#second of all was he supposed to let you murder his aunt????

[gregmarriage]

sideshow bob is the funniest fucker alive. his nemesis is a ten year old, who put him in jail for the crime he LITERALLY committed. he’s not above child murder, or just murder in general. he used to hate krusty, but apparently bart takes first place after he puts him in jail, again, for the crime he LITERALLY committed!! he’s insane <3

[astraystayyh]

An eye for an eye.

assassin!hyunjin x journalist!yn. slow burn. suggestive and angsty at times. she/her pronouns. 7.4k.

it is perhaps the most decisive night of your life. what are the odds that at the same time and place, it happens to be hyunjin’s too?

warnings: mention of alcohol, guns, bruises and injuries. brief talks of grief.

a.n: this is prompted by how hot villain hyunjin looks in the ate era 😭 it was supposed to be a drabble and i didn’t plan on it to be this long.. but i hope you’ll enjoy reading tehee it’s different from anything i’ve ever written so please feedback would be so appreciated,, muah muah 😘❣️

A ruby red lipstick. 

Your first childhood dream was to become a journalist, but not the complacent, obedient kind. You wanted to shed light on uncovered events, dig into the raw truth with your claws, and hold it up for the entire world to witness. You craved justice. You never believed in letting things flow their way, like a current that morphs into a torrent, destroying everything in its path.

No, you were a dam, forcing the water to change its trajectory. After all, you have always believed that all it took for change to happen was a trigger, a single flicker that would in turn burst into flames.

You wished to be it.

It was hard to grow into this specific kind of journalist, though. Not because you lacked drive, passion, or discipline. Especially not because you weren’t curious enough, brave enough. You were Seoul Press’s youngest and brightest reporter, after all.

But in a highly competitive field, you still needed your big story, your breakthrough which would put you on the radar of esteemed awards that all journalists venerate. Though you deemed it much easier to obtain a Pulitzer than to squelch your heart’s quest for truth, justice, and most importantly, in an unpredictable curb that life threw at you— revenge.

Your second childhood dream was to put on ruby red lipstick. Your thirteen-year-old self deemed it the ultimate show of power and confidence, each time you saw your aunt wearing one to her most important meetings. You dreamed of the day you could put it on as well, on your way to uncover the truth. 

And tonight, as you applied your ruby lipstick precisely, gliding the vibrant color across your lips, you felt nerves tighten like thorny vines in your stomach, puncturing your tender skin and leaving you a bloodied mess from within. 

Tonight, in your black gown and your ruby lipstick, in San Heo’s mansion, your country’s most prominent presidential candidate, and the man who ruined your life, it seemed like you were about to achieve both dreams at once.

… 

The clock hand points nine on Hyunjin’s Tank Louis Cartier watch. He throws a fleeting glance at the Victorian watch, before eyeing the people mingling at San Heo’s party. 

He knows all of the guests, memorized their faces and their habits. He knows the school where they drop off their kids and what bar they frequent every Sunday. He memorized their mannerisms and antics, knows what set them off and what did not.

This is the fruit of two years of work, after all.

He knows exactly why everyone is here, tonight particularly. Three politicians’ families and friends gathered as a show of power, to prove that they weren’t afraid of whoever’s been forcing politicians to come clean about their crimes for the past three months.

In the least glamorous manner, at that too, to put it delicately—ten bloodied tapes sent to the country’s most prominent media channels, where ministers and heads of multinationals are bound by ropes to a chair, recalling their most heinous crimes: money laundering and embezzlement for most, theft and murder for some.

The latter is Jung Cho’s case, San’s most successful competitor for the presidency, who has also mysteriously vanished from the police’s grasp since the release of his tape. No one can get a hold of poor Jung Cho anymore. 

Hyunjin smirks lightly to himself. His knuckles seem to have healed well since he last dislocated Jung Cho’s jaw. Well, that was before he shot him through the roof of his mouth.

The golden cuffs of Hyunjin’s Versace blazer reflect the light of the dangling crystal chandeliers, and he runs a weary hand through his black locks. He never chose to gel them back; he wasn’t one for structure, preferring the feeling of his silky strands brushing against his fingers. 

His eyes catch those of San’s across the room, who tips his glass of whiskey towards Hyunjin—a job well done, he reads in San’s stare. Hyunjin raises his red wine back, before settling it across the table once more.

It is a boring half an hour that awaits Hyunjin.

That is until he sees you.

You weren’t here two minutes ago, Hyunjin is sure of this. And, judging by the way you are leisurely sipping your sparkling water, your eyes gliding across the room in search of someone in particular, you had just stepped foot into the party.

Fashionably late, if he were to add.

But that is none of Hyunjin’s concern. What intrigues him the most is that your face isn’t familiar to him. That isn’t normal.

You weren’t supposed to be here, then.

Who are you?

As if hearing his question, your gaze locks onto his. He cocks an eyebrow at you; you mirror the gesture like clockwork.

Thus ensues an intense game of eye contact. You don’t break away from his gaze until two minutes later, a light scoff escaping your lips that he can discern even from afar. You then turn to look at San, your eyes morphing into something fiercer, more determined— a sniper finally locking eyes on its target.

Hyunjin feels a slight headache growing at the base of his temple. He downs his drink, before taking long strides towards you.

It’s official, you’re going to be his nuisance for the night.

27 minutes.

“Care to dance?” Hyunjin inquires as he materializes before you, a hand extended towards your body.

“Pardon?”

“A dance? To the lovely music we are hearing right now?” 

“I know what you mean,” you roll your eyes, leaning your body against the chair right next to you. Hyunjin’s eyes glaze over your legs peeking through the high slit of your dress. Had it been another setting, the sight of your black sheer tights would have made this night turn much differently.

Your voice dispels his thoughts like morning fog. “I mean why are you asking me?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“How flattering,” you grin sarcastically and Hyunjin feels the smallest urge to return your smile, although he knows it isn’t genuine.

“I know. Shall we?”

Your gaze flees to San once again, seemingly debating something in your head before finally sighing.

In the few seconds of scrutiny you consecrate to his boss, Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your bright red lipstick, and the way you tuck your lip slightly into your mouth as you ponder.

A beautiful nuisance, he corrects himself.

“Fine,” You place your manicured hand in his in response.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as he settles one hand atop your waist. The fabric of your black dress is too thin, he can feel the heat emanating from your body seeping through his palm.

Focus. You need to discover who she is.

“Julia,” your hand settles atop his shoulder, while the other entwines with his. “And you?”

“Sam. What are you doing here?” he quickly inquires.

You shake your head slightly, gliding your hand from the base of his neck to the end of his shoulder.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Hyunjin tilts his head curiously at you, before smirking slightly— “Yes ma’am.”

“What do you work for?”

“I’m Mr. Heo’s political adviser.”

“You’re quite young, though,” you note.

“I know.”

“And I don’t see you by his side a lot.”

“I work in the background, mostly. I don’t do well with the cameras.” He spins you around, picking up speed as the orchestra picks up the violin. “How do you know Mr. Heo?”

“I’m Kang’s niece, you know, Mr. Heo’s economic adviser? Uncle Kang is ill, and my father is out of the country so both of them chose not to come.”

Hyunjin’s memory faintly brushes off Kang’s single niece, completing her architectural studies in Paris’ Sorbonne. 

“C’est beau à Paris?” Is it beautiful in Paris?

You don’t even blink— “Même magnifique, tu devrais visiter.” Marvelous even, you should visit. 

Checks out.

“I’ll hold you on to that offer,” he says, before spinning you around, your chest settling across his back. Hyunjin ignores how his heart skips a singular beat at your proximity.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, his lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. He watches as your chest rises once before your airy voice floods his ear.

“Networking, though you didn’t quite allow me to speak to anyone but you,” you tease slightly.

“I fail to see what an architect has to do with politicians,” he muses, as he sways you gently from left to right.

“I want to oversee the building of Jamsil Sports Complex.”

“So you’re using your father for work connections?” he taunts and you swivel around, placing both your hands on his shoulders before interlinking your fingers behind his neck, caging him within the notes of your perfume.

“Is it a crime?” your voice is airy, too airy, everything you say sounds rehearsed, you don’t seem intimidated by him, by this setting, as opposed to how a newly graduated student, one who grew up away from her father’s world should.

“Depends on your definition,” he counters.

“Do you regard it as such?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flickers all over yours. He senses something urgent in your gaze, as if you are pushing for more, beyond what this simple question entails.

When he remains quiet for a tad too long, you let your hands drop by your body, taking a step away from him.

“I need to go,” you say. He grabs your wrist instantly. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.” And with that, you quickly turn around and walk away, leaving behind notes of your floral perfume and ghosts of your ruby lips.

Hyunjin steals a glance at his clock. 09:13 p.m.

He drags a hand across his forehead wearily. He won’t let you ruin this night.

17 minutes. 

You are washing your hands obsessively in the bathroom, lost in thought as you gaze at your reflection, all blurry from your unfocused eyes. You only turn off the water once your skin starts to sting from the force of your touch. 

The orange-scented soap doesn’t seem to get rid of the stench of blood. 

A week ago. 

“I don't understand your obsession with Mr. Heo,” Christopher Bang calmly removed his glasses, placing them next to the shiny placate reading ‘Editor in Chief of Seoul Press’.

“He is corrupt.”

“As all politicians are,” he spoke matter of factly, and it angered you how unfazed he seemed before your, you admit, far-fetched request. 

“You don’t understand, sir. He’s different.”

“Did he do something to you?” Chris asked, leaning back against his chair. You felt exposed all of a sudden, like a flower left bare without its stem. 

“Would my answer change anything?” You inquired tentatively. 

“It would explain many things, yes actually,” he got up from his chair, before sitting on the one right across from you. “You are a talented journalist, Yn.”

“Thank you—“

“But you are utilizing the company’s resources to conduct your personal investigation on San Heo.” 

He knew. 

“You’ve been working on his case from the day you joined our media. Which was exactly 389 days ago. I know that you’ve managed to uncover quite some dirt, one that would make an explosive case if you get more information. That’s why I turned a blind eye to everything you did because I trust your skills and integrity.” 

You remained silent.

“But now, you’re asking me to completely disregard my deontology by finding a way for you to break into Mr. Heo’s mansion. That is a crime.”

“Not break in. I want an invite to his party, it is the first time he organized one in his home, probably the last time, it is my only chance to—”

“Details,” he waves a hand disinterestedly in the air, cutting you off. “Your intentions aren’t to mingle with politicians, it is to dig in his office and find something of substance. While I admire the lengths of what you want to go through, I must stop you here.” He leveled his eyes with yours. “This can land you in jail, he is the most important man in our country right now.”

“What if I tell you he did something to me, that he ruined my life? Would you help me then?” your voice was hoarse, tears pricked your eyes as you tried your best not to avert your gaze. You hated displays of weakness, despised them even more in professional settings. 

“What did he do?” 

You bristled at the question, ugly memories flashing before your eyes like a blinding light, your body begging you to flee away from this question and the heavy response it entailed.

Still, you spoke. 

Christopher remained silent as you recalled what happened on your doomsday, the night in which your world ceased to spin, and simultaneously, the reason why you joined his company, to begin with. When your sniffles subsided a few minutes later, he gently handed you a napkin, a silent invitation to wipe away the tears that had escaped.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his weary face before finally speaking. 

“I’ll give you the invite tomorrow. Say that you are Kang’s niece, her name is Julia. She went to Paris for architectural studies, and that you are back for a vacation. Kang is ill these days, he won’t attend the party, and his brother is out of the country, no one will question you.”

“How do you know this?” 

“Because I know them,” he toyed with his lower lip lightly before a tiny smile drew upon it. “An eye for an eye, right? I’m Kang’s cousin. I changed my last name because I didn’t wish to deal with them anymore.” 

“So Bhang isn’t your real last name?”

“No.” He ran his thumb across his lower lip, seemingly debating adding something. “San’s office is on the far end of the third floor.” 

You heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

13 minutes. 

It was one thing to stare at photographs of San seared behind your reddened eyelids or to stand at the far end of his press conferences. It was another to step foot into his mansion, to stand amidst powerful people who are capable of ruining your life had they known of your motives. 

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your personal feelings. Fear, nerves, all of those feeble emotions pale before the chance you have today. So, you nod at your reflection in the mirror, count to three in your head, and finally head out of the bathroom. 

“Five minutes, were you crying?” Sam’s bored voice startles you as soon as you set foot outside. He’s leaning on the wall across from the door, hands deep into the pockets of his suit.

Not again. 

“I know that I’m very pretty but don’t you have better things to do than to follow me?” you ask, pausing right in front of him. 

“I’m not following you, I just happen to be particularly fond of the architecture of this corridor,” he jokes and you ignore his words, walking past him with a renowned determination. He pushes himself off the wall, only to grasp your wrist once again, spinning you around until you’re facing him. 

He chuckles softly, tilting his head to the side. His icy blue contacts pierce through your skin like a puncture needle.  “You know, I’m curious, Julia. You seemed very eager to get away from me.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. “Have you considered that I found your company utterly boring?”

“You wound me,” he places a hand on his heart, any trace of humor absent from his voice. His grip tightens on your wrist for a millisecond. A warning. “I need you to leave.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“And why should I listen to you?” you challenge and his eyes darken further. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then let me go,” you mutter, slipping your hand away from his grasp. 

“Julia,” he says sternly, pulling you back till your back is against the wall, his hands rooted on either side of your body. 

It is a dimly lit hallway, and the sound of the orchestra barely reaches you. Your worry intermingles with a new kind of nerves, all orchestrated by his proximity, and the way his gaze brushes against your body like a skilled painter. 

“I’m not joking, leave.” His voice is much softer when he adds, “It’s for your own good. What will happen later doesn’t concern you.”

He knows something that you don’t know, something that, from his tone, none of the guests are aware of. You see something human in his eyes, in the slight crease doting his eyebrows. He seems genuinely worried for the innocent civilian he thinks you are. 

Your eyes turn to look at his hand near your head, only to notice his faintly bruised knuckles, shades of purple and green doting a delicate porcelain skin. They have healed well, then. 

Should you unearth the memory from two weeks ago— pleas for mercy, a deafening gunshot, and an excruciating silence afterward, the quiet after the murder that you remember most? 

Then, another scene rings in your head like bells of an ancient church— a bruised hand brushing against your own in an art gallery from two days ago, raven locks, and familiar, melancholy-tinted eyes. 

Could it be? 

Your voice turns sweet, tender, “should I trust you for the night?” your thumb brushes against the skin underneath his eye, wiping away the concealer you knew you spotted.

There it is, the eye mole you thought he covered. 

It clicks in your mind in an instant, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, there are still a few missing but you manage to grasp the bigger picture.

If he’s not letting you go then he could be of good use. 

What other choice do you have but to gamble with a killer? 

Your sharp nails drag across the nape of his neck, before settling right beneath his jaw. You mimic a gun, his eyes narrow in response.

