#artificial grass around pool

[homelawncare]

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[artificialturfexpress]

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[bonefall]

Is there beef with the Holstein cows and you or what was that joke lol

It's kind of wild It's just never come up on this blog before, but I HATE holsteins. Bottom 10 cow breeds for me. I hate how they're so common they account for the majority of milk produced. I hate that they're the "default" cow to the point where some don't even know cattle HAVE other colors. I hate their tiny horns (IF THEY EVEN HAVE THAT. LOSER ASS HORNLESS COW) and their painfully massive udders.

Legit I'm trying so hard to not launch into a No Mouth Must Scream style AM speech-- shoot my hand slipped.

(AM speech about why i dont like holsteins below the cut)

For starters, I have to give a brief lesson on what these terms mean; the "Holstein" is the American strain of the "Frisian" breed. Frisians are an ancient breed from Frisia, in the north of what we now consider the Netherlands. Crosses between the breeds are "Holstein-Frisians."

(There’s even more to this but im keeping it as simple as possible. Also one of my friends is Frisian and she is probably going to kill me for describing it like that.)

Historically, livestock was adapted to the environment they lived in. Frisians were bred by the Frisii people for hundreds of years in extremely grass-rich, lush, flat environments. The "polders" of the northern parts of the Netherlands. They're huge and eat a LOT of food.

Traditional Frisians were developed to produce as much meat and milk from a single individual as possible, without compromising the health of the cattle with constant inbreeding to get quick gains. We are talking about a breed that is over 2000 years old. They had the perfect environment to make The Ultimate Food Cow and by god they did it. I can respect that.

So, take that, drag it across an ocean to a place that does NOT have polders, and add the rapid enshittification of capitalism to it. BAM you've got a fucking holstein.

There is ONE goal for "improving" the holstein. Make More Milk. As long as the black and white milkbag leaks enough, nothing else matters. Health? Fertility? Feed ratio? Ability to not die of infection? WHO CARES. MILK LINE GO UP.

Over 90% of holsteins are inbred to start with, because Milk Line Go Up. To the tune of having an average COI of 8%-- where extreme negative effects (think Hapsburgs) start to crop up around 10%

Holstein bulls are aggressive bastards (many dairy bulls are), so no one wants to keep intact males in their herds, meaning most cows are artificially inseminated

Not being limited by the natural lifespan of a living bull means that the same stud can keep having direct offspring for decades after his death

Toystory the bull had 500,000 calves before he died, and hit over 1 million offspring in 2015. That's ONE animal and to put this in perspective, there are 9 million holsteins in the US.

DON'T WORRY IT GETS WORSE

Not only can 99% of holsteins be traced back to just two bulls-- 99% of male holsteins share one of two exact Y chromosomes with those two bulls.

The gene pool is so small that it's equivalent to about 60 individuals. Warrior Cat allegiances are larger than that. That's barely bigger than modern ThunderClan.

"Massive lack of genetic diversity" does not begin to capture the existential dread of this situation. Mark my words, WATCH, when the Bird Flu finally mutates a strain that rips through a mammalian population, it's gonna be in the USA and it's going to be through our dairy cattle.

This is not prophecy or me laying a curse on the land, this is the natural consequence of basing the stability of US milk production on the equivalent of 9 million clones of two classrooms worth of individuals, and then packing them in close quarters

And we don't have to wait for doomsday for the impacts to be apparent on the cattle themelves

Holstein fertility has also dropped by half since the 1960s when the intensive inbreeding really kicked into high gear

Because their whole body is dedicating all of their resources to milk production, they have a notoriously "bony" frame.

Show judges, however, like this because they think that's a very "feminine" look for a 1600 pound ruminant. Very normal thing to think.

Like. I don't know if i can communicate this to people who don't look at cows a lot (it's not quite as obviously dramatic as a pug skull) but here is a comparison of an "ideal" show holstein and an "unselected" holstein from a herd that's been established as a sort of "control group" for what they looked like back in the 1960s;

The way that the artery on the "modern" cow's belly runs to the udder like a big pink worm freaks me out the most ngl

The udder also bulges out from between the back legs

The show cow is so thin

And then compare these both to a Holstein-Frisian cross who leans more on the Frisian side;

Proper weight, developed legs. Its biggest "problem" is actually just the udder shape-- deep udders, which "hang" low like that, aren't optimal for milk-focused breeds because the higher away from the ground the less chance there is of infection. In that department, the "unselected" holstein clearly outclasses the holstein-frisian.

But it probably won't be surprising to hear that the "show holstein," with its massive, swollen udder, is SUPER prone to infections such as mastitis.

But it is also just more prone to getting sick generally

And, to keep up with these insane demands, holsteins need a TON of food. You aren't going to just turn these things out into a pasture and be done with it. Even its ancestor the Frisian needed premium Dutch polder grass to be such a good cow-- crank that up to 11 with these Monuments to Humanity's Hubrice

The Texas Longhorn developed in semi-feral conditions and can eat a bush to become the best thing in a 10 mile radius. The Scottish Highland was iron-forged in upland moors with a steady diet of turf and rain.

Meanwhile if a Holstein has less than 5 homemade meals a day without poland spring bottled water it will die to death.

And the WORST part? You have to use these if you want to make money in dairy farming. It's WAAY too expensive to just run a suboptimal farm. Their milk isn't great, but they sure do make a lot of it.

...so Holsteins and Holstein-Frisians (and other "super efficient" breeds) have absolutely decimated heritage cattle. The American Milking Devon is a deep reddish brown with gorgeous horns and low maintenance; rare. Randall Linebacks are painted with lines of white speckles down the back and can be used for any purpose; critically endangered. The Niata was a pug-faced cow who could fight jaguars; extinct.

And THAT'S what makes me hate them most of all. I LOVE cows, but whenever I see a reference to one, it's a holstein. It's always boring black and white splotches with big pink udders. They're practically synonymous with "cow" when their homogeniety is actually hiding much cooler breeds from you.

Did you know cows can be tiger-striped?

And that England has its own type of longhorn?

Or that cow horns can twist upwards like an antelope?

And that they can have REALLY LONG ears?

And that they can be blue?

And that's not even getting into some of the cows that have gotten a small crumb of attention lately, such as Highlands, Ankole-Watusi, and Texas Longhorns. There's so many cool cows out there! And they're all really different from holsteins! MOST of them are also a lot healthier and produce tastier milk and meat!

TL;DR yeah i don't like holsteins and I like sniping at them. For reasons both legit and petty.

[artificialgrassopedia]

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[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ thinking of summer slasher!pazzi...

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

cw: slight gore, sexual tension, light sexual content, manipulation, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs murder, unhealthy relationships bc y'all...p is killing people. but she loves her girl.

notes: i did not intend for this be 10.2k when i started. so, there's that. as always, feel free to give me all of your thoughts in my inbox. let me know who you think the other killer is. i try my best to respond to it all.

p.s. please don't date your best friend who's obsessed with you if she's murdering people, no matter how beautiful and charismatic she is.

okay, love you.

𓇼 it’s one of those summers marked by memories smeared with heat and a lazy humidity that fills you with a sun-soaked exhaustion. the girls are taking part in a training camp for the season. they flush with warmth and glitter with sweat, muscles flexing under tanned skin as they stumble in and out of cool gyms and concrete courts. the best parts come after when they lay alongside one another, tan lines left behind by the tightly tied straps of their bikini bottoms, slices of sunburned skin coming up rosy despite the efforts to slather on sunscreen. 

𓇼 the world is safe here. they are safe here. they know one another, can recognize one another by laugh—morgan’s is sweeter, clear like a bell. kk’s is child-like, loose giggles with a rise in the middle. they know who is standing above them by the slant of a shadow. this perfect space, the smell of it will haunt them forever: something deep blue, sticky with coconut, cream, and vanilla. a memory of artificial fruit smoke and the moon shape of golden thighs atop golden thighs.

𓇼 at the center of it all lies paige with her river of blonde hair only growing blonder in the sun, her violet swimsuit revealing perfect scoops of sun-darkened skin. she keeps her sunglasses tucked right on top of her head, her toned stomach flexing in and out as she rotates on the soft blanket they have spread out on the grass (there are no more chairs). 

𓇼 her shadow, azzi, has her head right on her thigh. she feels bleary and disoriented, the sun shining down with a strength that feels personal. her swimsuit is sugary baby pink, a sweet match to the girl lying underneath her. her curls have been dragged into a high bun in frustration, baby hairs slick against her neck as she sweats. her belly piercing sparkles, calls the eye to the soft dip of her hips and the thin strip of her bikini bottom.

𓇼 paige is terribly hot below her but she wouldn’t move azzi for anything, instead pressing loose strands out of the other girl’s eyes as azzi tries to sleep. 

𓇼 eventually azzi rolls over, patting a hand loosely on paige’s stomach as a thank you for being her human pillow. paige grins, gives in to her boyish nature and pinches the curve where azzi’s thigh meets her ass. 

𓇼 “you’re such a fucking teenage boy,” azzi murmurs. paige laughs, reties the strings of her swimsuit top. “you love me.”

𓇼 azzi does. it makes her stomach roll. 

𓇼 the world is safe here. they are safe here. and then they hear the news.

azzi can’t hear anything past the buzzing in her ears.

three female students found dead. 

the newscaster's voice snakes around her, and drags her to the pool’s tiled floor. her chest burns as she holds her breath, her heart close to bursting.  the world is watery and filtered bright blue through the pool water; the sky is an endless slur of pinks, oranges, and purples. 

the sun is setting, the world going dark, and there are three students—three girls—dead by knife at a camp nearby. three girls she knew in passing, had watched stretch and laugh together on the sands just before a friendly game of beach volleyball. 

the police had said they might’ve been dead for days, up to two weeks. aubrey had switched off the broadcast, visibly shaken and trying to spare the rest of them. jana had sat silent and still, frozen as the older girl pried the remote free from her grip.

she might be crying. with all of this water, it’s so hard to tell. azzi closes her eyes right as the pool lights come on and more water surges in from the jets, the chlorine smell made almost unbearable by the onslaught of the propellers. she has at most fifteen minutes before someone notices she’s gone—five max before paige realizes she’s slipped out from beside her. 

azzi stays under until her lungs scream, until she can’t.

until the burn in her lungs forces her up, air slicing hot into her chest as she breaks the surface. the sky is darker now, the last streaks of sunlight bleeding out into deep navy. the lampposts lining the pool deck have flickered on, turning the concrete a smokier grey and the water a deeper, artificial blue, shimmering against the tile.

azzi drags a hand down her face, slicking back her hair with wrinkled fingertips, and that’s when she sees her—paige, sitting at the water’s edge, feet dipped in, watching. azzi exhales, slow, tries to settle the way her body still hums with nerves.

“you good?” paige asks, voice easy, head tilting just slightly.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she pushes forward, the water parting around her as she swims to where paige sits. she stops between her legs, lets her head tip forward, forehead resting against paige’s thigh.

paige doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift away. just smooths a hand over the crown of her curls, fingers lingering at the nape of her neck.

“i’m really scared,” azzi says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “i knew those girls.”

paige hums, a soft, knowing sound. “i know. jesus. i hope they catch those fucking freaks.”

azzi shifts closer, pressing her face into paige’s stomach. she clutches at paige’s back, now covered by an oversized camp shirt, fingers twisting in the cotton fabric. it’s a hold that feels instinctive, that’s symptomatic of the heavy intimacy of their friendship—something azzi’s done before, maybe a thousand times, but never quite like this. paige lets her, like she always does, one hand still at the nape of azzi’s neck, the other resting easy on her shoulder. 

she’s warm and solid. the kind of presence that makes azzi feel safer.

for a moment, they just stay like that, the quiet settling thick between them. the distant hum of crickets, the low lap of water against the mouth of the pool. paige is the first to break it.

“what, you think you’re in a horror movie or something?” she teases, but there’s something serious about her tone, too.

azzi huffs a quiet laugh, but it barely reaches her eyes. “maybe,” she mutters. “i mean the situation matches up.”

paige tilts her head, studies her. “you’d make a shitty final girl, you know.”

azzi scoffs, pulling back just enough to glance up at her. “excuse me?”

paige grins, slow, shifting the hand on her shoulder to tap a finger against azzi’s chin. “you’d be too nice about it. you’d try to help, and then—” she makes a little slicing motion across her throat. “lights out.”

azzi rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch, betraying her.

“lucky for me,” she says, resting her chin against paige’s thigh now, eyes flickering up, “i have a history of surviving things.”

paige hums, gaze first flicking behind azzi as if she can see the puckered scar over her knee from here, and then back to her face like she’s turning something over in her mind. then, with a quiet finality, she says, “hey. you’re okay.”

it should be comforting. it almost is. but it lingers, just a little too long.

and for some reason, it doesn’t feel like reassurance. it feels like a promise. azzi squeezes the sides of paige stomach and pushes past the unease in her own. 

“we both are,” she says.

𓇼 so, then it changes. no one goes anywhere alone, day or night. it takes some getting used to, the constant partnership. it’s more than they are used to, even as teammates. the extra measures come with their own irritations. 

𓇼 jana grumbles as she’s basically kicked awake by sarah to go to the bathroom with her at three in the morning. morgan’s nose twitches anxiously like a rabbit as she asks aubrey to come to get food with her at the mess hall, and the others try not to laugh when aubrey makes an off-hand remark about how she never realized just how much morgan snacks in a day.

𓇼 but azzi…azzi feels a little like the chosen one. because god, paige never complains. 

