kitty-writes1373

[kitty-writes1373]

hi! can we get a fluffy Ian mckinley fic? Every single fic I’ve read with him has had me in tears and I don’t think I could handle anymore 😔

Outcasts

You find friendship and solace in the school’s misfit goth couple who share your cynical worldview as you navigate the everyday bullshit at McKinley High.

(Fluff, Angst)

1.4K Words

Warnings: Bullying mention, minor drug use, death mention

An: Thank you so much for the request! I often find myself imagining what it’d be like being friends with Ian and Erin, so a lot of this came from scenarios I already planned out! Anyways, thank you again, and please keep sending them in!

Airing your grievances over a little pot at the park was better therapy than money could buy. With how things were going with your parents, it would be the only therapy you’d be receiving. That place hadn't seen an actual child in years, but here you were, sprawled out on top of the metal play system among the dried foliage like sunning reptiles.

“Apparently, that shows ‘a clear lack of respect for the community’,” you sharply bracketed the words in air quotes, lamenting your recent trip to the principal’s office.

Ian’s dry cynicism was almost as dense as the cloudcover that blanketed the town, “When has McKinley ever been a community? It’s a town. You live here.” He took a deep pull, not hacking nearly as much as you’d expect for an asthmatic, “Community implies unity, togetherness- all that bullshit...” Given his family had owned this useless burg for the last three centuries, you couldn't help but find some irony in that.

Not lifting her head from where it was buried in her notebook, Erin piped up, “They should hire you as PR for the tricentennial.” You snickered at the notion: Ian McKinley, advertising board chairman…

He rolled his eyes, an extra hint bitter, "Yeah, because unquestioning celebrations of colonialism are right up my alley.” Nimble, white passed her the joint after taking a lingering hit himself. “I mean, what do we even have? Some racetrack?” Words dripping with sardonicism, Ian leaned back on the slide, “Our big cultural contribution: baking in the sun with the unwashed masses, watching stock cars go around and around in a circle…”

You smirked as Ian launched into the throes of Lecture Mode; it was your shared contempt for the mindless drones of this town that’d got you into their little closed off circle.

For that matter, you shared an awful lot in common with those two- Ian’s interest in the sciences, Erin’s love of poetry… She leaned toward you to whisper, “What’s a good synonym for ‘suffer’?” You racked your brain, picking at a windblown wood chip, “Torment, anguish, agony-“ “Agony…” A rare smile flashed across her lips as she scribbled something on the page, “Perfect!”

Erin’s painted fingernails twirled strands of inky, black no. 1 as her boyfriend rested his head in her lap. At her side, you had the honor of serving as Ian’s ottoman as he kicked his ankles up onto your thighs. The three of you found solace from the chaos that was the lunchroom- away from the incessant gossip, and the nosy teachers, and the assholes pitching tater tots down the back of your shirt- in the empty bleachers of the football field, which were currently freezing your asses in the early fall air.

With his jacked up sleep schedule, all Ian wanted was a few minutes of shut-eye before he had to return to that cruel terrordome of banality that is high school. But he just so happened to be resting in this pseudo-coffin position… “If I didn’t know any better,” you quipped with morbid fascination. “I’d think you were dead.” The fingers tracing Ian’s high, white forehead paused.

While Erin maintained that gloomier-than-though glamour, it was more for the fact that you and Ian were the only ones she felt comfortable being herself around. Privately, she wasn’t above the occasional theatrics- as is your nature as poetry prattling, all black wearing, satan worshiping freaks. See? Theatrics. Having known each other for so long, you and Erin had this silent language with these things, understanding indicated when she crossed herself- incidentally, backwards.

“Dearly beloved…” You dropped your voice to a solemn monotone, “We’ve gathered here today to honor the life, and death, of one Ian McKinley.” Though typically not one to participate in your dramatics, even your beloved corpse found it in his heart just this once, because laying still wasn't a tall order

Hell, you could have sworn you heard Ian stifle a snicker at his girlfriend’s phony wail of anguish. “What a shame! ” Erin sighed, “Such a promising, handsome young man… His life- snuffed out long before his time!” Pleased at her performance, you continued your undertaker spiel as a gust of wind blew his riot of black curls across his face. “Ian is survived by his dear Y/N, and his very dear Erin Ulmer- who request in lieu of flowers that contributions to be made in the form of clove cigarettes and dark chocolate, deposited at-“

The gym teacher supervising the class period that was out playing kickball or something strode on to put an end to your tragic affair. Ah, so much for respecting the dead… “McKinley- what in god’s name are you doing?” Not too happy to be dealing with this guy after having passed out in his class twice last week, your corpse suddenly animated himself to kindly inform the man in question. “This is our lunch hour. We all have off-campus privileges…?” he asked, as if this was something obvious.

Resisting all the ‘necromancy!’ jokes that you could make, you piped up, answering the question he was about to ask, “it’s a living wake- a celebration of life before it is lost!” Well, it’s hard to argue against that… Assuming this was just some weird trend and, fed up with the usual bullshit that comes with being a high school gym teacher, he wearily shook his head and walked off.

Every year, McKinley High held a compulsory field trip to the local history museum- more of that community building bullshit. Apparently, it was some historic town and blah, blah, blah… Flooding in the front doors, the gaggle of students followed behind the chipper tour guide who was rambling on already. But instead of going off at the lady explaining the friendly, peaceful early settlers and leaving out all the murder and the smallpox- for so grossly misrepresenting history, Ian fell out of step.

Anticipating a rant from him, the silence was a signal for you and Erin to see what he was rubbernecking at. Looking at one another, then to where he’d stopped, you cocked your heads. For some historically nonsensical reason, the museum was touting a new exhibit on the history of torture. You would’ve assumed they were from the witch trials- but that was Mass, not Pennsylvania. Wearing the faintest of smiles, even which was rare for him in public , Ian marveled at the menacing facade, “We have got to see this…”

You shot a swift glance after the rest of the group, already onto the ‘colonial era’ section of the tour. Frankly, you were a bit of a pussy. Sensing your reluctance, Ian spun on a heel to face you, “Okay- would you rather be spoon fed the sanitized, clean version of history that's being crammed down all our throats, or…?” He made a sweeping gesture towards the door. Even Erin joined in, “Cmon- it’ll be fun!”

Smirking to herself, Erin snapped a photo of a device that’d look more at home in a different kind of dungeon. The exhibit hall, lit by phony candlelight, was filled with artifacts you could convincingly imagine at Build-It-Depo- your idea of torture: cookie-cutter branding irons, and menacing looking execution axes…

“Y’think they have an Iron Maiden here?” you wondered to Ian, who was sorting through dimly lit rows of sinister looking tools. He didn’t even look up from where he was examining the drunk barrel. “The concept of the Iron Maiden was created for commercial exhibition.” ever the party pooper, Ian explained, “they were never actually used,”

Erin interjected from the other side of the echoey hall, “What do you think this was used for?” Sensitive to these sorts of things, she waved you over to which you eagerly scampered. The object isn’t question looked more like a strange gardening tool. As he ran through the filing cabinets in his mind, you could see the realization flash across Ian’s face before he audibly swallowed. “Castration.”

