#i liiiiiive!

[pandapear-art]

🌸🌸🌸

[definitelynotshouting]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE OF SECRET LIFE!!!!!

so i sped-wrote this as soon as i learned who the winner was this morning, tried to post it twice, tumblr mobile deleted it BOTH TIMES... but i will not be silenced ive finally gone to desktop /silly

this will go up on my rough draft pseud soon, but until then please enjoy the results of me being EXTREMELY unwell about the secret life finale. WOOOOOO WE ARE POPPING THE BIGGEST OF BOTTLES TODAY FR!!!!!!!!!!!

Grian barricades himself at the top of the highest tower of Tango's citadel the moment he wakes up. It's a calculated move, admittedly. There are a precious few places one might still find him if he truly wants to hide, but the Deep Frost Citadel isn't one of them— and with the second Decked Out coming to a ceremonious close, foot traffic here is perilously low. Dawn is a swift-approaching knife on the horizon, and Grian soars above it all, face numb with chill wind, wings brazen and feathers strewn across an empty sky.

He doesn't want to be near when Scar wakes. And he doesn't want to be found just yet, either. Oh, Scar will track him down. Of that, he has no doubt— but for now, Grian takes solace in the snow crunching underfoot as he locks himself inside this barren tower.

It's dark here, which suits Grian just fine. He doesn't bother lighting a lantern; instead, he huddles right on the floor, letting the ice seep through him. From here, he can just make out the sky as it lightens, bringing with it the dawn of a new victor. Nausea boils in his throat. With that victory comes a price, and Scar— And Grian— Well. Grian hasn't treated him very well throughout the games, now, has he?

He curls in on himself even further, feathers brushing along the length of his chilled arms. Each hair stands at attention, in some vain effort to pull warmth from the surrounding freeze— when he scrubs a hand along his arm, his fingers shake, and the gooseflesh remains stark and raised against his skin.

There was a sand-drenched point when the concept of warmth was all he could register— scorching wind scraping the cut on his cheek, the scarlet splatter of blood across split knuckles. And like the steady drain of life from a corpse, that warmth has drawn away, poison from a putrid wound— it leaves him compacting this cold, this loneliness, to mold it into four high walls around his heart; a fitting tribute to every grain of trust he's rightfully lost. Grian huffs the barest traces of a bitter laugh as his breath mists in the air. A better man would meet Scar at his base, extend his support, no matter how icily it might be met.

But Grian is selfish, and a coward, and will always be a coward— and so instead he sits, marrow freezing, with only the thin garrotte of paltry sunlight wrapping itself around his tender throat to keep him company.

And there he stays, motionless, for long enough that the chill makes a home in him— the glistening, pale yolk of the sun warns him of the passing time, a watery heat that counts down the seconds to minutes to hours until Scar finds him. Grian curls his wings around himself, a pitiful embrace, and waits.

Two hours later, the whistle of rocket-propelled elytra warn him of incoming company. Grian doesn't bother fleeing; he knows Scar, and Scar knows him, and with this last, missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place between them, he's under no illusions that staying hidden for long is feasible. Grian's eyes skitter to a crack on the far wall as clumsy footsteps scatter the snow outside, scrabbling for balance before the muted click of a cane joins them. Footsteps; another, louder click— the door's latch gives way, and a brief, blinding wave of light crashes over Grian's face, obscuring everything but the outline of a painfully familiar silhouette.

Grian has to look away. The door shuts, and for a small moment, neither of them so much as breathe.

Then Scar's sighs— one great, resigned gust. "Grian...."

He says nothing else. He doesn't have to. Grian draws his legs up to his chest in response anyway, heart a frozen pump bleeding ice into his very veins. What can he say? An apology? They're past apologies, now— if Scar wanted to disavow him forever, take the crumpled remains of their friendship and throw it at his feet, he'd be right to do so.