𓇼 if azzi wakes in the early morning with an urge to pee, paige is already unlinking their legs in their shared bed and sliding out to go with her. when azzi can’t sleep and sneaks to the living room of their cabin, just to read on her own, paige follows blinking weakly like a child with her bedding over her shoulder. she shoves azzi to the side, sinking down into the ancient cushions and bringing the blankets to her chin as she easily falls back asleep. azzi will go to say thank you, to tell her she’s sorry, but paige will only reach out a large hand and squeeze azzi’s sweaty one as if to tell her knock it off. it’s what i’m here for. and it's vice versa. 

𓇼 things seem to calm down. maybe it really was just a freak occurrence. camp comes to a close and the girls move on to another one, this time a larger one interspersed with girls from other college basketball teams. no one talks about the volleyball girls. it’s the one silent rule: don’t ruin a good time with the ghost of the girls you once knew, please! and lock the doors behind you when you leave the gym late!

𓇼 but azzi doesn’t forget, and it turns out she’s right not to—because it happens again. 

𓇼 the morning it happens, the air tastes wrong as if the trees have stopped producing oxygen entirely. the counselors try to shield them from it, but there's no hiding this—another girl, another athlete, this time from duke, found behind the equipment shed. the world slows down, gets sticky and hot, and impossible. azzi is struggling to breathe, a hand over her mouth as she tries not to throw up. her other hand is occupied by ice’s tight hold.

𓇼 there are whispers of coincidence, of copycat killers, of something worse. the camp directors hold an emergency meeting. no one is to leave their cabins after dark. no one is to be alone, not even for a minute.

the shower runs too hot against azzi's skin, but she doesn't adjust it. her muscles ache from today's drills, the coaches pushing them harder than usual, as if physical exhaustion might distract them from the horror unfolding around them. steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until she can barely see her own reflection.

she hears the bathroom door creak open.

"just me, princess," comes paige's voice, casual and easy. "kk and ice went to dinner early."

azzi relaxes her shoulders, not realizing she'd tensed them in the first place. "be out in five," she calls, rinsing conditioner from her curls.

when she steps out wrapped in a towel, paige is perched on the closed toilet lid, scrolling through her phone. her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. she doesn't look up.

"they found her shoes in the lake," paige says, voice flat. "emma's. the duke girl."

azzi's stomach drops. "jesus."

"yeah." paige tucks her phone away, finally looking up. there's something unreadable in her expression. "you know what's weird? i had a conversation with her yesterday. about three-point shooting form."

azzi turns away, pulling a clean t-shirt over her head. when she looks back, paige is staring at her hands.

"you okay?" azzi asks.

paige nods, but doesn't speak. azzi runs a hand down her back as she passes her, at a loss for words.

later, as they walk to dinner, azzi can't shake the feeling that something is off. they pass the equipment shed, now cordoned off with yellow police tape that flutters in the evening breeze. she looks away, sickened by the sight of blood in broad daylight.

morgan jogs up behind them, slinging her arms around both their shoulders. "hey," she says, voice strained and far too bright. "you guys hear they're thinking about ending camp early?"

"no way," paige says immediately. "they can't."

there's an edge to her voice that makes azzi glance over. paige's jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in her cheek.

"i mean, someone's literally killing people, paige," morgan says with a nervous laugh. "seems like a good reason to shut things down."

"that’s not—" paige starts, then stops herself. "whatever."

she pulls away from morgan's arm, walking ahead faster. morgan gives azzi a puzzled look.

"she's just scared," azzi says automatically, defending paige like she always does. but the words feel hollow in her mouth. “she’s probably worried this will follow us home, you know?” 

they're almost to the mess hall when azzi realizes she left her inhaler back at the cabin. the thought of going back alone makes her throat tighten.

"i forgot something," she tells morgan. "can you—"

"i'll go with you, ma," paige says, appearing suddenly beside them. her eyes look different in the fading light—sharper, focused, a darker blue than azzi has ever seen them. "save us seats?"

morgan nods and continues on without them. as they turn back toward the cabin, azzi feels paige's hand slip into hers, their fingers linking with ease. paige squeezes it once.

"you good?" paige asks, the same question azzi had asked her earlier.

"yeah," azzi says, but her heart hammers in her chest. "just freaked out about all this."

paige's thumb rubs circles against azzi's palm. "don't worry," she says, voice soft. "i've got you. nothing's gonna happen to you. swear"

with a nod, azzi breathes out and flashes paige a soft smile. as they walk, she stumbles over a stick and looks down her eyes catching on paige’s feet. her eyes narrow slightly, focusing on the dark stain on the cuff of the left sneaker—something that looks disturbingly like blood.

“az?”

azzi looks up, and suddenly she can't quite remember if it was there before.

𓇼 as expected, camp is shut down. the girls are silent on the bus ride back to their university, terrified in their own way. it’s mid-july so the school lets them move in early, assuaging their parents’s questions surrounding safety with vague answers that do nothing to assure them. 

𓇼 the school is eerily empty on their side of campus; the off-campus athletic apartments even eerier. they stick to their buddy system. jana & sarah. morgan & aubrey. ice & kk. they’re sectioned off. every girl has their other half.  without question, they pair paige and azzi. 

𓇼 it should be relieving, but it only brings more observations to the surface. paige is evasive, leaving their apartment at odd hours and coming back even later. she tells azzi not to worry, that she’s just putting the work in to start the season right. she flashes that hollywood smile, her teeth bleach white, and blows her off with a quip: “maybe if you answered my texts before the week passes, ma…”

𓇼 and azzi, to her detriment, always laughs—so easily pulled into paige’s warmth, into the intoxicating orbit of being paige buecker’s favorite.

𓇼 they settle back into routine. the fear fades. well all fear except the massive amount belonging to one azzi fudd. azzi feels gaslit by everyone’s desperation to get back to normal. do they not see the pattern? the killers allow them to relax and then slice someone else up. 

𓇼 “you have got to chill,” sarah says one night, the girls getting ready for a night out. it’s somewhere different than their usual haunt. “i need to see the world outside of ted’s or i might just die,” jana had grumbled, grinning when yanna let out a laugh. azzi’s gut had clenched at the mention of death. 

𓇼 azzi presses her lips together, tries to focus on the strawberry sweetness of her lip gloss and the vanilla vodka taste of her breath. still, they slip out, saccharine and sarcastic. “sorry, it’s a little hard to chill when there are killers roaming and they haven’t been caught yet. but sure, i’ll try my hardest to be cool for you.”

𓇼 jana’s eyebrow raises and its at that second when azzi looks up to see paige leaning against the wall, her own blonde brow raised in agreement. azzi closes her eyes and huffs, scrambling up to storm into the kitchen and get another drink. 

𓇼 sometimes the girls forget just how mean and snappish she can be, especially when she feels overlooked. but paige knows, which is why she follows her. “az—” she starts, and azzi is already filled with irritation because paige had disappeared around two am last night and this time she was the one not answering her messages. when she came back she’d offered no explanation, rolling her eyes when azzi asked after her. so azzi ignores her.

𓇼 “az, i know you can hear me.” at this point, all bets are off. she’s either murdering to her heart’s desire or sleeping with someone azzi knows nothing about. she doesn’t know which one makes her more ill. she ignores her best friend with fervor, reaching up to grab the 818 tequila placed dangerously at the edge of the highest cabinet shelf.

𓇼 her dress is deliciously mini, sequined, and a buttery yellow that paints a stunning contrast to azzi’s bronze skin. as she reaches higher, one leg leveraged on the counter to better push herself up, she hears paige let out a curt breath. she’s either getting annoyed or she’s seen the edge of azzi’s cream-colored, lace panties. 

𓇼 (it’s both.)

𓇼 they leave the house like that.

azzi’s pressed into the corner of the backseat, her cheek against the window, feeling the slow drag of streetlights flicker over her skin. the night is thick, humid, sticking to her bare arms, her exposed throat. up front, someone—maybe nika, maybe ashlyn—is laughing too loud at something on the aux, the bassline thumping low in azzi’s chest.

paige is next to her, legs sprawled, taking up space like she owns it. she’s been quiet most of the ride, one arm draped over the back of the seat, the other resting on her thigh, fingers drumming against ripped denim. azzi’s felt her watching, though—casual, weighty, something unreadable sitting low in paige’s gaze.

azzi shifts, her own patience thinning. “can you stop staring, please? thank you.”

paige doesn’t even blink. “then stop being so twitchy.”

azzi rolls her eyes, exhales sharply through her nose. “you’re so fucking annoying.”

paige’s fingers twitch, then move—quick, sure, catching azzi’s chin between them. not hard, but firm, the kind of touch that says pay attention.

the car isn’t moving fast, but everything inside it tilts.

paige leans in, close enough that azzi can smell her—the faded trace of her cologne, something clean, warm, uniquely her. their friends are right there, blessedly oblivious, but it suddenly doesn’t matter. the space between them is tight, electric, stretched thin like the air before a summer storm.

"azzi," paige murmurs, low, almost thoughtful. her grip tightens, just a little. "don’t piss me off right now."

azzi stills. it’s nothing, just paige being paige—too confident, too rough, all bark with a bite she only ever shows on the court. but something in the way she’s looking at her now—head tilted, eyes dark, mouth set like she’s waiting for something—makes azzi’s stomach flip, cold and hot all at once.

for a second, just a second, she’s scared.

and paige sees it.

the shift happens so fast it barely feels real. paige lets go, leans back, scoffs like azzi’s being ridiculous. the corner of her mouth lifts, teasing, but her eyes are still watching, still waiting.

"damn, princess," she says, voice easy, lazy, as she settles back into her seat. "you dramatic."

azzi forces a breath past her lips, unclenches her jaw. she looks away, out the window, at the blur of streetlights sliding past.

she doesn’t say anything.

but she knows paige felt it.

and worse—paige knows she did, too.

𓇼 they make up within the week. it’s not really the plan, but things change when another girl is found dead and gone. this time it’s a neighboring university’s tennis prodigy, her dark hair gleaming wetly across the pavement as she presses a hand to the neat crescent across her neck.

𓇼 she wants to go home. she wants paige. azzi ignores the guilty looks the other girls send her as she’s proven right. instead, her mind is whirling. there’s no connection between the victims, at least none that she can see. the killer (killers?) are doing this for fun, for sport. for sport. wait. 

𓇼 the campus becomes a ghost town as news spreads. three more volleyball players from neighboring schools are found dead within days of one another. the pattern is undeniable now—athletes being targeted, sliced up with precision. azzi's phone chimes constantly with texts from her parents begging her to come home. she doesn't tell them that she's secretly packed a bag, ready to run at a moment's notice.

𓇼 security increases on campus. guards patrol the athletic buildings, checking IDs at every entrance. the team is assigned a personal security detail that follows them to and from practice. it should make them feel safer, but the constant scrutiny just reminds them of the danger. morgan complains about it the loudest, says it's making her play worse. paige stays suspiciously quiet during these conversations.

𓇼 azzi starts noticing things. small things at first—paige's late night disappearances becoming more frequent, the way morgan tenses whenever the murders are mentioned on the news, how the two of them exchange glances when they think no one's watching. one night, azzi wakes to find paige's bed empty, and when she checks her phone, there's a text from morgan: roof in 10. it wasn't meant for her.

𓇼 a memorial is held. everyone wears black, everyone cries. morgan the hardest, paige the least. her face is almost carefully blank. when jana breaks down during her speech, azzi watches paige's expression—there's no sadness there, only impatience. that night, azzi googles "sociopath traits" and then immediately deletes her browser history.

𓇼 geno cancels practice after another body is found—this time it's someone from their own school, a soccer player azzi shared an english class with last year. the girls gather in kk and ice's apartment, seeking safety in numbers. "we need to stick together," paige says, her hand finding azzi's under the table, squeezing once. azzi notices how paige's eyes never leave her face, watching her reactions with an intensity that makes her skin prickle.

𓇼 azzi can't shake the feeling she's being watched. not just by paige, but by someone else—someone in the shadows. she starts looking over her shoulder in the hallways, jumping at every sound. "you're being paranoid, princess" paige tells her, but her eyes are watchful, protective. that night, azzi finds a note slipped under their apartment door: hope you had a great day, a! it might just be your last.

𓇼 she shows it to paige, who crumples it in her fist, jaw set in a way azzi has never seen before. "no one's going to touch you," paige promises, voice low and dangerous. "not while i'm here."

𓇼 they decide to go out again one night, all of them, a desperate attempt at normalcy. the bar is crowded, loud, and for a moment, azzi can almost forget. until she sees nika and paige in the corner, heads bent close together, nika's hand on paige's arm like she's stopping her from something. azzi watches them argue, watches paige's face harden before she stalks off to the bathroom.

𓇼 when azzi follows, she finds paige gripping the sink, knuckles white. "i can't keep doing this," paige says, not looking up. she stops when she sees azzi in the mirror. "can't keep doing what?" azzi asks. paige's smile is strained. "can't watch you keep torturing yourself," she says. "you're safe with me, ma. you know that, right?"

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer her, because paige is so obviously lying to her. so, she only extends her hand. “c’mon. let’s go back.”

the bar is loud, too loud, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clinking of glasses and the occasional laugh. paige is over-compensating, those oceanic eyes flickering over the crowd with that signature cocky smirk, and azzi can’t help but notice the way her attention seems to settle on the girl at the bar, the one who’s been giving paige lingering glances all night.

azzi's irritation bubbles up in a slow burn. it’s not jealousy, of course. no, she’s just—well, it's not like that. she crosses her arms tightly over her chest, trying to hide the way her jaw clenches. she’s tired of watching paige flirt with random girls like it doesn’t mean anything. it doesn’t mean anything, she knows that. oh my god, there’s a killer on the loose. this is not the time. 

but something about the way paige does it, so casually, so effortlessly… it’s like she’s throwing it in azzi’s face, just because she can.

