#//the pattern on the shirt is supposed to be blood splatters but the blood splatter brush i used for it doesn't really look like that lol

[mechahero]

//Didn't rb SWSC Lambda but I finally cracked down and made a Dead Tired outfit instead lol

alternate slipper color/pattern additions under the cut

[lordprettyflackotara]

Did it First || Part Two || Jeff the Killer

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: descriptions of gore; yandere!reader, yandere!jeff, rough sex, honestly just yandere as fuck

Jeff the killer had destroyed the sweet innocent you.

If the sex wasn’t enough, seeing you with an axe in your hand did it. You stood over Stella, a blonde Jeff had been fucking for months while also fooling around with you. Jeff was frozen in shock, his eyes widened as he stared at her bloody corpse. You had attacked her from behind, her back mangled and flesh hanging on by thin shreds of her skin. You didn’t stop there Jeff would find out, his eyes trailing up to her face. You had stepped on her, pinning her to the ground as you swung the axe at her throat. Jeff could see the manic swings you had took, her head cut off, sitting beside her corpse.

Jeff had seen and had done a lot in his day. But this? This was a lot for even him to handle. Just yesterday he had been entangled with her in the sheets, her eyes now permanently open in shock. They were lifeless, fear washing over the pale killer as he looked up at you. Splattered blood was staining nearly your entire body, your cheeks painted with the droplets. Blood soaked your shirt and pants, an unhinged grin spread across your lips.

“What’s wrong Jeff? You killed for me so I killed for you. After all, you did it first.”

Jeff was not as infatuated with you as he thought he was. What you nor Jeff realized, was what everyone else around him already knew. He had the attention span of a walnut. Jeff had a pattern of doing this, hyper-fixating on girls and then growing bored. It was nothing personal. Jeff did what he did and he would continue to do what he wanted to do. Every girl he had done this to before had two options. They could either cope and move on. Or, if they were more of a spicy bunch, Jeff would have to kill them off. It was sickeningly satisfying to the killer, making someone fall in love with them so hard that they couldn’t move on with their lives. Jeff knew his entanglements with average girls could get messy. Slenderman made it very clear any potential threat to exposure would need to be terminated.

Besides obligation from him, Jeff enjoyed slaughtering his past lovers. Something about seeing the insides of a person really gave him something to remember them by. Faces and names became blurred, Jeff unable to even remember his last fling before you. But what he could remember crystal clear was the fact that none of them. not one, had returned the favor. Jeff enjoyed killing off people in his flings lives. Relatives, lovers, friends, it all blended together after a while. The mortal attachments that made humans so fragile was adorable to him. He loved nothing more than to cut that cord. His brain always justified it beyond it being a means to control his fling. Most people didn’t realize they’d be better off without those restraints holding them back. Jeff thought that if anything him killing Jim was tame. He was a shitty hookup, not a work of art or someone memorable in the grand scheme of things.

Killing wasn’t anything super meaningful anyways. So after a couple of months, Jeff grew hopelessly bored. He knew everything about you. There was no mystery, no fantasy. You were exactly who you presented yourself to be. It’s not like Jeff could reciprocate, his life a forced secret that he had to keep. And you could bet your sweet ass he wasn’t going to tell you how he became the monster he was. So Jeff did what he always did, he disappeared and moved on. As he stared at Stella’s corpse he supposed deciding to move on within the same town was perhaps not the best idea he’s ever had. Stella was the stereotypical blonde you saw on social media in bikini pics. Jeff didn’t necessarily have a type, but she was the bobble headed moron Jeff needed after a fresh break up. His appearance didn’t freak her out either, an added plus. He ignored that it was because of her wanting to spite her parents. She wanted him to get her pregnant, the idea of having a freaks baby to piss off her parents somehow the best plan in her mind.

Jeff didn’t mind playing into it anyways, burying himself in her cunt every night. It didn’t matter anyways, her parents had been dead in their bedroom for days. He would’ve loved to keep the affair going, but truthfully he was too lazy to bother moving the bodies. He knew the smell would catch her attention and things would get unnecessarily bloody. He didn’t need to kill her anyways, he knew she would be shipped off to the closest mental institution. But didn’t she need it anyway? Wanting a killer to impregnate her just to piss a couple of people off? Yeah, Jeff could definitely justify breaking things off. He decided to check on her one last time, wanting to really savor the feeling of her cunt. She may have been a helpless airhead but Jeff was never one to turn down sex. That’s when he saw you, proudly standing in her bedroom doorway. He must’ve missed the murder by a few minutes, the blood still fresh and oozing out of the corpse.

What Jeff hadn’t anticipated was the opposite what he wanted. All of his time as a killer he either ditched or killed girls, no in between. He picked seemingly average and normal women, careful to avoid ones that seemed unstable. His mistake was choosing you. Your obsessive tendencies and underlying codependency issues slipping under the cracks of his inspection. You were the devil in disguise, unaware that he would provoke it out into exposure.

You didn’t accept Jeff’s choice. If anything you had convinced yourself that he had been tricked in some way or was testing you. Ultimately you decided either way, the blonde bitch had to go. So you began stalking him as he once stalked you. You hid in the shadows, watching him climb into her window time and time again. It seemed so bluntly obvious to you this was a test, the killer not even attempting to conceal himself in his bright white hoodie. So you waited for the perfect moment. Coming right and out and killing her during their affair didn’t seem right. You didn’t want either of them to have a chance of preventing what had to be done. Jeff would confidently stroll into her house around the same time every night. He was so predictable. You felt like even though you lacked the traditional information one usually has about their partner, you knew Jeff. You knew what he liked and disliked. You knew his habits like picking at his nails or running his fingers through his hair. You knew him better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“Wow this um, wow,” Jeff said, trying not to stumble over his words. The pale killer had never been so caught off guard before. You dropped the axe, allowing it to fall to the floor as you approached him. “I understand why you did it, testing me. Finding a real ride or die bitch must be hard when you’re a real man,” You purred. You strolled behind him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You could feel him tense up, freezing as you placed a kiss to his neck. “You need a real woman and guess what baby? I’m that bitch. Blondie here could’ve never done this for you,” You say, glancing over at the bloody corpse. Jeff swallowed, becoming increasingly nervous and aroused. Jeff liked to have control in any and all situations, but something about the lack of control in this one was making him incredibly flustered. It was humbling, having you snatch the reigns from him. “Now it can just be us. Just me and you,” You cooed. Your blood stained hands coated his hoodie, covering it with an all too familiar color. “Thats right,” Jeff confirmed, swallowing. You pressed a few soft kisses to his neck, before standing on your tippy toes to reach his ear.

“Oh and Jeff?”

“Huh?”

“If you ever fuck another bitch again i’ll kill you.”

Jeff should’ve been terrified. He had created a mini me. A monster. Yet he felt all of his blood rush to his cock, your curious gaze not failing to notice. “Oh baby does this turn you on? Seeing what i’d do for you?” You asked mockingly. You smirked as Jeff braced himself, his cock aching against his jeans. Your hand slithered down to his front zipper, pulling it down aggressively. It didn’t take long for your hand to find his cock, pulling at the length as it hardened in your palm. Your other hand slid to his throat, cuffing it and squeezing. “Not so big and powerful now are we?” You hummed. Jeff bit his bottom lip, the urge to snap at you rising but the feeling you were providing him was far more euphoric. “You’re a crazy fucking bitch,” He panted, watching you slowly jerk him off. You smiled as you nibbled at his ear lobe. “I’m sorry what was that? You wanted me to stop?” You teased. Jeff’s patience had thinned, quickly turning around and grabbing you. He tossed you onto the bed, pinning you onto the mattress. “I said you’re a crazy fucking bitch,” He hissed.

You giggled with glee as he began to tear at your pants, shoving them down to your ankles. He roughly palmed your panties, growling. “Wet already whore? Seriously? Murder get you off?” Jeff huffed. You grinned as he tore your panties harshly, ripping the fabric and tossing it to the ground: With two fingers he rubbed up and down your folds, examining your slick. “You’re fuckin soaked, don’t think you need any prep,” Jeff grunted. He grabbed his shaft, rubbing it up and down your folds. “Besides princess you better get used to taking this dick, since you’ll be taking it for the rest of your life,” He spat, shoving himself inside of you harshly. You had taken Jeff dozens of times before. But this. Something about the way he was fucking you now obliterated all of those previous experiences. He showed no mercy as he bottomed out inside of you, taking a brief moment to relish in the feeling of your walls clinging to him. “You’re insane, you know that?” He asked. You giggled at his comment, watching him pin your wrist above your head. “I’m insane? You’re one to talk,” You countered.

This earned you a sharp slap across the face, causing you to whine as Jeff moved his hips. “Dont talk back to me slut,” He barked. He didn’t give you time to process his response, his hips aggressively snapping into yours. All thoughts about the gruesome scene behind the two of you had faded, the only thing you were able to focus on being one another. Jeff’s thrust were harsh and unforgiving. You wanted him forever? Wanted to be his girl? Then you better buckle up and bow down to who you belonged to. You whined as the knot inside of your stomach tightened further, his cock abusing your g spot. “You take me so nice. Shit, maybe you really were made for me,” Jeff grunted. You smeared Stella’s blood on his face with your hands, cupping them against his cheeks. The crimson paint stained his pure white skin, the blood of his ex lover unfazing him as he rammed into you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trapping him as if he came closer to his high. “Go on Jeff, cum in me. I’m all yours,” You pleaded. Your begging made him lick his lips, his permanent grin curling upwards into a real one. “You sick bitch. I’ll give you what you deserve,” He snarled. He watched you slither a hand to your clit, both of you close to your highs. As euphoria washed over you it occurred to you this is all you ever really wanted. Him to be yours. With his cum flooding your cunt and filling you to the brim, you realized you got what you wanted.

[yellowbunnydreams]

Melancholia (William Afton x F! Reader) [Part 1]

~So, I decided I wanted a go at writing William Afton from the games instead of Movie version/Steve Raglan, and I thought, what better way to explore that than through some really obvious religious imagery because that man definitely has a god-complex. This is obviously an AU, please don't hate on it because 'it's not cannon'~

CW: 18+ MINORS DNI - Age difference, Older man/younger woman, Murder (adult and child), violent acts, manipulation, gas-lighting, dead bodies, blood, gore, graphic description of injury, use of religious imagery, toxic relationship, boss x employee, god-complex, knife-play

The shrieks of voices and the blaring, bleeping arcade lights were almost overwhelming if you had never been to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza before. There was always a chaotic energy to the place, kids running about, practically seeing who could take out the most staff as they barrelled from the dining area and party rooms towards the arcade. You learnt to be quick on your feet and observant of your surroundings quite quickly.

"Hey superstar, you need to watch where you're going okay?" You laughed to a child who almost collided with your legs, one hand shooting down to protect your black work pants from the half-drunk cup of soda as they looked up at you and stuck their tongue out, scowling as much as the chubby face of an eight year old could before running off again.

Picking one of the nearby tables that had no patrons sat at it, you began to clean up. Piling up the discarded wax-paper lined baskets of half-chewed fries coated in god-knew-how-much ketchup and the pizza tray, swearing under your breath as you spilt soda down your purple starry vest. The uniform had changed recently from fairly easy to clean plain red, to the god-awful embroidered purple, the silver stars were supposed to match the curtains on Pirate's Cove and the paper ones that hung from the ceiling. Glancing up at them, you caught sight of the large window that overlooked the main dining room, the dark.

Every employee in Freddy's knew of that room. William Afton's office, from where he looked down at all the people like god-on-high. You hadn't had a run in with Afton during your two year employment, but you'd heard the tales. He moved weirdly silently for a man of his height, you'd even heard co-workers joking that he wasn't even human, that Henry Emily had replaced him with a robot some time ago, that you could tell by the cold, dead way his blue eyes focused on people. That he had been the one orchestrating the aftermath when an employee had had their skull cracked open by a malfunctioning animatronic, standing calmly amongst the chaos and blood with barely a wrinkled nose of disgust.

A touch on your shoulder shook your out of your thoughts and snapped you back into the chaos of Freddy's once more. The dark, neon patterned carpet making your eyes swim as you realised you had looked down automatically to child level.

"You look fucking exhausted." A mousy brown haired guy laughed, wearing the same uniform as you, his own white shirt splattered with ketchup and other slightly dubious grease stains as you relaxed your shoulders. You couldn't remember his name, but you knew the guy at least, you'd worked together a few times, and he always spared a smile for you.

"There are children present." You mumbled, earning a laugh as he grabbed the glasses from the table, holding onto them as you picked up the tray full of dining debris and headed towards the kitchen together. "If Mr. Emily or Mr. Afton catches you, you'll get your pay docked."

