#rip to all the other rotting wips

[daemon-in-my-head]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @jashonja

Finally got smth that isn't just stick figures, ik the hair nd sht is weird, trust the process skdhsksksms (knowing me, this is by no means an indication of the final product)

Dunno if I'll keep the flower or if I'll just throw gore in there or not... I kinda wanna but also kinda hmmmmm subtlety is fun.

Tagging @aleksxo @defira85 @beecreeper @quacaserous nd anyone else who wants to

Somebody remind me to do the accessories I forgot em... Earings nd rings my beloved

[redrocketpanda]

My besties (@parad0xymoron + @1nchwyrm) were telling me about an Astarion (& Gale mod) which changes Astarion's physique into something without heavily sculpted abs, and then us discussing like why? Why is Astarion so stacked? We had always expected him to be really slender so Astarion-with-abs was a surprise

Is Astarion's physique just another way that Cazador controlled him? Making Astarion slave away year after year to keep himself so ripped, all for Cazador's own enjoyment? (side note: cackling over the image of some kind of vampire crypt gym AU)

And then @1nchwyrm offering such an interpretation of Astarion working out (in the crypt/in the camp) a la Love Island boys style. Making a whole thing out of going to work out, doing a couple of pull ups and then checking to see if anyone's watching him. He can't see himself but he's gonna make damn sure everyone else is looking

[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— playing defence + yoichi isagi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — you bitch slap kaiser for talking smack about your boyfriend. perhaps isagi is rubbing off on you.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, crack, fluff, suggestive towards the end, violence, smack talk, mentions of injury, mentions of blood, established relationship, pro player!isagi, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 2.2K.

⭑ notes — greetings all! isagi brain rot is so real rn, i swear i have like six wips for him... anyways this was a silly little idea that popped into my head lmao kinda cringe but i had fun with it !! enjoy ! - m.list ✩

your boyfriend is somewhat of a conundrum.

the world knows yoichi isagi as the ruthless heart of blue lock’s success. a man that’s unrelenting on the field with his strategic mind and frightening air of dominance poured into his every play. every movement he makes is calculated meticulously, the greed for a goal simmering in his blood. isagi as a pro player is foul mouthed and messy — taunting his opponent until they crumble into nothing but dust before his very eyes.

the media thinks he’s cocky, but rightfully so. after all yoichi isagi is the catalyst for a new generation of japanese soccer. the girls love him, he’s charming in interviews without meaning to be — they like how he talks about you. as if you’re a gem that’s worth millions. precious.

the isagi that you know has a tender touch and his soul warm, he wears his heart right on his sleeve and never lets you go a moment without knowing you’re appreciated. the isagi that you know is encouraging, he’s always on your side. if he needs to, he’ll sweet talk you with honey glazed words and kiss you until your thoughts fizzle out into stardust.

isagi is good.

he’s good to his friends, his teammates, his parents — he’s almost too good to be true. as if he’s been peeled from the pages of a shoujo romance manga or ripped from the silver screen of a perfect Hollywood romcom. a literal walking green flag. you’d say that you were lucky to have him, and yoichi would spin it on you — using strings of sweet words to express just how deep and profound his love is for you, praising you just enough to melt you into a love sick puddle of goo. and he’d mean it, sincerity swirling in his whirlpooling blue eyes. he swears by it.

so when someone pisses your isagi off, when they hurt him — you can’t help but lose your shit.

it happens during a practise match with a few of the players that joined during the neo-egoist league. although it’s been years since then and the blue lock project has become a formidable team, it keeps the boys on their feet to play with those with other worldly styles of soccer. the match had been going well, isagi trailblazing across the pitch and leaving nothing but a trail of destruction and despair behind — you were proud of him, amazed by him and the talents he possesses. to see him in his element makes your heart swell.

you don’t know kaiser very well — just that he’s super big and plays for the german team that gave isagi his leg up in the soccer world. you’ve heard from others about how much of a dick he could be and the intense rivalry he had with your boyfriend back when the blue lock project first started. you don’t know kaiser well but that information alone was enough to get your back up whenever he was in close range of yoichi.

and rightfully so. because you see the way he prods and pokes at the beautiful, sensitive parts of your lover as they race across to the penalty area. you notice how it rattles isagi, gets him all up in his head. you hear kaiser say something along the lines of:

“what’s with your shitty plays, yoichi? surely if you’re the heart of blue lock then the future of soccer is bound to be doomed.” he skirts around your boyfriend, intercepting a pass he was meant to receive from nagi. “pathetic, to see how much this star has fallen. i should crush you.”

you’ve heard all the insults the blue lock boys throw at each other before but this is nothing like usual. rin itoshi has said much worse to isagi right in front of your face (and isagi right back, foul mouthed motherfucker) but you know that’s a defence mechanism to how rin truly thinks and feels.

michael kaiser is just an asshole, plain and simple.

and that kind of behaviour doesn’t fly with you when it comes to yoichi.

you storm onto the pitch from the sidelines before your mind can even catch up to your body. the other players working around your boyfriend and his rival stop their movements as you stroll past them, snapped out of their egoist state by the referee whistle that calls for you to stop.

“m-ma’am! you can’t be on the pitch!”

you walk right past ness, weave between kurona, bachira and hiori, and right up to the blonde haired perpetrator himself. you’re polite about it too, tapping him on the shoulder to interrupt the narcissistic monologue he’s giving to isagi and showing him your sweetest, kindest smile.

there’s a split second before the blunt force of your fist collides with michael kaiser’s cheek and he’s knocked to the ground from the weight of it.

“you better watch who the fuck you’re talking to, you clownish freak.”

“babe?” isagi jumps into action despite his shock and the sniggers from other players on the field. he wraps his strong arms around your middle and tugs you into his chest with a winded laugh. “precious, what are you doing here?”

“he can’t talk to you like that!”

“but baby, you can’t be here—“

“this isn’t good.” bachira sings from a safe distance.

“fuck! what the actual fuck?” kaiser swears, using the sleeve of his jersey to wipe the blood from his bruising nose. “who’s crazy groupie is this?”

another wave of anger crashes through your veins, your blood at its boiling point as his words register within you. “excuse me?” isagi snarls, clearly unimpressed, loosening his hold on you while you struggle against your boyfriend’s lean frame.

“so what? you get your girlfriend to play defence for you and then act like i’m in the wrong? i said, get this groupie away from me—!”

before anyone on the pitch can realise, you’re free from isagi’s hold and you’re on kaiser like white on rice — fisting his sweatshirt between the same pretty fingers that treat isagi like he’ll break with too much force. “you wanna say that again, shitstain?” you run your tongue over your teeth, the menacing glint to your eye making you look like you’re a predator about to hunt down her prey. the blonde shakes underneath you as you pin him to the grass — an insult rolling around on his tongue. “i wouldn’t waste my words. you should just lay down and die before you take another sucker punch from this groupie.”

“do you have any idea how much this face is worth? i should—“

“gimme a break michael kaiser,” to your left you can hear bachira chanting something about ‘no violence’, bouncing around excitedly and a wicked grin tugs on the corner of your lips. “you’re not worth shit to me. so keep fucking around and find out, pretty boy. you talk smack about yoichi again and i swear your face won’t be the only goods i damage.”

