sluggish, like trying to focus when you're several drinks deep and seeing double, but there's a searing, overwhelming sting slicing throughout the column of your neck, and it grounds you somewhat. Enough to blink back the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Enough for you to realize that you're staring at the ceiling and that there's a rough, white knuckled grip threaded through your hair keeping your head tilted at an excruciating degree. And then you can feel a body pressed against yours, an arm cinched across your waist to hold you close. 

You can feel a damp heat pouring down your throat and underneath your shirt. Every bit helps you focus. But it's the throbbing ache that takes ahold of your mind and jostles the fog free, lifting the curtain to expose you to all the pain. The sting, the white-hot scorching burn of teeth embedded in the flesh of your neck. There's a tongue laving at the skin held between his jaw, working blood into his mouth. Blood. Your blood. He's biting you. He's fucking biting you! 

A freezing cold grips your heart. A terrified fluttering thing that seizes your limbs and keeps you frozen in place while your brain short-circuits between the conflicting commands of either fighting or remaining still in fear. In the midst of your panic some tiny shred of self-preservation takes ahold of you, and you reach into your front jean pocket with a shaking hand while the man continues to gulp at the red that flows from you, moaning around your neck. Your fingers quiver unsteadily, from the fear, the overflow of adrenaline, the blood loss that starts to mist the corners of your vision. But you continue your blind search until your fingertips curl around the set of keys in your pocket. Ignoring the other horrified cries that echo around the diner, the sharp clatter of glass breaking on the tiles, the squeal of someone's shoes slipping across the floor in a wild struggle you secure your grip on the keys and pull them from your pocket as quickly as possible without having them slip from your unsteady hold. 

Your sight blurs just a bit. From the tears or the blood loss you aren't sure and the rock song, despite the low volume being projected over the speakers is suddenly too load, drumming in your ears along with the erratic pulse of your heart and the gulping of the man latched to your neck. And your sluggish brain is suddenly grappling with the fact that you might die here. 

It's enough to still your shaky resolve, thumbing the key to direct the point of it forward like knife. It's small, the edge quite dull. You'd have to drive it in deep for it to do any damage. It won't kill him, but hopefully it will be enough to get him to let you go. 

You draw in a frail gasp, pulling a weak draw of air into your lungs to try and give yourself more focus around the panic that's currently fraying your nerves. Securing your grip around your sweaty palm you don't give yourself time to think, to second guess yourself that it may not work. You're drawing your arm back and striking forward, hoping that you manage to hit something of importance in your visionless jab. You're right in your aim, and the tiny strip of steel is burrowing deep into his side, wiggling your wrist to work it in deeper. 

There's a brief feeling of elation, of righteous satisfaction that courses through you when he jerks away from the crook of your neck with a startled yelp that tells you he's more surprised than injured. He practically pushes you away from himself, spitting out insults and curses. The shove sends you falling, your body too weak in your current state to keep you upright, lethargic and drained, and you land on your knees and the heels of your palms. The deep ache you feel from the impact is quickly shoved to the side, while you clumsily scramble back upright, shoes slipping in a puddle of a deep scarlet that you distantly register as blood.

You try not to look, to take in the carnage that taints the room. You try not to notice the young couple who now sit at the bar, sitting side by side while they both drink from Rachel's body like they're sharing a milkshake with their faces smeared red. You try not to see the elderly woman slumped at her booth with her neck sliced open cleanly; blood splattered across the little postcards that she had just been excitedly prattling about sending off to family or friends. And there's a blood trail dragging across the tiles and at the end of it is her husband. And the kid - Jesus even the kid is in on it, curled over her dead husband's body, latched onto his throat. 

The sound of Severen's angry cursing has all of their attention snapping over to you, and you feel like a wounded rabbit surrounded by a pack of rabid coyotes. 

Everything falls to a standstill like you're all collectively holding your breath, waiting to see who will make the next move. And it's you who does, bolting towards the exit, and you can hear them all collectively move after you, but you don't look back, not even when you hear someone shout out: "God dammit! Someone grab er!" 

You're barreling out past the door, and Severen's swearing has melted into a deranged string of laughter, and it follows you on your way out like a taunt, still ringing in your ears while you're crossing the stretch of the parking lot, running faster than you've ever ran in your life. Like you've got the hounds of hell at your heels. Your shoes slip in the gravel, still slick from the blood that had coated the tiled floor and it feels like you're running in a dream, no matter how much distance you cross you're still in place, every foot between you and your car expanding out into a mile, and you think that you might not make it. You feel the tips of someone's fingers brush against the nape of your neck, but you don't even know if it's real or if your brain is just playing tricks on you. You almost miss the handle of the vehicle when you skid to a halt, key already at the ready to slip into the lock, but it's slick with blood and your grip is lose, and you're praying to someone out there, some higher power, or even the universe to not let it slip.

And you can hear the sound of rushed footsteps running up on you and it has another pump of adrenalin shooting into your already overloaded body, and it feels like its frying you alive. And one of them is shouting, a light feminine voice chanting "get her! You have to get her!" with a great deal of panic. You don't let yourself look back up to the diner, no matter how much you want gage the distance between you and them. You can't stomach the thought of glancing up and seeing one of them standing directly in front of you, dripping with blood and gore and so you force yourself to focus on working the key into the slot and twisting the lock open, and you nearly sob with relief when you swing the door open and slip inside the car. 

You're peeling out of the parking lot before you can even fully register it, fumbling to slam the driver side door closed, tires spinning in the dirt and gravel while you wildly careen out of the lot and onto the road in an unsteady swerve. And there's an unsettled laughter bubbling from your chest, rupturing from it like a geyser in an uncontrollable fit even though all you really want to do is scream and cry instead, and the music blaring from the radio does little to dampen your current hysteria, but you can't be bothered to reach for the dial and turn it down. Trying your best to breathe so that you can place your attention on maintaining your grip on the steering wheel and getting the hell away from here as quickly as possible. You glance back in the rear-view mirror despite every cell in your body telling not to. You don't want to see them. But you do. Standing out in front of the diner as still as ghosts, faded into dimensionless dark figures from the red neon of the building projecting from behind them in a hellish glow, growing smaller and smaller until they fade into nothing, and the lights are but a tiny pinprick in the distance. 

It takes you a moment to register that you're heading back in the direction of Scottsdale, which is now an uncomfortable distance away and now you're cursing the broad expanse of the desert. How everything out here stretches out for lonely, horrid distances. Mile's gapping between towns and houses. But you should have more than enough fuel to get to the gas station that you had stopped at about an hour or so into your journey. You should be okay. You just have to make it there and hopefully they'll have a landline phone that works, and you can call the cops. But what if they don't? A despairing voice laments somewhere in your mind, what if they aren't even open? You have to force the thought away to keep yourself from spiraling. You glance back into the rear-view mirror expecting to see headlights of a car speeding towards you, but it's nothing but a vast empty darkness. They aren't coming after you. 

But their lack of chase does little to quell the fear and cold dread nestling inside your body, if anything it fuels the panic. It's suspicious, the way they just gave up once you got to your car. Surely, they had done this before, if the way that they had all walked in the diner with ease and promptly dispatched of all the patrons and employees with a horrifying air of calm was any indication. They did it like it was routine. Like it was normal. And perhaps it was. Maybe this was a normal thing for them, slaughtering the poor souls who cross their paths in obscene acts of violence. But this wasn't even the typical serial killer stuff you often hear about. Kidnappings and stabbings. They were drinking their blood. He was drinking your blood. It reminds you of all the times that your mother used to go off on worried tangents about all the supposed satanic cults that are apparently spreading throughout the country, poisoning the children through rock music and D & D of all things.  "I heard it on the news," she had said with a vehemence that you didn't have the energy to challenge anymore. You had never put much stock into it all. The obvious fear mongering that daily new papers and overzealous preachers on the FM radio pumped out in a constant drivel. It had always sounded like bullshit to you, but now that you're speeding down the highway with a massive gash in the side of your neck, shaped by a set of teeth, you're starting to think that maybe there is a shred of possibility to it. You can't help but brokenly giggle at the prospect of it, the insanity of it all. Attacked by a psychotic blood cult. You sound crazy. This entire situation is crazy. 

You reach up to touch the wound on the side of your neck, initially flinching at the tender sting. You should probably try to find something to clean it up with, one of your old bottles of water is probably lying around on the floor, tucked underneath some seat, but you can't stomach the thought of pulling over and parking the car long enough to find it. You don't have anything to dress the wound with but luckily it seems as though the bleeding has stopped despite the skin around it still being damp with recent blood. You pinpoint the inflamed edges of the bite with your fingertips, lightly brushing down the expanse of it so not to irritate it any further. It starts just a few inches beneath your ear and stops just short of meeting your shoulder. That's odd. It feels a whole lot thinner than you would expect and less gnarled. Especially considering that it was a grown man that took a bite out of you. It has you flipping the sun visor down and angling it down to properly investigate the damage in between careful glances at the road. 

It's difficult to make out from underneath the grimy red coating your neck, but you can see the torn strips of flesh glinting underneath the dim glow casted by the rectangular lights bordering each side of the visor mirror. Two narrow gashes that are nowhere near the size you had expected. The wound is strangely small, the angry indents left by his teeth are thin like they're a few days into the healing process and not just a few minutes old. It must have been the adrenaline making it seem worse than it was. But then again, this entire night feels like it isn't real. Like it's a dream -a nightmare that you'd wake up from at any moment. 

Images of the diner flash across your mind, the gore and violence. Rachel's lifeless eyes staring at you, jarringly blank and empty like a broken doll while the young couple fed from her wrist and neck. The red smearing the pale floor, the screaming and banging of pots and pans from the kitchen that had told you that one of them had gotten ahold of the cook somewhere in the back. And it sounded like he was trying to fight them off. And you had left him. You had left him behind without a second thought. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. You had been so desperate to get out and save your own skin that you didn't even think about anyone else or the chance that they might be alive before you ran out.  But what were you supposed to? If you had stayed behind even a second longer, he would have killed you. You would have been dead-

A short metallic scrape sounds from the roof of your car. Sudden and jarring and abrupt enough for you to jump in your seat and nearly jerk the steering wheel from your shaky grip. A rattled breath leaves you while you glance up at the cloth ceiling like it'll help identify the cause of the sound, and you all you can do is hope that it's something like the wind even though the idea of it sounds completely stupid. But you can't let yourself think of the other possibilities right now. Not when you're still two seconds away from a panic attack while behind the wheel and doing 85 mph down the road. You should probably slow down some now that you've placed some distance between you and them, but you can't seem to move your foot from the gas pedal no matter how much common sense is telling you to. 