“Is this how you killed Jung Cho, Hyunjin?” 

You feel a cold barrel instantly press against your stomach. “Police officer?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Journalist ?”

“Yes,” you slowly mutter.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t wish to tell you.” The gun only presses further onto your skin. You feel a cold bead of sweat roll down your exposed spine. 

Breathe. 

“It’s Yn.”

“What do you know?”

“It’d be easier for me to talk if you removed the gun,” you smile lightly and Hyunjin only leans further, a distance as thin as a blade between you both.

“Speak.”

“You killed the only candidate that stood a chance in front of San. You drove him to the empty deposit near Inwangsan Mountain, tortured him for three days, filmed his confessions, and then sent them to many media outlets. Ours included. I know it because I followed you.” 

“Why did you follow me?” he questions. Your eyes flee to the end of the corridor where an impossible staircase sits. You are wasting your time. 

“Because I am investigating San. And through following him I ended up getting to know you. You are different from everyone he meets. Very secretive. So I figured it’d be worth a shot following you too,” you explain as calmly as you can. You’re sure the barrel of the gun will leave a bruise on your skin. 

“And why didn’t you write a piece about me? Everyone is dying to know who I am.”

“I have, I just haven’t released it. If I don’t come back home in an hour my head chef will post the video of you murdering Mr. Cho on every SNS. The public loves you for what you’re doing. But the politicians will come together to kill you. They have a price on your head. You are threatening everything they ever built.” 

Hyunjin drags his gun up your stomach slowly, trails it across your collarbones before it settles on your jaw. 

“I could kill you too, right now.” His tone is cold, evil. Very different from the man who asked you to dance. You know that I can.” 

“My death would only sign yours.”

Hyunjin’s forehead rests on the wall right next to your head. You can hear him inhale deeply, hear the gears turning in his head. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

He drops the gun and takes a step back. “Why didn’t you expose me?”

“You are not the one that matters to me.” 

“What do you want from me then?” 

“Three minutes. Open San’s office, and then I’ll go. No one will ever know of your identity.” 

He remains silent. 

“Hyunjin, please.” 

“Fuck, fine. But whatever happens next you’ll have to trust me, okay?” his hands settle on your shoulder, his eyes leveling with yours, “if you’re not leaving then you’ll have to trust me enough, for tonight.” 

8 minutes. 

“After you,” Hyunjin bows slightly as he opens the door to Heo’s office. You step in first, and he steals a quick glance behind him—no one’s here, for now.

“That saved me the hassle of breaking the door.”

“You know how to do that?” he asks, slightly impressed.

“One of my hobbies,” you shrug before walking directly to the desk. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching as you lift your dress slightly, revealing a small packet tucked into your garter. The sight drives Hyunjin a little crazy, and he closes his eyes for a second.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t met you here tonight.

You take out a listening device, tapping the bottom of the desk until you find a suitable spot, and then you stick it in place.

“Another one of your hobbies?” he smirks.

You giggle. “Mm, aren’t I the most fun?”

“You are,” his eyes drag across your figure, and he notices a slight falter in your posture, “the most beautiful too.”

You blink, and he’s suddenly in front of you, trapping you between the auburn desk and his toned body. You don’t seem intimidated, placing a palm on his chest as you tilt your head to the side. 

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going after San?”

“No, he angers a lot of people.” His thumb caresses your cheek, a touch so soft in contrast to his next words. “A lot of people fantasize about his death.”

“Are you one of them?” you question, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Right now, all I’m fantasizing about is you.” His voice is husky, and he finds it comes out much easier when he actually likes the person he’s attempting to seduce. 

It takes you a few seconds to speak again. “Is that so?”

“Mm, let’s dance.”

“Didn’t we dance downstairs?”

“That was Sam and Julia dancing,” he says as he entwines his fingers with yours. “You see, Hyunjin is a different kind of dancer.” His hand presses against your back, snaking against your bare skin. “Can I pull you closer?” he asks, and you simply nod, eyes fleeting widely all over his face. 

His chest presses to yours, so close he’s sure your hearts are syncing with one another, his inhales alternating with your exhales. 

“Yn,” he whispers your name, as you look up at him through the curve of your eyelashes.  

“Yes, Hyunjin?” His name sounds soft as it stumbles from your ruby lips, innocent from all the blood that drenches his soul.

“I like the way you say my name.” He glances at his watch above your head. 9:57.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, as your hand drags up his neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair and gently dragging it backward, exposing his enticing neck to you. “You are always looking at your watch, what are you waiting for?”

He chuckles faintly, grabbing both your hands and spinning you around till his chin rests on the small of your shoulder. “You’re perceptive,” he mutters, as his fingers drag down your bare arms. “But so am I,” he says coldly as he grabs both your hands, bringing them behind your back. “Look, your hands are shaking just from my proximity. I don’t think you have it in you to film me killing Jung Cho. I don’t think you have it in you to watch me torture someone for three days.”

Click. Cold metal wraps around your wrist in an instant, handcuffing you to the leg of the table before which you’re standing. 

“I think you lied to me, Yn. I don’t like being lied to.”

“What are you doing?” you ask disoriented, panic spilling from your being like an overflowing cup.

Hyunjin pays you no mind, taking out his phone and dialing a number. “Boss, we have a problem. I caught a journalist trying to get into your room,” he taps his chin slowly as he looks at you. “No, no need for security. Just come alone. Don’t alarm the guests.”

2 minutes

“Are you serious?” you ask as soon as he hangs up, a prominent lump in your throat. “You told me to trust you.”

“Did I say I was worth that trust?” he pouts, seemingly mocking the vulnerable ordeal you found yourself in. 

A loud chuckle escapes your lips, your head thrown back as if before a hilarious spectacle of sorts. Hyunjin frowns, crossing his arms in front of his chest as your giggles slowly quiet down. 

“You’re a peculiar person, aren’t you Hyunjin? You need to hide your identity but you crave normalcy still, so you open your art gallery. You go to crazy lengths to cover your moles and wear contacts because you wish for people to look at you with admiration in their eyes, kindness. But you don’t deserve it.” There is a fire lit in your eyes, flames latching into his black suit and burning his already scarred skin. “You’ll always be as evil as them.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond for a while, his eyes simply softening at your words.

“I know,” he whispers. 

“Who’s this?” San’s voice booms loudly as he sets foot into the office. Hyunjin’s eyes break apart from your figure to look at San, bowing slightly to greet him. 

“Julia, she infiltrated the party,” Hyunjin explains, stealthily locking the door behind San. “She’s been investigating you for quite some time now. And… She knows about the murders.”

“Mm, she’s clever. Should we hire her?” San jokes and Hyunjin smiles politely, dragging his eyes over your face. You simply roll your eyes, seemingly more bored than scared. 

Cute. 

“Anyways,” Heo stares at you for a fleeting second before tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder. “She looks easy to kill. Just get rid of her. But don’t stain my carpet though, it's expensive.”

“Sure thing,” Hyunjin nods, taking out his gun and pointing it at your temple. He steals a final look at his watch— 9:30 p.m. he reads. 

Time’s up. 

“You didn’t think I’d let you go?” Hyunjin mocks, cocking his head at you. In a split second, a bullet ricochets loudly, but not at you. It grazes San’s ear, making him pause near the door, his back towards you both. 

“Right boss?” Hyunjin’s tone is slightly whiny, annoying is the best way to describe it. You can hear police sirens blare loudly outside, see the red and blue hues reflect off the window. Loud shouts erupt downstairs, Hyunjin leisurely reloads his gun, one hand deep into his pocket, San’s posture slightly falters, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm. 

“Do you hear that Heo? Your mansion is surrounded. All your filthy dirt is exposed. The police officers are arresting everyone downstairs right now. And they’re coming for you. The man of the hour.” Hyunjin makes a show of curtsying deeply. You stifle a giggle at his theatrics.

“You dare turn your back on me?” San yells, pivoting around to face Hyunjin’s barrel, the latter simply yawns as if it’s a regular Saturday activity for him. 

“Oh, don’t get emotional on me,” Hyunjin pouts, before his eyes narrow down coldly. “Now kneel. Let’s end this without staining your carpet.”

You see San slowly lowering himself to the ground, Hyunjin’s gaze sets on you for a millisecond, his pupils dilated in apology, in concern, you don’t know, you don't get to decipher his look because San is taking out his gun from his back pocket, aiming it at Hyunjin. “Watch out”— is all you manage to shout, and hyunjin ducks in an instant, propelled by the sound of your voice to the ground.

He could have died, he could have died because he looked at you. 

It all happens so fast, Hyunjin diving into San to take away his gun, both their weapons flinging into the air, San punching Hyunjin’s mouth and the latter retaliating by flinging his fist up against his nose. You’re struggling with your restraints, trying to reach out for the lone gun that fell to your right. 

A bit more, tune out the sirens, tune out the punches, slowly, only a few centimeters left, your wrist is on fire but that is the least of your concern, almost, there, you grab it.

You fire the gun.

It’s quiet once again, for the first time in two years, it is quiet in your head.

It’s over. 

You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the desk. The sound of your mother’s laughter floods your ears, her airy giggles as she brushes your hair and tucks you into her chest, her being a vision of beauty underneath the sun’s caress. 

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin kneels before you, wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks with his bruised knuckles. He is worried, even behind those icy blue contacts, you can still grasp his worry.

You nod, swallowing the sob that is lodged within your throat. Hyunjin is quick to unlock your handcuffs, entwining your fingers with his as he pulls you off the ground. 

You slightly push him aside, your eyes set on San’s bleeding figure. He’s still alive, rugged breaths escaping his chest, his palm pressed to the bullet that punctuated his stomach. 

“I want him dead,” you mutter, grabbing Hyunjin’s forearm to support yourself, “but I want him to rot in prison too.” 

“He will, for all his crimes. I have it all documented. The police have it too,” his palm rubs soothingly against your back, you lean further into his touch.

“He’s a monster.” 

“I know. They all are. That’s why I killed them,” he simply says, before guiding you back to a couch on the right of the office. He shrugs off his suit, draping it over your trembling shoulders. 

“Give me a minute.”

You watch as he grabs the gun you fired off of the ground, before taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes your fingerprints, making sure to leave his all over the gun. He then walks to the table, taking away your listening device and crushing it to the ground.

He’s calm and collected as he rearranges the scene to his liking, it looks like he has done this a million times before, as if this is the element in which he thrives— a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last. 

He kneels before your freezing figure one last time, tilting your chin to the side so you’d look at him.

“I fired the gun. You had no idea any of this would happen, you’re just an ambitious journalist who wanted an insider scoop.” He senses you’re somewhere far, pulled by the ropes of memories that had long haunted your dreams. His warm palm presses to your cold cheek, your eyes are glossy as they rest on him. 

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who used you as a scapegoat to bring San up here, just like I agreed with the police. Alright? You did nothing.You know nothing.” 

“Alright.”

Hours pass in a cold blur, the weight of time lost on you as three police officers take turns questioning you. You repeat the lines Hyunjin taught you, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Even as you step out of the police station, with Hyunjin's hand resting gently on your back, you feel nothing. A slight tremor runs through you when he mentions that San survived and will be transferred to prison once he's healed.

You don’t know why you’re disappointed you didn’t become a killer.

You don’t know anything, don’t feel anything as Hyunjin drives you home. You don’t question how he knows your address or the code to your elevator. It’s only when you unlock your door and he starts to pull away that reality snaps back.

Without thinking, you grab his wrist, suddenly aware of the loneliness that awaits you inside, an uninvited guest preying on your vulnerable heart.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, your voice tinged with hopelessness, knowing just how silly you sound. Why would he stay? He has so many loose ends to thread after his finishing blow, you know he’s part of something far larger than you. 

As if mocking your question, his phone buzzes for the tenth time in the span of five minutes.

But then, to your surprise, he turns it off.

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I’d like some tea.”

As you bring the water to a boil, Hyunjin rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, casually wandering around your apartment as if it’s not his first time setting foot in here. He’s always at ease— with a gun pointed at him or while looking at the souvenir magnets on your fridge. 

His calmness helps instill some peace in your heart too. 

“I like your apartment,” he says, accepting the cup of chamomile you hand him. “It’s cozy, feels like a home.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you sink into the couch, your head hung low. So much has happened in just half an hour, too much for you to fully comprehend and process.

“Let me see,” he says a few sips later, as he gently removes the cup from your clutch, before sliding his thumb across your right wrist. The bruises have already begun to form, the red marks from the handcuffs clear evidence of your struggle to reach the gun.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he murmurs, frowning as he avoids your gaze, staring intently at your wrist as if he could will the blue hues away. “I didn’t plan for you to be at the party.”

“I involved myself,” you chuckle softly. You’re not one for physical touch, but you don’t feel the usual urge to pull away from his grasp. His hands are warm, the roughness of his fingertips a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“You’re a stubborn journalist,” he says with a small smile, finally meeting your gaze. you suddenly yearn to look into the rich brown of his eyes once more. Was its shade as deep as you remember?

“And you’re an excellent painter,” you retort, eliciting a surprised laugh from him. The sound is unexpectedly endearing, and you’re caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is this really the same man you saw taking a life? The same man now holding your wrist as if it were made of porcelain?

“Right, you figured out my identity. What gave me away?” he asks, still smiling.

“I heard about this new gallery where the artist’s only clue to his identity was the name signed on his paintings. So, I decided to see for myself. While everyone else was captivated by the artwork, I noticed you, standing in the corner, observing the reactions of everyone around. You smiled when someone smiled, and your grin grew wider with each compliment. That’s when I started to suspect that the artist was you, all along.”

“I remember it now. I bumped into you as you were leaving,” he says, and you nod.

“What stood out to me were your sad eyes. That’s what I remember most. Well, besides your bruised knuckles.”

“And that’s how you connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your eye mole, too. Even though you tried to conceal it with makeup, it still showed.”

“Very perceptive,” he says with a grin.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll expose your identity?” you ask, as his hand gently slides into yours, his fingers resting lightly on top of yours. A simple, innocent touch, yet it stirs something unknown in the pits of your stomach. 

“I trusted you when you said I’m not the one who matters to you.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I miss putting my faith in someone, even if they end up failing me. Isn’t that the most human trait of all?”

How could an assassin create such heartfelt paintings, overflowing with emotions too hard to explain with words, let alone colors? Perhaps because this isn’t the life he always wanted.

“Did you choose this?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the interrogation, or the near brush with death, or perhaps the relief that this chapter is finally closing for both of you. But something compels you to keep talking, to ask, to hold on to Hyunjin just a little longer.

“Being a killer, you mean?” His voice carries a tenderness that seems at odds with the weight of his words. He’s a walking contradiction, balancing two identities within himself—Hyunjin and Sam. One feels heavier on his bones than the other. 

