#wip chapter

[musical-chan]

🌤️

Ooohh, this one is interesting.

"Ah, hello. I'm Talon, Malon's father. And this is Kafei. He was hoping to speak with Link's father."  "Oh hi! I know about you. Um, I'm Saria and wait juuuuuust one moment, okay?" The girl turned, closing the door as she started shouting. "Daaaaaad, there's mortals at the doooooooor!"   The two stared at the wood, then exchanged glances with each other. There were no sounds that they could hear but even Talon could feel the strange wave of power that radiated from the house.  Soon there was murmuring at the door and it swung in to reveal Nocturne, turned to frown back at Saria behind him. "Saria, that was perhaps the rudest possible way to introduce someone and I know that you know better."

coming up in the next chapter of Father of Time, haha

[careless-with-your-heart]

WIP Chapter 21: Lay You in the Ground

(Text under the music)

Blaine doesn’t leave her side for twenty-six hours. He follows the coroner’s van to the morgue, silently haunts the assistants who lift her into the sterile, metal drawer, and then cements himself to the wheeled stool in front of the cold fixture, becoming a fixture of his own.

He’d taken it all for granted. All the days he’d had with her are bleeding together in his mind, and as the edges of those days blur, he keeps replaying the last seconds of her, laying there on the floor of The Post, bleeding out.

“Blaine, we have to document—for the case,” Ravi says, but the words filter through Blaine’s ears like empty breeze. The bearded doctor crouches down in front of Blaine’s thousand-yard stare, but Blaine hardly sees him. He’s a shape, a blur, a ghost.

Like the woman in the drawer behind him.

Like the life he could have had with her.

“Mate, look. You can stay, if you want. But we have to document—”

“Cut her up?” Blaine’s eyes focus. “You mean cut her up.”

Ravi nods, slowly. Blaine can see the unshed tears shining in Ravi’s eyes. “It’s procedure. If you want we should get the bastards who did this to her, we hafta.”

“I know who did this,” Blaine says, nodding jerkily. “They’re all dead.”

“And they had a boss, who had a boss, who had a boss maybe. You want them to keep doing this to other people?”

“Do what you have to. But I’m not leaving.”

Ravi stands.

Something occurs to Blaine, and he looks up. “Wait. Ravi.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let anyone”—Blaine’s voice cracks—"After you’re done, you know. She should stay whole.” His throat tightens painfully, and so instead of forcing more words out, he just taps his temple.

Ravi nods. “Of course. We wouldn’t have let anyone… of course.” He clears his throat and inclines his head. “You have to move, so we can…”

Blaine nods and pushes a foot to the side, rolling away from the front of the morgue drawer. Ravi slides it open.

“Are you sure?” Liv asks from the other side of the metal table. Her eyes flick to Ravi, and they exchange a look that Blaine doesn’t have the energy to analyze.  

“I’m staying.”

But he doesn’t. He stays through the sample blood draws, holding Kitty’s cold hand, but he can’t stay once the scalpel comes out. He can’t bear to hear Liv call out the weight of everything vital in the woman he loves. He won’t make it if he has to hear her heart measured in precise, detached ounces—because that means it isn’t still the warm, beating, perfect match for his own cold core. It will mean that this is all real, and not some cruel hallucination. Blaine stands abruptly as Ravi leans over and starts the Y-incision. And then, he stammers an apology and bolts.

Somehow, he makes it to The Scratching Post, past the crime scene tape, through the bar, which is still a wreck, a disaster. There are little numbered cards that dot the floor, a cluster of them like small vultures crowded around the place where she’d fallen. Where she’d bled.

Where she had died.

He averts his eyes, nauseous at the sight.

It’s not lost on him that he’s normally fine with the sight of blood—but not this time.

Blaine hugs the wall the rest of the way across the bar floor and takes the back stairs by twos, stumbling left to the terminus of the hallway. The lights are still on in the kitchen. There’s still coffee in the pot, cold. Her shoes from the night of the gala are balanced on the couch arm. There’s a stack of books on the nightstand, all the spines cracked, all four in various states of being read.

She’d left those books, even though she’d been planning to leave. As if she might someday return to finish the unfinished stories.

She’ll never finish them.

Blaine suddenly can’t breathe.

He loved her—he loves her—and now, she’s gone. And their story is over.

He’s still in his clothes from that night. Clive had said they needed to be kept, bagged for evidence. But he’d left Blaine mercifully alone enough in those twenty-six hours, probably expecting that he wouldn’t leave the morgue without Clive knowing.

Numbly, Blaine strips off his jacket, his t-shirt, wrestling with his combat boots and shucking off his socks and jeans. He kicks the stiff pile aside—maybe he’ll burn it later. Maybe he’ll burn the whole fucking bar down. Maybe he’ll stay inside while it goes up.

For now, he turns every light switch and lamp on in the small space, until no trace of darkness remains. Then, he crawls into her bed, where he can still smell her in the sheets, and buries his face in the pillows. He lets the frame-wracking sobs go until they deplete him, until his chest aches, until he is dragged under into the bottomless well of his sorrow by utter exhaustion.

[oddcryptidwrites]

Knight of Dawn, Chapter 14 [NYTF]

Meetings with JUST Councilor Miles were getting worse and worse.

Combing their hair back, Piers sighed as they tried to cool their temper. Miles sat at the other end of the long table, reading through each page of their inflation reduction proposal word by word. She didn’t speak, her brow furrowed, lines cutting deep across her forehead. Her glasses sat low on her nose, as her eyes scanned every line. They weren’t sure if she was reading that slowly purposefully or not, and honestly, they didn’t care anymore.

“Overall 1% increase until…” She muttered then looked up at Piers, “Don’t you think that’s excessive on the interest rates? If you’re increasing it and tax rates simultaneously, you’re going to tank the state economy. Plus with the current loan that Rome has from the state government, you’re never going to get Councilor Green to pass this.”