And then you hear it again. That harsh cutting noise is slashing through the air over the droning of the engine and Joan Jett's blaring vocals. Definitely not the wind. And there's a dull shuffling that follows after it, heavy and scuffed, almost like -

A large bang erupts from above like a gun shot and a panicked fleeting looks up reveals that there's a dent in the roof, dipping inwards like someone had punched it, and it douses you like cold water and floods your system with another hefty load of adrenaline. The realization that someone is on top of the car. But before you can do anything, the roof above you is bursting open with a shrill grotesque shriek, splitting as easily as tinfoil and a hand is blindly reaching down, frantically snatching at the open air with bloodied fingers. You can't help the scream that escapes your lungs, tearing your already raw throat from its volume. And your already sluggish brain stalls between the directions of either slamming on the breaks or swerving across the road in the hopes of shaking them off that you don't do anything other than try to remain in control of the vehicle and evade the hand trying to claw its way into your hair, its rings snagging on the strands. Rings. You remember the jewelry that Severen had worn on his right hand, how he had tapped his knuckles on the counter when you were talking.  He's the one on your car. That's why they didn't all bother chasing after you, because they already had you. He must have leapt on when you were speeding out of the parking lot, too rattled and busy panicking to notice him climbing up the roof. 

While you're busy grappling with the situation his hand successfully snatches at your roots, pulling painfully tight at your scalp. You cry out in pain, trying to keep your eyes on the long stretch of road and keep control of the wheel while you reach up to claw at his wrist with your own nails, but it does nothing to deter him. If anything, he grips your hair harder, and you know that you're going to have to stop. Maybe if you break hard enough, you'll be able to shake him free and you can run him over on while you're on your way out of this shithole. So, you remove your foot from the gas pedal in the hopes of slamming on the brakes, but then he's securing his hold on your scalp and harshly jerking your head back against the head rest. Even though it's a dull pain, it's enough to disorient you and then the tires are squealing with the acrid scent of burnt rubber tainting the air. 

From the angle he has your head held at you can't see out of the windshield, but you can catch glimpses of the world rushing past you out of your peripherals. Blurs of the desert floor and dried shrubbery rushing past, and the car is harshly jolting over what must be rocks and dips in the ground. 

Admits the chaos you're able to free yourself from his grip just in time to see the barbed wire fence that you're approaching at full speed. But it's far too late to anything, not even the brakes would help to lessen the blow and all you can do is watch as the front of the car hits a heavy wooden fence post, crumpling inwards from the impact. Then it all flashes black under a blaze of searing white hot heat, a steady throb traveling across your skull in steady pulses. You can't help but groan from the pain. You have to force your eyes open and blink away the blurriness that obscures the edges of your vision. You don't know if it's been seconds or hours after the crash, but a quick scan of the pitch-black night around you and the thick stream of smoke that pours from the grill and twists up into the air lets you know that it couldn't have been too long. 

Then you hear the shifting of feet above you, shuffling against the roof and every step is like a gunshot going off. Another nail in your coffin. It fills you with pure dread, but you're too weak- your brain too muddled to move. You watch as a pair of cowboy boots drop onto what's left of the hood, jostling the body of the car from the weight of it, the spurs jingling in a way that sounds light and cheery, like a set of mocking giggles. 

He's dipping over at the waist so that he can look at you, eyes twinkling with crazed mirth and wearing a bloody grin that's too wide. And then he fucking waves at you. You're still too dazed to get out and run, or cuss him out, or do anything, so you settle for pinning him down with a steady glare, hoping that it conveys all of your boiling hatred while you try and shove down the fear running rampant inside your chest. 

Then he's excitedly leaping from the hood and landing on the ground hollering into the air like he just got off a rollercoaster. It's horrifying, the blatant joy that he's exhibiting like the killing and the chase were the ultimate pleasure of life. And while he's celebrating, you're doing your best not vomit. From the head trauma or the sudden empty gnawing in the pit of your stomach you aren't sure. But nausea is swimming in your head and gut and you're blindly fumbling for the door latch. You need to get out, you need to vomit, you need to run. And all the while he's dancing in place, clearly riding some sort of adrenaline rush. "God damn, yer a wild cat!" He's hollering, practically skipping over to the driver side door. You whimper under your breath from the pain and the fear and pathetically try to crawl over the center console to get to the opposing seat, but you can hear the door being jerked open while he chuckles and snatches your ankle. 

"Get off of me!" You shout, kicking out in the hopes that it would deter him some. Of course, it doesn't. If anything, it seems to amuse him further, even when one of them lands and you strike him dead center in the chest. It doesn't get so much as a gasp of air from him, like there isn't any in his lungs. He still has that unsettling feral grin on his face.  "No can do, sugar. Shoulda thought about that before you went an' stabbed me." 

The wild fear is overshadowed for a moment, as short as it is. "You fucking bit me!" You snap back, like a child bickering but you're still to dazed and caught up in the moment to even register how fruitless and bizarre the exchange is.  

"But you smelt so good, " he croons in a sing-songy lilt, still pulling your wiggling body towards his, now gripping ahold of your hips. "You can't blame a man for wantin' a taste." And he's pulling you up by the shoulders completely unbothered by the way you try to claw and rip at his chest and the exposed skin of his throat. His eyes are lit up under the dull cast of the interior light, barring you completely to the wild nature that lurks inside them. 

His teeth are fully exposed behind that horrible grin, and it feels like he's going to try and eat you alive. And you think he is. Of course, he is. Here to finish the job and drain you dry. They were always going to get you. Your car- your only chance of escape is totaled. And even if you somehow managed to overpower him and kill him the group he had traveled with is still out there. No doubt counting the seconds for his return. And the second they realize he's not coming back they'll be coming for you. In this dead empty desert with no houses or towns for miles. You'd collapse from exhaustion before you manage to find help, or some random person finds you alongside the road. 

A sense of helplessness rushes over you. A reluctant defeat. And you look up at him like hundreds of others have probably done before you and ask the question that that you've always made fun of the heroines and victims of countless movies for asking: "Why are you doing this?" 

But you need some sense of closure at least. A reason for all of the violence and horror that you've endured tonight. You try and focus through your blurred vision to search both of his eyes like you might find something of substance in them. Two deep pools of a smothering blue. There isn't a shred of sympathy in them.  He's shushing you in a dramatic mocking sense of kindness, cradling your jaw in his hands like he cares. You try to remove your face from his hold, but he doesn't let you, following your retreating face and caging it between his calloused grip. "There ain't nothin' you coulda done. You were jus' at the wrong place at the wrong time." It's said so matter-of-factly it shreds the final bits of hope that you clung to. 

And then he's leaning closer, dropping an arm to nuzzle at the wound on your neck, ignoring how you hiss and jerk away from him, desperate to evade the sting of his teeth, but it never comes. You feel him go still underneath you, muscles seizing like he's been struck, and it also gives you pause letting you focus through your aching muddled head and pick up on the little puffs of breath bursting across your throat. Is he . . . sniffing you?

Your head is suddenly back in his hands and he's peering down at you, squinting in the dim light like he's searching for something and all you can do is force your drooping eyelids open to warily watch him, trying to ignore the persistent vacant throb in your gut. A series of emotions cross his face, bewilderment, anger, and lastly a frustrated sort of acceptance. "You gotta be shittin' me."  Then he's tearing away from you, leaving your body to weakly sag back up against the driver's seat while he stomps at the ground and swears. You think about trying to make a run for it while he's distracted and busy throwing a fit over . . . something, but when your place your feet on the ground and try to stand you're startled by how horribly they shake. A tremor runs up your body and has you falling right back down on your seat. The blood loss and your crashing adrenaline rush seems to be catching up to you, leaving your body nothing more than a useless painful quivering mess and you could cry but you'll be damned if you give this bastard the twisted satisfaction of seeing your tears. 

The sound of you trying to stand seems to remind him of your presence and he's twisting around to look at you. And the two of you pause in a strange sort of standoff. He briefly gazes back off into the night like he might find an answer somewhere out among the darkness and rolling hills before looking back to you with a dejected sigh. Then he's walking back towards you, lifting his wrist up to his mouth and biting into it without flinching. 

The sight of that alone has you trying to scramble back again, but he's on you before you can blink. "Oh, quit yer fussin'. " He chides while holding you close against his chest. 

"Wha-" you can't even get the question out before he's sliding a bloody wrist against your open mouth. You flinch away from it, smearing it across your cheek and he tuts disapprovingly like he isn't trying to force feed you his blood. "C'mon now, don' be difficult." 

You had fully intended to scold him, whip out some barbed quip to get some sense of having the upper hand, no matter how miniscule it was in the long run, but then a bit of his blood drops along your tongue, and your brain is wiped clean of any coherent thought. You don't know what compelled you to do it, honest to God.  But suddenly you're latching onto his arm like it's a lifeline and gulping down the thick red that pours from the open wound. A thick metallic gush coats your tongue and it's almost too much but he's cradling the back of your head to keep you fixed to his arm. Then notes of something salted and faintly sweet rises up from the coppery flavor and you're pulling it into your mouth like its melted sugar. And you think you can hear him murmur something to you, something like, "see it ain't so bad, is it?" but his voice is distant and far away like he's talking to you from under water. 

That strange hollow pinch inside of your gut is back. It's like hunger almost, but it's also leagues away from any hunger you've ever felt. It feels like a sharp rabid thing is lose in your stomach, all teeth and claws, scratching at you from the inside, begging for you to give it more. And the flow of blood the pours freely from his wrist suddenly isn't enough. And you're pulling away from him with as much strength as you can muster, successfully standing on your feet and snatching at the clothes on his chest for a completely different reason now. You catch the surprise in his eyes, the little puff of disbelieving laughter that leaves him when he lets you roughly nudge his head to the side and place you mouth on his throat, running the sensitive tip of your tongue along the rough texture of his five-o clock shadow. Just keeping the edges of your teeth there. But you can smell the blood underneath his skin and the wild, gnawing hunger inside of you demands to be fed and then you're sinking them in deep. His skin breaks underneath the pressure and the thick red fills your mouth like nectar. The flow of it is much stronger here, gushing across your tongue beautifully. You almost moan from the elation you feel, the stabbing pain muting out in pale distant throbs and the shaking in your arms and legs dies down. 

