#the rapid realization that you are in a tragedy

[thestarsarecool]

The Show Must Go Wrong: A collection of Paul McCartney quotes for your consideration

“That whole period weighed on me to such an extent that I even began to think it was all tied in with the idea of original sin. Even though my mum had christened me as a Catholic, we weren’t brought up Catholic, so I didn’t buy into the concept of original sin on a day-to-day basis. It’s really very depressing to think that you were born a loser.”

— Paul McCartney, The Lyrics: 1956 to the Present (2021), on “Carry That Weight”

“‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ was my analogy for when something goes wrong out of the blue, as it so often does, as I was beginning to find out at that time in my life.”

— Paul McCartney, Many Years From Now (1997) by Barry Miles

Q: What scares you?

McCARTNEY: I suppose the way you can’t nail life down. You grow up thinking that if you learn enough stuff and get the right education then you’ll be able to nail life. I’ll know what’s going on. One thing you discover is that the goalposts are always changing. The rules change. The world changes. When that happens, you realize you still don’t have a clue. And it shocks you. You think, “I don’t have the information I need to deal with this.” That scares me.

VICE, A Pure Conversation with Paul McCartney, Interview by Joe Zadeh, June 13th, 2016

“It’s rather serious — life. And you can’t live as if you have nine lives. I find myself doing that often. I think everybody does, saying in his mind, ‘I’ll get it tomorrow.’ But I can’t do that anymore. Take One with the Beatles should have been like I said, with a puff of smoke and magic robes and envelopes. But we missed Take One, so now we do Take Two. And in the disappointment of Take Two — I feel I can always find something good in the bad — the good thing is that it really has made me come to terms more with my life.”

— Paul McCartney, LIFE Magazine, April 16th, 1971

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven / All good children go to heaven

“You Never Give Me Your Money” (1969)

[grxndprix]

𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐚.

𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 — 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘮𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘮𝘪 𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮! 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘵𝘸 — 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦/𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯, 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘢, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵

It’s an odd thing, she realized. Practically lunacy. Rapt, her hand traced the outline of her collarbone, eyes following the motion in the mirror. Maybe she hoped for a lag in the reflection. This was a trick mirror, it had to be. 

The muted olive walls of the bathroom closed in on her. Dim lighting, an orange-ish tint to the bulbs. Far too saturated, suffocating, she was choking herself out as thoughts swarmed around her mind. Lips parting in a quiet denial of the situation, she almost missed how her whole body was trembling.

[name] ran fingers through her hair in an effort to ground herself. Purple bruises and red bitemarks littered across her neck and collar, she flinched at the memory that came with them. She didn’t wear concealer, so she wouldn’t have any in her purse. Imperfections of her face bubbled up, but it wasn’t enough to rip her attention away from the marks.

Jujutsu High was supposed to be a safe haven. It was supposed to be somewhere she could focus on strengthening her skills, somewhere she could escape her ignorant and awful family — But tragedy tends to follow those who combat it the most. 

A shaky breath, and [name] crumbled to the floor in a heap. She could hardly breathe, scratching at her skin, rubbing furiously at her body as her cries echoed in cracked whispers, “God, please get it off— Get his touch off— I-I can’t—” She hiccupped, tears rapid in their descent down her face. 

Her knees ached from the coldness of the tiled floor, bathtub in her peripheral suddenly looking more like a coffin than anything else. She wondered, for a moment, — If she filled the tub with water and let the crystal substance fill her lungs, would she feel clean?

Bring her to the forest, dump her body on the grass. Nature will be gentler than any man. 

Megumi Fushiguro wasn’t a bad man. That’s what [name] believed. She saw his stoicism as gentleness to the world. She saw his silence as peace. And, of course, she saw his potential as a sorcerer. She was the one who brought it to his attention, just before Gojo even got the idea to talk to him.

The girl had approached him just before he was to close his room’s door for the night. 

[name] smiled softly, eyes not meeting his as she tried to step out of her comfort zone. “I just think you have a lot of amazing things you’d be able to do! You can bring out your potential, I just— I think you can pull it out of yourself, hon’, I really do…” She dared a glance up into his eyes, suppressing a wince when he had been looking at her the whole time. “If that makes sense, of course! Sorry, I don’t know why I—”

She was cut off by a quiet laugh. It wasn’t harsh or biting, not even mocking — It was a genuine, soft laugh. Finally turning to look at him properly, her heart almost fluttered. He was smiling, eyes crinkling upward at the notion. Despite her hesitation, he looked so… happy. He was shining, honestly. 

“ Thanks, [name]. I, ah, needed that.” He ran a hand through his fluffy raven locks, gunmetal hues resting on her face. Unmoving. His cheeks were dusted a light pink. She internally breathed a sigh of relief, laughing with him. Her own smile was made even brighter than before, cheeks starting to hurt. 

Megumi almost brought his hand up to affectionately ruffle her hair, but stopped himself. He could hold on for a bit longer, he could— He observed the crinkle in her eyes, the bags under them, the moles, the light in her pupils, and suddenly, he recognized life as short. 

[name] had to depart, she decided with a glance at her phone. She didn’t want to ruin the moment, but she’d promised Itadori a hangout. She was about to wave goodbye, the words settling on her tongue— If not for his hand shooting up, grabbing her wrist before she could even try to pull back. 

The countdown started. Megumi liked to believe he was great at keeping all of his true thoughts and feeling under wraps. 

[name] didn’t flinch. Why would she? She’d gotten comfortable with Megumi, there was no reason for her to— 

Oh.

His eyes had darkened. She didn’t think it had been possible, really, but all the memories of her family had come rushing back. A tidal wave of sin, the sudden recession of an ocean. She looked at their intertwined hands, then back up at his face. Something in the air had shifted. 

The girl gave a cautious tug at her wrist, eyes no longer possessing the strength of contact with his. “Ah, I gotta go hon’—, Promised Yuuji I’d hang out with him.” She experimentally tugged again, but to no avail. Her lips turned the slightest bit downward.

Perhaps the scariest part was Megumi’s silence. The way his eyes fell dull, completely unlike the smile on his face just moments before. Was his previous grin sardonic? Did she not catch the undertone? His grip on [name]’s wrist only tightened a considerable amount, brows creasing together in a look that mirrored— What, betrayal? Annoyance? Was she being annoying for trying to leave?

“...Megumi?” Cautious. She realized her tone was cautious. What changed? Just a few minutes ago she felt completely comfortable with him, she was at peace and felt that he was someone she could trust, but now—

She didn’t get the chance to respond. The quiet of the hallway sank in quickly as he yanked her feeble frame inside. A yelp, but it reached no one as the door slammed shut. 

[name] turned to Megumi, eyes wide and pupils just shaking with fear. Silence, as it was, spoke fucking volumes. She hadn’t noticed it before, the way his gunmetal blue eyes dragged along her body, sizing her up like lamb to the slaughter. 

He took a step forward, dorm floor creaking with the notion. She took one back. It took a second, but her flight instinct kicked in. Turning on her heel, [name] went for a mad dash for the backdoor. It led to his balcony, so maybe if she jumped and ran for Yuuji, or Gojo Sensei, or Nobara— 

A single hand caught on her hair and pulled. A wounded whimper left the girl’s throat, body crashing right back into the ravenette’s. She struggled as much as possible, but it didn’t do much when he just got her right up against the nearest wall. 

Those gunmetal eyes carried the embers of hell, she thought. Despite her weak whines and cries, the devil’s whispers painted fluttering kisses to cloud any sane thought she hoped had burrowed into Megumi’s mind.

He pinned her wrists above her head, frame completely devouring hers as he dove in for a kiss. She squirmed under him, trying to turn her head, but one of his hands only held her chin in place. This was her worst nightmare turned ten times more malicious. 

His hands roamed her body with the desire of Eros, the pursuit of Persephone from Hades, the longing of Pothos — A man possessed by tragedy. She had to be his lyre, the instrument he used and used and used and used—

[name] cried out as his teeth sank into the soft of her neck. His tongue seemed to lap up the blood easily, as if an apology for his unbridled animosity. He treated her like glass he knew could be repaired. Delicate, but made for shattering.

Megumi seemed to hardly use any strength to rip the front of her shirt open with one hand, leaning down to pepper his kisses down her chest. The tattered remains of her shirt and bra fell to the floor, leaving the upper part of her body completely vulnerable and to his mercy. Teeth on skin, marking, sucking — He was making sure no inch of her didn’t carry him.

A breath, and [name] almost thought he’d come to his senses with the way his ministrations paused. However, she was proven wrong when he moved to remove her bottoms too. His free hand reached down and began to rub circles on her, now, exposed clit. She writhed as much as she could, breathless pleas falling from her lips as his long fingers worked their way inside of her, eliciting even more pained cries.

The boy didn’t offer a response, much too lost in everything about the moment. She was under him, whimpering because of him, this wet because of him— What else could he ever ask for?

In one swift movement, Megumi lifted her thighs to rest around his waist. He had pulled his sweatpants down enough to rub his erection against her bare pussy. She winced at the movement, head thrown back against the wall as his grip tightened around her wrists. A quietly strained groan left his throat, the first noise he’d made this whole time. 

[name] bit her tongue so as to not offer any other response that may satisfy, resorting to quietly struggling against him again. He, of course, did not budge one bit. The horror she felt before only increased when the head of his cock started to push into her. A strangled cry, eyes squeezing shut as he sunk deeper and deeper into her warmth.

He groaned quietly again, just letting his hips rest against hers for a moment. It didn’t last very long though, as he slowly started to roll his thrusts into her, face buried in her neck as she kept her head held high against the wall.

The thrusts started off fairly slow, but he really just— couldn’t get enough. Megumi hissed a quiet ‘fuck…’, pace increasing a great amount. She tried to hold back, but her back had already arched the tiniest bit, canines digging into her lip.

The brutality of how he fucked her just got worse and worse, and soon enough the whole dorm was full of both of their strained moans, skin slapping against skin, thumps against the wall. She couldn’t take it anymore, tears streaming down her face for a while now as she begged him to just stop, stop, stop—

But it doesn’t take a genius to see how he was far too deep in to tap out now. Megumi’s groans and soft whines echoed against the wall, and he couldn’t care less that Yuuji could easily hear them from the next room over. If anything, that was good — Maybe Yuuji’d take the hint after hearing her moan his name instead. 