But Scar doesn't shout; neither does he leave. Instead, his cane taps forward, boots sliding into Grian's line of vision— and, with a grunt of effort, Scar eases himself down, until he's sitting at a safe diagonal from Grian's hunched form.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Eventually, Grian licks his lips. They're chapped from cold, thin and ready to split. "Hi, Scar," he says softly. It comes out weak, thready— a barely-there declaration. Whatever Scar wants here... he can take it. It's the very least Grian can do at this point.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Scar settle, shifting his weight before he lands on something approximating comfort. He takes his time with it, blind— or uncaring— to the erratic snarl of Grian's pulse. His voice is just as quiet when he responds. "So... that's it, then, huh."

Grian glances over properly before he can stop himself, stomach churning; Scar's gaze has slipped to the cutout acting as a window, middle-distant and lost. Locked on something only he can see. Then Scar shakes himself, an abrupt jerk of his head and shoulders, and that glassy look turns to pin Grian directly to the wall behind him instead. "Just like that?"

Grian's fingers tighten around his knees. "Just like that," he agrees, hollow.

Scar mulls that over for a moment. His sigh is a wisp of white in front of them, crystallizing in the glacial atmosphere. "Jeez," he says finally, scrubbing one hand through the tangled bird's nest of his hair. He must have flown across half the server as soon as he... remembered, Grian realizes with a visceral pang. "I didn't... that's a lot of memories to just, um, gain back on a dime, huh?"

Grian darts a sidelong glance at him. Shifts his wings until their primaries lower, sweeping the ground around his feet like a feathered cat's cradle. "I wouldn't know," he says, a quirk of black humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He swallows. "Since. Well...."

He trails off. Imagines, briefly, that he is a black hole— a quasar. A neutron star. Something so tight and compact it can string him out, erase him; a ball of grief and misery dense enough that it contains its own event horizon.

Scar hums a little shakily into the blooming silence. "Yeah. I guess that would complicate things, wouldn't it." A pause. "Does it always feel—?"

Grian shrugs. "Don’t know that either, Scar."

"Oh." Scar's still looking at him, the searchlight of his gaze burning pockmarks into Grian's skin. "Cool, okay... so...." He hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip, before finally forging on: "So what now?"

Grian sucks in his own shuddery breath. "Whatever you want, Scar," he says, blank and dull. Every inch of him frozen stiff, awaiting the tipped scales of Scar’s judgement. "There's no going back, after this." The quicksilver flash of a grimace tugs his lips back to reveal sharp, white teeth. "Welcome to the club, I guess."

"It sure is a warm welcome," Scar says weakly. "Got— uh, got your complimentary balloons, and— and um, a whole gift basket of... of...."

He trails off too, the fragile ley lines of his humor peeling off, cracking at the seams. Impossibly, Grian curls around himself tighter.

An apology is nothing but wasted air now, but it dredges from his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Scar. I—" He breaks off, jaw tight. "I'm... I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I never thought...."

I never thought you'd win. It's a cruel phrase that haunts the air between them, hanging like a smoky pall across their shoulders.

Scar says nothing against it; he only watches.

An uneasy prickle crawls up Grian's spine. "You don't—" He stops himself before he can finish that thought. "Are you— Scar, why are you here?"

"'Cause Pearl's not talking to me yet," Scar says quietly, prompt. "And— and because I remembered. Us."

Grian's throat closes around the word. "Us," he echoes, a rough rasp that ricochets against the deepslate walls surrounding them. The word tears through his ears, distorting with each pass. "Look, alright— I-I don't know if you got the memo, exactly, but— I'm not—"

He breaks off again, lungs jarring, hitching in his chest. Hot prickles sear behind his eyes, but nothing drops— he’s too tired for crying. "I've hurt you a lot, Scar," Grian says at last, lips numb around the words. "I'm not sure if there's much of an 'us' left, at this point."

"I know," Scar says. His eyes reflect the snow-glitter outside.

"And— I wouldn't blame you, if you left right now." 

"I know," Scar says again, softer.

"I—” Grian stares at him, helpless. "Okay, then why are you here, Scar?" He gestures between them, an aimless motion that somehow encompasses the breadth of everything that's rotted at their foundations. "If you know all that, then what—?"