"Mr. Emily keeps himself in the workshop constantly and maybe three people on staff have seen Mr. Afton, like...ever." He laughed, rolling his eyes and weaving through bodies like he too was well practised, although the slight sheen to the work pants legs told of plenty of grabby little, sticky hands that had collided with him.

"He's not a god-damn cryptid!" Shaking your head and placing down the clutter from the wash-pass, wiping down your hands against your pants before bending over slightly and looking at the clock through the small window.

It was time to clock out at least, sighing as you headed towards the back corridors that belonged to the staff. The colourful lights dancing across everything in the pizzeria as you heard Freddy and the band starting up through the tinny speakers that should have been replaced something like a decade ago. Your colleague following you with a shrug as he gestured to the chunky watch he had on his wrist.

"Hey, it's time for me to clock off too. God knows we don't get overtime, and secondly, going back to my earlier point; half these kids know more foul language than we do." Pointing to a corner where a bunch of kids seemed to be focused on a much small child, crying in the corner. The laughter you could faintly hear as you passed by them to get to the employee's only door giving you a good indication that it wasn't in good nature, both looking at each other before walking a little faster.

Not on the clock, not your problem.

You waved goodbye as you headed towards the women's locker room on the west side of the building, thankful that least upper management had thought to put in separate changing rooms as you tiredly unbuttoned the starry vest, breathing a sigh of relief as you ran your fingers through your hair. Cringing when you realised that you didn't quite know what they'd touched through the day and sighing that you were going to have to wash your hair. Again. Nobody told you that working with kids would leave you feeling like you should get hazard pay for simply being in their vicinity, god only knew how many times you'd filed for sick pay when some brat had given you the flu or some other stubborn thing that wouldn't leave you be.

Changing quickly, you headed out. Uniform stuck in a plastic bag to avoid it getting too close to the semi-clean clothes you'd shoved in, in order to change into once your shift ended. Glancing up and down the comparatively quiet corridor as you picked up your time card and placed it into the clock, swearing slightly as you couldn't get the punch to work. Banging your fist against the wall in frustration, wondering why management didn't just spend a little more money on the damn equipment that you all had to use, rather than public relations to cover the bad press the pizzeria had.

"Is there a problem?"

You spun on your heel as you heard the unfamiliar voice, brow knitted together as you stared at the voice's owner. He was leaned against the nearby wall, his head cocked to one side slightly as he looked down at you with a cold regard that seemed more like he was regarding something inanimate than a person. Glancing over him, he was slender, but wiry as he had his arms crossed over his chest, able to see the tendons moving in his hands as his fingers flexed, but he was wearing the white shirt, purple starry vest and black pants that marked him as part of Freddy's. The start of dark circles under his eyes were also par for the course.

"Yeah, stupid punch clock won't move." Huffing and turning your attention back to the clock, feeling yourself wince as you noticed the time had crawled by and you were already a few minutes over your shift. Time you would never get back. "You can clock in in a moment."

He was too clean to have been clocking out. You supposed that the clock on the other side of the halls closer to the men's was probably just as busted, if not more so.

A pale, slender hand reached into your vision and startled you, making you take a step back as the man clicked a small button on the side of the clock before pressing down the stamp. Stamping your card for you, pulling it out with a flourish and handing it over with a lazy smile that made your chest tighten unusually, even if his blue eyes didn't seem to carry any warmth to them.

"You've got to check the safety's on or not. It's to stop people messing with the time cards if they came back here accidentally." His accent was rough, British, soothing. You frowned, looking up slightly at him and watching as he ran his fingers through his cool brown hair, which seemed roughly cut like he had done it himself. Greying at the temples and the occasional grey hair standing out against his darker hair. "You'll get used to it."

"I've worked here for two years and never heard of that bullshit." You muttered, rolling your eyes and changing your bag to your other hand as the man raised a thick eyebrow and stared at you some more.

"You've worked here for two years?" Seemingly surprised by the statement as you shrugged your shoulders. Wanting to go home and collapse onto your bed, not stand around talking to some newbie.

"And?"

"I've just never seen you around."

"You probably know me by my name, it's-"

"I honestly don't give a fuck what your name is. I need to finish my work, and you should go home, doll, I'm sure there's...something...you have to fill your time with." The sudden shift in his soothing voice made you blink, his tone never changing, reading as bored. Somehow, you felt mildly offended that this stranger simply seemed not to care, sucking your teeth and tutting as you shook your head and began to walk for the door. Feeling his eyes linger for just a moment before footsteps moving away told you that you were being left alone.

The next day, you managed to drag yourself into Freddy's with five minutes to spare before your shift. Grabbing your punch card and clocking in before you quickly got on your freshly washed uniform with barely enough time to grab a soda and carry with you into the main dining area. Wednesdays had never been particularly busy, but then again, what counted as 'quiet' for Freddy's never quite aligned to the other businesses in Hurricane's idea of it.

You took a deep breath and went to lean against the prize counter for a brief reprieve before the onslaught, hearing a door open and looking towards the arched entrance and waiting for a customer to emerge despite the fact it was nine in the morning, shrugging when you didn't see one emerging. Eyes flickering about to see if you could locate where the noise had come from, seeing movement on the staircase up to Afton's office that was tucked away in the corner of the pizzeria. Raising your eyebrow as you pulled out your soda and took a sip, wondering who was visiting your elusive boss.

You almost choked when the figure paused and looked directly at you however.

It was the guy from the previous day. Only this time he had a black blazer over the top of his purple vest, one lapel covered in various pin-badges from the arcade games and prize counter that made a faint clinking noise with how many there were as he walked in your direction. His hair was swept back, like he had just run his finger through it, and you could see a slight curl to the flyaway pieces that had refused to comply. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks as he glanced at you for a moment, pausing and blinking slowly as you stared back.

"No trouble with the punch-clock this morning then?" That same soothing lull to his voice as you quietly shook your head and took another sip of your drink. Eyes flickering over his badges on his lapel, one worn out enamel pin of what looked like a rabbit head catching your eye before you spotted some red against his purple vest. The colour having seeped into the silvery stars embroidery.

"You have something on your vest." Making the man look down, pulling his vest away from his body to look before his blue eyes snapped back up. A wolfish grin spreading across your face that made your heart race just a little as there was a dark spark in the usually dim eyes.

"Oh, nothing to worry about. It's only marinara sauce."

With that, he passed by. No explanation, no excuse. You watched the tall, lithe man leave with a little confusion as to who he was. You decided that you had to know, jogging after him slightly to catch up with his long, purposeful strides. The man pausing and looking at you curiously, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Look, you might not give a fuck about what my name is, but I do give a fuck about what yours is." Crossing your arms across your chest, he cocked his head slightly, regarding you with a sudden interest that hadn't been there before. Like he was realising that you were a living, breathing person for the first time. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face, turning to face you fully before sliding his hand from his pocket, offering it for you to shake. You noticed that his hands were well manicured, even if the nails were a little longer than you expected and the way he squeezed your hand when you shook made them bite a little into your skin.

"William, Afton that is." You could feel the colour draining from your face as he pulled you forwards, having to take a step closer and his voice low, almost purring as he spoke quietly. "And don't worry, doll, I'll let the swearing slide this time."

"You didn't care yesterday."

"You weren't in uniform yesterday, remember?" Releasing your hand and giving you another wolfish smile as his hand returned to his pockets, the faint jingle of the pin badges as he moved an almost comical sound as William stared for a second. Turning on his heels and moving off with no more thought than if he had already said 'goodbye'.

Well, now you could at least say you had met one of your bosses. Even if something in the back of your head scratched and itched as to why William Afton was handling marinara sauce, reasoning that it was probably from his lunch break, not that he looked like he ate often, and you had never actually seen somebody take anything up to his office space. Glancing at the darkened upstairs window, you shook your head and decided it wasn't worth thinking about. Swallowing down your confusion and settling your sights on one of the smaller, fresher faced workers with a scowl as they tried to make a beeline for the prize-counter unnoticed.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going, newbie? Older workers get to pick their jobs first, you know the rules." The unwritten code of Fazbear Entertainment workers as the smaller figure startled and scurried away whilst you detoured to pick up your drink and head towards the prize counter.

It was going to be a long day.

You'd forgotten you were on closing duties, even though you had begged to swap. Open to close was a brutal shift that nobody enjoyed, especially since to 'cut costs', recently there had only been one member of staff closing down each night. The pizzeria was creepy when the lights were mostly turned off, only the flickering arcade screens and the backlit animatronic stage to light the main dining area. Casting long shadows across Freddy, Bonnie and Chica's soft furred parts. The eye sockets seeming hollower without the eyes being lit up, the way their jaws hung open slackly seeming almost like the death throes of the animals they represented, or an all too human scream. You couldn't decide which was worse.

Heading back into the employee corridor, your footsteps seemed to echo slightly against the chequered tiles, so used to the faint sound of the extremely loud music playing from birthday parties and children's games as they ran around. Instead, there was only your footsteps and the hum of the halogen light strips above you. Casting everything in a slight sickly yellow glow. Eyes darting as you took stock of the cobwebs that had probably been there since the restaurant opened, posters lining the check bordered walls, kids drawings scattered amongst it all. Memories of happy children who loved to see the animatronics perform, or had their birthdays at that location.

You were pulled from your thoughts as a metallic clatter caught your attention. Pausing and glancing down the corridor where the sound came from. There was only one door at the end of it, which you couldn't read the signage on from where you stood. Slowly approaching and trying to place your heel down first, quieting your footsteps against the tile as your heart began to thump harder in your chest.

"Hello?" You called out instinctually, cursing yourself for it when you were trying to be sneaky. If there was anybody, they surely would have gotten spooked and ran off by the time you got to the door, but you reasoned that you weren't about to get jumped by some drugged up junkie looking to steal metal to sell off to feed their habit. The door looming large as your eyes wandered over the lettering embossed onto the plaque screwed to it. 'Parts and Services'.

Pushing the door open, you had to blink to adjust your eyes to the darkness inside. Swallowing as you stepped in and the heavy door automatically swung shut under it's own weight behind you. Eyes adjusting to the very low light, flickering as your hands reached out in front of you and felt for some form of light to turn on.

Two years you had worked there, two years you had avoided any of the creepy horror stories that surrounded Freddy's and it's owners. You just had to go and stick your nose where it didn't belong, and you were left fumbling in the dark, managing to grab onto a table as you slipped in something slick across the tile floor. Feeling across the table and squealing when your fingers touched something furry. Praying that it wasn't a rat that had decided to place itself upon the altar of mechanical parts. Heart beating so quickly you could hear it pounding in your ears, hands shaking as you reached your hand out again to check whether or not the thing was still there.

Your fingers found the furred texture again, realising it was longer than anticipated and pushing your fingers into it, trying to figure out what on earth it was.

"And on the first day, the lord said; let there be light!" The voice startling you as it seemed to be so close yet so far away, blinking rapidly as the light turned on in the room and you couldn't help but flinch and look down towards the table. Your head hurt with the rapid change of light, taking a moment to adjust as your fingers curled around the soft texture in your hand, keeping your head down, vision finally clearing.

To see the face of your co-worker staring back at you with the same slack jawed expression that the animatronics had. Your hand in his hair, shrieking and pulling your hand free, slipping and tumbling as the face followed and you watched in silent horror as the head bounced against the tile. Rolling to face away, the bloody, raw meat, bone and gristle that you could see inside of what was once a neck, looking down and realising that your shaking hands were covered in claret. Thick, clotting, the smell of hot pennies and raw red meat overwhelming, wondering how you didn't notice it before.

Footsteps, your eyes wide and transfixed on the rolled head of your co-worker as well polished black shoes came into view, kicking the head slightly and making you wince as you head the meaty thud it made when it connected. Bloody hands coming into view, one clutching a fire-axe near the head as the figure crouched. Looking up, you saw the pale, angular face. Star vest coated in red, splashed against his pale skin as the blue eyes sparkled. William looked positively elated, a predatory grin across his face as you looked him over, realising that the childish pin-badges were coated in the gore too.

"Oh doll, you shouldn't have come back here. But I'm not going to punish your curiosity, little lamb." The cool, calm British voice made you shiver, there was something dark and feral in the way he fixed you under his intense gaze, eyes lazily drawing down your now coated body with his own shiver of delight as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

"H-He's- He's..." You stammered and William scoffed, rolling his eyes as he reached out, placing the flat side of the bloody axe under your chin and tilting it up so you would look at him again.

"Come on doll, you can say the word." Cooing encouragingly as you trembled before him.

"Dead. You...Oh god you killed him!"

"That's right, here at Freddy's, I am god." A self satisfied smirk as he tilted the axe to make the blade almost brush against your skin. Heart pounding as you realised that this was probably the end. Murdered by your boss, covered in your co-workers blood.