“I grew up in this world,” he continues. “My parents run a large network of assassins—or vigilantes, depending on how you see it. Some people hire us, and sometimes we act on our own when we see injustice or corruption festering for too long. We conduct thorough background checks. We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that.”

“An eye for an eye.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I always feel good in the midst of a case. One less evil in the world. But after, there’s just this emptiness. Now what? I always wonder. So I try to fill the void with painting.”

“Now what…” you repeat, your voice trembling as a lump forms in your throat. “Now what? What should I do now?” Tears well up and spill over suddenly, streaming down your face in an unstoppable torrent. “San is behind bars, but my mom isn’t coming back. So what now? What was all of this for if I can’t get her back?”

You find yourself burying your head in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close as if he could contain your sadness, preventing it from seeping from your soul and reaching your mother, wherever she may be.

You haven’t allowed anyone to hold you like this in two years, denying yourself any comfort until you could bring your mother’s killer to justice. It was a promise you made to yourself after San drunkenly ran her over and fled the scene, leaving you alone to hug her cold body in that sterile hospital room.

“It drove me crazy,” you sob, your words broken and incoherent. “He bribed everyone—the doctors, the paramedics, the stores nearby. Everyone acted like my mom didn’t d-die because of h-him,” you hiccup, and Hyunjin only holds you tighter, closer, enough to stitch your wounds with time, only if he remains this close to you. If he wishes to, if you allow him to.

“But now he’s behind bars, and I still don’t have my mom. What do I do now that I can’t bury myself in revenge? Hyunjin, what should I do when I miss her so much and I can’t see her?”

Five hours later.

“The article is perfect, no corrections needed,” Chris says, removing his glasses and looking at you with approval. “Excellent work, Yn.” 

“Thank you,” you nod, feeling a mix of relief, but mostly exhaustion. “I stayed up all night working on it.” 

“Goid, it’s only 6 a.m. so we know that no other media outlet has touched this yet. Our article will be the one to shape public opinion. This is a big win for us. It’s a thorough investigation, and I’m confident you’ll get the recognition you deserve,” he writes something down onto his notebook before looking at you once more. “Take a few days off—you’ve earned it. I’ll reach out if anything urgent comes up.”

“Thank you, sir.” You bow slightly before turning to leave the suffocating office. Or maybe it’s your own mind that’s suffocating you. You don’t have time to dwell on the question before Chris speaks again. 

“Oh, Yn?” Chris calls out just as your hand touches the doorknob. “One last thing, did you ever figure out who was behind all those tapes?”

Your grip on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. “No sir, no clue.” 

One month later. 

It’s a few minutes before the art gallery closes when you walk in. Hyunjin spots you before you see him, your distinctive walk etched in his memory as vividly as if it were only yesterday that he had seen it.

He approaches quietly, stopping behind you as you gaze at the newest addition to his collection.

“Is this us?” you ask, not turning around. Hyunjin’s eyes follow yours to the abstract painting of a couple waltzing in a ballroom, their hands intertwined just like yours were, four Saturdays ago.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“It seems I left an everlasting impression on you,” you tease, he can hear the smile in your voice without seeing it. 

“You did. You looked beautiful.”

“So did you.”

“I’m glad you came,” he says sincerely. “I missed you.”

“But we only spent a day together,” you giggle quietly, and Hyunjin wishes he could capture your laugh and tuck it away in the veins of his heart.

“Didn’t that day feel like a year, though?” he muses, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. You lean back into him, closing the space between you.

“It did,” you admit before nervously clearing your throat. “Are you free right now? We could grab a drink, if you’d like?”

“Chamomile tea?” he chuckles, and your laughter vibrates through his being.

“No, something stronger this time.”

He hums, hesitating as he despises the words that would stumble out of his mouth. “I have some things to handle tonight. Urgent matters.”

“Ah,” your voice dips slightly, the disappointment clear in your tone. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll see you another time, then,” you say, finally turning to face him. 

He really missed you. 

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” he says, watching your expression soften, a delicate smile forming on your lips.

“You saw it?”

“I did. I read your piece, too. I’m sure your mom would be proud of you.”

Tears of gratitude well up in your eyes, and you squeeze Hyunjin’s hand tightly as you whisper, “Thank you. Really. Thank you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin’s words linger in your soul, echoing through your mind for the rest of your day, his voice the only sound that seems to fill the silence within you. That is until three loud knocks resonate through your apartment, just minutes before midnight. 

You open the door to find Hyunjin standing there, a fresh bruise marring his jaw, his knuckles freshly scraped and bloodied.

“Let me guess, you had nowhere else to go?” you joke, trying to regain your composure at the sight of him once more.

“No,” he replies, his tone earnest, “I wanted to come to you.”

Your smile falters at the sincerity in his voice. You can’t quite place what it is about Hyunjin that pulls you toward him, how amidst everything that’s happened in the past month, the most vivid memory is how he held you gently as you cried and cried.

“I forgot something,” he says, pulling a tube of cooling cream from his back pocket and offering it to you. “I meant to give this to you for your bruised wrists.”

He’s a month late, you both know your wrists have long since healed.

“I… yeah,” he sighs before your silence, turning to leave, a light blush tinting his cheeks. But before he can, you drop the tube and grab his hand, spinning him back around.

“I forgot something too,” you say quickly before pressing your lips against his.

You don’t fully understand what draws you to Hyunjin, but you know his lips taste as sweet as cherry chapstick, that his hand around your waist feels like water flowing gently over your skin, warm and encompassing. That his brown eyes remind you of sunlight dancing on autumn leaves, that no one has touched your soul as deeply as he has.

You know you wish to make him feel as human as he makes you.

[mudhamster]

Fake freckles (Bkdk, humor, 700words)

Katsuki held up the tape barrier and Izuku, his hand on his aching hip, slipped underneath with difficulty, panting: "Thanks, Kacchan."

The blonde let the tape snap back without a word, the unmistakable sign for the reporters to storm the scene. They watch as they come, and Katsuki squares his shoulders in resignation.

"I hate this part."

Izuku quickly limps in front of him, a filter for both parties, and looks reassuringly over his shoulder into a dirty, grumpy face, "You did great. Don't worry."

"Hero Deku," the first round of questioning begins, "how long does it take to repaint your freckles every time?"

Izuku actually gasps in surprise at this, and the reporter leans further over the barrier, "What product do you use? I'm Mako, from the beauty channel-"

"Fuckin' what?" Kacchan's deep, scratchy voice asks from behind him and Izuku lets out a small, disbelieving laugh, fighting sudden goosebumps.

"Sorry," he apologizes immediately, "but I don't-"

"You think those are fake freckles?"

"Kacchan-"

"Are you guys fuckin' stupid?"

The reporter swings the microphone up while Katsuki crouches over Izuku like a shadow, "Have your shitty eyes checked, you-"

The reporter has no objection at all to changing the subject to the blonde in order to stop his impending barrage of insults.

"Hero Dynamight, you too are often seen with freckles in the summer-"

Literally smelling the nitro, Izuku jumped in, "Kacchan doesn't have any - ugh, it's mostly ash that sticks to his sweat-"

"Deku used to have freckles when every motherfucker and their aunt out there called them ugly," the blonde cut him off and Izuku pursed his lips a little embarrassed, "he has freckles on his elbow, behind his knees and on his goddamn ass."

"Kacchan-"

"How the hell is he supposed to paint there? Huh?"

Izuku rubbed the bridge of his nose and looks apologetically into the camera, but Katsuki wasn't done yet.

"You think he's got nothing better to do than get his ass fake-freckled after a fight?"

"Oh my god," Izuku breathed, subtly tugging at one of Kacchan's gauntlets, "I think that's enough. No one even remotely thought about my butt-"

But Katsuki had wriggled out of his grip and pulled out his cell phone. To Izuku's growing horror, he opened a rather green album and almost stuffed the phone into the reporter's mouth.

"Eight years ago, see? Four of them, right under his eye."

Izuku had never seen anyone flip through an album so violently. All cameras zoomed in on Kacchan's fingers, which aggressively zoomed in on his cheeks frame by frame. 

He tries again, "Kacchan-"

"Fuck off, Deku."

Then he takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Six years ago, four years – last year! Look, you dump jackass."

The whispering grew louder and Izuku bit his lips, mentally playing bingo as to what the headlines would be tomorrow. His ears burned. His face was warm. 

"Seen enough?"

The crowd backed away as Kacchan reared up to his full height, and Izuku was too slow to slap away the hand that gripped his collar tightly. With shameful ease, he was lifted from his feet and held up to the camera like a plushy.

"Kacchan-"

"Four here," he turned his wrist until Izuku's other cheek was almost stuck to the camera lens, "and four here. Amateurs y'all, shit."

Izuku pinched Katsuki's hand until the grip on his collar loosened and he found himself safely on his feet a second later. He was flushed from his knees up to his ears by now.

With what was left of his dignity, he tried to bow, thank the civilians for their support, and turn away - but he only managed the first as he was dragged away by the collar again. A storm of flashbulbs exploded behind them, the shouts drowning each other out. The reporters were ecstatic.

"Fake freckles," Kacchan hissed beside him, his little finger crackling with murderous intent, "I've never heard such a load of shit before."

They turn the corner and Izuku side-eyes his best friend.

"You've got a soft spot for my freckles," he concluded with a tiny grin. 

Katsuki punched him hard in the upper arm.

"Ow-"

"Shut the fuck up."

[lulublack90]

Prompt 6 - Extinct

@jegulus-microfic August 6, Word count 919

CW - Broken bodies

Previous part First Wolfstar part

James clasped his hand over his mouth to silent the gasp he inhaled as the entire extended Black family entered the room. Orion Black sat in the large leather armchair beside the fire. Cygnus Black, took the matching chair opposite, while the three ladies, Walburga, Druella and Narcissa took the wide settee. James and Sirius were stuck.

“Cygnus, Druella, I want to start things off by saying how sorry I am for your loss. The family’s loss. Bellatrix was the best of our family. We and I’m sure the Dark Lord will miss her presence.” Orion spoke solemnly. The gathered members raised glasses of red wine and firewhisky that had suddenly appeared beside them and toasted to Bellatrix. 

“It is a shame that she did not think to conceive, before her untimely end. But I suppose she thought she’d have more time. Plus the loss of the last of the Lestrange’s to boot. It was a dark day when the Order attacked them.” Cygnus sighed, staring darkly into the depths of his whisky glass. 

“Albus Dumbledore's holier than thou little group of do-gooders, murdering all those witches and wizards? Come now, Cygnus, you don’t believe that for a second, do you?” Orion scoffed. 

“But the Dark Lord—” Cygnus began, but Orion cut him off. 

“No, it was ferocious. I saw the destruction left behind. They were animals. Tore them limb from limb. I couldn’t tell the Lestranges apart. The only way I knew it was Bella was by her hair and the wand clutched in her arm a few feet away from her body.” Orion tutted. “Absolute animals. I have no idea who the others were with them and there's no record of the prisoner in the dungeon. Merlin knows who they had down there.” He finished drinking deeply from his glass. 

“But who would do such a thing?” Druella sniffled, taking a silk handkerchief from her robes and dabbing at her eyes. “My poor Bella, so much talent gone to waste.”

“And now we are without an heir, again!” Walburga spat unhappily. “I suppose it will have to be Narcissa, but I am loath to let the Malfoy’s get their claws on our riches. Dragons, the lot of them!" 

“But what about Sirius? He’s the only one who can carry on the family name,” Orion argued. James felt Sirius stiffen beside him and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. He’d been so caught up in the conversation he’d almost forgotten that they were actually standing in the room. 

Walburga leant forward, her teeth bared, not unlike the werewolves when they got angry. 

“I would rather have our family name become extinct before I welcome that worthless excuse for a son back into the fold.” She sat back and composed herself. “Regulus may not have been the best choice for an heir, but at least he followed orders. It’s an irritating inconvenience that he didn’t live.” She turned to Narcissa, seated beside her. “You are the only one left who can carry on the bloodline, it’s just a shame you were born a female and there aren’t any other Black family members you could have married.” Narcissa squirmed uncomfortably in her seat just once, before correcting herself. 

“I’m sorry, Aunt. I promise any children Lucius and I can bear will be raised with the Black family values the same as I was,” Narcissa said with no emotion in her voice. 

“As I would expect,” Walburga barked. “When they are old enough you will bring them to me for instruction. I was too lenient on my own sons, but I shall remedy that.” Sirius scoffed and James had to nudge him, reminding him they needed to be quiet. Orion turned his head in their direction, his blue eyes, the same as Sirius’s, slowly examining the area where they were standing. His eyes crinkled and the corners of his lips twitched. James felt his stomach drop. Did Orion know they were there?

“Yes Aunt,” Narcissa said, her jaw clenching. James watched as her hand fluttered over her stomach and rested gently against her dress.

“I believe lunch is being served. Shall we?” Orion stood and gestured to the others. He waited for them to go, using his drink as a way to delay his exit. James and Sirius watched as he took a quill and a scrap of parchment from a drawer and scribbled something down. He looked again to the corner James and Sirius stood in and smiled warmly before walking out of the room, leaving the door open for them. 

Before James could stop him, Sirius was dragging him across the room to see what his father had written. 

‘Take whatever you need. Be safe and don’t linger, Sirius.’

Sirius froze at the words, his hand brushing across the parchment. He snatched up another piece to leave a message of his own. 

“Sirius, no!” James hissed under his breath. “If anyone sees it, you’ll be putting us all in danger,” Sirius stopped, his quill hovering over the parchment, dripping a few spots of ink as he warred with himself. 

“I have to, Prongs,” He said before scribbling across the parchment. 

‘The dog saved the cat from its strange underground cage. They took to the trees where they both are free. 

A Riddle they have found. A Riddle they will end. Only then will they be seen again.’

“Poetic shit. Alright, let’s go!” James hurried Sirius from the room, and they fled the house as silently as they could. 

Next part

[nerdieforpedro]

Last Line Tag Game

rules: in a new post, show the last line(s) you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you like).

Tagged by @tinytinymenace @djarinmuse @chronically-ghosted @pedroshotwifey

So I think I’ll give three last lines, because it’s what I’ve been working on, first up is Din Djarin smut. I was supposed to be writing fluff, between @alltheglitterandtheroar and @megamindsecretlair it changed for the better and teasing is always fun. ☺️

Both arms pull Din’s head to your chest, the sharp inhale of air before he’s buried in your body has you whining. The intensity of just two of this thick fingers have you close to your second orgasm but he removes them, a pop then a second as he mouth part from your nipple. “Taste yourself, then you’ll come twice for me.”

Second is from “This is the Neighboorhood Din” my modern Din AU:

“Dear Lord in heaven I am not dressed or prepared to talk to that sort of man any day.” She muttered as Ms. Harris made her way down the stairs toward her, she hugged her, and her arms wrapped around her as well, eye still lingering on the man sitting on the porch. His sweatpants did not leave much to the imagination. They weren’t tight by any means; one could just trace the lines. Thick thighs and well… heavy in the middle is the most polite way to say it. The only way she can think to describe it while hugging her aunt.