[name]’s breath quickened, climax approaching, but the sick feeling of being taken advantage of like this, the dirtiness that came with an orgasm from such a sick person— She couldn’t do this. She didn’t want to, she never wanted to. 

Pitch black hair bounced with each pronounced thrust, but his pace grew sloppy. [name]’s breath hitched at the slow realization. It felt like the world had come crumbling down in an instant, and her fear grew impossibly larger. 

“M-Megumi— Not in– Not inside, please—” She stammered, but it really only came out as a whine or whimper than a command. 

Like always, he didn’t offer a response. He just kept fucking into her at that same brutal pace, before his hips stuttered along with her pleas — And before she knew it, he was shooting ropes of white into her tight walls. 

Breathing heavily, Megumi’s hips stayed against hers again, just relishing in the heat pulsing between the two of them. After a few moments of panting and an intimacy she wanted to rip from her body, he let her thighs uncoil from around his waist.

The boy pulled out, juices running down both of their thighs as he tucked himself away. [name] slumped against the wall, in a pool of her own ripped up clothes, completely open and vulnerable to the man who had taken advantage of her. She tucked her knees into her chest, eyes blank and empty as she tried to catch her breath.

Megumi ran a hand through his hair, light sweat catching onto his skin. He clicked his tongue gently, seeming to weigh his options before pulling her up into his arms. She flinched violently, and that only got another click of his tongue. He brought her into the washroom, running a warm bath and shutting the door for the sake of privacy. Ironic, isn’t it?

Which… leads to…

Right now. 

[name] ran a hand down her face, breaths significantly slower but still short. She was completely out of touch right now, eyes swirling with fatigue, blankness, and something akin to horror.

Standing up, she found it in herself to at least wash the parts she felt most dirty, but as she pulled on the spare clothes Megumi had given her, it didn’t make her feel any better. She took a heavy breath, giving it a once-over in the mirror. The oversized shirt hung low enough on her neck to expose all the marks and bruises littered all over the skin, and he hadn’t supplied her with a bra either. No matter what, she was exposed to him.

She blinked the fatigue in her eyes away for the sake of trying to figure out an action plan. If she can exit his dorm right now, get to one of the higher ups and report this, hell, even Yuuji— 

Yeah. She can do that. She rubbed her eyes, lashes damp with still fresh tears. She can do this. Her hand went to the door knob—

But the door swung open itself, Megumi stepping in and shutting the door behind him. He thought himself to be good at keeping his true thoughts and feelings under wraps at all times, he really did — And yet, as he pushed the terrified girl up against the sink, teeth sinking into her neck once more, he knew it was bullshit.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it sure as hell burned in one.

𝘱𝘭𝘴𝘴𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘥 𝘰𝘬 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘹 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘶 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 ☆

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! -17

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

Warning: Tragedy, Angst, Manipulation, Intimidation

A/N: I know we hate Victoria, but this is the saddest chapter I have ever written. I can't stop typing the angst. 😭

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Everything changed so quickly. One moment, Jonathan, Genevieve, and Victoria were standing on a cloud, looking down at the people beneath them. Now, they were falling from the sky, landing in the quicksand, ready to trap their feet.

The bankruptcy of Celestial Enterprises happened too fast. Investors and shareholders pulled their money from the company, causing a rapid downfall.

To save the company, many assets were sold, including the house they used as their primary residence. The house built by Ophelia��the one thing you thought would be impossible to get—was now yours. Bucky delivered the great news and handed you the house key.

Without hesitation, you drove to your childhood home. Though you only lived there for a while, it held precious memories of you and your mother.

Standing at the white door, you inserted the key and turned it. The moment you walked in, the emptiness hit you. Looking around the house, you realize there was no trace of your life with Ophelia back then.

Genevieve had obviously changed the house's decoration. You walked around the first and second floors and then to your room. It was apparent your step-mom hated you. The bedroom, once your sanctuary where you could be alone without seeing Genevieve and Victoria’s faces, was now a storage place.

“I hope you're happy now. You have ruined our lives,” Victoria suddenly made her entrance.

You smirked. “Fucking deserved it. You people did it first to me.”

Victoria was taken aback. “You don't even care about your own dad?”

“Care? That man didn't deserve pity from me the moment he married his mistress. He fucking killed my mother,” you retorted.

That was the last straw. Victoria hated it when you called Genevieve a mistress. “I will not let you do this to me!” she yelled, pointing her finger at you.

You saw her frantic, paranoid, and utterly different from the elegant persona she usually maintained. You chuckled, “It must be difficult for you seeing me win.”

“Fuck you,” Victoria spat as she slapped you hard across the face.

You responded by grabbing her hair, yanking it fiercely. “You bitch.”

The two of you erupted into a full-blown fight. Nails scratched at each other's skin, wishing they were sharp like knives. Hair was pulled, kicks were exchanged, and all the pent-up resentment and hatred came pouring out in a chaotic clash.

It was clear from the beginning who would win. You quickly overpowered her. Without any desire to prolong the fight, you landed a solid punch to her stomach, causing her to crumple to the ground.

“Urgh. Fuck you,” Victoria growled, clutching her stomach in pain.

You huffed, sitting down on the floor. Victoria refused to look at you, unable to accept that she had lost.

Both of you sat there, catching your breath. A moment of silence between siblings who had nearly torn each other apart.

“I always hated you,” Victoria said suddenly, covering her eyes with her arm.

“The feeling’s mutual,” you replied, hissing as you touched the fresh scratches on your skin.

“I hate that I always did my best but was still compared to you,” she admitted. “The sin of the daughter from the mistress.”

You stood still, your expression unreadable, but a storm of emotions brewed inside. You crossed your arms, a subconscious gesture to shield yourself from the raw pain in her words.

“Even though I was the smartest at school, it was never enough to satisfy my mother,” Victoria continued, her voice trembling.

Growing up, she always knew she had to be better than you. That's what Genevieve has told her. She wants to make her mother proud of her. And the recognition from Jonathan.

“What made it worse was that you didn’t even try to compete, but all eyes were always on you. They always saw me as the mole in your life,” Victoria said, her voice breaking.

When she left her old school and entered the new one where you studied, she was greeted by judging eyes. The status of being a ‘mistress’s daughter’ haunted her. Everyone saw her as the villain compared to you, the victim.

In truth, you and Victoria were both victims of the adultery. Both of you were innocent.

“As a child, you listened to your mom. But growing up, you could’ve made your own choices,” you said quietly.

“You could’ve realized what you did to me was wrong. But you didn’t stop,” you added.

“And then we’d become good step-siblings?” Victoria scoffed.

You sighed, a hint of sadness in your eyes. “As a teacher, I’ve met stepmothers and stepfathers who worried about a kid not related by blood but saw them as their own. And step-siblings who worked multiple jobs because they wanted their younger siblings to get the best education.”

Victoria stayed quiet, her face a mix of anger and regret.

“Yes. We could’ve,” you said softly.

Another silence fell, but it was broken as Victoria slowly stood up without saying anything. Before she left, you told her, “You could’ve made your own choice. Remember that.”

She didn't reply or look at you. She kept walking until she arrived at the entrance door. Her hand hung in the air before she pulled the handle.

Victoria turned and looked around the grand entrance. She remembered the first time she set foot in this house, feeling like a beggar turned into a princess.

It wasn't a prince who found her glass slipper, but her dad, picking her up in his expensive car and making her a princess.

She thought her life would have a happy ending. But no. It turned out she was the evil step-sister, and her mother was the evil step-mom. Just like the characters in Cinderella.

If only she had never hated you, if only she had never listened to Genevieve’s words. Could you and she have become real sisters who talked to each other, laughed, cried, and went shopping together?

Tears welled up in her eyes. Victoria scoffed, “Idiot,” she whispered to herself.

She looked at the family portrait of Jonathan, Genevieve, and herself. The three of them looked like a perfect family, but it was just an empty smile. Her own father was pushing her into a marriage with a man known for his violence.

Her mother, who she always counted on, couldn't object. She would rather send her daughter to marry a psycho to save face.

Her parents didn't fight for her at all, unlike you, who objected to Jonathan and Genevieve’s wedding. You caused chaos that made Jonathan send you away so you wouldn't ruin his second wedding. But then Cassandra appeared and humiliated the couple.

She had always been jealous of you for not giving up. Everyone, including herself, laughed when you vowed to take down the company.

But who had the last laugh now? It was you. You won. You got what was supposed to be yours.

Looking back, her life was much simpler and happier when they still lived in an apartment.

She removed her heels, climbed on the antique table, raised her hand, and tore down the family portrait. With her heels, she ripped the picture apart.

The perfect family was gone. No more.

After being satisfied with her work, she felt the chains were broken.

Victoria put on her shoes and left the house. After that day, nobody knew where she went. Even Genevieve couldn't contact her.

Without the bride, the wedding wouldn't happen. That meant the only lifeline to save Celestial Enterprises was gone.

It was official. The white flag was raised, and the company was finally sold. The buyer was Patrick.

All of this could have happened because Victoria left. Sometimes, you wondered where she could have gone. Each time you looked out the window or at the sky, you whispered, “Good luck...sister.”

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Author Note: Hey friends,

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[the-kr8tor]

Katy…. For the 1 year anniversary

Garlic cloves and 💧

Vampire hobie and some angst

Vampire hobie and a human where other vampires find out hes in love with a human (maybe they cause him to purposely goes mad, to where he will attack and be the cause for rs death. Possibly?)

Then when he snaps out of it, he realize what hes done. To the person he fell in love with (can totally see him trying to make R into a vampire while sobbing choking out apologies while trying to get them back) 😭

I dont know i thought youd like this possibly, you have full control over the ending or how anything goes or could go. Some of its just a small ideas to give your brain maybe to help give you ideas for how you want to go. But i know you love angst and you are amazing at it

First thing i requested for your Apothecary. Do whatever you want with this idea. Just knew itd give a lot of angst potential for our favorite punk

Hehehhehe vampire! Hobie angst 👀 thank you for requesting, bestie!!

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, vampire AU, Angst.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Blood coats his tongue like a thin film of gore and death. It sticks to his fangs, red dripping off his unhinged maw where his fellow immortals’ crimson flows out like your own blood spilling from the numerous bites marring your precious skin. Skin he used to hold and love, skin that is now littered with specks of rubies as if a constellation of stars has touched you in your dying breath.