"So let me show you what a merciful god I am, and allow you to take your first communion." Standing up and spreading his arms wide, smile never leaving his face as the single lightbulb above illuminated behind his tousled, greying hair and formed a bloody halo for William Afton.

[aemiron-main]

that’s not the same guy at the same time- more nina henry weirdness

So, I’m just supposed to believe that these are the same guy at the same time/mere moments apart?

Like!! Look at his hair!! And his face!!! He looks completely different!! I dont know how or why but he DOES!!! Even the blood splattering is absolutely, confirmably different in each picture, it’s not even the same jumpsuit!!

And look at the Henry on the left’s shoulders. they’re visibly skinnier than the henry on the right. Left Henry’s jumpsuit is literally hanging off of him and his face is gaunter, whereas right Henry fills out the shoulders of his shirt more and his face looks very different. I’d dismiss this as Jamie’s weight changing but the fact that the weight change aligns with drastic blood splatter pattern changes on the jumpsuit AND hair changes AND colour grading changes??? And the fact that S4 repeatedly brought the weights of characters like Hopper and Chrissy to our attention?? And the fact that deepfaking was already being used on young El during this sequence??

And speaking of colour grading, it’s interesting that the pic on the left has more greenish colour grading considering this post that I made about Hawkins Lab and green lighting.

[slugass]

guess what he's covered in (hint: it looks a lot like blood)

CW/TW: BLOODY IMAGERY (may or may not be actual blood based on interpetation), EYESTRAIN (sort of, with the dithering patterns and such), SWEARING

[img desc if you dont wanna see: Tubee from Midnight Horror School after running out of paint. He is hunched over, his face is blue, and he looks exhausted. He is splattered with a red liquid that might be either red paint, blood, or both. This liquid is seeping from his head as well as his nose. He is saying: "FINALLY!!!! IT'S DONEEEEEEEEEEEEE, UGHHHHHHH, I'M GONNA FUCKING DIE".

The artist (slug ass) also forgot to add the T on his shirt and the paint that normally drips from his mouth.]

make up ur own context for what's going on here in this SHOCKING PIC!!!!!

my piece of shit mouse makes drawing on my mac annoying (esp since i have to hold it down like i'm trying crushing it so that it doesn't just fucking stop while i'm dragging ANYTHING) urrGHHHHHHHHHHHHH FUCK THIS MOUSE

but i took advantage of the sloppy wobbly shit results of hand-drawing with a mouse by making it part of a style... something wonky to convey......... exhaustion ig??????? its supposed to emphasize how MAN... tubee's not lookin too good

also i made it show-accurate to how he looks when he's out of paint (minus the red + runny nose + baggy eyes), see the end of episode 3 when tubee's drawing a pic of dracula and then tubee runs out of paint

[davids-cartoon-corkboard]

Duplicatnation

The fandom's already put in a lot of work speculating about why Qi Xiaotian (QXT) has abandonment issues and how that's probably connected to why we know nothing about his bio family, but idk if I've seen anyone mention what the clones can “tell us” about the situation? The way they each go off the rails offers a lot of insight!

The Porty Clone (PXT) is very much a child’s idea of how being an adult works- he stays up as late as he wants, doing whatever he wants, and nobody can tell him what to do.

He even sounds like a child protesting bedtime: “Aw but fifteen houws I’m so sweepy- that’s what you sound like!”

He’s the only clone who has discarded his work shirt, another indicator that he Does Not Like Being Told What To Do.

Though he’s more than happy to tell other people what to do, since he easily got those bouncers and the clone swarm to obey him.

This suggests whoever QXT grew up with was the “Drill Sergeant” type of parent: “I am in charge and you will do what I say; and I will punish you if you so much as insinuate you don’t like my decisions.” I suppose they could just be some run-of-the-mill shithead, but Lego Monkie Kid can probably get more plot mileage out of making them a villain.

---

The Artist Clone (AXT) is “older” than PXT; instead of throwing a tantrum to get what he wants, he conforms to what others want from him in the hopes that he'll be rewarded (or at least not punished) for acting "correctly".

“Pretty good? Pretty good?! That’s not good enough! You asked me to help paint your boat, and that’s what I’m going to do. I won’t stop! Until it’s perfect!”

Naturally, he gets mad when Sha Dali doesn’t follow the “script”. Sha Dali is “supposed to" agree that AXT needs to be better by fully devoting himself to the task at hand. “Pretty good” is a deadly insult- if “pretty good” is all that Sha Dali expects, then he must not think AXT can reach perfection, and if AXT can’t reach perfection, then he’s not good enough, and if he's not good enough, then why even keep him around?

AXT responds by doubling down, because he can be perfect! He does have value! He’ll make Sha Dali see that!

Not to be a God Damn Homestuck, but all these paint splatters are definitely supposed to remind the audience of blood. If QXT’s parent is a villain, they are not of the comic relief variety.

---

The Delivery Clone (DXT) is distinct from the other two in that he actually deviated from his purpose! If he’d followed the pattern the other two had set, he would have performed his purpose too well, delivering his orders so quickly and in such large amounts that the shop would have run out of stock and been unable to serve its afternoon customers. He ate all the noodles and outright fought with Zhu Dachu because he represents QXT during the "snapback" part of his life- his parent demanded more and more from him until he had no more to give, at which point he realized trying to satisfy his parent was impossible and started turning all that effort towards himself instead, with less than ideal results.

QXT’s parent would have considered him to be no longer useful after that and abandoned him, so DXT probably also represents food insecurity.

---

Zhu Dachu started yelling at QXT, Sha Dali wanted AXT to stop trying so hard, Long Xiaojiao wanted to leave the arcade- each clone reacted the same way. “My loved one is unhappy with me” turned into “they’re going to abandon me” turned into “I can’t deal with that happening again” turned into “if they won’t stay voluntarily, I’ll make them stay.”

Perhaps the person who raised QXT wasn’t actually his bio parent, but kidnapped him from his bio family because they sensed his Super Special Hero Potential or something.

That the clones briefly showed up in “This is the End!” suggests they’re more permanent than the average clone, so I’m curious to see if they’ll provide more info in the future.

---

I haven’t read Journey to the West, so I’m casting this question out to the fandom at large: are there any Journey to the West characters that match my description of QXT’s hypothetical villainous parent?

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Notice Me

Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 3843

Summary: A killer leaves Reid’s girlfriend on the steps of the BAU with a message for Hotchner and the team. Spencer’s judgement is clouded and it seems that the killer isn’t finished with you. 

Notes: This is a dark one guys, so please be wary of that. I wanted to do an imagine that kinda felt like a case, but also had the reader involved and everything. This is another one that I needed to split into two parts because I got a little carried away (whoops). As always, please let me know what you think!

Warnings: Trauma, gore, assault, mentions of rape and sexual assault. 

Find Reid and more crime drama imagines: HERE

-

It was late. Later than anyone should have still been at the office and yet J.J. sat in front of a pile of files on her desk. Of course, Hotch was in his office too, both having already tried to convince the other to go home. Feeling like the piles would never end, J.J.’s attention shifted from a case to the flicker of movement just outside her door. At first, the figure standing by Spence’s desk startled her, but she quickly realized that it was you. 

“Y/N?” She smiled to greet you, though her confusion was clear. 

“Agent Jareau, I didn’t know you’d be here.” It was dark, so she couldn’t quite see how strained your smile really was. 

“Please, call me J.J.” She said lightly. Ever since you’d started seeing Dr. Reid, she liked to think the two of you had become friends. You liked to think that too, which was why you had hoped she wouldn’t be here. “Spence went home a couple of hours ago.”

“Is SSA Hotchner here?” You blurted. You didn’t have much longer. Her brows furrowed. 

“Um, yeah. He basically lives here, unfortunately.” She couldn’t get another word in before you rushed past her towards Hotch’s office. It wasn’t until then that she saw how pale you looked. 

It took every ounce of strength you had not to stumble as you walked. You kept your coat closed, partially out of embarrassment and partially because you were afraid that, even now, he was watching. Hotchner was working at his desk, just like he’d predicted. You had to knock to get him to look up. 

“Agent Hotchner?” 

“Dr. Y/L/N,” He set down the notes he was looking over and stared at you with surprise. “What can I help you with?” 

“I know it’s late, but he told me I had to find you.” You leaned against one of his chairs for support. 

“Reid sent you here?” 

“No. Spencer doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know anything.” You winced at the thought. Spencer had no idea. He was probably worried out of his mind. You were supposed to be at his place watching a movie. Everything had changed in the span of one evening. 

You felt something drip off of the tip of your finger. Hotchner’s eyes followed the dark liquid until it splattered on his carpet. 

“Y/N are you okay?” Hotch stood up, noticing the way you seemed to sway slightly. 

“He said I had to come here. If I didn’t, he said that whatever he did next would be my fault. He said he has a message for you.”

“Y/N, who said this?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” You undid the button keeping your coat closed. It was getting harder to speak. “He said that this is for you. For all of you.” 

You let your coat fall off of your shoulders, revealing your bloody chest and arms. Hotch lunged towards you as you collapsed, finally succumbing to your injuries. 

“J.J. get an ambulance here now!” He screamed, desperately trying to catch you before you hit the ground. The blonde appeared in the doorway to see what was going on. 

“Oh my god.” She gasped, rushing to the nearest phone. 

Hotch’s stomach dropped, taking a closer look at the bloody gashes on your chest. Each slash was deliberately carved into the flesh, forming two words; Notice Me. 

“J.J.!” He called out again. She rushed back into the room. 

“The paramedics are on their way.” 

Hotchner’s panicked face looked up at her. 

“Call the team.”

“Y-yes sir.” Her eyes widened, taking in the entirety of your wounds. Hotch’s jaw clenched. 

“And J.J.”

“Sir?”

“Let me call Reid.” 

-

He checked his watch for the hundredth time and blew out a long breath. On the table in front of him sat the box. The box. The box that had the potential to change absolutely everything. And you weren’t here to open it. He looked at his phone for missed messages, but the last text still read ‘On my way. See you soon.’ 

Spencer nearly jumped out of his chair when his phone suddenly started to ring. He felt his body tense when he saw the number. 

“Hotch?” He answered. Part of him already knew. 

“Reid…” Hotch sighed. “Spencer, you need to get down to the hospital.” Reid closed his eyes, hoping that he was wrong. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” 

“Something’s happened.”

“I should have known. I should have looked for her. She’s never late, Hotch. Ever. She’s actually early for pretty much everything. I should have had Garcia track her phone or have her-” In his ranting, he forgot to breathe. 

“Reid, I need you to calm down.” Hotchner instructed. He listened to Spencer take a few deep breaths. 

“Is she…”

“The doctor said that she’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s going to be okay.” He paused, making Spencer even more panicked. “Unfortunately, that’s not all we have to worry about. I’ll be able to explain more when you get here. The team is on their way.”

“Wait, the team is coming?” The turning in his stomach got worse. There’s only one reason Hotch would have called in the team. 

“Like I said, I’ll explain when you get here.” 

“Hotch-”

“I’ll see you soon.” Hotch wanted to be supportive, but they were on a time crunch now. This message meant there would be more bodies and soon. 

It took a moment for Spencer to make his feet move. Once he did, he was running. Before he knew it, he was already outside and what he saw made him stop in his tracks. Parked in front of him was your car. Five feet and you would have been inside. 

-

Morgan was the first to meet him. Normally, Spencer would have found his presence comforting, but he knew that he wasn’t just here for support. Hotchner called the team in for a reason. By the look on his face, Morgan already had an idea. 

“What happened?” Reid demanded, trying to look over his shoulder. He tried to push passed him, but Morgan held him in place. 

“We don’t know a lot. But Reid, you’re going to want to prepare yourself.”

“I don’t need a pep talk, I need to see Y/N.” His attempts to dodge around him were unsuccessful.

“He carved a message into her chest with a knife, Reid.” Morgan sighed. Spencer stopped. 

“What?” 

“Come on, Hotch can tell you more than I can.” He led Reid back to a waiting area where a few other members of the team had gathered. Rossi was still on his way, and so was Prentiss., but Garcia, J.J., and Hotch were grouped together in the far corner. Garcia and J.J. were looking at something on her computer while Hotch sat with his eyes closed. 

He was trying to remember every last detail from when you walked in to when you collapsed. He knew something was wrong and he should have acted sooner. He analyzed every single word that you said, trying to piece everything together. 

“He said that this is for you. For all of you.”

Notice me. 

“Hotch.” Morgan called to get his attention. Everybody looked up and saw that he was joined by Reid. 

“Oh my god.” Penelope immediately stood and rushed over to them. She had definitely been crying. Spencer had forgotten that the two of you were friends. You were friends with the whole team, really. She enveloped Spencer in a tight hug. “When J.J. called, I couldn’t believe it.” She took a deep breath to compose herself. “We are going to figure this out and everything is going to be okay.” 