Piers bit their tongue, until a metallic taste filled their mouth, avoiding direct eye contact and staring at her hands.  Rolling her eyes and shutting the proposal folio, the eldest councilor glared at Piers, frustrated, “Look. You’re not going to get me to agree to anything a royal puts in front of me that I don’t have at least some hand in writing, and that includes Councilors Johnson and Sidney, since I know you’re buddy-buddy with them both. I learned that lesson with your mother. Let me keep this, and add some of my own thoughts and experience to this. I’ve been Councilor longer than you’ve been alive...” Miles paused. Piers continued to avoid eye contact. “…This isn’t going to make me want to agree with you. You’re acting like a petulant child who isn’t getting their way.”

Piers retorted,“I am not acting like a child. I’m…thinking.” 

The large conference room fell awkwardly silent, save for the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights. They weren’t going to engage with her for their own sanity. 

Finally, Miles spoke, irritation creeping into her stern voice as she pushed her rolling chair away from the table, standing, “I’m going to leave this here with you. If you want my help, if you want to get anything passed, you’re going to let me have my hand at writing and editing some of these proposals. You are not going to bully me into passing whatever you want. It’s called compromising. Learn it.”

Miles left, quietly closing the door behind her and Piers was finally alone in the big conference room. They finally let the tension subside from their shoulders, getting up from their own seat, and leaving the portfolio behind. Hansel was expecting them and Piers had no intention of dealing with anything Miles had said for at least a day.

The Palace was busy, people hustling here and bustling there. With their head down, Piers made their way through the masses of servers and guardsmen and everyone in between. They managed to go unnoticed in the elevator, as five guardsmen, dressed in identical dark grey and green dress uniforms, packed in there with them. Gold emblems adorned the lapels of ther jacket collar, denoting their status as low-rank Special Operations agents. As they arrived at the main kitchen’s floor, the guards stepped out of the elevator, laughing amongst themselves. Others took their place, packing the elevator full. The line for lunch stretched all the way down the hall, a mix of military and civilian workers. While they waited, Piers scrolled through the various messages they’d received throughout their meeting, answering the most urgent questions and leaving the rest for later. 

“What can I do for you?”  A woman’ voice jerked their attention from their work. She stood behind the long counter, holding a plastic to-go box in her gloved hand. Behind the glass, a variety of food had been displayed, some likely leftovers, some fresh. They spotted a variety of fried foods and casseroles, and prayed there would be something they could eat without their stomach deciding to get sick.

”I’m actually going to be grabbing a meal for myself and a friend-“

She rolled her eyes, interrupting them in a monotone voice, “I can only do one tray at a time. If you want another tray you need to return to the back of the line.”

Piers blinked incredulously, taking a moment to just stare at the woman. The gears turned in her head before she recognized them.

“I apologize-”

They waved their hand, shushing her, “Just get two boxes, I have to run.”

The woman nodded furiously, pulling another box from the dwindling stack, then yelled back to her coworkers. Piers picked out both their food, and the list of what Hansel had sent them. Over the glass case, the woman handed Piers the two boxes, and they slipped out, not having to worry about meal points.

The elevator got emptier and emptier as they rode up to the studio floor, until they were all alone for the last stretch. They scanned their wrist as the last person got off, without even recognizing them, and pressed the button for floor 59. The ride lasted for a few more seconds, then the silver doors slid open. Bubbly pop music and Hansel’s out-of-tune singing could be heard from all the way down the hall, as they approached the large room at the end. 

“Your lunch has arrived.” Piers knocked loudly on the doorframe. The singing and music stopped, and Hansel slid around the corner, seated on a rolling stool. He grinned, hopping up and taking the plastic container that Piers offered them.

Hansel brushed his hair behind his ears, before opening the container and taking a deep inhale, “Dude, I was so excited when Gret told me they were gonna have the stewed lentils and rice at the line. I could eat it every day.”

Piers laughed, “And I remembered today why I don’t go down to the line very often.”

At one of the tables, Hansel cleared papers and fabric samples to the side before motioning for Piers to join him. They passed him a set of metal utensils, and they both began to eat. Mouth half-full, Hansel opened up a file of outfits he’d been working on for them and shared it, everything from rough sketches to fully sewn projects, just awaiting the final tailoring.

“And this one,” he pulled up one of the last files in the bunch, having just swallowed his last bite of food, “It’s a potential outfit for you to wear for your birthday event, whatever you’re calling it. It’s not done as I’m working on a complimentary outfit to go with it, but I wanted to get your thoughts. It’s not at all something you’ve worn in the past, but I think it’d be nice and get you out of wearing just suits. I know that’s what you’re comfortable with, and you generally present more masculine, but it’s just an option.” 

He showed them a rough sketch, a beautiful emerald green dress with a high neckline, but low cut sides and back, and a high slit on the right thigh that would likely be revealing a little too much if they weren’t careful.

They weren’t sure if they’d ever wear it, but it was certainly something they’d at least give a shot.

“Anyway,” Hansel closed the drawing, a grin on his face, “You ready to get ready for tonight?"

NYTF WIP PAGE

TAG LIST: @author-a-holmes, @soul-write @flowerprose @ceph-the-ghost-writer @theglitchywriterboi @when-wax-wings-melt @thechaoticflowergarden @lyralit @penspiration-writing @samatedeansbroccoli @charlesjosephwrites @italiangothicwriteblr @thetruearchmagos @pineapple-lover-boy @unilightwrites @sanguine-arena @bardic-tales @joshuaorrizonte @blind-the-winds @circa-specturgia @hymnonlips @aloeverawrites @the-stray-storyteller @writeblrsupport @starlit-skys @kyuponstories @guessillcallitart @magic-is-something-we-create @talesofsorrowandofruin @writingonmymind @imslowlydisintegrating @worldsfromhoney

[sundogsandrainbows]

More chat gpt feedback nonsense i enjoyed reading, while I write on my current chapter... which the confrontation with Flemeth/Asha'bellanar is a huge part of:

Pure writer dopamine not gonna lie 😆

Hope to have the chapter done very soon tho (one scene to go <3)

[sunlit-mess]

wip bc I'll take time to touch some grass

[thecmaly]

really? right in front of my karaage?

-

more windbreaker comics

[pemprika]

the beginning

[tanaor]

Want to know how to hook you reader from the first moment??