Third, last line from chapter 5 of “The Lake Between Us” (yes I do have future chapters written I planned! Unheard of in Nerdie-land)

“That I did Moonbeam. You should be cautious of my motives, but I can start at the beginning of my troubles for you if you like.” He placed his hand on hers, running up her arm to her shoulder and drew a small circle around her mole. “Be forewarned, the past is neither rosy nor glamorous. It is fraught with hardship, double-crosses and some death.”

Moonbeam grinned, nodding as he spoke, “Sounds like a thriller Ezra. I’m all ears. Add a dash of romance and some mistaken identity and you have yourself a movie marathon.”

“I’m sure you’d be riveted to hear it.”

“That I would.” Moonbeam crosses her legs and leans forward, touching his chin with a finger, “Speak.”

Lastly, I might be trying finish my Dave York series finally. 👀 Or one of them, though I’m not sure all of them are on Tumblr. I think I write too much stuff and it get’s jumbled. This is a softer Dave:

At her core, Kiara felt safe with him. It hurt to admit though she wasn’t exactly sure why, pride maybe? Maybe she wanted to continue to be independent but she hadn’t been for a few months now.

No. Not when she really thought about it.

Her head was leaning against the steering wheel, the nurse had seen his SUV parked in the driveway. Dave pretty much lived with her now, though she didn’t remember giving him a key. He hadn’t needed a key their first night together either.

I’m also working on “Roc & Doc” and crafting the murder mystery since I killed off Rockford’s partner and introduced his brother. What role will his brother play? We’ll see. Also, if you’re going to be a furry for the night, make sure you can in and out of your suit. 😎

Chapter 5 of “Weddings 101 with Dieter” is under way as well. I want a lot to be in it, might be too much. We’ll see how it turns out, also smut because Dieter’s gotta get Maya’s dress off - he did promise her that. 😘 Half-ass and Bridezilla are in full swing!

It’s a lot like always because it’s Nerdie, what else am I supposed to do? Too many ideas, not enough follow-through. I did four instead of three. 😵

NPT: @maggiemayhemnj @morallyinept @rhoorl (for the sweatpants) @linzels-blog for Din @inept-the-magnificent @soft-girl-musings @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @magpiepills @secretelephanttattoo @goodwithcheese @undercoverpena @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @lady-bess @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @gemmahale @laurfilijames @avastrasposts @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @tightjeansjavi @frenchiereading @boliv-jenta @thefrogdalorian @trulybetty @kewwrites @beefrobeefcal @fhatbhabie

And whoever else saw all this and was like, let me do it too! ☺️

[lovezbrownies]

small fun facts about all my characters :3

Nia Bloodwen:

-Owns a collection of erotic manga. Reads them until she eventually dies.

-Bashes chocolate and unhealthy eating in front of people but secretly owns a drawer full of chocolate and sweets and snacks. She only does this so people think she's superior.

-Once accidentally legalied murder, dont ask her how, she just signs papers!

Gen Ludenhart:

-She wanted Nia soo bad when she was younger, she's healed now.

-Taught Siolis and Red how to wield and shoot a gun one weekend when Sio was 8 and Red was 13. It was supposed to be a secret, Red couldn't wait to tell Grim and accidentally shot Grim, the kids weren't allowed near her without a chaperone for a long time (still aren't)

-Fully has a southern accent, she keeps it a secret.

Grim Ludenhart:

-Genuinely contemplated putting Red up for adopting numerous times

-Complete softy in bed, acts feral with foreplay but becomes the bitchiest man to exist when the act is finally being committed.

-Also has a southern accent and keep it a secret. Uses it to put the fear in his kids whenever they do something bad.

Siolis Ludenhart:

-Kind of a cannibal, likes eating human flesh, especially people without magic. Red knows of this and supplies them with the meat of horrible people.

-Had very long hair before they became the Queen's assistant, had to cut it for the job. Still misses it terribly :(

-Cussed out their Aunt, Gen, when she accidentally pushed them when they were 6. Like horrible words you'd never expect a traumatized 6 year old to say

Red Ludenhart:

-Wholeheartedly believes Siolis is the devil. No irony.

-Had a rat tail as a teenager, Siolis cut it off in his sleep.

-Hates the queen and tells it to her face whenever they visit Siolis. Leading to him somehow finding where her room is and smearing it in pig shit, don't ask how he managed to get it, he just did.

Lauren McCanister:

-Masochist and Sadist, god forbid if you insult her in bed or look pleased when she insults you, she will come undone before you even touch her

-Once destroyed an experiment her mom slaved over when she was 8 and blamed the dog. They never had a dog

-Once cursed out someone and their mother and their mother dropped dead the next day, thought she had secret magic for an entire year.

Julie McCanister:

-LOVES fooling around in bed, she'd outwardly say she doesn't care but trap her in a room with you? She will pounce.

-Lauren was an accident. Julie genuinely didn't expect for the experiment to be successful, she put in her DNA for shits and giggles.

-Once fucked her rival to make sure they develop feelings for her and drop out of a science competition. She won.

Lorelai Marlowe:

-Obsessed with her phone, genuinely cannot let it go for a second, pictures and records everything.

-Tried to become a social embarrassment in high school so people would leave her alone, did not work.

-Tried making a scientific discovery. Exitted the lab half bald

[deadmenandthedivine]

DEAD MEN § the DIVINE

chapter five: the maids that bloom in spring

Maetilda Targaryen, First of her Name, was supposed to be many things. What she became was entirely different.

table of contents

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

word count: 3748

“Helaena,” it cut through the cousins’ moment like a sword through cake, “My love, the children need you in your chambers.”

The voice had been recognizable anywhere. The last time she had heard it had been when it wielded a Valyrian dagger and was headed straight toward her brothers. Maetilda’s hackles raised as her body went rigid. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run as fast as her legs would carry her, but it was the Queen — she had to curtsy. When the Rogue Prince’s daughter mustered up the courage to face her aunt, she froze again at the sight of not only the Queen but her second son too. Aemond’s lilac eye had already been watching her. Maetilda felt as if her mind went completely blank. She felt completely exposed in front of them. Her knight had not announced their presence. Or if he had, she had not heard him. She did not know how long they had been standing there.

“Princess Maetilda, it is good to see you. Welcome back to the Red Keep.” Queen Alicent greeted.

At the sound of the stiff voice, the princess-by-title felt as if she had suddenly returned to her body. She flashed her best smile and dipped into a low curtsy. The skirts of her dress had been perfect for the occasion as it was one of her prettier gowns to curtsy in. Her Septa would have been proud, but she was more focused on her father’s pride. “Good morning, your Grace. I thank you for the extensive loving attention you have given my mother and us all. It has really been too much.”

“Do let me know if there is anything else I can do for you, princess.” The Queen retorted back tightly smug before turning her attention back to her daughter, “Helaena, my love, come.”

It was a command that the King’s second daughter immediately obeyed. Tearing herself away from their embrace, Helaena muttered under her breath, “We shall see each other tomorrow.”

The Queen and her only daughter bid the Rogue Prince’s daughter ‘good day.’ The two turned to leave and took a few tense steps away. Their feet crunching in the leaves and grass was the loudest sound in the Godswood. Alicent had clearly expected her second son to follow, but hesitated when he did not. Aemond remained where he stood, eye fixed on Maetilda. A soft smile graced his lips. A cold shiver ran down Maetilda’s spine.

“I shall make sure Princess Maetilda finds where she is going safely, and see you both soon.” Aemond told the woman behind him without even turning his head.

His mother nodded slowly at first before it grew in confidence, “Very well. Be safe.”

Princess Helaena was led away by the arm. The Queen’s grip on her unyielding. Her cousin could see the dents in the girl’s arm as she was ordered out of the Godswood. The two passed by the fresh sworn knight on their way. Ser Eddrin had relieved Ser Wyllam for the next two shifts somewhere between the castle doors and the Godswood. He stood a respectful distance from both the Prince and Princess. Aemond waited until his mother and sister were gone before he moved to step closer to his cousin, the knight creeping closer in turn. The prince flashed the slightest smile at the sound of squeaking bronze armor. He was dressed in a black coat and trousers with silver detailing. Little tiny dragons in nooks and crannies all around him. His silk tunic underneath was a very dark green. The top section of his long silver blonde hair was pulled out of his face. His leather eye patch was tucked through his hair, secured somewhere behind his head. He grew much more handsome with his age. He did not look like his father or his mother. Perhaps an older relative of theirs. His hair looked as soft as silk and his skin as smooth as marble. His features were strong and statuesque.He stood with his hands behind his back, shoulders straight in a confident posture. He was built tall and sturdy like a Hightower, yet retained the toned, agile, and slender physique of a Valyrian. If he could best Ser Criston, could he best her knight? She feared so. As her hands grew clammy, she hid them behind her back. She grabbed fistfuls of her gown to dry her hands off. All the while, Aemond watched her.

“I am pleased to see you again, princess. How did you sleep?”

The princess froze. His intense stare never faltered. Did he know she was walking about the castle the night before? Did he know that she had been to the library? She had not seen anyone, but perhaps she had missed him. Maetilda attempted to keep her face even so as not to give anything away, but she could tell by the look on his face that she had already failed. His soft smile turned smug and he crept a bit closer. So too did the knight.

“I found myself restless after all the events of yesterday.” She replied evenly, “It is hard being away from the bed I am used to.”

He paused before opening his mouth with intense sincerity, “I am… deeply sorry for my brother’s remarks to you yesterday, his behavior too. From what I understand, he was quite crass.”

“Yes, thank you. I do hope he will learn his manners soon.”

“I fear he will not.” Aemond allowed a sigh before changing the subject, “My sister has missed you.”

“I have missed her greatly. Letters simply do not compare.”

He paused again before he inquired, “Did my mother and I interrupt something?”

Maetilda paused as she remembered their brief time together as kids. Before Aemond had lost his eye, he was a very doting brother. He was among the few that had not treated her oddly for the things she said and did. He was her friend, listened to her attentively, and pieced together things when he could. In her gut, she knew she could tell him the truth of it. Yet, her mind did not know how much she could truly divulge, “The Princess was upset because I was not understanding her.”

“I see,” He nodded.

“Has she been alright?” She inquired.

“It has been getting worse as of late.” He nodded sadly.

“I wish to visit her again. She needs company other than your mother and her children.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“I think she would love that,” He smiled before it quickly dropped, “Although tomorrow will be busy with the Hearing.”

“Yes, the Hearing.” She nodded, “Tomorrow will be quite hectic. Although I sense a decision has already been brokered. Perhaps all the pageantry is unnecessary.”

His head pulled to the side as he blinked at her. She internally cursed her loud mouth. Sometimes her words came out of her mouth before she had the ability to stop them. Again, he stepped closer. The knight followed suit. Aemond was quite close to Maetilda now. She could better see the rise and fall of his chest, the small flexings of the different muscles in his arms and shoulders, the details of his face. He was intimidating. His beautiful presence loomed like that of a mountain cat waiting to strike. But he completely disarmed her of all defenses when an unreadable smile spread across his face.

“That’s quite the accusation.” His tone was taunting.

“Merely a humorous observation.” She corrected.

“Hmm.”

The princess’s crossed arms tightened against her. She couldn’t entirely tell whether their conversation was hostile or not. The uncertainty set her on edge.

“You are not one to hold your tongue, are you princess?”

“I do when I want to.”

“Of course,” He smirked, “I would expect nothing else from the Dragon of the Vale.”

The princess guffawed, “Is that what I am known as?”

“There is still plenty of time to be known by other names if that one does not please you,” He chuckled at her.

“Well, it is not a bad name. Though I fear what the people will come up with next,” She admitted, “They can be dreadfully uncreative.”

“Atrocious.” Aemond agreed with a knowing groan.

The pair briefly slipped off into thought. They each grew silent as their eyes glazed over. They stared at each other without actually looking at one another. They were in their own worlds. Maetilda thought of the names her brothers called him, although they were not yet her brothers back then. Even Baela and Rhaena would keep their distance. For a moment, it was almost as if she could still hear the echoes of Jace and Luke chanting lude things about the Rider of the Pink Dread around the gardens and courtyards. Such words had not once been uttered after Aemond had taken Vhagar as his mount. The Last Dragon of the Conquest. The princess had ridden the dragon many times in her youth. The she-dragon had been the mount of her late step-mother before she had bonded with Aemond. In many aspects, Maetilda felt as if she knew his dragon better than her own. She had certainly known her for longer. The princess had not claimed her own mount until after her father’s third marriage.

“May I ask you a question, princess?” Aemond’s voice broke their silence.

“You may ask one, but I may not answer,” She teased.

“Good, smart,” He smiled, “You do not have to answer if you do not wish to — I have merely been curious.”

“What is your question, Prince Aemond?” Her crossed arms shifted to hands suspiciously on her hips.

“Why have you not wed?”

“Why are you concerned?” She swallowed, narrowing her eyes.

“I know it is not for lack of interested suitors. Has your father given you the choice only for you to refuse them all? Like your stepmother tried to do?”

“My father hasn’t told me of a single one.” She crossed her arms again.

“As long as you are unwed, Runestone is his.” Aemond stated.

“He has always hated the damned thing. Never misses an opportunity to remind me.”

“Your castle used to be the home of kings, you know.”

“Yes, before your dragon and two others came along.”

“And you have blood from both Kings.”

“Lucky me.”

“Do you not see the honor in that?”

“No matter how much King’s blood I have, I still cannot so much as purchase a book without my father’s permission. I do not see the difference.”

“I do not remember you being such an avid bookworm in our youth.” He pointed out.

“Yes, well,” She searched for words, “I’ve had some time to change my mind.”

“That you have.”

“With your time, I see you have left books behind to play with swords.”

“Yes, well,” He mimicked, “The words do not look the same on the page as they used to.”

Once again, the princess’s frame went rigid. He was referring to the loss of his eye. The one he lost at the hands of her stepbrother. They had been small children, but he had been old enough to remember his life before. More than old enough to remember the recovery. It had to have been hard. All those years of relearning how to go about his day-to-day. Her mind raced with questions. So many questions. Many that she would never dare ask. Did it still hurt? Did he have any feeling there at all? Was it truly so scary that he must wear an eye patch? How long had he been wearing one? Did the sight of his scar make him think of what happened every time he looked? Did he even remember the night? What of Lucerys?

“Do you blame him for it?” It was not the first question she should have asked him. It was not a very sensitive one, but it came out as soon as it crossed her mind, “Lucerys? Do you hate him?”

He did not answer. And so came the end to their mutual honesty. Just as she said she would not answer the questions she did not want to, so too did he. She took his silence as a yes. He did not need to answer for her to see the look that crossed his face. His gaze had finally dropped away from her. His single eye darted back and forth in thought. He looked as if he were etched in stone. His skin was already pale like marble, even in the daylight that seeped through the leaves of the trees. She wondered what she should ask him next, or if she should ask him anything at all. Had she overstepped? Just as he had feared he would. It was her turn to ask uncomfortable questions.