He groans and grips your hips tightly and whether it's from discomfort or not you don't know. And you don't care. You can hardly think at all, left adrift under the pull the blood that steadily pours down your throat, and if it weren't for the sudden burst of sound to tether you, you might would have floated away under it.  Somewhere in the distance a pack coyotes howls and yips rise up like a delighted strip of laughter, the wind rustles over the desert floor like a wane breath, and far past the horizon something warm and primordial rumbles, but it's still hard to focus on over the sound of your own feverish gulping. Even though the foreign, wild hunger has since died down, you don't want to stop. You want to stay here forever and drink and drink and drink. 

You're being pulled back from his neck before you can register it, pitifully whining at the loss of his blood. It takes you a few moments to come to, the annoying steady tapping of his hand on your cheek helping to rouse you from your drunken stupor. And the grin on his face is too cocky and smug for your taste and something about the look in his eyes tells you that you've just done something irreversible. That you've sealed your fate and won't be able look back. It takes a minute for your slow-moving syrupy thoughts to catch up. The realization of what you've done hits you with the subtly of a charging bull and your entire body runs cold. He must see the change in you because he's lurching forward and snatching you before you can run off with your newfound strength. "Hold on now, " he's laughing. The bastard is laughing. " I mean, shit the way you were sucking on me, I thought I'd be seein' the big man upstairs soon!" 

"Get your hands off of me!" You snarl. Because it had worked so well for you last time, but you don't care. You're angry, you're betrayed. But you can't blame anyone else but yourself and that's what terrifies you the most. 

"I can't do that now. It's gonna be you and me sweetpea! " He practically sings." For a good long while." 

You can't even form a sentence to ask him why. Why he suddenly has an interest in you, why he fed you his blood, why you wanted his blood. It all fades from the tip of your tongue before you can form the words, and then he's lifting you up like a bag of dog food and tossing you over his shoulder despite your protest. "Oh, hush now. " He scolds you lightly with a few pats on your rear and you try to knee him in the stomach but he's quick to catch the wayward limb. He walks past the totaled Ford, still smoking and crumpled against the fence post and heads off towards the road, whistling jovially as he goes with an arm secured around your waist to keep you held down in place. All while you limply hang from his shoulder, distantly watching the asphalt pass underneath his boots, and the way that the rowels of his spurs slightly rotate between their shanks with each step. You can't help but wonder what your family will think when you never come back home. When a cop or some person on their way into the nearest town spots your crumpled up car on the side of the road or whatever is left of the diner and reports you as a missing person. Or dead. 

Will they look for you? You think about your father sitting at the dining room table, awake too early and drinking a mug full of coffee so black that it'll make your lips twists up like you ate something sour and your mother sitting in front of the TV every night to watch her reruns while she picks out a new novel for her book club- which is really just an excuse to gossip and complain about the neighbors. 

You may never be a part of that again. You may never see them again. And a heavy lump is inside your throat threatening to push tears up. Even Sam and his cheating and his sweet, dimpled smile and his constant prattle about business sales - you'd take it all back in a heartbeat. You'd take the pain and the lying and the hurt but instead you're here. Tossed over some psychopath's shoulder. 

"Calvary's here!" He suddenly cheers, breaking you from your spiral. You have to prop a hand on his lower back suspend yourself up enough to look back over your shoulder, but it gives enough leverage to make out a pair of headlights piercing the through the darkness ahead. The sight of it has a lump of dread forming in the pit of your stomach, heavy and unforgiving. And Severen seems to sense your unease, because he's working a hand up the back of your thigh in what he seems to think are soothing stokes. " Yer gonna be alright, the family is gonna love ya!" 

And some helpless part of you still stupid enough to cling onto hope wants to cry out, to beg him to let you go. To pretend that this entire night never happened. But you know its fruitless. You're in too deep now. You were as soon as they stepped into that diner. Whatever happened now you'd just have to hope that you make it out alive. But maybe you wouldn't want to. 

"Shit sugar, me and you might have some fun after all!" 

[doubleddenden]

I see some people worrying that the Teraleak will cause Pokemon projects to be delayed or canceled (thanks to a fake leaker who lost his credibility trying to stir the pot like usual), especially ZA.

I'm not a leaker with inside info, I'm not a TPC employee, I'm just a lifelong fan like many others- just to preface this.

My opinion is this, for what little it may matter: I don't think any game projects are in any rush to be canceled or completely restarted from scratch. This leak is huge and does cover other facets of the franchise like anime and movies- those could be possibly affected, but I'd say the chances of anything deep in development being outright canceled is near zero- not impossible, but very low.

Imo the worst that may end up happening across the board is that stories in the works may need to be rewritten, characters planned reworked, certain new Pokemon or forms shelved for later or permanently jailed like other beta Pokemon, or maybe get delayed a bit longer than what they normally would have.

That being said, there's something very important people need to realize about this: Pokemon isn't a passion project, it's a franchise that makes more money than any other. They are a business that makes products to be bought, watched, consumed, all in pursuit of appeasing people in suits who like money. That sounds like a cold take to some, and I'm sure there are plenty involved that are passionate about their work, but money is the MAIN objective here- I think we can all see why SV released so early despite clearly being unfinished with that understanding.

In other words, there are billions of dollars tied into a lot of projects going on. Shareholders and investors will want their money back and extra. Employees need to be paid for their hard work, and while the games don't make nearly as much as mobile games or merch, that's still a pretty heavy billion or more dollars earned with each release, quality not really important. This year, they're banking on merch, tcg, mobile games, and especially TCG pocket to help make up for the gap year.

However that still leaves the next year or two. They are balls deep in ZA and gen 10 production right now, it is literally too late to turn back now or risk SV but WORSE, and to drop it all because of a leak is tantamount to lighting billions of dollars ablaze and shooting your own ass with a pistol.

A source code and a possible PC build being out there can lose a little money, but let's be real: most Pokemon games have leaked before their scheduled launch date to be available for some form of Piracy. I can attest that this has been the case since- from my own memory- HGSS's and BW's initial releases. In recent times, SwSh and SV both were being emulated days and weeks before commercial launch.

And you know what happened? They still made so much money that the more recent games have collectively sold more than most of the older gens.

Sure, you can emulate, you could try the pc build if it ever leaks- but the pc build supposedly requires specific specs to play- in other words, it is most likely a dev build meant for simulating the Switch or Switch 2 specifications. Emulating is harder to do the more recent a game is, and not all pcs are made for it in general (my "gaming" pc can play plenty of Steam Games just fine, but it absolutely shits itself trying to run an RPGmaker game or trying to emulate anything more complex than the gba or n64). Even then, most fans would prefer to play the games on original hardware because it simply WORKS the best and as close to intended as possible, and it is just easier to buy a game than figure out how to get just the right settings to run a Switch game at lower fps and overall quality, let alone find a source for a game that doesn't come preloaded with a virus or a tracker to get you fined. In other words, people who emulate are probably a very small percentage of the total player base, and people who would emulate a more recent Pokemon game are probably smaller in that group. And let's be real- the people who will emulate were already planning to anyway.

Let's be clear- a source code can be worked wonders with... if you have the time and know how to figure out how to do it and THEN the time and know how to also do it. If you're a game studio and it is your JOB to work with it, you get paid to do so for many hours a day. If you're a fan trying to get a game to run natively on pc or other devices, you're most likely going to be doing this while you're off work or dealing with other life commitments, and it'll still probably take more time than if you were someone who originally made it.

Here's 1 more important thing: yes, this is probably the earliest a Pokemon game project has gotten leaked, but A. It is not leaking to the public YET other than 2 or 3 small bread crumbs that barely mean anything OOC and only stated by the one guy who has it. B. Although ZA is playable, even the Leaker himself said that the game still needs to have more side quests and things worked on. It's not the final product yet, in other words, meaning even if he did go back on his word and leak everything, there will still be things missing they haven't added as of August of 2024 when GF was breached. That definitely includes Pokemon, plot lines, etc.

All of this being said- people will buy the games. Simple as that. That's guaranteed money. That's money they want and need. So what this means overall is that ZA and gen 10 will most likely not be canceled- least of all as a way to "punish" fans for the actions of 1 guy.

A delay, perhaps? Well, all we know about ZA's release window is what we've already been told: 2025. That's it. No point in 2025, just the year, anywhere from January to December. If they decide to redo huge portions of the story- which I doubt they'll erase too much- we probably won't even know about it until the next big leak (which if gf have half a brain they'll invest more in their cyber security, if nothing else than for their own safety) or unless we are told to our faces by them directly, which I doubt. Any delays will strictly be internal rather than on our end- maybe they'll need to delay from April to November of 2025 for ZA, but we don't know that because all we know is 2025!

In simple words, if something changes, we won't know anything until after the fact. We won't see a difference from our perspective until later, like how we're now discovering a bunch of new gen 3 and a few gen 5 beta Pokemon 22 to 15 years after the fact. Worst outcome is maybe they'll cut content and blame the leak- but let's be real, they cut content anyway because of anything from time constraints to "kids and their smart phones."

It'll be fine. Don't stress about that.

[dxmoness]

hello 🫶🏽 can i get a request where yandere eros made the reader get in a forced marriage with him so one day the reader try to kill him by getting on top of him and putting a pistol on his forehead when he's sleeping and as she closes her eyes preparing herself he wakes up. daring her to do it knowing she can't bring herself to take a life away, she eventually gave up and started to have a breakdown while eros take the gun away and hugging/comforting her although whispering in her ear, "we'll figure out your punishment tomorrow"

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 | 𝐄.𝐕.

𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊 ➜ istg you all are feeding my Eros simping side. Anyway this will be my second time making suggestive work so hopefully this doesn't flop.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 ➜ arranged marriage, reader doesn't love Eros, suggestive, no specific pronouns: first person view

Church bells rang as you fidget with nervousness. The people around you prepared you and panicked at the time.