Scar regards him with enviable poise. His throat bobs as he speaks. "Maybe, I just— now that I remember— maybe I just want your company, Grian. Is that really so bad?"

Grian stares at him, at a loss. "I don't understand," he says finally, and it comes out plaintive even to his own ears. "I thought you'd be— angry. After everything I've done, after all that's happened.... What's your play here, Scar? If you want to yell at me, be my guest. I think by now I've more than earned it."

But Scar doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shuffles closer— just by an inch. A careful, cautious inch. "Y'know," he says, apropos of nothing, "and correct me if I'm wrong, here— but I seem to remember something about you wanting an alliance before all of... that crazy stuff happened. Is that right?"

Something in Grian's chest spasms. Whatever expression it spreads across his face must spur Scar on, because he scoots closer again, just enough to bring their calves together. The brief shock of warmth explodes through Grian's skin, worming its way underneath the subcutaneous tissue to flood his veins and gnaw at the lingering ice.

After a moment, Scar's lips tilt up— a subtle, fragile smile. "Is it too late to cash in on that?" he asks.

Grian's mind goes blank, white and buzzing, the thin hiss of a creeper drifting through it like smoke. Unfiltered shock threads through his voice. "You want t— what?"

Scar's smile tempers further around its edges, stretching into something softer, knowing. Rounded out. With solemn motions, he reaches into the pocket of his utterly ridiculous safety vest, and delicately pulls something out.

It's a sunflower.

In the frigid gloom of Tango's citadel, Grian gapes, the brilliant yellow petals incongruous with this grim, grit, darkened room. When he looks up, Scar's eyes are overbright, painfully earnest— brimming with a desperate urgency that tucks itself away in the depths of his pupils.

"Can we try again?" Scar says, soft as the new-fallen snow beyond this isolated cell of misery. "Start over? I— I kind of hurt you too, you know. And— for the record, being without you sucks. I don't—" He falters. "I know it's gonna be all weird, y’know, between us… but I don't want to do that anymore. I just... want you here, Grian. That's all. I just want you to stick around."

Grian sucks in a sharp, daggered breath. "You're joking," he breathes, but his heart leaps, tumbling from his throat and onto the floor for Scar to stomp at his leisure. "You're actually— this isn't funny."

"Hey, do you see me laughing?” Scar presses forward once more, a calculated attack, but still slow enough for Grian to track each move, to stop him if he cared enough to. Gently, Scar unwinds one of Grian's hands from his knees, cupping it between his own and brushing the lightest of kisses against his knuckles before turning over Grian’s palm and pressing the flower into it. Grian's fingers curl around it of their own accord, silky petals burning against his fingers.

"So." Scar smiles, tremulous, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. "Can we still be friends?"

And Grian has always been a raw creature, a tangled wreck of his own selfish greed— he’s craved the honeyed umber of Scar's love since he first cradled it, tentatively, in his palms all that time ago. In the depths of his heart, there will always be that sandstone cliff, the crack of his bones against hard-packed sand, and wings too clipped to fly freely. There will always be that calloused fist around his heart, and beyond his own scrabbling fear, there will always, always be that fervent need to bring Scar close even as he pushes him away.

And where before, Scar had been playing blind, a game with no true rules… now, his eyes trap Grian against the wall, clear as glass— diamond sharp and just as steady. From a winning game, there is no turning back. There’s nothing left to lose here, except this porcelain trust, this shred of hope Scar offers him once more in the form of a flower.

Even after everything, all the memories flooding back— Scar is still here, holding Grian’s heart, and offering up his own in return.

Grian slowly presses it to his chest with trembling, vulnerable motions. "You're sure you want this."

"I'm sure I want you," Scar says, unwavering.

Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Inhale and exhale, both a heavy drag in his lungs. Already, the sun is beginning to strengthen, casting thick rays through the window and splaying them across Grian’s lap. The advent of gilded noon weaves around them, perfuming the air with light and heat.

"Okay," Grian says at last, and it drops from his lips with the weight of a confession; a relinquishment; a solemn vow. "Okay."

