#because i suppose people associate it with ice. i associate it with water

[elminx]

Spell Energetics: How to Apply the concept of Herbal Energetics to your spell work

Note: I'm drawing here from my knowledge of herbal energetics as they are recognized in multiple herbalism systems, my knowledge of astrology, and the concepts of sympathetic magic - if this isn't your thing, please just move along.

The four elements and the concepts of Energetics run consistently through the framework of much of the Western magic systems but it's something that is often overlooked. Suppose rather than relegating the elements to something that we call upon ritualistically to join us in our magic works (or, that must be represented on an altar), we instead stop and consider what they are, and what they do. In that case, we can gain a deeper understanding of how magic works on a human being.

The idea of the four elements and their associated qualities (dry, warm, cool, and moist - now known as herbal energetics) comes from the Athenian philosopher Aristotle. The fire element is warm, the earth element is cool, the air element is dry, and the water element is wet. This shows a remarkable difference from the modern astrological association of earth being opposed to water, and air to fire as it is shown on the astrological wheel; here, hot is opposed to cold (fire to earth) and dry to wet (air to water). It is worth noting that this can be somewhat proven through action - earth puts out fire, for instance. Today, we understand that there is more to healthfulness than balancing energetics (thank you antibiotics, vaccines, and insert your favorite modern medical miracle here) but there are still a number of views on wellness that encourage considering them. Maybe someday I will write more of this and how it relates to synastry, but let's focus on how this can be used in magic.

From here, we need to take a dive into modern herbalism. Why are we doing this? Because most people use all sorts of herbal components as ingredients in our spells and many of our correspondences have their roots in how that plant matter interacts with the human body. One of the major considerations when choosing an herb is what its Action is on the human body. These actions include Heating (Warm/Fire), Cooling (Cool/Water), Drying (Dry/Air), and Wetting (Moist/Water).

We use these actions all of the time without even knowing that we are doing them. Most cocktail people know that you want to drink a Mint Julip in the summer to cool you down (mint is a Cooling herb). On the other hand, if you need a pick me up, Chai tea which is full of warming herbs - even noncaffeinated versions like Bengal Spice - does the trick. The marshmallow (a Moist herb) does the coating of the throat in "Throat Coat" tea. The conditions of warm/cool/dry/moist are so normal to use as human beings that we tend to overlook them and adjust for them automatically.

With this in mind, I want to bring up a few ways in which this can be applied in witchcraft.

Warm is nice and pleasant. A lot of the warming herbs are used in money and sex magic - they make us feel good. But, like any good thing, they might need to be consumed in moderation. Candles carry the innate action of warmth and just think about how important fire safety is. Some herbs that warm cannot always be handled with bare hands (spicy peppers cause capsaicin burns) and these have long-documented uses in baneful magics of all kinds.

Cool magic can be used to calm and control. It can be used to put a particular situation on ice so that you don't have to deal with it. It can bring down fevers. It can soothe bad tempers and hot-headedness. It can preserve. It can also protect and insulate.

Dry magic can also be used to preserve. It can dry up emotions and stifle passion. It can draw out something or draw something away from a situation. It can create space.

Moist magic can be overflowing and generous. It can also be stagnant and suffocating. Moisture can revive life. It can also drown it.

It is worth noting that all aspects of these factors are always present in our lives. And they don't exist in a vacuum - everything is a combination of the two Aristotlean categories: you have Warm Moist or Warm Dry, and Cool Moist or Cool Dry.

We use these principles in magic all of the time. Anytime that you are using a liquid in a jar spell, you are applying the concept of Moist. If you are applying salt or rice to drain an object, you are using the concept of Dry. A freezer spell is an obvious example of Cool and any time that you are burning something you are using the concept of Warm.

But let's go a step further. If you are trying to do a warming spell, wouldn't it make sense to use specifically only warming herbs - or, at least - herbs that don't counteract Warmth (aka abstain from using cooling herbs?). Remember, these herbs have a natural and calculable effect on the human body so one would assume that, when used as part of a spell directed at a human body, they will have a similar effect. Even if you're a total candle head (I get it - I LOVE candle magic), consider not adding a candle to a spell meant to freeze somebody out.

When casting a hex, it is worth considering whether you want to burn them out with fire or take the slower more calculated path of ice. (Stop me from quoting Robert Frost here...) If you need to separate a couple who thrives on relationship conflict, drying them out could be a good option - more specifically, I'd probably use cool/dry.

Really we are getting into the basics of all sympathetic magic: using a thing that has an obvious effect to transfer that effect, through our spell, to the spell's intended target. This is why I have been very specific in saying that this applies to magic cast on a human being - here we are using the principles of Energetics and how they affect humans. For a spell on an animal or your house, entirely different sympathetic principles would apply.

The next time that you are choosing between two herbs that are said to have the same associations, consider whether one might be better than the other based on the Energetic nature of that plant. You might find a whole new level of casting open up to you.

Do you like my work? You can support my writing by tipping me over on Kofi.

#witchblr #spell crafting #herbal energetics #energetics #spell correspondences #sympathy #sympathetic magic #words #mine #herbalism #Aristotle

[cheapveganmeals]

i really wish diet culture didnt exist (understatement of the century, I know) because people only associate certain things with trying to be thin, completely missing out on the joys of the thing just in and of itself.

i love rice cakes. i love kale chips. i love yoga and going for brisk walks. i love drinking a tall glass of ice water with a wedge of lemon or some cucumber slices in it. i love vegetable juice and smoothies. i love veggie boards and hummus. i love soup. i love oats. i love zucchini spirals and avocado toast and salads and celery with peanut butter. i love cauliflower mash and cauliflower mac n cheese. i love green tea and i love tofu!!!!

it makes me so sad that people do/eat/drink these things with the sole goal of losing weight, and not to just enjoy them. it makes me sadder that so many things get ruined for people bc of eating disorders. they learn to despise vegetables, to hate exercise, to associate the words "self care" with self harm.

my ED controlled my life for so long, and it almost ruined so many things for me. but don't let that happen to you. do things because they feel good, because they taste good. stop punishing yourself with things that are supposed to make you happy.

#ed tw #ed recovery

[seeingteacupsindragons]

What are your thoughts on the Yuumori lighthouse/ship at sea imagery, considering that Sherlock and Liam met on a literal ship. Also, considering the fact that the Noatic was probably based of the Titanic, which was supposed to be unsinkable, how do you think the way the ship imagery is used now reflects character progression?

Well, this post wasn't just a joke. I do think it's really interesting how the authors warped the way people normally view a fire/water contrast and turned it into something reaching out to each other and two parts of the same story and the same whole instead of oppositional forces.

Of course, they've been doing that with their entire characters and the entire story the entire time, so it makes sense they'd do it with William and Sherlock's elemental motifs.

As for going all the way back to The Noahtic, let's actually take it back just a touch further: William's introductory chapter ended in fire and his rebirth in flames like a little phoenix, but also because fire is so strongly associated with all parts of him.

And so when Sherlock is introduced, it's surrounded by water so wholly Liam couldn't escape it if he tried--that's sort of how cruise ships work. And Sherlock's first arc On His Own shouldering the narrative himself was characterized by an awful lot of rain. I mean, it's London, but we don't actually see tons of rain most of the time. We see Sherlock get soaked in A Study in 'S', and that's about it for rain.

(There's also some fun things about how in A Scandal in the British Empire, Adler got soaked to the bone so badly that Sherlock had to loan her dry clothing, but later we see Bond singed with ash from a fire in The Final Problem. Good stuff)

Anyway, as most motifs, what they mean in a story really depends on how an author wants to portray it. And Fire and Water are both so well-worn ones that there's a millions ways those could be taken. Fire is heat and warmth and life and rage and anger and comfort and passion and love and light and uncontrollability and danger and purification and destruction and rebirth and incineration, and William is...all of those things. Water is tumult and chaos and danger and endless, unknowable depths and relentlessness and life and safety and peace and clarity and understanding and purity and cleansing and soothing and rebirth and baptism, and...Sherlock is all of those things.

And if you note those long lists, there's a lot of overlap between the two despite how oppositional they seem. Fire can evaporate water. Water can extinguish flame.

But this is fire and water, and you wanted lighthouse and ship.

I think what it really did with this new image is taking William's raging fire and putting it to a specific purpose. It has a calling and a use and a need. It's a signal of safety and shore. And a ship is something fighting through the tumult of water while using it to its own advantage, something which brings a fire what it needs to sustain itself all alone.

Ships and lighthouses need each other.

But it's also yet another twist--if Sherlock is the darkness of sea and ship, than William is the light of fire and shore. Sherlock is the one who presented that idea--William has always said the opposite, but it puts William as Sherlock's light, too.

The Titanic, ironically enough, was destroyed by ice (and carelessness and various other things). Water, without the warmth of fire to keep it liquid. Perhaps that could have been what Sherlock became without the fire in his life, who knows.

But I just like how their elemental motifs keep on giving and are being made full use of as the characters themselves reinterpret what they mean to themselves and to each other. Those ideas mean what they need them to mean. And those ideas change as they change as characters.

I don't know if I properly answered your question. I feel like I went off on several tangents here. Feel free to try again if I fucked up.

#Yuukoku no Moriarty #Moriarty the Patriot

[happysadyoyo]

sMmm mini break for another Lightlark hot take (reality: it’s ice cold) 

Isla is not written well. Lemme give you a quick rundown of what I’ve learned in three chapters:

Her kingdom has attempted to keep her completely isolated from other people, including her own commonfolk (why?) 

She’s got a lot of weapons and a teleportation stick and is beautiful and has a beautiful singing voice. 

Despite this, she is supposed to be good, like really good, at reading people. The text tells us this a few times, mostly through Isla. 

She is, in fact, terrible at reading people. 

She’s thrown up eating a heart. 

She is in fact the youngest ruler here, followed by Celeste, as all of Celeste’s people (Starling?) are cursed to die by 25. Isla is 19-20. Her love interests are 500+. That’s not something told in the chapter but I feel like highlighting it here because there’s all sorts of creep factors following. 

There could be something to this very young ruler joining a bunch of middle-aged mostly-men and being a surprisingly difficult combatant on and off the battlefield and political sphere. But this ain’t it chief. 

Also can I say I hate the countries’ power and name things? Thing -ling thing doesn’t bother me, but we have Sun, Moon, Star, Sky, Night, and Wild. 5 things associated with air and the heavens and... all of earth. I’m already changing this in my mental rewrite to be more like Sky, Metal, Wood, Water, Night. Yeah I took out one. I already know from reviews Azul does jack shit so if I’m doing a developmental rewrite I’m not fucking around with making more work for myself. Whatever role he has will be absorbed into the others. 

I actually thought long and hard about Moon vs Water vs Night vs Sky. Because Moon can imply water/illusion/shadow magic on its own, but I definitely wanted water based powers and illusion/shadow based powers to stand on their own. Sky and Night are both. Sky-ish, but the sense of time for Night vs absolutely just Sky/air justifies it. 

I won’t say much more about Developmental Rewrite Lightlark except the Metal kingdom’s ruler (Oro) is absolutely gonna be a tragedy. Like how Aster wanted it to be clearly but oh so badly is failing at showing so far. 

#icarus liveblogs lightlark #can I say I hate her last name because it's the name of my Echoes mc?

[babbletaels]

The godess of time

Many people think that Hylia is the godess of time, but I feel like the godess of time has always been supposed to be Nayru? Nayru "gave the spirit of law to the land" and by law I'm pretty sure they don't mean like "don't be a thief", but laws like time, gravity etc, like laws of nature. Oracle of ages features Nayru, and revolves around time travel. I've seen some people claim the godess of the sands is the same as the godess of time because of hour glass, and I was kind of on board for that being a predessor to botw hylia worship, but also Lanayru obviously named after Nayru, a dragon in the desert. There's the fact that all zelda deserts were once oceans, Nayru is connected to water and ice, so the godess of the sands could very well have once been the godess of the sea?

And then we have the fact that the ocarina of time is an item that belongs to zelda, the sage of time, also the bearer of the triforce of wisdom, which is Nayrus triforce piece. It just seems like the godess of time just simply IS Nayru? I honestly feel like this whole Hylia thing is so unnecessary, like they could've just had Nayru "reincarnate" to become zelda if Hylia really was a godess like the golden godesses, but they didn't even need her to do that cause the spirit of the three godesses basically do reside in normal hylians whenever the triforce splits.

Anyway back to the topic. I feel like Hylia is more like a godess of light? It's always the bow of light and swords that emit light and mystical light powers, that are needed to defeat ganondorf/the incarnation of demise I guess, the supposed enemy and opposite of hylia. In tears of the kingdom we have five dragons total. Heat, cold, electricity, light and... "demon dragon". No. He's the shadow dragon, or the darkness dragon. If there's light, there's darkness - we all know this. The three dragons in botw are representative of the three golden godesses, and then we have a fourth dragon, and a fifth dragon. Do I need to spell it out more? There's a reason why she's called "the light dragon" and not "the time dragon". I think Hylia is the godess of light, whether she counts as a golden godess I'm very unsure. But with Hylia out of the way it is very clear to me that the godess of time is in fact Nayru.

This complicates things, though, because in ocarina of times spirit temple, where we can see the godess of the sand, light is a very important mechanic. But I think I have a very far fetched explaination for this. I'll try to keep it short. In majoras mask, similarly to ocarina of time, we find the mirror shield which we use to reflect light to complete various puzzles in both games. The two mirror shields don't look the same. The mirror shield in ocarina of time has the gerudo symbol on it. The one is majoras mask has a face on it. But it's not just a face. I'm 100% certain that the face on the mirror shield is supposed to be a symbolic representation of the moon, because the majoras mask moon has a face. We can find moon symbols with faces in other parts of majoras mask. The moon only shines because it reflects light from the sun, just like the mirror shield. The gerudo symbol used to be a moon. And moons aren't associated with light, despite reflecting it, they're associated with water, they're associated with the tide. Tide is derived from old english, it means time. So light reflection - moon - water - tide - time. The godess of time is not Hylia and the godess of the sand is not the godess of light.

Nayru is the godess of time

#legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #ocarina of time #zelda theory

[peternew-blog]

Somebody Hide That Guy’s Food

Those of you who know me, know I’m a bit portly. Those of you who’ve seen me likely also know this, though I’m often told, “oh you’re not fat” or “you carry it well” or some other platitude designed to make me feel better about it, as though being portly is something I couldn’t possibly control if I had a mind to. Because of course I could. 

Couldn’t I?

I suppose I don’t think of it as a problem. Not really. I’m comfortable. I so far don’t have many of the negative health effects associated with lifelong obesity, but that is the diagnosis. Morbidly. 

I think if I did think of it as a problem, the evidence for how to solve it is well documented. Eat less and do more. No fad diet, no quick fix, just burn more calories than you consume and presto change-o you're skinny like a cobweb, though I suppose not as dusty, cause of all the moving. And it’s not really presto change-o either, is it, because it’ll take a couple years, and then I have to keep eating less and moving more if I want to maintain my sexy cobwebby physique. 

Ok no more cobweb-as-metaphor. Don’t let me. 

The problem, as it were, is not that I don’t like being fat. It’s ok, really. I’m not weak, I’m not super tired all the time (well I am, but that’s stress, not lard - a subject for another day). The problem is that I really like to sit. And I really like to eat. And if I want to do those things, guess what? I get tubby. I know because I’ve been not-tubby before, and between terms of tubbiness, senator skinny jeans has been elected. 