Yes, you were getting married. Anyone could guess so. But, to whom? A man you did not even know or love. Eros Vasilios was a mystery to you. All you knew was he was the crowned prince and the future love of your life. Other than that you're just about nothing.

Of course that didn't stop everyone from reassuring you that you were going to love being with this man. Ugh. If they only knew your situation.

"You look ravishing. I'm sure His Highness would agree." A smile came from the head maid who had just watched you look at yourself in the mirror. Your heart was pounding as you heard the music of the wedding. The doors swing open as you walk through. Eyes were on you as some were envious and others joyful.

As you stood in front of your husband to be. You quietly wished it was someone else. Eros gave you a warm smile as the two of you listened on to the Pope's speech.

The attention the two of you got whilst saying your vows were pressuring especially the gaze of your own father who had simply sold you to this man as he chose to be your husband.

"I do." There was no emotion to those words as you spoke it out, wishing you were not in this situation. The kiss shared between you and your delighted husband was short and barely even a kiss at all as you two turned to make your steps out of the church as a married couple.

Those words that you regret months later. Now you stood by his doorway. Eyes shifting while holding a gun. Yes, a gun. Not that you had much of a choice. Eros was someone who needed to be eliminated and you were the one for the job since you after all slept in the same room with him.

The gun in question was bought from a travelling merchant who you told that you were just curious of things like guns thus you bought the said object. Though the guards weren't exactly fond of the idea they didn't have much of a choice.

Opening the door of your room, you found yourself making your way to him. The man who ruined your life by just joining it one faithful day. Putting the gun on his head was easy enough, but the murder... That was the hard part. You see you had thought you'd be able to kill him while he slept because. Why couldn't you?

The gun was directed right at his forehead not on it just inches away from it. It was a clear shot. Your eyes close as you almost pull the trigger.

Almost.

A chuckle came from the sleeping male as your eyes flew open in shock. Your body could no longer function as the male under you looked at you with amusement. "Go on then." He said, his eyes glinting brightly with excitement. "Kill me, doll."

"You..." This sick man was asking you to kill him. Why not do what he asked? You forced yourself to pull it, but to no prevail. Your body couldn't do what you begged it to. His face held amusement as you broke down. Dropping the gun as your eyes filled up. The one job you needed to do and you failed.

The male next to you took the gun away and placed it on the table. A smile plastered on his face as his arms wrapped around you. His lips kissing your exposed neck softly as he whispered words to comfort you.

Once you did calm down, he leaned in and nibbled your earlobe. His hot breath tickling you as whispered slowly. "How about you sleep with me for now darling?" He whispered, tracing her sides and caressing her skin. "We'll figure out your punishment tomorrow."

F*ck.

TAGLIST

@d10nsaint, @chxrrylxdy (you said once that you wanted to be tagged in everything I write)

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #32: Redmond

Masterlist

content: past starvation

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

The truck stop had a store beside it. It was a warm morning, considering they were in the middle of winter. There were still not many people around. He was hungry.

The hunger came on with a violent force and speed, waking him up before the sunshine or Heather ever could. Now that Jackie had access to soup and tea and such luxuries, it seemed that his appetite had returned. His head ached, his limbs ached, his chest ached, and his guts shredded themselves into knots. It was a desire that drowned out all other wants, suffocated all thoughts, as sudden and intrusive as a bullet wound. 

It was a wonder, really, how he survived this long without any proper sustenance. He could believe in gouged eyes, severed limbs, and charred skin, but surviving extreme starvation was a little ridiculous. As an esteemed biochemist once said: was he a fucking plant? That wouldn’t make any sense, either. There was no sunlight in the basement. Those pages of Oliver Twist he gnawed on couldn’t have possibly been enough. But his biology didn’t care for such intricacies. He needed to deal with it immediately, and he would suffer immensely until these demands were met.

“Heather.”

“Yes, Jackie?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d be digging my own grave. I feel like I’m gonna keel over. Or puke.” He put his head against her shoulder. “I’m starving. Can I get—I don’t know, whatever this truck stop sells. I could eat a horse right now.”

“I’ll get you something. Don't be so dramatic.” She unlocked her door. “Do you think you can walk?”

“I can walk. A little.”

“Then you’re coming with me.” Heather cleared her throat. “Listen carefully. If anybody asks, your name is Elijah Smith. You’re my boyfriend, and we’re here on holiday. Don’t talk to anybody unless prompted. Try not to look so… I don’t know, inexplicably exhausted? Try to act natural.”

“Your boyfriend?” He cocked his head to one side, grinning.

“Funny you should mention that. I actually spent a lot of time thinking about this. You could pretend to be my brother, but the problem is that I’m an only child. Any investigator with half their wits could read my files and find out we’re lying. I’m not married, either, and I’ve never been divorced, so you can’t take my hypothetical husband’s name. You could be my friend, obviously, but that would sound suspicious. We will be sleeping in the same room, after all. People think romantic relationships are more important, and I’d rather not elicit any strange looks if we check into a hotel together. Any attention is bad attention. That about covers it, I think. Oh, and I don’t think you could ever pretend to be my dad. No offense, but you barely look twenty.”

"...Oh. Okay."

“By the way, if you’re planning to yell for help, don’t bother. I’ve got a pistol in my bag.” She opened the car door. There were sounds of seagulls—were they near water?—and the distant murmur of wind, as well as the dull roar of trucks above all that. “Come on. We don’t have all day.”

He left the car as well, and managed to stand up despite the debilitating sensation in his stomach. The air was rich with the scent of lake scum and dead fish, and quite a bit warmer than the biting breeze he’d felt the night before. There were a few trucks around, and one or two cars. A stray candy wrapper crashed and stumbled across the concrete. The yellow plastic was so vivid to him. Brilliant as a sheaf of gold, catching the sunlight like a newly cut jewel. It was lovely to be outside again.

Heather took his hand, a little too tightly, and they walked into the store. A bell rang above the doorway. It was not very big, but not crowded either. Its stock was similar to a convenience store, except they also sold pastries and coffee. No tea. He hadn’t seen this much food since… well. There were no polite euphemisms for kidnapping. It was hard for Jackie to take his eyes off the strudels and croissants, even as Heather spoke to him.

“I don’t know if they have soup,” she said in a low tone. “Do you think you can eat something else?”

He nodded. “I want a muffin. Can I have a muffin?”

“Alright, I’ll buy a muffin. Go look at some hunting knives or something. Don’t leave the store, though. I’ll come over when I’m done.”

He glanced over to the aisle of hunting knives. “Why do they have so many?”

“Lord knows.” She let go of his hand. 

He was left standing there, feeling rather lost in such a public space. 

He could have screamed. He could have run outside and kept running until his lungs went raw, or until the police found him. But to risk losing Heather’s trust would be suicide—no, a kamikaze, considering how much was at stake for her. And he would never get that muffin. Besides, he did sympathize with her situation. It wasn’t easy being on the run. He didn’t have to make things difficult for her. 

Either way, the cost of failure was too high. It was hard to forget the scars along his chest, or the burns on his skin. Escape was a pipe dream best left to rot.

The hunting knives were not particularly interesting, but they were something new, and he was always craving something new lately. They were small, curved on the edges. Used for skinning animals, he assumed. He didn’t think such a tiny knife could kill anything. But they were probably meant to be souvenirs, rather than actual tools. Some of them had little designs on the handles. There was one with the words Redmond, Washington on it, under the city’s pine tree symbol.

Redmond? We aren’t in Seattle anymore? Did Heather even live in Seattle? He had always assumed so. His old apartment was in Seattle. But it wasn’t a stretch to assume she’d gone hunting out of town, so to speak. She could have driven across the state in order to abduct her newest organ donor, even across the country. They couldn’t have reached a new state so quickly, though, so she probably still lived somewhere in Washington. Also, didn’t she have an address? Obviously. Everyone did. Why didn’t he check the address above her garage? There had to be one, but it had completely slipped his mind. I’m such an idiot. That’s why I got into this mess in the first place.

“Here’s your muffin.”

He jumped. “Shit, Heather, you could have said hello first. How do you walk so quietly?”

“You’re just zoned out half the time. You wouldn’t notice me if I came in with a tuba and a clown nose.” She gave him the muffin. In her other hand was another coffee, in a cup made out of green paper. “We can eat in the car. Come on.” 

He followed her to the door. The bell rang above their heads, one last time. The birds continued to screech, somewhere unseen in the bright blue sky.

The smell of stagnant water returned, but only until they entered the car again, where it was quickly replaced by the smell of leather seats. Jackie shifted to get as comfortable as he could, while Heather tapped her fingers on the wheel.

He studied his muffin. It had chocolate chips. He hadn’t eaten chocolate in… he wasn’t sure, actually. There had been a chocolate cake, at some point. So many shiny, new things. He was a magpie in a jeweler’s house, so fascinated by all these wonders of life. Another shiny, new thing to pass the time. 

He liked muffins. He wanted to eat it. Of course. Obviously. Why wouldn’t he? He was so hungry, God. He couldn’t imagine going on a strike now. He would faint first. The craving was so strong that he didn’t know how to even start. He hadn’t eaten in so long. 

“What’s wrong with the food?” she asked.

“Sorry.” He kept his stare down. Didn’t Heather have a thing against apologies? Too late now, anyway. He just needed to eat. He needed to get it over with. It made him sick, rising with a feeling like nausea in his stomach. His vision came unfocused, like rows of tilting mirrors, like the world was tilting on its axis. But he couldn’t look away, or stay still any longer.

“You know what, I think I forgot something in there.” Abruptly, Heather opened the car door and stepped outside. “Don’t wait for me. Bye.”

He turned towards her, but she was already gone, and he was by himself. 

He let out a short, shaky exhale. She definitely didn’t forget anything. It was surely a lie. Besides, it wasn’t like Heather to leave him unattended. She was probably watching from somewhere remote, where he couldn’t see her. But that was what mattered: he couldn’t see her, couldn’t feel her stare.

She’d done it for his sake, to give him that thin veneer of privacy. Was it guilt, or apathy? Disgust at his weakness? Or maybe even kindness, despite his better judgment. 