“jeez, you’re just as crazy as that wanna be protagonist over there—“ is all he can muster before he flinches back from your fists that raise a over your head.

isagi moves quicker this time, scooping you up from underneath your armpits despite how you huff, puff and protest. “alright, alright, you’re done here. let’s go, princess.” he says sheepishly. maybe he’s been rubbing off on you a little too much.

his comforting touch slides down to your hand, grabbing at it to drag you off the pitch for the sake of kaiser’s safety, keeping everyone else out of harms way. and isagi just about gets you off the green before you set your sights on your next victim — ness, who can’t help but make faces at you as you trudge after your boyfriend.

drawing a line over your throat with your thumb, you make direct eye contact with him. “you’re next, shitty little meat-rider—! ow! ‘ichi!” you bark, but isagi quickly scoops you up again like a cat holding her kitten by the nape.

you have no choice but to back down for now.

“yanno, you really didn’t have to do that.”

isagi let’s you go once you’re back in the locker rooms to check on your hand. he crouches before you (where you sit just a level above him on the metal bench), holding an ice pack to your knuckles with the trace of a smile on his lips, only lifting it to see if the swelling has gone down. isagi reads you like an open book, he’s got you all figured out so he leaves you with the space to react and have your little tantrums.

besides, it’s cute that you get so pissed off when it comes to him. watching your nose scrunch up and your lips twist into a pout while you fight your own outburst just makes his heart beat for you a little faster.

“oh i fucking did! he was being so horrible to you and i couldn’t just let it slide!” you huff as your temper flares, shoulders sagging and arms crossing over your chest. he says nothing for a moment and lifts the compress from your hand to check the damage.

“look at you, precious girl. you’ve only gone and hurt yourself,” even when you’re throwing a fit like this, yoichi can only see the beauty in you — his cheeks flushing at how much you care for him. the dark haired striker flips through a first aid kit that rests at your feet, looking for disinfectant to clean up your split knuckles. “and, as for kaiser… well, he’s always like that.”

“well, i don’t like kaiser. i hope a bird shits on his head and both sides of his pillows are warm.”

“bird shit is supposed to be a sign of good luck, baby.”

“don’t test me yoichi isagi.”

he dabs at your wounds with a cotton pad and a brownish liquid that smells like the dettol your mom would keep in the cabinet under the kitchen sink for when you got yourself into similar situations like this as a kid. but instead of scolding you like she would, yoichi tends to your cuts and scrapes either upmost care. still smiling to himself. smiling at you. resisting the urge to burst with affection.

“you’re gonna have to apologise, precious.” he mutters absentmindedly, wincing when you do.

“i-i’m not going to, he deserved it!” that much is true, kaiser is clown who needs to be put in his place but it shouldn’t have been by you and at the expensive of your precious hands getting hurt.

you’re in more pain than you’re willing to show, and it bothers isagi just a little bit that you’re experiencing it because of him.

“well he did, but ego won’t be happy.”

“did ego make you apologise for all those times you beat the crap out of your teammates for even looking at me? for stealing your goals?” you roll your eyes, leaning away from your doting boyfriend in protest.

isagi grabs at your wrist firmly, tugging you back into place so he can start wrapping your hand up — ignoring the way his face and the tips of his ears start to burn up in embarrassment. “well no… but that’s different. friendly competition.”

“hardly! may i remind you that shidou literally couldn’t walk for a week straight after he commented on my ass? because of you?”

“i was defending your honour! and keep still!”

you give isagi a pointed look. hypocrite. “okay, but what about when rin said you couldn’t fuck for the life of you and then you proved your point. using me. in front of him. was that about honour or about your ego? mister egoist.” isagi’s big blue eyes instantly shoot up to meet yours and blushes a crimson that could rival the shade of the older itoshi brother’s hair. “itoshi couldn’t look at me for weeks!”

“point taken.” knowing that he won’t win this argument (if you could even call it that), isagi finishes up with bandaging your hand and takes a seat next to you, a comfortable silence settling over you both while he attempts to piece together why you love him this much. to play knight in shining armour to his damsel in distress.

“are you…really going to make me apologise yoichi?” you ask him sheepishly after some time, leaning into him for comfort.

“not if you don’t want to, precious.” he hums, fondly brushing a thumb over the back of your bandaged hand. a silent thank you. a hidden i love you.

“good,” you whine now that all of your adrenaline’s worn off and you can really feel the consequences of punching a world class striker in the face. “now kiss my knuckles. they hurt.” holding up your hand to isagi’s face, you shake it as if to rid yourself of the painful ebb to it.

“better?” isagi complies, his lips soft against your skin.

“much.”

“so spoilt,” he adds. your boyfriend’s voice stays low while he plays with your bruised fingers and checks them over, resting his head against your own affectionately. “next time you throw a punch in my name, tuck your thumb into your fist to minimise the damage. i don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

“so you did like seeing me punch kaiser.” you giggle, squirming when isagi drops your hand to pull you into his lap possessively. his loving grin spreads even further when your eyes widen at a certain…hardness poking your inner thigh.

“oh yeah, super hot. i love it when you get mad ‘n start talking shit for me.”

isagi doesn’t make it back to practice, too caught up in showing you just how much he loves it when you start fights over him.

[moonlight-prose]

wip wednesday!

thank you for the tag @guiltyasdave darling! so this week has consumed me with my series rwylm, but i don't have enough written to put here today. so will pull from my other little series i've been hammering away at featuring joel miller and old man logan and lots of romance.

a case of you

Peace.

A subjective five letter word that once held no meaning to you.

When the world fell to the flames of hell and nature became the thing humanity battled, you found that holding onto small semblances of the past were what you abandoned first. There was no need for small joys. No time to make sure that you were feeding the good parts in your life; you'd grown accustomed to the bad.

What you may have deemed normal suddenly became soul consuming - a bitter awakening that ripped away any slivers of serenity you had left.

You fell victim to the constant fear. The baseline state of your being was no longer about harnessing hope, but of fighting off the darkness that ebbed into the center of your heart. The terror that ate away at your soul. Your body cannibalized itself, gnawed at emotions you would never have again, devoured the light that once existed in your eyes, and spit out the bitter anger that remained.

Life held no perpetual vow of peace.

It only offered a bitter ending served on a silver tarnished platter covered in rot.

The days were endless. Nights bled into the early morning dew that offered a welcome reprieve. Only for the nightmare to keep going. You weren't meant to be saved - none of humanity was - and the belief of one day making it out of this horror show alive soon melded into despair.

Shitty burnt coffee filled each corner and shadowy expanse of the house as you tugged on the worn (slightly frayed) denim jacket you found abandoned in an apartment building four years ago. The scent of decay would never leave the thick fabric, but you started to think of it as a trophy. Something to remember all the years you fought to survive, all the time spent clawing your way back to some version of humanity.

Jackson existed to give people a chance.

tagging: @ovaryacted @eupheme @cavillscurls @elflutter @superhoeva + whoever wants to do this!

[goodgirlgonebard]

WIP Wednesday whatever

Thank you for the tag @andromedaancunin 🥰 I’m not even sure who to tag because I feel like I’ve seen WIPs from everyone except for myself this week eeeeeep so if you’re reading this, tag, you’re it

This is a little bit of Goodnight, My Love chapter 56 — I’ve been stuck on it & 57 for a bit because writing fight scenes can feel a bit tedious to me, so I’ve been jumping ahead and writing, umm, other stuff instead 😝 so it’s still a WIP! But it’s cooking!