He heaves in place, adrenaline coursing through his veins like the raging rapids. Sharp claws still red and dripping, rage filled eyes roaming around the violence he did not start but had to finish.

Hobie never thought that he'd be betrayed by his immortal kind that he has spent centuries with. Vampires they used to call friends, even family. He never thought that being called upon by a trusted friend would result in you lying in your own pool of blood in the same house he left you, in the same dress he last saw you in, in the same floors he danced on with you holding on to him as he glides you around the home he once built for you.

Home, it doesn't look like it now. The oak walls that you've painstakingly painted that resemble tree branches stretching across the abode like a warm embrace are now coated in every shade of red. Numerous portraits of your life with him now lay scattered by his feet, glass crunching under his footsteps like dry autumn leaves. The pretty candles that you always light on the same hour every night are nothing but wax melted upon the ashen skin of fellow vampires. His hands are coated in the same ashes, grey amidst dark red, dark red among his skin, skin that he thought he has washed away from a millennia of sin— skin that he thought was worthy of your sacred touch.

As he walks closer to your limp body, his eyes bore into the river of red left in your wake. His expression is akin to an empty, apocalyptic look— dangerous, yet, a tragedy lies underneath his wine red eyes. He's starting to hate his eyes now that you lay in a pool of the same colour. You used to tell him that his eyes were like the purest of crimson, similar to a stirling ruby no king or emperor could ever possess. With your words he vowed to keep you close to him until your skin has etched into his own, until his own ribs rip apart to embrace you and take you into his very being. Now that he gingerly holds you close to his chest, he should've done that to protect you better, now it's too late as you gasp, fending off death itself from taking your soul before you could say goodbye.

Your eyes no longer show the light he once admired, light akin to the sun that would burn and turn him into ash— but he could not stop looking at them, even if it could possibly be his demise, because it'll be worth it to feel the righteous sun kiss his skin once again.

“‘m sorry,” Hobie cried as his tears from his own blood dripped down across your cold cheeks. “I can still fix this.” With a shaky inhale, he feels mortal when your freezing hand taps his long dead heart. You don't speak nor blink at him. He wishes you could but with your life seeping out of you, it's impossible for you to do so. He feels it, how your life is being drained from the numerous bites along your body. He also wishes he doesn't feel you slip away. “Please, l–let me bring you back.”

With your last strength, you curl your lips to a soft, weak smile. Hand weakly gripping his shirt, mouth mouthing the words— “not your fault.”

Hobie chokes on a sob, shaking his head, he cannot, will not let you go. You're the only person who truly knows him, the only person who has seen the real him that he hasn't shown to anyone since he was turned. He loves you, and he'll continue to love you until his dying breath, whenever that may be. Ten years from now, twenty, a hundred— he'd love you until he steps out of the shadows and back into the light of the sun that reminds him of your eyes.

He feels your heart slow down, the blood rushing out of your veins are like drums in his ears. Opening his jaw, fangs in full show, you let out your very last mortal breath.

But he's too late, you have no blood left, drained until the last drop. No spark of life left to be brought back to earth with. Without a flicker of light, there's no embers to set fire to. Yet, he still tries in despair. Teeth sinking into you, a hungry bear to a corpse of a rabbit, he bites and sips into nothingness. Not even a glimmer, a hope lighting a fire in you brought by the kiss of death— nothing, absolutely nothing can bring you back to life. He cries, sobs wracking his body, a hurricane of emotions flooding through him that he has never felt in his immortal life until now.

Calling your name, he cradles your cold body, hand behind your head, lips upon your neck. He doesn't bite this time, he knows better. But if it does work, will you hate him for it?

The door creaks open, a familiar face he just saw a few hours ago enters the sheer violence Hobie left in his vengeance. His face contorts into sorrow but it quickly turns contorts to disappointment.

“You should've listened.” He utters, mouth dripping with venomous words. “Was she worth it? Breaking our law?”

Hobie slowly glances at the man without leaving your side. His once pure ruby eyes have turned into a flurry of bright red fury. “She was.” His claws dig into your lifeless body, lips shaking from sheer anger.

“I still cannot understand you.” He scoffs, “and you even tried to turn her. You're a fucking disgrace.”

Hobie slowly brings you back down, carefully laying you and closing your lifeless eyes. He looks at the man, someone he used to call a friend, someone he once trusted. Vampire blood and ash coats his very being, staining his soul, but they don't compare to your blood on his hands.

“Then I'll make you understand.” With a pounce, Hobie will drench his hands in more ichor until it's enough for him.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Payneland Didn't Know They Were Dating AU Update: aka, surprise! Chapter 3!

Basically: thank all of y'all for the outpouring of love on this fic. I was very much not expecting it and my friends got to deal with me rambling in the discord chat about how excited/overwhelmed I was (very positively, of course). As a result, here's the follow-up. I couldn't resist :)

Edwin learned about the Big Bang only after he escaped Hell. It seemed an almost religious concept, that the universe had begun from a single burst of light, exploding outward at such rapid speeds that it could never be caught up to. That humanity would never, ever reach the outskirts of the universe, never be able to touch the edges, not because the Earth was at the center of the universe, but because the universe would expand on forever, past any human comprehension.

For the longest time, that was what being in love with Charles Rowland was like.

A burst of light. A divine spark. The universe comes into being, life summoned forth from the ether and never quite able to be caught up to. A constant failure to reach for the edges.

Charles Rowland’s love is as big as the fucking universe, and Edwin would never find his way to its edges. He would forever be dwarfed at the center, a remnant of a time long gone, doomed to never expand at the same rate.

But then Charles shatters all of that. He tells Edwin that he has never been a satellite. That Charles is not the universe. He's not too grand to ever love Edwin back.

(The follow-up to realizing the boy you love has loved you back all along.)

Also, lookie! I also have a playlist for this fic! (Songs are in order, for ease of listening!)

@tragedy-machine @idliketobeatree @wordsinhaled @nix-nihili @anything-thats-rock-and-roll

@tumblerislovetumblerislife @plentyghosts @dear-monday @deadb0ydetectives @sparklypurplefool

@immacaria @mostly-functional @arisprite @wikipediagreen

@catboy-cabin @frogsondeckchairs @shadowflame84 @adventures-in-mangaland

@spacegirlsgang

[universitypenguin]

Chapter 15

Summary: Lloyd takes things too far in his threat against Deputy Russell and has to change tactics mid-stream. Princess and Zach decide to push back against Detective Roth's allegations.

Word Count: 3,936

Masterlist

Warnings: Mention of drug trafficking, murder, legal proceedings, spy/intelligence agencies, corruption, stalking, violence, threatening, and discussion of criminal behavior. Minor foul language. Only appropriate for 18+ readers. No minors. 

The Princess & the Lawyer Chapter 15

Lloyd stood at the stove stirring a noxious mixture of gasoline and aluminum hydroxide. Pungent fumes hung thick in the air, forcing him to cover his mouth and nose with a bandanna. 

The screen door slammed, and familiar footsteps echoed through the hall. 

“Ugh! What is that stench? Did a gas line rupture?”

Elliot’s voice rang through the house before he came around the corner into the kitchen. 

His bright-eyed appearance was in sharp contrast with Lloyd’s sleep-deprived state. Knowing his cousin had been left in charge of their captive all night, Lloyd couldn’t help but draw the obvious conclusion. Elliot’s excessive cheerfulness was derived from a more potent source than caffeine - he was smoking ice again. 

“I followed your instructions and made a copy of Carl’s phone,” Elliot said, buzzing with excitement. “Guess what? Sheriff Holbrook’s texts are still on there, tucked away in some encrypted app. We could use it as leverage!” 

Lloyd shook his head. “No. We can’t deviate from the plan. Did Russell agree to a meeting time?”

“Eleven o'clock at High Meadows.”  

“Not a bad choice. Lots of entrances and exits,” Lloyd said. “I’m almost finished here. There’s water cooler jugs filled with this stuff piled up on the back deck. Bring your truck around and start loading them for me, will you?” 

“Sure thing, man.” 

Elliot bounded down the hall and Lloyd rubbed his tired eyes. He desperately needed some sleep unless he planned on asking Elliot for a bump of meth to keep him going. Lloyd shut off the stove, checked the final batch of chemicals, and rinsed his spoon in the sink. He stuck his head outside to inform Elliot he was going to bed and headed up the stairs. 

Just as he lay down, his phone rang. 

“Hello?” 

“Mr. Hansen? This is Judy Lange from the HOA. I wanted to let you know that the association swimming pool has been fixed and approved for reopening on Monday. Should I leave your keys in the mailbox for your house sitter, or wait until you’re back?” 

Mrs. Lange didn’t actually hold an official position with the Homeowners Association. Her husband had campaigned for the post out of pure spite. His single-minded crusade against Della Collins’ window box planters and their “busy-looking” Ultra Star Petunias earned him a landslide victory in the election. He’d passed a statute banning all multicolored blossoms from public spaces and after his triumph, lost interest in executing the duties of his office. 

Despite her eccentric husband, Lloyd found Mrs. Lange to be a reasonable person. Her annoying habit of speaking at a million words per minute was made up for by impeccable manners and a sharp sense of humor. Even Mrs. Collins, who was still torqued at Mr. Lange a year later, couldn’t resist her charms. 

After his brain finally managed to process her rapid fire words, Lloyd grunted. 

“The mailbox is fine. I’ll text my friend and let her know to pick them up.” 

“Excellent. I apologize for calling you at such a time, Lloyd.” 

Mrs. Lange’s voice carried a hint of horror, as if she’d just realized she had contacted someone in the midst of a family tragedy. Lloyd didn’t view the situation as such, but he recognized the apologetic shift in her tone as she launched into a long winded explanation. 

“With everything going on, I am sure now is a terrible time for you… I just didn’t want to forget. You’re the most frequent patron of our athletic facilities. Well, usually the only patron to be frank. Mrs. Collins isn’t getting around like she used to after her knee surgery. Anyways, I’ll personally take those keys to your friend so they’re ready when you get back. And if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to reach out.” 

She really meant it, Lloyd thought, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. If only she knew what the man who he was supposed to be grieving had done to him. 

“Thanks, Judy. I appreciate it.” 