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump

[the-blind-assassin-12]

It’s Always the Same

1200 words for 1200 followers #4 

A/N: Hi friends! Welcome to the 12-A-Palooza! This event is my way of saying thank you for sticking with me. Your support and kindness toward me and my writing is out of this world and I’m grateful for every last one of you! This is one of two requests that I got for Jack, and they will be related... and I already have plans to continue it after all the 12-A-Palooza requests are done. So in addition to the Spectrum Soulmate Marcus Pike AU, the Jack Daniels Time Travel AU is now a thing. (And I’m not mad about it at all.) 💚

Warnings: mention of character death, mention of violence, this one is angsty and I am SORRY. 

Requested by: @azure-waves Song: Back in Town Character Choice: Jack Daniels - Thank you for sending this in! I hope you enjoy this, darling! I know it’s a little angsty, but I have a plan so don’t worry too much!!

Jack Daniels was the best Agent within the Statesman organization. 

Skilled, suave, brave, reliable, dedicated. Jack was everything the agency stood for, everything they valued. Because of that, he’d risen quickly in the ranks, becoming a Senior Agent after only eight years of service. 

But there was one thing that set him apart from the rest of the Agents even more than those attributes - his willingness to partake in tests of new, experimental technology that could help the agency gain advantages. He had been the first to step forward when researchers brought Alpha-Gel to trial, fully aware and accepting of the risks involved. 

Nothin’ much to lose if it goes sideways. 

So when Champ and Ginger came to him with the proposition of a new trial, Jack had all but signed on before knowing a single detail. 

“It’s not as dangerous as the Alpha-Gel testing was,” Ginger explained. “But it’s … delicate.” 

“Well, darlin’, I can be as delicate as a daisy when the occasion calls for it. What’s the mission?” 

He didn’t expect time travel.

They called it The Rewind, since for now Statesman only had the ability to move in one direction along the continuum - backwards, and only up to three years - and Ginger had been right to deem it delicate. Time was a fragile thing, and handling it too harshly left fingerprints where they didn’t belong. Those fingerprints could cause the present to cave in on itself and the future cease to exist. 

Jack silently hoped that they never gained the ability to travel beyond the three year mark. He knew that if it became possible to go back to the moment that his wife was killed, no amount of moral obligation would keep him from trying to save her. 

Future be fuckin’ damned. 

The Rewind hadn’t been engineered so Agents could change things that had already happened, though. It was created strictly so the agency could gather intelligence. It allowed a person to go back to a specific time and place, to witness that moment again and again from different perspectives, drop eaves on a conversation until it had been memorized, hunt for clues in the near past that might give them an edge in the present so they could put a stop to things before they happened. 

But it was still in the early stages. There was still a battery of experiments to run. That was where Jack came in. 

“We’ll be sending you back three years, to the night of July 19th. There’s a place on the outskirts of town called the Junction. Or -” Ginger arched one eyebrow. “There was. It closed down six months ago. But before it did? A lot of shady characters used to meet there. We think it’s where Dark Shadow did most of its recruiting.” 

Jack’s top lip curled at the mention of the crime organization. Dark Shadow had been a weapon smuggling ring that operated by overwhelming local law enforcement with a slew of small crimes so that they could pull off their larger ones while the authorities were distracted. They sold guns to drug dealers, who in turn put pistols in the hands of every sales soldier on the streets. They were the reason that countless hearts had been broken by the words ���wrong place, wrong time” just as Jack’s had. 

Taking them down had undoubtedly been his proudest moment as a Statesman. 

Ginger explained that since they already knew how things shook out for Dark Shadow, testing the Rewind on their hideout meant that the stakes were low. “For now we just want you to go, spend a few hours there, act as though you’re just a patron getting a drink. You can talk to people as long as you don’t tell them anything that hasn’t happened for them yet. We’ll pull you back remotely when it's time, and then you’ll report on anything you can remember.” 

Jack nodded. “Seems simple enough.” 

“We’ll repeat this process until we’re confident that you’ve absorbed every detail of that night - what people were wearing, the texture of the bar top, all of it. That gives us an idea of how big a window we’ll have when we send Agents in for live missions. How long they’ll need in a space that size with the same number of variables and-” 

“Ginger.” Champ cleared his throat as a gentle interruption. “Think he gets the idea. Don’t ya, Whiskey?” 

“Sure. Like any old night on the town. ‘Cept it’s the same night every night until I can paint it pretty as a picture for you. That about it?” 

Ginger gave a sheepish nod, aware that she was prone to over explanation at times. “Yup. That’s about it. For now.” 

– – – 

Jack stopped outside the Junction, staring at the flickering neon letters on the sign that hung in the window. Like always, the C was dead. This time, though, he noticed that it was due to a crack in the lightbox that looked distinctly like a bullet hole. 

Well look at that. A new piece of the picture already. 

With that he went inside. He wasted no time lingering near the dart boards or sauntering through the billiards tables as he’d done his first few July 19ths. He’d already gained what he could from the people gathered around them on previous trips. This time his focus was directly on the bar. Or more directly on the woman behind it. 

You.

It was his twelfth time pulling up a stool and ordering a drink from you. Nine of those times he’d asked you your name and he’d given you his. You’d spent nearly half your shift ignoring other customers to talk with him on at least seven occasions. Five times he’d caught you looking at him in the bar mirror, a guilty - but not ashamed - grin curving your cheeks. There were four times when you had asked him if he wanted to get coffee at the diner on ninth street, three when he had said yes, and two when you’d invited him back to your place after that. The last time he walked into the Junction he ended up in your bed, with you panting his name into his ear. 

He remembered every detail of every interaction with you.

But for you it was the first time you’d seen him. You didn’t know his name or his drink. Didn’t know that he made you laugh or that his hands had already mapped your body. “What’ll you have, Cowboy?” 

He gave you the same smile he had the last few times - which meant that you couldn’t tell it was just a little sad. “Whiskey’n water, darlin’.” 

Always the same. 

He couldn’t help the twinge in his chest as you turned to make his drink. Jack wasn’t expecting the mission to be time travel. And he sure as shit wasn’t expecting to fall for a woman from a different timeline. But here he was. And there you were. 

The Alpha-Gel trials had been painful. Knowing that you would forget him every time was torture.

Still, when you asked him out for coffee, he grinned, standing from his stool. “You ever been to the 9th Street Diner, darlin’?” 

.

.

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please feel free to let me know. You can also fill out the form on my Masterlist! :)

tags:  @something-tofightfor​ @paracosmenthusiast​ @cannedsoupsucks​ @dihra-vesa​ @disgruntledspacedad​ @littlemisspascal​ @hellovanessax​ @mishasminion360​ @nyctophiliiiiaaa​ @practicalghost​ @tanzthompson​ @harriedandharassed​ @woodlandmouth​ @swtaura @trickstersp8​ @princessxkenobi​ @imtryingmybeskar​ @wildmoonflower​ @mswarriorbabe80​ @theredwritingwitch​ @silverstarsandsuns​ @competentpotato​ @pedro-pedrito-pascalito​ @jedi-in-crocs​ @hannahkatharine​ @novemberrain221 @chiyo13​ @myloveistoolittle​ @spishsstuff @writeforfandoms

[chernobog13]

National Kid was a Japanese TV superhero series commissioned in 1960 by NET (now TV Asahi) to compete against the mega-popular Moonlight Mask (Gekko Kamen) on KRTV (now TBS).

Produced in black-and-white by Toei, the show was sponsored by Matsushita Electric (now Panasonic) to promote their National brand of products. National Kid was Japanese TV's first flying superhero, and was expensive to produce, but Matsushita was willing to spend whatever money was necessary.

National Kid was able to fly and had super-strength, and carried an "Eroruya Ray Gun." The gun was identical to a flashlight sold by National that had a pistol-type grip. The hero was summoned in times of need on a "magic radio," which was merely a National radio transmitter.

The problem with the series being shot in black-and-white is that no one seemed to have a clear idea on the colors of National Kid's costume, leading to numerous coloring variations (see the two pictures above).

The show soon faded to relative obscurity in Japan, but gained cult status in Brazil when it was broadcast there in 1964. The series was revived in Brazil in the 1990s to even more acclaim, and the hero remains extremely popular there.

Since then, a new color scheme (see above) seems to have become settled upon as the "official" colors of National Kid. Whether this is from contact with the Toei production offices, or just someone deciding these are the colors they like, I don't know. I do know that officially licensed National Kid adult and childrens' costumes have been released in the same colors. Good to know if I ever decide to cosplay this guy.

BTW, episodes of the series are now available on the Toei Tokusatsu Youtube channel.

[gaymer-hag-stan]

How we feeling ladies and gays???

Lara Croft's impact as a pop culture icon is monumental, transcending her origins in the Tomb Raider video games to become a symbol of female empowerment and representation. She was one of the first major female protagonists in gaming, breaking ground in a male-dominated industry and becoming the face of one of the most successful franchises in history, now with over 100 million units sold. Her character has earned multiple Guinness World Records, including "Most Successful Human Video Game Heroine" and "Most Recognizable Female Character in a Video Game." Beyond gaming, Lara successfully transitioned to Hollywood, portrayed by Angelina Jolie and Alicia Vikander in major films, further cementing her mainstream appeal. Lara has also become a merchandising powerhouse, with action figures, comics, novels, and brand collaborations. Her character evolved over time, especially in the 2013 reboot, to focus on her emotional depth, intelligence, and resilience, making her a symbol of empowerment for women worldwide. Lara Croft’s legacy has influenced not only the gaming industry, where she helped push the boundaries of storytelling and character-driven narratives, but also popular culture at large, where she remains an enduring icon.

We did it!

And of course, we have to talk about the next three games getting remastered too!

I'll be VERY honest with you, I straight up did not expect to see Angel of Darkness. I thought they were never ever gonna touch it again, and I wasn't even sure about Chronicles either, I thought that since they didn't do all five of the PS1 games together, the chances of them either doing Last Revelation & Chronicles or TLR alone were still slim. But it's one of the times that I am very glad to have been proven wrong!

As much as the Core purist community has made me retroactively wary of this era of the franchise, I understand and appreciate that these games still mean a lot to many people who are very normal and don't go out of their wave to make everyone else feel miserable, so to those people who had been fighting for AoD's return for so long I say congratulations, you deserve this, we all do.