"hey, you’re gonna let that one get away?” the girl at the bar smiles at paige, leaning forward just a little too much. azzi rolls her eyes at the way it pushes her cleavage up. what a slut. 

she feels terrible as soon as she thinks it.

paige laughs, clearly enjoying the attention. "maybe, maybe not. who’s to say?"

azzi feels a knot tighten in her stomach, the familiar burn of irritation seeping deeper, until she can’t take it anymore. she storms out of the bar, muttering something under her breath about goddamn bullshit.

𓇼

the cool night air hits her as she steps outside, the weight of the world following her like the world’s most suffocating blanket. she walks fast, not caring if the killer is nearby. let them come. she’s tired. she’s tired of pretending like she doesn’t care, tired of watching paige flirt—no. she’s just tired of this. of living her life in fear, of housing a deep paranoia inside of her, and being unable to trust the people she previously loved without question. 

behind her, paige’s voice breaks through the quiet night. “azzi.”

azzi doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t even turn around. “i’m surprised you even noticed i left. what, got bored of flirting with your latest victim?” the choice of words is intentional, and azzi takes great satisfaction in the silence that follows.

paige’s footsteps speed up, and she’s beside her now, matching her pace. “what the hell is your problem?”

azzi rolls her eyes. “i told you, nothing. it’s whatever.”

“don’t give me that,” paige snaps, stepping in front of azzi, her arms crossed. “you can’t just walk off like that, azzi. you gonna walk around alone at night with a maniac on the loose?”

azzi bites her lip, prays for patience. “oh my god, paige. what-the-fuck-ever. go back to her. she’s waiting.”

and there it is—the envy slips out, biting and sharp. azzi curses herself immediately, but paige catches the hint, that flicker of something in her voice. she raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“oh. oh, that’s not fair.” paige leans in a little closer, her gaze dropping to azzi’s pursed lips, making azzi wish she could not feel the way her chest tightens. “you want me to go back, huh? c’mon. use your words, mama.”

azzi seethes, but she won’t admit it. “it’s not like that, paige.”

“sure, it’s not.” paige grins, leaning back casually against the nearby streetlamp, clearly not ready to let it go. “so you’re mad because…i’m just having a little fun. that it?”

azzi turns away from her, irritation boiling over. “you know what? i don’t need this,” she huffs. “i’m going home.”

paige lets out a soft laugh, but there’s something different about it. she’s amused, but there’s an edge to it now, like she’s not ready to back off.

“azzi, stop this shit. you’re not walking home alone, alright?” paige grabs her by the arm, pulling her back gently when azzi tries to shake her off.

“actually, i think i am. i don’t need you, paige.”

“mm, yeah, you do.”

paige steps in front of her, blocking her way again. azzi’s about to argue when she realizes—paige’s not going anywhere.

“get in the car, az.”

“no.” azzi stands her ground, but she’s not fooling anyone, least of all paige.

“fine,” paige shrugs, and before azzi can react, she pulls her over her shoulder with one swift motion. azzi squeals, kicking her legs, the sound of her protests echoing in the night.

“hello! put me down, paige! i’m wearing a mini skirt!”

paige doesn’t even flinch, holding azzi firmly with one arm. “ain’t nobody looking.”

azzi’s face flushes a soft, dusky red as paige strides to the car, not letting azzi squirm free. “stop it! paige madison, you better put me down right now.” she slaps paige’s back, half laughing, half annoyed.

paige doesn’t answer, just opens the car door and tosses her inside as if she weighs nothing, sliding into the driver’s seat in a matter of minutes. “there. isn’t that better?”

azzi’s breathing hard, a mix of frustration and something else. paige catches her eye, and for a moment, the world feels oddly still between them.

“whatever,” azzi mutters, but it’s a little softer this time, the tension in her voice barely there. 

paige’s smirk never falters. “you’re welcome, princess. feel free to use the drive home as a chance to fix that attitude.”

azzi grumbles, sinking back in her seat, but she doesn’t argue anymore. she just watches paige drive, the weight of everything pressing feeling a little lighter now that they’re together.

𓇼 the campus goes on lockdown when another victim is found alive but badly injured. she describes her attacker as tall, athletic, wearing a mask. "there were two of them," she says. "one did the cutting. the other held me down." azzi is in the library when the alert comes through. she tries to call paige but gets no answer. when she finally reaches her, paige sounds panicked. "where are you?" azzi asks. "on my way to you," paige says. "don't move. please, az, don't fucking move."

𓇼 but this is a slasher, so of course, azzi moves. she wants to get to her best friend who sounded terrified out of her mind. but when azzi steps out of the library, someone grabs her from behind. she feels the cold press of a blade against her side, hears a voice—distorted, but somehow familiar—whisper in her ear. 

𓇼 azzi’s chest heaves in shallow, terrified gasps, her fingers slipping against the cool steel of the knife handle as she grapples with her assailant. the force of the attack knocks her into the corner of the hallway, and she barely catches herself before she’s on the floor, hands shaking, blood trailing from a shallow cut on her arm.

𓇼 the world is spinning, the air thick with the acrid scent of fear and sweat. azzi is crying—really crying, the kind of sobs that break you down from the inside. it’s not supposed to be like this. she’s not supposed to be here, in this hell, with a blade pressed dangerously into her ribs.

𓇼 “please—please stop,” azzi wheezes, her voice breaking in ways it’s never broken before, raw and desperate. tears spill down her cheeks, streaking through her makeup, and she’s shaking—shaking so hard she can’t breathe, her lungs fighting the air like they’re full of water.

𓇼 “azzi!” paige’s voice cuts through the haze of panic, thick with rage. it’s a sound Azzi hasn’t heard in a while—feral, protective. it’s all the warning azzi gets before paige is there, hauling the killer off her. she’s never been more grateful for location sharing. 

𓇼 “get the fuck off of her!” paige screams, her grip vicious as she tosses the killer aside, sending the ghostly figure sprawling into the wall. her anger is palpable, her voice high with fear, her stress pushing her past the normal calm. azzi’s reminded that they’re both just young women, college students trying to stay alive in a way they didn’t have to before, and she feels so ashamed that she ever suspected her. 

𓇼 azzi, gasping for air, curls into herself, her hands trembling as she presses them to her stomach. she can’t stop the sobs. Every breath feels too hard, too sharp. the pain from the cut doesn’t matter. it’s the terror that makes her break.

𓇼 paige drops to her knees in front of her, her hands shaking, trying to find zzzi’s face. her phone clatters out of her pocket.  “az, baby, please. please, look at me. it’s okay, you’re okay.” the older girl is borderline hyperventilating, casting panicked glances over her shoulder at the limp body of their unknown attacker. “i need you to move your hands, okay? just move them. i need to see how bad it is.”

𓇼 azzi’s eyes are wide, glazed with fear, but it’s the tremble in her voice that cuts paige deeper. “it hurts, p… it hurts so bad. i don’t want to die…”

𓇼 the words slice rip paige like a bullet, her heart almost collapsing at the sound of them. she doesn’t care if she’s bleeding too. she doesn’t care about the rest of it. she just needs Azzi to be okay. “i told you, ma… i told you, you’re not gonna die, alright? you ain’t going nowhere, you hear me? i got you. i got you.”

𓇼 the killer groans, rising with a hand to their masked head. “fuck!” paige whispers. “az, baby, we gotta move. ‘m gonna carry you.” azzi groans in pain as paige practically hauls her in her arms. “i know. i know, princess. fuck, ‘m sorry.” 

paige is pulling azzi into the bathroom, her grip firm but not hurting. she's trying to keep herself grounded, trying to focus on the fact that at least in this moment, azzi’s with her. paige’s chest is caving in with the force of her fear—she can taste bile in her throat—but she’s trying to stay quiet.

“shh, shh, baby…” paige’s voice is low, like she’s trying to coax azzi to stay calm, and her hands are already moving over azzi’s skin, lifting her shirt to see the damage, all business, checking for injuries, feeling for anything that could give her a glimpse of what’s happening underneath. 

and then her fingers brush over azzi’s ribs, her stomach, and there's a faint tremble in azzi’s breath, and there’s this sudden tension between them, a pressure rising along azzi's spine. 

azzi’s heart is racing, her breath ragged, but it’s not just from the pain. the nearness, the intimacy of it, the feeling of paige’s hands on her skin—it’s like fucking fire. the tenderness of paige’s touch, the way she moves so carefully over her body, it should be comforting but it’s only electric. azzi can't stop the warmth rising in her chest, can't ignore the strange pull of need that refuses to fade, even here, even now, in the middle of this absolute nightmare.

“please don’t say it. don’t you fucking dare, paige,” azzi chokes out, her voice shaking, half laughing, half sobbing, as she wipes her eyes. it’s too much. too much emotion, too much fear, and too much everything.

“you’re good, ma,” paige mutters, her thumb brushing over azzi’s stomach, gentle despite everything. “i’ve seen you like this before, don’t act like it’s new.” there’s a certain gruffness to paige’s words, like she’s pretending she doesn’t know the effect of the situation.

azzi huffs a little, trying to hide how embarrassed she is, how exposed she feels under paige’s touch. “i’m not wearing a bra,” azzi whispers through her tears, an attempt to divert attention from what was happening. it’s absurd, even in the face of this horror, how awkward she feels.

paige’s grin is soft, the kind of smile that azzi wished was occurring in a situation better than this. “ma, i’ve seen it all,” she teases, that teenage boy bravado in her tone. “we’re best friends. besides, you look good, like always. that ain’t new either.”

azzi laughs, but it’s broken, her body trembling with the sudden onslaught of pain. the adrenaline is wearing off. the blood, the fear,—it’s all so real, but somehow paige’s words make it feel like a momentary sick joke at a really intense tailgate. she can’t help it. she hits paige’s shoulder, weakly, but paige just takes it, laughing a little.

“not the time, az,” paige says, trying to keep things light, but azzi can feel how her voice shakes, how she’s keeping it low to not attract attention. and then, just like that, the sound of a booted footstep outside the door cuts through the tension. paige freezes, her eyes darting toward the crack under the door.

azzi, still struggling to breathe normally, goes stiff. her hands instinctively press against her stomach, trying to hold in the pain, trying to keep herself from falling apart.

“shit.” paige’s voice is even quieter now, the heat between them suddenly shifting, turning to a survival instinct. “we gotta go. now.”

paige doesn’t give her a second to argue, her hand on azzi’s back, guiding her away from the bathroom door, moving like they’ve practiced this a thousand times before—silent, swift, desperate.

𓇼 they spend hours in the police station, paige getting more and aggravated as the officers keep pushing for answers they don’t have. “what do you mean did they leave clues? bro, isn’t this your job?” azzi focuses on not having a panic attack. its only when the officer that seems to irritate paige the most dares to insinuate that maybe azzi should’ve been more careful that she realizes paige may recreate the crime scene. 

𓇼 “come on, p. i want to go home.” paige shoots the man another glare and wraps a hand around azzi’s waist, using her phone to call them an uber. 

𓇼 if azzi thought paige was clingy before, she was absolutely oppressive now.

azzi steps into the bathroom, about to close the door when paige’s voice calls out, “azzi, come on now, let’s use our brains. you know i’m not letting you even shower alone after all this.”

azzi rolls her eyes, trying to shut the door but paige’s arm is already wedged in, blocking it. she sighs, giving in. “paige! you can’t just follow me everywhere.”

paige raises an eyebrow, her tone completely unbothered. “girl, this is a classic horror scenario. haven’t you seen psycho?” she leans against the counter, casually pulling her phone from her pocket.

azzi stares at her in disbelief. “are you seriously standing there while i’m trying to take a shower? get out! go sit outside like a normal person!”

paige grins, looking incredibly comfortable in the moment. she’s changed and swept her hair into her signature slick-back bun, her bright blonde strands falling in just the right way, a thin silver chain resting around her neck. her sweatpants hang low and loose, and the black tee paired with it does wonders to show off her biceps as she crosses her arms. 

azzi shifts on her feet, feeling a strange pulse in her chest. she’s not sure if it’s from frustration or something else entirely. her gaze flickers down to where a tan strip of skin is revealing itself just above the rim of those damned sweats, and she unconsciously squeezes her legs together. paige notices, her smirk growing wider.

“be lucky i ain't coming in there with you,” she teases, her tone cocky as she scrolls on her phone, clearly unfazed by azzi’s protests.

azzi huffs. “spare me.” paige looks up and raises a brow. “you wouldn't.”

paige shrugs, scrolling casually. “we’ll see. i’ll be right here if you need me.”

azzi folds her arms, feeling a little cornered by both the situation and the fact that paige looks really good right now. it’s enough to make her blush, and she tries to pretend like she’s not noticing. “paige, seriously. get out.”

paige smirks, her eyes not leaving her screen as she leans a little closer to the bathroom door. “that’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

azzi rolls her eyes again, clearly fed up but also a little flustered. she glances at paige, then starts to undo her socks, taking one off slowly like she's in no hurry to just give in to the absurdity of it all. the moment she takes the sock off, paige whistles loudly.