Sorry. I don’t know. Trying to keep it interesting I guess. 

But recently, much as I enjoy it, I have been realizing that maybe - just maybe - I eat too much. 

Like I don't want to be a calorie counter. I’ve tried it and there’s nothing worse. It’s a one way ticket to making me feel bad about every morsel of joy I can squeeze out of a quarter teaspoon of peanut butter. Or making me feel depressed that the only things I can eat in unlimited quantities are lettuce, and apparently, mustard. Joyless and Grainy, the two missing Smurfs.

It doesn’t apparently matter particularly what one eats, over the long term. Maintaining a healthy body weight is contingent on moderation over elimination. In other words I can eat a bowl of ice cream, just not daily, not twice daily, and probably not with sprinkles, a half-litre of chocolate sauce and a banana to make me feel healthy while I sup.

But I needn’t eliminate the occasional banana split. Just work around it. Move more, eat less besides it. As long as I’m getting my daily balance, no banana split can possibly sabotage any overall progress on its own. So what’s my deal? Why am I stuck never fitting into any of the pants at the Simon’s. Why do I only feel full when I’m absolutely stuffed? Why is the hors d’oeuvre table afraid of me?

In short: why do I eat? 

Well because I’m hungry, obviously. That’s reason number one. But the chubbier I get, the hungrier I feel. I can’t always tell the hunger from the gas, and boy do I have gas with all the food I eat. It’s self fulfilling. I feel a hole made by my own methane and fill it with snacks, producing more farts. I don’t need these snacks. So I try to only eat when my tummy growls at me. But that’s not enough.

I eat when I’m thirsty.

What the hell is this about? My brain seems to know I need to ingest something, but rather than the useful and calorie-free glass of water I’m actually craving, it’ll tell me to have a handful of chocolate covered almonds. When that doesn’t satisfy me, it’ll say, maybe that wasn’t enough almonds, so I have more. I don’t keep them in the house anymore. It’s defeating and it makes me feel kinda stupid, so I sit down and tell myself not to get any more of them. But then I get bored and it’s all I can think about. Also:

I eat because I’m bored.

So often I’ll find myself pacing back into the tempting zone around where the snacks live. Other people call it the ‘kitchen’ so I’ve heard. I have come to think of it as a bizarre trap full of food I don’t want and also full of food I do want, except the food I do want is usually food I don’t want and the food I don’t want is the food I really do want if I think about it for even a half-second. Think pop tart vs. arugula and you’re with me. Speaking of with me....

I eat because I’m alone.

It feels like I’m getting away with something. Nobody I live with cares one jot what I eat or when. But if they’re all out? Man I can slay a peanut butter sandwich with honey and cheese with no shame or guilt! 

I eat because I feel guilt and shame and stress and socially awkward (remember the fear I strike in the tasty core of the amuses bouches!). 

I eat because I’m sad.

I eat because it feels like love to me.

A year or so ago, we did an April fool’s gag on my daughter. One of those cling wrap on the bedroom door things. We shot the video attached, of me setting the trap and then of her coming out of her room and face-firsting into it. She was confused, then took it like a champ and we all laughed and went on with our day.

We posted the video and a bunch of people chuckled at it and liked it or whatever, but the one comment that sticks in my craw - and I mean sticks - is some stranger’s only input was to say, “somebody hide that guy’s food!”

I am not proud to say how hurt I was. I am. 

I think about it every damn day.

What I’ve described to you is an eating disorder. And I have it. I cannot control my eating easily, and one cruel comment like that can send me face first into a fucking cake to make myself feel better. 

There are many reasons I’m fat. But I know I’m fat and I needn’t be protected from that fact, nor reminded of it. I suppose I would prefer to be skinnier, to fit into old clothes, to be more versatile when casting directors are seeking an actor - it’s limiting, I know. But the effort isn’t just move more, eat less. It’s not as easy as that. 

It’s finding other ways to feel loved. Other solace for shame and sadness. Training myself to know when to stop, and how much to start with in the first place. It’s daunting, overwhelming, and those emotions drive me back to the love and security I feel in a full belly. I do need to change this, before it makes clear the ways in which it will shorten my life.

But in the meantime, I’m proud of myself for writing this. So I’ll probably go reward myself with a snack.

Or maybe I’m just thirsty.

#https://www.tiktok.com/@amynewblue/video/6946201006208339205?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7097362067788023301 #food #eating #fat #eating disoder recovery #funny #writing #blog

[acalculatedfuture]

actually while i’m at it i’m gonna give Upgraded e4 teams to the kalos gang + olympia because the unova and kalos e4 trainers only having 4 pokemon each is a hate crime

malva:

this is basically her canon team but with mega houndoom at the end because there really isn’t much you can do with fire-types in kalos unless you give her mega charizard it does get a notable buff since torkoal has drought now

also it’s kinda funny that her ace is talonflame since it’s not actually a pokemon you associate with her that much i think mega houndoom would be more iconic

wikstrom:

the two changes here were that i added mega aggron at the end and replaced probopass with lucario like i get the idea of probopass it’s supposed to be his fire counter but it’s just not giving what needs to be given while lucario’s an interesting fit for his Knightly aesthetic and base form aggron is also a rock/steel type

i tend to see people giving him mega scizor but i don’t think it fits him at all other than being a strong steel mega while aggron is literally wearing armor

siebold:

yes you can call bullshit on this one because none of the water megas present in xy actually worked (gyarados is already taken and blastoise is literally just another clawitzer) you could also make a point for mega slowbro being camp but to be fair siebold is widely considered to be the hardest one anyway we can make an excuse

drasna:

we made some Choices here i replaced druddigon with the superior unova pure dragon type i turned altaria into her mega because it’s a fun combo with her dragalge being there to troll you for using fairies against her (it’s also the one dragon type in sinnoh other than garchomp and i wanted to reference that backstory bit without giving her a pseudolegendary that’s not goodra) and i added a tyrantrum to cover her ice weakness and to REMOVE THOSE STEEL WEAKNESSES FROM DIANTHA’S TEAM THANK YOU

she’s a bit of an awkward one because 75% of kalos’ dragon-types are pseudos and they’d easily overshine her actual ace

olympia:

and now we have Her the star of the show the reason for this post

i removed meowstic from her team because it’s kinda weird that the 7th gym leader’s ace pokemon is literally the same pokemon you’ve been seeing in rival battles the entire game so instead i changed her ace to delphox (because it’s an oracle) gave her a malamar honestly just because it’s a cool gen 6 psychic pokemon we need the representation and then added medicham as her mega because its dex entries talk about sensing people’s presences and predicting the future through meditation and the other options were alakazam (basic) and gardevoir (not viable)

#we did not see the mistake i made on siebold's team #'what mistake' you may ask #yes exactly you didn't see it

[impyssadobsessions]

I'm sorry I keep thinking about the repercussions of Secret's breakdown in DP canon- okay so like, due to corpses cooling and loosing body heat, Death kinda has a cultural connection to the cold irl, right? Not to mention all the death winters used to bring. Which was probably the root inspiration for Danny's ice core and the reason why when people travel through Secret's FMA's Gluttony style gut portal they tend to ice over and come out covered in frost. Cause Secret's supposed to be an embodiment of death as a warder or whatever. So both franchises used the ice motif to express that.

But like- in the Secret temp. murdered the Fentons AU, Danny and Jazz would probably just remember a whirlwind, screaming, blasting noises and shouts from their parent to hide. (If they were there. Like Secret didn't seem to be discriminating all that much. If you were in the building when you attacked, she'd get you too for association's sake. They might get to live because they're children, but I wouldn't count on it.) Then, a few days later when they came back, this time with no memory of their ordeal at Secret's hands, they're both just covered head to toe in a thin sheet of ice. Like they'd been covered with water and made to stand out in the artic winter.

So Danny becoming a ghost? Terrifying. Dark Dan? Scary as hell. But developing that ice core and seeing himself causing stuff to frost over? Oh he'd hate that.

Ooo no its good to simmer on, because this ties dp ghosts to dc world nicely~ Ooo yes. Though horrifying to think, but probably better they don't have memory of the ordeal because that's terrifying for young kids. Amg imagine they're in the closet, with Jazz holding her brother tightly when it happens. =w= kek But yes.. especially since his ice core almost froze him to death. It be terrifying to relive it and then having the same ability. Though I do see getting to know Frostbite and stuff does help soften the blow.. but still feels pretty chilling at times.

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc

[blissstardust]

Forever Yours

Regulus BlackX Reader

Writing Prompt: Enemy shows up at your door step, clearly harmed, because he didn’t know where else to go.

Smut (nothing major. Just a little spice)

A long read

Your supposed to be James Potters younger sister.

Enjoy :)

You’re sitting in the comfort of your warm home, while a cold storm continues to grow outside. It was currently 9 o’clock and you’re waiting for orders to come from Dumbledore—waiting to know what the next mission he has in store for you. You’re only 18, but because of your determination, Dumbledore allowed you to be a part of The Order. You mindlessly stare across the room, and a small picture catches your eye. You stand up and pad across the room to reach it. A warm smile grew on your face as you realize who was in the picture with you—Regulus Black, your best friend since you were both first years at Hogwarts. Sorted into the same house so you grew up together—You two had wide smiles on your faces, laughing, as well as icing from the cupcakes that you both had the pleasure of smashing into each other’s faces. The picture was taken on your sixteenth birthday. . .your sweet reminiscing turned bitter when a twinge of pain hit your heart. A sigh full of sorrow left your lips as you gently placed the photo down. You haven’t spoken to Regulus since the summer before your Seventh year at Hogwarts. Things changed—he changed. You despised the person he had become. The secrets he kept from you, the people he began to associate himself with. It was as if he was slowly falling into darkness and you couldn’t save him. How could you save someone who didn’t want to be saved?

Knock, Knock, Knock. . .

You jumped at the sudden knocks at your door. Drying the tears that had fallen down your face, you make your way to the door. Before you opened it, the person on the other side knocked three times more with more force, causing you to freeze. Pulling your wand out and gripping it tightly, you took in a steady breath as you took a look through the peek hole. Your heart dropped, and your breath was caught in your throat.

“Y/n! Y/n, please open up!” The boy called out from the other side of the door. Your heart started to race. You nervously unlocked the door, and twisted the doorknob, opening up the door. A gasp left your lips as you took in the sight in front of you. There stood Regulus Black, his hair wet, clothes soaked with water and. . .blood?!

“Reg—What happened to you?” You asked as you stared at him.

“C-can I come in? Please?” He asked frantically as he looked behind him. He was scared. You hesitate for a moment but how could you not let him in? He’s hurt. “Y/n, please,” Regulus pleaded, his voice full of desperation. You decide to give in.

“Okay, yeah. Come in, quickly,” You breathed as you opened the door wide for him to enter. “How did you know that I lived here?”

“I overheard Sirius talking to your brother about you getting your own place,” Regulus explained, weakly. Before, closing the door you looked out in the rain not really thinking anything. You got back inside and shut the door, making sure to lock it. When you turned around, you saw Regulus collapsed onto your couch with his arm wrapped around his torso. Unsure of what to do next, you stand there for a moment trying to clear your thoughts. Regulus Black is here, in your home, bleeding on the couch. You approached him like he was a harmed animal, slowly and cautiously.

“You gonna help me?” A strained voice asked. Glad to see he still has that charm to him. You rolled your eyes, but kneeled by his side.

“What happened to you?” You asked, brows furrowed.

“Stabbed— by Bellatrix,” Regulus briefly explained as he tried to lift himself to sit up, but failed. He took in a sharp breath as he clenched his eyes tight. He was in pain.

“Right—let’s just get you fixed up,” You said softly as you pulled out your wand, again. “I’m gonna have to lift your shirt, so I can get a better look at it,” You reluctantly explained. Your cheeks shaded pink.

“Okay,” He breathed as he lifted his arm giving you access to do so. You pushed away your nerves and brought your hands to the hem of his shirt and carefully pulled it upwards, your fingers grazing his skin a bit, revealing his nasty wound. You swallowed thickly at the sight. It was a deep cut, but not deep enough to cause death. “Bellatrix, your cousin, did this?” You asked, disbelief clear in tone as you stared at his wound, observing it.

“Y-yeah,” His voice strained. You looked up and was met with his eyes. His gaze was intense, you took in a breath to compose yourself and looked away, returning your attention to his wound.

“I’ll get a clean rag to clean it up, then I’ll get it healed for you,” You explained as you stood up, dusting off the non existent dust from your sweats.

“Thank you,” Regulus said. His voice was gentle; sincere. You gave him a small smile.

“You’re welcome,” You said softly before walking away, to the bathroom. Once you were inside, you leaned against the sink and looked into the mirror. You were freaking out. Regulus Black is in your home. Why? Are you even supposed to be talking to him? You’re technically enemies. Right? You turn the sink and splash some water on your face before returning the task at hand—Helping Regulus.

When you return with the wet rag, you find Regulus asleep on the couch. Is he dead? You rush to his side and begins to shake him but the shoulders. “Hey! Wake up,” You frantically say. When he doesn’t show any sign of life, you begin to worry. “Regulus?” You bring your head down to his chest to check for a heartbeat. It’s there, so why isn’t he waking up? You jumped at the sound of a boyish giggle. Worry turned into irritation. You sat back up and saw Regulus laying there with a crooked grin on his face, unlike your face which held a scowl. “What is wrong with you?” You hiss as you toss the wet rag at his face.

“Just wanted to mess with you,” He explained as he removed the rag from his face. You began to get angry with him. After all this time, he thinks he can just casually mess with you? Regulus must’ve noticed this because his small began to fade. “I’m sorry,” He sighed.

“Whatever—let’s just get this over with,” You said curtly as you snatched the rag from him. You moved your attention back to his wound and pulled your wand out once more. “Vulnera Sanentur. . .Vulnera Sanentur,” You spoke the incantation as you hovered your wand over the wound, causing it to close up. Once it was done, you took the wet rag and began to gently wipe up the blood from his skin. During the process, Regulus was silent, and you couldn’t help but take a glance up at his face to see what he was doing. His eyes were closed and his lips were softly parted. He looked quite peaceful. You turned your attention back to his bloodied body and quickly finished up. Realizing that he’s probably exhausted, you didn’t want to wake him just yet, so you get up quietly and return to the bathroom to clean out the bloody rag. Suddenly, Regulus appeared at the door. You look at him through the mirror. The light revealed the dark circles under his eyes and a bruised lip. You wondered how you never noticed his bruised lip earlier. When you realized that you’ve been staring at him for a second too long, you return your attention to the rag in your hands. The atmosphere was full of tension and it was suffocating you. Clearing your throat, you say, “You said, Bellatrix stabbed you?” Your eyes glanced up at him to see his head nod once. You cocked a brow as you looked back down at the rag. “Why?” You asked as you took the now clean rag and began to wring out the water.

“Because of a. . . of a disagreement,” He plainly answered. You looked back up at him as you placed the semi dry rag in the sink. When he avoided your eyes you knew for sure that he was lying.

“You’re a terrible liar,” You muttered as you turned around to face him. A smirk appeared in his face as he let out a chortle. He nodded and answered,

“You still can see through me, Y/n” He sighed as a frown took over his smirk. “After all this time,” He hummed. After all this time. You repeated in your mind.

“Are you gonna tell me the truth, now?” You asked as you crossed your arms.

He shook his head once. “I can’t,” Regulus simply said. You saw this as no surprise. In fact, you expected this.

“Right,” You said as you nodded several times.