Just as I did in Shar’s Gauntlet, in the self-same trial, I run while my companions face off against the threat behind me, focused only on my part of this mission: freeing my lover from his chains. We couldn’t make much of a plan on the way here, unknowing what Cazador would have in store for us — and we certainly never would have guessed all of this — but there is one thing we were very clear on, and that was keeping Astarion from becoming a victim of this Black Mass. Because once Astarion is gone, sold away to a devil in this ritualistic deal, there is nothing we can do. And once Cazador ascends to hellish power, that of which has never been seen before, we don’t know anymore if we could take him down.

Bats rip through my hair and cold air tears into my lungs as I meet the other end of the disc, and a blockade of summoned wolves stand between my running body and Astarion — hanging in the air, struggling against the invisible power that holds him there above his sigil, awaiting the ending of his life if I cannot get to him fast enough. They aren’t normal wolves, either; they are undead creature summons, standing on their back legs and drooling all over themselves, teeth barred as I close in on them with no sign of stopping. Because I cannot stop. I have to get to Astarion.

I only have a split second to think, eyeing their claws outstretched and ready to rip through me like I’m nothing. A shocking grasp could only hit one at a time. A magic missile would not do enough to their thick skin. But if I encase myself in fire like I did with the Bhaalists, only a moment too late inside that similarly awful temple — that might do the trick.

My fingers work without input from my brain, and the words come out of my mouth before I even have time to think about them as I come face to face with the first of the werewolves. Before a claw can touch my body, suddenly a ward of fire covers it, and the smell of burnt flesh covers the stench of rot and decay all around me; but it isn’t my burnt flesh, to be sure. The one to my right whimpers like a dog as it falls back down onto all fours, and the one on my left retreats with a burning gash the size of a small, adult elf across its front, and the path to Astarion is clear.

[yandecifi]

The Bathroom ♤ Chapter Two

♠ masterlist

♠ cw: kidnapping, sa, violence

dabi/reader, psychological, wip shortfic

Every time you swallow, it kind of feels like parts of your throat go down with the spit, sloughing off.

Dabi has you wrestled against the cabinet, hand pressing roughly into your face while he fumbles about your thigh. A bottle of heat suppressant lies on the floor, open, almost empty.

He pokes the syringe into your thigh again. Your stomach strongly dislikes this. You huff, try to see what he’s doing, but he just pushes you further into the cabinet door. With every injection comes the cool sensation of it running through your blood.

Dabi’s hands shake as he refills the syringe with the last of the suppressant, as he stabs it into your thigh for the last time. You squirm beneath him, breath heavy, eyes darting around. The normal dose is half a syringe and he’s using the entire fucking bottle.

He finally releases you. You just stare at him, eyes red, lip wobbling, as he gathers up the trash and leaves.

Some amount of time later you start throwing up. You fall asleep, wake up in a vomiting fit, fall asleep, wake up in a vomiting fit, fall asleep, vomiting fit, fall asleep, vomiting fit —

You lie in your own filth. The people in the vent disappear, reappear, they argue and they joke and you hear Dabi down there with them, sometimes. You find yourself sleeping more and more.

You wake up to Dabi slapping you across the face. He narrows his eyes when you stir, despite being starved and covered in piss and vomit.

“Still kicking,” he mutters, crouched in front of you, nose wrinkled from the smell. “Of fucking course you are.”

You don’t have the energy to do much else but stare at him. He stares back, eyes heavily lidded, baby blue.

“What? Thinking about how ugly I am?”

You drop your gaze to your knees, to his scuffed boots.

“Typical omega.”

Your nose wrinkles. Typical alpha, you want to sneer back, but you haven’t been able to speak since you woke up here.

Dabi’s nostrils flare. He leans over until his arm is bearing weight on the cabinet door. He sticks his face into your neck.

You can feel every puff of air. He sniffs along your scent gland, or whatever’s not been left a blistering mess thanks to his hands. Something hot and wet drags itself up your neck -- his tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog to a water bowl. You grit your teeth.

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters. His other hand plays with the hem of your vomit-covered work shirt. You turn away, the scabs on your neck stretching and tearing.

Disgusting, he says, but he’s sniffing up your scent like it’s a fine perfume.

Dabi burns a hole into the middle of your shirt and then rips it the rest of the way. The remains slip down your arms to leave you in your bra, underwear, and the vomit on your lap.

You stare at the mold on the shower curtains and imagine yourself as one of many. Mold lives in colonies, thousands upon thousands of individuals making up the itty bitty dots crawling up the curtains there. You can be somebody else for the moment.

Dabi has stopped. You hazard a slow change in focus, bring yourself back to look into the eyes you initially registered as baby blue, of all things. Now, they’re almost all black, the pupils blown as he stares down at your chest that’s rising and falling with each urgent wheeze, your shoulders trembling. Whatever expression you’re making makes him practically snarl.

“Fine, then. I’m too ugly for you? Fucking rot in here.”

Cool air replaces his overbearing presence as he gets to his feet and stomps out of the bathroom. You’re left right where you started, if not a little bit colder.

Despite how close he was, you couldn’t smell him.

You close your eyes. It’s too bright in this bathroom, too stuffy. You wriggle around your restraints for what feels like the thousandth time. Your stomach clenches and you throw up nothing for what must really be the thousandth time.

[psycheandthistle]

Novelette intro <3

Antigone Rides Alone

Summary - Set in 1891, Thebes is controlled by Creon, a powerful landowner with half the town in his pocket. When Creon forbids the burial of Polyneices, an innocent man deemed traitor, Antigone can't do nothing. She'll risk everything, defying him to honour her little brother.

Characters:

Antigone - our narrator, quiet and reserved, but fiercely loyal to the ones she loves, as well as extremely defiant against everyone and everything.

Ismene - Antigone's little sister, loves her brother, but not enough.

Polyneices and Eteocles - the twins, killed each other in rivalry. Eteocles awaits a funeral, while Polyneices rots inside a noose.

Haemon - Antigone's fiance. His bravery is too little, too late.

Creon - the "ruler" of Thebes. He's corrupt. Surely this will have no consequences for him.

Core theme - unconditional love for your siblings.

This is really just an adaption of Antigone, by Sophocles, but set in the wild west. theyre two vibes that is really wanted to smash together for the longest time, and i think antigone is a main character that really brings a lot of outlaw energy to the table.

im thinking this will be around 8k words, because at the moment its already 3k and i havent gotten past the first interaction between ismene and antigone 😭

anyway some excerpts:

“Antigone, the horse is tacked.” Haemon says. Haemon is a man unlike most around Thebes, which means that the word tacked fits oddly in his mouth, and Antigone is unsure if it’ll ever settle in. Being the prince of Thebes that he is, Haemon’s more civilized than anyone she’s ever met. He can read and write, and he’s pretty proficient with his words, but he can’t cuss for the life of him and he has yet to meet the eyes of a woman without turning all red and flustered. 

It should bother Antigone, as she is his betrothed and therefore will marry him in the near future, but now all she can think about is how when she’s gone, which she will be soon, she hopes Haemon finds a lady that’ll suit his softer edges better than Antigone ever will.

“I know.” She says, because she has his riding jeans on and is lacing up her boots.