“god damn, look at you.” she crosses her arms again, shaking her head, completely over the top with her reaction.

azzi freezes, her face turning the color of a maraschino cherry. “read my lips, paige. get out or i swear to god!”

paige raises her hands in mock surrender, laughing at her best friend's embarrassment. “alright, alright, i’m leaving! no need to bring our savior into it. you know you love me.” she steps back, still laughing to herself.

azzi rolls her eyes, trying to pretend she's not still flustered, and waits until paige is out of the bathroom before she breathes a deep sigh of relief.

𓇼

when azzi finally steps out of the muggy bathroom, her satin robe clings to her body in a way she really wasn’t prepared for. it’s short, the fabric cool and slick against her skin in a lovely shade of emerald green, and it leaves very little to the imagination—especially with how it sticks to her curves, still damp from the shower.

paige looks her up and down as she passes by, eyes narrowing in an exaggerated once-over, her lips curling into a smirk. “my god, az, you really trying to make me feel some type of way right now, huh?”

azzi huffs and quickly pulls the robe tighter around her, trying to ignore the avid embarrassment creeping up her spine at the way paige is looking at her. “oh my god, can you not?”

paige raises a brow, stepping closer, still completely unbothered. “what? you look phenomenal, mama. stop trying to act like you don’t know.” she steps in front of azzi now, blocking her way, a wicked grin tugging at her lips. “you could at least act a little embarrassed. i’m not the one who came out here in the world’s shortest robe, babe. that’s your problem.”

azzi tries to shift away, but paige reaches out and places a hand on her stomach, pressing gently—so gently, though azzi still sucks in a breath. the wound. the pain of it.

azzi’s breath hitches at the sensation, and she freezes. “p,” she starts, her voice wavering just a little, “seriously, it’s fine. i’m okay. we’re fine..” but she knows they’re not, not completely. not when the pressure of her best friend’s hand on her body sends an inebriate mix of heat and anxiety coursing through her.

paige doesn’t move, her thumb running in soft circles over the satin. the moment hangs there, both of them silent and unsure. she looks azzi in the eyes, her cocky mask slipping, replaced with something more raw, more vulnerable than azzi’s seen in a long time.

“that was way too close, az,” paige mutters, her voice low and almost trembling despite herself. “i’m not trying to be disrespectful or anything, but i wasn’t—i didn’t think it was real, y’know? like, it was always happening to other people, but then it was you—and that shit scared me.”

azzi looks up at her, the words hitting harder than she expected. it isn’t what paige usually says. it’s not the same sure, settled paige who never gets rattled. this is different. and it makes azzi’s stomach twist in a way she’s not sure she wants to think about right now.

“hey,” azzi starts again, her voice a little more sure this time. “i’m okay this time. really.” but the words feel thin. 

paige doesn’t pull back. she presses just a little harder against azzi’s stomach, right where the wound is, and for a split second, azzi feels like she can’t breathe. but it’s not pain—it’s something else. something that makes her flush. paige stares down at her for a long moment before taking a step back, but not without catching azzi’s gaze. her voice is back to being light, the flip switched but the edge of uncertainty still lingering there. 

“next time,” paige says, crossing her arms and giving azzi an appraising look, “i don’t care if i gotta lock you in a damn safe. you ain’t going anywhere without me. not even to pee. got it?”

azzi laughs weakly, but it’s forced. she’s shaking her head, though the tightness in her chest doesn’t loosen. “yeah, whatever, paige. you really think you can keep me all locked up?”

“trust, i will find a way. better start growing those curls out and change your name to rapunzel,” paige says with her trademark megawatt smile. 

azzi just sighs, rolling her eyes. “you’re so—.”

before she can say more, paige adds, more softly, “i’m serious, az. i’m not letting anything happen to you. i look after what’s mine.”

azzi’s heart thumps hard in her chest at the words, and she looks away quickly, brushing a wet spiral of hair behind her ear to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. before she can respond, paige’s phone buzzes loudly, breaking the tension between them. paige glances down at the screen, and her expression hardens. 

“i have to go,” she says. “i forgot i promised kk help on an assignment.”

azzi gives her a small, searching look before nodding. she watches her go, her stomach beginning to crawl with that uneasy feeling that only arises when she senses a lie.

𓇼 azzi wakes to the sound of the front door closing. it's three in the morning, and paige is slipping back into their apartment, her steps careful, measured. azzi pretends to be asleep, watching through slitted eyes as paige peels off her jacket, revealing a white t-shirt stained with something dark. 

𓇼 paige's hands are slightly trembling as she stuffs the shirt into the bottom of the laundry hamper. when she turns, her face is hollow, haunted. she looks at azzi's sleeping form with an expression that's almost tender, almost desperate. azzi squeezes her eyes closed, a single tear rolling down her face like a saltwater diamond.

𓇼 but like all things do, it comes to a head. paige is right back at it—the lies, the exceptionally late nights, the brushing off of azzi’s concerns. “so, you can be worried about me, but i have to play it cool?” she yells at paige’s retreating back. paige turns to face her before she slips back into her bedroom. “you got it, ma.”

𓇼 it's stupid and slick and she’s so obviously being cute and—why the fuck is it turning azzi on?

𓇼 regardless she’s had enough. so, azzi takes things into her own hands. 

the sound of the front door unlocking makes azzi tense, fingers curling around the blanket draped over her lap. the tv hums softly, casting pale light over her bare arms, her collarbones, the rise and fall of her chest. 2:47 am.

paige steps inside like she owns the place. she’s all black and strategic shadow, hoodie zipped up, joggers hanging low, her hair twisted into that stupid bun that looks effortless but isn’t. there’s something different about her tonight, something undeniably thick in the air between them.

azzi swallows. something is off. something's been off. she tries to find her strength from before.

paige kicks off her crocs, stretches her arms overhead, and looks at azzi with that familiar, lazy smirk. "damn, you almost scared me. you waiting up for me, princess?"

azzi doesn’t answer. just watches. the way paige moves—calm, controlled, unbothered. like she wasn’t just out in the dark doing god knows what.

paige tilts her head. "silent treatment? that’s crazy."

azzi’s stomach knots. she should just say it. just ask. her eyes flick up—linger at paige’s bun. she sees it now. the dried rust clinging to the strands, almost lost in the honey-blonde.

"there's blood in your hair."

paige stops in front of her, close enough that azzi can smell the warm spice of her cologne, something deeper beneath it. her grin flickers, like she wasn’t expecting that.

then she laughs, low and amused. "yeah?"

azzi nods, her throat dry. she’s suddenly so aware of her body. "yeah."

paige’s gaze dips. a quick flick—barely there—but azzi feels it, the weight of her eyes dragging down to the square neckline of her top, the way it presses tightly against her skin and pushes up her tits. it’s so quick she might’ve imagined it, but when paige looks back up, there’s something else in her face, something dark and hungry.

azzi’s heart skips.

paige leans in slightly, all sharp eyes and quiet hunger. "take it out and see." she grabs azzi’s wrist and presses it against her scalp, her fingers warm and firm over azzi’s skin.

azzi’s pupils blow wide. her heart slams into her ribs.

"see, az?" paige murmurs. "you’re just as bad as me."

azzi rips her hand away and backs up. paige follows, smooth, easy, and unhurried. azzi’s breath catches—there’s nowhere to go but down the hallway. she moves before she can think, turns—but paige’s voice follows her, teasing. 

"aw, don’t do that, princess. you know you can’t run from me."

azzi doesn’t listen. her socked feet slap against the hardwood as she bolts, and she almost slips, rounding the corner toward her bedroom. she doesn’t make it. paige is already there.

azzi’s breath shudders. she saw her in the living room. she just felt her presence behind her, but now she’s in front, her body loose and relaxed against the doorframe. 

azzi skids to a stop, heart hammering. paige just grins, cocking her head. "that was cute."

azzi’s stomach drops. she whirls around, runs back through the kitchen—paige is at the fridge, watching her like this is all some kind of game. azzi stumbles, chest heaving. she didn’t even hear paige move this time. didn’t realize how close she was until—

she trips.

a sharp gasp rips from her throat as she hits the floor. she scrambles to get up, but paige is already there, grabbing her ankle and dragging her back, slow and deliberate like she has all the time in the world.

azzi twists, pushing up onto her hands, her breath ragged, sweat clinging to the hollow of her throat. she might be screaming, but she can’t tell. her curls stick to her forehead, her lip combo still glossy, her skin warm and glowing in the dim light.

paige watches her struggle, mouth curving into something that shouldn’t be so blatantly fond. and then, low and appreciative: "jesus, ma. this top."

azzi gapes. “you can’t be serious right now.”

paige laughs—actually laughs, full and throaty, before ducking down and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to azzi’s throat. azzi jerks, whimpers as a slow heat floods through her. 

"paige—"

"relax, baby," paige murmurs against her skin, lips grazing the pulse pounding at her neck. "you know i’d never hurt you."

azzi squeezes her eyes shut, chest heaving, fear and something unidentifiable tangling in her stomach. then paige pulls back, sighing like this is exhausting for her. she reaches into her hoodie, pulls out something small and sharp—a knife—and flicks it across the room. it clatters onto the hardwood.

azzi stares.

paige cups her face, tilting it up, her thumbs pressing gently into her cheeks. "look at me."

azzi does, breath uneven, her throat tight.

"i’m not gonna hurt you," paige says, softer this time, steady and sure. "you know that, don’t you?"

azzi’s lips tremble. and then the tears spill over. she makes a choked sound, shaking her head, her breathing turning sharp and uneven.

 "please," she whispers, voice cracking. "please, paige. you’re lying to me, i— i thought we were best friends. what did i do wrong? what—whatever it is, i’m so sorry.”

paige freezes. her face twists with an emotion so raw, that azzi is unsure if there’s a name for it. “azzi—”

azzi wrenches away from her grip and pulls back, hands tangling in her curls, her whole body wound tight. "there’s always two of you, right?" she gasps, voice rising in panic. "oh my god, i’m gonna die."

paige’s expression crumples. "don’t you dare say that shit."

azzi flinches, still hyperventilating, her shoulders rising and falling too fast, her vision swimming. paige exhales sharply and moves, pressing a steadying hand to azzi’s waist, keeping her from stumbling. 

"azzi, you can be pissed in a minute, mama. swear. but i need you to calm down first."

azzi blinks up at her, dazed, ribs aching.

paige tightens her grip, her voice dropping into something warmer, more familiar. "need you to breathe for me, baby. please."

and somehow azzi listens. her breath hitches in her throat as she slows it down, lungs expanding in time with paige’s steady exhalations, but it’s the space between them that feels suffocating now. paige’s grip doesn’t loosen. azzi thinks of her promise from before: i don’t care if i gotta lock you in a damn safe.

azzi’s fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt, her skin still slick with sweat, as her mind races to catch up with everything that’s happening. that flicker of fear still burns deep in her chest, but—god, she’s so close to paige. too close. her neck is still tingling from where paige kissed it, the skin still warm and alive from her touch.

but paige… paige is a killer. the killer.

she tries to pull away again—shaking her head, trying to break free from the grip she can’t seem to escape. "i—i can’t."

paige doesn’t let her go this time. instead, she leans down, their faces inches apart, her voice like honey and danger all at once. "you can, though.”

azzi swallows. "you’re not the paige i thought i knew."

a pause. paige’s eyes darken just the slightest bit, but there’s something else in them, something softer, a flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of regret. but it’s gone before azzi can pin it down, replaced by something colder.

"ma," paige says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something that cracks in a way speaks to her. "azzi, this ain't easy for me either. i didn’t—this isn't the person i wanna be in front of you."

azzi’s breath hitches. "then don’t be." she shakes her head again, frustration boiling over. "i don’t understand, paige. i don’t even know what’s real anymore."

paige’s hands tighten around her wrists, gentle but firm, and for a second, it feels like she’s holding herself together instead. "what’s real is my promises. i swear to god, az,  i’m not gonna hurt you."

azzi laughs, but it’s hollow, the sound falling against the floor. "how do you expect me to believe that?”

“you do believe that. that’s why you suspected me for so long and didn’t say shit.” azzi freezes. "you know why i keep you close? cause you make me wanna be better."

azzi scoffs, eyes wide. "what? it’s not my job to save you, p.”

paige leans in, her forehead brushing against azzi’s.  "but you do it every day. you’re the one thing in this world that still feels right. and i’m not about to let anything happen to you. not now. not ever."

azzi’s heart tugs with the weight of paige’s words. the sincerity in her voice wraps around her like a velvet rope, pulls her closer. but then—then—the cold reality crashes back in. azzi shakes her head, her eyes filling with that uncontrollable fear again. 

"i can’t be part of this, paige. i can’t be in this world with you. it’s too much. i don’t—i don’t know who you are anymore."

paige’s expression hardens, but she doesn’t let go of azzi’s face. "you do know me," she says, a soft, dangerous promise in her voice. "i’m still me. the same person who’s been by your side, who’d do anything for you. i swear, azzi, you’re all i care about."

azzi blinks, her vision blurry through the tears, her chest tight with the weight of it all. "then why—why do you hurt people?"

paige’s jaw clenches, the shadow of the killer flashing across her features again. but when she looks at azzi, it’s with something broken. "i’m trying to protect you. to keep you safe, az. you don’t get it. i’m doing this for you."

azzi shakes her head, backing away again, her hands trembling. "you’re still lying."