“Thank you, Y/n, for helping me,” The boy said. When you looked into his eyes, you could tell he was being sincere. Of course he was being sincere. He keeps secrets and is a moron, but he’s caring and—well used to be—a good friend to me.

“Why’d you come here?” You asked, ignoring his ‘thank you’. Silence fell upon the two of you as a moment passed. Regulus let out a breath and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Because I didn’t know where else to go,” He said. You didn’t know how to react or know what to say. When he had no where else to go, he remembered you. A warm feeling engulfed your heart.

“Oh,” is all you managed to say. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you began to tap your fingers against the bathroom sink, unsure of what to say next. Suddenly, you were aware of how small the space between you two—from the door to the sink—was. You couldn’t help but think of how excited and blushed your fifteen year old self would’ve been, because of the crush she had on Regulus Black—before he became a complete idiot. Though, you feel like it was more than just a silly school girl crush—you’ve always felt like it was more than that.

“Why’d you get angry with me?—earlier, when you were cleaning my wound,” He asked. You looked back up at him, meeting his eyes. This time his gaze wasn’t intense, it was soft.

“Because,” You said the simple word as if it would give him a valid answer.

“Because?” He repeated the word as a question. You huffed as you uncrossed your arms.

“Because, Regulus, you show up here wounded, and start interacting with me like we haven’t stopped talking to each other since—since we were both 16!” You raised your voice, the frustration clear in your tone. “I mean where the bloody hell have you been? Like. . .you’re a stranger!”

“I’m the stranger?” He scoffed. “It’s not my fault, Y/n. You’re the one who became the stranger. I clearly remember you telling me that you didn’t want to be my friend anymore—that you wanted nothing to with me,” He retorted, his voice raising a bit. You stared at him with disbelief as your mouth gaped open.

“Excuse me?” You sassed as you stood up straight, Regulus doing the same, reminding you of how much of a height difference you two have. He clearly towers over you.

“Don’t be daft, Y/n,” Regulus scoffed. “You know it’s the truth” He was right. You were the one who ended their friendship. But, he was the one who caused it to happen.

“Well, you gave me no choice, Regulus!” You argued. “You changed! Y-you tried to get me to hang out with death eaters! You kept secrets from me, and tried to turn me into something I’m not—You just distanced yourself from me, a-and I wasn’t going to take it anymore.—And it’s not like I just dropped you!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes! I tried to get you to tell me what was going on! I tried to tell you to stop hanging out with those horrible people—I was so patient with you a-and you kept pushing me away!” Tears were beginning to pool in your eyes now. “So-so, don’t act like I’m the one who did this,” Your voice was shaky. You mentally cursed yourself for allowing yourself to cry in front of him as you quickly began to dry them with your sleeve.

“Don’t cry, Y/n,” Regulus cooed as he stepped closer to you. You could smell his familiar scent that you used to love.

“I’m fine. Just go already,” You said avoiding his eyes. Though, you didn’t actually want him to leave.

“No, this isn’t how I wanted this to go,” He said as if he was thinking out loud. You looked up at him, your brows furrowed in confusion.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

He began to shake his head as he ran his hand through his hair. “Nothing, Y/n,” Regulus said as he began to back away. Before he could get far, you grabbed onto his wrist and pulled him back to you.

“No, you’re going to tell me, Regulus. Enough with the lies,” You said, almost pleading. You looked into his eyes and didn’t look away, no matter how intense his gaze was. “Tell me,” You pushed for an answer; demanding for an answer

Regulus sighed and opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. He looked as if he was having an internal battle and you knew which side won. “I came here to try and mend things with you, Y/n,” He said. You stayed quiet so he could continue. “I’m planning to do something, okay? That’s why Bellatrix stabbed me—she was trying to kill me. She, somehow found out what I was planning to do and found me. Luckily, I escaped,” He paused as he stared back at you. He had a pained look in his eyes. There’s more to this, you figured—and you were right. “What I’m planning to do is major, Y/n. . .a-and I’m not sure if I’m gonna make it out alive, so. . .” Before he could go on you cut him off.

“Regulus,” You simply said, not sure what else to say. You just didn’t want him to go on, because you were afraid.

“What I’m doing will be crucial to Voldemort’s down fall,” He explained.

“Wait, I thought. . .”

“I changed my mind. Y-you, Sirius, everyone that ever told me that what Voldemort was doing is evil was right. I realize that now, and that’s why I need to do this. I’ve already told Kreacher and I felt that I had to tell you about this because I might not get the chance to ever see you again,” He said with sorrow in his eyes. Your heart was beating hard and you felt like you were about to throw up. “I’m going through with my plan tonight, and the truth is I didn’t come here to fight you, Y/n. I wanted to just tell you. . .” You cut him off.

“Regulus—look whatever it is that you’re doing you can tell me. Let me help you with it,” You said, desperation in your voice. He shook his head.

He shook his head. “No, I have to do this on my own. You can’t help me with this,” Regulus frowned.

“Why not?” You asked as your tears began to appear again.

“Just trust me, Y/n. Do you trust me?” Regulus asked as he gazed into your eyes. You swallowed thick as your heart raced. Your mind was spinning. What is going on?

Before you could process it, your head nodded as you answered, “Ye-yeah, Regulus, I trust you. But, just let me help you, please,” You begged as you took his hand in your yours and gently squeezed it. Regulus gave you a small smile as he gazed at you warmly. He brought his free hand up to your face and cupped it, wiping away the tears from your face.

“Unfortunately, you can’t help me, Y/n. Besides, I didn’t come here to ask for your help. I came here to tell you that. . .I love you,” He confessed. Your ears rang as his words ‘I love you’ echoed through them. “I know it’s a lot to drop on. . .”He was cut off guard when you wrapped your arms around his torso, holding him close. You buried your face into his chest as you continued to cry.

“I love you too, Reggie,” You confessed. Tears began to form in Regulus’s eyes at your returned affection as he wrapped his arms around you. He closed his eyes as he held you tight.

“Regulus, whatever you’re doing, just please let me help you,” You cried.

“I’m sorry, Y/n” His voice was raspy, letting you know that he’s crying. Your heart broke at the sound of it.

“I’m sorry too,” You whispered as he turned your head so that the side of your face was resting against his chest. “Please don’t go,” You cried softly as you felt his grip loosen.

“I have to,” Regulus said, his voice full of regret.

“No, you don’t,” You protested. You didn’t care how selfish you sounded. Regulus can’t leave you, not now, when you just got him back.

“Y/n,” he cooed as he pulled away and tilted your chin up so he could see your face. His beautiful eyes had tears in them and his nose and cheeks were red. How was it possible for him to look so beautiful while crying? “No matter what happens, I know that it’s gonna be okay because I know, now, that you love me,” He said tenderly. Before you knew it, you were pulling him down by the collar of his shirt, crushing your lips into his. Regulus wrapped his arms around your waist pulling you as close to him as he could while he kissed you back. Your hands found it’s way through his soft hair as the kiss deepened. You cherished the way he held his body close to yours and savored the way he tasted. Suddenly, Regulus lifted you onto the counter of the sink. You spread your legs for him, so he could stand between them. The kiss was full of fire and passion, and you couldn’t get enough. Disappointment courses through you when he pulled away, but you were glad that he kept his hands on your waist and stayed close to you. The pain of reality set in again. By the look on Regulus’s face reality set in for him again, too.

“Stay with me, Regulus,” You whispered through your swollen lips. “Let us have this night together,” You said as you brought your hands to his face, cupping it. You smiled warmly as his hands encircled your wrist. You hoped that maybe if he spent the night with you, then he’d stay and you can convince him to let you help him with his plan.

“I have to go,” He said softly before gently removing your hands from his face.

“Regulus,” You said making him face you again. You pressed his lips to his lips again. You weren’t ready for him to leave yet. You were glad as he began to kiss you back. This time the kiss was slow and tender. You both wanted to take your time with this. Not wanting it to end, you wrap your legs around his torso. A yelp escaped your lips when he swiftly lifted you onto him. You both took this time to take a breather.

“Where’s your bedroom?” He asked his eyes were dark and full of lust. The simple question caused your sex to pulse as certain thoughts ran through her mind.

“Straight across the bathroom,” You answered breathlessly. A smirk grew on his face as he carried you across the hall, and into the bedroom. He gently laid you onto the bed. You scooted all the onto the bed while you watched as Regulus removed his shirt. He then climbed onto the bed, and crawled over you, pinning you underneath him. He began to kiss you tenderly all over your neck and shoulders. A sigh escaped your lips when he ran his finger down your inner thigh. “Do you want me to take my nightgown off?” You asked breathlessly. He shook his head.

“Not yet. Leave it on for now. You’re so beautiful, Y/n,” He whispered against your neck, causing your breath to hitch.

“Okay,” You breathed as you closed your eyes, cherishing the feeling of his soft lips on your skin. A soft moan left your lips when you felt Regulus’s calloused fingers rub your sex through the material of your underwear. You lift your hip as he begins to pull it down your legs. Regulus came up and gave you a sweet kiss before moving back down. You bent your knees up and allowed him to slowly part your legs. You could feel your sex aching to be touched by Regulus.

“All this for me, Potter?” He asked cockily with a smug smirk as he met your eyes. You bit your lip as pink painted your cheeks. “You’re so gorgeous, love,” He cooed and chortled. You watched hungrily entranced as he bent down, keeping his eyes locked onto yours. When his head disappeared under your dress euphoria hit you like a bloody freaking bus.

“Oh my. . .” You moaned softly and your eyes fluttered shut as he brought his mouth to your sex. “Regulus” The way his tongue flicked against your sensitive area sent waves of pleasure through you. Regulus pulled away and replaced his mouth with his fingers. You hummed as he teasingly swiped his finger up your sex. He stared down at you, admiring the way your chest rose and fell and the way your cheeks were flushed from the pleasure that he was giving you.

“I love you,” Regulus breathed as he pressed his thumb onto your sensitive bud and began to rub it in a circular motion. Your eyes fluttered shut as the pressure in your lower belly intensified. “Keep your eyes on me, Y/n,” He cooed and you obeyed. Seeing him as he made you feel this way nearly sent you over the edge. Your eyes studied his face as he studied you. You loved the way his messy hair fell over his forehead, the way he looked at you like you were the only girl in the entire world, and the way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I love-I love you, Regulus,” You managed to say—more like a moan. Your mind was mush and your body was putty in his hands. “Feels sssoo good” Your moans only got louder when he brought his tongue to your entrance and pushed it inside while keeping his thumb rubbing on your sensitive area. The combination was heavenly. Your back arched as you pulled his hair, earning a groan from him, sending vibrations through your sex making this experience all the better. “Merlin Regulus!” You moan loudly as the pleasure intensified so much that you could barely stay still. Regulus hooked his arms around your legs, pinning your hips down to the bed, stopping you from wriggling free. You were at your breaking point and Regulus knew it. He removed his thumb and replaced it with his mouth, sucking harshly on the bud and using his tongue on it. You practically screamed his name as you came undone. When you finished, Regulus watched and waited as you caught your breath. You looked up at him through your lazy eyes and smiled. “You’re amazing, Reggie” You cooed as you sat up. Your lips connected with his, as you switched positions. Never breaking the kiss, you climb onto him, straddling his waist as you pressed your hand to his chest, guiding him to lay down on his back. You got off of him for a moment to remove his pants and underwear. When you did, your eyes grew wide and butterflies invaded your belly at the size of him. Your eyes locked with his as you climbed onto him, and slowly lowered yourself onto his member, allowing him to fill you up. A beautiful moan left his perfect lips, sending electricity through your veins. Merlin, he felt good. You managed to have enough control to pull your nightgown off. When the nightgown was off, you tossed it on the floor. Then, you bent down, bringing your lips to his ear and whispered, “Do you like this, Regulus?” as you began to ride him at a teasing pace. You softly moaned as he roughly gripped your hips.

“If you keep teasing, Y/n, I’m gonna have to take over,” He growled as you kept your painfully slow pace. Your heart leapt at his seductive threat. As you picked up the pace you began to leave wet kisses around his neck, while enjoying the moans that left his lips. You then brought your lips to his, swallowing his heavenly moans and him taking in yours. Your hands intertwined together as you both soon began to reach your highs, together, both screaming out each other’s names and ‘I love you's

In the end, you found yourself wrapped in Regulus’s arms, under the warmth of your blanket. The two of you spent the rest of the night reminiscing about the young and simple days, and how long Regulus had hidden his true feelings for you. It was nice to have your best friend back. But the pain from the idea of losing him hurt terribly. You tried to get him to change his mind, but all Regulus did was cut you off with kisses. So, for now, you just focused on this moment. You focused on the way it feels to be safe in his arms; the way his lips feel when he kisses you; the way his beautiful laugh sounds; every beautiful, perfect imperfection about him. Eventually, you both fell asleep in each other’s arms and allowed the darkness of night to keep you safe.

*5 a.m.

You woke up to the other side of the bed empty, and a single note on your nightstand with a beautiful rose next to it. Your heart swelled as you realized that he had gone. Regulus was on his way to wherever it is that he needed to get to, and might never return. You laid in bed for an hour more, too angry to read his letter. How could he do this? You frustratingly wondered. How could he just leave after everything that just happened?—After every kiss, every touch, and all the ‘I love you’s’? How could he leave you? The anger soon dissolved into miserable sorrow. You wanted him back. You wanted to scream his name soo loud, so that he could hear and come back to you. Once the tears began you couldn’t stop it. Eventually, you found the strength to read the letter—his letter. Picking up the letter with your shaking hands, you take a moment to breathe first. When you were finally ready, letting out a shaky breath, you opened it up.

“Dear Y/n,

my darling, I’m sorry for leaving you alone after the beautiful night that we shared together. I wish we had more time. Merlin, you don’t know how badly I want to climb back in bed and just hold you in my arms forever. . .If this is my last night on earth, just know that I wouldn’t have had it any other way, because I spent it with you, my love. If I don’t make it back to you by tomorrow, just know that I left this world in peace. Just thinking of your arms around me could get me through any kind of pain. . .I love you so much, Y/n, and thank you, for everything”

-forever yours, Regulus Black

You sat there for a moment or two crying and allowing your tears to hit the parchment as the pain took over. “And I'm forever yours, Regulus Black, ” You cried softly as you held the letter to your heart. Eventually, you fell back asleep dreaming of the day you and Regulus could reunite.

#marauders fluff #marauders era #regulus imagine #regulus black #regulus x you #harry potter #hp fanfic #fanfiction #regulus x reader #y/n #fluff smut #hogwarts #pottermore #potterhead #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #regulus deserved better #albus percival wulfric brian dumbledore #order of the phoenix #lord voldemord #slytherin #hogwarts houses #wizard #wizard world #reader pov #marauders angst

[jeffersonhairpie]

So I was thinking about that post that was going round a while back about Shiv in relationships and about how her role models for how adult relationships should be were Logan and Caroline who aren’t exactly the best people to learn from. The post about how ‘we’re both adults’ could well be something she picked up from watching her father sleep with multiple women and be unfaithful to his wife? I don’t have it easily to hand but kudos to that post and yeah it got me thinking

So the only confirmed relationship we’ve seen Logan in onscreen is with Marcia. We’ve also had him have a flirtation with Rhea and it’s possible to likely that he’s sleeping with Kelly. In all three incidents it’s clear that he has an association with these women publicly, but that doesn’t extend to public affection. Marcia is typically standing at Logan’s side, occasionally holding his hand or otherwise touching him, but they don’t do public hugs and kisses. It’s easy to see why the kids think she’s just an ice queen in it for the money because they don’t see that there’s any love there. 