“Babygirl, let the kid breathe.” Morgan gently pulled her way from him. Spencer just stared off into nothing. 

“Her car is outside my apartment building.” He said blankly. “She was coming over to watch…” His gaze fell to the floor. “She was there. She was at my apartment and he took her.” 

“Spence, this isn’t your fault.” J.J. put a hand on his shoulder. “You couldn’t have known that he was out there.” 

Before he could respond, Garcia’s computer made a sound. She seemed almost afraid to look. When she did, her face dropped. 

“Is there a pattern?” Hotch sighed. She nodded, trying to keep calm. 

“Four bodies have been found in Maryland and Virginia. All of them were bound with duct tape, their necks were slashed and they were all raped.” She could barely say all of it without getting sick. She looked up at Spencer frantically. “But none of them had any messages or anything like that so maybe this isn’t the same guy. If it was the same guy, why would he…”

“Why would he leave her alive.” Spencer finished, closing his eyes. He couldn’t stop his brain from picturing every scenario, manifesting every scream. 

“I’m going to go see if the doctors can tell us anything.” J.J. said, giving Spencer a reassuring look. Reid finally looked at Hotch. He couldn’t help but stare at the blood that stained the front of his superior’s shirt. 

“What happened?” He didn’t think anything could be worse than what he already imagined. Hotch motioned for him to have a seat. 

“Whoever did this wanted to send us all a message. He told her that if she didn’t get to my office, that whatever he did afterwards would be her fault. He wanted to make sure I saw what he did.” 

“Morgan said that he-” Spencer took a sharp breath but was able to keep calm, distracting himself by picking at his nails. “He said that she had something carved into her chest?”

“Like I said, he wanted to make sure that I saw.” Hotch sighed. “He wrote ‘Notice Me’.” Everyone fell silent, each trying to wrap their heads around the situation. 

“Hotch,” J.J. returned, her expression betraying her concern, “She said she’s ready for questions.”

“Can you handle it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should stay here and look over the cases Garcia found.” 

“Of course.” J.J. paused before looking at Spencer. “She said she would like you to be there, Spence.” 

“O-okay.” He rose slowly, his nerves barely allowing him to move. Morgan gave him a supportive pat on the back before Spencer followed J.J. to your room. Every step he took made his heart pound harder. He’d heard countless statements from victims, analyzed the most gruesome crime scenes imaginable, but he had never been this paralyzed before. 

The two agents opened the door to find you struggling out of the hospital bed while a nurse tried to get you to lay back down. 

“I appreciate everything, really, but I’m not going to sit here all night. I need to find-” Your argument with your nurse quickly came to a halt. “Spencer.” 

“The doctor said you were ready to answer a couple of questions.” J.J. gave you a small smile, pulling a chair up next to your bed. “He told me you wanted Spencer with you.” She looked back at Reid, who was still standing in the doorway. 

He just stood there and stared. Your face was bruised and a bandage covered an injury on your forehead- probably the blow that your attacker used to overtake you. Bandages covered your arms and he could see more under the collar of the hospital gown. You were shaking, the color from your skin faded and cold. Seeing him made your eyes water. 

“Spencer, I-”

“You were late.” He blurted. He started to fidget with his nails. “I mean, I thought you were late. Even though you are never late for anything. You didn’t call or text me or anything and I still didn’t look for you. I should have looked for you. I-” His words caught in his throat. 

You shrugged off the nurses hands and walked towards him, trying not to wince as you raised a hand to rest on his cheek. He had tears in his eyes and you could tell he was desperately trying to keep them back. 

“Spencer, this isn’t your fault.” You said softly. He leaned into your touch and closed his eyes, trying to stop imagining what happened in that goddamn hour that that man would have had you. 

“Dr. Y/L/N, you really need to be laying down.” The nurse insisted. Spencer opened his eyes and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

“She’s right. Come on.” He took your hand and led you back to the bed, helping to tuck you in under the blanket. He sat in a chair across from J.J. and kept your hand in his. 

“Are you ready?” J.J. asked patiently. You nodded nervously. J.J. smiled reassuringly. “If you want to stop at any point, just let me know, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“What were you doing before you were attacked?” 

“I was driving to Spencer’s apartment.to watch a movie and have dinner.” You glanced over at your boyfriend. “I parked in front and walked towards the door, but I didn’t get there.” 

“Were there cars already parked when you got there?” 

“I-I think so.” You closed your eyes, trying to envision the scene, but all you could see was his face and with his face came the pain and the terror. “Oh god, I see him.”

“Stay with me, Y/N.” J.J. kept her voice as calm as possible when inside her heart was breaking for you and for the anguished Reid across from her. “Do you remember the cars?” 

“Breathe with me, Y/N.” Spence instructed, kissing the palm of your hand. You calmed down enough and focused on the sound of his voice. “Breathe in. Breathe out.” You exhaled slowly and nodded. 

“There was a van.” 

“What color was it?”

“It was dark, but not black. Blue maybe? I don’t know, I only saw it for a second.” 

“That’s okay.” J.J. said. She exchanged a look with Spencer. Now came the hard part. “What did you do when you got out of your car? Did you see anyone?”

“No, it was just me. I walked towards the door, but something hit me. Someone was dragging me away from the door. The next thing I knew, I was in a van.” 

“Do you see anything?”

“There’s something on the walls. Some kind of padding. A-and on the back of the seat, there’s this jacket. A  women’s jacket. It was red.”

“What else can you see?”

“I see him.” A tear escaped your eye and fell silently down your cheek. “He-he’s leaning over me and he’s-” You paused and listened to the sound of Spencer’s breathing. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him. You wanted to see his face instead of the creature that did this to you. But you needed to do this. “He’s unbuttoning my shirt.” 

“Do you remember feeling the van move at all before he did this?” 

“No. No, he didn’t drive until after.” You felt Spence’s grip on your hand tighten. J.J. watched him carefully, reading the pain on his face. “He said something while he was taking it off. He said he ‘didn’t have enough time’ and he ‘couldn’t do it now.’ He said he wanted it to be special. That I was special.” 

“Was he wearing a mask or a hood?”

“No, I could see his face. That face…” You held back a cry. Spencer held back the urge to wrap his arms around you. “That’s when he took out the knife and started carving this.” You put a hand on your chest. “He said I was his messenger.” Your heart was starting to race and you started to hyperventilate. “He… he kissed each cut as he made them and then he would kiss me.” 

You finally opened your eyes and almost wished that you hadn’t. Spencer was crushed. There were tears on his face and utter horror in his eyes. You had to look away. 

“Well… you know the rest.” 

“You did great, Y/N.” J.J. reassured you. “Do you think you’d be able to give a description to a sketch artist?” Despite your efforts to keep it still, your lip started to tremble. 

“D-do you think I can sleep first? I’m so tired.” You hadn’t realized how exhausted you were until now.  

“Of course. Just let me know whenever you’re ready, okay?” She glanced over at Spencer with a supportive smile before she left to join the others in the waiting room. You couldn’t bear to look at the pain you had caused him. 

“Maybe you should go with her.” You muttered, staring blankly at your lap, more tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. You had brought him in here because you knew you needed him to get through this, but you hadn’t thought about what it would do to him. 

Spencer tried not to show the hurt on his face, but he wasn’t successful. He let go of your hand and stood up. 

“Let me know if you need anything.” His voice barely came out above a whisper. Any louder and he was sure it would have cracked. You watched the way his shoulders sagged as he walked, like he was carrying the weight of what had happened over his shoulder. You grabbed his hand before he got far. 

“Spence, wait.” You motioned for him to come closer and held his hand against your heart. When his skin grazed against the cuts in your chest, it didn’t hurt. If anything, it eased the sting. “I love you.” 

A small, lopsided smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly the box in his jacket pocket weighed more. 

“I love you too.” 

-

Once Rossi and Prentiss arrived, Hotchner briefed the team on what their next step should be. Reid, however, was nowhere to be found, which had made everybody worry. He sent Morgan and Prentiss to the latest murder crime scene to see if this really was the same unsub. Garcia went back to the BAU, but Rossi and J.J. stayed 

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Rossi asked, setting down a cup of terrible hospital coffee. It was almost morning now and no one had gotten any sleep. 

“From what she told us, it isn’t over yet.” J.J. sighed. “He told her that she’s special. He’s going to come back for her.” 

“And we will be here when he does.” Hotch stared down at the array of photos from the previous crime scenes. He was usually good about separating his emotions from a case, but this was an attack against his team. This was made to be personal. 

Hotch started down the hall, turning the corner and stopping. He noticed movement in the corner of his eye and turned around. Reid sat on the floor with his back pressed against the side of a vending machine and legs crossed in front of him. His face was sullen and tear stained.

“Hey,” He greeted, immediately stiffening and whipping his face with his sleeve. He stood and brushed off. Hotch noticed the way his hands shook. “Have you guys found anything yet?” 

“Morgan and Prentiss are heading to the latest crime scene. Based on what Y/N told you and J.J. about the attack, it could be the same unsub, but we don’t want to make any conclusions yet.” 

Reid nodded quickly, keeping his gaze trained on the floor. 

“Maybe I should go with them. I might get a better-”

“This isn’t your fault, Reid.” Hotch interrupted. He knew exactly where the younger agent’s mind was. “That is what he wants you to believe, but it isn’t your fault.” 

“I…” Spencer knew that arguing with him was pointless. He just looked defeated. “I have to do something, Hotch.” 

“The doctors will likely release Y/N in a couple of hours. We’ll need to get her somewhere safe. You should stay with her.” Hotch knew how the guilt was weighing down on him. He put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all here for you, Reid. You and Y/N. We aren’t going to stop until we catch this man.” 

“Thanks, Hotch.” Spencer sniffed. More than anything, he wanted to take you home and never let you leave his embrace. Reid leaned down to pick up his jacket from the floor, wincing when a small velvet box clattered to the tile. Hotch picked it up for him. 

“Reid…” He proceeded with caution, but there was a warmhearted tone in his voice. “Is what I think it is?” He handed it to Spencer who hurriedly stuffed it back into his pocket. 

“Actually it’s a-” He stopped and gave him his awkward lop-sided smile. “I was going to ask her tonight.”

“I didn’t know you were ready to take that step.” 

“Neither did I.” Spencer laughed nervously. “But ever since I met her, I just knew. I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.” He put his hand in his pocket, feeling the box in his fingers. Tonight was supposed to be so different. Hotch’s usually serious expression broke into a small, proud smile. 

Hotch’s mind returned to the case and he started back down the hallway. Spencer walked towards your room, pausing when his phone rang. 

“Dr. Reid.” He answered. For a moment, there was just breathing on the other end. Before he hung up, a low, raspy voice spoke. 

“I won’t be ignored anymore, Dr. Reid. You all notice me now.” 

Reid took off running. He found Garcia in the waiting area and pointed urgently at his cell phone before continuing the call. 

“You’re right. You have our full attention.”

“I know that little trick. Make me think I’m in control so your pretty little tech can trace this call. I learned from the best.” He chuckled deeply. “You won’t find me until I want you to.” There was a brief pause, like he was stopping for effect. “I was just calling to ask you some questions, Dr. Reid.”

“I’m not nearly as interesting as you are.” Reid tried to keep his tone even as he watched Garcia scramble to trace the call. 

“Could you hear her screaming?” His voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “I want to make sure that those soundproofing panels worked. She kept calling out for you over and over and over…” 

“You want us to know who you are, why don’t you tell me your name?” 

“Tell me, have you had her yet, Dr. Reid?” His suggestive voice made Spencer’s blood boil. “I’m dying to know what it’s going to be like when I have enough time with Y/N.” 

“You won’t get that chance.” He finally spat, losing control. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll take better care of her than I did those other girls. I look forward to meeting you, Spencer.” Just like that, the line went dead.

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado; @suckmyapplejacks

[asterroidd]

fragment in time

↬ Reincarnation/Soulmate AU

—Wherein past lovers would always find each other in a different life.

↬ Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Reader

↬ Word count: 4.4k

↬ Synopsis: Perhaps in another lifetime, you and Levi would finally be together.

↬ not proofread, capn’ :’)

   The smell of blood wafted through the air. Screams of terror of fallen soldiers plagued your senses as man-eating-giants unhinged their jaws, their large teeth sinking down into the soft flesh of your comrades. Their blood splattered around, your terrified eyes watching each and every one in your squad being eaten alive by the titans.

   It was a simple mistake, an error created by the supposed messenger from the other squad of soldiers reporting in to inform you of the titan wreaking havoc amongst the lands to the west. You took them upon their word, heeding into the information, and as such steered the squad towards the east to avoid the chaos.