More than the obvious jokes that could be made, you were shocked at how quickly he identified it! “Woah… how’d you just… ” you chuckled, exhibiting the same reaction you did every time he mentioned some niche nugget of knowledge. Vicious intelligence veering condescending in his tone, Ian raised an eyebrow at you. “I read.” Yep- that’ll do it…

You chuckled- this friendly snark was par for the course given the jokey, elitist attitude you three shared. Sneering at the mindless, popular drones surrounding you. Leaning to peer out the entrance… Erin sighed, “They’ll probably start looking for us soon…” Turning to Ian with a grimace, she mimed a pair of hedge pruners to imply punishment for their truancy.

[kitty-writes1373]

Quick Ian and Erin sketch + testing out halftones! Progress pics below the cut <3

[kitty-writes1373]

let’s take some ibuprofen together 😭

Omg of course kris-lemche-stan I would be honored <3

[kitty-writes1373]

Loser!Alex Wright HC’s

Alex Wright X Gn!Reader

(Fluff, Smut)

Warnings: 18+, roleplay, dom/sub dynamics, toxic relationship (if you squint), first dates, awkwardness, pillow humping, virginity, knifeplay, sextapes, bondage, touch starvedness, boundary discussion, awkward boners, dumbification (if you squint)

An: Special credits to @slushi-chan and @vampirebroth for inspiring these HC’s!! Please be understanding- this is my first time writing actual smut! This is a metric for what people would be interested in regarding Alex, so if there’s any specific HC or scenerio you’d like me to dedicate a whole fic to, LMK!!

SFW

Alex Wright is not very sociable; the most interpersonal contact he gets is from movie discussion boards and the occasional online game.

Being naturally not that talkative, and with noticeable blunt affect, he’s pretty intimidating in person!

Not that he means to be. I mean, Alex isn’t interested in the whole social thing, but thats besides the point.

At first, dating him is fun! He tries to impress you, taking you to all these midnight showings at indie theaters and biting his tongue when your critique starts/ends at, ‘it was fine’.

But cracks begin to show…

You come to find Alex genuinely only cares about film and getting laid- in that order. Oftentimes, his obsession with the former gets in way of the latter.

Take, for example, the night he asked you over to his dorm to watch a movie!

Assuming he meant this in the traditional sense, you showed up thinking you were going to hook up.

You didn’t show up expecting to be ignored for an hour and a half and then lectured on what he though it was actually about, with deep subtextual analysis and critique.

About halfway through his rant, you start to wonder why the hell you even came over…

Between kisses (that you initiate to shut him up), he’ll keep rambling about said movie as youre actively undressing him…

NSFW

Despite how kinky Alex is, it’s important to note this man has little, if any experience, with real, tangible women

He is genuinely just porno-brained into oblivion. So safe to say, there’s a bit of a learning curve for him!

But it’s cute: the shy way he fidgets while he explains this super hot thing he saw online vs. the writhing, panting mess he becomes when you get into it.

I mean, we all knew he whimpers- cmon…

INSANELY touch starved oh my god. Like you passed him a pen in class and your fingertips touched? Instant boner.

That’s a hyperbole, but you get the idea…

Alex insists you sleep at his place when you have movie nights because he doesn’t want you walking across campus- I mean since it’s so late…

Surprisingly, not just for sex! I mean, you do have sex, but afterward, you end up with his leg hitched over your hip, face in your hair- passed out and totally on cloud nine.

If it wasn’t you, it’d be the pillow he hugs to his chest to sleep- and he’s only gotten lonely enough to grid against it a couple times, so shut up…

He strikes me as a switch with a preference for topping, but that isn’t to say he doesn’t get in a mood now and then.

Maybe sometimes he doesn’t want to be behind the camera.

Maybe, Alex Wright’s director brain is worn out from working on that thesis film, and he just wants somebody to tell him what to do-

Tell him to ‘look in the camera’, ‘make that sound again’- ‘use both hands’, ‘don’t be shy…’

Given his love of film, Alex dabbles in his fair share of role play- and he expects you to take it entirely seriously.

They’re all power fantasies, like the one where he’s finally that big time director, and you’re some hot starlet who just really wants a role in his next project

(Something something casting couch…)

Or the odd night you suggest to spice things up, and his mind immediately goes to the crazed stalker route- knifeplay, blindfolds- he might dabble in a little bondage…

It’s pretty clear where he gets those ideas from.

Catching your breath from laughing, you explain thats not nessicarily what you had in mind. But the offer still stands- maybe…

[kitty-writes1373]

you got a Kris Lemche with a cute bow on his head

Aaaaaa!!!! What a little CUTIE PIE! <33

[kitty-writes1373]

Could I please get some Fridge / Brendan content! Literally anything at this point I'm dying here!

Hot n’ Cold

Working with superheroes left you kinda jaded towards the spandex wearing crowd. But a chance encounter at a company event might change your mind- and your relationship with Brendan.

Brendan/Fridge X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort)

2.5k Words

Warnings: 18+, temperature play, improper use of ice powers, roleplay, unprofessional relationships, power dynamics, alcohol, flirting, kissing, arguments, cheating, therapy

An: Thank you for the request!! I got this immediately after I watched Alter Egos, and I couldn’t be more excited to write a fic! XD Brendan is just such a peculiar specimen I love him <3 I did some headcannoning and editorializing based on the film, so I hope you enjoy!

“- so, I finish the paperwork for that strip mall that Sunburn scorched last week,” you swallowed a bite of your general tso’s. “And guess who walks by my desk.” Absorbed by your story, Brendan stuck his chopsticks in his takeout container, “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me… Captain Amazingness?”

Your laugh rose above the dull Emily of New Moon rerun on tv. “I wish! No, no- it was Nightcrawler.” Eyes widening, your boyfriend choked on his lo mein. “Seriously? After-”

“Yeah, after I went to HR about him!” Shaking your head, you cuddled into Brendan’s side. It was always nice to have someone indulge your work gossip. “I’ll say it again- all superheros are assholes, but that guy is a different breed of asshole…” It was days like this that made you wish you could trade places with your boyfriend- illustrating comics for a living has to be less socially exhausting than being a damage claim adjuster for the Supercorps…

You found the domesticity soothing: the sagging couch, Chinese takeout, and your boyfriend at the end of every day. Easing into the you shaped divot you’d made in Brendan, you kissed away a lingering bit of sweet and sour at the corner of his mouth.

Tenderly slipping a strand of hair behind your ear with long, calloused fingers, Brendan murmured through a smile, “You are so pretty…” as if he were marveling at some natural wonder that necessitated awe for just being. Right when things were getting all soft and mushy, as your boyfriend tangled his limbs in yours, you jolted. “Ah!” you squealed, giggling against his skin. “Cold- cold! Get your feet off’a me!”

Right then, your apartment was the cozy, soft little center of the universe as, outside the fogged up window, snow lazily flurried on the city’s surfaces…

The atrium of the Supercorp building was closed off to the public to be transformed into this glimmering demonstration of taxpayer dollars: the yearly Christmas party. Lights twinkled off of expensive, silver decorations and well dressed trees as tasteful holiday music piped in over the speakers. Not wanting to spend any more time at work than you were paid for, you opted to linger by the table with the strictly decorative $500 gingerbread house and silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and avoid your coworkers.