But we know that Logan and Marcia aren’t just a public front. He trusts her (at least in Season 1) and lets himself be weak in front of her, and in return she is his sounding board when he can’t turn to anyone else and she cares for him. It’s clear that there is a lot of love and tenderness behind closed doors, but because it’s never public, never even goes beyond any given room in which the two of them are alone (minus staff but NRPI) the kids never get to see what that love looks like. And if Logan was at all the same with Caroline then maybe they’ve never really gotten to see what it looks like when their father is in love. 

And that’s assuming that Logan and Caroline had anything resembling the kind of love that Marcia and Logan have. Given what we see of their personalities I struggle to believe that they did. Caroline refuses to take anything seriously and actively runs away from hard conversations with her own children, people who she has the power over to stop these talks running into murky emotional waters that she doesn’t feel comfortable in. But if there is any love lost there I’m sure it existed in much the same was as Marcia and Logan’s more loving moments - privately where no one else could see them being vulnerable. 

(Which kind of segues into a separate point about how Caroline was the manipulative ice queen in it for the money and fame and the kids are projecting that onto Marcia because it’s the only type of person they’ve seen their dad in a long term relationship with)

ANYWAY! 

On to Shiv and Tom

So first up you’ve got Shiv seeing adults being unfaithful to each other and calling that ‘being a grown up’. Then you’ve got Shiv seeing these grown up relationships being publicly cool. Not cold necessarily, there’s no open hostility (mostly) but they don’t behave anything like those silly romantic couples from the movies. Grown up relationships, Shiv learns, are bout convenience and public face and finding someone willing to walk the walk and talk the talk with you. 

She never gets to see the moments of tenderness between Logan and his wives and she certainly doesn’t associate anything tender with him and his mistresses. She things adult relationships are void of these things. So when she finds someone willing to walk the walk and talk the talk with her, she doesn’t know that there’s any expectation to be outwardly loving behind closed doors beyond what is entailed from sex. She’s unfamiliar with Tom’s desire for public affection, or affection at all, and so she doesn’t know how to handle it. It makes her varying levels of uncomfortable and annoyed and it’s like she’s throwing him a bone every time she’s nice to him in private. 

Shiv has no role models for adult love in her life, and so she doesn’t expect love to be part of her adult relationships. She tries modelling what she thinks it’s supposed to be like with Nate and he evidently can’t take it - he snaps and demands something of her that she isn’t willing to give, that she never thought she’d have to give. He breaks. 

But Tom? Tom is needy but he’s satisfied with very little. Shiv knows her dad loves her because he says it, not because of anything he does, and Tom seems to mostly be fine with being told he is loved so it all works out. Sometimes he makes it clear that he would like more, that he would be into some of that movie romance, but he doesn’t demand it. She can treat him more or less like she’s seen her dad treat his wives and he doesn’t run off. If anything, it seems to make him want her more, even if it does seem to make him more annoyingly keen to get some of that sweet sweet visible affection out of her. 

But it’s fine, it’s sustainable. They’re doing it, they’re being grown ups. 

Shiv is playing in the playground her father built for her, and she thinks it’s the whole world

And then one day Tom breaks. 

#tomshiv #shiv roy #logan roy #marcia roy #tom wambsgans #caroline collingwood #succession #shitty text post #is this comprehensible? #idk many thoughts about where shiv learned to be who she is

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker - The Beach War

Peter loves the sunshine.

He loves the sand under his toes, the little shore-line waves bumping against his ribs, he loves the sound of gulls swooping low, but he loves the sunshine most of all.

Steve warns him not to spend too much time out in the sun. Steve buys him sunscreen and umbrellas and hats.

But if the damning red crest over the bridge of his nose is anything to go by- Peter takes little heed.

“I’m going to aerobics,” Peter chirps sweetly, pouring coffee into Steve’s mug and reaching for his headband on a Tuesday morning.

His husband, in slacks and a still-unbuttoned shirt, looks up from the morning paper with a small, curious smile. “Didn’t you go yesterday?”

Peter nods, “I like it.”

“Alright. I suppose you deserve to enjoy yourself. Now that I’m officially a ballot candidate, thanks to you.”

Peter smiles warmly, reaching over to kiss Steve’s mouth and wipe the toast crumbs from his husband’s chin. “We all collected those signatures.”

Steve laughs at his modesty. “It’s one step closer to stopping Stark from destroying this town. I won’t rest till it’s done, Pete. Bucky’s coming over today, to help with the campaign.”

“Okay. Well, there’s lasagne in the fridge left over, will you two be alright?”

“Yeah.” His blue eyes run over Peter’s face. “Have you been wearing suncream?”

“Yes,” Peter lies, but is it really a lie? He tries to. He does, at least like, 50% of the time. Maybe 40.

Steve accepts it easily, and kisses Peter again, and then Peter’s out of the door and into the sunshine and free.

***

Class is perfect. Adrenaline-pumping, vibrant, fantastic, and it fills Peter with energy and when it’s over, dripping with sweat as he heads into the cool, air-conditioned bliss of the mall and wiggles his toes in his shoes.

He’s free the whole day.

He’s going to spend it in the water. On the beach.

He buys a danish from the new mall store, and is heading for the automatic doors when it catches his eye.

A familiar face. Or rather, fifteen of that unfamiliar face, splashed across a display for the new colour tvs. Beck. Peter stops despite himself and watches through the glass as fifteen Quinten Beck’s lecture on how environmental restrictions are really just restricting progress.

Peter takes another bite of his Danish and warm icing dribbles down his fingers. He licks it off angrily. Ugh, Beck. He was a dick in college, and he’s an even bigger dick now. What did Peter ever see in him?

He scoffs, turning away, only to come face-to-face with-

Oh. Handsome. Very handsome. Peter can’t help but be a little winded at the tanned skin, groomed hair and expensive suit and then-

Oh. Shit. It’s Tony Stark. Is it? It must be. It looks like him from the papers, and the interviews and- Yes. Yes, it is. The camera’s, already flattering, still don’t do him justice. It’s Tony Stark. Standing right here, in the mall that he had all those trees chopped down to make.

“You seemed drawn to him, and then you scoffed. It doesn’t speak to you?”

Peter blinks. Stark’s voice is lovely. Smooth. Just how it sounds in the adverts. “Oh!” Peter hums, hastily swallowing his mouthful of Danish. Stark’s eyes are roving over him- not even subtly. What is he looking for? Peter shifts a little in his workout gear. These shorts are very short, he must look- there’s probably icing on his lips and- “I don’t- I wasn’t drawn to him.” Peter insists, “I just know him- uh, Beck. I know him in real life.”

“I see,” Stark grins, eyes all amused, “do you have one?”

Peter blinks. He watches Tony’s eyes dip over his form once again. Rest on his lips. Peter licks them reflexively. He knows Tony isn’t married, but- “I do. I’m uh- I’m married. Sorry.”

Tony laughs, and Peter feels his cheeks flush. “I meant: do you have a colour tv? I know you’re married.”

Peter frowns. How is that possible- oh. He glances at his ring and manages a little laugh. “Perceptive.” He hums.

Tony lifts an eyebrow, a little quizzically. “No.” He says slowly,  “I know who you are, Peter Rogers. I saw the “Save our Wave” campaign. You and your husband. Smart way to launch. Ocean in the background. You looked….radiant.”

Oh god. Tony Stark knows who he is.

Peter brushes his hair behind his ears and doesn’t know what to say. “Uh...thank you.”

Tony grins. “Good ad. But it won’t be enough. It can’t stop progress.” Tony steps forward, so they’re a little closer than what’s proper, and his voice drops into something lower. His fingers graze Peter’s bare shoulder. “But I’m not sure you want to stop progress, do you, pumpkin?”

Is he talking about his aerobics outfit? Or the fact he was watching colour tv? Or the fact that he’s in the mall, having just finished a mall class, eating a mall-pastry, and watching mall-tv? Despite the fact that he’s supposedly against the mall.

Peter ignores the ripple of goosebumps that spread across his skin. He lifts his nose, but Tony still towers over him. “I do not agree wih Quinten Beck.” He snaps. “I’m sorry, but we do care about the environment. And we’re not going to have our beach destroyed for another mall.”

He pulls away then, pushing past Tony.

“Peter,” Tony says, and he can’t help but look back. Tony stands there, stupidly handsome, hands in his pockets, and his voice is as cool as the ocean-breeze when he says, “If I were married to you, I’d put you in my campaign videos too. You’ve got a face that changes minds, sweetheart.”

Another furious, heated blush, and Peter bumbles out into the sunshine.

Beach. He needs to go to the beach. Stat.

***

Peter’s freckles always make their debut in the LA Summer.

He serves a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade as he, Steve and Bucky take lunch out on the patio.

Bucky and Steve are pressed close together. It’d be odd, if it wasn’t so commonplace. But Peter expects it now. They’re childhood friends. It’s fine, probably. He tries not to think about it too much. Because he knows Steve. And Steve is kind and loyal, and even if he wanted to- he wouldn’t cheat on Peter.

Unfortunately, Peter thinks Steve might want to. More and more lately, now that Bucky’s basically been living here to help with the campaign.

“Thanks, Sweatpea,” Bucky murmurs, as Peter refills his glass.

For the man who’s stealing away his husband, Peter should probably like Bucky less. “No problem, James. Do you guys want more pecan pie?”

“It’s alright, sugar. Steve and I will eat at the community luncheon.”

Peter blinks. He turns to Steve, who looks away bashfully.

“What?” Bucky asks, reading their faces.

“We were invited to the Harrisson’s gala this afternoon.” Peter points out, still looking at Steve’s face, “it’s a great opportunity to raise some funds-”

“It’s a stuck up crowd,” Bucky points out, not incorrectly, “not exactly who we want associated with Steve’s campaign.”

“Right,” Peter hums, because Steve had a choice between him and Bucky, and Bucky’s already won.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Steve says earnestly, reaching his large hand across the table to take Peter’s. Bucky looks away. “I just feel the luncheon has a lot more to offer. You can go to the gala by yourself, can’t you? You’re more than amazing without me dragging you down.”

Not true. Peter thinks, because as much as he loves being free, Steve’s all-American home spun wholesomeness always leaves a trail of admirers.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “You guys have fun.”

He collects the rest of the dishes and takes them inside, unaware that he has a Bucky-shaped shadow until he’s corned next to the kitchen sink.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky says, bowing his head, and Peter half-smiles. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I knew you guys had already-”

“It’s alright.” Peter says softly, “I think he would rather be with you anyway.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to his, ice-blue and frightened and hopeful. “Pete…” he says, voice a little raw. “It’s not…”

“You guys alright in there?” Steve calls from outside.

Peter ducks under Bucky’s arm, and it isn’t very difficult to make his voice bright when he calls back: “Just fine!”

***

The Harrison’s own a ridiculously nice estate, and Peter only feels a little out of place. He’s in the dark blue silks he brought with him to LA all those years ago, and Mr Harrisson greets him warmly at the door.

It’s...better than he thought it would be. It turns out he doesn’t really need Steve. At all, actually. He’s clever and he has his degree and he knows a lot about the environment. People like him. They respond to him. It’s-

“Just look at you,” comes a whistle, and Peter turns slowly to see Tony Stark in a tuxedo.

Fuck. It’s a very tasty sight. Tastier than the crab rolls being handed out, and they were pretty damn incredible.

“You’re just working the room, aren’t you, honey?” Tony drawls, voice dripping with appreciation and something low and dark and-

“I’m uh, I’m trying,” Peter manages, feeling his cheeks flush.

Tony looks like he wants to step closer, but he doesn’t. Peter kind of- maybe a little- wants him too. “And where’s your very lucky husband?”

“Oh, he’s...he’s not here.”

Tony’s eyes light up. “Really? Well, how about you and me get some air?”

The Harrison’s house sits on the beach, and Peter kicks off his shoes and is pulled down onto the sand as easy as breathing.

God, the ocean air. He rolls up his trousers, sinks his feet into the cold, trembling waves.

“Just look at you,” Tony hums, and Peter turns to see he’s being watched, and Tony’s skin looks even better lit by the sunset.

“You said that already,” he points out, feeling bolder, braver, now that he’s out on the beach.

“Well, maybe that’s because I can’t stop looking at you.”

Peter blushes, before stepping into the water a little further. “Are you going to join me? Or do you hate the ocean as much as you claim?”

Tony obligingly toes off his shoes. “Never said I hated the ocean. Don’t get me mixed up with Beck. I just know that sometimes we’ve gotta sacrifice things in the name of progress. Technology. The future.”

Tony pulls off his bowtie, slips off his jacket, and then comes and wades into his knees.

“Gotta sacrifice things,” Peter echoes, “like the ocean. Like trees. Who needs ‘em, right? They only give us oxygen.”

Tony grins at him. “You’re a firecracker, aren’t you, Peter? I thought you liked my mall. Or wasn’t that you? In that gorgeous little aerobics get up? Eating one of those danishes- to die for, aren’t they? Wasn’t that you, sighing at a colour tv?”

Peter scoffs because he doesn’t have a comeback, and he glances out at the horizon.

“You were mine, sweetheart, you’d be purring away with that tv at your feet. I’d buy you a hundred if you wanted ‘em. You wouldn’t want for anything.”

Jesus. Peter tries to stifle the flood of arousal that courses through him. “I’d be wanting for a husband that cared about protecting our coast line.” He manages, though it sounds a little weak.

“The coast line,” Tony hums, reaching a hand down to plunge into the water. “The beach. You a surfer?”

“No, I just...I like the beach, it makes me feel…” free “...it’s the beach. It’s nature. It’s not for us to bend and re-shape for another mall, Tony.”

Tony chuckles, “I do like to hear you say my same.”

Peter scowls, and heads back for the sand. A few splashes later, Tony follows. “You can’t...I don’t know, you can’t seduce me into supporting you.”

Tony’s hand grips around his wrist just before Peter reaches his shoes, and he’s looking up into very dark brown eyes, and a very, very appealing mouth. “I’m not trying to change your mind.” Tony murmurs, “I’m just trying to see where it is you stand. You like the mall, you didn’t mind the trees being cut down there, but the beach. The beach is where you have a problem. It’s your line.”

“It-it’-it’s not about me.” Peter stutters, feeling exposed, “My husband is the one running for-”

“And I am trying to seduce you. Have been since I saw you in that advert. Couldn’t get you out of my head. Thought they’d hired a model at first, and then I found out you were married to him. I couldn’t believe it.”

Oh. Warmth buzzes through his skin, flattered and delighted and giddy, Peter doesn’t know what in the name of hell possesses him to say: “He’s not going to be my husband for much longer.”

Tony’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Then he smirks. His hand is still wrapped around Peter’s wrist. “That so?”

A few other guests pull out onto the beach now, and Peter spots Mrs Harrisson in the distance.

“Save our wave, Mr Stark,” he whispers, unable to stop smiling, as he gathers his shoes and heads over.

***

He and Steve have sex that night.

It’s the best sex they’ve had in a long time. Passionate, erotic, and Peter knows why. It’s because he was just with Tony, and Steve was just with Bucky, and they’re both pretending.

Afterwards, still warm from the haze, they look at one another.

“I’m so sorry, Pete,” Steve whispers, voice-choked up, and Peter brushes away his tears.

“Don’t be. Where you are, it’s where I am. You and Bucky are made for each other.”