“Of course, darling. I’ll see you around.” 

Already half asleep, Lloyd hung up the phone. His last thought was that he needed to call you. Hearing from Judy reminded him of home, and of you. It had been days since your last talk and that was far too long. Before the meeting with Russell, Lloyd promised himself he’d make time for a conversation. 

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

You stalked back and forth in front of Zach’s desk, breathing hard, your fists clenched in frustration. 

“I can’t believe his nerve! Can you believe this? Can you?!” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Zach grunted and continued tapping on his keyboard.

“He has the audacity to accuse us of leaking information to the media, without a shred of evidence? It’s unprofessional!”

Zach nodded, seemingly absorbed in his work. 

“I spent so much time building them a database and now no one can use it. The whole process was exhausting and tedious and… are you even listening to me?” 

���Yes. Roth is an infuriating bastard. I knew it from the start, and you thought he was cute.”

“I did not!”

“Did so,” Zach said. 

“Did not.”

“Let’s not lose sight of our most important objective here.”

“Yes, let’s not. What is that objective, again?” you asked. 

“Getting back in Roth’s good graces and thereby, restoring our access to information and resources.”

“I’m sorry, were we just in the same room? About twenty minutes ago, when Roth kicked us to the curb and Bishop had a melt down?”

“We’re not going to let our hard work go to waste. There’s more than one key for every lock, you know?”

“Uh… that’s not how locks work.”

“It is when you know how to pick locks,” Zach quipped. 

“I haven’t even told you about my conversation with Mr. Liu!” 

He resumed typing, his attention focused on the monitor. “No sister?”

“Well, that’s a very anticlimactic way of putting it, but yes. He’s certain that Julia didn’t have a sister.” 

“That’s the conclusion I ended up at too.”

“Should we tell Roth?”

“I’d rather clear our names first,” Zach said.

“How?”

“Look at this.”

Zach pivoted his monitor to show you the screen. 

You stared at a map of Arlington with a route highlighted in purple. Squinting, you noted the web address of a popular running app called PacePal. The account’s username was generic and the profile picture was an image of a man's athletic shoes. 

“What am I looking at?” 

Zach smirked. “This PacePal profile belongs to Peter Shaw. The account photo is of the same running shoes he’s wearing in the Twitter he shared last year of himself finishing the Miami Marathon.” 

“Okay, not to make myself look like an idiot, but who is Peter Shaw?”

“A very tenacious investigative reporter with Rolling Stone Magazine. He’s also the only person who knows the real identity of the leaker, and thanks to his lax attitude toward social media security, we know where Mr. Shaw will be at two o’clock this afternoon.” 

“So, if I’m hearing you correctly, we’re going to give Detective Roth a taste of his own medicine?” 

“I intend to serve him a fresh plate of crow as soon as humanly possible,” Zach said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Ruthless much?” 

“I didn’t pull in that jackass Lattimer without a damn good reason. We’re onto something with Julia’s supposed sister and if we don’t keep pushing the trail will go cold. What do you say, Princess? Shall we go put Shaw on notice?” 

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

Lloyd called you when he woke, but reached your voicemail instead of you. He sent a text instead and dove into the shower to scrub off the lingering stench of gasoline that clung to his skin. 

None of the clothes he’d packed suited the character he wanted to portray tonight, so he rummaged through Joe’s closet in search of better options. In the back, he discovered a garment bag containing the winning ensemble: a navy suit with wide lapels, bootcut trousers, and a matching waistcoat. It screamed 1970’s gaudy at the top of its lungs. 

To complete the look, Lloyd installed the hair extensions he’d sent Elliot to acquire from a beauty supply store two towns over. Cutting the remaining extensions into three-inch pieces, he applied them carefully across his jaw, smirking as he remembered April's suggestion that he should grow a beard. The overall effect was a cross between Jerry Garcia and Medusa on a bad hair day. 

For accessories, Lloyd raided Joe’s dresser. He added rings, a gold chain necklace, and a pair of lightly tinted orange sunglasses. The oversized frames elevated the look from vintage inspired to unmistakably costume like - a perfect fit for the character he was putting on. He slapped on a strongly scented aftershave he found in Joe’s medicine cabinet and instantly regretted it when his eyes watered from the fumes. 

Resisting the urge to wash it off, he turned his attention to more practical matters. Joe’s gun cabinet yielded a wide assortment of armaments. He owned weapons from every firearms manufacturer on the market in the past fifty years. Lloyd wasn’t keen to give a hopped up meth addict a gun, but circumstances demanded it. He picked up a Winchester Renegade and checked the ammunition.

“Hey, Elliot! How’s your aim these days?” 

Elliot turned around from his task of cleaning up the kitchen and did a double take of Lloyd’s outfit. 

“Better than most people’s. What are you wearing, dude? Are we going to make a drug deal or audition for Saturday Night Fever?” 

Lloyd snorted at the question and held out the Winchester Renegade. 

“I need you to watch my back while I’m meeting with Russell. Just in case things don’t go according to plan.” 

“Understood. I’m the second shooter on the grassy knoll,” Elliot said. 

They took back roads to the meeting spot. By the time they reached their destination, Elliot’s old truck was covered in mud from the unpaved roads that cut through the vast Idaho landscape. They were deep in the countryside, hidden from prying eyes of passersby on the highway by miles of barren hills. 

High Meadows had once been a thriving venue for team roping and barrel racing events. Now, the clay earth he remembered as being meticulously groomed played host to an invasion of dandelions and scotch thistle. The red aluminum roof over the pavilion had faded to a dull rust color and the cedar panel fencing that encircled the space was bent with age and broken in several places. 

He helped Elliot unload the water cooler jugs filled with the gelled fuel that he’d spent the morning cooking. Lloyd marked out a circle, about twenty feet in diameter, in the middle of the arena and cut a small trench into the ground. With Elliot’s help he poured the viscous mixture into the trough and raked the displaced dirt back into place. 

They hid their equipment in the bed of Elliot’s truck and moved the vehicle into a ravine near the main access road to High Meadows. 

Lloyd turned to his cousin. “Go take up position on that hill over there.”

He pointed to a spot beyond the dilapidated grandstands. “It has the best vantage point. Also, there’s a thermal scope in your backpack in case the night vision doesn’t cut it.” 

Elliot slung his backpack over his shoulder and disappeared into the hills. Lloyd took his position in the arena as the sun settled behind the horizon. He lay down on one of the risers in the grandstands, propped his feet up, and dozed until the sun went down. Suddenly, the crackle of the Bluetooth in his ear brought Lloyd back to the present as Elliot’s voice broke him from semi-unconscious. 

“Russell is pulling in,” Elliot said. 

“I see the headlights,” Lloyd confirmed.

The beams of Russell’s headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the arena. Lloyd leaned casually against a pillar on the far side. The position gave him plenty of time to observe Russell as he approached. The deputy was clearly spooked - he’d worn a bulletproof vest over his khaki uniform. 

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Lloyd called out in greeting. 

Russell stepped into the arena, his eyes scanning the space, trying to assess the situation.

“Who are you?” 

“Didn’t Carl tell you? We’re the Canadians,” Lloyd said, flashing a mischievous grin.

Russell’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“Now, let’s get down to business!” Lloyd clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Don’t look so tense, Luke. I’m here to make you rich, and myself even richer. You see, I came here to shake down a former associate, but the trouble is this jackass died before I could get to him. So, I found a locally connected businessman and squeezed until he spilled your name.” 

The deputy’s nostrils flared, a warning sign Lloyd waved off dismissively. 

“Don’t worry about it. I took care of him.” 

“What do you mean you ‘took care of him’?” Russell demanded. 

“I took him for a swim in Redfish Lake, the kind you don’t come back from,” Lloyd said, punctuating that statement with a wink. 

Russell’s shock was palpable. Lloyd gave him a beat to recover, but when he just got a blank stare in response, he shifted tactics and threw his arms out in exaggerated frustration. 

“Oh, come on! Be fucking for real, bro. Do you have two brain cells left rattling around in that ugly mug, pig? I got rid of your dealer because, number one, he’s a snitch and I don’t fuck with snitches. Number two, getting rid of Carl gives you the opportunity to set up a more reliable distribution system. Isn’t that nice? An open playing field with no territorial disputes from the locals? You can thank me now, or later.” 

Russell hesitated. Lloyd didn’t let the silence linger. 

“Okay, then. You’ll thank me later. Look, about-” 

“You really killed Carl?”

Lloyd sighed. “Would I lie to you? Me? I have a reputation to uphold, Deputy.” 

“You’re a fucking psychopath, that’s what you are,” Russell said, edging backwards.

“Hey! We’re not done talking business!” Lloyd yelled after the man as he turned away.

“Yes we are. Go to hell!” 

“Don’t walk away from me, pig! This isn’t the kind of conversation you can just walk away from!”

Lloyd’s voice echoed through the pavilion, ringing with anger.

Russell glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, Luke… My number one rule is simple: I don’t fuck with snitches. Rule number two? Dirty cops who know your face are bad business. You see, they always end up being snitches. It’s like different flavors of the same ice cream. Triple chocolate fudge or brownie delight, who can tell ‘em apart?” 

As Russell’s hand went for his gun, Lloyd flipped open his lighter and tossed it on the ground. The carefully prepared mixture of gasoline ignited instantly, shooting up and forming a wall of fire that raced around to encircle them. 

Taken by surprise, Deputy Russell instinctively moved away from the searing heat of the flames an action that inadvertently drew him closer to Lloyd. 

“Isn’t this nice? I find it rather cozy, like stepping into a bubble of security.”

Lloyd chuckled, his smile twisted with madness.

“This is how you conduct business?” Russell hissed, eyes glinting with shocked desperation as the flames continued to roar around them. 

“I find it refocuses the attention when a deal starts getting off track.” 

“What the hell do you want?!” 

“I’ve made myself very clear, Russell. You need to work on your attention span. Here’s the deal: we become business partners… or you become a victim of what I like to call ‘spontaneous human combustion.’” 

“Spontaneous,” the deputy muttered, looking at the flames.

“I never really plan on cremating anyone,” Lloyd said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world to discuss incinerating your business associates. “Every time I’ve actually gone through with this, the whole thing happens so fast, it really does look spontaneous. Now, Deputy… What do you say? Ready to make a deal?” 