And how did that pan out for you? A white gloved hand swiped a tooth picked cocktail weenie, leaning against the table next to you. “Where can a girl get a drink in this place?” Ice blue spandex, gogo boots- you knew this guy. Fridge’s name didn't cross your desk often, both because of his low ranking in the company and the fact all the damage he caused could be fixed when it eventually melted.

You jabbed a thumb at the champagne tower. Despite his previous comment, he seemed to already have a few in him with the light slur in his words. “Believe me,” plucking a glass from the arrangement, he empathized where he wasn’t asked to, “Wouldn’t be here either if I wasn't obligated to show up.” This kind of ‘rich people problems’ thing was commonplace with superheros- they act like it’s so hard to show up to a couple events and smile…

“Really?” An edge of resentment crept through your tone as you snapped off a chunk of Christmas cookie with your teeth. “I mean- free food, good press…seems like a pretty sweet gig.”

By virtue of alcohol induced tunnel vision , your jadedness went unreciprocated. “Ugh. The press…” he groaned with bitterness you reserve for politicians and in-laws. “They just… won’t shut up about Margo Amazingness.” You could see on his face that moment he realized he’d let something slip. But from the catty intrigue that painted your features, he knew you were going to ask anyway. “There’s these… rumors. About me and her.”

Your eyebrows shot to your hairline. Now that you thought of it, you’d heard some whispers of that young hotshot who got caught in a conference room with Captain Amazingness’ wife. “Wait, you're that guy?” I mean, you had as big a grudge as anybody against that guy. In a morbid sense, it was almost justice. “Did… are they true?”

With a sip of champagne, Fridge gave a nondescript half shrug. Looking out to the lady in question, something twinkled in his eye. Who would’ve thought the most gallant moment in his hero career would be underlined in Rouge Allure? And you held a little reverence for that. “Holy shit…” you muttered, “Well. That is something I’ve never thought about: The sex lives of super heroes….”

Sensing the shift of opinion, Fridge glanced back with a charmed flicker of a smirk, “Really? Never… With all the scandals in the news, and the office gossip? Now, I find that-“ With the touch of a single, gloved finger, the glass of your champagne glass frosted over. “A little…hard to believe.”

Arching an eyebrow, you incredulously glanced behind yourself as is he were addressing someone else. “Is this- are you flirting with me?” Folding his arms, he seemed all too pleased at your blushing, maintaining that quietly amused air as you urged, “This could be a scandal if it ever got out: The Refrigerator, taking his pick of the litter,” You mirrored the way his words fell like honey from his lips, reaching a fingertip to trace a seam running across his chest. “Canoodling in the legal department-”

“Now, hold on- I said nothing about canoodling. That was all you, miss legal!” The guy just oozed confidence, pushing back a handful of dark hair. “I think you’re projecting a little…”

Under that sickening desk lamp, Brandan set up camp. With the piles of reference books, and the stacks of notebooks, he buried himself in his work. Mulling over the manuscript to some drawn out action scene that’d traction around the third page was better than thinking about… well, this. He was no writer. He was an illustrator. He was the ink boy.

The door opened. Freezing Jurassic Park style, Brendan listened to the click of high heels on hardwood as you circled behind his chair. Ceramic clinked against the desktop as you set a plate down- dinner, maybe? “You’ve been in here all day,” you cooed. “Why don’t you take a break for a little?” You felt Brendan’s shoulders stiffen as you wrapped your arms around them.

His words teetered the way a glass does before toppling off the edge of a table. “Are you… going, somewhere?” Voice almost trembling at the way warm breath fell on the hairs at the nape of his neck, your boyfriend shaped wad of raw nerve endings gave you those eyes. “You’ve got… shoes on. In the house.”

You know when you get this gut feeling, but you have nothing to back it up? That queasiness was all Brendan felt when he looked at you. Confused at the lack of explanation to the strange behavior that marred your interactions lately, you brushed him off with an indifferent shrug, “No. Just… felt like dressing up a little.”

The very same banter which was at one point amusing now read septic when played off a brick wall. With this sort of hopeless determination, you pressed a kiss to the skin right in front of his ear, “Do you take… issue with that?”

Here you go, Brendan- being a fucking pushover. Like everything in his life: his job, his real job- now his cheating girlfriend. Well, he wasn’t sure you were cheating, but he had some pretty concrete evidence. “No, I mean-“ Playing coy, you cut him off. “Would you rather…” a manicured hand raked through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. “I wear less, around the house?”

And he pulled away. “That’s not-“ lifting his hands in a plea for mercy, as if he’s about to cross himself or phone the authorities, Brendan said, “I’m busy Y/N. I’m sorry...”

And with two sentences, there was a mile between you and him. It wasn't just that moment, but it was the final step. You could reach out your hand, and it could stretch and stretch, and you could never really touch him. Feel him.

Brendan sat at his desk and listened to retreating clicks of heels that paused in the doorway. Still frazzled from being on the muzzle end of an emotional hostage situation, his head collapsed into open palms.

You were thankful you had plans that night. It was a welcome distraction from all the shit going on at home- which you still weren't wasn't a part of some bigger convoluted thing he refused to fully explain. But whatever. That didn’t matter for a few hours.

But you were here, dining under the low lights in some quiet little leather booth tucked away in the corner. The only reason Fridge scored that reservation at Eleven Madison Park was because he’d kept their freezer cold during a blackout a few weeks ago. Besides, it was only your first date, and the air buzzed with that nervous excitement that comes with that.

By nature of proximity, it was impossible to move without accidentally bumping against the other person, which stirred some curiosities in your mind. “So, the whole…ice thing-“ your fingers crept along the cold marble to rest atop an equally cold hand. “I’m curious. How’s that work?”

He covered up that hint of pride in his tone with faux nonchalance. “It’s not so much ‘making’ things cold as it’s changing thermal energy. It works with my hands, yeah- but I’m…” Trailing off his explanation, Fridge turned to look you straight in the eye, as if to say, ‘come on. We both know why you're asking this.’ But you said it anyway, eyes glinting with bad ideas, “What about… your lips?”

From there, it blurred: a hastily paid bill, the yellow flash of the car you tumbled into, icy hands trailing from your shoulders, your waist, fingers fiddling with the metal zipper at the nape of his neck… “Oh my god-” The chill traced down the skin of your neck pulled a delighted little yelp from your throat. It was different, and tantalizing in a way that melted your brain.

Every watercooler conversation, where he always looked at you like he couldn’t sear the image of you deep enough in his brain: that miniskirt, those crazy red heels- this is what Fridge was dreaming about.

The cab skidded out in front of your destination. Now, this eluded you as you fumbled with the key and stumbled inside, stealing kisses like you needed them to breathe, clawing at eachothers clothes- but there’s a special brand of moral flimsiness that comes with fucking annother man in your boyfriend’s bed.

By the time you tumbled to the sheets that still smelled like unscented detergent and tiger balm, spandex was pooling at his hips. And for one breathless moment in the moonlight, you stared at Fridge: his skim milk body back on its haunches, and the dark hair that didn’t stay slicked back. He looked beautiful and he knew it. Like that last breath of air before they hold you under.

Nipping, cocksure fingers traced down where the straps of your dress had sagged: your collarbones, the bare skin of your chest- thumbs ghosting over firming peaks that made you arch your back into the sensation with a keening sound. Your head swam.