This time, when Scar reaches for his hand again, Grian meets him halfway, and the tangle of their fingers nets the sunflower in a promise neatly between them.

[oursades]

ᯓ★ I've been wearing black leather all my life.

[razrbladekiss]

okkkkk this might be a strange request, but i vaguely remember you posting an ahs apocalypse inspired piece, and i just wonder if you can do one for joel? like… reader is one of cordelia’s witches, and joel is the michael langdon of the bunch. 👀 your old ahs shit was amazing, i CRAVE this. it doesn’t have to be smutty, just the visual of joel being literal satan is hot enough. 🔥

hey! oh, you’ve been here a very l o n g time if you remember all of that stuff 🫶🏻 but, anon, your wish is my command.

TREACHEROUS | Joel Miller

PAIRING: AHS AU antichrist!joel miller x witch!fem!reader

SUMMARY: joel is dead set on getting underneath your skin. you’re dead set on ripping his off. after the death of your supreme, you make it your mission to make joel miller pay for what he’s done.

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

WARNINGS: i’ve literally lifted THAT scene from ahs here but tweaked it so that joel is just a horny, evil lil antichrist. AHS APOCALYPSE SPOILERS (even though it’s literal years old.)🫶🏻. most character’s names have been changed for reasons. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. mentions of past sexual activities. lil bit of sexual tension. blood and blood loss. weapons. violence. some witchy magical shit. reader has hair long enough to push over her shoulder. not proof read, parts have been lifted from a previous unpublished work so sorrrrrry if there are little nicks. but enjoy, anon!

With Angelica, her downfall was predicted.

Whilst her powers had started to dwindle, to ebb away into something reminiscent of perpetual weakness, her expulsion into perdition was something that you had always predicted.

As much as you once admired your Supreme, she was a heathen. A wonderfully vindictive woman whose faculty had the potential to lay within the realms of moral righteousness, but instead nestled amongst decades of stewing villainy.

She was, by nature, evil. Completely and utterly freezing cold to the fucking bone. And you weren’t exactly sorry to see the back of her, then.

Angelica taught you a lot about the real world, how mortals viewed witches, and how warlocks had never seemed to be able to practice anything of upstanding value—which was remarkably rich, coming from her—but Sabrina was who truly bestowed any form of wisdom onto you.

She had always been the supreme, in your eyes.

Everything about the woman was completely and utterly indescribably perfect. Sabrina was the kindest, most adoring woman—let alone witch—that you had ever had the privilege of being in the mere presence of, and she could do no wrong, in your eyes.

So many sacrifices, so much she had lost to protect and care for her girls at Robichaux, and she had bounds and bounds to show for it.

Everyone passed into her care, each young woman that she was tasked with granting sanctuary to, had always walked away—or stayed—completely satisfied and ready to embark on their next endeavour with inexhaustible understanding of the powers that they beheld.

Sabrina was a perfect scholar, custodian, maternal figure.

And that was what maimed you.

“What’re you gonna do? Kill me?” Exhausted, you ask.

It’s a palpable fatigue, something that he can taste. Something that he’s feeding off because seeing you so forlorn, so hopeless is a notion so inexplicably delectable, Joel Miller struggles to reign in his lecherous urges.

“I’m fed up, Joel.”

“Oh, come on, cupcake. Don’t give in that easily.” He promises in that tone. That sweet, lustrous rhythm that’s dripping in an almost sickening sweetness. Saccharine, perhaps. “You’re more resilient than this. I know you.”

“You don’t know shit.” You defend. Snippy. 

“I know that you like sharp objects. And blood.” Joel twirls the blade—that Christine had stabbed him with some five minutes ago—between his thick, calloused fingers, and lets out a gentle hum. “You liked it when I choked and pounded you at the same time.”

Oh, Joel. Fuck—Joel.

You cringe at the thought. How he used to sneak into your room—through the fire escape next to your window—and fuck you senseless. How Joel would hold his hand over your mouth—still decorated with his spend and spit—and rut into your pussy, fast and hard. 