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

You sat beside Zach on a park bench, trying to make the most of the slight shade of a tree that offered a tiny bit of respite from the blistering August heat. The sound of approaching footfalls was a major relief. Five more minutes out here and you would have melted. You glanced up to see Peter Shaw, a man of average height with close cropped dark hair, nearing your bench. 

Zach stood up and moved to the center of the path, blocking access to the parking lot. 

“Peter Shaw. I’m Zach Hightower and this is Y/N. I assume you know who I am?”

The journalist stopped a few feet away from Zach. He was dripping with sweat, but still had the energy to offer a cocky smirk. He glanced in your direction and arched an eyebrow. 

“The investigative duo. Where’s Hansen? Isn’t he usually your partner?” 

“I read your article this morning. It was very interesting,” Zach said. 

“Thanks. What part did you enjoy the most?” 

“I thought it was very well researched. You even knew where the recent evidence was being stored. That was a very… interesting… detail to include in the article.” 

Peter shrugged. “I take pride in my work.” 

“The other little thing that jumped out and grabbed me was about the evidence collected in the Nguyen case twenty years ago. Your source criticized the chain of custody related to Shun Nguyen’s cell phone. That was extremely specific.” 

Shaw’s grin turned from smug to sly. “I always make sure my sources have a keen eye for detail. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“One more thing. The criticism you leveled at the State Police for handling the digital evidence from that cell phone? Well, it went over my head, but I’ve got a guy who’s a genius with that kind of thing. When I showed him the article he said you’d need to consult with an expert in digital forensics to break down those kinds of technical concepts as clearly as you did.”

“Actually, I’m just that good,” Peter said, crossing his arms. 

“You have a degree in English and absolutely no background in tech. You’re not that good… but I believe your source is. The level of insight they gave you left their fingerprints all over that article, Shaw. Your man’s days are numbered. If you were as good as you think you are, his head wouldn’t be heading for the chopping block.” 

The journalist snorted. “Do you run, Mr. Hightower?”

“Only when someone’s shooting at me. Why?”

“Just wondering if you get any other forms of exercise, besides jumping to conclusions.” 

“It’s more of a step-by-step chain of logic that links together quite nicely. You really are a good writer, Shaw - very organized. That made it much easier to fill in the blanks. Does the name Leo McKenzie ring a bell?”

The blood drained from Shaw’s face, turning his lips white. Zach grinned.

“Good talking to you, Pete. Thanks for your time! Come on, Princess, let’s go.” 

“You’re way off base, Hightower,” he called after you.

Zach gave him a cheerful wave. “Hey, Pete, since you’ve undoubtedly got my number, why don’t you give me a call next time you need a source? I can teach you how to cover your tracks so you don’t keep burning through informants.” 

Then he lengthened his stride, forcing you into a jog as you tried to keep up. Once you were in the privacy of his vehicle, you gaped at him. 

“Are you crazy? Did you just invite that sleazebag to call you?”

“Sure. He’s made more progress on this case than anyone else. We can’t ignore that.” 

“How did you know who his source was? Did you guess?”

“Deduction isn’t guessing and that look on his face was all the confirmation I needed.” 

“We should tell Detective Roth.”

“No. Let him figure it out on his own. He won’t believe anything we tell him at the moment.” 

“But the security of the investigation is at stake!” 

“Not for long. Shaw will contact his source and alert them that we’re onto them. I want to give Detective Roth the chance to redeem himself. Also, if he can’t find a mole in his own department, I’m not sure I want to work with him.”

“Right. Hey, where are we going?” 

Zach turned onto an unfamiliar exit, one that headed away from his office.

“I’ve got to make another stop. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” 

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

Elliot drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You really freaked him out."

"Mmmhh."

"He's going to send those drugs up in flames."

The insight was spot on. Deputy Russell’s wavering commitment to the sale was becoming more evident as dawn broke. He had raced back to the security of the Sheriff’s Offices after meeting with “the Canadians” and spent the rest of the night holed up there. Through the front window, Lloyd watched his shadow move behind the blinds. 

The silhouette moved from left to right, and then crossed back again, from right to left. Russell was already a paranoid bastard and introducing a real threat to his life may have been a step too far. His restless actions raised a red flag in Lloyd’s assessment of the situation. Watching him through binoculars from their high vantage point in the parking lot of the White Rivers campsite, Lloyd decided it was time to ease the pressure and give Russell an escape hatch. 

He was too spooked to hand the drugs over directly to the Canadians. After the ring of fire incident Russell was probably more likely to shoot Lloyd if he ever saw him again instead of cooperating with him. 

“We’re going to plan B,” Lloyd said. “Give me a burner phone.” 

He held out a hand and Elliot pressed a device into his palm. Lloyd dialed and watched through the binoculars as the blinds of the Sheriff’s office raised. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew Russell was somewhere inside. 

The call connected. 

“Hello? Who is this?” 

Lloyd spoke hoarsely. “Hello. Deputy Luke Russell?” 

“This is he.” Russell sounded suspicious. 

"This is Agent Ambrosio of the ATF. Do you have a moment to speak with me? Somewhere private would be best if possible."

"Yeah, yeah. I can do that," Russell said.

There was feedback as he moved, the the sound of a door closing. He must have gone to his office. 

“Okay. I can talk now.” 

"Russell, I'm calling about your boss, Sheriff Holbrook. Are you aware of the case against him?"

"Uh… you mean that thing from last year?"

"Eighteen months ago," Lloyd clarified. "The federal investigation into Holbrook's involvement with the drug trade has continued, which is why I'm reaching out. We need your cooperation."

"What can I do to help you, agent?” 

"We have everything that we need to make an arrest. This is a courtesy call, Deputy. We're moving on him tomorrow morning. Do you understand?"

"Oh… Wow… Okay, is there anything I can do?" Russell asked.

"We're still organizing things. Holbrook is constantly armed, and we're aware of how high-risk this operation will be. I’d be more comfortable with the situation I’m sending my men into if we had your cooperation.” 

“Absolutely. Whatever you need, sir.” 

Lloyd’s mouth curved into a smile. Pushing too hard may have been the right play after all. His prey had just swallowed the bait without noticing the hook that pierced his lip along with it. 

Game. Set. Match. 

All that was left to do was reel in his catch. 

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

Next - Part XVI

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

Masterlist

Taglist:

@denisemarieangelina

@before-we-get-started

@buckysteveloki-me

@patzammit

@badassbaker

@meetmeatyourworst

@whiskeytangofoxtrot555

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@jesgisborne

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@amiets2

@seitmai

@elle14-blog1

@chaoticsteverogers

@kaleidoscopepov

@fangirl-and-medstudent-help

@terry2227

@jesevans

@openup-yourmind

@kandierteveilchen

@adoreyouusugar

@awkwardgiraffe726

@pono-pura-vida

@mysweetlittledesire

@liecastillo

@marantha

@literaturelove

@babyevansblog

@lizzzaaaaaaaaaaa

@thegirlnextdoorssister

@ladygrey03

@cynic-spirit

@rosedpetal

@jeremyrennermakesmesmile

@bambamwolf87

@yiiiikesmish

@lavenderx0

@calwitch

@peachiestevie

@texmexdarling

@here4thefanfics

@rogersbarber

@spikeluv84

@dear-fifi

[stromuprisahat]

How could that coup possibly have worked? The only thing which would have come out of it was even more rapid grisha hunting because one grisha literally destroyed a whole country so kill them before they do so too. Not to mention how would he even have tracked who is hunting and who is not? Even if the ming of the country says don't hunt them the people most certainly still will. If he has enough power to control all of that then destroying that country is not even required.

By that logic, there should've been a Coup done by the First Army. They recognized- on some level- that the King isn't interested in them, and if they blamed it on the Darkling- which they did- Little Palace is right in Grand Palace's backyard, and storming it, when freeing either the Tsar of evil Grisha influence (or the country of the Tsar) shouldn't be an issue.

“The Fjerdans have a breech-loading rifle that can fire twenty-eight rounds per minute. Our soldiers should have them, too. If the King could be bothered to take an interest in the First Army, we wouldn’t be so dependent on the Grisha. But it’ll never happen,” he told me. Then he muttered, “We all know who’s running the country.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 18

When you can drag adult, fully trained Grisha out of their beds to slaughter them, you can burn down their home with a few teachers, children and invalids, when going after their leader.

Although true- people rarely react to slow destruction, but a sudden tragedy gets an immediate response. Proof or not.

The thing is, there were no anti-Grisha survivors of the Fold moving, even in books, there are speculations mentioned, but then the pogroms started almost immediately. Either somebody took control of the narrative and ensured the finger shall be pointed in the right direction, or the First Army took matters into their hands out of pure initiative and spread the word themselves. You need to justify a massacres of the Crown's property ~somehow~.

As for how was the Coup supposed to work in the first place- we have exactly no info about anything regarding Aleksander's side and plans.

We have only the basics- he wanted to get rid of the Lantsovs, somehow secured the Apparat's support in the Capital and tried to force a permanent ceasefire by using the Fold.

What was his deal with the Apparat- he doesn't trust him and the creepy priest stabbed him in the back as soon as possible, so what was the original agreement?

He had to have more allies. Ideally on more places. If there are malcontents among the First Army, some might be less anti-Grisha than others. There might be more realistic nobles. Merchants could benefit greatly from better use of Grisha, especially with control over the Fold. It's likely they'd all go underground if the key parts of the plan failed.

Why target Novokribirsk? We've been over this plenty of times, but the person we've been introduced as a pretty decent strategist, who often puts himself in risk to spare others, wouldn't just annihilate a random site. And the winning side sure as hell wouldn't hurry in to paint a full picture.

How should it succeed?

The Darkling turned his back on their stunned and angry expressions and addressed the Grisha and soldiers on the skiff. “Tell the story of what you’ve seen today. Tell everyone that the days of fear and uncertainty are over. The days of endless fighting are over. Tell them that you saw a new age begin.” A cheer went up from the crowd. I saw a few soldiers muttering to each other. Even some of the Grisha looked unnerved. But most of their faces were eager, triumphant, shining. They’re hungry for this, I realized. Even after they’ve seen what he can do, even after watching their own people die.

