Welcome to the Chaos

ts3, I don't post regularly and tend to disappear like seasons. You'll find mature and possibly triggering things here, they'll be tagged accordingly

[winterspixels]

[nondelphic]

"why do you write?" because it’s the only way to silence the characters pacing around my brain like victorian ghosts with unresolved issues that prevent them from moving on.

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Happy Pride Month!

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Character Mood Board: Quentin Landers

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Character Mood Board: Brooke Hayes-Larsen

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Future Story Snippet

Tagged by @justanothersimsblog Thank you!

This is a very rough draft, and will most likely change as the story goes on.

"To be fair, I never received such an order."

"Regardless you reported that you took care of the matter."

"He's dead now, so this is all redundant," Chase shrugged, cocking his head in faux contemplation as he stared down the members of the Elder Council. "It's funny, though, how that order was never sanctioned by this council." Yet he was being condemned for it.

"You will hold your impudent tongue unless asked to speak."

"Tch, I've never taken orders very well." Hence why he was here in the first place. He thought they'd already established this fact, but he'd obviously overestimated their intelligence.

The guard standing directly behind him shoves him between the shoulder blades to his knees in forced submission. The cobblestones dig in painfully. He can feel the tip of a silver blade against the back of his neck in warning.

Not yet, he tells the part of himself that always called for blood and chaos. He had to be patient just a little bit longer.

I don't know who has and hasn't done this yet, so I tag whoever wants to do this :)

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The Shadow Prince let them weave their delicate web of puppet strings. They thought to bind him, make him bend to their will and whim.

They mistook his silence for complacency, docility. Too late, they realized they’d placed their greedy hands into the gapping maw of a feral beast.

[bebx]

my taste in fictional men is just the unstable, traumatized and dangerous ones who radiate strong "I'm not a bad dog. I'm a wounded and terrified dog who bites to survive" vibes honestly

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The wind picks up, carrying a whisper from a far-off place.

A storm is coming.

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Sam swayed, face going several shades too pale, vision whitening out and he fell sideways to the ground losing his battle with gravity. The traces of silver in his bloodstream were eating away at him like acid and the hits he'd taken before finally caught up with him. He didn't know what type of hell he was in for with this newcomer. It was pathetic how easy a target he'd made himself. His mother would have had his hide for his recklessness, he thought deliriously.

As he lay there waiting to meet his fate, he saw a pair of black dress shoes come into view. It suddenly occurred to him as he started to slip back into unconsciousness that the man must have come from the wedding as well.

“What am I going to do with you, Sam?” The words felt like static, but he knew the cadence of that voice now that it was closer, even filled with tired frustration, but before Sam could put a name to the voice, he’s gently picked up off the ground, cradled against the stranger like some damsel in distress. He’s too tired to protest, inhales the familiar scent of lightning about to strike, and then the darkness curled around him, claiming him once more.

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Sam wished they'd get on with it, because one way or the other his body couldn't fight anymore. Whether with his original attackers or the newcomer, he was done for. His ears were still ringing from where he'd been punched, blood leaching into his vision once more from his reopened head wound.

“Unless you wish to challenge me, I advise you to leave before I change my mind about letting you go unscathed.” He couldn’t hear it, but he could feel the growl behind the man’s words. A final warning.

There was a moment Sam thought the men would argue, would actually challenge the newcomer, but the wind shifted bringing the smell of petrichor, the calm before a storm mixing with the scent of blood. For some reason, the scent had Sam thinking of familiar emerald waters, and the fulgurite chunks he and his siblings would search for after a storm.

The tension broke, the men burst into motion, scrambling to throw down their weapons, and flit away from the predator that would dispose of them if they didn't comply.

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Slow clapping reached his ears as, yet another voice drawled as if bored from the entrance of the alley.

“You have to be particularly stupid to murder someone outside a public officials wedding. Especially, the High Elders. You never know who could be patrolling the area.”

“Y-You,” One of the men stuttered, the stale stench of fear suddenly made itself aware on the wind. Sam was suddenly curious who this newcomer was. Who could cow the Leader’s henchmen so easily with just a few words?

“Indeed," The man spread his arms out, mouth twisted into a condescending smirk. "Me. Now if you don’t mind exit's that way, boys.”

“But the Director said…”

“They're not here. I am, and as you may have heard, I’m not particularly known for my patience.” Sam heard the warning in the slowly spoken words, the tension in his assailants made his skin itch.

[munamarvel14]

Writing because murder is illegal, going to space is expensive and magical creatures apparently don't exist...

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Sam teetered sideways dangerously, a wave of dizziness threatening to yank him back under. Maker, everything hurt.

"Looks like prince charming's waking up." One man drawled from the shadows. Fucking finally, he sneered, took them long enough to notice. He could barely see the reflection of their silver blades from the lone streetlight. He really wished he could move.

Sam grinned through bloody teeth, growl building in the back of his throat.

"Sorry, I don't think I got an introduction."

A fist slams into his face, snapping his head back. Sam's vision goes worryingly dark.

"How's that for an introduction, wise guy?" The man sneered. Sam sensed the second man coming in to take his shot. Sam braced himself for a blow that never came.

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A storm is coming. The words came back with the impact of a death knell.

Where had he heard that?

He shoved the nagging thought away for later inspection. Sam had other things to worry about like the metal cuffs burning against the exposed wrists of his skin, and even though he had a hard time seeing through the blood that was trickling to a stop as he his healing factor kicked in. He just wished he could see, because he could sense his attackers were still lurking just out of reach.

They'd caught him off guard, thoughts lost in a twisted net of concern, as he'd left Roses’ wedding. He'd left her spinning around the floor with her new husband, blissfully happy. He's not sure what had given him away, or if he'd been made before then and they'd bid their time until he'd left.

Wouldn't want to interrupt the High Elders' wedding after all, he thought snidely coughing more blood up onto his destroyed suit. At least he had proof that the Leader was associated with the higher echelon of supernatural’s. Still didn't know who, but it was a start.

He'd been running into dead ends as the criminal underbelly had him doing petty tasks for the last six months keeping him far away from their ruthless mastermind. Sam had heard tale of a second in command, but the other peons clammed up even tighter than when he asked about the Director. It was infuriating.

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Sam clawed his way back to the land of the living, choking on air. His hands scrambled up towards his throat, but he couldn’t get his hands from behind his back. Silver burned hotly against his wrists where his torn tuxedo jacket had slid up. The sudden movement had a hot line of pain flaring brightly across his chest. He groaned, trying to clear the remaining haze from his thoughts while desperately trying to gulp down air.

Five years. He thought numbly even as he bit back another groan of pain. It had been five years since that night, and yet it still haunted him with crystal clearness.

"I forgot your birthday," He mumbled out loud, disoriented. The words wrenched from the darkest part of him feel like swallowing glass shards. The realization was like being stabbed all over again, and the blood pouring down his face and chest into what was left of his tux told him he had, in fact, been stabbed.

There was something else, someone else, but he trying to grab onto that part of the nightmare was like trying to contain smoke in clenched fists.

The smell of stale, rotten garbage, the tang of blood and rain on asphalt reminded him that he was in Bridgeport not Moonlight Falls and that his cover had somehow been blown to bits.

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A storm is coming.

I'm sorry.

Serena!