Possible SPOILERS?

From what we can assume from the leaked Xbox achievement list, they are adding the Times Exclusive level in the Last Revelation, a very weird and very exclusive PC DLC that they released back in the day, sponsored by the London Times of all things, to commemorate sixty years since their coverage of the opening of Tutankhamen's tomb, no I'm not joking, and also adding back the dual pistols and corner shooting in AoD, stuff that were ultimately cut from the final version of the game. This could possibly mean that Angel of Darkness and Chronicles are not just getting a shiny new look but also possibly getting their very-well-documented game-crashing bugs fixed which is great.

I am very much willing and hoping to approach Chronicles and Angel of Darkness with an open mind and see if, with the new tweaks, they are not so bad after all. Neither of them are terrible games, only mediocre at worst, because even at her lowest, Lara still serves, but still, I think it's safe to say that this was, objectively, the lowest point in the series.

Now, I personally would hope that they will see it worthwhile to remove the cutscene where underage Lara is almost seen topless in Chronicles or is groped by Kurtis in Angel of Darkness, but I don't think they'd go that far. Still, a simple trigger warning like they did for the racist depictions in TRII and TRIII won't cut it this time.

But we're here to celebrate! Fingers crossed they add her opera dress in Chronicles, like they did for that horrid leopard print suit in Nightmare in Vegas, that would be an actual serve!

Also, this announcement only cements one thing in my mind... Next year in October we're celebrating the announcement of "Tomb Raider VII-VIII-IX Remastered, starring Lara Croft" and I swear, I will never shut up about it when it happens! Hopefully we we even get Guardian of Light too... Who knows!

[galacticwildfire]

Young and Beautiful ch.19 excerpt

Bucky Barnes x oc Content warning: references to torture and description of injury, forced undressing and imprisonment/kidnapping. Two black widows picking at each other's wounds. Set during Captain America: The First Avenger, with references to Agent Carter.

“Adeline,” a singsong voice chimes and my stomach drops as I raise my head to find Doreteya sitting opposite to me. We’re in the back of a moving truck and I can scarcely recall how I ended up here, but when I look down and find a bandage wrapped around my thigh it slowly comes back to me.

It’s only then I feel the chill of cold air and realise I’m naked with the exception of my undergarments, and she’s wearing my damn uniform.

“Crazy bitch,” I mutter in Russian and she just smiles. 

“I’m disappointed in you Adelina, you used to be so much sharper,” Doreteya chastises. “After all, the infamous Red Widow who took out four of us widows should be able to handle little old me? But then again, you didn’t have the advantage of killing me in my sleep did you?”

“Since when did you care about a fair fight?” I question and she just shrugs, eyeing me with the same calculating precision as a catlike predator in what she believes to be a silent assertion of dominance. 

“I was hoping I’d get one with you, but despite all that serum you truly don’t live up to your name after all,” she says, looking my almost naked form up and down. “I’ve got to say though, the pinup posters don’t do you justice. Although it does look like they painted over those nasty bullet scars you’ve got there.”

She could kill me in more excruciating ways than any man has the intellect to imagine or the skill to perform, but at least I’m safe from her doing to me what those men would in this state. “Was stripping me necessary?”

“Of course it was, I couldn’t let you sit there with god knows what stashed away in those clothes,” she says and runs her hands over the fabric of my uniform. “Carbon polymer, it’s a good thing I decided to use my good knives otherwise you would’ve just ended up with a nasty bruise on that thigh.”

I look down at the blood soaked bandage wrapped around my leg, lightheaded from the blood loss but recovering. “How considerate of you.”

“Ah, you’ve developed a sense of humour while you’ve been parading about as Miss America,” Doreteya notes and my eyes follow her as she walks in a circle, tapping a blade against her palm before posing for me and putting on an American accent that’s far too similar to my own voice. “What do you think? With a bit of hair dye and some contact lenses do you think I could pass for Miss America?” She then changes her accent slightly, upbeat and girlish. “Or, do you think I could be Dottie Underwood, a ballerina looking for a big city adventure in New York.” She changes accent again, something deep and sultry. “Or perhaps Ida Emke, a socialite looking for an illicit affair with a stupidly rich man.”

“Or you could be Doreteya Undakova, sold off by her parents during famine,” I say and her face darkens while I only take pleasure in unbalancing her. “Unwanted, unloved, and despite all your efforts… still second best.”

She takes one of my own pistols and aims it at my head, but if she was allowed to kill me then I’d already be dead. I don’t know how long’s passed since the crash, I don’t know if Howard’s alive, and I don’t know where I am, but I'm face to face with an extremely deadly and utterly unstable woman, and being one myself I know exactly how to exploit those qualities.

[gunzlotzofgunz]

Colt New Service Calibre .455 Date: 1916

British Military Contract Marked to: R P O Barrett R.F.A. (Royal Field Artillery)

Richard Pascal Ouvry Barrett Commisioned as a 2nd Lt 24th September 1616 - Royal Field Artilley - Later Royal Horse Artillery.

This is one of the British contract pistols manufactured in 1916, has Enfield Inspectors & Sold Out of Service marks. This would have been purchased by Barrett at the time of his commission in 1916 direct from the Goverment Ordance sales.

His original rank of 2nd Lt engraving on this pistol has been removed, probably as a result of a later promotion

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

History

The Colt New Service was introduced in 1898. It was an up-sized and strengthened Colt Model 1892 and Colt Firearms first large caliber revolver with a swing-out hand ejector cylinder. It was made in the popular large caliber revolver cartridges of the day: .38-40, .44-40, .44 Russian, .44 Special, .45 Colt, and .455 Webley.

British .455 Webley Model

In 1899 Canada acquired a number of New Service revolvers (chambered in .45 Colt) for Boer War service, to supplement its existing M1878 Colt Double Action revolvers in the same caliber.

In 1904/5 the North-West Mounted Police in Canada also adopted the Colt New Service to replace the less-than satisfactory Enfield Mk II revolver in service since 1882. New Service revolvers, designated as Pistol, Colt, .455-inch 5.5-inch barrel Mk. I, chambered for the .455 Webley cartridge were acquired for issue as "substitute standard" by the British War Department during World War I. British Empire Colt New Service Revolvers were stamped "NEW SERVICE .455 ELEY" on the barrel. The Colt New Service was a popular revolver with British officers and many of them had privately purchased their own Colt New Service revolvers in the years prior to World War I as an alternative to the standard-issue Webley Revolver.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley in the U.K.

JEFF BUCKLEY loved British music; the nervous energy in British punk, the wired consciousness of the Clash, the way Siouxsie and the Banshees went from gun-metal moodiness to skies full of fireworks.

He adored the Cocteau Twins, of course, especially Liz Fraser's "impossible voice". He loved how the Smiths called to outsiders and nerds. He loved the textures of Johnny Marr's supple guitar and the mordant presence of Steve Jones's guitar in the Sex Pistols.

Jeff, whose own nervous energy was considerable, became even more wired whenever we went to the UK; he was stimulated by its variety. He also appreciated its compactness – the lack of eight-hour drives between cities was refreshing.

Sony had passed on Live at Sin-é in Europe. We were understandably disappointed, but there was a solution close at hand: Steve Abbott, known to everyone as Abbo, who ran the eccentric indie record label Big Cat and had picked up on many of the promising un-signed bands playing in New York: Pavement, Mercury Rev, Luscious Jackson. He had approached Jeff after Gods & Monsters and Sin-é shows and asked him if he'd like to record with Big Cat, but then Sony stepped in. Jeff felt that he owed Abbo a record, so when Columbia UK passed on Live at Sin-é and Michele Anthony instigated a funding deal with Big Cat, it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to become involved. Abbo jumped at the chance.

Big Cat's small team – Abbo, co-owner Linda Obadiah, Frank Neidlich in marketing, and Jacqui Rice in press – did such a good job that the week it was released in Europe, Live at Sin-é sold over four thousand copies, which was amazing for a complete unknown.

After a Sony conference, where it was clear that a lot of the affiliates were bemused by him, Jeff had a warm-up show at Whelan's in Dublin. By the time he came on, the crowd, several drinks into its evening, had become a little boisterous. Jeff said hello softly, as usual, but no one was really paying attention. Jeff just stood there, waiting. People started to quieten down and watch to see what he would do. There was a pint of his favourite beer, Guinness, sitting on the stool next to him. Jeff lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in one hit. Everyone on the room cheered, and he began the Irish show with the crowd completely on his side.

The audience was more blasé the next night at his London debut at The Borderline, a Western-themed venue under a dubious Mexican diner in Soho, right in the heart of London, a group of local reps for hip American indie labels like Sub Pop and Merge yacking away rather disrespectfully at the bar. In the age of grunge, a lone guy with a guitar softly singing Edith Piaf covers was baffling for some.

"It was an epiphany for me," says Sara Silver, Sony's European head of marketing. "There are some shows where it just feels like you're a voyeur, looking into someone's soul. This was one of those. He was charismatic, but also haunting, and I think because of my particular situation at the time, still suffering from the [loss of my husband], he resonated hugely. This haunting sound was a powerful force, and it was my job to work out how we took it to the world."

A gig the next night in Glasgow meant an early-morning flight back to Heathrow the following morning to catch a session with GLR, London's local BBC station, a slot designed to alert people to the next couple of gigs at the Garage in Islington and at Bunjies, a cute little basement folk club in Central London that dated back to the early 1960s and made Sin-é seem generously proportioned.

Abbo was accompanying Jeff on this run.

"We'd meet regularly at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in New York, hang out and drink Guinness together," Abbo says, "I suppose I became a friend of his, and he didn't seem to have many real friends. I'd only discovered I liked the blues since living in New York, so it was great hanging with him, because he was a huge blues and jazz fan and if there was a guitar around he had to pick it up and show off. He knew every Robert Johnson song, every Muddy Waters tune, Bessie Smith; he introduced me to the physicality of the blues, watching it at close quarters. Everybody talks about his voice, but he was a brilliant guitarist. The guitar was an extension of his body.