“We were children,” Aemond finally spoke, “Yet he knew the damage a dagger would inflict.”

“That is fair.” She nodded, seeing the logic in his thinking. They had seen the damage of daggers, swords, and lances all their life. They had been lectured at length for as long as they could remember. They were not toys. She had known that. But the animosity between the boys was a seed that had been planted since they were babes in the cradle. They knew no differently. What a question she had asked him, indeed. “I am sorry. That was not a fair question to ask you.”

“Asking about your lack of a husband was unfair of me. It was merely revenge.” He smiled.

“Yes, precisely.” She smirked slightly.

“Do you ever wish for a husband, Maetilda?”

“I guess. But only a good one. One that is kind and honorable.” She replied honestly, “Do you ever wish for… amiability with your nephews?”

“I have only ever wished for their laughter to stop.” Honesty.

She nodded in full understanding. Perhaps appreciation too. It had been so long since they had last seen each other, over half a decade ago, yet they had not changed. They always saw each other for the people they were. He had never belittled her or Helaena for being girls or their appreciation for ladylike things. He listened to them talk about flowers and fashion and feelings and jewelry and other people’s affairs. He would even give his input. The memories brought a smile to her face. The prince took a single step closer.

“I have missed you too,” He muttered softly, “Not just Helaena.”

The soft, reminiscent smile turned into a wider coy one. She looked away from his face as she felt his eye bore into hers. Her face reddened with heat. Her voice was hardly above a whisper when she replied, “I missed you too.”

Aemond had opened his mouth to answer before the sound of dragons calling out to each other in greeting rang across the sky. The smile on the princess’s face turned upward in delight.

“I believe your sisters have arrived.”

“It has been long since I have seen them too.”

“We best not keep them waiting.”

The princess froze at the sight of the Prince’s arm offered out to her. To escort her out of the Godswood and to the correct courtyard, “Like you kept my family and myself waiting just yesterday?”

“I was following an order.” He looked down guiltily. His proffered arm wavered, “It was never anything against you.”

“Well, I certainly felt the disrespect.”

“You are right to be upset with me. You do not deserve such treatment. I hope I may make it up to you.”

“I would like that,” She nodded.

“I shall start by escorting you to the proper courtyard.” He tried again.

“That you will.”

The One-Eyed Prince and the Rogue Prince’s daughter left the Godswood arm-in-arm. The princess’s knight followed behind them. The prince smelled of oud, sandalwood, saffron, rosemary, and red clay. The fragrance graced her nose, tempting it to drink in more. The sounds of dragons chirping continued to echo about the skies around them. It filled her chest with a happy warmth while simultaneously pulling at her heartstrings for the absence of Shrykos’s chatter in the mix. She gazed up at the skies as they walked, waiting for a glimpse of one of the three. She could feel Aemond’s stare drift back and forth between her and what she was looking at. She could not remember him watching her so intensely in their youth, but perhaps she had not noticed it then. Servants eyed them as they passed through the various outer courtyards and gardens. She could feel their eyes too. All of them watching her every move. Waiting for her to give them something to whisper about later. Something that would undoubtedly end up in the ears of her father and the Queen. She did her best to ignore them. Aemond and Maetilda easy fell in silent step with each other. She cradled the prince’s muscular arm, as was honorable. It flexed and unflexed as they moved. She would be lying if she said she did not enjoy the feeling of walking so closely with the man grown. His tall presence at her side, she felt like Helaena’s beetles were crawling around her insides. She wished deep down that her father would eventually wed her to a good and kind man who was as tall as Aemond.

“May I join you,” He spoke suddenly, “when you visit Helaena again?”

“I think we would both enjoy that. Just like our few times as children,” She smiled.

“I would enjoy it too. Has been some time since I have been able to vent about Aegon’s horrendous taste in jewelry.” The prince grinned beside her.

She snorted with a small bout of laughter, “He wears very large emeralds and rubies around his neck for a man who will undoubtedly get bile on them.”

“They act as his bib.” Aemond barked with laughter.

The pair giggled together as they made their way back into the training yards. Apparently it served as a direct route to both the High Council’s chambers as well as the Dragon Pit. A small crowd had already gathered down below, the Queen among them. The princess felt her aunt’s eyes watch her as she descended the staircase next to her second son. The princess scanned the crowd for the cousin she saw just earlier, only to come up empty. Disappointment fluttered in her heart with the lack of wisteria, but soon her eyes landed upon her family. They stood together making idle conversation. Joffrey was there, but not Aegon or Viserys. Jacaerys and Lucerys were breathing hard as if they had just ran in. She watched her stepmother follow the Queen’s gaze, followed by her father. Upon catching his glare, her step faltered. Her foot missed the step and crashed onto the one below it. Her ankles wobbled and her balance left her. She lightly crashed into the prince next to her who was reflexively already prepared to catch her. Luckily, she only lost her footing and did not completely fall. That would have only caused more embarrassment. The prince caught her with a light hand on her back and a solid grip beneath her elbow. She breathed a sigh of relief against his steady resolve. He gently straightened her and helped her fix her gowns before they resumed their climb down the steps. Aemond’s grip was firmer the rest of the way down. Her heart continued to pound with the unexpelled energy from her fright. His hold loosened as soon as they reached even ground. Her heart continued to pound at the thought of what to do next amongst the crowd.

The prince gave her arm a reassuring squeeze before he led her through the crowd. The collection of lords and ladies parted like sections of hair as they slowly made their way closer and closer to the Queen, the King’s heir, and the Rogue Prince. All three sets of eyes watched them like snakes watching rats. She couldn’t help but tense with every step. Princess Rhaenyra was the only one who had attempted to smile at them. Even Luke and Jace shut up to turn and gawk. She had never felt so small and scandalous than she did under their close inspection. She painted a smile on her face as she met their eyes with her own. Her father’s were the worst of them. His normally indigo violet eyes seemed practically black. He fumed from his place behind his wife. Smoke practically poured out of his ears from the fire that stirred within. Upon reaching them. Aemond bowed before allowing Maetilda to dip into her low practiced curtsy. The Queen opened her mouth to speak before the sound of gates opening echoed across the mostly quiet training yard.

“Make way! Make way! May I present the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, second of her name and Lady of Driftmark, wife to Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides. And her granddaughters Ladies Baela and Rhaena Targaryen, first of their name, daughters to Prince Daemon Targaryen and the late Lady Laena Velaryon.”

From the open gates entered three heads. They made a triangle formation with the matriarch at the head and the Lucerys-aged girls flanked her back. Their familial resemblance was uncanny. Down to the way the three gracefully sauntered forward. The raven haired Princess Rhaenys, daughter of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, and Maetilda’s silver headed twin sisters. Even fresh from dragonback, they looked put together and elegant. She wondered if they would smell better too. If they had found a way to mask the scent of dragon with something far prettier. Prince Aemond’s warm presence drew back and away from her, immediately gaining her attention. The princess felt her side grow cold and turned to find him joining his mother’s side. Following his lead, she assumed her place between Jacaerys and her father. The tension radiated off of both their bodies. Her stomach churned at the realization that she would have much explaining to do. Yet she had no explanations for them. It was nothing more than a conversation in the Godswood, supervised by her very own sworn knight. Regardless, the guilt consumed her as if she had disobeyed a command. And she very much had, a direct order from her father. Of which, she had disobeyed thrice times over in the span of one morning. If the Gods were good to her, they would hold the bombardments at bay.

A/N: can y’all smell that? it’s the plot thickening…

xoxo messy

[b-lightwalker]

FNaF Movie Ramble

Long story short, I really like the movie, I really like Mike, Vanessa, and Abby, and I want them to be happy.

There be spoilers beyond this point.

I love the little found family that started forming between Vanessa with Mike and Abby. I know it hasn't gone anywhere yet, but we all know the signs. Please, Mr. Cawthon, let Vanessa take on an older sister/mother figure role like Mike.

I love how Mike has a roundabout way of talking when he's being emotional. He doesn't just say, "I love you," or, "Thank you," to Abby and Vanessa respectively, he rambles and goes on whole tangents about why he feels that way and it works. It works so good. And I am also talking about game Mike.

I love how William was handled. I was surprised he didn't get a lot of screen time, but it works. William is a behind-the-scenes guy. It's not until he comes on stage, front and center, that you realize what he's been doing this whole time. And the scenes he is in, he kinda steals the show. I didn't expect William to have an outburst near the end when the animatronics started turning on him, but of course he would. In his eyes, he made them better than they were ever going to be alive, and not even seconds ago, they considered him a friend. And the sheer confidence of this man to put the Spring Bonnie head back on while actively being spring locked is insane. (Anyone else think William may have forced Vanessa to learn how to treat wounds for whenever he had issues with the spring lock suit?)

William giving a young Vanessa the toys from his victims makes me wonder if game William did the same. Of course, when game William started killing, his kids were long since dead, but still. Imagine, Michael going into his siblings' rooms that aren't touched unless they're being cleaned, and he starts seeing these toys that don't belong to Elizabeth and Evan, but they look like toys they'd like. At first, Michael ignores it, thinking he just didn't notice it at first, even though he knows. He knows everything that's supposed to be in that room and he knows those toys aren't supposed to be there. Eventually, he asks William and he just says he bought them 'cause they reminded him of Ev and Liz. It doesn't 100% work for Mike, but it works enough, so he leaves it alone. After all, people celebrate a passed loved one's birthday, so why wouldn't they get gifts too? Even if they just stay in their old rooms. Then one day, Michael randomly gets a gift from William. I can't think of anything better, so let's just say a cassette tape for his Walkman. It's a tape that Michael would actually listen to, and it's relatively new, so Michael's confused why it's just the tape and no case, but since a gift means a good day, he doesn't question it. At least, not out loud anyway.

I wonder what happened to Aunt Jane. I know she was most likely killed by Golden Freddy, but there's a chance Mike brought her to the hospital and neither him or Abby are visiting 'cause neither of them like her. Imagine your niece and nephew visiting the hospital almost every day, but to see someone who is borderline a stranger to them and not you. I'm absolutely "making" a game counterpart to Aunt Jane, though. She's William's younger sister and she's almost as vile and manipulative. Just not keen on murder. Directly, anyway. Though in the games, she wouldn't have a trigger to want to get rid of someone like she does in the movie, but if she did have one, she'd be willing to kill. Maybe she could talk William into it. She still smells like cigarettes and is the reason the Afton kids hate the smell.

I initially thought Garrett was Abby's imaginary friend, but--save for the fact that it was essentially deconfirmed--it wouldn't make sense for Garrett to haunt his sister and not his brother who he would've known was kind of losing his mind from the trauma of his kidnapping. In any case, I'm currently going with the theory that Garrett is the Puppet and the one behind the "Come find me." message at the end of the credits. We'll see.

Since FNaF 2 is a prequel, I wonder if the FNaF 2 movie will also be a prequel. And if so, will Jeremiah be our protag? I know he was probably just a reference to Jeremy Fitzgerald and nothing more, but if he's not, then game Jeremiah and game Mike are work buddies. And if he is movie Jeremy Fitzgerald, I wonder if he wanted the dream theory book Mike has because he also had weird dreams while working at Freddy's. Maybe. Maybe not.

Tutorial Lady/VHS Lady/Kim and Phone Guy are totally married and their kids are Phone Dude and Tape Girl.

I know Mike being an Afton is basically impossible now, but if another twist is Mike and Vanessa are twins or related in some way, and Mike was given up while Vanessa was kept, I'd be 110% down. Then it'd be found family in the most literal sense. It doesn't 100% work, sure, but it'd be neat. (Imagine recognizing the son you gave up 'cause you recognized his last name 'cause you killed his brother.)

In any case, I really love this movie, and I want Mike, Vanessa, and Abby to be happy. Family dynamic, please, Mr. Cawthon.

[ultra-puzzlemaster]

A while ago I made a post with silly comments on my current Last Specter playthrough, and since you guys seemed to like it here's the second part!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

On my way to Arianna's house! The place people tell me not to go to because it's supposed to be dangerous!

She has good taste

I speak like an adult! Because! I am! Definitely an adult!!!

That sounds illegal. Let's do it.

I am very glad those two are here to tell me things I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.

Luke are you okay?

How did I get this action after solving a puzzle that was on a lock. Luke what did you do.

LAYTON THAT IS NOT HOW YOU HELP SOMEONE WITH THEIR PHOBIA I get the idea of making a puzzle about spiders BUT YOU DON'T MAKE THE SPIDER IN IT SCARY AND DANGEROUS

Great job Layton, now Emmy's broken :/

Ok maybe I shouldn't look for hint coins in the candles, but in my defense they're shiny

Abled people when they meet someone with an invisible disability

Bucky is on his way to world domination, I'm telling you

I wish we'd see this guy try this on Descole Level-5, in nwos please?

This woman truly understands the importance of The Hat. She has earned my respect.

There is ONE person in town who gets what's going on and it's Mimi. Hey Layton maybe you should have asked her for information instead of her grumpy husband who just wants to prove he has a bigger dic--tionary than Clark.

I'm sorry Aunt Taffy but I need you to give candies to Emmy before she loses control and goes on a murder rampage

Are... are we dealing drugs or…?

I had to test this option IT WAS FOR SCIENCE OKAY?

I'm trying the wrong options to see the dialogue and now Layton is disappointed in me :(

Emmy, I get you don't suspect the "Seamus is actually Tony in disguise" because it's your first Layton adventure but... We heard that a boy came to the market and bought all the candy Then we saw a witch's mark with a candy wrapper next to it Come on Emmy, you can figure at least this part out

Emmy…

"Nothing could ever make me break a promise. No matter the danger, no matter the mystery, I always keep my word and be a true gentleman." "But if this orphan girl with abandonment issues ask me to stay with her I'll just run away the first chance I get."

Aaaand I've reached Tumblr's picture limit so that's all for now, I hope you liked it!

Previous - Next

[8bitsupervillain]

Higurashi When They Cry Hou Ch. 5 Meakashi pt. 10

Watanagashi hijinks continue.

Ooishi and Kumagai look at the body of Satoshi and Satoko's aunt (though they don't know it's her just yet) when Dr. Irie shows up and they examine the body and theorize that the victim lost consciousness immediately after the first whack and then got pulverized. Including flipping her over so the killer could just annihilate her face. Irie claims he doesn't know who the victim is and leaves the area. Which Ooishi doesn't buy for even a second.

Then they call in Satoshi to ask him some questions about his aunt, whether Teppei lives at their house and so on. Then after insisting on letting them give him a ride home Satoshi asks if they have any suspects. Ooishi confirms they have a few and sends him on his way.