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 22

With the control over the narrative, the Ravkan people would've been freed from the yoke of the golden Royal leeches, their new leader stepping in after ensuring a permanent peace on all fronts, soon opening a path through the Fold, reuniting families and making the goods flow from one side of the country to another.

Sure, it wouldn't solve the prevailing anti-Grisha sentiments in the society, but one thing at the time. Such issues are easier to tackle, when you're not a slave, dependent of your masters mercy or a hunted animal. The Darkling already tried to change things from the below, it's about time to do it the other way around.

[starlightiing]

For your prompt game: “deep breath. Let’s get your heart calmed down.” With galex pls !!

HELLO Anon, I was particularly inspired this morning. I'm going to toss this onto AO3 Later but I didn't want to make you wait. Thank you so much for sending me in a prompt!

Title: One Moment

Rating/Triggers: G - but TW for panic attacks.

Pairing: George Russell/Alex Albon

The frantic knock on his hotel room door is what wakes Alex at one in the morning. His mind is swirled up in a fog of confusion and it takes him a moment to realize just what that incessant banging from the other side of the room actually is. He rubs at his eyes to clear away the waking blur, and then tosses his sheets aside to stumble onto his feet. 

The walk from his bed to the door is anything but steady. His feet refuse to cooperate and knock him off balance a time or two, but he finally makes it over to the door with no major tragedy and hastily flips the lock so he can open it.

As soon as his eyes rest on one very distraught George Russell, clarity comes rushing to him and suddenly he’s not just been woken up at one in the morning with a distinct lack of consciousness. No - suddenly he is very awake, very aware, and very concerned.

“George? Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, pulling the door fully open to invite George inside. It takes a moment, but George does finally get the hint and shuffles into the room. The door hits the strike with a soft ‘click’ that startles George slightly, and Alex thinks he’s never seen him look so small before. “George?”

“Sorry, I know it’s late.”

“No, no, no, it’s fine. Why don’t you come sit down?” Alex gestures to the bed with one hand, while the other finds George’s shoulder and rubs soothing circles into the fabric of his shirt. He can feel George trembling slightly beneath his touch, and something inside of his chest just seizes up. This is so unlike George - the mere thought of what could be causing him such distress makes a burst of hot anxiety release in Alex’s stomach. George, much to Alex’s surprise, follows the suggestion and makes his way slowly over to Alex’s bed. He sits down in such a delicate manner, barely disturbing the mattress at all, and immediately curls in on himself like he’s either cold or scared. Alex hurts to think it’s likely the latter.

Slowly, Alex takes a seat down next to George on the bed. His approach is less gentle, and the mattress has a few things to say about it in response. This doesn’t seem to bother George at all, who won’t even look in Alex’s general direction for longer than a second. Alex sighs and reaches over to lay his hand on George’s knee.

“You want to tell me what’s bothering you? Or do you just want me to distract you?”

“Uh,” George hums, and Alex watches his eyebrows twitch as he ponders, “maybe just a distraction for now.”

Not exactly the answer Alex is hoping for, but this isn’t about him. This is about George, and what George needs. So that is exactly what Alex will give him. “Okay. But before I turn into your personal entertainer, I want to get you to relax a little bit. Think we can do that?”

“Yeah. Yeah that’s fine.”

“Good. Start with a deep breath, let’s get your heart calmed down before anything else.” Alex is acutely aware that George is showing symptoms of panic. The only reason he knows is because he’s lived it personally, numerous times before in the past. The most important part of tackling panic is managing breathing and heart rate - the rest always seems to fall back into place once vitals are steady. Gently, he takes one of George’s hands and uncurls his fingers from the clenched fist they’ve settled into. He presses his index and middle fingers to the radial artery in George’s wrist, and he’s not at all surprised to feel just how rapid-fire his pulse is. “Maybe two or three deep breaths. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay, breathe in nice and deep for four seconds, follow my lead,” Alex closes his eyes and inhales deeply, listening in for George to do the same. It’s a bit choppy and he can’t last the full four seconds, but it’s a hell of a start. “Now out for four, keep following me.” George exhales a bit too harshly, getting all of his air out two seconds too early, but the first few breaths are never perfect. He’s trying, and that’s the most important thing. “Good. We’ll do it again, but try to slow down a little.”

Alex leads the deep breath again, listening in on George. He still doesn’t quite make it to four, but it’s a smoother breath and it lasts longer than the first. It’s working. He exhales, and much to his surprise, George is able to sustain the full four seconds on that one.

“Excellent, last one.” Inhale, and George breathes with him down to the second, matched perfectly. “And out. Brilliant.”

George’s heart rate has considerably calmed, much to Alex’s relief. It isn’t near a normal resting rate yet, but it isn’t skyrocketing up into numbers they should only see behind the wheel of a formula one car, at least. And, to top it off, George isn’t even trembling anymore. Overall, a shocking success.

“There we go, mate. Feeling better?” Alex asks, sliding his fingers back from George’s wrist now that he’s satisfied with the results of their breathing session. 

“Yeah, actually. Still a bit frazzled, but I can think clearly now.” George’s voice sounds more confident as he replies, too. Confident and strong, like it hadn’t been meek and trembling mere minutes ago. There’s color back on his face and his eyes are clear and focused. Alex can sigh in relief now, George is safe.

“Good. Still up for a distraction, then?”

“Only if you have one up your sleeve.”

Alex smirks then, exuding all of the mischievous energy he’s certain George is used to from him. It ignites a smile on George’s face as well, amused and highly accusatory. “I have an idea, yeah.”

“Yeah, your smirk says it all. Dare I ask?”

Alex takes this moment to catch George off guard, leaning forward and bumping their noses together with an affectionate nuzzle. His hands come up to cradle George’s cheeks with the utmost delicacy, and then he bites the bullet and he kisses him. 

It’s soft, it’s gentle, and it lingers for only a few seconds at the most. It’s enough to cause George’s eyelids to flutter shut and provoke the tiniest of whimpers from the back of his throat, which in turn sends shivers up Alex’s arms and down his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s funny, really, how kissing George for the hundredth time elicits the same response from Alex’s body that it gave the very first time. He pulls back slowly from the kiss, already smiling as George opens his eyes back up, and oh, he’s absolutely smug.

“Thought the goal was to keep my heart rate down, Alex?” comes the very predictable accusation from George, which makes Alex chuckle heartily.

“Hey, a distraction is a distraction. If this isn’t to your standard, I’m sure I can find other more boring ways to distract your mind.”

“No, no,” George insists, hooking his index finger into the hem of Alex’s collar and tugging them closer together. “This’ll do just fine.”

They’ll talk in the morning, Alex thinks, because he can’t simply let George’s panic go like it never existed in the first place.

But now? Now is for them, and for them only, and Alex is more than happy to take care of George in the best ways he knows how.

[writingsofwesteros]

Jon actually being Ned's bastard, Lyanna still being the mother. He'd always felt his cock harden for his sister and they soon began a secret relationship where he would fuck her anywhere and wherever he wanted. Ned would suck his sister's tits and cum inside her pretty pussy as if he were her lord husband or betrothed himself. Everytime his friend Robert tried something with Lyanna, Ned would get angry, his jealousy and desperation to have her reaching a fever pitch when she's betrothed to him. He listens to Robert talk about all the ways he'll fuck Ned's sister, how he'll take Ned's place as the one that gives her creampies and will father an army of children on her.

Ned decides to get even by doing everything that Robert wants to do, but can't, with Lyanna. He's going to break her in and take her in every position so that he can always be her first in everything. Ned goes at her in doggystyle, cowgirl, wheelbarrow, side by side, pretzel dip, seashell, butter churner, good ex, spider, stand and deliver, reverse missionary, etc. He fills her with his spend every time and watches her body thrash around in pleasure, her lips sucking around his fingers to keep her quiet and prevent their brother or anyone else from finding out. Ned lets her take breaks to suck on his cock in various positions to get him ready to fill her again, sometimes playing with her pussy or eating her out as she did bobbed her head.

When Rhaegar took her away with him, she only left because she knew she was pregnant by Ned and didn't want to get him in trouble. She pretends to love Rhaegar back and passes him off as her child's father so he'll continue helping her out. Lyanna misses Ned dearly and hopes he'll understand why she did this or will at least be smart enough to know it's always been him she loved. As she suffers through birthing her precious baby, she is burdened by the wish that Ned could be there to help her and meet their baby.

Lyanna's son finally pops out of her, taking all her strength from her to finally push him the rest of the way out. She holds her son, noting how much he's taken after his father just being born before crying as she realizes she can't feel the bottom half of her body. The blood trickles down her legs as she sobs and prays to the Old Gods that at least her baby boy is saved, her Jon, a bastard born of the love between two siblings from house Stark.

By the time Ned makes it there, she is much too weak to do much besides feed her baby, soon only being able to hold him to her chest. Her eyes regain some of their life and her small smile becomes bright when Ned's horrified face comes into her view. Lyanna knows her prayers have been answered, for not only is her baby Jon saved, but it was by her dear brother. She calls for him, Ned kneeling next to her bed and trying to rub at her legs before realizing she can't feel it and beginning to sob.

Lyanna uses the rest of her strength to hold out their precious creation, passing him over to his father as she says "meet baby Jon... he's our son." Ned holds him in awe, hugging the baby close to him before raising to pull Lyanna into the hug with them. He smooths her hair back and kisses her softly before kneeling again, holding their son in his big hands, still just staring at him as if he's not real. Lyanna smiles, her body fading and feeling stiffer, skin loosing it's warmth at a rapid pace.

Her last sight before it all goes blurry is the love of her life, her brother Eddard "Ned" Stark, lovingly clutching their son, the proof that their love had survived. He had taken all her firsts, her reciprocating a few times, but the one she's most proud is taking from him the honor of being the first to fill his heart and the first to give him a child 👑💀 (i was going to make this just be sexy, but ig tragedy works too lmao)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ADORE THIS !!!!!!!!!!!!

You are amazing at such ideas !!

[crestfallercanyon]

1, 4 and 21 for Mickey Milkovich since I’ve seen you post about Shameless <3

I have seen you liking some of my posts about Shameless, too! I'm always excited when mutuals overlap in other fandoms than just the root one, if that makes sense <3

Anywho, to the questions!

Why do you like or dislike this character?