"Tim Buckley hadn't really entered my line of vision growing up listening to black music. Singer-songwriters with fluffy hairstyles were not currency on my council estate in Luton! We were in Tom & Jerry's and someone said to Jeff, 'I've been listening to your dad,' and I said, 'Who's your dad?' and he said, 'Tim Buckley.' I knew the name from record shopping; I'd seen the sleeves in the racks, but that's it. But when he came over to Britain there were loads of Tim Buckley fans. And it was a real problem early on, because he really didn't like talking about him."

The traffic from the airport to the GLR studios just off Baker Street was awful. A road accident had slowed everything to a standstill. Jeff's slot on the mid-morning show was fast approaching. "Of course, this was before mobile phones, so I had no way of communicating with the radio station that we were stuck in traffic," says Abbo. "For the last few days on this tour, everyone who'd interviewed Jeff had been asking about his dad. How did Tim write 'Song To The Siren'? Was there stuff in his lyrics that he might have related to? Things Jeff couldn't answer.

"We were listening to GLR while we waited in traffic and the presenter kept saying, 'We're supposed to have this artist, Tim Buckley's son, turning up, but he's late....Will he or won't he turn up?' This went on and on. She must have said 'Tim Buckley's son' about four times and didn't mention Jeff once. Suddenly, he just kicked my car radio in with his big DMs [Doc Martens], just smashed the fascia and then sat back sulking all the way there. I could get another radio, of course, but I was mostly worried he wasn't going to do the performance. 

"We finally arrived about forty minutes late and they were all so rude to us, and yet they knew what the problem was, as they were broadcasting traffic updates and warnings of delays themselves. If I were him, I'd have walked out. The female presenter was a typical local radio DJ, a bit gushy and knew nothing about him and his music. I had a word with the station manager to ask her to stop mentioning Tim Buckley, and he handed her a note to that effect. Jeff just sat there silently and she said, 'What are you going to play?' and Jeff said, 'A song.' I'm thinking, 'Oh god, here we go.' And he started to play "Grace." He did this long guitar introduction, went on for about a minute, like he needed to calm himself down before he got to the actual start of the song, and then he launched into the most electrifying performance. The best I ever heard him do it.

"There were about six phones in the control room, and they all started lighting up. 'Who is this? Who is this? It's amazing!' And all the time, Jeff's getting more and more into it. The presenter went from being this standoffish woman to...I swear she would have thrown herself on him given half a chance, the second he finished singing. You could see she was totally enthralled."

Presenter: "You looked quite exhausted at the end of the song."

Jeff: "I was getting a lot of anger out. Something happened on the way here..."

"The phones didn't stop throughout the next song. The station manager said that in all his twelve years at the station, he'd never seen a reaction like it."

Abbo thinks this performance sparked Jeff's breakthrough. There were certainly plenty of people in line outside the Garage in North London that night. Inside, the first stars were taking note. Chrissie Hynde and Jon McEnroe were in the audience. Chrissie had been a big fan and a friend of Tim's, had actually interviewed him while she was briefly a music journalist with the NME, and she was obviously curious to see how his offspring compared. They struck up a conversation after the show and she clearly said the right thing, because he went off with her to jam with the Pretenders in a nearby rehearsal room. I wasn't carrying anything heavy because of a recent lung collapse, and I didn't want Jeff to pull any important muscles, so I asked McEnroe if he wouldn't mind. He happily hauled Jeff's amp downstairs to the car. The Pretenders' jam with special guests Buckley and Mac went on all night.

Bunjies, as I've said, was tiny, a basement folk club and coffee bar on West Street in Soho, along from the Ivy, with gingham tablecloths and melted candles in wine bottles on the tables and a performance area tucked into a couple of arches in what must have been a wine cellar at one point. It looked unchanged since it had begun in the early 1960s, and had seen a couple of folk booms come and go. It was more of a cafe with an open-mic policy by this point, which felt like a good place for Jeff. There wasn't really any need for amplification, so when we arrived for a sound check there was very little to do but see where Jeff was going to stand in the cramped space and gauge how his voice reflected off the nicotine-stained ceilings. While Jeff did that, I went outside for some fresh air and was stunned to see a line of people already waiting to get into the show.

I took a look at the guest list and realised we'd be lucky to fit twenty of this assembling crowd in the tiny space. Every time I looked up, the line was getting further down West Street. I went back into the venue and found Jeff talking to Emma Banks, the agent. He was saying how great the venue was and that he'd like to do something like hand out flowers to everyone before he went on.

"Jesus, you won't believe what's happening out there," I said to them. "The line goes about four blocks. There's no way these people are going to get in. Is there any way we can do two sets?" Jeff was happy to. Emma spoke to the club owner and was told they had some regular club night happening later on. She came back and said, "They can't do it but I've had an idea!" She disappeared up the steps onto the street, and I spoke to Jeff.

"What flowers would you like?"

"White roses," he said.

"I'll get them," I said, and went back up to the street, where the line had grown even longer.

I walked around looking for a florist and bumped into Emma. "I've booked Andy's Forge," she said. "It's a little place just around the corner in Denmark Street. He can go on at 10:30."

I bought as many white roses as I could find. Jeff handed them to people waiting outside and those lucky enough to get into the club, as he squeezed himself into the corner that passed for a stage. He sang upward, listening to his voice reflect off the curved ceiling into this hot, crowded, and attentive space. There must have been a hundred people stuffed in there.

When the show was over, Jeff walked up the steps to the huddle of patient people that Emma had gathered, plus anyone from the first show who wanted to tag along, and led this crowd like the Pied Piper toward Andy's Forge. Abbo was alongside me. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said.

"Never!" he said. And we laughed liked idiots at the wonderful absurdity of hanging out with Jeff.

Jim Irvin, 'From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye' (Post Hill), May 2018

Excerpted from Jeff Buckley: From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye by Jeff's former manager Dave Lory and former MOJO man Jim Irvin (Post Hill Press).

[fruitzbat]

happy mollymauk week, everyone! as it's threeleaf day, I thought I'd use this time to spread the word about my fan novel trilogy to any enthusiasts who might not be aware.

The series is called “Devil & The Details”, but it’s more commonly referred to as “Devilverse” for short. The first two books are complete, and the third is currently being serialized.

Linked beneath the cut, we have an epic about Kingsley getting into new trouble on the seas, his captaincy of the Mollymauk, and ultimate rise to the throne of Darktow. While both Molly and Lucien make appearances — along with some other members of the Nein — the story is chiefly about Kingsley and his efforts to forge a unique path for himself. Since this is also a story where all three make an appearance, this trilogy potentially carries the dubious honor of being the longest threeleaf fic on ao3.

The goal of the series was to explore some of the things referenced by Taliesin about the ideas he wanted to explore with both Molly and Kingsley's existences, such as the notion of "soullessness" in mermaids and the philosophical concept of the tabula rasa. The overarching story is also about healing from different kinds of trauma, grief, breaking cycles of abuse, myths and realities of "the pirate's life" and "the resistance" as a concept, accountability, and how T4T love transcends petty things like death and fate. Think Black Sails meets Baldur's Gate with a Candide rising.

CW for: canon-typical violence and gay sex,* gore, mild body horror, frank discussions and depictions of slavery and genocide, cannibalism, suicide (especially in book III), and mentions (but not depictions) of sexual assault.

*There are also two short stories in the series that trend more towards the NSFW/PWP side and are about King and his love interest in the novels; their promo post can be found...

UPDATE: post deleted, flagged by tumblr censors since it's about two trans people in love, lmao.

The novels are written in what could be loosely described as historical fiction style, with other heavy influences taken from 90s anime and camp fantasy. They follow a standard fantasy trilogy setup, with the first book being more plotty, the second more character-driven, and the third currently shaping up to be a mix of the two.

BOOK I: Crowned Teeth (or, An Offering Revoked) [complete, 130,670 words]

We find Kingsley in dire straits after being betrayed by his crew and sold into slavery in the Hespet Archipelago. Breaking out with nothing to his name except a pair of enchanted pistols and a ragtag handful of other escapees, Kingsley vows to see himself avenged upon the leadership of the Tempest Fang.

BOOK II: Wine-Dark Sea [complete, 161,010 words]

With the Fang defeated and Kingsley trying to make things right in their absence, Fjord and Jester accept a quest to uncover a lost relic near the island of Glintshore. With the archdemon Maxima and the Abyssal Plane's intrigue unfolding in the wings, the three of them discover that there is more than what meets the eye.

BOOK III: Home to Roost [in progress, projected 300,000 words]

At long last, Kingsley and the other ex-Revelry members that make up the Diamond-eaters are sailing on Darktow. The long awaited showdown with the Plank King looms, and the archdemon Samiel plots to take the throne from Graz'zt. To his great misfortune, Captain Tealeaf catches the eye of both of them. To protect his new friends and ensure his path to the throne, Kingsley has to call on unexpected allies.

This is very much a labor of love on my end; King, specifically, is very important to me for many reasons. In case we never got the opportunity to explore his life and times on-stream, it was imperative to me that he get at least one story to call all his own.

If you want a proper pirate epic to tuck into, this is it!

[zaunrising]

A man, punished.

Silco drabble with him punishing someone. I’m putting this under a cut because of blood, violence, torture, mind break, drug overdose, unwilling (mind break causes it) familial abuse (violence/death/murder), and suicide. Do what you will with that.

There were a number of ways to piss off Silco, but one of the quickest ways was betraying him. With how long he’d been in control of The Lanes, one would think people knew better, but judging from the whimpering man currently on the floor in front of Silco some people had forgotten. “All you had to do was not take the information you gained by working for me, and sell it to someone else. Disappointing. Truly. I expected better of you, but I suppose you need a reminder as to how important loyalty and self-control is.” Letting out a soft sigh, almost like a disappointed teacher, Silco shook his head.

The man on the floor had in fact sold information, and had spent the past couple of hours being beaten by Silco’s people. Silco himself hadn’t even shown up until perhaps fifteen minutes ago, having better things to do than be there the entire time, but he wasn’t going to miss the grand event. Glancing over to one of his runners, Silco waved a hand, nodding towards a nearby door. “Go ahead.” On the floor, there was a quiet little sobbing as the beaten man managed to get himself up to crawl towards Silco. “P, please. Sir. I fucked up. Please just let me go home to my family. I won't, I won’t make this mistake again. It was just one mistake, plEASE!”