Many a night you would cry his name. Many a night Joel would stuff you full of his cock, and leave before you could wipe the tears from your eyes and cum from your stomach. 

And though you enjoyed it—at one very, very low point in your life—you shirk the notion. 

This is retribution. 

“The sex was good. But I’ve had better. With you, it was just stupid mistake, after stupid mistake. ” You snort a laugh. Histrionic, of course.

Joel gasps. He feigns offense, taking a step toward you for he knows that you’re lying. 

Nobody ever fucked you that good. 

“You’ve had better? All those nights were just…mistakes?” You nod. Joel licks his lips. “How come?”

“Because you’re the literal spawn of Satan, for fucks sake.” You spit, gesturing to his blood-sodden chest, hands, face. “You’re the antichrist, Joel, and you’re hellbent on destroying everything that anyone has ever loved, so why wouldn’t it have been a mistake?”

He just stands there with a small, sly smirk, dripping what seems like buckets of blood. 

“You killed everything.”

“I destroyed everything.” He corrects. “There’s a difference.”

He’s insufferable. 

You can’t believe that, once upon a time, you regarded him as high as what you did Sabrina. 

“You have killed Paris.” You ignore what he says. You’re the one walking toward him, now. “You killed my best friend, you killed Christine, and because of you—and whatever the fuck you did—my coven is dying!” 

Joel doesn’t care to figure out who is who in your little monologue. They were all just burdens, to him. Witches in his way from fighting the greater evil. 

“Baby—“

“Don’t you call me that, you bastard!”

Before he knows it, he’s being pinned against the stone-clad wall by a force so fervent, so unbelievably dominant, he struggles to comprehend that you’re the one behind it. 

This is so incredibly sexy. I wish I could just bend her over my fuckin’ knee and—

“Don’t look at me that way.” Your chest is puffed out a little bit, tits damp with blood and sweat, and Joel wants nothing more than to lick that crimson away from supple flesh. 

But he shrugs it off, hoping that he’s not appearing to be as desperate as he feels. 

“Sabrina’s favorite witch is fucking insane.” He muses, using his entire strength—every last morsel—to pull himself back to earth. 

Or, at least, to the ground. 

“Believe me, I am no match for you.” You pant, still spent. “You’re as unbalanced as they could ever possibly come.” 

Condescending, he tilts his head. “Are you flirting?”

“With you? Absolutely not.”

You take another step toward him, pushing maroon-coated strands over your left shoulder.

“With death?” You exert a soft, subtle smirk. “Always.”

“Angelica taught you well, hm?”

At that, you can find it in yourself to chuckle. Because you suppose that it holds some semblance of truth. 

Danger—the concept of fucking dying—hadn’t been much of a thought before you came face to face with your first supreme. 

You were once so mindful, so careful not to dance along the thin line separating life from death, and you’ve always been remarkably successful.

Up until today. 

“She really did.” With a sick, toothy smile, you confirm. 

Out on a complete limb and, with the power of telekinesis, you strive to snatch Joel’s weapon of choice from the confines of his fist. 

It happens too quickly. You don’t have enough time to calculate the angle with which you should catch the blade, and it cuts deep into your palm. 

You hiss at the blood loss, but you’ve got it. 

He licks his lips. 

“Angelica was a wonderful teacher.” Mimicking his earlier action, you skillfully spin the knife in your hand. “But Sabrina really taught me everything that I know.”

Joel snickers. It’s derisive. Cold. Seductive. 

“She warned me.”

“About what, baby?”

“You.” Without reluctance, you blurt. You’re mere moments away from lunging forward and slitting his fucking throat.

But you remain poised. You apply some equilibrium. Something that Sabrina had always ingrained into your mind.

“Paris did, too.” At that, Joel stills. 

What could Paris Montgomery possibly know about him?

“Well, it wasn’t so much a warning. More a divulgence of past activities.” You tease, watching the man start to fucking sweat.

Beads of perspiration fall from his temple to his cheek, glistening wickedly beneath the sparse light within the space. You notice it.