It was a quick decision: a hand cupping the curve of his jaw, fingers sliding up a cut, white cheekbone to push off that dorky mask that really did nothing to hide his face. The gesture itself was gentle, but it felt vulnerable. And for a quiet moment he stared at you with those bewildered eyes, stripped bare.

Crumbling apathy marred his face the way the sore, red imprint of an auto emblem sits on the ribs of a hit and run victim. “You’re being dramatic, Brendan,” the Supercorps appointed psychiatrist flatly advised.

“My girlfriend is cheating on me.” A sigh the likes of which you hear from elderly dogs heaved in his chest as he studied the stucco on the ceiling. “With a superhero. With Fridge- God, how did I not see this coming?”

Skimming over the whole fractured identity thing, the psychiatrist began, “What’s it like- When you put the suit on, compared to when you’re Brendan?” He hesitated. “It’s like… god, this is gonna sound so stupid.” Glancing to her for reassurance, the psychiatrist's bored silence seemed to say, ‘not any less stupid than what you’ve said so far.’

“I’m just… above the world. Above it all. I’m not scared to fail at anything, because Fridge can do everything. It feels like some out of body, voyeurism thing.” Dashing the subject from the conversation with a hand gesture, he continued grimly, “Anyway, she doesn’t want to be with some broke, wannabe comic book artist. She wants to be with Fridge.”

She paused, considering the verbiage that would most likely appeal to his… let’s be nice here- uncompromising line of reasoning. “You do realize that you, Brendan- and you, Fridge have… the same physical body?” He nodded. “So, by that logic, it isn’t technically cheating.” The claustrophobic office fell silent. She was on to something.

“Have you considered,” turning in her chair, the psychiatrist clicked her pen, going in for the fatal blow. “that, due to a lack of communication, your girlfriend views this as some sort of… forplay, fantasy thing?” Brendan sat up with a start.

The TV was off. Tension hung heavy in your dark living room, soundproofed from the outside world by the crystallizing snow on the windowsill. Brendan poached in his skin. He stared at you like you’d poured gasoline down his throat and crammed sparks in his stomach. “The whole time?“

“Yes!” You sighed, “I thought you were in on it!” Sinking back into the couch, you smiled in disbelief of the whole situation. Jesus, were you really this bad about talking things over? More annoyed at the lack of communication than being accused of cheating, you shook your head, “I love you, Brendan! You’re my boyfriend- my only boyfriend.”

The only thing you could reasonably be upset about was the silent treatment. Yet again, if you ever suspected Brendan of cheating on you, you’d be making his life a living hell. This was tame. The notion was balm to his hot, frayed nerves. “Was it the-“ You cut him off. “The suit?” Eyes sparkling, you explained, “That thing- it’s got, like- super hero pheromones! It is… so hot.” Yeah, you got off on the authority- but it was also hot to see your meek little mousy boyfriend with some confidence.

Brendan let out a trembling chuckle, “I-I mean, I’m not actually that chiseled. I mean, you know that but-“ rambling to diffuse the situation, he joked, “The suit’s kinda like a girdle- just compresses everything…“ Catching himself, he collected his thoughts before he said the only thing he could think: “I love you, Y/N.” Cold, nimble fingers found yours across the table. Drunk on the soothing notion, you interlaced yours with his. “Love you too…”

[kitty-writes1373]

Bloodlust

Max finds an opportunity to blow off a little steam and make a profit while doing it, not knowing exactly what he’d be getting into- a frenzied, blood soaked orgy.

Max Borman X Fem!Reader

(Smut)

1.1k Words

Warnings: 18+, extremely suggestive content, drug use, kissing, nudity, blood kink, boners, biting, grinding, dom/sub dynamics, blood drinking, SO much blood oh my god

An: Thank you for your request! In doing vampire research for this fic, I found a certain scene from Blade (1998) that ended up serving as inspiration- Y’know, in case you wanted a visual ;) Anyways, please keep your requests coming!

Max Borman never slept. When you find yourself with that much time on your hands, and in possession of the connections he had, you get around places. And let’s say, once in a while, a guy needs to blow off some steam. Tonight, that came in the form of the meat processing plant turned underground nightclub on the outskirts of town.

He’d gotten word that this temple of sleaze attracted a… certain crowd, let’s say. And hell, who doesn’t wanna have a good time and make a little cash while you're at it? Ducking around a hanging carcass, he gave a passing nod to the bouncer. With a groan, the heavy, metal door opened.

That world of molar rattling techno and slick black vinyl, where the party never ended and the wet dream never dried up lived up to its reputation in spades. A superstore of vice and senses, the room hung heavy with human moisture as Max tried to get a feel of the place. Not really his jag, but fuck it- he had nowhere else to be. And then, through an innate perception, he caught a shimmery glance across the floor.

You- the one with the oil slick eyeliner, and those patent leather dickstompers- were a particular flavor of woman that, in this setting, whet his appetite. Absent was the impression that you were too good to partake. So, while still moving to the downbeat all cool, Max slid in right next to you.

The husky stranger now next to you, with his sleeves rolled up to show off a jangle of faded tattoos and pink new scars, flashed a dime bag of powder he’d produced from a pocket like some Houdini of narcotics. You caught it from the corner of your eye. “Hell yeah,” glancing up with a flash of teeth, you spoke over the music. “What’s it to ya’?”

“Fr’ you?” Slowing out of beat to rake over your frame, Max pressed the baggie into your palm with a low rasp that forced you to lean closer to hear, “On the house.” Shrinking the sweat-heavy air between your bodies, you tucked the goods into your bra.

You caught interest in this guy- the handsome scruff on his face, those shoulders you could just tear a chunk out of… “You’re good at making friends… First time?” Playing coy in your hungry gaze, he gave a noncommittal shrug in the hot snapshots of strobe. You grabbed a handful of his shirt to pull him close, voice heavy with forboding, ”Came on a great night...”

Max’s already blown out pupils followed a black painted fingernail as you gestured up at the tangle of rusty pipes overhead, attached to some kinda sprinkler system. But his thought process of figure out exactly what you eluding to was cut off by the handful of his ass you grabbed. “Oh-!“ Attention ripped back, he chuckled, “Forward, I see… Well, I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

But the flirting and being draped all over this guy like a cheap scarf didn't just satisfy you. It managed to… distract Max from what was going on around him: the eerie shadows growing on the faces of the other mashing, grinding figures, the bass swelling to a marrow splitting zenith as the system creaked overhead, the electricity that buzzed as the apex grew nearer, nearer, up to the ceiling-!

With a shuddering groan from the veins above, the club erupted into neon bedlam. Shaken from the little thing you had going on, Max touched his face where something wet splattered. He’d know that smell anywhere. Hell, anybody in this room would. “Holy shit,” he muttered with a grin as it really started coming down. “You’re fuckin’ with me...”

Gallons upon gallons showered the delirious, writhing patrons: running down the walls, pooling at your feet, trickling between your cleavage- a visual that sent Max’s blood rushing to some other places. How did it take him so long to hear about this place?

If Dante had ever written a slutty inferno, this would be the eighth circle of hell.

Max was officially gone. Waking up some inherent code in him, the fluid that saturated every fiber of his body ripped a groan from his broad chest. Pulling you in, his teeth found your bottom lip, devouring you like a starved man. It was primal: a mash of tongue, and blood, and spit as you clawed and groped at each other’s wet bodies.