The sudden rising of his voice came from Silco moving to one side, and casually kicking the man’s knee to break it. “One mistake? It wasn’t just once, we both know that. Besides, getting drunk, and letting a piece of information slip is a mistake. Taking someone's money, and giving them information in return isn’t a mistake, it’s a transaction, Tommy.” Reaching towards his now broken knee, Tommy swallowed as he looked up at Silco. “It hurts. Hurts so much. Please. I understand, you’re…you’re right… wait. Wait, wait what are they doing here!? What are you doing with them? No, don’t hurt my family!” A hand reached pleadingly towards his wife, and seventeen-year-old son who had just gotten dragged into the area through the opened door, and shoved down into chairs. Not that his attempt to reach out to them did any good, as he was on one side of a large basement room while his wife and son found themselves bound to chairs and gagged on the other side. Silco shook his head. “Hurt your family? Oh, Tommy, I’m not going to hurt your family. Rather, I’m giving you the opportunity to prove yourself, and to remember how important it is not to make the wrong choice.”

Holding out a hand, he motioned with his fingers, and a moment later a knife was put into his hand along with a pistol. Tommy at this point tried to stand, but with his knee broken collapsed back down. “Don’t hurt them! They didn’t do anything, I’ll take responsibility. It’s all on me. They didn’t know anything. Please Silco… Please!” Silco frowned as he looked down at the begging man. “I already said I wasn’t going to hurt them. Did we damage your hearing, as well as the rest of you, or are you just stupider than expected?” Moving over to the two people bound to the chairs, he put the knife down in front of them, and the gun. “No, instead, you are going to have the opportunity to make a choice.”

Utterly confused, Tommy just shook his head, confused, lips parting, and then closing as tears ran down his cheeks while watching Silco. The chem-baron walked back to Tommy, which as the basement had been large enough to function as an apartment before most of the walls were taken down, took longer than one might think. “Do you know what Zaun has in abundance? No? Scrap. Metal scrap as a matter of fact. A great deal of which is either sharp, or can be sharpened. Almost like hardened glass shards, really. Normally not a problem since most people in Zaun either stay away from the scrap, or have the shoes or gloves to handle it properly.” Looking down at Tommy, his lips pulled into a dark smile. “Ah, but all you have now is a pair of pants. Well, I suppose that’s where the self-control comes in at.” Taking a few steps back towards Tommy’s family members, Silco nodded. Suddenly there was a sound of crashing metal pouring out over the floor as a couple of runners tipped over a large barrel filled with small sharpened metal pieces that stretched out across the floor between Silco and Tommy.

“I know. What’s a bit of pain, and blood in order to get to your family, really? Any decent Zaunite could crawl across a mile or more of this in order to get to their loved ones. So let’s make it a bit more interesting, shall we?” Reaching into his coat, Silco pulled out a few vials of shimmer, and shook them. “You are already bleeding, and cut up a bit. Skin broken from being bludgeoned, or a knife used on you or whatever else as I understand. Now shimmer, in case you were unaware, doesn’t have to be drank. If it gets into your blood stream, it still takes effect.” Two vials opened, and the shimmer tossed out across the metal. Slowly, Tommy’s eyes widened, and his lips parted, realizing what he’d have to do.

Silco took a few steps back. More metal, and more shimmer. Steps back, metal, shimmer. Steps, metal, shimmer. Over and over until he was by Tommy’s wife and son. “When you get here, there’s a knife to set them free with, or a loaded gun to do…well…whatever you might wish to in the end. Set them free, and you all live. There’s an easier route, of course. Kill yourself, and your family lives. Otherwise, if your family doesn’t live you really will have failed to prove yourself, and no one will need you anymore. Certainly not I after being disappointed by you yet again.”

Turning around, Silco opened a door, and simply left the room. Heading up a flight of stairs, and then a second one to be rather far above the basement, he nonetheless had a perfect view of everything that would happen as at the floors above the basement had been ripped out. Reaching into his coat, Silco pulled out a cigarette, and his lighter. “Tommy. If you don’t start fucking moving by the time my cigarette is done, we will lock the door, and you can starve to death down there with your family.” Tilting his head a bit, the lighter clicked, and his cigarette was lit.

Behind their gags both Tommy’s wife, and his son were trying to plead and yell. Both had tears streaming down their faces, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that the chairs were bolted into the floor, they likely would have tossed their chairs over to the side. Tommy on the other hand looked panicked, and at a loss of what to do. Looking up at Silco’s utterly merciless face, the man almost started to plead again before whimpering and looking back at the sharpened metal laid out across the floor in front of him. Finally, he moved, reaching out with a hand to try to brush it to one side, but that was met with a sharp hiss of pain as there wasn't any safe side to touch. They were for all intents and purposes caltrop’s with every side sharpened, and coated with shimmer. A particularly brutal thing to have to get through, and with nothing on except for pants, there was little Tommy could do except pray. Pray, and start to move.

Once again he tried to stand, and to his credit he got a few limping steps forward doing his best to ignore the metal underfoot, inevitably however he fell. Too tired, and hurt as well as emotional to catch himself properly, his wife and son watched as the man they were counting on to save them simply crashed into the metal. It wouldn’t have been that bad, perhaps, as he turned his head, and ensured his eyes were saved and none of the metal was large enough to react anything vital. However, the shimmer spread over the metal introduced a bit of a problem. Still smoking his cigarette, Silco raised his eyebrows, and actually chuckled softly.

“Things do escalate quickly.”

The shimmer of course started to take effect, and it made Tommy forget for a moment the potential consequences of taking in too much of it. With the pain fading under the high of the drug, and his wounds starting to heal, he started to move faster. With that broken knee, however, it kept him crawling. Each hand coming down made his skin split open, and shimmer enter his blood stream. Each knee crunching against metal, and calf getting sliced apart as he moved, opened him to the shimmer even more. With the pain largely inconsequential all of a sudden, and his muscles starting to get larger as the shimmer going right into his bloodstream forced that over dose to sweep over his body, Tommy started to lose himself. Hands crashing down into the metal almost embedding it into his hands while his eyes changed, he nearly seemed like some wild animal. As Tommy continued moving towards his utterly helpless family, they now looked more afraid of their loved one than anything else.

Silco took a long slow drag off of his cigarette then called out. “If they die, so do you.” Glancing at one of his runners, who by now was looking a bit disturbed, he raised an eyebrow before looking back down to the show. If they couldn’t take working for him, better to find out now rather than later after all. Eyes utterly cold, he shook his head. “I don’t think he’s going to enjoy learning why self-control can be a vital thing.”

Tommy, if he even heard Silco, didn’t register what had been said at all. At this point, despite being on all fours, he was charging at his family with nothing in his mind except for a savage violent impulse, and there was nothing at all to distract him from them. A hand on his wife’s knee to raise him up, and his other hand came up to start hitting what to him was just flesh to dominate. Just meat to prove his strength on. The whimpering and crying, enjoyable if it was acknowledged at all. Bulked up on shimmer shoved into his blood steam by injury after injury, with his mind at that moment broken from everything that had happened that day, all Tommy could think of was stopping things. The fact that the people in front of him had nothing at all to do with what had happened didn’t matter.

His fists rained down on the woman like a butcher with a hammer tenderizing meat, and even with his strength, at first it didn’t seem like it’d do much. However, then the wooden chair broken and he was able to straddle his wife. Something they’d likely done in one form or another for enjoyment more than once in the past was now something horrifying. The last thing she’d ever see was the utterly crazed look on her husband's face. The last thing she’d feel was the pain from his fists slamming into her face before he grabbed her head to smash it against the floor, fast, breaking it like an egg. The entire time his son was screaming behind the gag, and shaking his head with tears streaming down so quickly, one might almost imagine he’d drown himself as they soaked into the gag. It would have been more merciful if he had.

With the woman dead Tommy turned, and with the shimmer continuing its work making him stronger still while healing him constantly, he only needed one strike to break the chair his son was in. This time the blow made the gag get ripped free and his son screamed out. “DAD NO PLEASE!” It was the last understandable words the teenager would ever speak as those fists started to work at him. After the chair was broken, a large piece of wood was grabbed a moment later, and used as a club to beat the seventeen-year-old nearly to death with before it was used to crush his throat, ensuring his passing. With both his victims dead, Tommy turned, and started to hurl himself against the walls trapping him, jumping as high as he could. However, with how high up Silco was, Tommy had no chance of jumping out even with his knee half healed. Each jump made his knee break again however as the pressure ensured whatever work had been done on it was nullified, and catching at the walls made his nails get ripped out, leaving bloody streaks behind.

Finishing his cigarette, Silco tossed it into the basement before glancing around to check the time. “I’ll be back in an hour. Watch him.” His runners got the task of ensuring Tommy didn’t escape, and it was an easy task. Easy, that was, if you ignored the sight of the bodies and the screams ripping apart Tommy’s vocal cords over and over again as the shimmer healed him each time. Some part of his broken mind recognized what he’d done, but with the overdose it rendered him incapable of anything except trying to escape and screaming. The task wasn’t actually that easy, and the “fucking new guy” would be having nightmares that night despite downing a bottle of cheap tequila.

An hour later Silco returned, and Tommy was calmed down enough that despite still being bulky he was now crouched over his family weeping. Hands behind his back, Silco watched for a moment before calling out. “Disappointing. No one needs you anymore. No family, or anyone else. You failed Tommy. Everyone, them and yourself as well. So what will you do now?” Tommy predictably enough whirled around, pistol in hand, and Silco stepped back out of view. Turning around, Silco shook his head as he called out. “A waste. Complete waste. Goodbye, Tommy.”

With no one to vent his rage, and grief on except himself, Tommy decided to try to join his family.

Moments later a shot would be heard, and the clink of a pistol hitting the ground as well as a heavy body’s thud as it to hit the ground.

Silco glanced to one of his people. “Make sure he’s dead, wash off the metal and collect it all up. Clean up the basement.” The sound of the new guy retching, and then letting his lunch come up over in one corner got no reaction at all from Silco as he simply left.

There was other business to take care of after all, and perhaps he’d take an hour before bed for a bit of knitting as well.

That’d be a nice way to end the day.