"no," paige breathes, reaching for her again, but azzi pulls back, pacing quickly, hands tangled in her hair again, trying to pull herself together. "please, just calm down. i need you to calm down, baby. we’ll figure it out."

azzi whips around, her hand swiping at her eyes. "i can’t figure this out, paige! i can’t! you’re not just a friend to me, you’re— i can’t lose you, but i can’t do this either!"

paige’s face softens, and this time, she steps back, giving azzi space, her shoulders sagging just slightly. "i’m not going anywhere. not unless you tell me to."

azzi pauses, her breath still coming in jagged bursts. "why wouldn’t i tell you to leave?"

"cause you love me," paige says simply, but it’s not a boast. it’s the truth, in a way azzi can’t ignore. "and i love you too, maybe even more. and that’s enough. it’ll always be enough, azzi. just trust me."

azzi’s breath catches. "you can’t make this go away, paige." and suddenly she’s just so angry.

her hands curl into fists, eyes brimming with the weight of everything she's been holding in. she looks away, but paige reaches out, gently grabbing her chin. the touch is light but unyielding, pulling azzi back into her orbit. “hey, what are you thinking? talk to me.”

azzi stares at her for a beat, then explodes, words spilling out faster than she can control them. "you don’t get it! you’re so obsessed with how i feel, with fixing everything with me, you can’t even see how badly you’re fucking up. you don’t see it, do you? you just want the thrill of being the one i choose! what even is this? are you just throwing your whole life away for five minutes of fucking fame, paige? you can be so fucking selfish when it comes to me, and you won’t even admit it."

paige stands there, quiet for a second, then slowly smirks. “yeah, okay. i am selfish about you. i don’t see anything wrong with it. you right, ma.” she steps forward again, closer to azzi, inching her way into her space until there’s nowhere for her to go. “but that doesn’t mean you get to make me feel like shit for it. ‘cause you like being special.”

azzi’s breath stutters in her chest, caught off guard by paige’s rather self-accountable response. she opens her mouth to retort but doesn’t get the chance before paige leans in, close enough that azzi can feel her breath, her warmth.

“i know., i know. i’m not taking you seriously. i’m not listening. yep, for sure, ma,” paige murmurs. “just—”and then she kisses her. it's slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s not just about desire but about the release of it.

azzi kisses back almost immediately, closing her eyes and digging her hands into paige’s hair. she opens her mouth, and paige slips her tongue inside, dragging a hand down to squeeze azzi’s waist. azzi moans, whole body shivering as paige presses two fingers to her aching clit. the pressure is fucking divine, and something sickly sweet swells in her tummy.

paige is playing dirty, and azzi is finding it hard to claw her way out of the web her best friend continues to spin. 

she pulls back, blushing as a thin string of spit connects them for several seconds before snapping. 

“don’t think for one second that you’re off the hook,” azzi says, voice shaky and defiant. 

paige only grins, smug, and presses harder against her pussy, rubbing gently through the fabric. “mmhmm. you taste so good, you know that? like fucking sugar, just straight honey.”

azzi’s pulse is racing, her chest tight, and she’s this close to yelling at her again. “you’re not even listening to me,” she says, but it comes out as a half-sigh, half-moan.

paige doesn’t back off, though. instead, she leans in again, slow and steady, keeping the pace of her fingers up as if she’d always known that this was where they’d end up. she presses her lips to azzi’s again and again, and azzi, against all her better judgment, melts every time. the next time it’s paige who breaks their contact. 

"i don’t know how to make it go away yet,” paige says, her voice quieter now as she speaks to azzi’s earlier worries. "but i need you to trust me. please."

azzi hesitates, eyes still wet, her chest tight. her heart aches. but for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself believe in paige. just a little bit, just a little more.

"what are you protecting me from?" azzi whispers, voice barely audible. “is it someone else?”

paige doesn’t answer at first, just steps forward and pulls azzi into a desperate hug. that only confirms it. this other person, the second piece to this horrific puzzle, has it out for her. 

"you don’t have to worry about that, baby. i got you. always."

azzi wants to believe her without any reservations because she knows, on a level, that it’s true.

that’s the worst part.

𓇼 it turns out azzi can forgive a lot when it comes to paige. loving her is a part of her genetic code.

𓇼 it's what she was meant for, body and soul.

𓇼 fuck.

© hcneymooners.

[pedge-page]

Joel Dealing with Fam: Pool Days

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: baby Ellie remembers how to swim.

- - - -

Ellie knows how to swim. She went to all the infant swim lessons and survival trainings just like Sarah did. You have no fear of Ellie's swimming capabilities.

But at some point over the winter, she forgot she knew, and developed a fear of water. The four of you took a trip to the local pool, where Sarah and Joel jumped right in. Even as Sarah was determined to take Joel down with all her might (to absolutely no sucess) Joel still had his arms stretched out ready to catch Ellie to jump in.

Ellie--bless her bitty chubby soul-- had no interest to jump in. She was almost two at this point. Bucket hat and fat floaties on her shoulders, she twirled her fingers anxiously, looking away from daddy with drawn browns.

"Its okay, baby, daddy is gonna catch you!" He encourages, curling his hands towards himself in come hither motion "You don't even have to swim!"

But she shakes her head, running back to you and clutching your legs for dear life.

"That's okay Ellie. We don't have to swim today. Do you wanna sit with me?"

She nods, her head buried between your knees.

So you and Ellie sat on the hot concrete and watches curiously ad ants lined up, grabbed crumbs of discarded food, and filed away to their cracks in the sidewalk. She pointed to them curiously, only occasionally glancing at the pool before shifting away and dedicating all her focus on the very dry ground.

The next day, you sat on the shallow edge of the stairs into the pool. It took some coaxing, but Ellie sat on the dry edge, and only managed to dip her large toes in at a time. Sarah continued to climb atop Joel like a tree, grunting and trying to pull his chest down knock him under water, but he just kept grabbing her and yeeting her 6 feet in the air to splash back into the pool.

Next day, Ellie's ankles kicked in the water, but she was still too afriad to get in any further.

"I dont get it. She knows how to swim," Joel complained. His biggest gripe is why he has to bring all these floaties day after day if neither Sarah nor Ellie were using them. He was also feeling a big dejected. You could tell he wanted Ellie to trust him with this. He was a great dad.

"Its a mental thing..." it really was. You didnt have any other explanation for it. You weren't gonna traumatize her by pushing her in and forcing her to fight or flight.

The four of you got close to the edge. Ellie saw the water and immediately retreated back towards the furthest fence, more content with swimming in the artificial grass.

"I figured she'd want to get in with me," he pouts. Joel saw it all going differently. That Ellie would feel more comfortable being around Joel, even if he carried her all day in the water. He'd swear never to let a drop get on her. But not even her favorite man was enough to sway her.

Joel miller is a great father. A great husband.

You....

You glances at Joel, who's walking closer to the edge of the pool than you.

The thought breezes through your mind, and you come to the conclusion that you are not as great a wife.

using all your strength, you shove him off balance and send him flying into the pool without warning.

He has no chance to get his anchor as he goes crashing into the water, elbow and head first.

On cue, Ellie screams and immediately forced her fat legs to run as fast as they can, straight to the water. Eithout a seconds hesitation that she's had all week, she launches herself at full speed, scrunches her legs in the air and cannon balls into the pool butt first.

You must be a really bad mom too because You didn't expect her to just jump in by herself!!!

But to your immediately relief, she bobs her head up and starts frantically kicking and paddling doggy style to reach Joel.

Joel resurfaces, standing tall as the water was only deep to his waist, and shakes his head annoyingly. He frowns at you before realizing there's a very fast moving worm coming towards him-

"daDDY!" She shouts concerningly. Even though everyone else can clearly tell Joel is in no harm whatsoever, she still pants hard as she pettles her way to him like his life depends on it.

Joel blinks away the chlorine in his eyes, in disbelief at her sudden determination. "ELLIE! You did it!"

He reaches out and grasps her into his arms.

"I save DADDY!" She exclaims.

"Ahh.. I mean you didn't really..."

He glances up at you with eyes that signal to him to shut the fuck up.

"you DID! You saved me from drowning."

"All by myself!" She coos excitedly. "Daddy I swim!"

After that Ellie was completely comfortable in the pool, with Joel remaining a 4 foot radius at all times (knowing he could drown at any moment again).

"I wanna push him in next!" Sarah protested.

Ellie screeches "NO!" And defensively clutched Joel's whole head as she sat atop his shoulders.

- - - -

Taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop @himboelover @callsignwidow @wintersquirrel @fluffygoffpanda @picketniffler @bbyanarchist @jeewrites

[amacaronexpert]

Fragrantia Fracta - A Fragmented Fragrance

TW: Slight Yandere themes, Dissociative Identity Disorder, slight violence, immortality, abuse, gore, gaslighting, manipulation, guilting and love bombing

A/n: I’m used to writing yandere characters, but seeing that there are no scenarios with this fine man, I’m trying to get one scenario in, (imma hyperfixate writing about this man now, so just ask what you want me to write about with him/them lol-)

Aleph (Yandere?) x Immortal! GN! Reader

Summary: Aleph gets a little too possessive of finally having someone who is “immortal” like him. Dr. Merlin is performing a “surgery” while you’re awake after an argument.

Breath in. Breath out.

That’s what you were advised to do when calming down… take in every breath and letting out in a slow moment, to take in everything slowly and methodically. Keep your head straight, vision clear, focus. Stop the shivering, the paranoid thoughts pushed down, just calm yourself.

Yes….. take it in…. Nice and slow…. In…… out…… in and out, take in your breathes, no matter the smell, take in your breath. Take in the scent of permanent marker…. While anesthetic is pumping into your nostrils…. Take in the smell of the bitterness, the artificial…. Ignore the long winding halls of an asylum….. Take in the smell of alcohol while a pair of bright red gloves touched your skin, ignore the glinting metal of a scalpel entering your stomach….

What brought you here in the first place?…. You barely remember… but in the recesses of your mind, you remember all those years ago…

Outside. Where you take in the smell of the blooming flowers, the clash of freshly cut grass tickled your nose, the color entrancing your eyes as far as they can take up. It was a simple life. An ordinary life. Yet a day came, like many when they say ‘that day’, the turning point, the moment everything happened that set today’s events in motion. The moment their eyes settled upon the bright red hair.

Your eyes squinted, a bit weirded out, wandering around the South Americas, whether to explore the beautiful sights of nature to take in the human beauty of civilization, it didn’t matter, as the sight of him caught your interest…

It was strange that a man like him seems to possess such a unique scent… but you couldn’t tell it….. it felt too….. off. It felt…

It felt…..

A burning wheeze leave your mouth, suddenly snapping back to consciousness, freaking out in a panic, your eyes darting around and feeling bound to the cool metal table that you have been forced onto, the beats tightening on your limbs, sweat starting to fall out of your pores as you felt the warm yet cool touch of a glove, a pause in your actions yet the shivers, the tears mixed with sweat, your hair pooling over the table as you could barely move your head around. Yet the gloved hand’s touch on your hand was strange.

It felt too fake to be real yet not out of any sense of sympathy nor guilt in his actions, yet the intention was clear…… Calm Down.

A gulp was forced down your throat, the shaky breathes, trying to hold back the tears, wanting to plead, beg for the mercy, yet you knew better, this routine that was started long ago still could not be desensitized for you. Your mouth opened, taking in the anesthetic, breath in….. breath out….

Take in the smells. Ignore the oozing crimson from your open chest cavity, ignore the sight of white pale pink of seeing your own ribs, ignore the porcelain mask looming over you as the black hat covered the upper half of his face.

You can smell it…. That iron scent that never failed to make you sick, the need to throw up now felt impossible without your mind flashing an impulsive image of your stomach flailing in your open cavity.

That was the normality of dealing with Dr. Merlin. In his delusional state of his “surgeries”…… yet when it is over and done, you will have to deal with “them”….

The others that made up Aleph… at least in what you knew of them when forcefully being around Aleph for years.

On this journey of theirs to pursue transcendentality, or a concept of it, it was unknown to you, yet regrettably every day you start to understand them. Whether through the poetic rants of the visceral realism from the Idealist as he croons over your form obsessively, as though he finally found someone that could listen to his ideas and impulsive rants of how one should pursue transcendentality through literature. The Answering Machine’s distant yet clinging to you as a way to cope with being alone for far too long with the workings of his own head, hearing the others of his shared consciousness, someone that didn’t have a need for questions to be answered. Yet the worse of them was right here and now, someone that refused to let you go, someone that took things to the extreme, to make you understand why you need to be in line, not to be out of his sights or attempt to talk back, his obedient assistant. That’s what he would say.

Another piercing feel of a surgical tool, the scent of iron felt nauseous once more, you felt like crying, you felt like you wanted to actually rip at your own skin, the sickness of the squelching and the swell of bruises only for your skin to repair itself in a matter of brutal long hours and agony of the slow healing that felt like torture, feeling your ribs cracking, your body trying to focus on healing….

This surgery all stemming from an argument. A petty one. Yet it got heated when you attempted to leave, sure a temper was a way to express your feelings, your frustrations. Yet this time, it was at the wrong time. When it was Dr. Merlin’s time to be with you. You couldn’t take the operating room, you wanted out. You wanted out of this prison, out of this mess of a reality that was crafted by a madman. And as tempers flared, and your frustrations that you had usually kept to yourself, you didn’t know why, but you snapped, you didn’t want to entertain him anymore, you didn’t want this cycle to continue.

Oh how stupid you were to snap at the man that was holding the bloody saw.

A swift grab of your hair, the degradation of your being as you were strapped to that table as you attempted to apologize, the stress and struggle, the eyes widening as you remembered who you were talking to. It wasn’t the dreamily poetic whimsically patient, nor the distant advisor that stayed silent and tried to keep himself sane… it was a madman, the person that orchestrated, the controlling force that never dared to stray from his power.