Pupils blown and at the mercy of animal instincts, you were so awash in this blissed out stupor that you’d hardly noticed being backed into a dim corner, body bracketed against the now cold, sticky wall that pressed against your bare shoulders.

And his hands- those thick fingers of cold rings that couldn't seem to find purchase on your hips, or your waist, or your chest… Out of sight, Max did his little sleight of hand trick with the baggie tucked in your bra. He was always good with his hands. Whining at the cold spot where his breath had brushed your lips, you straightened up with a pout. “Hey, what’re you-“

Sniffing back whatever reminded of the bump on the back of his hand, Max cut you off, ravishing your neck with fat hickeys the way a smack addict gets a vein.

It might have been the stuff fizzling in his sinuses that made his head swim, sure- but it was just as the way your breath shuddered as canines rasped so deliciously along your jugular, the promising thrum of a heartbeat below the skin. Surrendering, you gave yourself up as willing prey for this feral stranger’s insatiable drive for more- more. And that makes a guy feel pretty special.

Your bodies pressed so close you were sharing the same air, so close you could feel the thick lump of his groin twitch against the bare skin of your thigh. A breath choked in your chest as teeth slowly penetrated your tender flesh with a growl. Two complete strangers, having barely exchanged a sentence, just relishing each other's skin like you were holy in your filth.

Sucking and laving at the wound, Max could taste the shit that was thrumming your system: the drugs you’d bummed, the alcohol you’d downed earlier in the evening- the fucking hormones. Fingers went to work on the sticky zipper running down your halter top, revealing the way blood dried in red webs across your bare chest.

Breathless lips parted in a deranged, half smirk, Max gazed at you through sticky lashes. “Where have you been all my life?”

[kitty-writes1373]

Have you seen the show Twitch City? It seems pretty interesting.

I just started it! So far I’ve seen the two episodes that Kris was in, but if you enjoyed My Guide to Becoming a Rockstar, I would totally recommend it! Very similar sense of humor and comedic timing between the two XD

[kitty-writes1373]

Kris Lemche as Clinton

Tv Show: Twitch City

Season: 02

Episode: 04

Year: 2000

[kitty-writes1373]

Kris Lemche Masterlist

Fluff ❀ | Smut ♥︎ | Angst 𓄧 | Hurt/Comfort 𓊔

Ian McKinley

Wellness Check 𓄧𓊔

You hardly knew Erin Ulmer, far less her boyfriend. Yet after paying him a visit and discovering her death has left him in pieces, you help Ian put himself back together. Well, you try.

Outcasts ❀ 𓄧

You find friendship and solace in the school’s misfit goth couple who share your cynical worldview as you navigate the everyday bullshit at McKinley High.

Sam McDonald

None!

Rex

None!

Alex Torini

None!

Lucas Zank

None!

Scott

None!

Fridge / Brendan

Hot n’ Cold ❀♥︎ 𓄧𓊔

Working with superheroes left you kinda jaded towards the spandex wearing crowd. But a chance encounter at a company event might change your mind- and your relationship with Brendan.

Travis Howard

None!

Etc!

None!

[kitty-writes1373]

Richard Harmon Masterlist

Fluff ❀ | Smut ♥︎ | Angst 𓄧 | Hurt/Comfort 𓊔

Erik Campbell

None!

Alex Wright

Loser!Alex Wright HC’s ❀ ♥︎

Vern

None!

Max Borman

Bloodlust ♥︎

Max finds an opportunity to blow off a little steam and make a profit while doing it, not knowing exactly what he’d be getting into- a frenzied, blood soaked orgy.

Seth Durand

Sympathy ❀𓄧

Do you know why people tell you not to feed stray animals? You take a chance befriending the weird, quiet guy at school and end up getting more than you bargained for.

Lockup (Pt. 1) ❀𓄧

Seth just can’t get enough of this girl he met in Juvie. You’re outspoken, and intuitive- not to mention, you’re the first person who wasn’t immediately put off by some of his… worse qualities.

Etc!

None!

[kitty-writes1373]

I recently watched A Mother's Instinct just for Richard and I have fic ideas for Sethhh 😼

Hear me out, before the whole incidents in the movie, a Seth Durand x a equally as kinda fucked up Reader but the whole trope of "two bad people get together and become two good/decent people because of each other". That man just needs some love from someone who understands him :(

Lockup (Pt. 1?)

Seth just can’t get enough of this girl he met in Juvie. You’re outspoken, and intuitive- not to mention, you’re the first person who wasn’t immediately put off by some of his… worse qualities.

Seth Durand X Fem!Reader

(Angst, Fluff)

1.5k Words

Warnings: Slight stalking, unwanted flirting, enemies to lovers, fighting, injury mention, smoking, protectiveness, clinginess, pining, slowburn, threats

An: Thank you for your request!! This isn’t as ‘creepy stalker’ focused as my other fic for Seth, but I tried to keep it opened ended in case thats where you would like it to eventually go! I’d be happy to make any kind of sequel to any of my fics :) Anyways, thank you for reading, and please keep sending requests!

You’d been admitted to one of those gentle, caring juvenile detention facilities. The holistic variety, with mandated rec time and therapy and whatever. ‘Rec Time’, of course, being the clever pitch to sell rotting with Uno in a big, beige room lined with armed guards to a bunch of teen criminals.

But despite the two halves of the center mingling, nobody ever really got the kumbaya, let’s kiss and make up jag. Your fellow incarcerated either used this time to beat out whatever petty grudges they held, or they went your route: stuffing your nose in a crenulated issue of BoyZone to tune out the bitchiness and the fistfights. See, you had a good thing going. And he ruined it.

He- the idiot peering over your shoulder at that article on guyliner while he thought of some witty remark that’d charm you. You could feel the breath on the back of your neck. Whipping your head around, you startled him into pulling back. “Hey, hey! Relax-“ holding his hands up in a plea for mercy, the stranger chuckled, “Its cool. Not gonna jump you re’anything…”

Then, this guy who thinks juvie is a great place to pick up chicks, sits on the table. Not the seat next to you- the table. “You're new.” Tapping the formica next to your hand with a chipped, black painted nail, he gestured to your fully intact set of acrylics.

With that sickly pale skin in the fluorescent lights he glowered over you with a smarmy, knowing lilt that made you long for juvenile court. “What do you want?” Closing your magazine with a flutter, you sighed, “I don’t have anything- I just got here."

The stranger’s lips stretched into an almost friendly smile, “Yeah, exactly. You don't have anybody, I don’t have anybody-” His fingers crawled over to ghost across your hand, the creeping way tarantulas move. “I’ve been through the system a couple times. I could… help you out around here.”

Now, you knew juvie attracted some… colorful characters, let’s put it that way- but even at that, you couldn't see anything good coming from this guy. You snapped your hand back, “I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure…” Kicking his feet forward, the new guy dismounted, “You’ll get eaten alive in here.” He punctuated his little bid for your favor with a departing squeeze of your shoulder. “Think about it.” That's how Seth- you would find out that was his name- forced you under his wing.