(✨ Easy and quick tips to make your first chapter memorable✨)

There have been endless the number of times that I have wondered about the correct formula of starting an history, and although I've learned that in writing there is no one correct way around it, I have gathered some of the tips that helped me the most. That being said, let's get to the tips!!

Introduce them to the mc. Show the reader who they are and what they are facing (can be internal conflict or something instant). Don't start from the pov of a character they won't see again.

Show what the readers are going to feel through the book, the "vibe" that you spent countless Pinterest boards crafting. Do you want them to feel afraid? Happy? Hopeless? Perhaps cozy?

Don't introduce more than three characters at once, and try not to be confusing. Your readers are already lost when your story begins, so try to guide them gently. A confused mind always says no.

Start with something that will later affect the story and move your characters forward. Ask yourself: does this first scene have an impact on the characters or the plot? If no, you can try making it more impactful or starting somewhere else.

Get your readers' curiosity triggered. At the end of the scene, there must be something they want to know to continue reading. It doesn't have to be a cliffhanger, but something like "will the protagonist go on the quest?" or "what are they gonna do now that they don't have any shelter?". The "now that they ..." formula always works for me!

That's all for now, and thank you for reading! As always, happy writing :)

Other tips for writers: previous | next

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington was wearing a Hellfire t-shirt.

It was far too tight on him, the name of the club stretched wide over his chest. The sleeves dug into his biceps, making them pop even more than they usually did, and that was before he crossed his arms. 

Worse?

It was short.

Which meant the damn shirt was constantly riding up to give everyone a nice show of the smattering of hair that trailed down past the band of Harrington's jeans. 

The same hair that Eddie was determinedly not looking at. 

“Henderson, a moment?” He crooked a finger, a smile on his face that was more feral than welcoming. 

Rather than cower or even acknowledge that Eddie was two seconds away from murder, Dustin just gave him a gummy grin, all too pleased with himself and his scheme. 

“Sure Eddie. Steve, don't just stand there, go help set the booth up!” Dustin gestured to Hellfire’s sad little table, crammed all the way in the back of the gym. 

Jeff and Gareth both reacted to the suggestion like a rabid squirrel had been set upon them, nervously inching towards the other side of the booth as Harrington sighed and--shockingly--did as he was told.

‘What,’ Eddie thought angrily, ‘in the everloving fuck.’

“Do you guys mind if I set this down on the table?” Eddie heard Harrington ask as he stormed away, Dustin on his heel. 

They wandered just around the corner, out of sight and hopefully, out of the fallen king’s hearing range.

Eddie wasn't sure if Harrington would try and white knight the very much deserved dressing down he was about to give. 

Didn’t want to chance it, considering the downright weird relationship he had with Hellfire's freshmen.

(While he’d heard many a tale at his table regarding King Steve since the newest recruits had joined Hellfire, most of them dissolved into arguments without ever really going anywhere.

 Best anyone could figure out was that Dustin and Lucas had a bad case of hero worship, while Mike owned a begrudging amount of respect that hailed from a series of misadventures. 

The very same misadventures that, despite all protests to the contrary, was clearly some sort of babysitting gig for Harrington.) 

Either way, plenty of the King’s court would have loved to take this opportunity to fuck with Hellfire.

Given that Henderson was absolutely too old to require a babysitter at fourteen, Eddie would bet his lunch money that was what Steve was here to do.

Something the club couldn’t afford since they were forever and always two seconds away from being stripped of club status and banned from school grounds. 

“I would love to know what went through that all A’s brain of yours when I said,” Eddie whirled on Dustin when they were firmly in the clear, voice low and furious.  “no Henderson, do not invite King Steve to help, he is an invading force and would ruin our peaceful kingdom!?”

He clasped his hands behind his back before leaning into Dustin’s face. “Because clearly whatever you heard wasn’t that.” 

To Eddie’s continued frustration and confusion, Dustin did not treat this like the threat it was. 

None of the freshmen had ever truly treated Eddie like a threat--had somehow skipped that part of the usual onboarding ritual entirely.

Eddie, town freak and drug dealer, who had cultivated his looks and craziness to such a degree that most everyone steered clear, wasn’t used to it. 

Everyone had been afraid of him at some point in this shitty school. Jeff, Gareth, hell even half the staff--and that the dorky trio of fourteen year old's clearly thought this all was play-acting made his eye twitch.

Even if it was--maybe, sometimes--welcome. 

“I know what you said, but I’m telling you I’m right.” Dustin argued immediately, and oh God, he was using that tone again. 

A hand went up into the space between them and Eddie groaned aloud, knowing what was coming.

���First,” Dustin ticked a finger up, “Hellfire really needs the money. Even thirty dollars would get us new figures, but more than that, if we don’t fundraise, we can’t go to Gen Con!” 

Dustin's eyes bored into Eddie’s, full of fire and conviction

“Yes,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, “but--”

“Second!” Dustin cut him off, and God the little shit even threw him a look while he did it, like Eddie was the one being ridiculous here!

“We had to fight just to get our table! Principal Higgins was in algebra today practically begging the mathletes to show up, but then tried to tell us we couldn't be here? That’s messed up!” 

As if denying them a spot to fundraise was the worst thing that asshole had ever done.

Eddie sighed, breath blasting out of his mouth like a dragon’s. 

“Because people think we’re freaks and satanists, Henderson. You don’t typically invite freaks and satanists to the school’s annual Holiday Bazaar. Especially not when all the local moms are paying to hawk their bullshit crafts and tupperware!” 

It was more than that of course. The Hawkins High Holiday Bazaar was a tradition spanning several years now. Starting in the gym and spilling clear into the parking lot, everyone from local artists to even some local shops came to host a small table for the day, thus growing the event from a small school fundraiser to a Hawkins' “must-do.” 

Half the fucking town was here to sell, and the other half was here to shop, which meant Principle Higgins had wanted Hellfire banned from the fucking premise. 

Eddie had been forced to pull out one of his trump cards he’d been saving--blackmail on Higgins that related to the man’s not--so--legal addiction to Percocet that he relied on Reefer Rick for. 