And you were the fool that he was going to punish for challenging him. Essentially challenging his power. Questioning his authority. And over what? Freedom? A chance to get out of these halls that had only the scent of blood and bleach?…..

Oh there you are now, eyes staring up at the ceiling, the lights buzzing and burning your vision, but you were out of it, not realizing that now it was over. But it wasn’t for you, not when you were left alone, still restrained, still your blood oozing from the open chest cavity that threatened to be infected if it wasn’t stitched back up.

But how can you get infected? How can you bleed out? How can you even die when you can’t?

Every twitched muscle, every fiber intertwining back into the other, the slow reconstruction of skin, the brutal force still ongoing but it was from your own body, it was your fault.

Everything was your fault. It was your fault you made him angry, it was your choice to be around him, it was your curiosity that made him become fascinated by you. You could have never done it, you could have never stayed, if you had just never sensed the scent of rust….

But regrets could not be expressed, the numbness of the wounds, the anesthetics that finally kicked in just now numbing your senses like that of a mindless creature that was about to be ready for the slaughter.

Even as the straps loosen, the feeling of your cavity closing, the strobing lights dimming, the hours felt unnoticeable, it was eternity for you, the mindless numbing of your brain, your senses.

Your irises moved, a twitch, looking around to realize that you were being cradled as your chest cavity was still opened. The bright red gloved hands smelled of rust. Of iron. It smelled of wood…

The press of his body, the feeling of the warmth was a respite of feeling the cool, lifelessness of the metal table, your skin marked by the leather belts that kept your limbs from struggling, everything felt…….normal…. Everything felt like the end of the nightmare, the light at the end of the tunnel, a dim light.

The feeling of gentle touches, unprompted and once unwanted, yet now your body respond to the considerate touch, so starved of normalcy, of comfort that your mind desperately scrambled to appease Dr. Merlin more in hopes of that positive touch instead of that forceful and rough touch.

Despite everything, despite snapping at him, you felt a sense of calm, a sense of relief, yet the respite was never going to stay for long…..

“You know my forgiveness is limited…… but I suppose I’ll oblige in a moment of sympathy…. It must be hard for you to admit you were wrong….” Dr. Merlin said, a gloved hand stroking your hair, yet his head wasn’t looking down at you. He was looking at your chest cavity, like an artist gazing upon a canvas….. not satisfied…. Never satisfied with the result.

“It seems that the surgery needs improvement…. Perhaps we may yet rest now my dearest assistant. Save your apologies for later….” Dr. Merlin as your face fell, eyes watery yet too weak to properly express the distraught of going back on the vivisection table.

You can only close your eyes once the dimming lights started to turn more bright and strobing, just counting down the seconds, and smelling the strong scent of healthy tissue being peeled…..

[nqmonarch]

Just read a sad Jing Yuan fic (https://archiveofourown.org/works/49340614) for those curious and now I need to write Jing Yuan.

Kind of a continuation of previous fic about self aware Jing Yuan but you can read this without having previously read that.

You felt rather uncomfortable, as if you were always being watched in the world of Honkai Star Rail. You hadn't meant to come here, but it wasn't like there was much left for you in the real world. You'd lost everyone too, just like your favorite character. Speaking of Jing Yuan you'd yet to run into him.

It was strange, you belonged neither to the skies nor land as you found yourself dashing between the stars glancing upon aeons but rushing away before they ever noticed you. They were even more terrifying in person. You'd caught a glimpse of Nanook leading the antimatter legion, into an attack on Herta's Space Ship. The game couldn't even begin to showcase how terrifying he was, with lava flowing out of every crevice in his body and eyes that only knew pain. You felt like you couldn't sleep for a while after that, and ever since you'd come to this world you hadn't been able to sleep. The only positive side of the incident was that you knew where you were relative to time.

When you'd spent too much time dawdling in the stars, out of exasperation you managed to take a more human form once and ended up falling down onto a strange planet. But you immediately fled when people began to stare at you, and you easily found yourself above their planet again. You didn't know what you were doing but maybe you were starting to get the hang of it.

You dipped between planets and ships, treating space as water that you could glide through. Occasionally you'd want to rest and fall down to those planets and ships in the form of a shooting star, taking a more human form once you hit the surface.

It lead to some awkward situations as you weren't sure how to land. Once you crash-landed in a hotel with a teal pool in the middle, in the pool was a strange gray haired individual with wings on his head. You shot out of there moments later, briefly apologizing for damaging the property. Other times you'd land in the middle of nowhere, an unending field, a forest with trees so tall you couldn't see the sky, or a snowy landscape. You were sure that you'd visited Jarilo-VI with the last one. Eventually you got good enough at visiting planets that you wouldn't take form until you hit what was considered the ground there, you were still working on being able to choose where you land though.

You'd been floating about for a week or two, with little stars, planets, or ships in sight. It was as if you were in a dead zone. But you eventually came across something, a long pale green ship that moved leisurely throughout the skies. Bored, and tired of gliding through space you did something you normally didn't do and fell down to the ship. You didn't normally visit ships since every part of them were populated and you randomly appearing was sure to cause some commotion. But at this point you couldn't care less.

You felt your body phase through the ship's exterior, and its artificial sky until you landed on some grass. You landed rather gracefully, especially considering that when you started landing on planets you'd collapse to the ground in a ball. Now, you touched down on them like a dancer, pointed feet reaching out to the grass and letting you hop out of the sky.

It was a rather sophisticated ship, few sought to replicate what life was like on planets, few tried to cultivate and improve life. The first thing you did was check for any onlookers, there was no one in front of you, or to your left, or right but when you turned around, you saw one singular figure.

His shoulders were slightly slouched, his head was slightly downward. Disheveled bangs covered golden eyes which didn't glow with the confidence of a lion, or the love of the sun, but instead were dull with the sorrow of a man who has seen his life fall apart in his hands and has had to build it back up piece by piece. He didn't have his signature mischievous smile which you'd always seen in the game. And you were aware of how you'd accidentally intruding upon Jing Yuan's alone time, his defenses, completely worn down and tired, finally slipping off his face.

But when he looked at you his lips opened, but didn't speak, instead remaining slightly ajar. His head tilted up as his eyes locked onto you. You'd interrupted him, but he didn't seem upset, and a fake smile didn't float to his face. He was disbelieving.

Jing Yuan, unbeknownst to you, had seen the beauties of his past truly fall apart today. He'd seen Jingliu fight Blade, and Dan Heng was aloof to it all. Jing Yuan was the only one affected. The only one who still remembered it all, who held the burden of the whole truth. Perhaps, he was the only one who still loved the others. But that love was turned against him-- like stained glass shattering and sinking into his skin, waiting there to be pushed in further whenever he remembered the High Cloud Quintet.

But then there was you, and he knew you. He didn't know how you looked, how you sounded, he was dimly aware of how you felt through the barriers that the world had constructed. Your hand on his head, out of comfort, had felt so warm. In that dream shared between you both, when you'd appeared so blurry in his mind but reached out for a hug and he'd evaporated before your eyes. He'd put his hand on your head, and felt both love and dread.

He felt the comfort he'd always longed for from someone, but terrifyingly enough he felt himself begin to care for you. He began to care for you, someone he'd never met, more than he cared for anyone else. If you were to die, or lose your mind, if you were to turn into someone else to the point you were no longer yourself. Jing Yuan wouldn't be able to handle that. So he shunned away those feelings, knowing nothing good would come of a love this strong. It didn't matter anyway since the two of you would always be separated by some invisible barrier, which he still longed to break.

He said he gave up on you. But he never could. The same way he was unable to give up on his friends. Jing Yuan was a weak man, who felt like he could only find strength when he had nothing left to lose. Weeks ago your presence had disappeared and with it everything was gone, except for the fear he felt. He hadn't worried at first, brushing it off with ease as he did with everything else, but after the first few days he couldn't run from his feelings anymore.

Jing Yuan analyzed everything you'd said, every encounter the two of you had, he asked around to anyone who may've had similar experiences, and he came to a conclusion. Other people had felt your presence before, albeit none as attached to you as him. And from those other people, he realized, this was all a game. All of his suffering, all of his pain, everything he'd gone through was just to make him an interesting character.

But if it felt real to him, and to others, then why couldn't he be real? For now, he was just a game character to you. You could start playing with other characters, never choosing Jing Yuan again, and he would be left none the wiser. You could stop playing the game whenever you wanted to, and he would be left none the wiser. You could die, and he would be left none the wiser. The fact that he could think, and even come to this realization, assured Jing Yuan that he was more than a game character. A game, was simply the method used to connect your two worlds. And Jing Yuan would be damned if he couldn't find a way to hear from you again.

He would always be the general of the Xianzhou Luofu and he would always put the safety of the Luofu first so long as he was general. So it was even more important to prepare Fu Xuan to take his position, so he could spend the little time he had left, before he would become mara struck, and find a way to talk to you. He'd never expected that you would find a way to come here of your own accord, especially after he'd gone through such a terrible day.

It was like a gift from the universe.

Of course, you couldn't help but think the same as you saw your favorite character in front of you. It was like a gift from the universe. You took a step closer, the grass tickling your feet, and then you took another step. You moved rather slow, unsure about how Jing Yuan felt about you, reading the emotions on his face you'd never had the chance to see when he was a game character. You didn't get the chance to overthink about it, as he took long fast strides, quickly outpacing you and wrapped his arms around you pulling you close.

His shirt was billowy and soft against your skin, but it was just thin enough you could feel the heat from Jing Yuan's body mix with yours. He was real.

"It's wonderful, to finally meet you." His voice was deep and began to crack near the end of his sentence a weakness, unbefitting of a general, entering his voice. It was the weakness of a human.

You couldn't help but smile during your embrace, resting your head against his skin, hearing the soft beating of a heart. "I missed you," You couldn't help but say, despite the fact you'd never met.

Jing Yuan rested his head near yours, "I missed you too." It was like you were a pair of lovers reunited after countless of centuries trying to find each other. A pair of people who couldn't help but love everything in the world until nothing in the world loved them back. And when the lack of love hurt to the point of death, they'd find each other and learn to love again.

You didn't need to speak, nor communicate, a quiet understanding echoing between the two of you. A hot tear hit your face, and you looked to Jing Yuan seeing his eyes water, and leave streaks down his cheeks. You pulled his face closer, and kissed each wet spot taking the pain and leaving nothing but love behind. His arms clutched your waist, like you were a buoy and he was a man lost at sea.

Throughout everything the two of you have faced, you were both finally home.

me: the temptation to write self indulgent jing yuan fics vs wanting to fucking write my story

it's always a losing battle or maybe it's a win idk

[sterifels-blog]

Chiaroscuro

part one of eyeless jack x f!reader

🔗 masterlist

quotev: more chapters posted! always updated first

chiaroscuro - a technique that uses strong contrasts between light and dark to create a sense of drama and intensity

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There is a man on your porch.

You don’t realize it at first. Not fully. The moment is slow to reach you, like a radio signal threading its way through static—present, but distant. You are washing dishes, half-lost in the mindless repetition of warm water and ivory suds, when the porch light hums awake. It flickers against the windowpane, casting dull reflections across the sink. You don’t look up immediately. The sensor has always been sensitive. A possum, a stray cat, the wind. But then the light doesn’t turn off. It lingers, buzzing faintly against the stillness of the night, and something in your chest twists—small, instinctive, just enough to break the rhythm of your movements.

You glance up.

You stop. Doe, doe, doe. Freeze.

The kitchen clock ticks— slow, steady, unbothered—as the world around you shrinks. Outside, beneath the humming light, there is a shape. A figure. Slumped against the wooden railing, body half-turned away from the door, unmoving but present in a way that makes your breath stutter. The porch is old, the wood split and faded from years of sun, brittle where the rain has sunk in deep enough to rot it from the inside. You have always been able to hear the groan of it under the weight of a body, the slight shift of nails tugging against their sockets. But there is no sound. No movement. Only stillness, thick and weighted, stretching out between you in the cool press of autumn air.

Your fingers tighten around the ceramic dish in your hands. You hadn’t dried them. The water clings, sliding in cold trails along your wrists, settling into the fine grooves of your skin. The dish soap smells like artificial citrus, too bright, too clean, too sharp against the scent of damp earth curling in through the open kitchen window. The night is heavy with petrichor, the remnants of earlier rain pooling in the cracks of the driveway.

And then—copper.

It is subtle at first, something that only registers when you inhale too deeply, the scent weaving itself between breath and bone. It does not belong to the air, to the damp leaves, to the quiet hum of crickets hidden in the grass. It belongs to something raw. Something wet. Something alive— or, at least still is trying to be.

A prickle runs down the length of your spine, slow and methodical, an animal’s reaction to a threat it cannot yet see. You could almost hear the warning signs of your mother. Tail flagging, stomping, blowing. You're a fawn that should duck– tall grass as kitchen cabinets; but your gaze shifts, following the dull shine of porch light against fabric. His hoodie is dark, though not from the night alone— the cotton clings, stiffened in places, torn at the sleeve where the sickness of his arm is exposed. The flesh there is not whole. It is broken, slick with something that should not be outside of a body, the wound deep enough that even from here you can see the edges struggling to knit themselves back together.

He’s hurt.

The thought lands softly, but it does not settle. Instead, it presses at the edges of something deeper, something far more difficult to place. You should be afraid, a stranger at your portal. You should move— reach for your phone, make yourself smaller, step away from the glass. But you don’t.