Is he getting turned on? Or is he shitting his pants?

“What you did to your poor grandmother, firstly.”

“I’d tread very carefully, if I were you.”

“Why? What’ve I got to lose now, Joel?” Your words are doused in venom, tongue blanketed with vitriol spite. You’re spitting his poison back at him.

Not many would be ballsy enough to contest him. To regurgitate his wickedness. 

But Joel’s baby is.

“She killed herself to get away from you—all the shit that you put that poor fuckin’ woman through—“

“I said enough!” He barks, stalking toward you. You can almost sense where it’s going. “Do not fucking talk about her.”

The two of you are toe to toe, now. Almost chin to chin. 

Plump lips smirk, raising the knife to rest over the placket of his shirt. Slowly, you lift it—glide it—toward his partly exposed chest.

“Why not?” Your qualm is tangled around a soft, dulcet whisper. Something that resembles comfort, almost. “You’re gonna kill me, anyway. So, what difference does it make—“

“All of the difference in the fucking world.”

You both still. Your arm drops, the blade resting against your side. Simply stunned.

“Sabrina.” Joel greets, stepping away from you. He makes his way toward the supreme, only stopping when he feels a hand tug him backward. He shrugs you off, though doesn’t dare to get any closer.

“Sabrina, I have this handled.” You—the youngest witch in the clan—plead, understanding what’s brewing.

What this means.

“Go back to Melissa.” Almost completely desperate, you state.. “She needs you—“

Sabrina’s gaze is penetrative. It seldom flickers away from Michael as you strive to reason with her. 

“She’s fine. Bloody, but fine.”

He snarls. He hadn’t succeeded with killing off the entire council quite yet.

But, with his rival before him, Joel cannot afford to waste any more of his most valuable time. 

“How did you think this would end?” Each syllable crushes you.

You can feel something ripping through flesh and bone as he shows absolutely no mercy.

“Prophecy is inevitable. I was always going to win. Miss Supreme.”

Sabrina looks between you two, watching your wounds weep and heart visibly shatter within the confines of a wickedly palpitating chest.

“Not on your own.” She exerts confidently, about to drive her claws as deep as they could possibly go. “You’ve been led by the hand, coddled the entire way. By your father, the warlocks.”

With each flying comment, Joel’s blood begins to boil. It bubbles, sputters like wildfire. But he has to take it.

Listening to what she has to say is the very fucking least that he can do.

“I look at you and I don’t see a man. I see a sad, scared, pathetic little boy so pathetic he couldn’t even kill me with a thousand fucking nuclear bombs.” 

“But I never expected to.” Almost instantly, he declares.

The depletion, the absolute fatigue riddling their bodies is painfully evident to you as you can do absolutely nothing aside from watch—and wait—for the ending that you have so desperately tried to put off.

“Like a cockroach, I knew you’d survive the nuclear fallout. I wanted you to.”

His fists clench, rings scraping against bloodied and bruised palms. Your cunt throbs—remembering when his knuckles were deep inside of you—but it’s not the right moment.  

He makes you fucking sick, now. 

“And now I’m gonna have the satisfaction of watching you die, knowing you failed.”

“She has not failed.” You speak up.“She will never fail, either. And when she dies, her legacy will live on for fucking ever. Which is a hell of a lot more than what can and will be said for you.”

He turns his head to heed the snark, the sheer irascible complacency written on your beautifully withered completion, and scoffs.

“The world is over, sweetheart.” Joel tells you. “When Sabrina dies, then so do all of you other witch bitches—“

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Fed up of exhausting the same point over and over, Sabrina rasps. “Even now. You think there’s only winning and losing, success and failure.”

Tears begin to brew, to roll downwards and toward the apples of her cheeks.

“But failure is when you’ve lost any semblance of hope.”

Your breath hitches, rhythm becomes sporadic.

“You will get to watch me die.” Says the supreme while her voice cracks, and Joel Miller watches her begin to crumble from the inside out. 

He’s enjoying it too much.

“But you won’t find it satisfying.” Sabrina finishes, snatching the bloodied knife from you. 