Every day, Seth would park himself in the chair right next to yours in the sympathy circle jerk that was group therapy, stealing glances while whoever ranted about their abusive parents or some gang they’d been in. One afternoon, your benevolent psychiatric dictator called on you to spill your guts: all the shame and guilt you totally felt for your actions…

So you stood up, and you did- which was easy, because most of them ignored you. “But what really gets me…” with a thick swallow, you collected yourself. “That dipshit down at the corner store was totally fine with me stuffing mascara in my bra!” Gesturing incredulously, you scoff echoed off the concrete, “But as soon as I started going for the airplane liquor, he just had to call the cops!”

“That is where I call bullshit.” That prick with the steel rims chimed in from his corner, breaking the raise-your-hand-to-talk rule. He folded his arms with resignation, “You stole; you got caught.” Seth’s attention zeroed in on this skeleton with bad skin.

He could feel the embarrassment in your eyes- the shame he himself had fallen victim to time and time again, in the way you glared at the little twerp, “Are- were you listening to me? He never said anything! How was I supposed to know he suddenly gave a shit?” Jaded disdain grew on the guy’s face.

“Listen, bitch. You think you're original? Some teen girl starts stealing cause she feels like she’s got no control of her life! Big whoop…” Leaning in, that smug asshole stared daggers through you in a way that made Seth want to take a rusty butter knife to his eye socket. “This isn’t the world’s fault, or your absent father’s, or whatever. It’s yours. And you should take some goddamn respon-“

He was on the ground. Faster than that guard could shout, “Code green!” In a clatter of metal folding chair and flying limbs, Seth hurled the full force of his stocky body across the circle. With a snarl, he planted one, crunching suckerpunch to the middle of his face, simultaneously mangling the kid’s nose and shattering his glasses.

“Hey! Hey, you two-“ a burly guard snagged him by his arms, leaving the younger one who’d been throwing elbows panting on the ground as Seth was yanked to his feet. Clumsy with fury and still flushed from the scuffle, he stumbled for a moment before his gaze met yours across the room. And you knew.

Seth Durand was released to general population the next day with a nasty attitude and two months tacked on to his sentence. And he watched you in the lunch line from his solitary seat at the long table nobody got near. Well, whenever he got the chance he was always looking at you. But as cathartic pummeling that little fuck felt, he really missed you.

It was some antiquated idea of masculinity that won you over- that a guy would fight for you. He wouldn't get himself into trouble like that if he just thought you were hot or if he’d wanted a cheap favor… Picking out his black eye across the lunch room, you slid him a plastic wrapped fruit cup before sitting down. “That was, uh… You didn’t have to do that.”

“Nah, it’s cool. That guy’s an asshole-“ lifting the rim of the cup to his lips, he cracked open the lid to slurp that first sip of juice out. “If it wasn't me, it’d been someone else...” Seth’s eyes darted towards you like he couldn't stand to not look at you.

With the way he turned, you got a good look at the shiner that bloomed across Seth’s cheekbone. It fit the strong, angry angles of his face. He wasn’t someone who did anything for anybody but himself, so that bruise was a stamp- a seal, that there was empathy behind him letting you in.

A drum of knuckles against the table alerted you to the mangled, scabbed over skin covering the back of his hand. “Woah. All that from one punch?” Noticing how you leaned in to examine his injury- the way you’d been staring at him since you sat down, Seth splayed his hand out on the table with a haunted chuckle. “Nah- s’mostly was the glass…”

Seth liked you because you stood out from any of the other mindless dipshits- at his school, in here, anywhere. Not only did you see through the bullshit you were fed, you weren't afraid to speak your mind on it. Now, this isn’t to say you were welcoming him into your life with open arms, but the pitch was becoming more appealing. You could be friends. Watch out for each other a little.

What started as distant observation turned into the two of you trading puffs in the shadow of the building during outdoor red, while everybody else played basketball or soccer or whatever. He was the only person there you knew, and the guards didn't really care what you two did, so long as Seth wasn’t getting into physical altercations with fellow inmates- something he’d gained a reputation for before you showed up.

And you had a lot in common, you’d come to find out: your complete disregard for any form of establishment, general opposition towards authority, not to mention… “Public defender screwed me.” Fiddling with an unlit smoke, he mused idly. “Said he’d get me five months and probation, but-“ With resignation, Seth gestured to the yard around you. “I ended up here. Again.”

He shot a glance towards you as, using two batters and a strip of foil from a gum wrapper, you heated the metal until it could work like a car lighter. “Fuckin’ lawyers, man…” Swiping the cigarette from him, you pressed it there till it smoldered, taking a few puffs to get it hot. Seth noticed, because you did that every time you lit up together.

“I think… I talk to you more than anybody else here,” Seth murmured, sliding a hand to feel the concrete under his palm. The tips of his fingers bumped, then slid between your red acrylics. You sighed, “Yeah. Me too…” There was still a kind of polar buffer between you, but it’d weakened. You could touch now.

You could lean your head against his shoulder, letting your eyes fall shut. It felt nice, having someone be so committed to looking out for you. And having you there took the edge off for Seth- gave him something else to obsess over while he was here. And god, did he obsess over you…

[kitty-writes1373]

Sympathy

Do you know why people tell you not to feed stray animals? You take a chance befriending the weird, quiet guy at school and end up getting more than you bargained for.

Seth Durand X Fem!Reader

(Angst, Fluff?)

1.5k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, bullying, stalking, cyberstalking, manipulation, flirting, kissing, possessiveness

An: Thank you so for the request!! Im happy to report that I received a few other requests for Seth, so be on the lookout for those! ;D Also happy to announce my inbox is now actually open! Given theres only so much you learn from the movie, I had to do some HCing to flesh him out properly, but if there anything else you’d like to see, just let me know!

“How’s that guy even passing gym?” one of your friends craned their neck at Seth Durand, parked in his reserved spot on the bleachers. Well, not really- he just sat there every day. Always too cool to participate, with his eyeliner and that pretty boy scowl as the wind tousled his greasy hair…

Frankly, you felt bad for him. You’ve been called a bleeding heart, but your rationale was that maybe, if somebody gave him a chance, he’d join in once in a while instead of glaring at everybody like the world itself offended him. And what’s the worst that comes of this- he shuts you down?

“Hey-” You jumped at how quickly he looked up! Taking a moment to get your bearings, you jabbed a thumb back at your group, “We’re, uh- were one person short fr’ spikeball! You…wanna come join us?” Staring at you for a second, he tried to discern if this was some cruel joke. But it wasn't. Charmed, the idea of a smile ghosted across Seth’s face, “…Sure.”

You approached him at lunch that same day, where he yet again sat alone. He was busy blocking out the obnoxious chatter from the dregs that surrounded him. Seth caught a blur out of the corner of his eye and instinctively flinched, only to be met with that nice girl from gym class, smiling at him. “Is…anybody sitting here?” He popped an earbud out and gave you a ‘be my guest’ hand wave.

Seth was still half convinced your kindness was some plot against him- that you’d been put up to this by some gaggle of jocks you owed a favor, as if the concept of a pretty girl talking to him was so incomprehensible...

You were just being nice. Searching for something to strike up a conversation about, your eyes sparkled with interest at the Nikon F3 peeking out of his backpack, “Woah… you're with the photography club?”

Seth blinked, taken aback but happily surprised. He held it up between you for you to examine, “Nah. It's more of a hobby, I guess. Found it in my basement and just… started taking photos of things I thought looked cool.” Lifting the viewfinder up to his eye, Seth watched you growing less blurry in the autofocus with a tentative smirk. “Most girls think it’s kinda weird. Like I’m some… stalker, or something.”