   But they were supposed to say east. East was where the giant beasts are.

   Which brings you back to today's scene, wherein you are badly injured—and perhaps internally bleeding—with an aberrant titan desolating your men.

   Biting down your cheeks, you groaned in pain as you adjusted yourself into a sitting position. Hands flying down to your stomach in attempts to stop the bleeding caused by a titan that caught you earlier.  You were in death's door—a foot in the grave you have dug yourself in ever since you signed up to be a soldier in the Survey Corps—ready to embrace the sweet release of death that would finally rid you of this hellish world. That is until one of your men saved you, slicing the fingers that are wrapped around your torso and harshly tossed you to the side and out of harm's way.

   You froze in horror, unable to recover your mental state after being a hair's width to cessation.

   "Lieutenant (____)! Take my horse and esca—" was their last words before the titan bit of their head. The beast looming over their figure, a sickening grin adorned their face as saliva trickled down its chin. It let out a small grunt of pleasure, gulping down the severed head of your comrade. Their lifeless body slowly slumped down until they fell with a thud against the grass. Dirt mixed with fresh blood dirtied their pristine white shirt they wore along with the Survey Corps uniform.

   You felt so useless. . .so powerless.

   The scene played inside your thoughts like a broken record playing in repeat. Over and over again. . .

   It was a nightmare much worse than those you have in your sleep. No. . . this is reality. This was actually happening right before your eyes. With a shaky hand, you brought it up to cup your cheek, smearing blood all over it as you lightly pinched yourself to confirm that you are actually awake and are not simply dreaming.

   You wanted to save your squad—your friends whom you trained and joked with back inside the walls. The very same people who were assigned to you by Erwin.  But you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

   Your body wouldn't budge.

   It was as if fate was tricking with you—letting time slow down for you to witness the horrific scene before you. You wanted to take a break, just a brief moment to recollect your thoughts and congregate yourself to fight back against the titans. You wanted to fight back; to slice the nape of the titan that killed most of your squad. But you find yourself unable to. Shoulders slumping down in defeat, eyes swimming with salty tears, and mouth so dry like those desserts Armin spoke of.

    As the titan's hands hover above, your life flashed before you. Recounting your most joyous moments from childhood to adulthood. Like that one time your mother gave you a hand-sewn doll for your birthday. Or when you got accepted to the Survey Corps despite your family's protests.

    You'll die a terrible death, they say. It's safer inside the walls.

    But you defied them, enlisting your name the moment it was announced that the military branch was recruiting a new set of soldiers for the next expedition happening in a few months. Your first time outside the walls was different.

    Instead of puking everywhere and shaking in your horse, you felt strangely calm and excited. Not only that but you also easily killed the titans coming your way. Which in return shocked the higher-ups and eventually gave you your own squad a few months later due to your pure skill.

    But perhaps the most memorable event in your life was meeting your fiance, Levi Ackerman. You met him a few years back—when he was still a fresh new recruit just like you. His skills with the 3d maneuver gear were no joke. The male looked so graceful whilst swinging from tree to tree. Moving as fast as sound as he sliced off the napes of giant beasts that dared come close to him.

    You idolized him at first—looking up to him in astonishment and hopes that one day, you would also possess the same prowess as him. Perhaps being on par with him in speed and killing titans was your goal. And so you set out to accomplish that ambition of yours; training every day until you pass out from exhaustion, harnessing your skills in hand-to-hand combat, and of course, improving your technique in using the 3d maneuver gear.

     That surely got his interest, because months later Levi started to acknowledge you more. Whether it was a simple nod and greeting when both of you passed each other in the hallways. Visiting you in your room when he knew a friend of yours died during the expedition. And of course, Levi bringing you tea to your office in the wee hours of the morning whilst you are drowning in piles and piles of paperwork.

    Before you knew it, you and he confessed to each other one night. You remembered it as clear as day. There were no clouds that moment, letting the moon shine brightly and provide light to the dimmest corners of the base. The stars were also out, glimmering in a rhythmic pattern that you grew to love.

    I think I have feelings for you. . .romantic ones, you first confessed to him. Your hands bawled up in a tight fist, your eyes screwed shut, and heart hammering against your chest in anticipation of his answer. Much to your delight, he reciprocated your feelings.

    That's good to hear, you swore there was a small smile. I feel the same way.

    You relish in the memories of you and Levi inside his office. Every activity with him makes your heart swell and heat rush to your face. Being with Levi makes you forget the horrors of the world offers and instead replace it with comfort and blissful moments. Whether it was a simple trip downtown, spontaneous cuddle sessions when no one was around, and of course the pleasure-filled occasions with him behind the closed door of his office.

    You treasured every moment inside your heart. And you would do whatever it takes to experience those once again.

    What you were going to do was obviously a suicide mission—you should've just taken a horse just like what your comrade said. But you are one stubborn one.

    Despite your body screaming in pain and agony, you won't die in vain. No, you'll stand up and fight back. Levi is expecting you to return back home intact and alive. You fired the hooks in a nearby tree, reeling yourself towards it before releasing it. There was a brief moment you're flying in the air. Everything was silent save for you hearing your own clamoring heartbeat against your rib cage. You've managed to escape in the nick of time, the titan's fists closing in the area where you once were. You could've died right then and there if it weren't for you acting quickly.

    Your eyes clouded with rage, you fired the hooks once again, only this time to the nape of the beast. In one fell swoop, its nape detached itself from the rest of the body.  A grunt escaped past your lips, an electric-like shot of pain coursed your veins. Air whistled past your ears as your velocity pushed you towards the side. Somehow in the process of killing the titan, its blood splattered on your face as well clothes.

    With immediate effect, mind you, as small wisps of smoke emerged from your clothes. A sign that the blood is vaporizing. You kept your eyes low, staring at the gaping mouth of the now-deceased beast. Within a few minutes, its once strong skin would disintegrate. Turning into piles of bones that, if given more time, would also fall apart. Like a bubble bursting into nothingness once in contact with air.

    You let out a small sigh of relief, letting your knees buckle and come in contact with the ground. It was a miracle that you could move despite your wounds.

    Though, you celebrated all too early.

    A shiver went down your spine as you heard the loud thumping behind. You whipped your head to the sound, eyes widening as a titan much bigger than the one you have killed was making its way towards you. Their mouth was stretched in an eerie smile, body covered with blood—with what you presumed was human's from another group of soldiers. Perhaps it heard the commotion and as such ventured towards the sound.

    "Shit. . ." you cursed, finally realizing that you were out of gas and the blades are dull. The horses, as you observed earlier, were injured and some ran away. Even the one your comrade left for you was long gone, nowhere to be seen.

    You imagined death so much it feels like a memory. Is this where it gets you? On your knees while the titan several feet ahead of you. You see it coming as clear as day, the surroundings a blur as you fixed attention on the beast. Do you run? Do you scream? Do you close your eyes and accept death? Though, you knew all too well that with your cracked ribs and injury, you wouldn't run as far.

    You chose the latter.

    Hands releasing the blades, you closed your eyes as you embraced the impending death.

    When the titan wrapped its fingers around your finger, you kept your mouth shut. Not even a scream escaping past. Your breath hitched, breathing in the godawful stench as the beast opened its mouth. Perhaps salivating at the thought of gnawing at your flesh.

    A choice with no regrets, that is what Levi said. True, you had a lot of regrets throughout your life, but you would never regret meeting him and enjoying every moment with him. Even if it was brief and shortcoming, you cherished it. Though, you truly did hope you would see his face once again. To relish under his touch. To hear his voice once more. Oh, how you wished you bid farewell before you take your final breath.

    You cried in pain as its teeth slowly sunk into your flesh, your lower half of the body bit by bit being detached from the rest. Tears streamed down your cheeks. This was finally it. The moment wherein you would take your last breath and leave this hellish reality.

    That is, until a strong gust of wind passed by.

    "(____)!!" you knew the voice all too well. It was Levi's.

    You opened your eyes, realizing now that the male had successfully killed the beast and is now carrying you in his arms. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising up and down vehemently. "You—" he started. Fear danced in his eyes, perhaps tears clouding his vision despite his attempts to keep it at bay. It was a rare sight to see Levi crying, usually, only a handful of people get to witness it. That said, you were always the one to comfort him in his darkest nights.

    Levi carefully set you down, letting you lay down on the grass. "Don't you dare close your eyes, (____)!!" he pleaded. Hands clasping your shoulder blades.

    "The others are coming this way—" he fought back a sob. "Just—just keep your eyes open long enough."

    But you and he knew all too well that the deep gash in your abdomen as a result of the titan sinking its teeth is far too severe to be treated. The damage has already been done, it would be magic if the medic could heal you. Still, Levi clung to that hope that you would survive. That you would be back in the walls with him just in time for the wedding to happen after the expedition.

    Levi was frantic. Unsure of what to do in seeing you in such a state he knew would be far-fetched to heal.

    A minute.

    He deduced that with your injury and blood continuously pouring out, you would still have a minute or two with him before you leave for good. Levi hated the thought of losing you. He blamed himself for letting you separate from him for this mission. So when he was informed that a titan wreaked havoc upon you and your squad, Levi did not think twice in changing directions in order to check up on you.

    If only he was fast enough. If only he could turn back the time so Levi could save you in the nick of time before the titan drilled its teeth unto your flesh. But he knew all too well that what has happened has already been done. So for one last time, he'll make sure that the time spent with you would leave no regrets.

    In contrast to him, love and mirth danced in your eyes, sparkling like a radiant summer sun glistening and being reflected on a puddle of water. Carefully and somewhat sluggish, you raised your hand to cup Levi's cheeks. Your thumb caressing his skin that you love oh so much.

    "I'm glad I could see your face one last time. . ." you murmured under your breath, too weak to raise your voice.

    Levi tightened his grip on your shoulders, this is it. The moment he'll lose another loved one yet again. "Save your energy. Don't you dare leave me," he spat.

    "Levi. . ." you chuckled despite the pain. "You and I both know that I wouldn't make it in time. . ."

    His broken expression made you wish this was all a dream.

    "So. . ." you trailed off. "Just hold my hand, please?"

   You blinked as black spots danced in her eyes. You were getting sleepy though ironically your body can't rest. The pain in your lower half was gone but when you tried moving, the pain emerged again. It somehow finds a way to wake you up. It was as if fate knew to keep you awake just to have one final moment with your beloved.

    Levi closed his eyes, finally accepting reality and abiding by your request. With shaky hands, he clasped yours quite harshly. He was not ready to lose you.

    "I'll see you in another time. . ." he slowly spoke. "We'll meet each other again and I'll find you."

    One tear slid down your cheek, "Yeah. . . See you."

   You woke up with a start, eyes flying open and you gasping for breath.

    The room was dark, save for the small light given by the sun which was shielded by the floral curtain. A blue vase etched with gold ethnic marks and aster flowers in it sat at the windowsill. The first thing you registered was the feeling of cotton against your skin and the dark surroundings of your room. Slowly, you moved into a sitting position, your body feeling light as if you are floating in thin air.

    That dream of yours had been reoccurring more often, plaguing your thoughts every night as you hit the haystack and welcome the sweet embrace of sleep—as if some outward forces want to tell you something.

    You were in a trance—fog clouding your brain as you recalled. Distantly, your fingers ran over the soft cotton blanket, you can't help but feel like you were forgetting something.

Something important.

    It was odd enough that giant naked men are desolating the lands; eating every human that comes across its way. But the thought of actually fighting it using a device far too technical for you to understand is what makes it absurd. That one particular scene keeps replaying over and over again when you sleep. You are confused—flabbergasted even. Though, it could only point to one answer.

    It was a hand maiden's tale. A story passed down from generation to generation that the person constantly reappearing in your dreams was your soulmate. Though you wanted to believe that, it was a slim chance that it could actually be true. For starters, you were not a superstitious person—you believed in facts and data instead of made-up tales by who knows who. Still, something deep inside you was screaming that the male in your dreams was your destined beloved.

   So as you strolled down the halls of the campus, you can’t help but let your thoughts drift off to the dream that incessantly appears at night. It was yet another day of you visiting the library to check if there are any new books added to the catalog. It may seem a nerd-ish move, but who could blame you? Thousands upon thousands of books right at your fingertips that you could easily access for free. Who wouldn’t want free books?

    The soft beep of the monitor lets you know that your ID card has been scanned and as such recorded that you have, yet again, visited the library. As you stepped inside the room, there are a couple of students slumped over the tables. Their laptops opened, notes sprawled out, and multiple pens scattered around. Despite the obvious studious set-up, half of them are on their phone or sleeping. Talk about slacking off.

    Shaking your head, you opted to walk straight into the fiction section where you spend most of your time scouring each shelf in search of a new adventure. Though, you halted momentarily as an unfamiliar figure came into view. They were searching for something—at least that is what you presumed given their furrowed eyebrows and the occasional curse underneath their breath.