(And bless Rick, that hadn’t been the only tidbit he’d shared with Eddie about Higgins. That information, however, Eddie needed just so the asshat wouldn’t give him the boot from school entirely.) 

The only reason Eddie had pulled it out to secure their rightful spot, was because of Gen Con. 

It was Hellfire's White Whale, their grand adventure, and this was going to be his year to take his friends on one last epic quest to make memories of a lifetime surrounded by people who understood them.

Come hell or high water, Eddie was going to Gen Con--but being able to fundraise by selling wares and baked goods at the stupid Holiday Bazaar would go a long way to help.

Even if he had to listen to the band repeatedly play ear-bleeding renditions of Christmas songs.

“All the clubs get to have a table, and we’re a club!” Dustin continued, like it was that simple. “But you know, I get it. We look scary.” 

He gestured down to his own Hellfire shirt, before gesturing towards Eddie’s entire outfit.

Like Eddie didn't know what he looked like, let alone that he'd made this outfit specifically to scare people away from him.

(And maybe add some rockstar flair to this dinky little hick town.)

“You know who doesn’t look scary?”

Dustin held out his hands and swiveled his body like he was presenting a prize instead of gesturing in the vague direction of; 

“Steve!”

Eddie’s left eye twitched.

‘You can't kill him, you need his character for the campaign.’ He told himself firmly, even if he envisioned strangling Dustin like a chicken.

Cartoon squawking and all. 

“The King isn’t going to help us fundraise, Dustin.” Eddie said, in an effort to break down why Harrington couldn't be here. “He's just going to cause us problems that we can’t afford to have.” 

So many problems, half of which Eddie couldn't think of because if he did, he'd start spiraling.

“Really? Because as you keep saying, Steve used to be the King. People love him, Eddie! Mom’s love him.”

Eddie had pulled himself back up to his proper height a while ago, and now rocked back on his heels while he ran a hand down his face.

There was no getting through to Henderson when he was like this. 

Not unless Eddie really lost it, and it was practically club lore that he only lost it when someone missed an important game. 

One cannot keep a herd of sheep if their flock is terrified of them, after all. 

(“Perhaps you’re just a giant fucking softie.” Tiff, one of Hellfire’s graduating members, told him once. “Honestly dude, I bet you throw up stuffing.”

“Shut up Tiffany, your choker is on backwards again.” He'd spat back, completely offended and not at all trying to distract from how true that was.) 

“We can’t be satanic if Steve’s the one selling cookies!” Dustin finished doggedly. 

“We’re not even selling cookies--that’s not the point!”” Eddie shook his head, hair flying. He was not going to be sidetracked, he wasn’t!

 “Harrington is going to end up siding with all the moms about how we’re all wasting time with D&D, if he even spends the whole time at the table. Is that what you want?” 

He stuck out a ringed finger, poking at Dustin’s chest.

“Every single person who comes by our table has to be convinced D&D is a writing and math based game. Good for the mind and souls of growing, impressionable children. A game that got a bad rep because of  a few silly images.” 

A pitch he and Tiff had come up with during the third or fourth time they had to convince an adult that no, just because their shirts had a dragon on it, didn’t mean they were summoning demons in the drama room. 

“Harrington can’t do that because Harrington doesn’t even know how to play!” 

This Eddie punctuated by throwing his hands in the air. 

Given the startled look of the mother-daughter duo passing him by, clearly was louder than he’d intended--but screw it!

He was right!

Hellfire was in a precarious position to both fundraise and do a little damage control among the slightly smarter members of this shithole small town, and Harrington rolling his eyes and gossiping about how stupid it was would hinder that.

“Okay, first of all, Steve’s played D&D with me and he didn’t even kill his character.” Dustin said it like he was unveiling a smoking gun and not lying through his ass--which Eddie would absolutely be calling him on the second he was done talking. 

Because King Steve? Play D&D?

'Ha!'

“And he’s not gonna say shit because we--me, and Lucas and even Mike!--asked him to help, and he helps when its serious. I know you have some weird grudge with him, but I’m telling you Eddie he’s our golden ticket to Gen Con!” 

“You’re killing me. You are standing here, acting as a friend, when you are bringing a-- a dark force into the midst our of mission--” Eddie hissed, because he was losing the fucking fight and he knew it.

Dustin Henderson was not a man easily swayed. 

Had never been, even when the odds were stacked against him (and Grant and Gareth were howling in his ear.) 

The set of his shoulders and the glint of the little shithead’s eye meant Eddie wouldn’t be able to use him to oust Harrington--if he even could get him out without the dick causing a massive scene anyway. 

As always when outgunned, Eddie flipped to dramatics.

“Betrayed! By my own chosen heir no less!” He moaned, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as Dustin scoffed.

"Don’t be so dramatic! Steve will help, I promise! Just don’t be a dick to him.” 

 Conversation apparently over, Dustin turned around to head back to the table

Snidely, he added over his shoulder: “Plus we’ve all caught on to the heir thing Eddie. You tell everyone that so they do what you want.” 

The dick.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good. I’m gonna start feeding you paint chips to bring that IQ down.” Eddie muttered angrily as Dustin went back to their little table.

He gave himself a moment to get his shit together and stomp a foot like a child when Dustin was around the corner and thus couldn’t witness it, before following his wayward sheep back.

Could only pray to any deity listening that Henderson’s meddling didn’t blow up in Hellfire’s face.

[north-noire]

we're stuck in the middle of nowhere, but it could be worse.

[theunboundwriter]

The Strawberry Killer

Chapter Six: Jason Adamthwaite

masterpost || next || previous

            Dianne left her window open that night. It was a mistake, having forgotten about it and falling asleep at the desk in her room. She awoke to the crisp night breeze nipping at her skin, the ugly blue curtains with little flowers on them blowing wildly in the small bedroom. She could hear the leaves on the trees rustling in the cool breeze, the soft roar of cars rolling into the distance on roads far off that she could not see. Cicadas sang from somewhere outside the window, and briefly she was reminded of the darkness that lurked just beyond the light that the house gave off through the windows. She stood, her joints achy from falling asleep in such an uncomfortable position, and closed the window, snapping it shut and flipping the lock so the darkness would have trouble getting inside. 