Instead, you stare, bystander to your own gossamer heart. Not at the wound, not at the sluggish way he breathes, but at him.

The mask is strange—smooth, impersonal, a void where a face should be. It swallows the light without reflecting it, as if the space where his eyes belong is nothing but absence. You cannot tell if he is watching you, cannot feel the weight of a gaze, but there is something in the way he holds himself—silent, waiting. Not quite expectant- but present. 

And then, as if sensing your hesitation, he shifts.

It is slight—nothing more than the slow tilt of his head, a minute adjustment of posture—but it sends something cold curling through your stomach. The movement feels deliberate, calculated, a message that does not need words to be understood.

He knows you see him — he, if its the only thing that could be assumed by the stature of his wilting frame. 

Something heavy settles behind your ribs, pressing against the delicate space between thought and reaction. The weight of it is unfamiliar, a new shape cut from an old instinct, carved from the marrow of something deeply human.

He does not speak. Neither do you. Because the wood and sand are nature's natural hermetic against sound.

The silence stretches between you, thick and unbroken, until the night itself begins to breathe. The wind shifts through the trees, sending brittle leaves skittering across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, sharp and startled before quieting again. The house settles, wood stretching in the cool air, the refrigerator humming in the background, indifferent to the moment unfolding before it.

And still, he waits.

You do not remember when your hand moved to the door. You do not recall crossing the space between the sink and the threshold, do not register the cool press of the brass knob beneath your fingers until it is already there. The motion is instinctive, thoughtless, something that happens to you rather than because of you.

You turn the lock.

The softest of sounds, but it cuts through the silence like a thread pulled tight. The porch light flickers, washing his mask in brief, golden light before it fades again, the night stretching long and undisturbed beyond him. The door groans softly on its hinges as you pull it open. The air shifts, cool and damp against your skin, carrying the scent of blood, of rain-soaked leaves and something deeper, something raw. He does not move, does not rise or push forward, does not make any effort to meet you halfway. He only waits.

The moment stretches.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the edge of the door, searching for something solid, something familiar, but when you speak, your voice is neither firm nor distant. It is quiet, soft in the way of things meant to soothe.

"Oh, Sir.., come. Come inside," you murmur, barely above a breath. "You’re hurt—"

His mask tilts. Not much—just the smallest adjustment, as if he is studying you, parsing out the shape of your voice, the meaning behind your words. The wind moves again, slipping through the open space between you, and something fragile lingers there, not in his deck of cards, but in yours.

You step back, leaving the door open. An invitation. It is cold, the air— numbing the the tips of your fingers in dull tickles. 

For a long moment, nothing happens, and you think, just perhaps, a mortician will be taking the stranger off your hands at any moment. Or maybe he just does not speak your language—. Then, slowly, stiffly, he moves. Not with force, not with confidence, but with the careful weight of something testing its own limits. His breath is measured, his steps deliberate, and when he crosses the threshold, there is no sound but the whisper of fabric, the chalkboard grinding of boots shuffling against worn wooden floors.

He does not speak.

You only watch as he straightens, as the mask shifts slightly in your direction, as if to gauge you one last time. His presence fills the space, dark and unfamiliar, the scent of blood curling through the air between you. Still, you do not step back.

Instead, with a touch as light as moth wings, you press the door closed behind him.

[royalpain16]

Anmer Hall has frequently hosted the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their three children during school holidays and, more recently, during national lockdowns.

The couple homeschooled their children from their Norfolk home during 2020, and they continued to conduct royal engagements there via video calls, which gave the public glimpses of the “countryside bolthole”, as Hello! describes it.

A source has told People that “there’s no airs and graces” at Anmer Hall, which is very much “a normal, busy family home”. Little is known about the inside, which is purposely “kept very private”, but its contemporary interiors are reportedly testament to Kate Middleton’s “accessible style choices”, a style advisor told the Daily Express.

The country pile is located in the Queen's Sandringham Estate, and was gifted to the Duke and Duchess by the Queen following their wedding.

The family home’s history

Originally constructed in 1802, Anmer Hall was home to the family of Hugh Van Cutsem Snr, the late university friend of Prince Charles, and visited by Princes William and Harry when they were children, Town and Country reports. Van Cutsem Snr's sons, William and Nicholas, are godfather to Prince George and Prince Louis respectively.

Anmer Hall reportedly has ten bedrooms, and boasts both a swimming pool and private tennis court. Following the birth of Princess Charlotte in 2015 the couple took up full-time residence in Norfolk, as William focused on his family and flying career with East Anglian Air Ambulance.

Since then, William has given up his flying career to take on more official royal duties and, with Prince George and Princess Charlotte now at school in South West London, the family had been spending considerably less time in Norfolk prior to the pandemic. It is, nevertheless, a firm favourite of the family for school holidays.

Refurbishment and renovation

The installation of a new orange roof

The couple spent several million pounds refurbishing the Georgian mansion. Documents posted on the King’s Lynn and West Norfolk Borough Council website showed that the prince and his wife had applied for planning permission to demolish their existing tennis court and create a new one with an artificial grass surface a little further from the house.

The plan was part of a “comprehensive overhaul” of the grounds at Anmer Hall, intended to improve privacy for William, Kate, George, Charlotte and Louis. They are also said to have a new “glazed garden room” and a new kitchen, where the couple reportedly spend a lot of time socialising. The Queen “couldn’t get her head around” this habit when she first visited them at Anmer Hall, one insider told the Daily Express: “In her mind, that is where all the kitchen staff work.”

Images of the "old kitchen" that was replaced (The Everett's are bespoke kitchen designers who previously leased Amner Hall)

Refurbishment for the vast house, described by the Daily Mail as a “secluded fortress”, was largely paid for by the royal family from private funds and is reported to have cost £1.5m. The decor has been brought into line with the royal couple’s tastes, and involved an extensive tree-planting programme to afford the Duke and Duchess greater privacy.

The property was also given a new orange roof, visible in the picture below.

The Duke and Duchess have also completed a £4.5m refurbishment of their residence in Kensington Palace, Apartment 1A, which was formerly the home of Princess Margaret.

Royal Respite

Anmer Hall itself is a “comfortable, unpretentious Georgian” building, says art historian Sir Roy Strong in The Telegraph. With large sash windows, Anmer “has a gentleness to it”, but it is well located with ready access to the Duchy, Windsor, London and several racecourses.

“There is very little going on at all at Anmer,” one source told the Telegraph. “It is certainly not a social hotbed and there aren’t any fabulous shops to visit.”

The royal family are able to go about their business in privacy there with a “battery” of close protection officers on duty round the clock and all visitors “closely monitored”, the source said.

Since their wedding in 2011, both William and Kate have been spotted in the local area shopping, visiting pubs and taking the children to enjoy activities such as pottery painting. The Duchess is also known to have taken up beekeeping, a popular pursuit of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall, too

Inside the Household

The Duke and Duchess have tried to keep their household staff “to a minimum”, Hello! says. In March 2016, they placed a discreet advert in The Lady magazine, which gave a “fascinating glimpse” of what life is like at Anmer Hall, “a life with children, dogs and jovial family meals at its core”, says the Daily Telegraph.” The couple were keen to emphasise in the advert that “discretion and loyalty is paramount.

However, it appears working in the royal household is a tough job. In May 2017, the Daily Mail reported that a housekeeper who earned £35,000 a year to cook, clean and shop for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their children in their Norfolk home quit her job after the post became “too demanding”.

Sadie Rice had worked at the couple's country home for two years, but reportedly refused to spend more time at their London home, Kensington Palace.

Utmost Privacy

Following the birth of Princess Charlotte, police in a Norfolk village near Anmer Hall handed out letters warning the media not to harass the royal couple, saying William and Kate had asked photographers to respect their privacy after being subjected to “a number of intrusions” by paparazzi with long lenses.

The three-paragraph letter said that the couple “have a more than reasonable expectation of privacy” while they are at Anmer Hall and on the Sandringham Estate.

It continued: “There have in the past been a number of intrusions into the privacy of the Royal Family which in the main have been as a result of professional photographers using long-distance lenses, not only to observe the Royal Family, but also to photograph them going about their activities on the estate.” As Town and Country notes, “A no-fly zone over the property likely does more to thwart the paparazzi, though.”

[storycraftcafe]

An Uncommon Witness

[Inspired in a big way by a larger project idea that's crawled out of the quagmire. Barely edited and written in one sitting. Enjoy. TW for blood and inferred gore.]

Detective Harper arrived on scene damp and annoyed. Three days of heavy rain had flooded enough streets to clog up traffic, making travel a miserable affair. Even now it rained, the air heavy, humid, and stifling in the early morning, heavy clouds hanging low overhead as they threatened to drown half of Southbank. 

At least he didn’t have to stand around in it, like the poor bastards guarding the scene's perimeter from absent crowds.

Ducking under the white and blue police tape, Harper nodded in greeting to Constable Myles, huddled in her raincoat, moisture trickling down her dark tan cheek. 

“Another one?” Harper asks, loud to be heard through the rain, and Myles nodded, lips twisting.

“Same M.O., same symbols,” She said and they walk off path, sodden grass sucking at their boots. “Tourists found the victim on the walkways by the 88’ Pagoda, preserved. Whoever did it hung up a bunch of tarps to keep it clear from the rain.” 

“They want us to see, you think?”

“Haven’t been shy so far,” Myles shrugged a shoulder, the walkie crackling with chatter, barely audible over the din. “Maybe they wanted the rain off while they worked. Either way it’s the same. One victim, killed on scene in a ritualistic manner. Area around the body painted in blood, presumably coming from this and previous victims if the patterns consistent.”

“We know who it is?” Harper asked as they climbed broad stairs leading to the pseudo tropical-rainforest and wooden walkways meticulously maintained by the grounds crew. A popular spot in the sprawling parklands, it was a little respite from the sun and heat, nestled between the oversized ferris wheel and a whitewashed block of overpriced restaurants. If the rain hadn’t kept the tourists and locals inside, the horror on display would be plastered all over social media.

“Yeah. Mark Cooper, forty-five years old, an IT specialist, works across the river in the CBD.” Myles flipped over a water splotched page in her notepad. “Like the other scenes, his clothing and possessions were left folded neatly to the side, wallet included, three hundred in cash plus credit cards intact.” They head up a concrete ramp and step under the cover of trees, the scent of rich soil cutting through the smell of rain and metal. Their boots thunk on the wooden walkway that twists and winds between ferns, trees and over a flooded artificial stream. 

Harper spotted the tarps immediately, four of them arranged to direct rain away from the naked, ruined body posed with terrible care. One leg laid straight, the other bent, foot behind the knee of the first. The arms were stretched overhead, palms upwards and carved into a bloody mess. Cooper’s skin had been painted with dull blue bands around his limbs and torso, framing the symbols cut into his skin. His face they left alone, eyes open, covered with a strip of hand woven cloth, his expression eerily at peace.

Around him, the dark, damp wood was marked with candles burned to nubs, the white wax pooling through the gaps of the walkway, stars in a constellation of dark bloody lines encircling the murdered man.

Forensic techs went about their work like plastic garbed ghosts, snapping photos, taking samples, hunting for prints, fibres, a scrap of something to give them a foot up.

Harper paid them no mind as he studied the tableau. The same pose, the same set up. A lot of work went into whatever ritual was being performed, a lot of care which took time and effort, likely more than one participant, even if Cooper had been drugged out of his mind like the other three victims. Some of the symbols had been recognised, letters a combination of runes and various occult symbols, the body itself laid out like the Hanged Man from tarot.

Despite the humid warmth, a chill enveloped Harper and he shivered.

“And no one saw anything,” he muttered. “Four scenes like this in a public space, hours of work at least and no one saw a god-damned thing!”

Myles opens her mouth as the radio on her shoulder crackles, the voice garbled and hard to hear.

She sighs and clicks the handset. “They’ve been fritzing all day. Repeat that, over.” She says and the walkie crackles again. Harper picks out one word from the noise. Witness.

“Where?” He demanded. 

Down the slope, towards the churning brown of the Brisbane river, a trio of constables shift, looking anywhere but the woman standing in the rain with a broad black umbrella. Tough boots, jeans, and a grey jacket, she stood still, patiently waiting as Harper paused by the officers. 

“We have a witness you said?” He asked Buckler, the oldest, a tall, broad shouldered man with a fishers tan. He grimaced. 

“We think we might,” He said with a pointed look at the youngest, his fresh out of the academy partner, Mae, a slight lean man of Asian descent. “Tell the detective what you told me.”

Mae’s Adam's apple bobbed as he licked his lips. “She turned up while we were securing the scene, didn’t ask us what was going on until we were done, just asked to speak to the detective when they arrived. She’s been waiting ever since.” Mae glanced at the woman, and cleared his throat. “Might just be a freak wanting a look.”

“Or maybe she saw something,” Harper said. “I’ll go have a chat, thanks Buckler.”

“No worries, Detective.” Buckler jerked his thumb and he and Mae head along the taped perimeter as Harper ducks under the tape again.

Outside the cordon, the air felt lighter, the sound of the rain sharper on the boardwalk. 

“You asked to speak with a detective?” he called and the woman’s umbrella tilts, showing a pale face framed by short choppy brown hair, eyes bruised and shadowed from lack of sleep, but clear and piercing, examining him as he approached. Mid-thirties, Harper guessed, no make-up, pierced nose, and clean. Not a vagrant, and if she used, she was sober for the moment.

“I did. Thank you for coming to talk with me, detective…” She trailed off and Harper nodded, pulling out his notepad and a pen.