“No way!” Your smile mirrored his. “Well, I think that's pretty awesome. I’d love to see the stuff you’ve done so far.” You’d said it with such authenticity: you wanted to see photos he’s taken. Slipping the lense cover on with a mumbled, ‘Thanks’, Seth’s sights latched onto you like cleopatra’s asp.

For the next week, whether you were getting groceries with your mom or watering the plants in your own backyard, you couldn’t exist without feeling this… presence following you- this oppressive force that polluted everything. Let’s take, for example, a scene from bio class. The glowing overhead projector was the only light in the lab room as Mr. Whoever began his autopsy on some unlucky piglet, pinned down and flayed open.

Slumping on your desk, you took a few deep breaths to settle your stomach. You’d never been queasy about this stuff- hell, you loved biology! But there was just some strange intensity mixing with the formaldehyde in the air...

That intensity was sitting in the shadows at the back of the class. The wrench in you insides you couldn’t put a name to fiddled with a ballpoint pen, uncapping it with his teeth. It was kinda cute, how oblivious you were- so self centered you cared neither for social structure, nor noticed his constant observation.

And when he couldn’t watch you? He was doing his homework. It’s not like Seth had anything better to do after school than trawl through whatever traces of yourself you’d left on social media. Face illuminated in the blue glow of his phone, he holed himself up intent on understanding everything about you: your favorite tv shows, what bands you liked- hell, he even figured out what your favorite place to eat for when he asked you out on a date. Yes- when, not if.

Around three AM that Friday night, you were awoken by your phone lighting up on your bedside table. Groping blindly in the dark, you squinted in the light of the screen. You’d received a message from somebody on instagram:

love the outfit. you look great in black...

Attached below was a photo of you at the mall. Initially you dismissed it as being something your friend took, but in retrospect, a stranger sending you a photo of yourself you didn’t remember being taken should’ve set off some alarm bells. The three dots at the corner of the screen bubbled before:

ever thought of modeling?

Haha. Very funny Seth.

clever girl… how’d you figure that out?

Whoever @LordOfDeath edgelord is, he isn’t very sharp. To explain, you sent him a photo from his own account: a photo of that camera he was so proud of. If the chipped, black nail polish on one side of the frame wasn’t incriminating enough, you could see his reflection in the lense. He found this amusing

is that a no to modeling for me?

Who said no to anything?

Despite that initial hiccup, you got to talking online. Compared to your in person encounters, Seth through text was an entirely different person; you found him thoughtful, and confident, and charming. None of those words could be applied to face to face interactions with him. Admittedly, the stuff he said over text ranged from cheesy to mildly concerning, but you had so much in common! You watched the same shows, and liked the same music- everything seemed pretty perfect between you! And it was those exchanges that led you to a peculiar opportunity.

Shoving an armful of books in your locker, you paused at the voice that came from the other side of the metal door, “That guy tortures small animals.” You groaned- one of the kids you hung out with in gym. You’d heard that rumor before: he sold drugs, or he cyber-stalked a teacher and made her quit. But that’s all that it was: rumors.

You slammed the door shut, your voice more defensive than you intended, “How do you know that?” In all likelihood, they were just upset your precious attention was on somebody else. Leaning in, they dropped their voice like they were talking about some demon that’d be summoned if his name was spoken aloud, “Come on- he just looks like it! Future serial killer, right there.” With a sigh, you slung your backpack over your shoulder with a hint of smug superiority, “Who cares?”

Mid scamper down the school’s front steps, you heard a familiar voice call, “Y/N!” Across the parking lot, Seth waved you over. Your face lit up. You’d been waiting all day for this! Sliding in the warm passenger's seat of his beater car as the thing roared to life, you gazed out the window, “Really? The graveyard?” Thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel, even Seth couldn’t stave off a smirk, “I have a vision for this, okay?”

With a crunch of leaves, Seth laid you down under a tree just off the grave plots. Bathing your skin in the fading sunset’s glow, he gently articulated your limbs just so you looked like you fell that way naturally- tousled your long, lacy skirt and bell sleeves to mimic that ‘dumped off the overpass’ look. A cool breeze blew past, tousling the black fabric spectacularly.

Pulling himself to stand with a scuffed boot on either side of your waist, Seth tested a tagline, “Maybe she’s born with it…” Click! White flash against your closed eyelids, “Maybe it’s rigor mortis.” He leaned around the camera to address you, “How’s that sound?”

You fought a grin, maintaining that whole ‘beautiful corpse’ thing he said was going for. “Dead bodies don’t talk.” Sharpening the angle, you could feel him drop down to his knees to get the shot right, “You are such a smartass…”

While you didn’t see Seth, you felt his preening fingers tangle in your hair to feather it out. But the motion slowly morphed into him more intentionally running his fingers across your scalp. There was a strange playfulness that buzzed in the air between you- the relationship between a photographer and his subject.

You felt a broad palm on your cheek and a smile tugged at the corner of your lips, “Hey, what’re you-” Eyes fluttering open, you met his gaze and- oh. He was closer to you. You could feel the breath in his ribs against yours. You could see where his eyeliner smudged at the edges. Half nuzzling against you, Seth’s nose brushed against yours,

“What happened to dead bodies not talking?“

And he kissed you. On the lips, in the town graveyard, after dark, Seth Durand kissed you. I mean, you didn’t think he’d be that forward, but you couldn’t say you minded. It was languid yet… possessive. Like he wanted every atom in your body to be claimed as his. Because, in his mind, you already were his.

[kitty-writes1373]

Wellness Check

You hardly knew Erin Ulmer, far less her boyfriend. Yet after paying him a visit and discovering her death has left him in pieces, you help Ian put himself back together. Well, you try.

Ian McKinley X Gn!Reader

(Angst, Hurt/Comfort)

1.5k Words

Warnings: Character death, greif, underage drinking, depression, suicide mention, arguments, poor coping strategies, substance abuse, unreciprocated flirting, smoking

An: My first official fic! A bit heavy, but I had the idea swimming in my head for a while XD I finally found out how to open my asks, so notwithstanding my requests are actually open! I just finished my summer courses, so I have plenty of time to work on whatever you send me :) Thanks for reading!

Erin was dead. Not candlelit student memorial, flowers on her headstone dead, but the front doors of Build-it Depot were barred with a police notice. And you had been her friend, if you could call being lab partners for half a semester friends.

There was something glaringly wrong about how the entire school was blubbering and weeping at all the big assemblies, at all the fucking funerals- yet nobody had given a word of condolence for this girl.

But Erin was dead. You couldn’t bring her back, and you couldn’t silence the whispers of ‘whatever happened to that girl?’ that you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing. What you could do was support those close to her. So you looked up her boyfriend’s address in the white pages.

She’d mentioned Ian from time to time: that the two of them had plans this weekend, or we’re going there after school. He seemed nice enough, but you’d never spoken face to face. He had a place of his own on his parents’ property which, upon waiting for him to answer your knocking, you thought was pretty cool.