Her throat closes up, heart slows down.

“Satan has one son, but my sisters are legion, motherfucker.”

And before you have time to wrangle your thoughts, to produce a reaction, you’re watching as your supreme—the one woman that has cared for you since you embarked on that beautiful spiritual journey at Robichaux—plunges the blade straight into her heart.

“No. No—“ Unable to produce anything aside from a mere whisper, you rasp. 

Joel is just as shocked. Devastated, perhaps. Because he isn’t the one driving a dagger into Sabrina’s chest, or ripping her head from its place on her neck. It’s her. Just how he had feared from the start.

She’s gasping for air, but there’s a smirk creeping toward her face as she stumbles backward—fist perpetually curled around the blade protruding from her chest. 

“Sabrina…” You mumble, breath breaking into a sob as your supreme—your best friend—mouths I love you before falling—flights—toward the ground.

“No!” Joel yells, sprinting toward the ledge. “Fuck!”

But then your eyes light up. 

“You were never going to get the last laugh, Miller.” 

“It isn’t over.” He pants. His chest heaves as he watches blood ooze from the body that lay atop the concrete ground. “It is far from fucking over.”

He turns on his heels to see you there in the doorway, draped in black, somehow even more vibrant than when you arrived today. Your skin gleams, it glows and you smile because you are certainly aware of what will happen over the course of the next sixty seconds.

Sabrina is dead, so a new supreme must rise.

“It’s over, Joel.” Your nails dance along the crimson jacket, inching closer to his throat. “You failed to execute whatever the fuck it was that you had planned, and now its over.”

You’re teasing as always, stifling a wicked little snicker.

Joel wishes that he could fuck the smile from your face one last time. And maybe he will. When you’re both rotting in purgatory for eternity. 

“We had fun though, don’t you agree?’

“I thought you regretted it?” 

“I have only one regret in this life.” 

Licking your lips, Joel’s eyes search your face for an answer.

“And, tell me, what would that be?” His habitual cockiness returns for one final jab, though he is simply no match for you, now.

Your telekinetic energy—ardent power—is being put to the test once more, summoning that fucking knife from its residual position lodged between Sabrina’s ribs.

It flies into your grip—by the handle, this time.

“Not trying to kill you sooner.” You snort, thrusting the overworked knife into the toughest, hardest part of his spine and he drops to the floor.

Blood pours from his back, saturating the already red-stained blazer, and you’re simply unable to do anything aside from laugh. 

Because this is the end. It’s all over and fucking done with, now. 

And though—once upon a time—you enjoyed fucking his brains out, watching him die a slow, painful, death—at your hands—is a lot more satisfying. 

Will he end up coming back? Who knows. With the antichrist, anything is possible. But for now, you’re reveling in the idea that you—a mere witch bitch—is the reason for Joel’s unruly demise. 

You can’t help smiling as you get to the ground—hands on your knees—and rasp; “I’ll see you in another life, baby.”

[cocoabubbelle-newblog]

SCOGUE-“Tember”

Day “5”: [🌊🪨🔥💨] Avatar: The Last Airbender

Cocoabubbelle ATLA wasn’t part of the prompt list yes it is [now] shush

[nell0-0]

Nimbasa trio, teen edition!

[teatitty]

Title/Link: Reverence; an all-encompassing devotion Rating: T+ [15+ to be specific] Warning: Overall theme is about Yugi caring for Atem's corpse so take that as your warning for the levels of goth in this Pairing: Puzzleshipping Additional Tags: Angst, Grief, Longing, Goth Romance, non-sexual nudity, not DSoD compliant, Yugi is Going Through It the whole time Word Count: 10.2K

Summary/Preview:

Yugi gets a call from the Ishtars exactly a year to the date of Atem's passing, imploring him to take an emergency flight to Egypt. He doesn't know what he expects to find, but seeing Atem's perfectly preserved corpse unearthed in an old sarcophagus definitely wasn't it.