“You have someone too?” Steve asks. Peter nods. “Okay. Okay, but not till...not till after the campaign. Divorce…” the word makes him jerk a little, and Peter soothes him, “it could rock things.”

“After the campaign,” Peter nods, and they sleep in each other’s arms, and maybe it shouldn’t feel like everything’s going to be okay, but it does.

***

Steve annihilates Tony in the televised debate.

Peter knew he would. Tony is clever and pithy, but Steve is earnest, and kind, and people can see that. They can feel that. Tony handles it as well as he can, but it’s clear by the end of the interview- Steve is ahead.

Peter swims back towards the shore.

He’s still wet as he pads into the mall and heads for the pastry-store.

“I’ll get that,” Tony says, appearing from nowhere and handing over the money before Peter can fish his wallet from his ocean-wet shorts.

Tony’s hand is on the small of his back then, guiding him towards the food court, and soon Peter’s eating his pastry on a plastic red chair, and looking at Tony with wide, innocent eyes.

Tony breaks first.

“So, your husband’s campaign is a little stronger than I thought.”

Peter laughs. The sound seems to make Tony light up, and that just- Peter’s stomach tightens.

“My advisor’s are a little worried.”

“Steve is very good.” Peter agrees, taking another bite.

Tony leans across the table, and his cologne makes Peter want. “I’m better, though, Pete, is the thing.”

“Are we still talking about the campaign?”

“Let’s get dinner.” Tony says suddenly, “please. I know it’s early, but I am burning with it, Pete. I think about you all the time, I can’t keep staking out beaches and malls hoping to run into you.”

“What if someone sees us? What about Steve’s campaign-”

“It’d hurt mine just the same. Who gets the sympathy? The man being cheated on, or the man who slept with a married guy?”

Peter pulls the pastry apart with his fingers. “Just dinner?”

“At my house.”

Peter laughs, scandalised, “dinner at your house? How easy do you think I am?”

“Not easy at all. You’re fucking difficult, sweetheart. Look at what you’re wearing, fuck, it’s like you want to torture me.”

Peter tries not to blush and fails. His voice is gentle though, when he voices his main concern: “And what happens if once you’ve...once we’ve...what happens then? Curiosity satisfied, you might not want to see me anymore.”

Tony reaches across the table to touch Peter’s hand. Peter looks around worriedly, but nobody is paying them any mind.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Tony whispers, more serious than Peter has ever seen him. “Peter, I would never get bored of you.”

“It’s happened before,” Peter says weakly, and doesn’t realise how true it is until it’s spoken aloud. The pain for the divorce yet to happen ripples across his chest. Oh god, where has this been? Someone loved him once, and then found someone else-

“I’m gonna crush him.” Tony vows, voice vicious, as soon as he spots the glitter of Peter’s tears. “I’m going to destroy his campaign-”

“No, no,” Peter insists, sniffling, and managing a small smile. “Steve is- he’s a good guy, Tony. A good guy with a good cause, you don’t need to,” Peter huffs fondly, “you don’t need to protect my honour.

“Alright,” Tony says, a little bit like he’s unconvinced, so Peter squeezes his hand.

“I want to have dinner with you. I want to feel your hands on me- I- I think about it all the time. And afterwards, I want...more.” Peter looks down at their hands. “You said you’d get me anything.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Tony whispers, “I’m going to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

***

The mall gets made.

In the next town over. The beach is saved. Steve wins.

They divorce.

Steve hugs him. Bucky hugs him. There’s a lot of crying, but then Peter’s being picked up in a ludicrously nice hot-red car, and there’s Tony and kissing and a house in Malibu right on the sand.

There’s a wedding, and teasing, and arguments. There’s sex. A lot of sex. There’s swimming and living and life under the sun.

There’s a thousand things. A million things.

And every day with Tony promises more.

When Peter wakes up, ready for the beach, Tony slathers him with suncream and for some reason it doesn’t feel like he’s trapped.

Maybe it was never about the suncream.

He still loves the beach. And the sunshine. And the gulls swooping low and the sand under his toes, but-

But he doesn’t need it to feel free. He feels free right here, in bed, tangled up with Tony and the promise of more.

#starker #physical inspired #background Steve x peter #no cheating #politician tony #80s setting #aerobics #Peter parker #Tony stark #Tony x peter

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela​

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela​ for @jtargaryen18 ‘s  Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide. 

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone. 

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.  

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue. 

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. 

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound 

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood. 

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you. 

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. 

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the  gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host. 

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream. 

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. 

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall. 

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne. 

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. 

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background.  And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. 

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway. 

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.  

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his. 

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes.  With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!" 

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet. 

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away. 

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask. 

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system. 

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked. 

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow. 

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with  the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission. 

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did. 

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even, 

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his 

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby. 

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. 

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his. 

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought. 

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

[tuiyla]

idk if you've said anything like this before but you're the only glee & avatar person i see anymore sooo... what kind of benders do you think all the glee kids would be (or just the ones you feel like talking about lol)

Ah yes, the intersection of Glee and Avatar is... quite something lmao. I think I listed them out like a year ago and on a different platform so that's no longer relevant anyway. These are most vibes-based but Avatar does have a pretty neat system of symbolism behind the elements so I'll try to keep that in mind - unfortunately, Glee lacks any kind of thematic consistency lmao.

Fire

I've seen people say water as Santana's element (in a non-Avatar context) and as interesting as I find that choice, I kinda can't not go with fire for her. I think she'd initially rely a lot on anger and I like the idea that she needs to be more like a waterbender and find that push and pull balance. Can be a chaotic and destructive force but also someone who breathes life into things, metaphorically? Heck yeah.

Rachel’s the most difficult character for me to envision in the Avatarverse and I feel like this is a pretty surface level choice but idk, it’s her drive. That passion and persistence, the way she burns so brightly in spite and because of everything. And she will not shine with a lesser intensity for anyone.

Blaine’s friendliness also makes me think of air or others for him but I think the passion with which he creates makes a case for fire. Because fire is creation, and I think the fire peeps together could represent different but equally fascinating aspects of the element. He can be intense like Pezberry but is more aware of not, well, burning out as it was. Like a more lowkey firebender? But other elements could be compatible too.

Air

Mike as major air vibes, with his fluidity and easy-going attitude, willingness to remove personal glory, all that. He’d be such a fun airbender, showing off on his glider and all. I’m also manifesting Harry Shum to play some kind of role in the franchise, whether that’s Avatar Studios or the Netflix live-action.

While I’m drawn to the idea of fire and water Brittana and the binary opposition there, I think air fits Brittany more. She’s one of the least grounded characters and very much about different perspectives, finding her own way, that eccentricity that we see from flashbacks with the Air Nomads. She’d follow her own path for sure.

I swear I only thought of Theo after I thought of this, but Artie. Bending is something that can turn traditional disabilities into strengths in the Avatarverse and I like the idea of air being an escape for Artie where he’s flying free. His creative vision also makes me think of airbending and how it’s full possibilites and the freedom to do whatever you want.

Water

I can see Quinn being a lot things depending on which personality she's using that day but I gravitate towards water for her. Sort of ice queen vibes, starts out solely as a healer but breaks away from her traditional family. I also think she'd be the most likely to dabble in bloodbending just because of the thematic importance of generational trauma and breaking the cycle there. Out of all the elements and subtypes of bending, I'm the most fascinated by bloodbending but convo for another day haha. Water is also the element of change and that’s a huuuge thing for Quinn, learning to embrace it.

Kurt, and I can’t really put my finger on why. I suppose, the adaptability, associating him with the colour blue, maybe the defying of traditional gender roles too. I could see him being air as well but yeah I’m going with water.

Sam could probably be different ones depending on the season but there’s something about the fluidity of water, the sense of community and adapting to different tides. Push and pull also feels kinda apt for him and I think he embodies different qualities of the element than Quinn and Kurt do but still fits. A more lowkey waterbender.

Earth

Finn could be different things depending on how you read him and I’m tempted to say fire because of his temper but earth feels more accurate. He’s stubborn and finds it hard to find a different perspective but once he opens up his world he can be a really grounding presence for others. There’s also a special kind of community feeling to the Earth Kingdom where they’re quite scattered generally but have this greater sense of belonging that I vibe with for Finn, who does have this arc of being the uniter.

Puck goes here because of his toughness but I also like a metalbending arc for him. Metalbending is about pressure, and social pressure hardening you until you can turn it around and live by your own terms. I think Puck has a lot of redefining to do and I like the idea of him starting as such an indelicate earthebnder and learning to appreciate and use the finer things. Handle things with more care as it was.

Tina could also be water on a different day but today I’m feeling earth for her. The stability, but also the danger of being stagnant and struggling to break free of the mold others have created for her. The power to shape so much around her but the willingness to do so being a key component. Also the endurance of putting up with so much, often unappreciated. Yeah, today I’m feelign earthbender Tina.

And, finally, hear me out... Mercedes as the Avatar. I see maybe earth being her base element but I just vibe with the idea of her being the master of all four elements, the one being the most balanced and capable. She's also the only one I'd trust with my life, frankly.

Shout out to @randomcanbian and @md-drawz who influenced some of this!

#angelhummel #glee asks #sorry it's been a few days but this was fun! #glee avatar au #wow what a tag lol #sorting nd #i need a better tag for new directions posts? #eh future problem

[biromanticbooknook]

My Most Ambitious Crossover

I got bored by posting only my second gen Amazon AU, so I’ll get back to that tomorrow, but enjoy this one-shot about Chloe and Marinette creating their own trip instead of their class trip in the meantime. Can’t have you all thinking I’m a one-trick pony, can I?

“-and that’s why we think you shouldn’t go on the trip this year.” Mlle. Bustier tried to look apologetic, but it was as much her idea as the students. Between Marinette refusing to set an example and Chloe associating with her, neither of them deserved to go.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid I would have to get my daddy to donate 30% of the funds like he does every year.”

“I’m just glad I don’t have to take 60% of the trip funds out of my commission profits. That will give me a much bigger budget for fabric and accessories.” Everyone blanched at the statements of the 2 girls. They were saying that they paid for 90% of the trip every year, but that couldn’t be right. They worked so hard on fundraisers every year, they must be lying about how much they contribute.

Marinette just ignored them, turning to her seatmate. “Do you think that our other friends would want to go on a trip with us? Most classes take their trips during May, so we could leave at the beginning of June and take the entire summer.”

“Nice thinking, Maribug. With fewer people, prices go down and we can afford more bang for our buck.” They walk out of the classroom, discussing who to ask and when.

The class just made a big mistake.

-----

By the time the weekend rolled around, Marinette and Chloe had their group list finalized. The people going on their trip were themselves, Luka, Kagami, Aurore, Mireille, and Marc. They got together and started brainstorming fundraisers.

Marinette started. “There are the given examples; you know, car wash, bake sale, raffle. What else?”

“We could host a show.” Luka suggested.

“Like an exhibition?” Marinette asked. “We could have you perform, Kagami do a fencing demonstration, and I could do a small fashion show, using Chloe and Marc as models. Aurore and Mireille could be our MCs.”

“To capitalize on money-making, we could sell tickets, food and drink, and merch for Luka’s solo career as well as commission spots for our resident designer.”

“That’s good.” Marinette starts scribbling in the shared notebook.

“At Le Grande Paris, we could host parties. I know days when the grand ballroom is open. We could host an auction, sell lessons and creations and stuff. We could also host a masquerade ball that we sell tickets for. We could charge for food and drink. The pools are open for private reservation quite often, we could have parties there too.” Chloe takes the notebook and starts writing down her ideas, mapping out all the resources needed while muttering.

“We could also host a carnival or a gaming tournament in the ballroom.” Kagami looked thoughtful. “I’ve never actually been to one.”

Chloe added that to the list. “Should we do anything else?”

“We could start a go-fund-me. Artists and writers do it all the time to get their creations off the ground.” Marc murmured.

“That would be great. What’s our goal for this entire endeavor?”

“Our goal, Maribug, is €45,000. That should cover travel, boarding, tours, food, and souvenirs. Whatever we don’t spend gets redistributed to the group.” Chloe supplies.

“Then that should be it. Nice job, guys!”

“My, what a whirlwind of a planning session. I hope nothing rains on our parade. I wonder weather Mlle. Bustier’s class is doing this well.” Aurore beams at them.

“Mm-hmm.” Mireille agrees with Aurore.

“Probably not. Our classmates couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel. They’ll just listen to Lila that the boot will empty by itself through the toe because ‘I worked on patenting this boot’, then they’ll get mad at the boot for not doing it.” Chloe chuckles dryly.

“Be nice.” Marinette reprimands half-heartedly.

-----

Chloe immediately filed the paperwork with the school board so they could go on their trip with no safety or legal concerns. She recruited Mme. Mendeleiev and M. D'Argencourt to be their chaperones, who were more than happy to go on an all-expenses-paid trip to Los Angeles, Star City, Central City, Metropolis, Gotham, New York City, and Tokyo.

They had their first fundraiser at the end of September, a pool party at Le Grande Paris. Even Mlle. Bustier’s class attended, though they didn’t know who had set it up, only that Luka was performing. They hadn’t even started their planning  yet. The group made €3,041.

The next was a car wash in the middle of October. It was cool enough for a car wash to be pleasant while being warm enough that everyone was still out and about. They earned €2,632. Bustier's class was getting ice cream and listening to Lila brag.

They then had an All Hallow’s Eve bake sale, complete with candy decoration reminiscent of the American holiday. They earned €1,800.

During November, they held a carnival, with a full fall theme. It was wildly popular with families from all over Paris, earning them €6,483. It was around this time that Mlle. Bustier’s class held a bake sale, and earned €1,594. They celebrated.

Throughout the holiday season, they took advantage of peoples’ spirit. They held a raffle throughout the 12 Days of Christmas, while also holding a bake sale the day before winter break. Overall, they earned €10,749.

Over winter break, Chloe bought plane tickets and reserved tours and hotels, so all that was left was to get money for the tours and food. They were over halfway to their goal.

During January, they rented a theater, and held their exhibition. They had a crowd of fencing enthusiasts, rock music lovers, and fashion followers. They made €5,830.

They held a date auction and a masquerade to celebrate Valentine’s Day. It was amazing, and they earned €7,284.

They had checked their go-fund-me, and had found that €10,000 was there, putting them €2,819 over their goal. They were ecstatic!

They still held the gaming tournament at the end of April, but let it be free for everyone to enjoy as their celebration of reaching their goal.

-----

Mlle. Butsier’s class had made €7,000 over their 3 fundraisers, and they were pretty proud of themselves. No doubt they would be going somewhere much better than whatever Maribrat and Chloe have planned. Once the girls walked into the classroom, the class started to brag.

“We’ve finished fundraising!”

Marinette smiled and decided to be nice to them. “Cool. Where are you going?”

“We are going to New York City.”

Chloe was not as kind. “Oh, so are we! It was so hard to raise the €45,000 needed for our trip, but we did it. It was so euphoric to meet our goal. How much did you guys raise?”

“We made €7,000.” The smiles slowly slipped off the faces of the class. “What do you mean the €45,000 needed?”

“Well, we needed to cover food, travel, boarding, and tours, and that was just for the 7 of us. I can’t imagine what the budget would’ve been like for an entire class.” Her smile got an edge, like a lioness who knew she had cornered her prey.

Her classmates blanched. “What was our budget, Alya?” Rose looked towards their new class representative, hoping that she had an answer.

“We never had one.”