“There ain’t no king in Thebes, Haemon, and what Creon is doing is a poor impression of what it would take to be one. He doesn’t have authority over me." Antigone says.

“Do you think that matters?” Haemon asks, ears reddening as his eyes narrow. “He’s as much of a king as we have. He has men. He has loyalty. He has horses and guns.”

“I’m more than willing to die for this.”

“No Antigone, you’re more than willing to die.”

But now, everyone, including Ismene, knows about Oedipus and his mother-wife, and Ismene wishes for nothing more than to rip the semblance of the Labdacus line off her face and for someone to love her again.

Antigone doesn’t want to say it, but she knows Ismene will have a hard time trying to achieve both those goals, she’s trying alright, she sweetalks just about every tender-footed newcomer and lies about the stories she tells. She bats her pretty eyelashes and prays to the gods that one day everyone will forget about her lineage.

Antigone knows that Ismene would discard her for less than that.

It doesn’t matter to Antigone, because Ismene is her sister.

also if youve read this far, tell me about your wip!!!! im literally so interested in being friends with other writers, so lets chat! :)

[novacorpsrecruit]

Better Without You

My other braincell @comicsbi-thebook and I came up with a steddie AU the other day that’s rotting my brain but I do not need another WIP

Steddie Rockstar/Country Star (breakup) AU based on Dixon Dallas’ song Better Without You

Steve and Eddie, who get together after the events of season 4. Eddie was hurt (he may been technically dead for a few minutes), but he’s alive and that’s what matters. He starts to heal over the next few months, Steve by his side, helping Wayne take care of Eddie and falling in love along the way. There were a lot of painful nights — memories, nightmares, wounds that reopened, stitches that ripped, lots of tears and fear that the Upside Down may come back. No matter what happened, Steve was by Eddie side, promising that he wasn’t going to leave him.

Maybe two years pass in their relationship and eddie’s got the record deal of a life time, but that means leaving everything behind. His family, his friends, his life. The agent saw Eddie with Steve and told him that he had to leave him if he wanted the deal. The label wouldn’t sign someone who was queer. This is his only chance on getting out of Hawkins, being known for something other than the town freak that’s accused of a string of murders. This is what he needs.

So he does.

He packs up everything and leaves, barely telling Steve goodbye. Steve is left with a broken heart, a shoebox of pictures and trinkets, and Eddie’s damn acoustic guitar.

He thought about breaking the guitar. Thought about smashing it in the parking lot outside their apartment. taking the broken pieces and lighting it on fire. He tried to return it to Wayne, but Wayne refused. “If he left it, it’s yours.”

Steve let the guitar stay haunting the bedroom, Eddie’s painted words taunting him. Reminding him of what he lost. So he grabs a rag and some alcohol and wipes it clean, removing the words. He learns how to play, stringing chords together and humming along. He learns how to play Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson. And eventually, the pain hurts less. He got a local gig — a paid one — at one of the dive bars, and they kept requesting him to come back.

Eventually, someone important hears him. They offer him a record deal. Steve nearly refused, because of Eddie. Eddie was told to get back in that damn closet if he wanted to break into the industry. Steve refuses to do anything except be himself. If the record wanted him, they’d take him as he is. And the record wanted him, so they agreed to his terms. Out and proud. He signs it and paints his own mark on that damn guitar, known as his signature machine. This machine heals broken hearts.

I hope you miss me when you think about me / and everything we could’ve been / and now you’re nothing but another memory / you know it hurt but in the end / I’m doing better without you, and I know you hate it / I used to think you were the one but you ain’t / no more dancing around it, and I hate to say it / but you damn sure ain’t the one I got away

Steve records a few songs, and instantly they were hits. His song, Better Without You, hit the charts and was played for weeks on the Top 40. Hell, he even broke the top 5.

His lyrics were raw, and any time he preformed the song live, the audience went wild.

I loved you at your worst / you left me at your best / I watched you fade away into the sunset / threw my heart into the dirt / you ripped it from my chest / tried to kill me but I ain’t dying yet

Eddie, known by his moniker MUNSON, is a huge breakout in the metal scene. He’s topped all the metal, rock and alt charts. He’s had a single or two hit the top 40 but most of his fans aren’t from the demographic. He’s done one North American tour with Pantera and he’s rumored to headline his own tour soon. But when he heard about the gay country artist making waves across the charts, he had to take a listen out of curiosity. As soon as the first verse hit, he recognized that voice instantly. He remembers the late nights years ago singing along to Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen years ago. He knows the song is about him and it breaks his heart. He hurts because he knows he hurt Steve. He loved Steve, he really did. He still does.

But Eddie’s so proud of what he’s done at an artist.

And he’s terrified to lose that. Terrified to going back to Eddie the Freak. Eddie the Loser. Eddie stuck in the hellhole of Hawkins, Indiana.

So he calls Steve. He finds a way to get in contact with him. Maybe he uses Dustin to help his number, or a way to talk with him.

And maybe Steve’s a little hopeful when they exchange pleasantries and Eddie tells him that he likes the song and he’s proud of Steve for making it and being out.

But then reality comes crashing down. “You wouldn’t …” Eddie starts, trailing off. He’s nervous, worried, afraid. “You wouldn’t out me, would you?”

This wasn’t an apology for breaking Steve’s heart. It’s a plea, begging for Steve not to out Eddie. And Steve can’t help but laugh as he feels his heart break again.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Steve laughs, hiding his pain. Hiding the tears that want to slide down his cheeks. “Do you really think I’d do that to anyone? Don’t fucking call me again.”

And maybe the next time he plays Better Without You, he sings some lyrics a little louder, while his heart aches.

I’m glad you came into my life, you really taught me well. / and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. / you showed me the devil ain’t exactly in a place called hell / you were tightly wrapped up in my loving arms.

[fearandhatred]

thank u so much to my beloveds @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and @seven-stars-in-his-palm for tagging me, kissing u both for this omg <3 i'm doing two of each because i can

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.

transitional heart taxidermy [5986 words, wip]

They fit so perfectly together, the both of them, always. Not side by side like pieces of a puzzle, no, but like molten lava over sand; one over the other, one mellowing the other, changing its chemistry into something different, stronger, useful. The kiss tastes of Aziraphale, of copper and saliva and something holy. It's a taste he'll come to get used to, bloodied and bruised, a taste he chases after as the angel pulls back.

and one from an unpublished chapter:

It's been a day, two, maybe three. His hands are stained with blood and phantom glass, reeking of alcohol and rot palpable enough to taste. Aziraphale doesn't come for him, and he feels relief but also a pain so deep it's paralysing. It's a revelation in itself.

blood in my eyes [1953 words]

This is the first time in years he has stepped foot back into this place. It's a spontaneous decision, driven by a mellow melancholy and a soft wistful night. Muriel isn't in, so the bookshop is dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie, lonely glow on the ancient hardbacks. The rearing statue that once held his glasses every other day is coated in a thin layer of dust; he leaves them on.

Crowley wipes away a tear from Aziraphale's cheek with his thumb. It leaves a bright red streak. After, hours pass by before Aziraphale washes the blood from his face, imprinted in the vague shape of Crowley's hand. In those hours, when he sits in the quiet of a bookshop once again burned to ash, the blood stays there as a reminder, maybe, or as punishment.

sub-consequence [11567 words, wip] — six of crows

He wants to say everything he could possibly say to persuade Kaz to change his mind, because if he says everything in the world, strings together every word in every possible combination, there has to be at least one thing that would convince him to stay.