This answer's long, so sorry, but I feel like it's hard to talk about all of Mickey in a succinct way. While there are parts of Shameless that the writers severely fuck up, and that fuckery did occasionally get his hands on Mickey Milkovich (like constantly trying to write him off it seems??), Mickey has some of the greatest depth and is also consequently one of the most consistent characters they managed to write.

I've said it before, but he has every reason to "look out for number one," and he does, but his number one stops being himself -- it's for his family (Mandy and Ian in particular). While that has its own ramifications, it's also a beautiful thing about him.

He's also smart. I like that he is not a stupid man, which I feel he could have been very quickly reduced to (and I think they sometimes try to do to him in later seasons but that's a rant for later). Reckless and flippant sometimes, but he is smart and he can and will learn. His biggest character growths aren't from lack of understanding due to ineptitude, it's due to biases, and when those biases gets shattered he learns from them and keeps those lessons with him (my main example of this is when he was so very against letting Ian go to a mental hospital -- the whole progression of Mickey taking care of Ian during his illness is what I would say is where he has most of his rapid growth: it's where he stops trying to pretend he doesn't love Ian, it's where he realizes that he can't do everything on his own and has to ask for help sometimes, it's where he loses his ignorance about what exactly Ian is going, much of what he learns in that season carries with him throughout the rest of the show it seems).

Mickey's story is so full of tragedy, and I thought that Shameless was going to "life sucks and then you die" to him, honestly (whenever something went right, they immediately took a hammer to that fragile happiness as soon as seemingly possible). But he wins. He gets the boy he fell in love with, and has a job, and makes his way out of South Side. It's not the dream he thought he'd always have (he thought he'd be King of South Side) but that dream was also made up of a lot of... resignation. So I'm glad that that was turned on its head for him and he still had happiness, I thought that was consistent with the rest of his life, too.

4) If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

This is a fascinating question. To be perfectly honest, I actually wish a character like him was in Sons of Anarchy. There were parts of that show I really enjoyed (I mean, boil it down and it's essentially Motorcycle Hamlet), but I think his character and his arc (with Ian, too, actually) would have added a lot of additional depth to that show -- that and have it address queer characters in a meaningful way (the only queer character I remember from that show was very limited and quickly off the show if I recall correctly). I think he'd be really well suited to meld into that world, actually, with a few tweaks to get him as part of the SoA in the first place.

I also would love to have him in a western or noir, but that's more fanfiction au ideas, not actually placing him in another piece of media haha

21) If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I love to write his dialogue, the snappish way he speaks. I particularly like to write earlier seasons Mickey because he's got such a front he's putting up, it's fun to figure out dialogue where he's clearly saying one thing and hiding another in-between the words; or just straight up contradicting his own thinking because he has to and is desperately hopeful and also terrified that someone (Ian) can see right through him. There's so much internal conflict of Mickey early seasons that while it can be a challenge, it's also so fun to write.

What I don't like? I'm not sure how to articulate this correctly, but I struggle with writing some of the antagonism he and Ian continue to have in later seasons. I mean it's definitely there, it's a part of him, just because Mickey loves Ian and vice versa doesn't mean those two don't insult each other or all that -- I just tend not to write those moments that much because I either will go overboard and write too strong of an argument or it won't feel quite like their energy, if that makes sense.

Thank you so much for the asks! They were a lot of fun. They come from this: Character Ask Game

[santoschristos]

16 The Sex Magic of Isis is based upon the realization that the feminine principal holds within her nature, specifically her sexual nature, an alchemical key. This alchemical key is revealed in the act of what you call love—sexual love. When this is activated strongly enough, the Alchemies of Horus spontaneously present themselves. Within my training it was understood that there were two paths, alchemically speaking, to the same goal. The Alchemies of Horus were the foundation of both alchemies, or practices, since the same fundamental pathways were used. For those who did not wish to engage in partnership, the Alchemies of Horus would provide a means to strengthen and activate the Ka body to the levels of High Initiateship. For those in partnership, the Sexual Magic of Isis would provide the wings by which they would ascend the Djed and enter the Throne of Highest Consciousness. From my vantage point I see a great tragedy in that the secrets and the holiness of our sexual natures was made evil by the Church— by the Church Fathers. And for nearly two thousand years now the most dynamic and one of the most rapid ways to God Realization has been made wrong. And I find it indeed ironic that the Church has made it a sin—and therefore terrified those who might have stumbled upon it. The Magdalene Manuscript. art by Foleee @ Foleee1

[here-have-some-stories]

The Slide

TW: Mentions of murder and blood

As I looked back at the tiny slide at my primary school's playground, I realized something about myself. I didn't care. So much bad happened at this one slide in such a short amount of time and I didn't care about any of it. 

It had been twenty years since the so called "tragedy", and people were still hung up about it. They were still acting as if it happened yesterday. Apparently twenty years wasn't enough time to get over some things. 

There had been an annual memorial right here at the school, to mourn the loss of the children who had lost their lives in such interesting ways on this very slide, but I hadn't gone. There would have been too many tears, too much grief for something that was now just an insignificant part on the town's history. The news people had stopped talking about the incident so why couldn't they? I had come to the school after everyone left and it got dark so I could look at the slide, and I now stood in front of it, replaying the scene over and over again in my head and questioning my own mind. Why didn't I care? 

Three kids, my mind pictured, three kids playing on the tiny unstable slide. A teacher on playground patrol had approached them, nothing out of the ordinary at the time. Something appeared gleaming in the teacher's hand, but from my position on the other side of the playground I couldn't fully see what it was. I gathered context from what happened next. One of the kids screaming was cut off pretty quickly. The teacher was holding them tightly by the hair, their right hand behind the child's back. Their arm then moved to reveal what they were holding. A gleaming sharp knife, dripping a beautiful crimson sort of liquid all the way right down to the handle. The teachers hand moved with rapid speed, making a precise fine slit across the child's neck, releasing a waterfall of that pretty substance.  

In the same movement, the teacher pushed the child down the slide and grabbed the next kid, repeating the artistic sequence.  

By the time the teacher had finished, the third child had managed to run away screaming, and some of the other teachers had ran over, wrestling the knife out of the teachers hand and quickly dialing the police. 

All the students on the playground had run as soon as the first child had fallen. Why? They weren't in danger at the moment as the teacher was preoccupied with the kids on the slide. Surely it wasn't the blood. That was fascinating. It wasn't everyday you got to see what was inside of your body, although I wish it was. The entire sight was so interesting, I could have watched it for hours. But a teacher, a non-psychotic one, had picked me up and taken me away from the playground, putting me in a classroom filled with annoying crying kids as the school went under a lockdown. I don't know why they did it, it wouldn't keep anyone out, the teacher was already in. It would have just locked us in the school with them.  

The news covered the story for a couple weeks before they got bored of it and found something more interesting: A robbery. It was confirmed that the teacher suffered from ASPD, also known as antisocial personality disorder, highly common in sociopaths and psychopaths.  

I don't like that they used the term "suffering". I have ASPD and I'm doing fine. 

Maybe that's why I didn't care. My disorder prevented me. That was probably it, sociopaths are known to not feel much, if anything at all. 

I did feel a little bit of something towards the story. Annoyance. It was annoying seeing the story everywhere. For three whole weeks the news wouldn't stop talking about them! It felt good to see something else, even if it was another violent crime, albeit a less interesting one. 

Satisfied that I knew why I didn't care, I walked away from the slide, out the school gates and towards my pickup truck. I'd visit again next year to ponder, as was my tradition. 

I am so sorry if I got any traits of ASPD wrong or if it is seen as offensive, I'm not a proffesional, just a sleep deprived writer and if I got anything wrong please tell me so I can try and change it so it is better. This was a writing prompt I got from my English teacher and I finished it and felt like posting it so here it is. I've got some other stories from English class that I'm planning on posting when I finish them which will probably be a while. One of them is about an assasin and one is about a cannibal circus. When my teacher was reviewing my work the only thing she told me was to fix the places where I forgot apostrophes and that I needed more action in it instead of just relflecting, but like, that's the point of the fucking story. The charcater is reflecting on something that happened. She didn't even comment on the topic of it she was just like "APOSTROPHES' Anyways, hope you liked it. It was fun to write. -Kenickie

[thehighlordofspring]

broken ties & bloody bonds

the origin story of Tamlin and Lucian | a Kip and Koda adventure for @inabcck

The wind rushed through Tamlin’s hair as his horse galloped through the NorthWest woods. The sound of clopping hooves and Andras’ wild laughter echoed through the trees. Tamlin rolled his eyes and bent further down, urging his steed into further speed, and ducking underneath a low branch ahead of him. He wasn’t about to let his sentry win a race that easily. His pride could take the loss, but he still had a reputation to uphold. Despite everything he’d done to change the Spring Court, some things required stitching and not sledgehammers.

Andras raced ahead. Tamlin circled the woods until he ended up in a wide-open glade. Tall Maples rose into the sky above him and fresh dirt silenced the gallop into a slow canter. It was quiet — too quiet. He gently tugged Elodin’s mane, reining him in, and training his ear on the horizon. 

A loud crash tumbled through the underbrush, followed by a brutal scream. Tamlin’s shoulders straightened and his eyes darkened as he watched the path that led towards Autumn. His borders were always under threat and the one with Autumn was more contentious than the one with Summer which was famously neutral to conflict. Amid the forest, bursts of vivid red and orange pierced through the greenery, taking the form of deep red tunics and fiery ginger locks.

Tamlim withdrew an arrow from his quiver and notched it in his bow, training his eye on the horizon. Familiar faces emerged from the dark leaves. The sons of Autumn, Beron’s children, raced through the trees. Their rapid footsteps and aggressive shouts did nothing to suggest a friendly visit. Yet, they had not spotted him among the trees. His gifts allowed him to blend within them as seamlessly as the breeze. 

They are chasing each other, Tamlin realized. His heart thumped quickly in his chest as adrenaline prepared him to intervene. He searched for familiar faces amidst the triad of brawling brothers. Eris, Autumn’s heir, and Lucien, its black sheep, were the only two that he knew.

The hair rose on the back of his neck as he saw Lucien’s slender form leaping through the trees, as nimble as a fox. The two others crashed behind him like hulking hippos. 

They were catching up. The border was six miles past them, now. It was likely they'd been running since dawn. 

When Lucien rushed past Tamlin, the High Lord urged his muscular horse onto the path between him and his brothers. 