“Well, at least you filed the paperwork right?”

“What paperwork?”

Marinette responded this time. “The paperwork needed to go on a trip. You were supposed to submit it to the school board for approval of safety and legality. It was on page 17 of the packet I gave you at the beginning of the year. Didn’t you read it, Alya?”

“I-I-no. Lila said that was just extra work that you had given me to throw me off my game. She said you didn’t actually need to do all of that.”

“I didn’t know that Lila had more experience being a class representative than me and Marinette, the only 2 people who have ever been class representative here.” Chloe’s voice became as sharp and sweet as her smile. “Well, have fun with your trip. Marinette and I have to do last-minute checks on our arrangements.”

The class looked at the people that had carried them the previous years, and realized how much they relied on the girls. Lila was cursing herself for pushing away the only people who actually did anything in this class.

-----

The class ended up going to Disneyland Paris, and tried their best to look as upbeat as possible on their social medias. Meanwhile, The group was having the time of their lives.

They stayed in LA for 2 weeks, visiting movie sets and meeting actors. They spent another week just going on everything at Disneyland and California Adventure.

They then spent a week in Star City, touring Queen Industries and having a meet and greet with Oliver Queen and his ward, Roy Harper, who seemed to enjoy Aurore’s outgoing personality. They even saw the vigilantes.

They spent another 2 weeks in Central City, touring STAR Labs and watching the rogues try to fight the Flash family. It was the most meta-filled city in the world, and They toured a forensics lab with Bart Allen. Chloe seemed grimly pleased with seeing the bodies. She might’ve been projecting certain people onto them, not that she would ever admit it.

2 weeks in Metropolis was really fun. They toured the Daily Planet with Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Mireille was amazed by what you could do to report without having to be in front of a screen. They made a scavenger hunt of how many Supers they could find, and they found 2 different superboys. Lex Corp also gave them a tour, although it was more professional than the tour of the Daily Planet.

They spent 1 week in Gotham. They toured Wayne Enterprises and stayed out of the Bats’ way. Luka got the phone number of Tim Drake. Marinette enjoyed the inspiration that the gothic architecture brought her. There wasn’t much of a nightlife scene, considering only fools stay out after dark in Gotham.

Their 1 week in New York City was hectic. The Avengers were all at the tower when they were touring with Pepper Potts by Chloe’s request. Chloe might’ve been unofficially adopted by Tony Stark when she stood up to them and made them ‘cease their bullshit’. The Black Widow also took a liking to the girl. They also ran into these weird teens muttering about monsters when they were waiting for the elevator at the Empire State Building.

2 weeks in Tokyo. Their last stop. They visited the prestigious Ouran Academy, the host club getting Marc to come out of their shell by constantly helping boost his self-esteem. Chloe enjoyed talking business and finances with Kyoya Ootori. Kagami led them all in a traditional tea ceremony, before they all stormed the streets to try the unfamiliar street food.

Marinette ended up being unofficially adopted by 3 heroes, 2 rogues, and 5 billionaires. She was happy getting to spend 7 weeks on the road with only her closest friends.

The class was incredibly jealous of the trip their classmates took. They hoped next year they could go on a trip like that as well, but they had missed their shot.

#maribat #marvelous ladybug #allusion to #pjo #ohshc #marinette dupain cheng #chloe bourgeois #caline bustier #luka couffaine #kagami tsuguri #marc anciel #aurore beauréal #mireille caquet #mendeleiev #d'argencourt #lila rossi #rose lavillant #alya cesaire #oliver queen #roy harper #bart allen #clark kent #lois lane #tim drake #pepper potts #tony stark #natasha romanov #kyoya ootori #i tagged every character i referred to by name and it took me like five minutes #alternate trip

[lokilickedme]

The Way

I’m writing horror again.  I guess it’s that time, you know, that time that has nothing to do with Halloween or the seasons or whatever, that time when it just hits me for some reason.  And just like I always do, I’ll say I don’t know why.

Even though I know why, and you know I know why.

Because the truth is always so much weirder and worse and more disquieting than any excuse I could make up for it, and sometimes I just feel the need.

Today I felt the need, and I couldn’t make it go away.

And so I sat down, and words I didn’t want to write were written.

.

8592 words I would rate this Mature 18+ if it was a fic, strictly because of the subject matter.

Warnings: Death, mostly.  Religious trauma, brief descriptions of abuse, mentions of mental illness, domestic violence, grief, familial dysfunction, religious abuse, emotional abuse, medical conditions, brief mentions of drug use/abuse, mild gore in reference to corpse decomposition, psychological unease and mild terror, child abuse (mental/emotional/psychological), brief allusion to physical child abuse, cult references, loss of faith, attempted murder, possible actual murder.

A Note:  I love you guys, you’re always so quick and willing to be helpful and offer advice and suggestions and such, and I adore that about you.  But on this piece of work I ask that nobody offer any theories about what happened to my brother - medical, criminal, or otherwise - and please no suggestions on things we could do to pursue investigation, that ship has long sailed.  It’s been 23 years and he’s a cold case.  We spent years trying to sort it out but in the end it’s just something that happened, and we moved on because we had to.  There are a lot of open ends, a lot of question marks, a lot of suspicious details that never connected to anything - and we tried, we truly did.  If anyone out there knows the truth, they’ve never shown themselves to us.  We do have our theories, but my brother was a secretive person living a life none of us knew about, and the people he knew weren’t people we knew.  Everyone involved is either dead or moved on or got away with whatever it was they did, and there are only three of us who still care.  It’s over.

Until today, I’ve never put these events into words.

It was something I needed to do, finally.

This is PART ONE.  There may not be a part two, unless doing this ends up making me feel better.

Please feel free to comment if you wish.  As you can see, pretty much nothing triggers me.  I just ask that you please refrain from the type of comments noted above.

And thank you.

----------

This is, regrettably, a true story.  Nothing has been changed but the names, because the dead don’t like being talked about, and James was just enough of a shit to haunt me for it.

----------

----------

They made up their minds And they started packing They left before the sun came up that day An exit to eternal summer slacking But where were they going without ever knowing the way

They drank up the wine And they got to talking They now had more important things to say And when the car broke down They started walking Where were they going without ever knowing the way

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

Their children woke up And they couldn't find them They left before the sun came up that day They just drove off and left it all behind them But where were they going without ever knowing the way?

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today, today

- The Way, Fastball, 1998

.

That was the year James died in his sleep.

Or that’s what they say, anyway.  Asthma, the likely cause based on his medical history, our first and least disturbing assumption.  Undetermined, the official determination based on the hastily scraped-together autopsy, the best that could be done under the circumstances.  We tell people he had breathing problems, and they nod their heads and agree because they knew he did, and now he’s been gone so long that nobody asks.  Most of the people who ever met him have long moved on or disappeared or died themselves, or just remember him as the enigmatic middle son from the Keithley family that nobody really knew very well.  You know, the odd one, the one that showed up at meetings maybe once a year and smiled nervously but didn’t really talk to anyone and always seemed anxious to leave?  The one who died under mysterious circumstances?  That one.

He left the way he always came in.  Quietly, unexpected, without anyone being aware of either his entrance or his exit.

But me and mom know some things, and she’s not talking.  She probably never will.

So maybe it’s time I did.

December 1998.  I’d gotten married two years previous and moved back to the family land with my new husband.  He hated it there, but we had an affordable place to live.  It wasn’t bad.  He’d tell you otherwise.  The land never sat right with him, but I’d lived there too many years to see it.  I’d been fifteen when my father uprooted his large family from the city and hauled us out to the great back door to nowhere, and even though I’d left several times to wander elsewhere, I always came back.

I didn’t realize why at the time, at any of the multiple times.  But now I know.  That place gets you, and it holds you, and unless you’re goddamned devoted to staying gone you will always be pulled back.  It took me till I was 49 to funnel the necessary amount of devotion away from the religious dedication I’d had jackbooted into me and turn it toward getting out, but against a great number of overwhelming odds I finally did it.

But this isn’t about that, not yet anyway.  This is about my brother James, and how he went to sleep one night and found his own way out.

----------

It was snowing, had been for days, a bit unusual but not unheard of.  The part of the state we lived in was notorious for extended ice storms and we knew a bad one was coming, but until it hit we played in the snow like it was a gift and we were deprived children who knew it was all going to be taken away soon.  My brothers and I were adults but you wouldn’t know it, watching us sneak around in the woods staging elaborate commando attacks on each other.  James was the best of us, a stealth king who could stand in the middle of a room for an hour without a single soul seeing him.  Perception bias, he said.  Your brain ignores me because I obviously don’t belong, like those puzzles where you circle what’s wrong but it takes you forever to find them.

He crept around in the forest scaring the shit out of people, dropping his long tall self out of trees, appearing from nowhere to administer a well aimed snowball to the face of whoever happened to cross his path and then disappearing just as quickly.  We called him a wraith and it wasn’t a good natured jibe.  We meant it.  He made people nervous.  He was the stealthy kind of quiet you associate with danger, and he knew how to do things an average person doesn’t ever have any need to know.  It was a quiet cool that we admired him for, because none of the rest of us had it.

The religion we were raised in kept a tight lid on us, but me and James, we never really let it get into our bones.  We were the smart ones, in retrospect.  I went through the motions by force of habit and a sense of self preservation, doing what was expected and demanded of me, following the rules and making myself a perfect example of a young member of the church so I wouldn’t bring shame on the congregation and my family.  But mostly the congregation.  It was always more important than anything else.  And I had behaving down to an art form, but mostly when people were looking.  Usually also when they weren’t.

But sometimes, not quite.

And then I prayed for forgiveness about it later because God was supposed to forgive you if you asked him to, right?  The tenet of willful sin being unforgivable never took root with me even though that was what the church conditioned into us through fear and constant repetition.  They said it from the stage two nights a week and again on Sunday to hammer it home.  Two nights a week and again on Sunday my head silently disagreed.  God’s not like that.  And then I did the praying for forgiveness thing even though I knew I was right, because I was disagreeing with the church, and the church was God’s channel here on Earth, wasn’t it?  I committed a mortal sin at least three times a week on that subject alone, and though the dread of divine punishment was hardwired into me, I never could reconcile the concept of a loving and forgiving God destroying me simply for knowing better.

I’m not sure the comprehension of an overwatching deity ever actually established itself in James’ brain.  A moral code, yes.  But isn’t that what God is, really?  Maybe he understood more about God and forgiveness than the rest of us.  But he was considered an unapproved fringe member of the church because he couldn’t suffer people and noise and being looked at and he refused to preach, and he was soft-shunned as a result.  Because if you weren’t all in to the point of being willing to die at any moment for your faith, you were as good as faithless.

And faithless meant condemned.  And the congregation couldn’t be bothered with condemned people, regardless of their reasons for not having both feet in the water.  The first and only option on their list was to put the person out and let them find their own way back once they realized they had nobody left in the world who cared about them.

James escaped that somehow.  He was supposed to be shunned whole scale, but he wasn’t trying to convince anyone to leave the faith and he presented no threat to anyone’s strength of belief, and so far as anyone knew he’d committed no grave sins other than disinterest.  So the rule that dictated we cast him out was bent enough to allow him to remain living on the family land, though at one point during a fit of overzealous righteousness my mother had tried to have a family meeting to vote on whether or not we were going to let him stay.  I refused to vote and when I walked out of the house the meeting fell apart.

I’ve never forgiven her for that.  Her son’s life being put to a vote with her presiding over the proceedings, vengeful and unfeeling and devoid of compassion on behalf of God himself.  It takes my breath away, the anger, still to this day.  The only thing I ever truly learned from my mother about parenting was a long and intensely detailed list of what not to do to my own children, and I suppose I should be grateful for that.  It’s a bitter thank-you to have to give, but it’s something.

We knew James as much as he would allow us to, and not an inch further.  Which meant the extent of our knowledge of him pretty much stretched to include the singular fact that he was different.  What that meant, I still don’t really know - but it was there from the day he was born, that slight off-ness, the oddly off center calibration that you can’t really see so much as sense in a person.  I know now he was likely on the autism spectrum and he walked through life seeing and reacting to everything differently than most of us, but that wasn’t a thing back then.  You were just weird, or you weren’t.  And I’m not convinced that was a bad thing for him, strictly speaking.  But in the confines of our religion and our family’s devout and sometimes violent dedication to it, it took its toll almost daily.

He stood out, and he was very much a person who didn’t want to.  He wanted to fade into the background, to not be seen, to not be known.  And our religion didn’t tolerate that kind of nonsense, because we were commanded to be bold bearers of The Word Of God, and no exceptions were made.

None.

I’m going to stop calling it a religion now.  I beg your indulgence as I shift to calling it what it is, because calling it a religion is an insult to actual religions that don’t destroy peoples’ lives with callous indifference and murderous glee.

We were raised in a doomsday death cult.  There’s no other name that fits.

And we were trapped in it and its ugly cycle of neverending mental and emotional manipulation and abuse until we were adults, and some of us are still bound to it.  My oldest brother worked his way up to the upper levels of oversight in the local congregation and was solidly entrenched in it until his death, which is a story for later.  My youngest brother, the last remaining living blood sibling I have, is still deeply in it to this day and will likely never leave it.

I took the hard way out, three years ago, by walking away.

James, though.  He took the easy way.  He simply closed his eyes, and he was free.

----------

December 22, 1998.  Three days before Christmas, though that meant nothing to us.  The cult told us Christmas was a filthy demonic pagan ritual that was condemned by God, so to us the season was just a nice chilly time of year with lots of time off from work.  We’d had an unusual amount of snow, the most we’d had in years.  The roads were impassable and everyone was home except my husband, who worked close enough that his boss at the glass shop came and picked him up that morning with chains on his tires.  Lots of windshields had shattered from the sudden violent cold that had struck the previous night and Scott had the only glass shop for sixty miles.

I think it must have been around noon, and likely my mother had sent my dad up the hill to see if James wanted to come down for the lunch she was making.  He and his wife had split up against the strict rules of the church after a few years of suffering through an ill advised marriage, an important detail to this story that will come into the tale later, and he was alone up there at the top of the hill a lot.  Sometimes he forgot to eat, or he got so busy that he just didn’t bother, so our mother always made something for him because even though he was in his 20′s he was still a kid who needed looking after and her zealous fervor against him had died down with time.  I think he let her believe he was helpless because it worked in his favor and there was always lunch waiting for him in her kitchen as a result.

He was different, he wasn’t dumb.

We all lived on the hill back then with the exception of our youngest brother.  He’d moved to the city with his new wife not long prior.  The locals jokingly called the place a commune, and I guess they weren’t completely wrong.  Thirty-eight acres of wooded land far beyond the city limits that we’d painstakingly spent years carving a livable space into, with five houses, all built from the ground up and inhabited by an extended family of well known culties from a well known cult.  It’s almost comical, looking back on it, knowing now how they kept an eye on us for years to make sure we weren’t doing anything weird up there.

They should have run us off with pitchforks and burning stakes at the very beginning.

Things might have ended differently for us if they had.

----------

My grandparents lived at one end of the property, an old couple as simple and solid as salted soup, devoutly religious and devoted to the cult and very much cut from the can survive anything and probably will cloth like so many old country folks of their generation.  They were waiting out the end of days up there in their little wooden house, expecting the final hour of this old system to come long before their own demise.  I liked my grandmother, she had a sweet smile and fell asleep every time granddad started talking about the Bible and she paid me five dollars every Wednesday to drive her into town to get groceries, and years later, when she was dying, she told me she’d had a dream where she met my unborn son.  I was four months pregnant and didn’t know yet that I was having a boy.  She died before he was born, but to this day, fifteen years later, he tells me he’s sure he met her, he just can’t remember when.