Sometimes Inej thinks Kaz cares about himself less than he cares about getting what he wants. It feels sometimes as if he's completely detached from himself, his own person becoming just another means to an end. People would scream at her that this isn't selflessness. It's ruthlessness, or psychopathy, or numbness. That's how the name Dirtyhands came about, after all. The willingness to do anything no matter the cost. To get his hands dirty with blood, be it others' or his own. But what is selflessness, really? A lack of selfishness, or a loss of self?

to sleep, perchance to dream [662 words] — the sandman

God, Calliope. His heart, face of cloud fields and white lily springs, a hope so blinding in contrast to his shadowed being that he had known from the start the hands of The Fates would pull them apart to opposite poles.

His lifetime of constraint allowed him to face the knowledge that any selfish will to see her in the wake of remembering all he had forsaken, all that had been ripped from him, would seal the vestibules to acceptance and he would beg with no dignity to stay by her side. And his heart burned, scorched unpleasantly at her parting words, just as the skin she touched and had once touched long after she was twice gone.

tagging those whose words i'd love to see (no pressure!!): @actual-changeling @sentientsky @irispurpurea @springofviolets @demonsandpieohmy

[lewis-winters]

I know I should be working on other WIPs-- and just working in general-- but I watched The Old Guard again yesterday so here, have the Winnix TOG Canon Divergence AU

tw for: depictions of death, the effects of mustard gas, gore, trauma, and angst!

"Stop touching it."

Dick doesn't. In fact, just to be annoying-- though mostly on reflex-- he brushes past the newly formed scar of Lewis's brow one more time, prodding and poking until finally, fed up, Lew waves his hand away with a weak growl. "You'll open it back up."

Ah. That gets Dick to back off, pulling away abruptly like he'd been scalded. And maybe he has. After all, there's blood on his mind, now. A memory both too fresh to do anything but hurt; but a situation too resolved to feel anything but indignation at his own continued terror.

It's been nearly a millennia since the beginning of their renewed existence, and while they know their lot of second chances are bound to run out one day, surely the familiarity with Death should have settled in their old bones by now. Yet, when She comes, She brings with her all the fanfare that accompanies all finality. Almost immortality does not always warrant camaraderie with pain and grief.

They were luckier this time, at least.

They hadn't been as eager to join this war as they had been the last. Not that he'd been eager to join that war, either. But just like all things, Dick's need for a cause called out to Lewis' need to make sure Dick doesn't lose his goddamn mind fighting until he drops. And so, in the midst of the 1910s, they managed to find themselves spending long nights in the deep, damp French trenches, huddled together in the dark. For two and a half years, they lived like that, shaking apart with fear, both real and imagined, as the rats nibbled on their fingers and infections slowly overtook their lungs and toes. Any warrior worth their salt would know that it's not the fighting that fucks you over, but the waiting in between. The rotting wounds left to fester. The fear that threatened to eat you whole from within, if the bullets about you didn't get to you first. Together, they passed days watching their boys die, either from sickness or bullets or both, their corpses stacked around them so high, in the dark they looked like fortress walls, caging them in as they waited for the moment it would all come toppling down.

Then, the gas came pouring in.

Lewis had taken the brunt of it, in the end, ripping his gas mask off in a desperate attempt to save what was left of Dick's face. Neither of them had enough sense at the time to hear him scream in agony, clawing at his eyes until they were nothing but pulp underneath his fingernails; but the echoes of it would have a chance to ring in Dick's ears anyway. The screaming didn't stop in France.

And it took Lew years to regain his old self, in both nerves and sight; and it took even longer than that for Dick to stop dreaming of scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and angry red, in place of dark brown eyes. The damage healed a lot slower than either of them have ever experienced before, and required more outside help than either of them were comfortable with. By the time the last of Lewis' sight had been restored to him, a whole decade and several new identities had gone by, and Dick had done his best to promise: no more fighting.

They made it through another decade before he broke that one. It barely felt like a blink of an eye.

And now, here they are again. Huddled together, blanketed by dark night, with each other's blood once again under their fingernails, a new scar on Lewis' forehead, and the tangible memory of a crater in the back of his head, where the bullet found its exit and his brains had spattered out of his skull.

"Hey," Lewis breathes, sensing the dark turn Dick's thoughts have gone and reaching out for him, touching his face with cold fingertips. "I'm sorry. That was a bad joke."

Yes. It was. But Dick is not going to reprimand him for it. He's learned that jokes are Lew's best defense against the weight of their prolonged existence. Just like drink. Just like nicotine. Or just like Dick himself, his only lone companion in this casually cruel world. How could Dick ever deny him this?

Tilting their heads together, Dick guides his lips to the new scar, and resolutely tries not to think about how much longer Lew bears the marks of his deaths, and what that might mean for him. "It'll be gone tomorrow," he says, more to himself than Lew. "You'll see. Like brand new."

"Like brand new," Lewis echoes. Resigned. Going boneless as he leans all his (dead) weight into Dick's arms and buries his face in his neck. "Always brand new."

Even against the heat of Dick's skin, Lew stays cold. Dick doesn't think he's ever known a time when he was warm.

--

Dick and Lewis were made immortal sometime between 58 and 50BC, when Rome waged war against Gaul, as explained in this deleted line: "Lewis was not made for warrior-hood like Dick had been, having gone from the luxury afforded to him by his roman senator father's fortune to a miserable roman centurion on the back of a single mistake alone. He'd known almost nothing the first time he'd fallen under Dick's Gaulic blade; that his own sword had pierced Dick's chest at the same time was a mere fluke he's since been unable to replicate."

[winvyre]

OC Questionnaire Tag!!!! (The Winvyre Show ep 1)

Thanks for the tag @paeliae-occasionally !!!! I'm going to have fun with this one ;)

-------

*Lights come up in a studio filled with audience members. The stage is empty aside from a couch and an armchair on either side of a small table. The background is a photo of Winvyre's face and on the table sits two hot chocolates and a plate of cookies.*

*The audience cheers as WINVYRE walks out on stage wearing a purple suit, flashcards in hand, smiling like their photo.*

WINVYRE: Welcome, bitches and benches, to the talk show portion of our program! I'm your host for this and all other segments: Winvyre!

*Audience cheers again.*

WINVYRE: Today we're breaking not one but two characters out of their canon settings to answer some of your questions! Please welcome to the stage the protagonists of my current WIPs... Connor Willard and Valerie No Surname!

*A very confused skinny teenager and a delighted white-haired girl appear sitting on the couch. The boy blinks in the light and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The girl shields her eyes to pick out faces in the audience.*

WINVYRE: Hello, Connor and Valerie. Don't worry, you're fine, you won't remember any of this when you go back to your worlds.

CONNOR: What?

VALERIE: Where are we?

WINVYRE: You're in a pocket dimension I created just for this scenario. Just like I created you.

CONNOR: You what?

*VALERIE mumbles a similar statement through a mouth full of cookies.*

CONNOR: I have several questions.

WINVYRE: So do I! So let's get started.

CONNOR: Wait-

Do you have any hobbies? If so, what ones?

VALERIE: Ooh! I like to swim and climb trees and play with my stick and hoop and watch the Watchmen spar with their swords and play games!

CONNOR: I like to draw. I also play baseball but I don't really like it.