A/N: This was an absolute beast to write so everyone give a huge hand to Bikkie for beta reading this for me she's been an absolute gem throughout this process and my biggest supporter in getting this done

[blurredcolour]

okay okay…..but John Brady with a violinist? 👀 someone who’s fingers rival his? Iconic haha

*wheezy squealing* omg nonnnyyyy I adore this, especially as someone who played violin a couple of years there is a lot of fingering going on 😏

But say, say she’s a local girl who has been studying in London but her brothers have gone off to war so she’s come home to help her father run his pub

And say after much cajoling Brady gets dragged to said pub, out of his usual comfort zone of the officer’s club

The pair of them spy one another throughout the course of the evening, there’s an attraction but it’s noisy and crowded and she’s busy

But then some of the older regulars get rowdy and demand she fetch her violin and play them a few tunes and then the tables are turned so viciously on poor sweet Johnny boy he barely notices the ribbing he’s getting from the guys

Can only stare at her as she plays, the way her fingers fly across the strings, the poised grip she has on the bow, the delicate concentration on her face

And once those two sets of talented hands are lain upon eager bodies?!?! Instantaneous combustion, neither of them stand a frigging chance

🔥🫠😮‍💨

[atticcreationz]

While I'm on my starkid bullshit (I say, like I'm ever NOT on my starkid bullshit). The absolutly devestating words:

"the question then is whether tis nobler in the mind to be well liked but ineffectual, or moral but maligned?"

should not not be coming from a Disney parody musical that also has a song about fucking a tiger, but there you go

[imbeccable-writes]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: LEGO Monkie Kid Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Qi Xiaotian | MK & Sun Wukong | Monkey King Characters: Qi Xiaotian | MK, Sun Wukong | Monkey King Additional Tags: pigsy is there too but only briefly so i didn't tag him, Inspired by Fanart, Comfort No Hurt, Found Family, Soft Sun Wukong | Monkey King, Monkey Qi Xiaotian | MK, Bugs & Insects, grooming of the monkey variety, Qi Xiaotian | MK is Zhu Bajie | Pigsy's Child, this comes up briefly but it's right so, Post-LEGO Monkie Kid Season 04, Fleas, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, basically yk??, Bonding, Some Swearing, POV Third Person Summary:

Upon realizing he's become infested with fleas only weeks after fully becoming a monkey, MK goes to the one person he knows for sure can help him.

[cutie-melon]

just bought a ticket to see ARTMS i'm gonna throw up

[snowy-bones]

hi sweet beans! it's been a long while hasn't it? sorry i poofed from the potato den and seemed to vanish from the whole spiral of existence. but i really needed some time away to gather myself. we took a break, a much needed break from things here. the whole system needed a silent time. things were getting really hard for a while. mentally i, myself, was not well. i'm not 100% nor do i think i ever will be? but i have been doing my absolute best with things. work has had me in a tight grip and i mostly sleep when i get home.

spring break is hard on a barista teh heh! but i will say i am working hard and doing my best!! it's been a rough start to the year as we lost our kitty Thexan and now as of March 12th we have lost Heidi girl. she was sick and not doing well. and it is with a heavy heart and soul that our lovely girl crossed the rainbow bridge. Biscotti and Jean are both comforting me and the system the best they can. they are good fur babies and we love them so much.

with all of this going on, the first 3 months of this year are a blur. i had noticed that the system itself had taken a silent time. and when i finally came out of my fog, i was greeted by my favorite gremlin. Ashy had been waiting for my return and oh it was so good to see him. its good to be back. and i plan to come back to the blog slowly. we're still very drained after all of this, (and a small alter boom with some new faces!) and hopefully we will be more active soon!

thank you all for being here! <3 -admin snow

[qara-mohoy]

WIP

[radiojamming]

I think Kansas City won :)

[hawthornewhisperer]

The Haymitch book news sure feels like I sign I should start posting that gadge fic, huh

[blaque-honeyy]

I made the mistake of feverishly reading The Apothecary Diaries and now I'm upset because I have to wait weeks for a new chapter 😭. I'm excited about the rest of season 1 though!