I was scared of my grandfather.  Not terrified, but there was nothing grandfatherly to him and I always suspected he never actually liked kids much.  He’d once told us a story about the great Fort Worth flood that wiped out most of the city when my mom was a baby, and how he had told my grandmother to let go of my 2-year-old mother while he was struggling to get them across a rushing flooded creek in water up to their shoulders.  My grandmother couldn’t swim.  We could make another Ruthie, he said.  But I couldn’t get another ‘Nita.

He said it proudly, like he was to be admired for his choice.  I was young when he told that story, but it settled into me that this was evil.

Even when he was old as dirt and dying of a brain tumor in hospice care, he made me uneasy.  I was never close to him.  But for some reason, in his final days, he forgot who everyone was except me.  I had been living in another state for years and he hadn’t seen me since before the tumor started taking his life.  But when I walked into the room he turned his head and looked at me, and he mouthed my name.

He couldn’t speak.  I don’t know what he was trying to say, struggling with words that nobody could hear.  And I felt bad.  I didn’t want to be the last person he recognized.  My cousins adored him and had spent the last few years constantly at his side, and they were angry, maybe justifiably, that I was the one he reached for.

I didn’t want that at all.

I don’t believe he was a bad man, but he never spoke of anything except the cult’s interpretation of the Bible, and it was as tiresome as it was terrifying.  Granddads are supposed to be fun.  Ours quoted doctrine at us in a deep loud commanding voice that you couldn’t interrupt and you couldn’t tune out, and once he got going you had to just settle in and wait for him to run out of zealous steam.  And then he would suddenly stop and command grandmother to turn on a John Wayne movie and bring him some ice cream, and it was over until the next time.

I know my mother resented him.  She knew grandmother was the one that had refused to let her go, the one that had held onto her even though she almost drowned by the simple act of holding on.  She knew her father had been willing to let her wash away and drown.  That he thought she was interchangeable with whatever baby they would have next.  How she could spend her entire life with that knowledge and not be deeply affected by it was something that never made sense to me, but now, when she’s in her 70′s and I’m in my 50′s, I finally understand.  It affected her.  She’ll just be damned if she’ll let anyone see it.  And she had stood there in that hospice room watching him mouth my name with resentment burning in her eyes, though she would have rather died than let anyone know what it was for.  He’d forgotten her weeks ago.

The house in the center of the hill was mom and dad.  The homestead.  The house we’d all lived in together, that we’d built with our own hands, the first thing that marked that wild overgrown hill as a place where people actually lived.  A long path through the woods connected it to the grandparents’ house, and it was the epicenter of everything in our lives.  James and I had lived in the upstairs rooms of that house until we both moved out and married our respective mates years later, a reprehensible act on our part that was never okay with my mother and that she never forgave either of us for.  She’d wanted us all to stay.  We can all live here together until the New System comes, she always said.  That’s how the Bible says it’s supposed to be.  We can all keep each other safe and on the right path until the end comes, and then we’ll all be here together forever.

A decade later when I sat up on the hill watching that house burn to the ground, there was as much relief as grief billowing into the sky with the black smoke.  It was the end of an era, and it was far beyond time for it.

Nobody saw it but me.  James was dead, had been for years.  Robbie was dead now too.  Dad was gone, so was granddad.  Me and my youngest brother David were the last two left of the kids, but he had moved to a neighboring city when he got married and he has never seen things the way I see them.  We were of different generations, we weren’t raised the same way, and he’d never experienced the abuse I lived with for the first half of my life.  And he had dedicated his own life to the cult with all the honesty and lack of guile that I didn’t have when I’d made my own dedication vows at the too-young age of sixteen.

It was the end of an era, but apparently only for me.

James’ house was up the hill, past a clearing where my dad used to keep old cars that he cannibalized for parts.  Our oldest brother Robbie, long married with kids of his own, lived at the bottom on the farthest corner of the land.  And my house was on the slope to the west, built on the spot where we’d cleared off an old half-fallen homestead from the late 1800′s, dutifully paying no mind to the fact that a grave was nestled into the slope, right where the yellow daffodils grew.  The cult told us superstition was tied up with the demons and false religion, so we didn’t have the built-in human instinct that tells most people to stay the hell away from certain things.

We just pretended it wasn’t there, and put no importance on it.  It was just an old grave.  The soil was good and the garden I planted next to it did well, though those strange daffodils always wound themselves through everything I put in the ground.  My husband said something wasn’t right about it, but I didn’t pay any attention to him.  He hadn’t been raised as devout as me.

My dad knocked on my door around lunchtime and I opened it.  He backed up, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, the fancy leather coat the dealership had awarded him when he was designated a five-star Chrysler technician and given the state’s first and only license to work on the new Vipers that had recently rolled off the prototype line.  It was a cool jacket.  Made him look like the old pictures my other grandmother had shown me of him from the early 1960′s, when he was young and very much a product of a fancier era.  He’d never stopped greasing his hair back and was still so thin that he and I wore the same size jeans.

I’ve never understood the look on his face when I opened the door.  To this day I can’t sort it.  It wasn’t a blankness like so many people who’ve seen death wear without awareness.  It wasn’t grief.  It wasn’t even shock.

He was sorry.

Those were the first words out of his mouth.

I’m sorry.

I stood there, not knowing what he was sorry for.  It was cold.  I couldn’t push the screen door open very far because of the snow blocking it.  And my father was standing at the bottom of the steps James had helped my husband build, his hands shoved down far into his pockets like a penitent child about to get in trouble, telling me he was sorry.

James is dead, he finally said.  He’s in his house.  I went up there and he’s dead.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now - just now, this very moment in fact, I know that I was the first person he told.  He came straight from James’ house to mine and told me my brother was dead.

I don’t know what I said back to him, I just remember sitting down on the top step and feeling the cold bite of the snow through my pajama pants.  There’s a vague recollection of putting my face in my hands, and the embarrassing knowledge that I did that simply because I didn’t know what else to do.  And dad just stood there, nervously stepping from foot to foot in the snow, because he didn’t know what else to do either.

I think I asked How at some point.  He said he didn’t know.  He had something in his pocket but to this day I don’t know what it was.

I don’t know if it was important.  Something tells me it was.  Or maybe it was just the eternally present handkerchief he always kept on him.

I’m sorry, he said again.  He seemed to feel like it was his fault somehow.  I’m sorry.

What do we do?  I asked him.  I’ve never felt more blank.  What are we supposed to do?

I don’t remember what he said, other than he was going to get my older brother.  I remember thinking that was a good idea.  Robbie would know what to do.  He always did.  Brash and blustery and bigmouthed, he got things done while other people stood around debating how to do them.  He would get on it, whatever needed doing.  He would figure it out.

I went back in the house and dad walked away, headed down the path through the woods that connected my house to Robbie’s, hands still shoved deep in his pockets, the big retro vintage Chrysler emblem on the back of his jacket the last thing I saw before I pulled the screen door shut.  I stared down for a minute at the mound of snow it had scooped into my livingroom, still with no clue what I was supposed to do.

No clue at all.

I kicked the snow back outside and shut the door.

----------

It’s an odd thing, watching the coroner’s van drive away with someone you know inside it.  Someone you saw just yesterday.  Someone who was alive.  Someone who should still be alive but isn’t, somehow.  And since there’s really no way to earn a ride in a coroner’s van without dying, there’s an awful unsettling sensation to it that you can’t get away from.  The last time I saw James he was laughing that devious little laugh of his, his eyes red and bloodshot from the ever present asthma he’d suffered with his entire life.  I don’t count the sight of the coroner’s van leaving the hill via our long steep driveway with his cold corpse tucked into a black zippered bag, because I didn’t see him.  I never saw him.  I didn’t see him dead in his house and I didn’t see them carry him out, I didn’t see them put him in the van.  I didn’t see him later, when it was all over with.  And if I try hard enough I can imagine that van empty, with that long black bag tossed crumpled in the back without a body in it, and James somewhere else living his life however the hell he pleases.

I hold onto that.  Some days it helps.  And some days I think I see him, walking by the side of the road or getting out of a car in the post office parking lot, and it makes me happy thinking he escaped.  I see him in every hitchhiker, in every wandering traveler making his way down the interstate, in every tall thin man I glimpse from the corner of my eye as I go about my business in town.

He’s out there.

I hope he’s happy.

The ice storm hit the next day.

----------

For the next two weeks we were stuck on our hill.  Power out, no electricity, no heat, no lights, roads iced over and impassable.  We all piled up in mom and dad’s house, quietly grieving James, trying to stay warm.  Most of the state lost power for days, including the city 150 miles away where his body had been taken to the state coroner’s office.  There was no apparent cause of death, so the state ordered an autopsy.

His body had just been placed into cold storage to wait its turn when the power grid went down.  And then, by some unholy stroke of nightmarish luck, the facility’s generators failed.

Nobody could make it in to work because of the ice.  By the time someone finally got into the morgue the cold storage had been down for four days.

Six bodies melted, including James.

----------

No viable autopsy could be done, though they tried their best I suppose.  The end report was obtained two months later.  It was mostly inconclusive due to the long delay and resultant decomposition of tissue.  There was apparent scarring on James’ heart, but it was old scarring and had nothing to do with his death.  His lungs were scarred as well, but that was no surprise, he’d had severe asthma his entire life.  There was no determinable cause of death, no inflicted trauma, no presence of illicit drugs as far as they could tell from the limited toxicology report they managed with what they had to work with.

No reason.

He’d simply died.

It seemed fitting, to me at least, that the end of him be enshrouded in an unsolvable mystery.  He was a secretive person, intensely private.  He would have loved knowing nobody had a clue what happened to him.

And so we drew our own conclusion as a family.  He’d had an asthma attack in his sleep.  There had been an inhaler next to his bed, but it was new and still in the box.  He simply hadn’t woken up to use it.  Dad didn’t participate in the drawing of this conclusion, his input kept stoically to himself, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.

We pretended not to see it.

He and mom braved the last of the ice a few days later to make the 150 mile drive to see James one last time.

They came back different.

You couldn’t tell it was him, my mother said.  He was melted, literally.  It was like one of those science fiction movies where they melt you with a laser beam and you turn to goo.

Dad had nothing to say.  He went to bed and stayed there until the next day.

You can go see him, mom told me.  I’ll go with you if you want to go.  But I don’t recommend it.

I decided not to go.

And so I never saw my brother dead.  I never saw any proof that he was gone.  He just wasn’t there anymore.  There was no funeral, he was cremated and his ashes were sent home weeks later, and I went on with my life with the image in my head of James, alive, somewhere else.

----------

Dad was different from that day on.  He’d always been stoic, terse, strict.  My childhood had been spent in fear of him, an eternal dread of making him mad and feeling his temper erupt keeping me from showing any hint of a personality during my formative years.  The cult had forced him to abide by the violent tenet of Spare the rod, spoil the child and there was never any risk of me being spoiled.

James being gone flipped a switch in him.  He was nicer suddenly.  Mellow.  Kind.  After the trauma wore off his humor discovered itself and he was funny.  The dour angry demeanor fell off and revealed a man that I was sad never to have known before.  He and I became friends.  I could sense in his new attitude toward me that he regretted how he’d raised me and respected the way I’d always stood up and been my own person despite it.  But my mother was falling off the deep end and for all the newfound easygoingness of my father, she counterbalanced it with an extremism born of the religious fervor of a mother determined to gain enough favor with God to see her dead child again.  And she was going to make sure the rest of us did too.

We all had to get good and straight on the path, get completely right and stay that way, or we’d never see James again.  He’d be in the New World and we wouldn’t, and how would she explain that to him?  She and I worked together in a law office at the time and as she became more unhinged and unpleasant, I reacted by becoming more outgoing and accomplished.  Our boss changed my work designation from receptionist to Executive Assistant and started teaching me how to do everything from filing papers at the courthouse to photographing accident scenes.  I no longer answered to my mother, the office manager.  I answered directly to the boss.

That didn’t go over well.  She was a control freak with heavy untreated trauma, and the one person in the world she felt the most obsessive need to control was suddenly no longer under her thumb in a workspace where she considered herself the supreme authority.  She countermanded every order the boss gave me and tried to load me up with general office chores that left me no time to do the important assignments he’d given me.  I had no choice but to tell her she wasn’t my superior anymore.

She chose that day to have her nervous breakdown over James, jumping out of my car at a red light on the way home and storming angrily through a shopping mall with me trailing frantically along behind her, yelling for security to arrest me while I tried to get her to calm down.  I ended up telling her she wasn’t the only person who lost James but that none of the rest of us were allowed to experience our own grief because we were too busy catering to hers.

She sat down on a bench outside the sporting goods store and glared at me with a cold hatred I’ve seen on very few other faces, ever.

I knew it would be you, she hissed at me.

That moment changed our relationship forever.  It changed me forever.  That was the day I decided my life was my own, that she not only didn’t have authority over me at work, she didn’t have authority over me anywhere else either.  She could no longer dictate my actions, my behavior, my thoughts and feelings.

For this she disowned me.  It was the first of several disownings over the next few years.  I got used to it.  We went to work the next day like nothing had happened, and I didn’t do a single thing on the task list she slapped down on my desk.  It was a metaphor for the rest of my life, but I didn’t know it yet.

My husband and I moved out of state a couple of months later, away from that hill, away from her increasingly controlling paranoia and bitterness, the first of many small steps toward freedom.

As we were driving away with our trailer full of personal belongings behind us, he said one thing that I tried to argue against, but that somewhere deep inside I knew was probably right.

That land is cursed, he said.

----------

A few weeks before we moved my youngest brother came to town and we went into James’ house together.  It was exactly like it had been the day my dad found him.  The only thing that stood out as different was the bare mattress on the bed - the men from the coroner had wrapped him up in the sheet he’d been laying on and took it with them, leaving just the naked springform mattress James had bought for Jessica right before her final breakdown and their subsequent separation.

It took me a while to go in the bedroom, but I knew from the moment I walked into the house that I was going to end up there.  I needed to see it, the place where James had closed his eyes and left us.

There was a small puddle of dried blood near the foot of the bed, brown and stained into the fabric.  James always slept backwards, with his head at the wrong end.  The blood had come from his nose.

I touched it.  I don’t know why.  It was dry.

He was gone.

----------

David and I laughed a lot that day.  James had been funny in a way that was distinctly him, quiet and of few words, but those words had always counted.  And as we sorted through his things and talked about him and moved some of his stuff into boxes to be stored away, I felt as much awed respect as befuddlement at what was around me.  He’d never been a conformist, which I knew was why the cult had never gotten a firm grasp on him.  He was unknowable and therefore unbindable.  But his house was proof that he didn’t conform to any human expectations either, and nothing in it made sense unless you’d spent time around him.

There was an engine in the bathtub.  I’m not sure what it went to.  Another engine, in the beginning stages of disassemblage, rested on a blue tarp in the center of the livingroom floor, obviously the last project he’d been working on.  There wasn’t much furniture - his wife had taken most of it when she left and it would have never entered his mind to replace any of it.  Jessica’s cookware was in the kitchen cabinets, unused, some of it still in the original boxes, some not even fully unwrapped from their wedding shower years before.  Jessica didn’t cook, she microwaved.  David asked me if I thought it would be okay for him to take a glass Pyrex measuring cup because he’d broken his.  I told him to take it.  It had never been used.