The next morning Shion and Mion are discussing the current topic of the day, Satoshi's aunt's brutal bludgeoning. After being surprisingly insulting to her Shion ends the call and prepares to go to work, when she sees Satoshi looking at the big 100,000 yen teddy bear and the pair gets intercepted by Ooishi. Shion in a state of near panic decides the best way to cover for Satoshi is to fess up that she's actually Shion.

Incidentally this is one of those moments I thought for sure was going to be an option to make a choice to lead to a bad ending the game warns you about at the start. It's not, by the way. Also:

And so the two are taken away to the station, where this is clearly the end of Shion's trials of the day.

Shion is brought to Oryou Sonozaki, whereupon she just grabs a nearby shovel and just starts digging herself deeper and deeper. Screaming and swearing at the head of the family with a whole pile of the Sonozaki clan together Shion just steams ahead about how she loves the boy, and family grudges are stupid and so on.

I guess her defiance is commendable? I'm trying really hard here not to write off Shion as stupid as Keiichi during his lowest points, but she's making it rather difficult.

"Well well well, if it isn't the consequences of my actions." -Shion Sonozaki, probably.

Shion, champ, you're in for a pretty lousy time either way. When I got blood drawn they did it a ways away from the fingernail, but still basically on the end of the finger, and that was some of the worst pain. So I imagine that getting three of your nails yanked off using the contraption to drive a wedge under them and pop em off has got to be a thousand times worse. Got to be at least as bad as accidentally whacking your finger with a hammer.

You know, I got to wonder, what changed between chapter one and now with Ryukishi? In Onikakushi he didn't really dwell or describe any of the acts of violence. Sure Tomitake tears his throat out with his finger nails but he never really focused on the violence of the act. Even when Keiichi killed Rena and Mion it was just described as he killed em with the bat, and that was that. But somewhere around the end of Watanagashi he started going into more detail about the bad ends the characters were meeting like with Keiichi getting stabbed and the knife twisted. Mion slipped on a ladder and broke her neck, the entire murder of Teppei Houjou in Tatarigoroshi, the description of Teppei's lovers death, now the pulling the nails off of Shion's hand, and then all the many violent deaths in Umineko. I know they're never actually visualized with graphics, but he's been going into deeper detail that I can't help but wonder why this change occurred? Do you suppose it was a response to reader criticism? I don't wish to sound squeamish or anything of the sort, I don't mind the violence, but I'm just curious about the change that's occurred.

[hb-writes]

Echoes

Summary: It’s 1926 in the Little Lady Blinderverse. There were a few places in Birmingham where Clara Shelby swore her brother’s soul seemed somehow closer—his voice, too, but maybe it was just an echo of him.

Request (from @cas-kingdom): “What do you need?” “You.” would be totally adorable for John & Clara. Congrats on 4 years of LLB!!

(Note: there will be a second story released at a later date based on this same prompt because both ideas bit me and I couldn’t let go.)

Characters: John Shelby and Clara Shelby

Content Warnings: grief, canon character death, it's missing John hours, blaming any typos on the fact that I still can’t see well. 

Tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Peaky Blinders (Non-Shelby!Sister) Masterlist

—

John Shelby didn't have a burial site. There was no place to visit him, not properly. They’d said their goodbyes in a field with a burning caravan, the memory of it marred by strategies and murder. The occasion hadn’t been healing. It hadn’t helped Clara to process things.

Clara had started to wonder if you ever really said goodbye to loved ones when they passed anyway. It seemed to Clara that her mind could conjure up anyone she’d loved and lost in her mind without really trying, or some version of them, at least—her own version of them, she supposed. The idealized, imagined versions of her mother and Grace and Isiah’s grandmother speaking to her when she least expected.

She figured it was the same way with John, but there were a few places in Birmingham where Clara Shelby swore her brother’s soul seemed somehow closer—his voice, too. It didn’t feel like conjuring. It didn’t feel like her mind was playing tricks. It felt like John was truly there, and even if it was only an echo of him, Clara found herself seeking out those places, seeking out the brother who’d gone from her life without a smidgen of closure. 

Clara would never tell another person—not Aunt Polly or Finn or Ada, and especially not Tommy—but she spoke to John all the while. And if it didn’t make her feel crazy to speak it aloud, Clara would’ve sworn she could nearly hear John speaking back to her sometimes.

She heard him whenever she stood within the walls of his empty little house on Watery Lane, the one he never made it back to when the rest of the Shelbys descended on Small Heath for protection from the black hands. 

Clara heard John in the family’s private snug at the Garrison. 

And in the betting shop.

She heard him and saw him and felt him there with her when she was alone in those places.

Most times, Clara liked it—hearing John's voice, feeling his presence, imagining him leaning up against one of the shop’s wooden beams as she spoke to him. But other times, Clara felt a prickle running over her skin. There was something different in the air sometimes, an unease that usually lasted for longer than the voices and sensations of closeness. It made her start to question what was real and what was fake, but most of all, hearing John’s voice—whether it was in her head or not—made Clara miss her brother.

That was a burden Clara carried in silence. No one really talked about John or Esme or the kids anymore. It seemed to Clara that everyone had moved on as if they’d never existed, but there was a hole in the family now, something that had left a jagged edge in the fabric of their lives—in Clara's life and she filled it now in the only way she knew how.

The betting shop was empty, closed up with delicate streams of early morning light coming through the dusty windows that opened onto the back courtyard. The office that had once belonged to John was now occupied by one of the cousins, but to Clara, it was still John’s space.

Clara knew John wouldn't even be there if he were alive now—he hadn't been involved in the business for years now, but she couldn't help but think how nice it would be for him to be here now. How nice it would be to wake up early and see her brother here, to be able to ask him for advice with the books or to help him with writing up the odds while he stood there critiquing her handwriting…to simply be in the same place with John for a few more moments. That's all she wanted.

Clara's breath shook, a chill running up her spine as she stepped into the office.

What do you need?

Clara didn't know if the words she heard were a memory or a hallucination, but whatever they were, they felt real as the echoed in her ears. It felt like John was there. Speaking to her. Comforting her. Clara closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before answering. 

"You," Clara whispered as she stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her. "I just wanted to be with you."

—

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Peaky Blinders (Non-Shelby!Sister) Masterlist

[crazydaymycrazyway]

Imagine Arlo finding out that Rei's murder is Val. Then the inevitable breakdown. Then I suppose it's him distancing off from his aunt, because I believe Arlo would take the logical stance according to circumstances. The evidences and circumstances that will be presented to him only has one logical conclusion. Cutting off contact a cold blood murderer. But then it struck me, what if he pretended to such upto her and her ideals. I mean, like I dunno, catch her off guard in between vigilantes and say something like, 'oh my God aunt Val, what are you doing? Me? Oh I'm just getting rid of these vigilantes. They're pests and disrupt the work of authorities who only want peace and these pests deserve death. I can see that you have the same idea too. Looks like we ended up having similar thoughts, but hey I'm not surprised. So what else are you thinking of doing? Remi, Usen and Blyke? I'm giving up on them. If they can't stop being stupid, there's no need to give them a second chance. Let them die. Seraphina? Please. I thought about what you said. I choose to side with the sutgorities because they only want good for us. You lied to me, but I understand. It's not like I can be angry at you because you tried to do the right thing! Now, what are you upto aunt? Then Arlo gets info about Val's outings and all and the the information. But then it hit me, this planet of UNO reverse on Val might not work because she's too smart. This might end up with Val doing the UNO reverse. So I decided to drop off my idea. Because Arlo might be smart, but that woman is smarter and might end up gaslighting all the plan out of Arlo before he realizes it. So...sorry Arlo. You'll suffer too, just like everybody else

[daandyli0n]

don't mind me, just. writing a mini thing related to thoughts about William and Cassidy, and how those two know each other in Golden No Longer.

specifically, William and the names he knows Cassidy by.

(warnings: mentioned child murder and death, swearing, some mild mentions of homophobia, transphobia, and misgendering*, references to bullying, some graphic descriptions of violence and death)