She could see Brody sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, a glass of water in his hand as he stared off down the street. Dianne pulled on a jacket and joined him on the porch. 

"Couldn't sleep?" He asked her, not bothering to glance her way. 

She shrugged, even though he didn't see. "Fell asleep at the desk. What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep," he repeated. 

Dianne sat down in the other rocking chair, fighting off a chill from the night air. There was an old fan attached to the ceiling of the porch, but it could never spin fast enough to generate a breeze. She watched it for a moment, spinning slowly around and around, before looking up at the stars. There was no light pollution in the small town, the stars shining as bright as ever. 

"You know, when you wish upon a shooting star, you better hope the star has good intentions," Brody said quietly, his eyes watching the sky. 

Dianne gave him a puzzled look but chose not to say anything. 

"I bet the killer is looking up at the same sky and listening to the same bugs making all that noise. For all we know, he could be in the house next door."

Brody took a sip of his water, before reaching down and handing Dianne a sheet of paper. "I was going to wait to show you this, but since you're up, now is as good a time as ever."

The paper was of an online missing persons report that he had printed off. It was of a young girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was five foot seven, around 140 pounds, and 19 years old. 

"Adelaide Montgomery," Brody said. "The report was filed a few hours after the body was found, but it's consistent with our Jane Doe."

"This... this is her," Dianne said, dumbfoundedly. "It's her. This is Jane Doe."

She felt like leaping for joy or running around in circles in the front yard and yelling as loud as her lungs would allow. They were one step closer to delivering justice, to putting the twisted lunatic that killed this girl behind bars where he would never see the light of day again. But there was still a defeated lump in her chest that would not permit celebrations until this case was closed. She gripped the paper in her hands numbly.

"Who filed the report?" Dianne asked, still staring down at the paper.

"Someone named Jason Adamthwaite. I'm assuming her boyfriend. Planning to call him tomorrow to see if he can come down to the station. I figure he would come willingly."

She nodded along, before finally turning back and going inside, the missing persons poster still firmly in her grasp.

...

A young man burst into the station, his eyes bloodshot and his baseball cap backwards on his head. "Where's Ady?" He yelled. "Adelaide?"

Detective Jennings stepped forward. "Jason?"

He nodded furiously. "Is Adelaide here? Can I see her?"

"Can you follow me?"

She led him to an interrogation room, where Detective Gregory was already waiting. She gestured for Jason to have a seat on the other side of the table, while she sat next to Brody. "My name is Detective Jennings and this is my partner, Detective Gregory. We just want to ask you a few questions."

"Okay," Jason responded, wringing his hands on the table. "What's this about?"

"When was the last time you saw Adelaide Montgomery?" Detective Gregory asked him, not bothering to answer his question.

"Um, Saturday night, I think. We were supposed to meet for dinner on Sunday but she didn't show."

"And you haven't heard from her since?"

"No. I tried calling her and I even went to her apartment. None of her friends had heard from her either, so I called the police and said she was missing."

Detective Jennings wrote down a few notes as she asked, "And there's no chance that she was avoiding you?" 

Jason's face scrunched up. "Why would she do that?"

"Is it normal for you to see each other every single day? Is that why you were so quick to put out a report on her?"

"I don't know what you're asking me."

Detective Gregory crossed her arms. "I don't know, I just find it a little odd that you were so quick to claim that she's gone missing. She stood you up on one date and all of a sudden, you're putting out a report? Did you think something happened to her?"

"It was just weird that she stood me up and didn't call me back. I was worried about her. I'm still worried about her."

As the words left his mouth, two police officers could be seen through the window escorting Thomas Fancott down the hall, the man huffing as they walked by. Brody raised a brow before silently poking his head out the door. When he sat back down, he quietly told Dianne that there wasn't enough evidence to hold him, that they had interrogated him, and that owning strawberries was not a crime.

"What's going on?" Jason questioned, crossing his arms. "Where's Ady?"

Detective Gregory sighed, leaning forward. "We found Adelaide—"

"You did? Where is she? Can I see her?"

"She's dead, Jason."

Detective Jennings watched as the gears turned in his head. First, he was quiet, his face expressionless. Then it morphed to shock, then to sadness, and finally anger. "And you think I had something to do with it?!"

Brody leaned back in his chair once again, looking to Dianne for help. "We're just trying to figure out what happened. You might have been the last person to see her alive."

"But that doesn't mean I killed her!"

"Of course, it doesn't," Dianne tried to reason. "But we can't rule you out as a suspect. We're just doing our jobs."

"You're bad at it, then. She's been dead for who knows how long, and you're sitting in here and wasting your time talking to me! The real killer is out there still, and you're doing nothing about it!"

"Jason, we are doing everything in our power to find out what happened to Adelaide so that we can find who did this to her, okay? We just need you to work with us," Detective Gregory said, his voice harsh. 

"Yeah? Well, try harder because I didn't do it. You have better ways to be spending your time." 

"Can you tell us what you were doing on Sunday?"

"I was getting ready for my date!"

"All day?"

He scoffed, crossing his arms. "I was just hanging out at home. Watched some TV, did some schoolwork. Then I got ready for our date."

"Is there anyone who can confirm that you were home all day?"

He was quiet then, staring off at the wall behind the detective's heads. "No, I guess not." 

Detective Jennings wrote something down on her notepad.

"Hey!" Jason slammed his hand on the table. "Why are you writing that down?! Listen, I didn't do it. She's my girlfriend."

"Are you always this quick to anger?" Detective Gregory asked, his tone accusing. 

Jason stood up to leave, his ears red with rage. Shoving his chair back, he headed towards the door. "You don't have the authority to keep me here, right? If you need me, I'll be at my apartment, mourning my girlfriend."

He opened the door to leave, and Detective Jennings called out to him, "Jason, wait! One more question."

His head snapped back to look at her. "What?"

"Has Adelaide ever attended the Everlasting Faith Church in Beckton?"

Jason frowned. "No."

And with that he slammed the door shut and stormed out. 

Brody slammed his fist on the table, standing up as well.