   It is such a rare sight to see someone other than you in the fiction aisle. Mainly since most students would be in other sections searching for biographies, dissertations, and old literature stuff that would aid them in their studies. At first, you thought it was Arlert, the freshman you met a couple of months back when both of you happen to stumble upon each other. The male happens to be searching for a specific sci-fi book. Luckily, you had practically memorized each shelf in the fiction section. As such, you helped him find the novel he desires. Before you knew it, you and he had become close friends that would occasionally talk to each other about books both of you enjoy.

   But that isn’t the case this time. Armin’s iconic blond hair wasn’t in sight. Instead, onyx black in an undercut hairstyle is what greeted you. Wait a minute—he exactly looks like the male in your dreams.

   You stepped closer, quiet as to not disturb or startle him. When you got close to the figure, you concluded that, indeed, he is the male in your dreams; quite literally and figuratively.

   True, he is the exact spitting image of the male you’ve been seeing every night when you’re fast asleep. But also he is exactly your type; sharp jawline that could probably cut your finger, steel gray eyes that look oh so mysterious, and saints, the way you could see small veins on his pale hand drives you crazy.

   “Uhmm. . .do you need help?” you voiced out without thinking twice. You had to slap yourself internally when the male turned around to glare at you.

   He rose a brow, eyes trailing from head to toe as if questioning you what are you doing.

   “Ah—uhm. I didn’t mean to startle you but I am quite familiar with this section so maybe I could help you with what you are looking for.”

   The male narrowed his eyes at you, lips pressed into a thin line. Both of you shared silence, the distant hum of the air conditioner was the only thing you could hear. “What happened to Lori,” he abruptly spoke which perplexed you.

   “What. . ?”

   “I am looking for the second book of ‘What happened to Lori’. Do you know where that is?”

   Your mouth fell open in realization as to what he was pertaining to. It was the exact book that you bought a week ago after finding out that the library doesn’t have the second book to the duology. It was a hefty price, but all was worth it since the story is all too intriguing to be left behind in book one. You needed answers and a continuation, and as such bought the second book online.

   “The second book isn’t actually available. . .” you explained. The male cursed under his breath, something about the library being a useless piece of shit that was stupid enough to not buy the second book considering it was a duology.

   The very book he is looking for is inside your bag. Frankly, you only finished it halfway so you were not too sure if you want to let him borrow it. But, with one look at the male, you can’t help but be amazed at how he is the carbon copy of the person that keeps appearing in your dreams.

   You weren’t a superstitious person, but could this male be your soulmate?

   He was about to leave you, that is until you called out to him. “But I have the second book with me,” you stammered. If it means that you would get to see him again and perhaps know some answers, then you are more than willing to lend him your book. “You could borrow it if you want. . .?”

   The male looked at you from the corner of his eye, observing the way you fidget in your place and how you refused to look at him directly in the eye by continuously letting your gaze shift from book to book on the shelves.

   “If that’s fine with you, then sure.”

   With shaky hands, you frantically fished inside your bag in an attempt to look for the book. He was silent as you pulled out the said item and handed it over to him. The male, with astonishment dancing in his eyes, took the book from your hands and examined its cover and pages.

   “Have. . .have I seen you somewhere before?” you dared ask, eager to confirm if you were plain hallucinating or perhaps the soulmate-thing is indeed true. That, suppose, you also appear in his dreams every night. It was far-fetched, but you were ambitious to find out answers.

   The male let out one drained sigh, irritation washed over his features. “Look, if you are trying to hit on me then I’m not interested.”

   Wait, what? You weren’t—

   “I-I’m not!” you stammered, hands flailing around. “I just thought you look familiar.”

   He opened his mouth to respond but was cut short when the deafening clap of the thunder followed by a flash of light interrupted him. Both of you looked out the window to see the sky as black as tar, clouded by dark gray nimbus clouds as small drops of rain fell to the ground. Then it gradually got heavy all too soon.

   The color drained from your face as you realized that you forgot to bring an umbrella today. Not only that but you were totally unprepared for the sudden change in weather given that you were wearing a thin shirt.

   You bit your lip, brows curling up at the thought of shivering as you wait for the rain to dissipate. If anything, you totally despise the cold and how it makes your nose all runny and hair stand. Internally scolding yourself, you made a mental note to always check the weather update before going out of your dorm.

   “Tch. . .” the male clicked his tongue. “Here.”

   You were surprised to feel the soft fabric of his jacket draped over your shoulders, giving you warmth. Did he just—did he just gave you his jacket?

   “You’re shivering like a fucking wet dog,” he explained. “So wear that. . .”

   A flush crept up your face as the musky scent of his cologne with a hint of artificial fragrance from what you presumed is the smell of cleaning products wafted through your nose. You’ve got to say, this jacket of his truly is comfortable. With it being lined with cotton on the inside, the thick wool serving as a second layer for warmth, and the exquisite color combination of forest green and gold of the clothing. Slowly, you slipped your arms inside the sleeves and tucking your hands deep inside its pockets. Oddly enough, it fits you just well given—not too big nor small.

   The male turned on his heel, about to take his leave, again, without bidding you farewell. But you grabbed onto his sleeve just in time before he could leave the vicinity.

   “When—uhh—when can I return this?”

   He looked at you with a confused expression, as if asking if you are dumb or whatnot. “Isn’t that obvious?”

   “What I mean is, oh gods, I don’t have any ways to contact you whatsoev—“

   “So you want my number?”

   Someone please kill me right now, you whimpered.

    “What? No, I was ju—“

   “Yeah, yeah I get it. Hurry up and give me your phone,” the male pulled out his phone, expecting you to do the same.

   The audacity of this guy. He has to be a lady’s man or whatever to be this haughty.

   With a shaky breath, you and him both exchange numbers. Mind in a frenzy at the thought of seeing him again and perhaps that wouldn’t be the last time.

   “Uhmm. . .So I guess I’ll return the jacket to you once you’ve finished the book. . .?”

   Ah, there is that feeling again that keeps pestering you—a thought on the back of your mind.

   "Yeah, I'll give the book back to you eventually," he spoke. "I'll see you in another time. . ."

   "Yeah. . .” you breathed, calming yourself to prevent blood rushing to your cheeks. “See you.”

   A hunch that you have already met him in the past; a fragment in time.

part 2 (?)

[yandere-daydreams]

A spicier Yandere!Villain!Izuku/Reader for an absolutely lovely anonymous commissioner, featuring just a little Katsuki /Reader on the side. It’s always nice to get to experiment with a scenario I don’t get to use very often, but honestly, making Katsuki absolutely miserable might just a hobby, at this point.

Title: Lasting Rivalries.

Word Count: 2.0k

TW: Noncon, AFAB!Reader, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, and Slight Exhibitionism.

The air tasted like mold.  

You could’ve sworn you’d fallen asleep in the cold, brisk atmosphere of Katsuki’s apartment, where every draft carried the vaguest traces of bleach and even the dust was neatly polished. Wherever you were now couldn’t be the same place, hell, you doubted it was the same building. The mattress underneath you was warm, uncomfortably so, the kind of damp, sticky heat that only radiated off of objects with a decade’s worth of grime. It was dark, the walls a bare, desolate grey and the few functioning lights only seeming to highlight how obscured everything felt, out in the open yet hidden by some thick curtain hanging just in front of your eyes. Your head felt… bad. You weren’t in pain, and you didn’t have a headache, but you almost wished you did. It would’ve been real, and that must’ve been better than whatever cotton had been stuffed where your skull was supposed to be.

You tried to roll over, intent on coughing away the blockage, but to your dulled shock, you weren’t able to do anything more than shift before falling back into place. Your wrists had been tied to something cold and metallic - part of the bed frame, you guessed, a post - but the rope was soft, seamless and smooth. A harsh distinction from the scratchy, cheap sheet that’d been spread out under your exposed back.

Oh, wait. Where were your clothes?

It was a startling realization, but you didn’t have much time to linger on it. As soon as you had time to properly feel the chill running over your skin, something replaced it. Two palms pressed into your sides, just above your hips, gloved but undeniably there, squeezing as they went, exploring. You kicked, reflexively, relieved to find your legs free enough to do so, but the mass was unmovable, catching your knee and pushing it flat against the bed with a light chuckle. You manage to focus, although your gaze was still blurry and your head still clogged, a shape forming in front of you. A silhouette, at first, then a form. A man. By the time you put a name to those hints of a face, you might as well not’ve bothered.

You would’ve recognized the voice of that monster anywhere. Even with the added smugness.

“When did they get so soft, Kacchan?” Izuku asked, a self-righteous smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. His tone was mocking, too patronizing to be genuine, but that didn’t stop his hands from falling to your waist, rubbing slow, measured circles into your midriff before moving towards your thighs and groping curiously. He continued, unprompted, not seeming to care that he’d never gotten a response. “You did that on purpose, yeah? I know you like your targets too weak to fight back.”

“Fuck off.” You didn’t have to think, your attention locking onto the interruption’s source, onto your boyfriend. Your restraints were child’s play compared to Katsuki’s, his hands encased in metal cylinders and leather belts laid across every extremity that could’ve possibly broken free. He was pinned against a cement column, immobilized, a loose muzzle strapped over the lower half of his face for Izuku’s personal enjoyment. He hadn’t been taken peacefully, either, a splatter of dried blood matting blonde hair to his scalp and his Hero get-up ripped to tatters, stripped of anything that could’ve been made into a weapon. You might’ve been jealous of how much effort had gone into capturing him, if concern hadn’t been shoved to the forefront of your mind, refusing to budge once it took its place. “Touch (Y/n) one more time and I swear I’ll--”

“Maybe we should gag him,” Izuku mused, cutting Katsuki off gracelessly. It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize he was talking to you, but you didn’t dare indulge him with an answer, averting your eyes to the wall with a pointed glare. Izuku just pouted, crouching and nuzzling affectionately into the crook of your knee. You shuddered at the contact, but he didn’t seem to share your aversion, something lovesick weighing down his tone. “I don’t know how you put up with him for so long, angel. All those dirty words, and that rotten attitude…” He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “It had to be terrible. You need someone to love you, really love you, right?”

“I… I don’t need anything from you,” You spat, attempting to clench your thighs together. Izuku pushed them back open with a strength you couldn’t hope to counter. “Get off of me!”

“You don’t think you need me,” He corrected, prompting a groan and a series of volatile insults from Katsuki. If Izuku heard him, he didn’t feel the need to give a response, kissing the inside of your thigh, instead, his lips lingering a second too long. “You’ve been...  influenced by Kacchan. He didn’t love you like I would’ve, he didn’t take care of you. I wouldn’t have made you go out into the big, bad world every single day. I wouldn’t have been so ungrateful.” Another kiss, this one higher up. “You deserve better. I’ll give you better.”  

You opened your mouth, but anything you could’ve said was caught in your throat and choked on as Izuku took hold of your hips, pinning you down despite his attempts to buck him off. You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but when a hot, eager tongue dragged along the length of your slit, the severity of your situation finally dawned on you, sparks of something callous and distant accompanying overwhelming, overpowering terror. Your mind went blank, but you flailed, attempting to kick and writhe and struggle until he let go, but your resistance only seemed to make Izuku more determined, pulling away to suck at your sensitive clit, flicking at it almost playfully with his tongue.

The pleasure was invasive, aggressive. Izuku was relentless, drinking you down like a man starved, his inexperience covered by his will to find whatever spot made your body contort and abuse it, whether that meant fucking your entrance with his tongue or drawing baseless, abstract patterns in your cunt or lapping at forcibly provoked wetness and daring you not to make a sound. You bit your bottom lip in an effort not to give him what he wanted, but his pursuit was a brutal one, the whimpers that found their way through your defenses meek and pitiful. Katsuki had been stunned into silence, but your involuntary submission seemed to snap him out of his stupor, an assumption only further backed-up by the garbled mix of ‘get away from them’s and ‘I’ll fucking kill you’s that soon filled the cramped space. Izuku delighted in that, nearly moaning against you, the reverberation sending an unpleasant tremor up your spine. You couldn’t tell what was getting him off more - your suffering or Katsuki’s.

Regardless of his intentions, your body was reacting to his ministrations, something in your core pooling and spiraling, delving into a dark, aching fire you wish had stayed untouched. Your hips nearly followed Izuku when he pulled away, straightening his back and making a half-hearted attempt to wipe away the spit and slick staining his chin with his sleeve before his shoulders slumped, a wide, malicious grin forming across his features as he looked over you. Wordlessly, he pulled off a glove with his teeth, swiping his newly freed fingers over your cunt, letting translucent fluids gather on fingertips. He held them to your lips, only hesitating for a moment before giving a command. “Lick it off,” He demanded, his smile never faltering. “Or I’ll have someone come in and slit his fucking throat.”