How good is your sleep schedule?

VALERIE: I go to bed at bedtime and I wake up when the sun rises just like everybody else! Mom sometimes reads to me and Kell. Fran thinks she's too old for bedtime stories.

CONNOR: My bedtime is whenever my mother goes to sleep because waking up due to someone yelling and pounding on your door is NOT fun. Even then I'm an insomniac.

Do you have any siblings? If so, how good is your relationship?

CONNOR: I'm an only child. Not sure if that's for the better or worse.

VALERIE: I have three! We're all adopted. Maurin's the oldest, he's sixteen, Francesca's thirteen, Kell's eleven, and I'm ten! Maurin went missing not that long ago... I miss him... Fran's annoying and acts strangely but Mom says that's just because she's hit puberty. Kell and I play together a lot but sometimes he does this creepy voice and says scary things.

What was the toughest time you had to endure while growing up?

CONNOR: Oh, how do I pick?

VALERIE: When Maurin disappeared. Mom's never cried so much.

What was the worst day of your life?

CONNOR: The day we moved. It was terrible on its own and it marked the beginning of... everything.

VALERIE: [WINVYRE presses a button on their chair to bleep out the spoiler]

What's your worst nightmare?

VALERIE: The hoary. They're scary!

CONNOR: That I'll feel empty forever.

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare, what would you tell it and why?

VALERIE: The hoary can't ask questions; they're mindless killers and they'll rip you apart and devour your flesh and leave you to suffer and rot soaked in your own blood and organs while you slowly die and-

CONNOR: What kind of world do you come from?!

VALERIE: A regular one?

WINVYRE: Her setting is much more fantastical than yours. Don't worry about it.

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare, what would you tell it and why?

CONNOR: The truth. Almost nothing about me is a secret, it's just that no one asks.

What's your relationship with your family like?

CONNOR: Do I have to answer this?

WINVYRE: Yep. This show doesn't stay on the air unless the people are entertained.

CONNOR: I... love my parents. I hate them too. I hate that I can't only hate them. I feel happy when they praise me. I want to get away from them. I like it when they hug me. I hate what I may lose to them. I want to tell them everything. I hope I never forgive them.

VALERIE: Do you want a cookie?

WINVYRE: What's your answer, Valerie?

VALERIE: Uh, good. I love and get along with everyone. Do you dream often? what about?

VALERIE: Riding dragons!

CONNOR: I had a lot of vivid, creative nightmares as a kid. Now the content is more horrific but they never really feel like nightmares anymore.

What is the one thing you would not wish on your greatest adversary?

CONNOR: Any of what I've been through. It really fucks you up.

VALERIE: Nothing! I hope the hoary gets her!

WINVYRE: And that's all for today, bitches and benches! Thank you for tuning in and don't forget to vote for our next topic- (What? No budget? Fine.) Let us know if you ever want another installment of The Winvyre Show!

@sableglass @davycoquette @daily-haley

[sourpatchys]

A wip that I never finished because I need to get back on that writing grind instead of rotting in bed

Title: Petals

Warning: none, mentions of blood and injury

Word count: 870

A/n: I cannot seem to figure out a good ending for this oneshot, originally it was going to be a battle of stubbornness, with the reading refusing to admit their true feelings as to not get in the way, and Shigaraki refusing to admit his feelings because he just assumed he’d be turned away. Then it was going to be just an angsty mess and I got sad writing it haha. If you’re feeling up to it let me know how you’d end this story properly, I’d love to hear it!

Masterlist guidelines

—

All it took was one touch.

The gentle caress of your hand on his shoulder accompanied by a shiny reassuring smile.

It was honestly pretty pathetic to say the least. It definitely wasn't something that Shigaraki was prepared to deal with.

But suddenly he couldn't stop thinking about you. Every move you made, every off handed gesture— everything— he paid attention to it all. It was almost as if he were in a trance, completely fixated, unable to look away.

You started to haunt his dreams, and while he was never one to shy away from nightmares, he found that the pleasant dreams you accompanied him in were much more horrific.

He had it bad, and it was all your fault.

It was easy to ignore for while— he avoided you— making Dabi or Toga talk to you instead for whatever task you were being assigned. He never answered your questions, he wouldn't even look you in the eyes.

But then you touched him again, one big hug after an accomplished mission. It almost knocked him out cold.

After that he couldn't ignore it anymore, deciding to just say fuck it and see what else there was to learn about you.

He would invite you to play games with him on his shitty old DS he managed to keep with him— he listened to your rambling over your favorite bands new songs— he watched you indulge in your hobbies and even tried them out for himself when you weren't around.

He knew it was a bad idea from the start, getting close to you, letting you give him friendly hugs and pats on the back.

And when you kissed him on the cheek as a thank you after he gave you a stupid little prize he won in a claw machine— he felt it for the very first time.

A cloudy feeling in his lungs that made his throat feel as if it were full of glass, the shards ripping his throat to shreds.

It started off slow— for a while it didn't really impact him at all, just an uncomfortable feeling brewing in his chest. It didn't slow him down, he never had to stop what he was doing— and no one even seemed to notice.

But then the coughing fits started and the petals started coming out— closing his windpipe and ripping through his body in an unforgiving rage.

Funnily enough, they were your favorite color.

To see something you loved so dearly mixed with his own blood— it honestly made him sick. You were no saint, your hands becoming just as dirty as the others as the days moved on and the league progressed— but there was nothing morbid within you. You killed to live, not to take.

By this point everyone knew something was wrong, even if they couldn't pinpoint an exact reason. He did his best to keep the petals out of sight, shoving them in his pocket or decaying them before they could even leave his mouth. The coppery taste became something he couldn't avoid, his teeth growing weak and his skin going pale.

Their oh so fearless leader was now slow, out of breath and coughing up blood seemingly out of nowhere. Really— who could blame them for being so concerned?

Especially you. The one who started it all.

He knew he was too far gone— that his days were sure to be numbered, and every moment you stood by his bedside was another year off of his life. But really— he didn't care at all. Shigaraki was stubborn, even if in the end it would mean his demise.

He was stubborn enough to keep the issue to himself and he was selfish enough to let it eat away at him— so long as you were by his side.

If anyone were to figure out his situation, to put the pieces together and diagnose his ailment from afar—he was sure they'd laugh right in his face. He had so much to do, so much to live for, and yet he allowed himself to stay dying in your arms.

God, he really was pathetic.

He hated himself for it— he wanted to hate you— but the velvety blood soaked petals shoved in his pocket were there to mock him— to tell him it was far too late for that. There was no hope of escaping, even if he had wanted to.

Your hands were always so warm, tender, reminiscent of something he had long since forgotten. You fluffed his pillow every night and brushed his hair every morning. You were no villain— you had to have been an angel dropped from the sky.

As his body grew weaker, your attention towards him doubled in size— If he had known dying was all it took to keep you glued to his side then maybe none of this would've been happening.

Had this happened only a few months earlier he would've had the damn plant removed— he would've forgotten you, buried your body along with your memory. He didn't want this, he didn't need this.

But oh how he wanted you— oh how he needed you.

You were a curse. His own personal fallen angel.