*important to note: while Cassidy is nonbinary, and generally doesn't like feminine terms used for them (ex. Daughter, Girl, Ma'am, Miss, etc.), there are a few exceptions: Sister, Niece, and Aunt. so Afton is not misgendering them in the parts where he's referring to Cass as "Mike's Sister."

~~~~~~~

Over the years, William has come to know Cassidy by many names and titles. Some more positive, and others...not.

He came know them by several names rather quickly after meeting them:

Cassidy Jane Schmidt. "Cass." Adrian's Babysitter. Charlie's Friend.

The first two, rather obvious. It was their name, and the nickname most people called them by. Simple enough. And, of course, they were Adrian, his youngest son's, babysitter. A rather good one at that. Even if they did swear around him and Elizabeth too much for his liking. And okay, maybe calling them Charlie's "friend" was a bit of an understatement, but it's not like being open about it was exactly...without consequence in a town like this. Not that most kids their age hadn't caught on. He honestly wishes that Charlie could catch a break, that those children would mind their business for once. And Cassidy...they didn't even try to be mean about it most of the time; just asking employees to call them "Kid" or "Kiddo" instead of "Little Miss." Some got the memo, others didn't.

Don't get him wrong, he never had a problem with Cassidy. Sure, they were hard-headed, quick to anger, and, as he would put it, a sarcastic little shit, but they were a good kid at heart. A sweetheart, if you will.

But...well, to put it one way, after June 26th, 1982, he had two new names for them:

"The One I Wasn't Supposed To Kill," and Mike's Sister.

Mike had gotten lucky that night. It was supposed to be him. But, of course, William doesn't know what he expected. Cassidy was generally about five seconds from punching bullies in the face. From what Henry told him the night he killed Charlie Charlie died, Cassidy was in shambles, almost getting into a fight with the bullies that locked Charlie out to begin with. William himself heard Cassidy say they would "kill the bastard who killed Charles" (he always found their nickname for her rather sweet). He doesn't know what he really expected, honestly.

Of course they would protect their baby brother. Of course, after all of their friends had been ripped from them, they wouldn't willingly let the same fate befall their brother.

He still remembers them hugging their brother, telling him that they loved him, and that they'd be home soon (they wouldn't. they would never go home. they'd never see their brother again, at least not while they were still alive). He remembers the betrayal on their face. How hard they tried fighting back before he dragged them to the backroom. He remembers them swearing that they'd come back to haunt him, to kill him.

(oh, how he'd laughed back then, because ghosts aren't real, are they? of course not. it was just something Cassidy was saying to give themself some vague semblance of control in their final moments, or just a way to make sure William would live with that guilt the rest of his days. but no, they couldn't literally haunt him, surely. oh what a fool he was. what a fool he'd been.)

He remembers their screams of agony as the springlocks inside of Fredbear activated, how their blood slowly leaked out of the bear, how the suit writhed and twitched as Cassidy's body spasmed. How the bear finally stilled as Cassidy's life slipped away.

He remembers cleaning things up to the best of his ability. This was back before Henry had made the Nightguards mandatory, and nobody would be showing up until the morning. To him, he'd have all the time in the world to clean up. He remembers driving Cassidy's lifeless body out of the diner (he couldn't keep them in the suit this time. unlike Freddy's, the suits at the diner would be checked regularly. he couldn't have that), slightly out of town, before stopping near a secluded lake. For over 40 years, that would be Cassidy's final resting place.

(and as William leaves Fredbear's the next morning, after the interviews and all the questionings, he can almost swear that he feels eyes on him as he leaves. the eyes burn into him.

he's also not going to think about how, after Mrs. Schmidt brought the plushie that Cassidy had made for Adrian, that the boy had named it "Cass." he's not going to think about how, after he and his sons went to Fredbear's with it one time, he felt a presence leave with them. he won't think about how he swears that he always sees a shape, just out on the edges of his peripheral vision. he won't think about how Adrian constantly seems to talk to "Cass," the bear, and even pause as though he's being talked to before responding. he won't think about the fact that the bear always seemed to be watching, thinking. and he certainly won't think about the time he went to check up on his son, only to see Cassidy sitting across from him as casually as ever, covered in blood. he also won't think about how, upon his son asking his former babysitter what had happened to them, they slowly turned to stare up at him, eyes unblinking. Adrian might not have noticed it, but William certainly did.

and as he attempts to drill it into his son's head that Cassidy was nothing more than a coping mechanism, a figment of his imagination, he isn't entirely sure who he's trying to convince anymore: his son or himself.

because it can't be them, it can't it can't it can't they're dead he killed them he knows they're dead it can't be them so why are they there-)

It is in the new era of Freddy Fazbear's that William gets yet another name for Cassidy:

"A Thorn In My Side."

So maybe William had decided to kill again. He doesn't know what happened, if Charlie's murder had unlocked something in his mind or if his mind had simply broken from grief. He doesn't even know if he particularly cares anymore. All he knows is that one night in November of 1987, he decided to do it again. He didn't even have to pick the kids out this time: they just came to him. A group of three teenagers and two younger siblings, coming to figure out if the rumors of haunted robots and ghosts of dead children were true. They honestly made it almost too easy for him. There were even five. Just like last time.

Charlie had tried waking the others up. It seemed as though Gabriel was the only one who she was able to get up in time. She led him through the building, desperately trying to save those kids. Even in their robotic voices, they call out to each other: S-A-V-E-T-H-E-M.

They can't. The kids are already dead by the time the two of them started searching through the restaurant. Well, Charlie was ever the optimist and protector of innocents. Doesn't seem like death has changed her much in that regard. He can't even blame Gabriel for his naive hope that they could do something to help the children. The boy was only seven, after all.

No, what surprises him is when he gets done disarming Freddy, only to turn around and come face-to-face with Fredbear.

The golden bear twitches as it stands there, its empty sockets having only two glowing white dots for pupils. He can practically feel the rage radiating off of the suit, as though whatever ghost inhabited it was hardly containing their anger and desire to tear him to shreds.

He's not stupid. He knows it's Cassidy. And, rather unfortunately for him, it seems like whatever restraints holding them back have snapped. The bear lunges at him, letting out a robotic roar, but he manages to disarm this suit as well. He hurries to delete the evidence of his crime on the cameras, rushing out of the building.

And so this process would repeat for both this location and the one in the 90's. He witnessed The Mangle bite a man in the skull, only to stare at him, as though contemplating whether he was next (it was Jeremy, one of the boys responsible for Adrian's death. it almost feels as though this is retribution. even though there was an entirely different child possessing that thing, the incident screams Cassidy. the stare he was given certainly didn't help). It felt like a warning. Whatever warning he was being given, he decided for his own sake that he would heed it. He left early that day.

(he's there as Mr. Smith finishes his shift the next night, rambling about how he'd fucked with the animatronics. he doesn't calm down any as his boss yells that he's fired, rambling on and on about how his sons were still back there, in those suits. the kids were all still back there. the old animatronics seemed to stop attacking him upon realizing who he was. he could've sworn that Foxy and Bonnie, the originals, the ones they had found the bodies in just two years prior, seemed to look closely at him, as though they recognized him. it was his Jeremy and Junior, it had to be them, who else could it be? they need help, why wasn't anyone helping them? the manager (not Frederik. it would never be Frederik again. not after Gabriel...) tries to console the man, telling him that he needs to leave, that he is truly sorry for this man's loss, but that his kids were found two years ago. Fritz snaps at him, yelling that he "doesn't understand." he leaves with foreboding words: Fazbear Entertainment has innocent blood on their hands, and he has the suspicion that someone in the company is the one with the literal blood on their hands, someone who will someday get their just desserts.)

The cycle goes as follows: William would return to Freddy's, typically as some kind of employee, and he'd try to start over again in the company. But something would always happen; the death of an employee, some familiar face would show up, what have you. And, like clockwork, he feels Those Eyes upon him again.

This time, in 1993, he had a name change: Dave Miller. It seemed that not many recognized him, at least.

But from Day Fucking One, he felt Them looking at him again. They never did anything, given he worked the dayshift, and there wasn't much they could do in broad daylight. It didn't mean that their presence didn't make things harder. Daniel Scottson, their most trusted Nightguard, suddenly was found stuffed within a suit in the back. Employees quit. Every new hire for the next two weeks spent a single night in the place and quit the next morning, their faces pale and their eyes wide, talking of the robots moving around at night. Of those new hires, only one made it through the whole week, long enough to get promoted to the dayshift.

Mike Schmidt. Cassidy's younger brother.

He had dark circles under his eyes, and anxiety medication he had to take. It had been eleven years since that fateful night. He was freshly an adult, and yet he still had that distant look in his eyes he had all those years ago when he realized his sister wasn't coming home. Despite the stressful nights, he seemed almost determined to make it through his first week. As though something were spurring him on. It is only on the morning after his fourth night that he breaks down, telling "Dave" and his other coworker, Nate, what happened (not that William didn't already know): Cassidy had been killed over a decade ago. Mike knew he wasn't meant to survive. He was supposed to die that night. But Cass took his place, and they died instead. He's blamed himself for years; if only he had said something to their mom, if only he hadn't obeyed Cass and lied about where they were, if only he had grabbed onto their hand and ran like hell, if only, if only, if only. In some ways, he feels like he's getting closure doing this job.

(As William tries to at least pretend he's comforting the poor young man, he feels Cassidy stare at him again, the rage burning into him. He can feel it in their gaze: How dare you comfort him, as though you aren't the one responsible for his suffering? How dare you pretend that you care that you destroyed his life? How dare you sit there and pretend that you didn't rip everything away from him?)

Mike returns at the end of his fifth night, tears in his eyes and looking as though a weight were lifted off of him. When asked by Nate, he simply responds with, "I think I got what I came here for. I haven't felt this light for over a decade." William checks the cameras. He sees that damn poster show up on 2B, and hears noises come out of The Office. It sounds like Mike talking to someone, but whatever responses he gets seem to glitch out the cameras, but it's clear that Mike was talking to someone.

It seems that Mike got that closure he wanted. And when the place shut down about a year later, William waited. It was 1996. William was about to get some closure of his own.

Those kids wanted to be free? He'd free them. Maybe then they'd stop causing him problems.

Of course, that's not how it went, did it? Those kids didn't just want to be free. They wanted vengeance. And Cassidy, specifically, wanted him to suffer.

Unfortunately, he found that out too late.

He mostly only knew Cassidy as a thorn in his side for years after that. They'd sit with him in the Saferoom, simply staring him down. Sometimes they'd talk to him. Even after he was freed, he only considered them an annoyance.

Of course, up until That Fire. The fire Henry set.

He did say Not To Keep The Devil Waiting, after all.

William just didn't think about who that "devil" would end up being. Not until he felt himself getting dragged down, but not into fire.

No, something that was, in his opinion, far worse awaited him.

......He doesn't know how long he's been here. If it's been days, weeks, months, years. Fuck, maybe it's been seconds, he doesn't know anymore. All he knows is that he's been living in a constant cycle for a long time now. He's been torn limb from limb, has been ripped to shreds by creatures that only exist in people's nightmares, set on fire, and has been left in agonizing pain. But then it would reset, as though nothing ever happened. Sometimes he would make it through "shifts," more stressed then he'd ever been, only for it to reset again.

He now has a new name for Cassidy, but not one he gave them himself:

"I HAVE SEEN HIM, THE ONE YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE KILLED."

"He's here, and always watching: The One You Shouldn't Have Killed."

"Greetings from the fire, and from The One You Should Not Have Killed!"

Sometimes, he finds himself in a dark void, only one thing visible in front of him: Fredbear, twitching into the darkness, as though in agony. He remembers that night, the night he took Cassidy's life in the most painful way possible. The night Cassidy swore vengeance. Swore to haunt him, kill him, make him suffer how they had ALL suffered.

Aside from that name, William had one more for them: Tormentor.

William wouldn't really say that he regretted what he'd done back in 1982. Not at all.

But he would say that Cassidy's murder was one of his greatest mistakes.

A mistake that he feels that he'll pay for, for a long, long time to come.

[tortoisesshells]

Perspective Flip for the last fic you were really excited about and didn't get to talk about enough!

This is a little bit of a cheat - it's a Perspective Flip of something that hasn't happened yet in Customs (and, frankly, I'm not sure I'm ever getting there at the rate I've been writing) and it's ... not that upbeat, for a wedding. I suppose that has something to do with the whole "there's a war on" "there's that whole murder thing" and "no magic bullet for personal problems"?

Decades ago, when Boston was a different place, no man would sell or give a parcel so that the Church of England might set foot on good Puritan land – this, Nellie told herself, such flowers as could be found in October in hand, hesitating on Tremont Street the morning of her second marriage. This was why the King’s Chapel had had to be built on what public land could be peaceably given – and, however querulous the dead of this plot had been in life, they were in no position to contest old Governor Andros’s decree of a half-century past. If there was a world beyond this one, Nellie had sometimes thought old Winthrop must have been enraged to share his eternal rest with what he'd crossed an ocean to escape, but nothing had ever stayed the same in Boston –

An object lesson. Nellie Treat could not remain as she was, either.

She did not think about walking through the dead towards her new life – just as she could not think that she had walked past the new Granary and the burying ground and fixed her gaze on the dirty street rather than look for Samuel’s headstone – that she would have to halt and apologize for what she was about to do, that she had gone on as his widow as long as she could. She had gritted her teeth and walked along with her family attending, and tell herself that these were no particularly bad omens. Aunt and Uncle Bendish had been married here, at King's Chapel, and gone on to live happily and prosperously.

She breathed deeply, bracing herself. Aunt B put her hand under her elbow, and quietly called her name, and when Nellie swore it was only the expected kind of nerves, kissed her cheek and wished her happiness. Polly and Sam, ambivalent about the idea of a step-father at the best of times, followed behind the Bendishes like ducklings in a stream – it was not painless, but as she had reasoned over the past three weeks, all other options were worse.

Inside – but Nellie hesitated here a moment, too –

Inside, King’s Chapel was better attended than she would have expected – whether it was Commodore Norrington’s prominence, or the curiosity of her neighbors that had filled the pews, she couldn’t say. Certainly at least one gossip had accidentally let slip within her family’s hearing that some suspected Nellie had gotten herself in the family way – that stung, but as Newport has said much the same thing about her marriage to Samuel Treat, she at least had old habits of equanimity to fall back on. She tried to imagine that her doubts underfoot as she walked to her place before the altar, as easily crushed as maggots and other insects – smiled up at James, splendidly dressed and fitting in this place, as much as she feared she was not – and breathed a calm, deliberate sigh. He is my partner – she told herself – this is safety.

He took her hand. The rector read the ceremony. Her mind wandered. It was not as it had been, thirteen or fourteen years before. There was more pomp to the Church of England’s service, she noted idly – some shade of her life to come; she had little idea what James Norrington was thinking, as he had done what he always did when under scrutiny – gone still and impassive as a statue. Samuel, she remembered, had winked at her when the minister had not been looking at them – a badly need buoy to a girl of nineteen who had been shaking in her mended petticoats. Her new dress, the finest thing she had ever owned, felt more like armor than anything else – she wondered, vaguely, if James felt the same way about his ridiculously ornamented coat. She had been assuming so – but, Lord, wearing his pride as armor seemed a dangerous business.

When it was over, Nellie wrung the nerves from her hands before she trusted herself to sign the license – and then, legally and in the eyes of God, Elinor Coggeshall Treat ceased to exist.

[whisker-biscuit]

Help Me Act Intact: Chapter 1

Summary: Five years is a long time to spend under the roof of one of your family's murderers. It's even longer when said murderer has a child your age who seems determined to make friends with you.

Or: Sly and Jing's relationship through the years, in all its highs and lows.

Rating: General

--------------------------------------------

(This story will only make sense if you've read The Lines We Cross. It's not required reading for that fic but it does help fill in some of the blanks of how Sly and Jing learned to care for each other over the years. Updates will probably be a lot more frequent and a lot more sporadic. Expect shorter chapters with a lot of time jumps.)

--------------------------------------------

3 Days

The new boy had been here for three days.

He was the only other kid in the whole fortress besides Jing, and she was curious because she hadn’t been around other kids in a very long time. She was also curious because her papa had said he was a raccoon, and she’d never met or even seen a raccoon, either. He was smaller than anyone here except for her, and he had a big poofy tail that was always twitching and looked very soft, and she wanted to ask him if she could touch it.

She also wanted to ask if they could play together, and maybe if they could be friends, but she hadn’t gotten the chance to do any of those things yet for three reasons.

The first reason was that her papa kept the new boy very busy doing chores. He and her aunt and the staff were always giving him new things to do, and so he always looked too busy to play. Jing didn’t have to do chores except to keep her room clean, but she did have to do homework, and thinking about if she had to do homework all the time made her nose scrunch up. It didn’t sound fun to never get a chance to play.

The second reason was that he never talked to anyone. He was always watching and listening to the adults, but he never said a word or even made a sound, and even though it was really cool, it also made it hard to talk to him. She would ask him a question like what his favorite food was or how long he was going to work for her family, and he would just stare at her, and then her aunt would tell her to stay away from him and she’d have to listen.

And that was the third reason – she wasn't supposed to be alone around him, ever. Both her papa and her aunt had told her that many times, and had lectured her the one time they had caught her trying to sneak away from them and follow the boy. He was dangerous, they'd said, and very angry, and he might hurt her because he didn't like their family. They didn’t even let her get too close to him when there were lots of people in the room.

Jing understood all of these things, because she was very smart like her papa always said. But she was also smart because she knew secret ways around the house that no one else knew – because she was the only one small enough to find them.

She was smart, and she was curious. So, she found a way to see him alone, and she knew that would make it a lot easier to ask her questions and get to know this strange new boy.

It was very early in the morning when the little panda girl snuck out of her room. She knew the staff's schedules very well; they always got up before everyone else to start doing the daily chores. She didn’t have to be awake for two more hours, so she knew no one would come looking for her for a while.

The new boy was with them, carrying a large basket of laundry. One of the adults had their hand around his wrist as they all walked, and neither of them looked happy about it. Jing wondered why the adult didn't just let him go and let him walk by himself. Surely that would solve the problem they both had?