You weren’t proud to taste yourself on his skin, gagging when he shoved his digits down your throat and spitting when he refused to dislodge them, coughing until something in your throat tore and fell away. He only kissed your cheek, something you hoped was meant to be a reward.

You were still recovering when he started to undress, lazily unbuttoning his white dress-shirt and pulling it off, only bothering to shrug his pants down enough to free his cock. Of all things, that was what got you, how casual he acted, as if he was only admiring something he already owned. Tears sprung up in the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision despite your attempts to blink them away. Izuku took care of that, though, cooing as he dragged his thumb over your cheek. It could’ve made you sick. It did make you sick. But, the sudden wave nausea did little to stop something painfully hard from rutting against your thigh as Izuku leaned down, the sensation a constant, perverted reminder of your growing misery.

“Please…” You mumbled, the words falling from your tongue reluctantly. You tugged at your restraints, trying to pull yourself into a more dignified position, but all you accomplished was irritating your already-sore wrists. “Please don’t, Midoriya, please. I’m… I haven’t done this before.”

His eyes widened, the hint of a scowl shadowing over his expression. “Poor thing, poor baby,” He crooned, the words dripping with manufactured sympathy. With one hand, he steadied himself, positioning his length at your entrance with the other, making it clear that no amount of sobbing or innocence would get you out of being defiled. “No wonder you’re scared, he must’ve neglected you for so long. But, you don’t have to worry, love. Your Izuku’s gonna take care of you, from now on.”

That was all the warning you got before he pushed into you, snapping his hips against yours and only stopping when he bottomed out inside of you. Something between a moan and a croak found its way from your throat, but you were quickly distracted from the discomfort as Izuku took up your thighs, digging his nails into your flesh and forcing your knees against your chest, something between confusion and distress flooding into your system. By the time he began thrusting in earnest, finding a steady rhythm to match the tempo of his fleeting, breathy panting, you were sobbing, trying fruitlessly to keep your breakdown at bay as a terrible, unknown pressure built inside of you, a knot forming somewhere in the bottom of your gut. You were snug around him, hot and tight and drooling, making each movement all the more tortuous, toe-curling, world-shattering. It felt like there was never a moment he wasn’t hitting something new, something foreign, something you couldn’t quite make up your mind about. Unwillingly, you clenched around him, and Izuku faltered, groaning shamelessly. You were almost glad you’d fallen so far, when you felt him twitch.

Anything that managed to numb the filth slowly spreading through your body was a mercy.

“You feel so good,” He drawled, hunching forward, pressing his forehead into your shoulder. His breath was warm on your skin, damp, your disgust unaided by the teeth soon embedded in your neck, biting into anything they could reach. He acted without care, without discretion, his only goal being to make his mark and ensure that it lasted, regardless of how much blood he had to draw to do so. “Gonna make you mine, he won’t be able to touch you when I’m done. No one’ll be able to look at you without thinking of me.” He paused, letting out the fractured bastardization of a laugh, relief heavy in the cracked sound. “I’ll knock you up. Kacchan could never give you that.”

Oh, god, Katsuki. Your head fell to the side, in search of something stable to latch onto, but he was far from a source of comfort. He was despondent, limp and motionless, his bindings slack, unneeded. Still, every muscle in his body was tense, on edge, but if he could do anything but sit and stare, you couldn’t tell. His eyes were peeled open, lips parted but no noise coming out, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to make the words. He was as much of a prisoner as you were, now. As helpless as you were, now.

Weakly, he opened his mouth, what was left of his will escaping in a miserable, wounded whisper. “I’ll fucking kill you, Deku.”

That was all it took for Izuku to finish, staining you so thoroughly, you doubted you would ever feel clean again.

[bitchapalooza]

More hetalia highschool AU, 🌟magic team🌟 edition :)

Under the cut bc it is long ❤️

Vladimir is that one kid obsessed with Twilight but only for the vampires; it was his first ever exposure to vampires thanks to his dad thinking Twilight was an appropriate book for a 11 year old. Team Edward going strong for five years, he'd proudly declare like it actually mattered. He tries his best to dress goth at school even though his uniform gets in the way. Fake ear piercings(his parents won't let him pierce them yet), over the top makeup, he's dyed the top half of his shoes black because his parents were concerned about his obsession with black and wouldn't buy him the black tennies he wanted— "mom look, these are marked down for back to school! Can I pleeeease get them???" "....may I know why the black ones specifically?" "They match the ever nothingness of my soul." "Yep! The white ones it is then!" "Mooooooooooom!"— Vladimir has been dubbed the cringy vampire kid of course.

Lukas is into pretty much anything concerning cryptids and magical creatures because they can't be proven to be fake or real, which intrigues him. He carries a book about mushrooms at all times and info dumps on pretty much anyone about identifying poisonous mushrooms and which mushrooms are safe to eat. His backpack is covered in buttons and pins to show off his interests. He keeps an amethyst in the front pocket of his backpack, reason unknown other than to just randomly pull it out and let Mikkel look at it. He's that kid that always wears his hoodie no matter the season, he never takes it off. Under his hoodie is always a crude worded t-shirt that the school would not approve of, much less his parents. He's relatively quiet and because he's quiet he's considered a weird kid.

Arthur can't decide if punk is his style or if goth is. Either way, his way of self expression at school in addition to the uniform is horrible. Checkered black/red shoes his grandma got him with his older brother's hand me down worn out greying socks—"can I PLEASE just have my own clothes???" "we have perfectly good clothes for you in the garage! I can fix them up to fit you better and everything!" "but I want cool NEW clothes!" "those are cool clothes and as far as the other kids know, they're also new. Now get your transformer backpack and get to the car. I put a new patch on it last night so that should hold it for the rest of the year."— Old Pierce the veil shirt, with holes chewed into the collar from his older brother Dillan, peeking out from under his white polo. A black and red choker to match his black and red slowly tearing apart too big flannel on top of a black pull over. A deep blue beanie, the hoodie of his pull over almost constantly on top when outside the school. He dyes a part of his hair a different color every month. He spikes his hair using too much gel and is convinced he looks good. He talks too much about bands and always gets Vlad and Lukas going on and on about fictional creatures he does not FULLY believe in himself. He does, however, believe in magic and loves Harry Potter, more specifically the Weaselys, to bits.

Natalya is a sophomore, a year behind the boys, and she just kinda pushed her way into the friend group until they eventually accepted her into it. They were the only three she knew who liked occult related topics. She's on the baseball team because she wanted an excuse to hit things with another thing and NOT get detention because of it. She wears the khaki uniform skirt and takes full advantage over being able to wear any kind of tights underneath; skull pattern, plain black, blood splatter pattern, fire pattern. Anything that makes her feel like a badass. She's always talking about antiques and forging weapons, more specifically knives. She has a whole collection of fidget toys but her favorite is this pea pod keychain her father gave her. She's always talking about how she'd like to be a medical examiner and to just prove that she's serious, she'll bring up a picture of a human model and point out the difference between a self inflicted fatal wound and a homicide. She puts up a charade of being able to see and talk to ghosts to freak out Alfred, her extended friend first met through Tolys.

They collectively believe they're cool and that other people know this. They're genuinely blind to the obvious snickers sent their way, being called losers and nerds. They're really knowm for like really pathetic things like; Natalya is Ivan's, tallest and most intimidating member of the wrestling team, weird younger sister by a year. Lukas is just the weird quiet kid that reads by the courtyard garden during lunch. Vladimir is not only the vampire goth kid but the kid who's parents believe the teachers are giving his son low grades on purpose and will yell at them for it. And Arthur is just. He's another Kirkland, immediately assumed to be a massive trouble maker because of his now graduated brother Alistair and one grade above him brother Dillan. Everyone loved his eldest brother Darick and sometimes compare him to Darick.

Compared to what others THINK they do, such as witch craft for some odd reason, the four of them do pretty typical teen activities. Like hang out at the mall. Do their honework together. Play video games and D&D when they have the chance. The boys do have sleepovers still as they have since meeting each other in middle school, Nat not really being a fan of sleeping where she doesn't live but comfortable enough to go to their houses and just chill for the day. They have become friends because of their related interests but thats not what they're ALL ABOUT.

Fun facts/stories about these losers I thought about while bored as fuck:

• Lukas, in his freshman year, went on a nature hike field trip with his lit class after reading Into The Wild. And he brought his mushroom book of course. They walked around, looking at the sights, talked about the book. Lukas just stops at one point, falling behind the class. He picks up a mushroom, goes to the teacher and is like "You see this? Its not poisonous." And straight up fucking eats it without warning. The teacher called an ambulance even though Lukas kept telling him he was fine and that that mushroom was 100% okay to eat raw, but for sure better off cooked. Lukas calmly shows the paramedics his book and they're like "yeah that actually was safe to eat, we don't need the book to confirm that, but um. Please don't ever pick something off the ground and eat it again. Just. Please don't do that, son." .....he did it again before leaving to go back to school but this time he didn't tell anyone.

• In elementary school, Natalya brought in a model of the human brain she asked her dad to borrow. He had to say yes because she was his only child genuinely interested, not bored of, his medical profession and he found it very cute and honoring. So she's at show and tell, its her turn right, and she silently goes up to the front of the class and pulls out the model brain. Teacher tries to step in because, hey, these are 6 year olds—AND WHY DOES THIS 6 YEAR OLD HAVE A PLASTIC BRAIN??? But Nat just shooshes her. In surprised shock, the teacher is just quiet as Nat begins to explain parts of the brain and their function— which was all wrong actually. She knew the words and everything but she didn't get the locations right. She sounded confident and smart and she was telling this to a bunch of 6 year olds so they believed her of course. End of the school day, her dad is having a hilarious conference with his youngest's teacher about the brain incident.

• Vladimir loves reading. He's loved it since he began to learn how, even if his dyslexia gives him grief along the way. So since he loves to read he'll always get excited and read ahead in class or in the public library reading club. One summer, the reading club was reading The Giver and it was getting really good. Vlad was loving the story, so much so that Vlad began to read ahead in his own time when he really wasn't supposed to be, the club was reading it together out loud and discussing it. Now he's read enough and worked hard enough to figure out how to help himself focus better and understand each word and sentence without having to reread it all multiple times over or get stuck. But sometimes the meaning and context to what he's reading doesn't ALWAYS process with the words as he's too focused on reading the words right and it passes right over his head. So Vlad is reading ahead and he's getting to the part where The Giver has given Jonas the memory of the sled again. And Vlad just sits there after reading that paragraph. He rereads it. And rereads it again. And then he leaves his book on his bed, goes to the the hall closet and takes out the ironing board. He grabs a plastic container to use as an ill attempt of a helmet and he just. Rockets down the staircase and hits the wall. He screams and cries and his parents rush in from the livingroom. When asked what happened he just says "I wanted to understand the sled scene better! Now I do and I feel really bad for Jonas!" He just couldn't quite grasp WHY the sled accident hurt, never had a broken bone nor sled afterall, and needed to find out. And that's how Vlad got his first broken arm at the age of 12.

• When Alfred and Matthew moved in with Arthur's family, Arthur didn't like it. He was a moody young teen but he was also just tired of the full house. His cousins were loud and nosey. He had to share a room with his four older brothers already and now with Matthew while Kathleen and Alfred got a room to themselves. Arthur thought this was so unfair. So his solution was to run away. He was 13, he needed a place to have some peace and quiet for once. So he texts Francis and Lukas, the only two of his friends living in his neighnorhood. Francis is not on board with helping him run away at first but then Lukas brings literally all his camping gear for Arthur's use and then Francis is on board because he had the feeling Arthur was going to get himself killed somehow. So as the elder one of the group he accompanied Arthur and Lukas out to the short stretch of woods behind the last street of their neighborhood, intending to go to the big clearing before hitting the roads leading to the airport and whatever else buildings. They're out there setting everything up together and they're done by like 4 pm. They sit down and talk, munch on oreos and other snacks Arthur deemed as essential survival foods. Then Francis looks at his cell and remarks "wow its already 6! Ah, Lukas, we should get home. Afterall, neither of us ran away so we still have supper to eat. Come on Lukas, let's go before our parents come looking for us." They exchange goodbyes, Francis trying his best to hide his cocky smirk. So Lukas and Francis start walking off, Arthur crawls into the tent and eats half a cookie before frowning and feeling too alone. He didn't expect to feel alone because all he wanted was to BE ALONE. Before he knows it, he's running out of the tent yelling after his friends to stop and wait up. "Oh whats wrong, Arthur? I thought you wanted to run away." "I— I forgot I hadn't fed my rabbit is all! I'll run away tomorrow! I'm not... Feeling lonely if.. If that's what you think...." Arthur did not run away the next day. Buuuuuut the three plus Vlad made a tree house together in the Kirkland backyard that they still use today!