“Harper. You are?”

“Anna Franklyn. With a ‘Y’.” Her gaze flicked past him. “Another ritual murder.” It wasn’t a question. 

Harper gave her a sharp look. “You know anything about this incident? Did you see anything?”

“I know what I’ve been told,” she said, voice blunt. “I didn’t see it, but I know who did. I’m here to help them talk to you.” Anna nodded her head towards the wooden Pagoda. 

Harper’s brows rose. “Help? You’re a translator?”

Something flickered in her expression, a flash of amusement that came and went.

“Of sorts. I don’t know how long he can hold on for so, shall we?” She started walking and frowning, Harper followed her, lengthening his stride till he caught up. 

“Just a few questions before we get there Miss Franklyn, what’s your relationship to the witness?”

“Known him for a few years, more of an acquaintance than anything else. When I heard the ritual took place here, I came to see if he saw anything.”

Harper’s frown grew as he jotted down a note. “How did you hear about it?” 

“After the first two, people started paying attention,” Anna said as they turned off the walk to climb the wide shallow steps leading to the hand carved pagoda, a relic left over from Expo 88. It was a narrow, spindly thing a few levels high, no steps leading up, no purpose save for decoration. “No one does that much work, with that much detail unless it’s building to something.”

“And you know something of these kinds of…” Harper trailed off, hoping for a bite. The more people said the more they gave away.

Anna glanced at him. “I know a lot.” She paused on the top step, and dug a hand into her jacket. “Detective, whether you accept it or not, the ones doing this believe in it. And your only witness needs your belief.”  From her pocket, Anna pulled out a small, squat jar, glass, the brassy top giving it away as a repurposed pot of Tiger Balm. She held it out to him, expectant.

Harper looked at the jar, then her, and then to the Pagoda, the doors usually locked for the night standing open. It was dark, a dim warm light glowing within. Another shiver crawled up Harper’s back.

“What kind of belief, Miss Franklyn?” He asked, looking past her. The closest constable was back the way they had come, and over the rain… Any trouble would be heard but he didn’t like distance.

“The hasty kind.,” Anna said, frowning herself. “Put this on your eyes and ears or you won’t get a damn thing. Waste time and you won’t get his account.” 

Harper narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m gonna need more information before I smear an unknown substance all over myself.”

Anna’s eyes flicked upwards, reminding him strongly of the popular girls in high school, forever impatient with his clumsy attempts to chat them up. 

“It’s oil, olive oil from Greece infused with rosemary and grave dirt. It washes off.” Anna said, opening the jar and with her fingers, dabbed a small amount around her eyes, over her lips and her ears. The jar was thrust towards him, Anna’s sharp gaze pinning him in place, not a hint of mischief or trickery on her face. “Consider, you have no fucking idea what’s going on and you want to know more. I want to help. If shit goes sideways you can arrest me. How's that?”

Harper blinked. She was dead serious. 

Glancing again at the Pagoda, the familiar structure somehow more ominous in the dim morning and the rain, looming above them like a silent sentinel, Harper considered. No harm in going along for some information, right? Back up was close by and the woman was a fraction his height and weight. He had good chances if it came to violence. Still, something in his gut worried at him.

“All right.” Harper took the jar, and dabbed his finger into the oil. It didn’t smell all that bad, felt a little gritty as he applied it to his skin and it tingled, warm and steadying. “Where’s my witness?”

Anna cocked her head to the side and beckoned, leading Harper towards the Pagoda, folding down her umbrella as she stepped inside.

“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said to the empty space. There was a wooden bench to one side where a black bag sat slumped to one side. A small candle on a tin dish burned, the flame flickering once. “The detective, Harper-” She paused, glancing back. “Inside, detective.” 

Harper scowled. “You know I can charge you with interference with an investigation, right?” He growled, stepping over the low wooden threshold. “There’s no one…” He trailed off, blinking against the dark. “Here?”

On the bench sat a man, wiry and thin, bony arms leaning on bonier knees, his neat shirt ruined by a single dark splotch dead center of his chest. He looked up from his hands, skeletal and long fingered, eyes milky, face gaunt. Solid and real but everything in Harper knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He hadn’t been!

“Tadaaa,” his voice rumbled, felt as much as heard and Harper gaped. His stomach had gone cold, like he’d swallowed a ball of ice, and inside his layers of rain coat and button down and vest, his skin prickled like he stood in a static field. 

“Wh-What the f-” Harper started and Anna gave him a hard look.

“Your witness. You have until the candle burns down. Fifteen minutes,” she said and looked at the man with an apologetic expression. “Cops.”

The man on the bench nodded as if he understood. “I saw. I saw it all. They called us to witness. Will you listen?” He asked.

Harper’s jaw clicked as he closed his mouth. “Everything?” He asked and the man on the bench nodded again.

“All.”

“Alright, uh… Sir…” Harper licked his lips and flips to a new page in his notepad. “I’m listening.”

The dead man spoke. Harper took his notes. 

Finally, he had a lead.

[autumnalwalker]

ROY G BIV tag

Thank you for the tag, @druidx. This looks like a fun new one.

Passing the (entirely optional) tag to @rickie-the-storyteller, @on-noon, @yourlocalboredprocastinator, @ghost-town-story. @broodparasitism, @itusebastian, @void-botanist, and an open tag for anyone else.

Rules: Search your your writing for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt

Red: Empty Names - 14 - Down Low

When Ashan finds her some ten minutes later with a satiated smile on her face and watching the spider pull in their stygian catch from the lake, the cut on Eris’s forehead has already healed.  None of the blood painting her new armor red is hers.

Orange: The Archivist's Journal, Day 78

As long as I’m writing, I suppose I ought to take a moment to describe the landing area.  It was another jutting cliff with an arch on the end, like Siren Overlook and the one we encountered to the west.  Twice could be a coincidence, but three times and I’m convinced the whole formation is artificial, not just the arch, columns, and pool.  It wasn’t nearly so overgrown as the western dock – if anything the columns were in better shape than at Siren Overlook – but whereas Siren Overlook was mostly covered in short grass with the occasional tiny white flower or stubborn shrub this was a veritable field of bright orange flowers broken only by the water lily filled pool running down the center.

Yellow: The Archivist's Journal, Day 60

Doffing my boots and carrying them in one hand, I waded in a short ways as I walked the perimeter of the spring.  It’s curious how unafraid the fish and turtles swimming the shallows were of me.  Most I could practically get within arm’s length before they darted away, and if I stood still for a few minutes, small schools of finger-length yellow fish would congregate in my shadow.

Green: The Archivist's Journal, Day 9

Hurrying to catch up with my young companion I pushed my way through the crooked door only to nearly trip over her.  The morning light had transformed the interior space from a surreal void to an awe-inspiring expanse.  Light filled the central nave.  As green leaf-filtered streams on the high side windows.  As vertical golden rays replacing the prior night’s columns of rain from holes in the roof.  As an iridescent wave coming in from the bare remains of a curved stained glass window backlighting the statue of the Reader.  All this reflected off the broad leaf and moss-filled puddles that stretched across much of the floor, still not evaporated days later.  The side aisles were a tangle of roots from the trees above, quite possibly doing as much to hold the structure up as the pillars separating aisle from nave.

Indigo: Witch's Testament: The Fighter

Weapons are raised and aimed.  The crowd begins to back away.  Someone above cracks a joke about how they should have just skipped to waving guns around if it was going to be this easy to solve the problem.

The crowd only backs off so far though, most that made it through the outer gate are still on the inside of it.  Those still stuck beyond push one another over the wall so some might get a better view.  A lone figure left behind by the receding sea of people remains standing in the middle of the reef of broken and smoking drones, tens of meters from the protesters behind him and the forces before him.  His dark clothes are long and billowing.  His pointed hat is wide brimmed to hide his face.  His serpentine familiar, assembled from scavenged and stolen parts, coils up one arm, over his shoulders, and down the other.

Someone in the line of hired guns makes an incredulous remark under his breath about cosplaying wizards.

The man corrects him to say that he’s a witch and his voice echoes through every loudspeaker, portable device, and auditory implant in the building.

The witch strides forward, his eyes glowing indigo from the shadows beneath his hat and matched by those of his slowly uncoiling familiar.

Someone gives an order to fire and an electrified dart wizzes past the unperturbed witch.  Six more darts miss.  Rubber bullets are loaded and combat implants lock in firing trajectories.

To the eyes of the security personnel, every shot should be a hit but impossibly passes through their target and out the other side.  To the eyes of the protestors the witch is walking through a hail of bullets that are all miraculously going astray.  To the eyes of the witch, every implant-assisted firing solution coming from the soldiers before him is being outlined in indigo and nudged to exactly where he wants it.

The witch has already crossed the security line and is on the steps of the building behind them by the time someone catches on and spins around to aim and fire manually.  His familiar rears up and hisses.  The shot goes wide as the entire security contingent seizes up, spasms, and falls to the ground.

The moment the witch crosses the threshold, every light in the building goes out, every door unlocks save for those to the roof and underground garage, and every camera becomes a witch’s eye.

Violet: A Dream About Purple

We are all too busy watching the game to notice anything wrong until a third team tries to take the field.  Their uniforms are purple and their hair appears to be dyed to match.  All of them wear the same vacant smile that crawled its way out of the uncanny valley and speak with offputting singsong voices. 

It is only then that we all look up and see the storm rolling in, stretching across the horizon with clouds of that same unnaturally vibrant violet.  Eerie music rides the wind ahead of the storm, heralding its imminent arrival. 

[lonestarsynthetic]

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Additionally, artificial grass is pet-friendly and safe for children, making it an ideal surface for play areas, dog runs, and public parks. With Fort Worth Artificial Turf, there’s no mud, no mess, and no maintenance headaches. It's a smart investment for families, businesses, and municipalities alike.

Conclusion

From aesthetic upgrades to unmatched durability, Artificial Grass Fort Worth TX is redefining what it means to have a beautiful, functional outdoor space. With Lone Star Synthetic Turf as your trusted partner, you can enjoy a greener, cleaner, and more sustainable landscape, customized to your needs and built to withstand the Texas elements.

For more information, visit the website: https://lonestarsyntheticturf.com/

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Transforming Outdoor Spaces with a Formal Modern Retreat Design

Creating a landscape that balances sophistication and comfort isn’t just a trend—it’s a timeless approach to outdoor living. The Formal Modern Retreat by LS Gardens Co. exemplifies this philosophy, blending clean aesthetics with thoughtful functionality. With design decisions that elevate both front and back yards, this project delivers a cohesive space that’s easy to maintain and visually captivating.

A Cohesive Vision from Front to Back

The hallmark of a Formal Modern Retreat lies in its intentionality. The front yard introduces the home with refined planters, symmetrical lines, and welcoming pathways. Meanwhile, the backyard offers a secluded oasis of calm built around a modern pool setting—designed to balance artificial turf with natural stone textures.

This project proves that great design doesn’t have to come with high maintenance. It’s about choosing the right materials and arrangements that create a visually pleasing and practical environment for everyday living.

Standout Features of the Design

Minimalist front entry planters that define the entrance

Use of artificial turf and stone for long-term beauty and functionality

Poolside symmetry that anchors the backyard visually

Low-maintenance landscaping with modern appeal

Balanced geometry and flow throughout both yards

Natural contrast using neutral palettes and clean textures

Seamless indoor-outdoor transition for year-round usability

Design Challenges and Creative Solutions

One of the key hurdles was finding harmony between stone surfaces and synthetic grass in the backyard. The solution was to layer textures in a way that maintained a soft, modern look without appearing too rigid.

Another challenge: selecting the right entryway pots for the front façade. The design team curated clean, bold pieces that complemented the architecture and created symmetry—enhancing the entrance without overpowering it.

Why This Design Works

The success of the Formal Modern Retreat lies in its dual focus: functional ease and visual calm. This design achieves:

Curb appeal that lasts

An inviting yet private backyard

A layout that supports relaxation and entertainment

Materials chosen for durability and minimal upkeep

Design choices that scale well for both large and smaller lots

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)

Q: What defines a “Formal Modern” landscaping style? A: It’s a combination of clean lines, simple plant palettes, and geometric balance, emphasizing order and elegance with a modern twist.

Q: Is artificial turf a good alternative to grass? A: Absolutely. It’s eco-friendly, saves water, reduces maintenance, and pairs beautifully with stone or concrete features.

Q: Can this style be applied to smaller yards? A: Yes. The principles of structure, minimalism, and balance work just as effectively in compact spaces.

Q: What are the best materials for a low-maintenance backyard? A: Artificial turf, natural stone, drought-resistant plants, and powder-coated planters are all excellent options.

Q: How does this landscape design boost home value? A: Well-designed outdoor spaces with modern, low-maintenance features increase curb appeal and overall property desirability.

Final Thoughts

The Formal Modern Retreat is more than a project—it’s a blueprint for elevated outdoor living. With thoughtful design, harmonious materials, and a commitment to long-term ease, this landscape sets a new standard for modern elegance.

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Artificial grass for swimming pools offers a beautiful, low-maintenance alternative to natural lawns. The best pool artificial grass combines durability, drainage, and a soft, natural feel underfoot. FieldTurf Landscape provides premium artificial turf grass designed specifically for poolside areas, ensuring quick drainage to prevent water pooling, resistance to chlorine and UV rays, and a lush look year-round. Choosing quality pool artificial grass enhances safety, comfort, and aesthetics around a swimming pool, creating an inviting and hassle-free outdoor oasis.