She watched them from a long way away for a while, seeing which direction the boy was going, then went a different way herself to find one of her special secret ways around. After a few minutes of being quiet and sneaky – things she was also very good at being! – Jing found the place that the boy had been sent to work for the morning.

He was in one of the laundry rooms, sitting on the floor as he looked through the things in his basket for stains and other things. He was alone in the room (except for her!) but he still looked very annoyed while he worked, throwing sheets and clothes onto the ground without even folding them first. When she stepped into the room, the boy jumped and turned around even though she thought she was being very quiet about it.

They stared at each other for a while as Jing realized she was disobeying her papa so badly just for being here at all. The raccoon watched her carefully like he was afraid she was going to be mean to him – which was very strange because he was supposed to be the mean one, according to everyone else.

“Um. Hello. My name is King Jing,” she finally said, folding her hands politely in front of her like her aunt had taught her to do when greeting strangers. “What’s your name?”

The new boy frowned really deep and made a weird face as he turned back around to finish looking through the laundry. Jing was shocked by how rude he was being. Maybe he was just shy?

“How come you won’t tell me what your name is?” The girl walked around the basket until she was facing him again. He stared up at her with the same strange frown. “How come you won’t talk at all?”

He shook his head and growled, and it took a minute for Jing to realize that he was trying to get words out between the growling. She waited very patiently, because her papa had taught her that sometimes people took a little longer to speak what was on their mind, and one had to be patient for such things so as not to be rude.

“G-g-g……go a-way,” he finally whispered in English, sounding like it was very hard for him to say the words.

Jing’s eyes lit up. She had been learning English since she was very little, but only her papa and sometimes the head chef spoke it with her. This was a chance to show how smart she was and impress the new boy!

“Hello! My name is King Jing!” She repeated in the other language, watching with delight how his eyes got big and wide. “What is your name?”

He looked very surprised, but didn’t answer. Jing pouted a little bit and tried another question.

“I am six and a half years old. How old are you?”

Still no answer. She was starting to get frustrated.

“Do you want to play with me?”

His frown grew deeper and he looked down at the laundry pile, then started going through clothes again. This time, he started throwing things across the room every time he finished with them instead of just dropping them on the floor.

Jing didn’t understand. Why was he angry? If he only spoke English, then he should be happy that she did, too! Everyone else spoke Mandarin around here, so it made sense why he didn’t talk before, but why wasn’t he talking to her now? Why wasn’t he answering any questions? Why was he being so rude?

The panda stomped her foot, upset and confused, and put her hands on her hips. It probably wasn’t very nice, but her aunt did it all the time, so it couldn’t be too bad.

“Will you be friends with me?” She asked through gritted teeth, determined to ask all her questions even though he wasn’t answering them. “Your tail is very fluffy. Can I touch it?”

The look he gave her was very mean and very angry, and his hands stopped grabbing things out of the basket. She thought about all the warnings her papa and her aunt had given her about this boy, but she was too angry herself to think about stopping. In fact, she was so mad and so confused that she had a whole new question, now.

“How come you are working for my family if you’re so mean? Why don’t you just leave?”

It happened so fast. He had been crouching on the floor in front of her, and then suddenly he was standing up and his face was all screwed up in anger and then he pushed her.

Hard.

Jing tripped backwards and fell on her butt, staring up at him in shock. It didn’t hurt very much, but he’d pushed her. He’d pushed her! The raccoon looked just as shocked as she was at what he’d just done, and then he looked really, really scared. He backed away into the other side of the room away from her and held his hands up like he thought she was going to push him back.

She stood back up, shaking because it was very scary to get pushed down like that, and felt tears starting to grow in her eyes. The boy looked even more scared that she was about to cry, but she turned around and ran out the door before he could see it.

She ran all the way back to her room, crawled into her bed, and cried until she was too tired to cry anymore.

When her aunt came to collect her for breakfast, she had already wiped her tears away, but the confusion and hurt still swirled around in her head. When she saw the boy again in the dining room, he wouldn’t look at her as he put plates on the table. Jing sat down at her regular place and stared down at the dark wooden pattern until her papa arrived.

He stopped to look all around the room like he had started doing since the new boy had come, and she saw the way the raccoon trembled under his gaze. Then her papa’s eyes turned to her, and he began to frown.

“Jing, dear daughter, what is the matter?” He asked in English, surprising everyone in the room.

“Huh?”

The larger panda kneeled down beside her and gently touched her face. “You have been crying. Did something happen?”

Jing heard a scary sound in his voice; the one he once used when he’d learned that a guard had said awful things about her aunt. Behind him, she could see the new boy shaking even harder than before, holding dishes to his chest like he could hide behind them. He was waiting for her to tell on him, she realized, and her papa was expecting it too. Her papa suspected something had happened and that it was the raccoon’s fault.

Well, it was his fault, but…she thought about the guard that her papa had gotten scary about. That guard didn’t work here anymore. She didn’t want the boy to not work here anymore either. He was weird and mean but she didn’t want to be the only kid in the fortress again.

And he looked really, really scared, and that made her feel bad for some reason.

“I’m okay, Daddy,” she said softly, lifting her hands so he could hold them in his bigger ones. “I had a bad dream last night about a monster, and it made me cry, but I know that it wasn’t real.”

His frown changed into worry. “Why did you not let me know? I could have chased the monster away for you.”

“Yes, but I am very brave, Daddy. I can chase them away all on my own, now.”

“Yes you can. You are very brave, indeed.” He touched her nose with his finger, making her giggle, then moved to take his place at the table next to her. “Let us eat, then. There is a long day ahead of us.”

Jing nodded and glanced at the new boy. He was staring at her with his mouth open, very surprised that she did not tell on him for his rudeness and meanness. She folded her arms and did her best to look stern like her aunt, giving him a big nod. She would not be a tattle-tale if he did not do that again.

She didn’t know if he understood that, because he turned away and walked off with the rest of the dishes, but he did keep looking at her over his shoulder. If he didn’t understand, then that was okay.

Because next time, Jing decided, she would just have to be more careful.

[dominimoonbeam]

Don't Run - 13

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

you can find the series from the start over on patreon.

story tags: mobsters, romance, explicit sex, explicit language, learning to trust, dark themes, bad childhood, arranged marriage, reference to past murder, kidnapping, danger, violence, guns

DON’T RUN - CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The stranger beside her took off his mask, tossing it onto the floor. He was smiling just like she thought, but she didn’t recognize him.

“Why?” Freya asked, because it seemed like the only real question that mattered. Who cared who he was? Why was he doing something so stupid? She supposed it had to be money. It was always money. Was he going to ransom her aunt or her…husband?

Freya had never actually been abducted before. She’d never really left the family lands before, so there hadn’t been many opportunities even if anyone had thought it a good idea.

“Shut up,” the one in the front passenger seat shouted, waving the gun in her face like maybe she’d forgotten about it.

The car took another turn. They didn’t seem to be leaving the city.

The one sitting beside her pulled out his phone, took off one glove, and sent a message. He never stopped smiling. He was unhurried, putting his phone back into his jacket pocket and tugging his glove on once more before finally speaking. “It’s nothing personal.” He said it like it was a joke.

It didn’t feel funny.

Freya watched him, not the road and not the gun the other man was still pointing at her head. “You’re a professional.” It wasn’t a question.

He sat patiently in his seat, expectant, like he had done this a hundred times. “You’re my first Morgan,” he eventually said, making conversation.

“And your name is?”

He paused just long enough that she’d have to doubt any answer he gave. “Owen.”

The car darkened when they turned into a building. She couldn’t make out where they were. She didn’t know Everton well enough, but she was pretty sure they hadn’t left the city. Why not? Didn’t they need to hide someplace until they could get their ransom?

The car stopped.

“Get out,” the man in the front seat barked.

Freya hesitated.

The smiling man got out first.

The gun barrel thumped against her forehead, pushing her head to the side and toward the door. “Out, princess!”

Her door opened and the smiling man waited.

Freya stepped out, ditching her second heel inside the car. She was still sticky from orange juice and vodka. The concrete floor of the warehouse was dusty.

The smiling man started walking, hands in his jacket pockets, heading toward the door in the back of the warehouse.

She cast a look around. The driver got out and silently followed the gunman, the two taking turns pushing her forward whenever she failed to walk fast enough.

For some reason she’d been sure they were heading to some safehouse, but when the smiling man opened that door, daylight and wind spilled in.

She stepped through and stopped, blinking against sunlight at the docks. The wind was sharper here than it had been deep in the city.

Fear started to knot in her stomach for the first time.

“Why?” she asked again.

Owen turned his head to look at her. “You can’t be surprised… A union between your family and the Ellises isn’t really in all of our best interest.”

She forced a smile, toothy and fearless—even if that was a complete lie. “It’s kinda late for objections, isn’t it?” Freya lifted the hand with her ring and waggled it at him.

He moved fast, grabbing her before she could pull back and pressing his thumb hard into her palm. She tried to shove him off, but he grabbed the ring with his other hand and pulled it free. He let go of her with a shove, sending her back against the exterior wall of the warehouse.

Freya clutched her hand, grateful to have it back and more than a little terrified of just how certain she’d felt that he was going to take the whole finger. Who the hell was this guy?

He looked at the little trinket and for a second seemed about to hurl it toward the sea, but finally he snapped his hand around it and shoved it into his pocket.

He had worn a mask on the street in case of cameras, but he’d taken it off in the car. He didn’t care if she saw him.

“This isn’t a ransom, is it?”

He lifted an eyebrow when he turned to look at her this time, his smile still there. He dragged his gaze over her, frowning at her dress like he’d finally noticed what a mess she was today. “No.”

Freya pushed off the wall to stand straight. Her heart was slamming her ribs but she looked back at him. Was this really happening? “Why?” she asked again. Who the hell had sent this guy to kill her? Why her? “I can leave.”

He shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“They’ll think I ran anyway.”

“There were witnesses when we took you. They’ll look.” He shook his head, glancing around at the empty stretch of concrete behind the warehouse, before the steep staircase down to what looked like a viewpoint, old wood planks with waves sloshing up right below them. “This is Ellis property. It’ll take them a while to look here, but I figure they’ll find your body by sunrise.”

She tensed, her limbs aching to run. He meant it. Why… Her hands balled into fists. “Wait. Wait… You’re going to Princess Bride me?”

For the first time his smile wavered, his head turning to look at her again. “What?”

“Do I look like a Buttercup to you?”

One of the goons laughed a little and she thought at least he got it…

Owen did not. He didn’t frown but his smile almost flatlined.

“You’re going to kill me to start a war.”

His smile recovered and he started toward the steps.

Freya didn’t follow. She looked around, considering screaming before a big hand wrapped around the back of her neck, driving her forward to follow Owen down the steep stairs to the planks. It was a little dock, something old and left over from before the concrete was laid and the new warehouses built. The ocean was louder down there and the sea breeze bit at her skin.

“It won’t work,” she said over the ocean to his back. She kept the panic and the pleading out of her voice. It would only convince him she was lying sooner. Freya shrugged off the big guy and took another step closer to Owen and the sea. “The Ellises won’t care and my family will hunt you down.”

He had his hands in his pockets again and she wondered if he was still touching her ring. He turned and met her gaze. “Your family will think the Ellises killed you and Harmon will realize it. When they find your body, brutally beaten to death on their own docks, Harmon will do what he always does—he’ll lie. He’ll say you ran off, the way you tried to the other day. He’ll hide your corpse, maybe bury you in the woods near his cabin or sink you in the bay… Either way, I’ll be there to get pictures of the cover up. Your aunt might not care much about you, but I don’t think she’ll be able to ignore that offense, do you?”

Freya swallowed hard, unable to stop herself from shaking as the cold and the fear drove deep into her bones. It had bene hard to focus after the part about how he planned to have her beaten to death, but she got the gist. And damn it, he was probably right.

The boards creaked behind her under the two goons. Suddenly they made sense.

She pretended not to notice them—to have forgotten them and their purpose. She pushed her chin high and took another step toward Owen, away from the other two. “Why not a bullet?”

His smile twisted, amusement reading his dark eyes. “Sorry, Buttercup, but the boss wanted to make it ugly. Too ugly to hide. Too ugly to forget. You understand. I’ll tell them to be quick about it though.”

Her breath shivered out of her, her teeth chattering. Adrenaline.

The waves sloshed under the dock, the wood creaking.

She dragged a deep breath, letting it shake, not fighting it anymore. Tears gathered in her eyes and she looked out at the sea. Dropping her shoulders in quiet resignation, she slid her hands into the deep pockets of her skirt. A few stray tears slid down her cheeks.

Owen nodded in understanding and stepped closer. On his way past her, he stopped to settle a gloved hand on her shoulder in mock comfort. “Sorry, kid,” the smiling man said.

Kid.

They were the same age!

She turned into his touch, fast with no shoes on, and slid right up against his back. The knife she pulled from her pocket opened and locked with a tiny snickt, too quiet to be heard over the ocean but she felt it in her palm. She had her arms around him like a lover, one palm flat to his chest to hold him back against hers and the other around his collar, that blade already several layers deep in his neck and pressing toward his aorta.

He reached for his side-holster in the same second.

“Touch that gun and I will open you up,” she snarled in his ear, her back to the ocean and his front to the surprised goons. “I’m a dead girl anyway, right? I might as well take you with me.”

He didn’t touch his gun but he didn’t lower his hand yet either. Was he weighing her words? Searching for weakness? Oh, Freya was full of weakness, but none that would keep her from killing him.

“I have a bitter heart,” she explained, suddenly more honest with this man than she’d been with anyone in her whole life. It didn’t matter when one or both of them was going to die, did it? “It runs in my blood. I’d rather kill you than let you leave me here.”

He moved his hand away from the gun, holding both of them in front of himself. “You’re making this worse than it has to be.”

“I don’t think so. I think you showed up late to a game and thought you were going to take an easy win. I think you made a big fucking mistake, Owen.” She took steps back, pulling him with her, enjoying the pained hiss of his breath when her knife dug deeper.

She moved her other hand down his chest and across his abdomen. His little gasp suggested he was scandalized. She grabbed the gun from his hip and aimed at the thugs. They bolted for the stairs and she fired after them. Of course he hadn’t had the safety on. She shot one of them in the leg and he crawled up those concrete steps and out of sight.

“What now, Buttercup?” he ground out and she was pretty sure he wasn’t fucking smiling now. “Even if you kill me, they’re just going to get you when you make a run for it. And our deal about me telling them to make it quick is definitely off. I think I’ll tell them to have their fun with you… make it last.”

She took another step back with him, her heels finding the edge of the dock. Freya smiled against the back of his collar, her knife-hand wet and warm where his blood was dripping down the blade. “I’m starting to think you don’t do your own work… Maybe I should call you Vizzini.”

He hissed. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but the only smart thing for you to do now is to shoot yourself in the head.”

Freya shivered, hating how true that felt and not willing to acknowledge the little relief in her chest at the idea. No. NO. She had fought too hard her whole life to stay alive. She wasn’t going out until they dragged her to that grave in the woods!

The waves sloshed and sprayed the backs of her legs.

“Just do it,” he whispered, breathy and right there with her on the edge. “End it. If you don’t—”

“Someone told me that I need friends and my aunt always said… don’t waste someone that might be useful later.” She twisted the knife, the point nicking lines behind his ear. She leaned up onto her toes to get her mouth even closer. “You better be useful to me next time I see you, Vizzini, or I will finish you.”

She let him go, taking the knife away from his throat and just as he tried to turn around—to shove her or get away from her—she stabbed him in the side. Quick. In and out, before the blade retracted with a snickt and she fell off the dock into the sea.

The ocean was a lot different than the river that cut through her family’s property. It pushed where the river had pulled. It tried to bury her where the river had tried to roll her. But the only thing to do, the only thing there had ever been to do, was to push on until she reached land again.

-

Adi was in his office when he got the call.

Wells sounded upset, which was to say she sounded slightly rushed in her report. Men outside the restaurant had taken Freya in broad daylight. Over in a matter of seconds.

Gone.

There was a stretch of silence after her words where she waited for him to say something—to tell her what to do or to tell her that it would be handled?

What if he didn’t handle it?

What if it was just a trick? She could be trying a new tactic for running away. Make it look like a kidnapping this time? Fake her own death?

Was the treaty with the Morgans off if he was a widower before the wedding party?

He hated himself the moment he thought it.

“Fuck,” Adi exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. I’ll make some calls.”

He sat there for another second, staring at his phone.

He could call any number of fixers, pass on the problem, and say that he’d done what he could. But he’d know that he hadn’t…and Ezra would know.

He called Grayson.

Molly answered his phone. “Are you okay?” she asked in that deadpan tone that said she didn’t care but Grayson would so she had to ask.

“Where is he?” Adi asked back, rising from his chair and grabbing his jacket on his way to the door.

“Shower.”

Once again, he had no idea what his brother’s relationship to that particular thug was. He heard her sigh and walk, the sound of the shower suddenly present on her end of the line. “What?” Grayson’s voice, muffled by water and distance.

Adi stepped onto his private elevator and hit the button for the basement garage.

“Yeah?” Grayson answered his phone at last.

“It seems my wife has been abducted.”

“Where?” Grayson asked, calm but cold now, shuffling around on the other end as he presumably got dressed.

“Richards Avenue, outside the May Bell. About ten minutes ago.”

“Has anyone called about a ransom?”

Adi winced, remembering his brother’s personal experience with kidnappings. He should have thought about that before. He shouldn’t have called him…

“Adi?” Grayson’s voice broke through the self-deprecating anger building in his chest. “Ransom demands?”

“No. Nothing that I know of.”

“Any idea who took her?”

“No. Wells was there and saw it happen but she didn’t know who they were.”

He heard keys on the other end. “Have you called the old man yet?”

“No. You were my first call.”

There was the slightest pause before his brother said, “Okay. I’ll make some calls and see what I can find. If you get a ransom call, agree to it, and then call me back.”

Adi nodded, watching the floors climb downward. “Okay.”

Grayson hung up first.

Adi looked at his phone and knew who he had to call next. He hit the first number on his phone, his emergency contact.

Ezra answered after a couple rings, a smile on his voice.

The memory of the last time he saw Freya flashed before his mind’s eye. She was on the balcony in a ratty shirt, sneaking a cigarette and casting a look back at him like she might have shared if he had asked.

“She’s gone,” he said and then curled his lip, teeth wanting to bite at the words because they weren’t right. “Someone took her.”