[losersimonriley]

WIP: Sundowning 👀💕

SUNDOWNING MY BELOVED ❤️ This is a fix-it for mwiii that I’ve been working on since November (help me.) Had to take a bit of a break from this one but we are so back baby. 24k words in and this is the longest story I’ve ever written. And it’s only 1/3 of the way done

Here is (quite a hefty chunk bc I’m weak) of the very beginning prologue! From Price’s pov, just like how the epilogue will be <3 Angst ahead—picking up right after…That scene. They think Soap is dead (no fear! He is not!)

John Price

London, England

21 November 2023 1800

He’s just lost two men.

After they defuse the bomb, it takes all but a second to realise it. Two pairs of eyes. One set stormy blue and…still laser focused. Even in death. The other set whiskey brown, huge and…scared. As if throughout all the unimaginable horrors in Simon Riley’s short life, this one is the worst those eyes have seen yet. It may very well be.

Simon had only just returned and now—

Now Ghost is going to shove him right back into that grave and never let him out again.

Because he might’ve been the one to physically pull himself out of the dirt and rot all those years ago, but Soap had been the one to truly set him free. Anyone could see it. Soap had been the one armed with the shocks that restarted Simon Riley’s heart. And now he’s gone. They’re both gone. Ripped away within the blink of a blue or brown eye.

And Price has only got his fucking self to blame.

So he calls it in. He tells Laswell one KIA, when he means two. She says the officers have just radioed her to confirm a clear entrance and exit. He fights himself not to look at the clean entrance and exit path through his own sergeant’s temples upon hearing those words.

She’s sending medevac down. About five minutes out. Not that they’ll need it for anything other than transporting John MacTavish’s dead fucking carcass out of here. Maybe three shock blankets, should they be so lucky. Not that he deserves the comfort at all.

Christ, there’s so much blood.

His mouth is full of cotton and his hands itch to kill. His body yearns to take a page out of Ghost’s book and fall to his knees just to feel the warm blood soak through his trousers.

But Kyle is pressing his lips together, trying not to let his face crumple, trying to be the perfect picture of composure. Trying to hold it together for what’s left of the team. Simon’s chest heaves with wheezing breaths that aren’t coming naturally like they should be, while stained gloves tremble over Soap’s chest.

And Price knows he does not have the luxury of falling apart right now.

No, that will have to wait until they’re back in Herefordshire. Base will hold the standard vigil, a ceremonious affair complete with bagpipes and candlelight for the youngest soldier to ever pass SAS selection. Later that night, he’ll have his own private wake in his office with the cheapest bottle of scotch, a good cigar and guilt thick enough to weaponise.

Actually.

Perhaps he will lose it sooner rather than later—in the form of cold-blooded revenge. He’s got the easiest target of a man in mind. Next best thing to Makarov himself.

The puddle of blood spreads to the toe of his boot. By the time the med team arrives, he is an island in a sea of red.

Ghost doesn’t break until the stretcher ready to load up Soap’s body is within sight. That is, predictably, what snips the final wire holding it all together.

Red wire.

[m-for-musings]

WIP WATHEVER

(got my Wednesday all tangled up at work so I'm posting on Thursday fuck it)

Things are getting wild for the Baldur's Gate Kindred. Astarion, Wyll, Gale and Shadowheart just staked Minthara at her haven's parking lot after dealing with her Ghouls. But now, what to do with a staked Lasombra?

(Yes, I'm still working on a Baldur's Gate x Vampire The Masquerade crossover lol — excerpt below cut)

Minthara lay on the cold concrete floor, her body motionless, eyes wide open in frozen fury. The wooden stake protruding from her chest was grotesque, and Astarion couldn’t help but smirk as he nudged it with his foot. "Well, this escalated quickly," he said with mock innocence, glancing at the others.

Gale, however, was not taking it so lightly. His hands were shaking as he paced back and forth, running them through his already disheveled hair. "Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods," he muttered, wide-eyed and on the verge of a meltdown. "We just staked a Primogen. Not just any Primogen — a Lasombra Primogen! Do you understand the gravity of this? Allow me to paint you a vivid picture of exactly how this could lead to our demise. No, scratch that—our final demise. The kind where there’s no coming back. We’re as good as dead. Final death, do you hear me? This is how it ends for us. All of us. Gone. Staked, burned, left to see the dawn, dust in the wind! It’s over!"

"Calm down, Gale," Wyll said, trying and failing to sound confident. His posture was stiff, and he kept glancing at the elevator door as if expecting Mizora to burst out of it at any moment — even though she wouldn't quite have a reason to be there. "Panicking won't help us now."

"Won’t help? Won’t help? Wyll, if the other Primogen— if your sire finds out, she is going to murder us in our sleep!" Gale gestured frantically at Minthara’s paralyzed body. "We invaded a Primogen's have and staked her! How are you so calm right now?!"

"I’m not calm," Wyll shot back, his jaw tight. "I’m terrified. But we need to think this through before we make it worse."

Astarion let out a short, amused laugh. "Worse? I think we've already passed ‘worse,’ darling. We’re in ‘catastrophic’ territory." He crouched down next to Minthara and poked her cheek, delighting in her helplessness. "Still... I must admit, it’s nice to see her without all that arrogance for once. I could get used to this."

Shadowheart, leaning casually against the wall, rolled her eyes. "Alright, fun’s over. We need to figure out what to do with her before someone stumbles in."

"What if someone finds her?" Gale asked, pure panic etched on his face. It was unclear if the question was meant to the others or to himself.

Shadowheart shrugged, unfazed. "Better for us that she be found staked than dead. If they find her dead, then we’d have real problems."

Astarion raised an eyebrow. "I’m with Shadowheart on this. The work is done, can't we just leave her here? Let the Gangrel handle her."

Wyll shot him a look. "Too risky. We can’t just leave her here. What do you think will happen if someone finds her first and she’s un-staked?"

Astarion’s smirk widened. "Oh, that’s obvious. She’ll come for us, rip our hearts out one by one, and feast on them while we scream for mercy." He gave Wyll a playful nudge. "You first, naturally."

Gale paled, as if he hadn't put up the Blush of Life at all. "Oh gods."

"Focus," Wyll snapped, his frustration finally showing. "We need to move her somewhere. Somewhere discreet."

"I know a place," Shadowheart chimed in. Her voice was cool, almost detached. "It's off-limits, secluded, and nothing ties us to it. No one goes there. We can hide her until we figure out what to do."

[...]

Astarion tilted his head. "And if she’s found there?"

Shadowheart shrugged again. "So she’s found staked. Big deal. It’s not like we’re leaving a pile of ash or a corpse to rot. As I said, nothing ties us to that place."

"She ties us to that place!" Gale practically shouted, his voice rising in pitch. "Don’t you get it? The moment she’s free, she’s going to tell everyone! It’ll be the talk of the entire city. And then we’ll have a Blood Hunt on our heads! Do you know what that means? Every Kindred in this city will be after us, clawing for our throats! There’ll be nowhere to hide, no safe haven! We’ll be hunted like animals!"

"She’s probably too proud to admit four neonates bested a Primogen in her own haven." Shadowheart said, though there was the slightest hint of doubt in her voice. "Even if she does talk, the Lasombra may be part of the Camarilla now, but they’re still persona non grata. Her clan may hold a seat among the Primogen, but the title is mere nominal, just like the Banu Haqim. She’ll be left to handle it on her own, just like she was left now. But if we leave a body? Then we’re looking at a full-blown investigation. The Camarilla will be all over us for breaking their precious Traditions." She pointed at the stake in Minthara’s chest. "This? This buys us time. And if it comes to it, we can always blame the Gangrel."