"Where are you going?" Dianne asked him.

"To get a search warrant. We're searching that brat's apartment."

[checkadii]

Sniffs. Hi. I’m very much still heavily brainrottjng over trigun but something has taken a smidge of that space

Bro I was fighting for my life w the fire. Ngl

Anyways daily vashwood struck again (it was wolfwood holding Vash’s hand gripping his gun and pointing it at hismelf)

[careless-with-your-heart]

No henchmen to make disappear.

No secrets that intrude on the gossamer innocence of holding each other like neither of them have anything to hide.  

Nothing but this—the short span of time out of time that belongs to no one but the pair of them, here when their pasts haven't woken up to assert themselves.

He imagines that this is what life is supposed to be like. That this is the kind of moment too infrequent in both of their experiences of love. The people who’ve claimed to love her, who have wounded her, can’t possibly have ever looked at her like this, while she slept. If they had, Blaine is sure that they would have felt the very same fierce protectiveness that suffuses him now, and the same simmer of rage at the thought of her ever being hurt.

[vendetta-if]

The Public Update is now live! 🎉

Hey guys! The public update is now live! 🥳 The update brings 27K new words (excluding codes) into the demo, bringing the overall word count to 384K words!

Some new stuff to expect from the update (without spoilers 🤭):

Some changes and options additions in Ash's Hangout.

A whole new section and new scenes added at the end of Ash's Hangout.

A (promised) brunch with Rin 😉

Just a word of warning, I did change one or two variables in the previous iteration of Chapter 7, so if you're using an old save file, there's a small chance it might give some error. But hopefully it doesn't. Of course, the safer way would be to play with a new, clean save (either playing from the beginning or use the quickstart to get to Chapter 6 immediately).

Anyway, I'll start answering spoiler asks regarding the update in a day or two 😉 And when I answer them, I'll make sure to tag them with the #chapter 7 spoiler tag.

If you do enjoy the story, please consider checking out my Patreon or Ko-Fi pages for more exclusive contents and to help support my work 😊

I hope you guys enjoy the update! 🥰💖

[DEMO] | [PATREON] | [KO-FI] | [DISCORD] | [COG FORUM]

[burnthatbridge]

if you love him let him go (if you love him let him know) 

pre-buddie, bucktommy | T | 3k | angst, pining tommy needs to tell eddie something not on ao3 atm because i can't figure out if this is done or if i'm continuing it - please let me know your thoughts! now on ao3 because i hate not having all my fic in one place

“Can I get you another beer, man?”

Eddie checks his watch. It’s only a little after nine thirty. He’s kind of hoping to get home before Chris goes to sleep, but he’ll not be heading to bed any time soon, will likely stay up later than Eddie. Friday night means he disregards his supposed bedtime — not that he sticks to it that well on school nights, now he’s sixteen. “Sure, thanks.”

Tommy nods, disappears into the kitchen, returns a moment later with a can of IPA in one hand, a bottle of lager in the other. They’ve already finished the six-pack Eddie brought over, but trust Buck — well, Buck and Tommy — to have Eddie’s favorite beer in their fridge. Tommy hands over the can, already cracked open, and Eddie takes a sip as Tommy settles down at the opposite end of the couch. He doesn’t turn to face the TV, sits twisted towards Eddie instead, but he does pick up the remote and turn down the volume, the post-fight commentary rendered nearly unintelligible. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Eddie twists towards Tommy himself, something not-quite-anxious-but-almost flaring in his chest. Over the years they have been friends, he and Tommy have spoken about lots of things, including those not so easy to discuss: their respective experiences in the army, Tommy’s tough childhood, Eddie’s difficult parents, the hard aspects of the job. But they’ve all been topics that have come up naturally, raised organically. Tommy has never led into anything with such a pointed opener before.

Eddie studies him. He has one knee pulled up on the couch cushion, foot poking out off the end, the other foot planted on the floor, nearly parallel to the base of the couch. One arm is up on the backrest, the other relaxed, beer bottle in that hand, resting on his thigh, dripping condensation painting a charcoal ring on his — probably Buck’s, in fact, given how tight the fabric is stretched over the muscle of his leg — grey sweats. He’s not tense, but he’s not smiling, and there’s something about his expression that Eddie can’t place. It’s not that he hasn’t seen this look before, because he’s pretty sure he has, witnessed it in flickers across numerous occasions over the years, there and then gone, present for but a heartbeat. But he’d never known what it meant any of those times and he certainly doesn’t now.

“'Course,” Eddie says, when Tommy doesn’t go on, seems to be waiting for some kind of sign. Then adds, feeling like it’s necessary given the gravity he can feel pulling this lightsome evening down to something more serious.  “Anything.”

Tommy sighs, bites his lip like he doesn’t want to speak, even though he’s the one who said he wanted to talk, then shakes his head and takes a pull of his beer.

“Is everything okay?” Eddie’s starting to feel worried now. He mentally scans back over the past few weeks, trying to remember if Tommy has mentioned anything about work that could be a problem. He saw him at basketball last week, and nothing had seemed off. Plus, Buck hasn’t said anything. Not that he’d necessarily tell Eddie about an issue Tommy was having, not if Tommy wanted it kept private, but Eddie can usually tell when Buck’s concerned about someone, and he hasn’t picked up on anything, not at all. 

But maybe this isn’t about a problem Tommy is having. Maybe this is a Buck problem, something Buck has kept from Eddie. It would make sense why Tommy would bring it up with him; sometimes a concerted, multi-person effort is the only way to get through to Buck. And Tommy’s more likely to bring in Eddie first, and then expand the team to include Maddie, Chim, more, as needed. 

“Is Buck okay?” Eddie asks, something like panic constricting his throat, making the words come out a little strangled. 

Tommy actually laughs at that, a small, choked thing, an exhale of sound and air. He shakes his head again, but not a no. More like an extension of the laugh, a motion to accompany it, to better convey the disbelief — not humor — contained in it. “He’s fine.”