I didn’t want anything, but knew I needed to take something.  One of my husband’s solo CDs was sitting on the entertainment center and the cover, the cover I’d designed, caught my eye and brought me to the CD player to pop the tray open.

Inside was a CD single of The Way.

It was the only thing I took.

----------

My husband told me some time later that my dad and older brother had altered the scene before the police arrived.  After the phonecall from me his boss had rushed him home and he’d gone up to James’ house without my knowledge.  He’d thought it strange that he’d had to step around at least a dozen empty compressed air cans scattered haphazardly around the place as he entered, like they’d been used and tossed aside one after another.  There had been several more on the floor around the bed.  My father had told him to go back down and see how mom and I were doing, and when he returned to James’ house after the coroner’s departure, the cans were gone.  Other than that he said things seemed different, but he couldn’t say quite how.  Just not the same.

He told me my dad didn’t call the police until after he and Robbie had been in there at least an hour, alone with the body.

It’s not something we’ve talked about often, because there’s no satisfactory explanation for it that either of us can come up with.  My mother says they probably didn’t want the police to assume the cans meant he was huffing compression fluid and accidentally killed himself, because Look at the shame and reproach that would bring on the congregation if anyone thought such a thing!  We all knew he used the compressed air to clear the valves on the engines he was working on, all mechanics do, it’s common.  Wouldn’t the police have accepted that explanation?  Dad was the only one that spoke to them.  They wrote down whatever he said, and then they left, and then the coroner came and took James away and that was that.  My father, the most upright straight-and-narrow devoutly dedicated man I’ve ever known in my life, misled the police for a reason that he took with him to his own grave.

The only other person in the world who knew the truth about it took it to his grave too.

At the same time.

In the same car.

Four years later, on October 18, 2002.

----------

The big garbage bag of empty air cans and whatever else that was removed from James’ house that morning had been stashed in my dad’s garage and stayed there until a few weeks after he and Robbie’s joint funeral, when my mother asked my husband’s old boss to come and dispose of it.  Scott was a man who knew people who could do things.

The evidence, whatever it was evidence of, vanished.

----------

The mystery around James never dissolved and eventually no one talked about it anymore, I guess because there was no way we could ever truly find out what happened without him here to tell us.  There were a lot of details that we could never find a way to weave together into anything that made sense and a lot of it was probably inconsequential anyway.  There was a girlfriend that he’d tried to keep hidden from us, a woman that was quite a bit older than him who wasn’t a member of the cult and therefore needed to be kept a secret.  In the end she had convinced him to stop hiding their relationship and he’d bought her a ring.  We met her all of twice before he died, and within days of his passing she left town with her brother and never came back, taking whatever she might have known with her.

James’ ex Jessica had sneaked onto the hill and broken into his house to put a dead raccoon in his kitchen sink a few days prior to his death.  We were shocked when he told us she trespassed on the land often without anyone knowing, and my mother made my father fix the electric gate down at the road so that it wouldn’t open without one of three clickers in the possession of herself, my father, and me.  James would have to come to her house and get hers any time he needed to leave the hill, an arrangement he agreed to because Jessica stole things from his house all the time, she would absolutely take a gate opener if she saw it.

He told us the gate wouldn’t keep her out though, and that she didn’t come in that way anyway.  The only way to protect ourselves from her was to lock her up and he doubted even that would do it.

He died less than a week later, and twenty three years later we still don’t know how or why.

----------

We never felt safe on the hill again.  Jessica was deranged in the worst possible way, we’d known it for a while, and James was her obsession.  She’d threatened to kill him multiple times and had tried twice.  We hadn’t known this, because James, big strong stoic Clint Eastwood type that he was, wasn’t about to tell anyone he was violently abused for years by a skinny little woman that everyone believed was not much more than a meek dormouse with shyness issues and a case of painful awkwardness.  But we knew she was evil.  We just didn’t have any proof.

The first thing my mother said after the initial emotional breakdown of finding her son dead was Jessica did this, I don’t know how but I know she did it.

I believe she was probably right.  But if Jessica was anything she was wily and devious with a strong survival instinct and an uncanny ability to lie convincingly and draw sympathy onto herself.  She’d convinced us for years that she was the perfect combination of sweetly harmless and endearingly clueless, but that only lasted until the day she called 911 screaming that James was beating her and then threw herself face first into a tree in their front yard and sat, calmly singing and coloring in a coloring book on the porch with blood running down her forehead, waiting for the police to arrive.  The act she put on when they got there was one for the Academy, but the officers didn’t buy it.

James calmly rolled up his sleeves and showed them his scars where she’d burned him and slashed him with a kitchen knife.  He pulled up his shirt and pointed out the marks she’d left on him with her teeth and nails.  He hooked a finger into his mouth and showed them the empty hole where she’d knocked one of his teeth out with a baseball bat.  One of the officers asked him why he hadn’t killed her and buried her somewhere on the land already.

She left in the back of the squad car, and my mother took James to the courthouse to get divorce papers started two days later.

Jessica came to his memorial service when we finally had it, several weeks after his death.  She wasn’t invited but we couldn’t keep her from coming.  She wore black like a widow and created a dramatic disruption complete with loud wailing and declarations of undying love, and afterward she stood to one side of the room, smirking at us with the kind of icy malice that you only see on the dangerously deranged, and then usually only in the movies.  Several people commented in hushed voices, asking why she’d been allowed to come.  At one point she started wailing They killed him!!, but everyone with the exception of her mother ignored her.

Her mother, who was still in our congregation, flitted around the room chatting with everyone, sobbing her heart out like it was her own son we’d just memorialized.  She was an ER nurse and had been famously fired from her job at the hospital for taking locked-cabinet medications home by the purse load.  She claimed she put them in her pocket to use on her shift and forgot to return them to the cabinet before leaving.

Jessica had been staying with her for a while.

----------

We fed the crowd at mom’s later that afternoon with my husband and his boss guarding the gate, making sure she didn’t try to come into my mother’s house.  The police were called preemptively, and because this was a town of 300 with not much of anything else to do, a squad car was dispatched and stationed near the inlet to the main drive.

Jessica showed up not much later, like we knew she would.  She drove past the police and parked a few yards down from them in plain sight, just sitting there by the side of the road, far enough away from our property that we couldn’t legally do anything about it.  The officers got out and talked to her, warned her not to cause us any problems, and she fed them a woeful tale about being banned from her beloved husband’s memorial service and denied the right to say goodbye to him.

The officers knew there was no body at that service to say goodbye to.  They also knew her.

My husband came up the hill and told us she was down at the road and that Scott was blocking the driveway with his truck to keep her out.  I told my mother it was time to file a restraining order against her.  She was living in fear and Jessica was known to be trespassing on our property frequently.  No, she told me with tears in her eyes but not a sign of distress on her face.  It was a look I knew, because my mother rarely showed emotion unless she was angry and the rest of the time it was this cold detachment.  That would bring reproach on the congregation because everyone knows what we are.  I can’t do that.  I won’t let her win that way.  I won’t let her cause us to bring shame on God’s name.

God’s name.  I took it in vain that day.

More than once.

I was leaving in a few weeks, moving a thousand miles away.  My husband and I weren’t going to be there to help her keep an eye out, and thirty eight acres of heavily wooded land is impossible to protect and easy to sneak onto from a hundred different directions, James had shown us proof of that.

God will protect us as long as we do the right thing and leave it to him, she said.  He knows what she is.

I think it was just a coincidence that nothing terrible happened in the following weeks, because my faith was getting tenuous and a lot of prayers were going unanswered.  But Jessica quietly disappeared back to her own world after a couple of infuriating weeks of putting herself in our paths every chance she got, and not long after that my husband and I moved away, and as we left the driveway for what we thought would be the last time he sighed and shook his head with the exasperation of a man about to say I told you so.

“That land is cursed,” he said.

I tried to disagree, though I don’t know why.

----------

Less than a mile up the road we passed a man walking.  He was tall and thin and covered in the dust of a long journey with a ratty backpack strapped to his back, and as we passed him I caught his reflection in the side mirror.

It was James, I knew it in my heart every bit as strongly as I knew it couldn’t be.

He was walking away from the hill, toward the west.  The way we were going.  And I swear on whatever holy relic you wish to place under my hand that he raised his head and met eyes with me in the mirror, and he smiled.

.

Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold And it's always summer They'll never get cold They'll never get hungry They'll never get old and gray You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won't make it home But they really don't care They wanted the highway They're happier there today

.

[lilsuzn]

MLQC Boys as Fathers

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen's Choice

Warnings: In the post below I decided to make girls like stereotypical girly things and boys stereotypical boyish things, but it doesn’t mean I believe it’s how it’s supposed to be. I personally had periods when I was very girly and ones when I was very tomboyish and that’s okay. What’s not okay is forcing your children to act certain ways and like certain thing just because they represent a certain sex.

Dedication: anon

Gavin

baby girl

Have you even seen that nail-painting Karma with him? This cutie!

If you guys had a daughter, she would be the happiest little girl on earth.

He would be unable to deny her anything. Don’t let these two go to the mall alone. Unless you don’t care for electricity or hot water. Then you do you, I guess.

I even can see him dressed in pink tutu, sitting by a small, pink table and sipping on nonexisting tea. Anything to make his little angel happy

I overall don’t see him as a parent who actively takes part in his child’s school life - like helping with organizing plays or sawing costumes or parent-teacher association associating or other stuff alike, BUT...

He sure would never miss a single performance of his baby girl and would support her along the whole way there.

And yes. He will watch YT tutorials to learn how to do some pretty hairstyles for his princess, even though initially he wouldn’t want to do them at all.

And yes. He will paint her nails when she’s old enough not to stuff her hands into her mouth all the time.

baby boy

They are collecting figures. Like, motorcycles and cars at first. Then also planes when the boy gets a little older.

He would look upto his daddy very much. Would adore that he’s a police officer and could fly and was just basically flawless - at least in your son’s eyes.

They would play with his plane toys, which boy could all name. His favorite would be the Supermarine Spitfire. Gavin could never play with that one. Dad is great and all, but it’s HIS plane.

When your sun gets a bit older, his dad would take him to aerobatic aviation shows and historic planes displays.

He surely would be a daddy’s boy, if you didn’t figure it yet. You’re cool and he loves you… BUT GAVIN?

Their bond remains strong throughout the years. They keep alot of secrets from you, but you benefit from it from time to time. Especially in saving nerves. So it’s cool. Unless it’s not…

When grown up he sure would become a police officer like his dad or a soldier. I sure see him in military aviation. Dad would be a bit worried, but would give him his full support and all the help he could.

I also believe you and Gavin would have more than just one child, but that’s just a side note.

Kiro

baby girl

He’s not a regular dad. He’s a cool dad.

Not a reckless dad tho. He knows it’s not good for kids to eat as much sweets as they want to. He knows it’s not the best idea to say yes to every single whim of theirs…

But his little princess is so pretty. And so cute. And so sweet.

Remember when I told you how Gavin would be not so happy to attend her daughter’s tea parties?

Kiro would live for those! He would buy himself dresses for those occasions.

And they would do fashion shows for you. 

This dad is going to ask his daughter to do his makeup.

Takes her to get ice cream behind your back after picking her up from her ballet practice.

baby boy

I don’t know why, but I see his son as that shy, artistic type. That romantic boy with an acoustic guitar kind of trope.

He would have a voice of an angel and a talent surpassing even his father’s. He literally doesn’t need Kiro’s evol to have his charm.

This dad would be so proud. A little sad that his modest, little boy doesn’t want to perform on stage with him, but still - so extremely happy to have such a talented son.

He would get him the best tutors, and the finest instruments and every other equipment his little angel might need. Not even necessarily ask for.

If that was what wished for, he would help him start a career. He surely has what it gets to make someone famous.

If that wasn’t what his son wanted however - he would never push him. He knows the price that comes with money and a large fanbase and he wouldn’t force anyone to pay it.

Lucien

baby girl

I see Lucien as the best dad of all 4, and before you get mad at me for being biased, know that he's not my fav. I like being called an idiot and men in uniforms.

Big part of it would surely be his psychological knowledge, not gonna lie. Second one would be his outstanding intelligence that helps him with application of  upbringing’s roles into life.

He just knows exactly how and when to be soft and when and how to be firm.

He would take his daughter for walks and movies. He would love to take her to an amusement park from time to time.

It’s important for him that his daughter would be well socialised.

And surprise, surprise - his daughter would be a genius. Doesn’t matter if you are biological parents or not. It just happened. And he’s very happy to be destroyed in a chase game by his nine year old.

He helps her with preparing for math contests. And any other contests there are.

They often sit together on the couch and read books. She even makes the same face as she focuses. Yes - even she’s adopted.

It’s a Christmas miracle, I don’t know. Ask Lucien, he probably does.

baby boy

Wouldn’t it be absolutely cute and a little bit ironic if his son would be a little trouble maker?

Wouldn’t want to study. Just spent all day on the playground with other kids. An tradic picky eater. Can fall asleep wherever he is, in whatever position he is.

I could see Lucien struggle to find a way to get to his child, but I couldn’t see him ever give up.

He would enroll his son into some school sports team and would very actively support it. They need a parent to go with them to attend a sports contest in another school. Sign him up. Lucien is a very busy man, that’s true, but not too busy for that.

He would learn the rules and tactics of whatever game his son plays.

Would help him practice outside his practices. Even if he might not enjoy it.

And obviously, would eagerly help him if he had any problems in school.

Overall, I see Lucien as a very loving father, who doesn’t shy away with expressing just how important his kids are for him.

Victor

baby girl

The one who would constantly motivate his children.

They are learning languages, participating in at least one sport, playing an instrument and traveling around the world with him to experience many different cultures.

His little girl would be confident, smart, self-disciplined and an absolutely cute dork who thinks daddy doesn’t know she figured how to get to that cookie jar on the highest shelf.

She started drawing things for him since she was too small to even talk properly… and she was really good for such a small poppet.

He quickly decided to add art classes to her already long list of extracurricular activities.

At some point she was absolutely wonderful. Daddy was swelling with pride.

A perfect student, remarcable artist… Obviously a Li.

She would then study architecture at the most prestigious university in the country. Victor would spare no expenses. She deserves it.

baby boy

A quiet but intimidating kid that sits in the first row in class and gives his teacher a challenging look.

Destroys in chess even Lucien’s daughter… sometimes.

Has no friends because he’s disgusted by other people.

Daddy’s boy lvl. 100 Future LFG CEO.

If he could he would even sleep with daddy… but daddy doesn’t let him because he needs “privacy” with you. Good thing you sometimes make him sandwiches, because you might get taken care of…

Victor would have his kid’s photo on his desk. Two of them actually. One facing him and one facing anyone who sits on the opposite side. People need to know just how cute they looked in their matching shirts during last year’s father’s day celebrations.

They would go to the movies together. Victor who usually makes sure your kids are eating healthy would buy him a huge popcorn… and sometimes even M&M’s.

Victor would be a principled dad with high expectations, but don’t make a mistake. Even if his kids weren’t as ambitious and success focused as he’s he would love them just as much and care for them just as much.

There would also be no favoring if you had more than one child. Everyone must feel equally loved and he would make sure it’s exactly the case.

#mlqc li zeyan #mlqc victor #mlqc #mlqc fanfic #mr love victor #mr love queen's choice #mlqc ling xiao #mlqc bai qi #mlqc gavin #mlqc kiro #mlqc lucien #mlqc fluff