The door opened, and your first impression of Ian McKinley was that he must've been dug up yesterday: all skinny limbs and hawkish features glowering down at you. Cigarette smoke drifted through the doorway, but the man of the hour didn’t budge. Ian’s voice cracked like a stereo left to rot, “I’m sorry- who are you? Why are you here…?” With a brittle, ‘fuck off’ glare, there wasn't any question as to what he thought about your presence.

“Y/N!” you too eagerly replied. “Erin and I were friends.” You were expecting a warmer welcome than this… Your explanation rang some alarm bells because Ian never caught wind of these so-called friends besides himself. “We had a couple classes together,” you explained. With a limp wave, he stepped out of your way, “Okay…”

Drifting behind you like some housewife out of her mind on vicodin and wine, Ian watched woth puffy, red eyes as you went about that harm prevention checklist in your head: blades, bottles, pills- oh, excluding the pills that he was actually prescribed by a doctor which were gathering dust on the countertop.

Next you’re gonna take his fucking shoelaces so he doesn’t strangle himself… Crumpling down on the couch, Ian stubbed out the shaky remains of his smoke on an empty coke can. “You really didn’t need to do this,” he croaked, but he wanted to say ‘I really wish you didn’t do this.’

You lifted up that half empty UV Orange bottle to see less than half of it was left. It came across more like you were judging him for drinking the fruitiest shit he found in his dad’s liquor cabinet. “I don’t mind,” you mumbled, poorly masking your concern.

If you were upset enough by Erin’s death to visit a guy you’d never met, you could only imagine how this was treating him. Meandering over to Ian, you took a seat by his side and, in an effort to change the subject, you blurted the first thing that came to mind: “How’s work?”

That. That was the final straw. Ian McKinley’s restraint snapped like a toothpick. Taking a deep breath, he tried to restrain himself, “Really? Really, Build-It? You’re gonna bring that up?” Ian pivoted so he could make steely eye contact. “My job, where Erin: my girlfriend, your ‘friend’-“

Died. He was so infuriated with you- with life, that the word couldn’t form in his mouth. Pulse pushing into that red zone where he was sure you were some emissary of evil, he spat vitriol: “How inconsiderate can you be? For fucks sake- I don’t even know you!”

“Okay, work- you wanna talk about work?” Ranting gatling gun fire, Ian shakily berated you, “How, before I quit, my coworkers stared at me like some… charity case- some walking corpse? Oh, what about how I can’t so much look at a nail gun without getting sick?” Ian’s eyes nore cigarette burns in your soul. “Is that what you came here for, Y/N?”

There was nothing you could say. He didn't have to put up with this. Pushing his bones vertical, Ian’s scrawny frame tore off through the house with determination. Grabbing the bottle from the kitchen, he snagged a banister to round the corner, dashing up a sagging staircase. “Hey- I'm sorry! I didn’t-“ You dogged on his heels as he made it clear that, whatever thought you’d gotten into his mind, you couldn’t talk him down from.

Panting, you reached the top of the stairs to see the lower half of Ian ‘F in Gym’ McKinley disappear as he hoisted himself onto the roof by means of a window. You were thankful for the distraction, but come on…? With significantly more effort, you followed suit, huffing, “I didn’t mean to, uh… t’bring that up.”

If you looked past how his so-pale-he’s-nearly-purple skin pounded flat against his cheekbones, and the hollow inlets of his bruised out eyes made him look like a skeleton for the summer breeze to blow through, he would look peaceful in that sunset. “You're staring,” Ian bit, maintaining some of that bitterness as he fiddled with the obnoxious orange label of the bottle.

Settling next to him, you kept your eyes fixed on the dark tree line, cluttered with the dark silhouettes of trucks and cherry pickers setting up for the McKinley tricentennial next weekend. “I didn’t mean to bring that up. I was just…” You contemplated asking him to go with you, but Ian didn’t strike you as a carnival ride and firework guy… “You look good. You’ve been… working out or something?”

“Yeah. Totally. I’ve been hitting the gym.” Sarcasm dripping from his words, he flashed a bitter smile. “I went vegan, actually- really changed my whole outlook on things.”

That previous venom had deserted his words in place of his typical snippy wit and, for a moment, Ian looked like that kid who got called a tryhard in English because he always looked too deep into whatever it was you were reading. That one guy who convinced his girlfriend to touch up his roots in the school bathroom sink because he wanted to see what administration would do about it…

In the moonlight, streaks of brunette showed at the roots of Ian’s sticky riot of black curls as he raked a bone white hand through his hair. “Y’know that Wendy chick? She, uh-“ Unscrewing the cap, he took a pull from the fruity vodka, his face screwing up.

“That night, she came’t the store. Told us somethin’ about ‘death’s design’ or whatever-“ Ian explained the whole thing as if he was so above all of this nonsense. “That there’s some order to everything going on- and that it skipped me, and went to Erin.” He groped futilely for his signature jokey, elitist note. “It’s bullshit. Total bullshit.”

Swirling the liquor that lingered in the bottle, he studied the way the fleeting light passed through the orange liquid. Ian had tested it. You know, the whole death’s design thing. In retrospect, he found the evening poetic: that oblivion between the loving, presyncope embrace of quietly passing into the great beyond, and the threat of spending your last epic moments on earth drenched in cold sweat with your head in a toilet bowl, throwing up half digested pills and frothy, orange liquor.

Suddenly aware of how silent you’d been this entire time, just listening to him, he rambled, “I’m sorry. I just…” Sensing all that death talk made you uncomfortable, he passed you the bottle with a slur, “I haven’t talked to anybody since it happened. I mean, really talked to anybody.”

The sun had fully set, leaving the sole light sources as the moon and a gaggle of bumbling fireflies in the air. It was cooler out- not cool enough to necesítate all those layers of black fabric that hung off Ian’s shoulders to mask the weight he lost, but he scooted closer to you on the roof under that rationale.

“Means a lot t’me that you came out here...” Tired eyes falling shut, Ian leaned his head against your shoulder with a sigh. The bone of his cheek dug into your sleeve. “I’m, uh…” Putting a comforting hand on the sharp bone, you distanced yourself from him. “I’m happy I could help.”

You’d come here to console him, not to fill the space Erin left. Because nobody could. That gaping hole in Ian McKinley’s soul was still bleeding, and as much as it pained, you knew getting romantically involved would only rip it open further.

With an empathetic simper, you squeezed his shoulder twice. “It's getting late. Wanna head inside?” Shadows on Ian’s face carved out in the moonlight, he weakly conceded, eyes still hopelessly trained on you. You smiled. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

[kitty-writes1373]

Intro⚕️

Hello! This blog (18+ MDNI) is dedicated to Kris Lemche and Richard Harmon fics (ie. The characters they play), but you can also find me at @b4mpyre-k1zz3s and @tales-of-darkmoor !

Who I Write For…

Kris Lemche (Masterlist)

Ian McKinley- FD3

Sam- Ginger Snaps

Rex- My Little Eye

Alex Torini- They’re Watching

Lucas Zank- My Guide to Becoming a Rockstar

Scott- The Last Casino

Fridge/Brendan- Alter Egos

Travis Howard- Green Guys

Richard Harmon (Masterlist)

Erik Campbell- FD6

Alex Wright- Grave Encounters 2

Vern- Lowlifes

Max Borman- Van Helsing

Seth Durand- A Mother’s Instinct

…and likely any other role these actors have played in!

Requests: Open!