It’s a relief to hear. Buck had seemed physically okay, when Eddie had seen him briefly before he left the house, since he’d maybe purposefully waited to order his Uber until Buck pulled up in his jeep outside, despite Christopher’s insistence he didn’t need to wait for Buck to arrive, despite the fact that his kid is more than old enough to be left in the house alone for the twenty minutes it would have taken Buck to drive over, while Eddie was ferried the opposite way. But there could still have been something, Buck could have been fighting through pain, much better at hiding any hurt of his body than he is at masking his emotional distress. 

“But,” Tommy says, and that one word is enough to have Eddie’s muscles tightening once more, “It is Evan I wanted to talk about.”

Again, Tommy doesn’t follow it up with anything. Eddie has found, in their time as friends, that Tommy is not often a man lost for words. Quite the opposite, in fact. He usually says what he means, means what he says, and is an expert at listening and delivering sage advice. This reticence– it doesn’t feel like it bodes well, has the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck prickling.

“Alright,” Eddie says, a feeble prompt. “So, Buck?”

Tommy nods, like he’s gearing himself up for something, to face a challenge, to take a punch. Eddie is expecting something bad, so the words he says catch him even more off guard than they would have. “I want to ask Evan to marry me.”

Maybe if Tommy had seemed eager, excited, when he turned to him, Eddie could have anticipated the blow, could have felt a creeping suspicion this is where Tommy was headed, could have been provided with enough of a heads-up to brace himself. As it is, he doesn’t see the hit coming, takes it full force to the chest, so hard it steals his breath, knocks the wind from him. His mouth goes slack, and he feels his fingers slide against the slippery sides of his beer can, almost spills it over Tommy and Buck’s lounge carpet before he gets a hold on it, on himself. He forces himself to smile. “That’s– that’s great,” he makes himself say, only faintly aware that Tommy isn’t smiling back, like this moment should call for. “Did you–” he swallows around the bile climbing his esophagus, “Do you want help planning the proposal?” He wishes he could take the words back the second they’re out. Because this — just hearing that Tommy wants to ask Buck — is torture enough. To be involved with it, to help enable it, Eddie will be lucky if it doesn’t kill him. Maybe not his body, but certainly his soul. 

“No.” Tommy shakes his head. “No, I want to ask him to marry me. But I’m not going to. At least, not now.”

Eddie squints at him. The news that Tommy wants to marry Buck might hurt Eddie, but it’s not exactly surprising. Eddie’s seen how much Tommy cares for him in the years they’ve been together, has seen the way he looks at him, the way they look at each other. Has felt the way it burns him, the scorching heat of flame, the searing cold of ice. He doesn’t understand what Tommy is saying, doesn’t understand why this proclamation seems not to be a happy one. “Why not?” Eddie asks, almost grateful for the opportunity to present confusion, curiosity, rather than forced pleasure at the thought of one of his closest friends and his– best friend marrying each other. “You guys are serious. I mean, you live together.”

Tommy huffs another laugh, still more disbelief than humor, really the opposite of humor. “His lease was up.”

“Right. But he chose not to renew it. He chose to move in with you,” Eddie says, slow, struggling to understand, the pounding of his pulse not helping him think clearly, see through the puzzle that is everything Tommy has said so far and the way he has said it. 

“He was never going to renew it,” Tommy tells him.

And that’s– that’s something Eddie didn’t know. He hates it when he learns information about Buck from Tommy, always has, even though he fights with everything in him not to feel like that. Tommy is Buck’s boyfriend, of course he’s going to know things about him that Eddie doesn’t, know him in a way that Eddie doesn’t. 

“We hadn’t spoken about living together,” Tommy says, eyes on Eddie. “But he’d said he thought the loft was too expensive and he was spending nearly every night at mine by that point. When he wasn’t on shift. Or at yours.” Eddie pulls his eyes away, takes a sip from his beer for something to do, even though the bitter taste is turning his stomach. “He said he wasn’t going to renew it, that he’d look for somewhere new, cheaper. But this was too close to the end of his lease to find a place before he had to move out. I asked where he was going to stay in the meantime.”

“And he said with you,” Eddie guesses, more a statement than a question.

But Tommy shakes his head. A smile curls his lips but his eyes– his eyes don’t match. “He said he’d crash on your couch, actually.”

Eddie takes another mouthful of beer, holds it there, on the back of his tongue. He didn’t know any of this. Buck would, of course, have been more than welcome. Likely why he hadn’t asked in advance, why he planned for it without seeking permission. 

“I said he could stay with me, instead. That he’d be able to sleep in a bed here.” Eddie swallows, the beer somehow thick and cloying in a way that it shouldn’t be. “And then when he started making noises about looking for a new place, I told him he should stay.”

While it’s not how Eddie had, unwillingly, pictured it in his head — Tommy and Buck mutually agreeing that Buck shouldn’t renew his lease, deciding they wanted to live together — it still doesn’t explain what Tommy has said. “And he did stay,” Eddie says. “So, why aren’t– Does Buck not want to get married?” But that can’t be it, that can’t be right. Eddie is certain Buck does want to be married, only he’d tried hard not to think of Buck wanting that with Tommy, with anyone. Anyone else. 

“No, he does,” Tommy confirms it. He leans over and deposits his beer on the coffee table. Then sits back, still turned to Eddie, but arms crossed over his chest, like a protection of himself. “We’ve spoken about it, discussed it. And he’s told me he’s always wanted that, to get married, to be part of a family.” Tommy pops one hand out of the fold of his arms to hold it up, out, quelling, like Eddie has protested. He hasn’t, but his heart is doing something approximating a riot at the idea of Tommy being Buck’s family. “And I know he has a family. He knows he does. In you and Chris, in Maddie and Jee, in the 118. But–” Tommy breaks off, tips his head to the side, gaze boring into Eddie’s face so strong that Eddie wishes he could turn away, duck and run. “You know how much he’s always wanted to belong somewhere.”

He does, Eddie thinks, the thought almost violent in its intensity. He belongs with me. Except, he doesn’t. Not really, not how Eddie wants, not the way he does with Tommy.

“And I want that for him,” Tommy goes on, tucking his hand back in, squeezing his arms tighter about himself. Eddie’s never seen him like this, hunched in on himself, curled small. Tommy is usually so open, larger than life. “I want to be the one to give that to him.”