“Halt!” He commanded, letting his voice deepen into the one gifted by the cauldron. As strong as Beron’s sons were, they could not disobey his orders after venturing onto his lands. Tamlin dismounted and sent his mount back towards the ailing Lucien. 

He held his arrow strong and pointed it directly at the brother in front, whose snarl was so feral that it reminded him of a wolf possessed by Rabies. “Take one more step and I will put an arrow in your spine.” 

His glimmering ash arrow was one of few that he carried. Using it violated Prythian law.  It was a death sentence to any fae. Even now, it burned through his gloves, blistering his fingers. 

 “You wouldn't dare.” The first spat. “Stepping between brothers and their business is bad luck, Lord of Spring. I would have thought you'd learned that lesson.” 

Tomlin flinched. His brothers were a tragedy that he would like to forget. His relationship with them was not much better than what Lucien faced now. 

“That’s High Lord to you.” He hissed. “Do not test me.”

Lucien’s brother could not hold back. His father’s rage propelled him. He raised his sword and swung it towards Tamlin’s chest. 

As quickly as he moved, Tamlin released the arrow. 

It pierced the thin leather armor on his shoulders and punctured the left side of his chest. The brawny fae fell forwards. His face flushed before it fell to a pale, ash white. His body stiffened and he fell to the forest floor. 

Just as he fell, Tamlin strung the second of his arrows, pointing it at the second brother. 

“Get out. Take your corpse with you.” He growled. “Tell your father that if his family tries to solve their disputes in my land again — I will not be so gracious the next time.” 

Silent and serious, the other Autumn faerie strung his brother over his shoulders and left as quickly as he’d come. 

Lucien. 

Tamlin whirled around, finding the younger fae curled in a ball on the moss behind him. It was red and soaked with blood. The skin on his back was a mess of blood and dirt, marred by the imprints of a seven-tailed whip. 

Whatever he’d done — this punishment was pure cruelty. It made Tamlin’s blood boil.

He winced and carefully hoisted the unconscious fae onto the waiting horse, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as they walked back toward the manor. “You’re safe now. I won’t let them near you again.” 

[elizabeth-mitchells]

How about 40 …because the world is ending

for Laura Lee and Lottie …?

(and I apologise in advance but I saw it and I though HOW could I ask ANYTHING else???)

Lottielee + a kiss because the world is ending... (why did you hurt me like this??) Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss

It was the apocalypse.

Technically, the rest of the world was probably fine but, to these twelve girls, for months and months, their entire world had been reduced to the space surrounding that little cabin in the woods. And their world was on fire.

They stayed and watched it burn for a little too long. The fire was mesmerizing, and they failed to recognize the full depths of the tragedy and the threat it was. It didn’t make much sense, and it shouldn’t have happened like that. Only a force more powerful and beyond human understanding could have been responsible for the fire spreading as fast as it did. The wilderness was killing itself, and it was taking them down with them. 

The first one to go missing was Travis. They were trying to move away from the cabin and the fire that was rapidly closing down on them. They were determined to survive, convinced that it wasn’t too bad, but at every turn, they were met with a new wall of fire. Soon, trees started falling all around them, blocking their path toward the frozen lake. Soon, Mari went missing, Melissa caught fire, and a tree fell on them, separating the group in half. Van was lost to the fire trying to reach Taissa. One by one, they were all separated, eaten by the fire, and lost to the darkness. Every path to the plane and the lake was blocked. More trees started to fall, and the ground started to shake. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was the will of the wilderness.

When it dawned on them that there was no way out, Lottie and Laura Lee realized they were all alone. Maybe Shauna went back to the cabin, maybe the scream they heard in the distance was Nat, maybe the shadow burning away was Coach Scotts. Either way, it was all going to end. Their world had given them all it had to give, and now it was crumbling all around them. 

The two girls were clutching each other impossibly tight. Laura Lee was hiding her face tucked in against Lottie’s neck. But, somehow, under the roaring of the fire and the thunder of the trees falling around them, Lottie felt peace. Suddenly, she couldn’t hear any of it except for Laura Lee’s rapid breathing and her even faster heart beat. 

“Laura Lee?” Lottie whispered her name, because she felt like her whole world had been cut down to just her and Laura Lee in that intimate and desperate embrace.

Against the odds, Laura Lee heard her loud and clear, as if finally, in the end, Lottie’s odd perception of the world was available to others too.

“Lottie? Laura Lee said as she pulled back just enough to look at her. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” Lottie reassured her with a gentle hand cradling her cheek even if she could hardly shake off her own terror. “Don’t you see? The bad part is over. This is a new beginning.”

Laura Lee wore a sweet frown of light confusion. “Do you believe in heaven?” Laura Lee asked, because the last few months had messed more than a little bit with everyone’s perceptions of faith, but mostly with hers.

“I believe in you. I believe nothing can pull us apart,” Lottie said. It was a promise more than anything else. And she sealed that promise by slowly guiding Laura Lee into a perfect, final kiss.

[grayintogreen]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Currently five scenes away from finishing Chapter Twelve of YCDHN but a lot of those scenes are chonkers so it might take a bit, but to tide you over for the next update, here's a scene from the MASSIVELY LONG Chapter Eleven, featuring Cree and Jester.

"I know," she said. "I am not jealous, Jester… I am upset with myself for not being the sort of person who can take what I want without leaving marks on it. I am not ready to take what Chance offers me."

She watched him play while Marion sang. his claws plucking at the strings like they were antsy to play something faster. He thrived in faster beats and rapid-fire rhymes, but when he slowed down he was mesmerizing.

It was like watching a caged bird sing, however. Beautiful, yet if you were tenderhearted you could never shake the sadness from it enough to enjoy it. Chance played tragedy so well on his lute, but he was never meant to live one. And Cree Deeproots had never lived a day in her life that didn't feel like being one step away from a tragedy. Even now, the Fate-Breaker, herself, felt like she was always standing with one foot in a miserable ending or that the ending she was building towards was never meant for her.

Chance deserved his freedom. He deserved to remain untethered, rather than be shackled to her baggage. The things the Nein chased would chew him up and spit out his bones.

"Is it because of Lucien?" Jester asked, tentatively, and Cree laughed at that.

Because if she was certain of anything, it was that Lucien could not stop her from taking what she wanted now. It was her own hands that held her back. "No, Jester… Lucien and I were- are… will always be connected. But perhaps we were wrong to take it as far as we did. Perhaps the two of us were too young and foolish and drunk on what we were to one another to not realize the poison we were filling each other with."

Lucien, so desperately afraid of intimacy because someone might pick apart his broken pieces or hurt him the way he had been hurt too much before, but also wanting to be close to someone he could trust. Cree, desperate for his attention because he was the first truly beautiful thing that had ever been hers, offering him everything she had until she had nothing left. Maybe there was a world where they could have fallen in love better, but the hurt was too deep now. They could mend the rifts, and stay entwined by whatever golden threads the Matron twisted around them, but the romance of it all- if there was any to begin with and not the desperate fumbling of two lonely children- was dead and buried and might never rise again.

They were changing too much to fall back into old habits. If she were to decide that Lucien still meant so much to her that she wanted him in body as well as soul, then it would be after she saw everything the world had to offer her. Lucien needed the same perspective, unclouded by his hate and anger. Cree was not the one bright thing in his world because she was the one who enabled him and told him how great he was so his shine never dimmed. He should be challenged to find the beauty in everything despite all that shit around him. He should learn that he was not the main character of the entire world and it did not bend to suit his whims and validate his ego.

"If Lucien were to admit he was always in love with me and that he was a fool for treating me as he did and that he wanted to start again…" She swallowed, turning over how likely such a thing would be and weighing it against what she would think if it did happen, coming up with a startling answer that only proved her point about keeping some distance and letting the two of them grow independent of one another.

She shook her head. "It wouldn't be a change in him, would it? It would only be a crutch if I allowed him to change for love of me. He has to change because he wants to, otherwise it will never stick. So no, Lucien has no bearing on what Chance and I could have. It is only that I cannot trust myself to not make the same mistakes if I take the first hand that reaches out to me. There is so much of this world I have not yet experienced properly."

Jester considered that, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as her mother continued to sing. "D'you think I'm rushing into things with Fjord? 'Cause he was the first guy I've ever really liked?"

Cree chuckled. "You two will need to figure it out on your own. Perhaps you will realize you are better as friends. Perhaps it will be something out of your fairy tales. The two of you walk the same path, regardless, and I know that he has changed not for love of you, but for love of the man he could be."

She pressed her claw against the label of the wine bottle, casually peeling it off in little strips. "I am an unbiased observer, so you can trust that from me. Fjord and I rarely agree on anything and I assume that is why he made me his quartermaster. If anyone would notice the positive change in him and where it came from, it is someone who is always just a little bit done with his shit."

[flight-freedom]

Ringlorn

Adj. The wish that the modern world felt as epic as the one depicted in old stories and folktales—a place of tragedy and transcendence, of oaths and omens and fates, where everyday life felt like a quest for glory, a mythic bond with an ancient past, or a battle for survival against a clear enemy, rather than an open-ended parlor game where all the rules are made up and the points don’t matter.

anchorage

n. the desire to hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep your grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go—it’s okay—let go.”

xeno

n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.

ellipsism

n. sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out, that you’ll dutifully pass on the joke of being alive without ever learning the punchline—the name of the beneficiary of all human struggle, the sum of the final payout of every investment ever made in the future—which may not suit your sense of humor anyway and will probably involve how many people it takes to change a lightbulb.

the meantime

n. the moment of realization that your quintessential future self isn’t ever going to show up, which forces the role to fall upon the understudy, the gawky kid for whom nothing is easy, who spent years mouthing their lines in the wings before being shoved into the glare of your life, which is already well into its second act.

keyframe

n. a moment that seemed innocuous at the time but ended up marking a diversion into a strange new era of your life—set in motion not by a series of jolting epiphanies but by tiny imperceptible differences between one ordinary day and the next, until entire years of your memory can be compressed into a handful of indelible images—which prevents you from rewinding the past, but allows you to move forward without endless buffering.

But if someone were to ask you on your deathbed what it was like to live here on Earth, perhaps the only honest answer would be, "I don't know. I passed through it once, but I've never really been there."