A moment of tense silence followed as everyone considered the options. Gale looked like he was going to pass out, but he managed to nod. "I-I guess that makes sense. But... how do we even move her there without raising suspicion?"

[...]

"Right." Wyll sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Let's get this done already. Shadowheart, get the car in here. We’ll drag her. Astarion, grab her feet. I'll take her arms. Gale... just try not to hyperventilate."

Astarion shot Wyll a sly grin. "Oh, look at you, taking charge. How very heroic. Almost makes me want to listen."

Shadowheart groaned, turning to run upstairs. "Just shut up and grab her, Astarion."

Astarion let out a dramatic sigh but did as instructed. "You know, Wyll, I can’t help but feel this is all your fault. If you hadn’t insisted on—"

"My fault?!" Wyll shot him a sharp glare. "How exactly is this my fault? If I recall, you were the one who snuck up behind her and shoved the stake through her heart!"

Astarion’s grin returned. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re the one who started this whole mess by offering to help that bunch of savages—"

"Guys," Gale interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think I’m going to be sick."

Astarion just laughed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, Gale. Welcome to the real world of Kindred politics. Isn’t it fun?"

[somethingclevermahogony]

Find Four Lines

Thanks for the tag @kaylinalexanderbooks!

Rules: find four lines in your WIP that match the prompts, then change ONE prompt for the next people!

Once again I am completely ignoring the "line" part of this haha

a line about music

As the beer flowed music was played, the sound of ethereal drums and harps which neither Narul nor Ninma could see. Unseen lips and fingers blew pipes and clapped. The spirits danced and spun and cried out to the stars and the moon above. Narul and Ninma joined in, emboldened by full bellies and strong beer. They danced and sang many a song, songs of kings and gods, of demigods and dragons. When Narul pounded his feet the trees shook and the birds took flight. Ninma leapt and twirled, her golden circlet sparkling in the firelight. She could see strange people watching from the shadows, folk with horns and skin like moss. They watched in silence, judging, but Ninma did not care, she danced, sang, laughed, roared, screamed, and cried without care or shame.

a line about pain

A beast stalked the hills and cliffs which overlooked the valley. It crawled across the earth, its rot and malfeasance scattered the lesser creatures before him, sent the birds to, and the lizards to their holes. He had shed his skin of skin of bronze already, ripped it and the arrow from his body and had cast them in the dust. He was on the hunt, his sharp-eyes waited desperate for his prey. He gripped his spear in anticipation. Zatur shuddered, breathed in deeply, his body shook, his body screamed out in constant pain.

a line about relationships

Istek grumbled and nodded. He came by the flower tying naturally even with one hand. As the pile of flower ropes and crowns grew in front of him, he told stories about his adventures on the Green Sea, stories of sea monsters, pirate kings, distant lands where the people are made of clay, and most excitedly about meeting Sihunu and Dati. When the old sailor spoke of his loves it was as if some invisible hand smoothed the wrinkles on his face and once more ignited the fire behind his eyes. They had heard these stories before, but Jani listened all the same for the stories would change ever so slightly with each retelling. Ninma continued to knot the stems but between flowers, she would cast glances at Jani, at that small smile of his, the way it made his eyes squint and twinkle. In the short time they had come to know each other she had fallen in love with that smile. Jani noticed her staring.

“Can I help you?” He teased.

a bittersweet line

He felt the cold water, lapping at his skin, his face, his nose, his mouth. He thought about his friends, the adventures he had been on, the life he lived, and those that now awaited him. These thoughts kept the chill at bay, kindling a warmth deep within his chest. The watery world around him faded, darkened, and then all drifted away like a half-forgotten dream.

Tagging @winterandwords, @elizaellwrites, @paeliae-occasionally, @illarian-rambling Your lines will be: a line about food, a line about pain, a line about relationships, and a bittersweet line

[direwombat]

tagged by @aceghosts, and @socially-awkward-skeleton on this wip of a wednesday (tysm <3)

brain hasn't been letting me write recently, so here's something from a few weeks ago. it's the intro to the "soft praise kink jakesyb" smutfic i will eventually come back to (also uh...katc spoilers but these spoilers are a LOOOOOOOONG way off and still kinda falls in line with fc5 canon so spoilers but not really but still kinda). tw for decapitation

Sybille storms through the hallways of St. Francis. The Chosen wisely part for her as she carves a bloody streak of red across the floors. She’s drenched in red, her eyes wide and almost manic. Her pupils are tiny pinpricks surrounded by thick rings of green, and her chest heaves with every shallow breath she takes. Every muscle in her body is tense, poised to strike and lash out at anyone who gets in her way, and the sweet, metallic taste of iron fills her mouth. 

Yet, she looks leagues better than the victim she’s carrying with her. 

Every thunderous step of her combat boots leaves wet, red footprints across the linoleum, striding alongside the dripping trail originating from the stump of Eli Palmer's neck. 

She carries the head by its hair -- his head by his hair. Her fingers weave through the dark, tangled, matted locks. The skin is pale, his chapped lips a frigid blue, and his jaw hangs slack now that there’s no tension to keep it shut. His warm brown eyes -- eyes that looked upon her with affection, with a look that said “Under any other circumstances, we could have had something great,” -- are nothing more than cold, glassy marbles, quickly clouding over. 

She had done her job. Served her purpose. Made her sacrifice. 

The worst part of it is that she had done it entirely sober. No Bliss clouded her judgment. No red tinting the edges of her vision or “Only You” echoing hauntingly somewhere in the distance. She was entirely aware of what she was doing as she committed every single gruesome action against Eli and the Whitetail militia. 

He had fed her, clothed her, armed her, fucking saved her. He was the one who pulled her from the Grand View all those weeks ago. He was the one who trusted her when no one else did, when her mind was still in the early stages of ripping itself apart. He didn’t judge her for her instability like Joey, or challenge her decisions like Grace eventually did. They were equals. Former soldiers, thrust into positions of authority against their will and burdened by the responsibility others placed on them. He let her into his bunker. Trusted her when trust was hard to come by. 

And in exchange, she killed him; smoked the militia out of their burrow as if they were nothing more than rabbits. She had hunted them down. Picked them off, one by one until it was just Eli left. He had begged her for mercy. Pleading, saying that this wasn’t her, that it was Jacob’s conditioning. She was better than this. Stronger.

She showed him just how strong she was by meting out the Judgment for his sins, as her new role in the Project demands. Then, she had cut through the cartilage of his neck and slipped her knife between his vertebrae to bring a trophy back to her Master. 

Proof she had made her sacrifice; that she had done as ordered like the good little soldier she is. Jacob’s right hand. His pet. His Judge. 

Kicking down the door to Jacob’s office, she barges in without announcing herself. He’s sitting at his desk with his reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. A number of files lay spread out across his desk, and he’s meticulously cross-referencing them when she drops Eli’s head on top of them with an undignified splat. 

“It’s done,” she says grimly. 

tagging: @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @jillvalentinesday, @cassietrn, @poetikat, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot,@miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed (sorry about what syb did to cappie's man here), @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @adelaidedrubman, @madparadoxum, @voidika, @strangefable, and anyone else with something to share today! (taglist opt in/out)