Eddie wants to be the one to give that to him. Desires it desperately, a secret need he’s tucked as far inside himself as he can. He can feel it now, raging to be let out, to be set free. But he can’t, he won’t. Buck is with Tommy, he’s happy with Tommy. Tommy who is so warm and kind and good, Tommy who is better than Eddie in every conceivable way, who brings so much to Buck’s life, who gives all of himself to Buck. Who wants to give him even more. Wants to, but apparently won’t.

Eddie doesn’t understand. “Then, if you want to, why won’t you ask him?” he questions, trying to. 

“If I ask him now, he’ll say no.” Tommy states it like indisputable fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that Buck would refuse him. 

Eddie shakes his head, understanding even less. “But he loves you.”

Tommy smiles again, then, larger than he had before, but as devoid of happiness, as empty of cheer. This smile hurts to see, reflects the way Eddie felt inside when Tommy had said I want to ask Evan to marry me. “I know he does.” Tommy’s tone is sure, but wistful. “But he loves you more.”

It’s like– It’s like nothing Eddie has ever felt. Or maybe it’s like everything he’s ever felt. The shock of a residual lightning bolt, the joy of being a part of the 118, the pain of a bullet ripping through his shoulder, the awe of holding his son for the first time. Eddie wants Tommy’s words to be true maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything. But he also cannot believe them, has no trust that they are true. Because they can’t be. Buck loves Tommy. Not Eddie. 

“We’re friends. Best friends,” Eddie points out. “Of course, he– he loves me. But not more. Not like he loves you. He’s in love with you.”

Tommy sighs, arms uncrossing, palms coming to rest on his thighs, body taking on a posture Eddie is familiar with, the one he falls into when he’s talking someone through something, the one he adopted when Eddie came out to him some six months ago. “Eddie, he’s in love with you.”

Eddie shakes his head. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear, but coming from the wrong lips. Spoken by not by Buck himself but by Buck’s boyfriend, oh god. “He isn’t. Tommy, he can’t be.” 

But Tommy is nodding, nodding like what he’s said is true, like he wants Eddie to believe it. 

“He’s not,” Eddie says, hears the denial, the disbelief spill from him. Buck doesn’t love him. He doesn’t. But Eddie– Eddie loves– “I’m sorry,” Eddie says, almost a gasp. “Tommy, I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy cuts him off. “I knew what I was getting into. When I started seeing Evan, I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. I just–” Tommy sighs again, scrubs his palms along his thighs. “I didn’t expect it to get this far. I thought we’d just be a fun, easy thing. Something to ease Evan into his sexuality, that new part of himself. I didn’t expect it to go like this. I didn’t expect to feel like this.” Tommy closes his eyes, lashes falling to his cheeks. He breaths in and out, while Eddie’s own breath is caught in his chest. When Tommy opens his eyes, he says, “But I don’t have to tell you how easy it is to love him.”

Fuck. Tommy knows. Because Eddie does. He loves Buck, loves him so endlessly he doesn’t know where the feeling starts and where it ends. Doesn’t know when it started; doesn’t think it will ever end. “I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers, needing to say the words again, needing Tommy — his friend — to hear them. 

Tommy lifts one palm from his thigh, his wrist pressing into the muscle as he cuts his fingers to the side in a dismissal. “Don’t apologize for it. I’m certainly not going to. I’m never going to be sorry for loving him.” He drops his hand back down, pats his leg, emphasis of the point. “But it is a problem.” He smiles, rueful. “I thought I’d be able to break up with him, if he didn’t break up with me. I should have, ages ago. I certainly should have when you came out.” 

Eddie, selfishly, had hoped Buck would break up with Tommy then. But it had seemed like a farfetched fantasy. He had told Buck he was queer after Buck had already moved in with Tommy. He’d admitted it to himself, to Frank, before that, but hadn’t told anyone else for weeks. In hindsight, sometimes he figures he’d left it too late, but most of the time he didn’t think it would have made a difference at all. But now, with what Tommy has told him, maybe it would have. It’s a knife sliding between Eddie’s ribs to think maybe. Maybe.

“But I didn’t.” Tommy looks resigned, shoulders drooping. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Eddie needs to know. It seems like Tommy has known for years that Eddie has loved Buck. Loves Buck. I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. So why is he only bringing it up now?

“Because I didn’t. Because I can’t. I can’t break up with him. But I want to move forward. And I want to do so with him, for us to further our life together. But if I ask him to marry me when he doesn’t know for sure that you’re not an option, he’ll say no.”

Fear freezes Eddie’s insides. “So, what– what are you asking me to do?” Because Tommy is asking something of Eddie, wants something. Something Eddie fears he will have to make himself give.

Tommy straightens up, shoulders rolling back. He’s serious, solemn but not demanding or pleading when he says it. A devastating request. “I’m asking you, as my friend, to let him go.”

Eddie could be sick, he thinks, could vomit up the three and a quarter beers and the half a dozen chicken wings he’s consumed since he got to Tommy and Buck’s place. Could spill the mess of his insides up all over himself, all over Tommy, all over their lives. Tommy is his friend, was his friend before he was ever Buck’s boyfriend. Eddie should do this thing for him. Should give Buck his blessing to marry Tommy, give Buck up, give him over, completely, to this man who has loved him so well for the past three years. Eddie should; in his gut he knows it would be the right thing to do. But his heart– his heart is in revolt. It’s Buck. He loves him. How can he ever let him go?

Tommy leans forward, places a hand on Eddie’s leg, squeezes his fingers around the ball of his kneecap, until Eddie lifts his gaze and meets his eyes. “Or,” he says, somehow even more serious, “I am telling you, as your friend, to go and get him.”

[kray-zay]

designs for a Transformers horror AU thing I was working on but shelved for the time being to work on my other main tf au project.

Thought I just shared these freaks without context. rest of the art and writing for this project prob not gonna be posted until/if I start working on it again.

Bonus little dude, he a part of a diagram explaining some lore but it doesn't make a ton of sense without knowing other lore from this AU I haven't shared.