[thewidowsghost]

The Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 5

(Y/n)'s POV

I have weird dreams full of barnyard animals. Most of them wanted to kill me. The rest wanted food.

I must've woken up several times, but what I hear and see makes no sense, so I just pass out again. I remember lying in a soft bed and spoon-fed something that tasted like (Favorite/Food), only it's like pudding. The girl with curly blond hair hovers over me, smirking as she scrapes drips off my chin with the spoon.

When she sees my eyes open, she asks, "What will happen at the summer solstice?"

"What?" I manage to croak.

She looks around, as is afraid someone would overhear. "What's going on? What was stolen? We've only got a few weeks!"

"I'm sorry," I slur, "I don't . . ."

Somebody knocks on the door, and the girl quickly fills my mouth with the pudding.

. . .

The next time I wake up, the girl is gone.

A husky blond dude, like a surfer, stands in the corner of the bedroom keeping watch over me. He has blue eyes - at least a dozen of them - on his cheeks, his forehead, the backs of his hands.

When I come around for good, there is nothing weird about my surroundings, except they are nicer than I am used to. I am sitting in a deck chair next to Percy - who was looking at me with concern - on a huge porch, gazing across a meadow at green hills in the distance. The breeze smells like strawberries. There is a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my neck. All that is great, but my mouth feels like a scorpion had been using it for a nest. My tongue is dry and nasty and every one of my teeth hurt.

On the table next to me is a tall drink. It looks like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol sticks through a maraschino cherry.

My hand is so weak I almost drop the glass once I get my fingers around it.

"Careful," says a voice.

Grover is leaning against the porch railing, looking as though he hadn't slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradles a shoebox. He is wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops, and a bright orange t-shirt that says CAMP HALF-BLOOD.

"You two saved my life," Grover says. "I...well, the least I could do...I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this."

Reverently, he places the shoebox in Percy's lap.

Inside is a black-and-white bull's horn, the base jagged from being broken off, the tip splattered with dried blood.

It hadn't been a nightmare. My mother was gone.

"The Minotaur," Percy asks.

"Um, Percy, it isn't a good idea -" Grover gets cut off.

"That's what they call him in the Greek myths, isn't it?" Percy demands. "The Minotaur. Half man, half bull."

Grover shifts uncomfortably. "You two have been out for two days. How much do you remember?"

"Mom," I say softly. "Is she really . . ."

Grover looks down.

I stare across the meadow. There is a grove of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley is surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, is the one with the huge pine tree on top. Even that looks beautiful in the sunlight.

My mother is gone . . .

Nothing should look beautiful. The whole world should be black and cold.

"I'm sorry," Grover sniffs. "I'm a failure. I'm - I'm the worst satyr in the world." He groans, stomping his food so hard it comes off. I mean, the Converse hi-top comes off. The inside is filled with Styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole. "Oh, Styx!" he mumbles.

Thunder rolls across the clear sky.

Mom had really had been squeezed into nothingness, dissolved into yellow light.

Percy and I are alone. Orphans. We would have to live with . . . Smelly Gabe? No. I'd live on the streets first.

Grover is still sniffling.

Percy says, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you."

"Did our mother ask you to protect me?"

"No. But that's my job. I'm a keeper. At least . . . I was."

"But why . . ." Percy begins and I suddenly feel dizzy, my vision swimming.

"Don't strain yourself," Grover says. "Here."

He helps me hold my glass and puts the straw to my lips.

I recoil at the taste because I was expecting apple juice. It isn't that at all. It's chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. But not just any cookies - Mom's homemade blue chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting. Drinking it, my whole body feels warm and good, full of energy. My grief doesn't go away, but I feel as if Mom had just brushed her hand lovingly against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was upset and told me everything was going to be okay.

Before I know it, I'd drained the glass. I stare into it, sure I'd just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn't even melted.

"Was it good?" Grover asks.

I nod.

"What did it taste like?"

"Chocolate-chip cookies," I reply and Percy looks at me knowingly. "Mom's. Homemade."

He takes the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it's dynamite, and sets it back on the table. "Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting.

3rd Person POV

The porch wraps all the way around the farmhouse.

Percy's legs feel wobbly, trying to walk that far, and (Y/n), though her legs feel like Jello, had moved to support her brother. Grover offers to carry the Minotaur horn, but Percy holds onto it. I'd paid for that souvenir the hard way. I'm not going to let it go.

As the trio comes around the opposite end of the house, (Y/n) catches her breath.

Percy's POV

We must be on the north shore of Long Island because on this side of the house, the valley marches all the way up to the water, which glitters about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply can't process everything I'm seeing. The landscape is dotted with buildings that look like ancient Greek architecture—an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena—except that they all look brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school–age kids and satyrs play volleyball. Canoes glide across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover's are chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shoot targets at an archery range. Others ride horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I'm hallucinating, some of their horses have wings.

Down at the end of the porch, two men sit across from each other at a card table. The blond-haired girl who'd spoonfed (Y/n) is leaning on the porch rail next to them.

The man facing me is small, but porky. He has a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black it's almost poker. He looks like those painting of baby angles - cherubs. He looks like a cherub who'd turned middle-aged in a trailer park. He is wearing a tiger-patterned Hawaiian shirt, and he would fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties, except I get the feeling that this guy could out-gamble even my step-father.

"That's Mr. D," Grover mutters to me and (Y/n). "He's the camp director. Be polite. That girl, that's Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you already know Chiron . . . "

He points at the guy whose back is to me.

First, I realize he's sitting in the wheelchair. Then I recognize the tweed jacket, the thinning brown hair, and the scraggly beard.

"Mr. Brunner!" I cry.

The Latin teacher turns and smiles at me, then looks curiously at (Y/n), who is still supporting some of my weight. His eyes have that mischievous glint they sometimes got in class when he pulls a pop quiz and made all the multiple choice answers B.

"Ah, good, Percy," he says. "Now we have four for pinochle."

He offers me a chair to the right of Mr. D, who looks at me, then (Y/n), who is leaning against my chair, with bloodshot eyes, and heaves a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to the glad to see you."

"Percy, why don't you introduce me?" Mr. Burnner says, sending a soft smile towards (Y/n).

"Oh, this is my twin sister, (Y/n)," Percy says.

(Y/n)'s POV

I smile and wave shyly.

"It's nice to meet you, sir," I say. "Percy's told me a lot about you. Even said you were his favorite teacher."

A warmer smile spreads across Mr. Brunner's face and then he turns. "Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner calls to the blond girl.

She comes forward and Mr. Brunner introduces us. "This young lady nursed you back to health, (Y/n). Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on Percy and (Y/n)'s bunks? We'll be putting them in Cabin Eleven for now."

"Sure, Chiron," Annabeth replies.

She's probably about my age, maybe an inch or two taller, and a whole more athletic looking. With her deep tan and her curly blond hair, she is almost exactly when I think a stereotypical California girl would look like, except her eyes ruin the image. They are startling gray, like storm clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she's analyzing the best way to take me down in a fight.

She glances down at the Minotaur horn in Percy's hands then looks back up at me. She says, "You drool when you sleep." My cheeks take on a slight red tinge as she sprints off down the lawn, her blond hair flying behind her.

"So," Percy says, looking anxious to change the subject. "You, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner?"

"Not Mr. Brunner," not Mr. Brunner says. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

"Okay," Percy says, looking totally confused, then looking at the director. "And Mr. D . . . does that stand for something?"

Mr. D stops shuffling the cars. He looks at Percy like he'd just belched loudly. "Young man, names are powerful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason.

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"I must say, Percy," Chiron - Brunner breaks in, "I'm glad to see you alive, and the chance to meet your sister. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper. I'd hate to think I've wasted my time."

"House call?" I ask, interested.

"My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct Percy. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met him. He sensed he was something special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to...ah, take a leave of absence."

"You came to Yancy just to teach me?" Percy asks.

Chiron nods. "Honestly, I wasn't sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood, and then we learned of Miss (Y/n), here." He nods to me. "But you still had so much to learn, Percy. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."

"Grover," Mr. D says impatiently, "are you playing or not?"

Percy's POV

"Yes, sir!" Grover trembles as he takes the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyes me suspiciously.

"I'm afraid not," I answer.

"I'm afraid not, sir," he corrects.

"Sir," I repeat, liking the camp director less and less.

"Well," he tells me, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules"

"I'm sure the boy can learn," Chiron says.

"Please," I plead, "what is this place? What are we doing here? Mr. Brun— Chiron—why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?"

Mr. D snorts. "I asked the same question."

The camp director deals the cards; Grover flinches every time one lands in his pile.

Chiron smiles at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer.

"Percy," Chiron prompts. "Did your mother tell you nothing?"

"She said . . ." (Y/n) begins and I remember her sad eyes, looking out over the sea. "She told us she was afraid to send us here, even though our father had wanted her to. She said that once we were here, we probably couldn't leave. She wanted to keep us close to her."

"Typical," Mr. D says. "That's how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?"

"What?" I ask.

He explains, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron says. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient.

"Orientation film?" (Y/n) asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"No," Chiron decides. "Well, Percy, (Y/n). You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know -" he points to the horn in the shoebox - "that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either. What you may not know is that the great powers are at work. Gods - the forces you call the Greek gods - are very much alive."

I stare at the others around the table.

I wait for somebody to yell, Not! but all I get is Mr. D yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!" He cackles as he tallies up his points.

"Mr. D," Grover asks timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?"

"Eh? Oh, all right."

Grover bites a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chews it.

"Wait," I tell Chiron as (Y/n) sits down on the edge of my chair. "You're telling me there's such a thing as God."

"Well, now," Chiron says. "God—capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical."

"Metaphysical? But you were just talking about—"

"Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter."

"Smaller?"

"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class.

"Zeus," I say. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them."

And there it was again—distant thunder on a cloudless day.

"Young man," says Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around if I were you."

"But they're stories," I say. "They're—myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff. They're what people believed before there was science."

"Science!" Mr. D scoff. "And tell me, Perseus Jackson"—I flinch when he says my real name, which I never told anybody—"what will people think of your 'science' two thousand years from now?" Mr. D continues. "Hmm? They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. That's what. Oh, I love mortals—they have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they've come so-o-o far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and tell me."

"Percy," Chiron says, "you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time?"

"You mean, whether people believed in you or not," (Y/n) says.

"Exactly," Chiron agrees. "If you were a god, how would you like being called a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you Perseus and (Y/n) Jackson, that someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain how children can get over losing their mothers."

My heart pounds. He's trying to make me angry for some reason, but I wasn't going to let him. I say, "I wouldn't like it. But I don't believe in gods."

"Oh, you'd better," Mr. D murmurs. "Before one of them incinerates you."

Grover pleads, "P-please, sir. He's just lost his mother. He's in shock."

"A lucky thing, too," Mr. D grumbles, playing a card. "Bad enough I'm confined to this miserable job, working with boys who don't even believe!" He waves his hand and a goblet appears on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet fills itself with red wine.

"You're Dionysus," (Y/n) says and Mr. D looks at her. "The god of wine."

Mr. D nods then stares at me as I say, "You're a god."

"Yes, child."

"A god. You."

He turns to look at me straight on, and I see a kind of purplish fire in his eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man is only showing me the tiniest bit of his true nature. I see visions of grapevines choking unbelievers to death, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turn to flippers, their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I know that if I push him, Mr. D would show me worse things. He would plant a disease in my brain that would leave me wearing a straitjacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life.

"Would you like to test me, child?" he says quietly.

"No. No, sir."

The fire dies a little; he turns back to his card game. "I believe I win."

"Not quite, Mr. D," Chiron says. He sets down a straight, tallies the points, and says, "The game goes to me."

I think Mr. D is going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair, but he just sighs through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by the Latin teacher. He gets up, and Grover rises, too.

"I'm tired," Mr. D says. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment."

Grover's face beads with sweat. "Y-yes, sir."

Mr. D turned to me. "Cabin eleven, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners." He sweeps into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.

"Will Grover be okay?" I ask Chiron.

Chiron nods, though he looks a little troubled. "Old Dionysus isn't really mad. He just hates his job. He's been . . . ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he can't stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."

"Mount Olympus," I say. "You're telling me there is really a palace there?"

"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there's the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Percy, just as the gods do."

"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like...in America?"

"The what?"

"Western civilization?" (Y/n) guesses and Chiron nods for her to continue. "It started in Greece, then spread to Rome, right?"

"That's correct, Miss (Y/n)," Chiron says.

"And then they died?" I ask, looking between my Latin teacher and my sister.

"Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place they've ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings. And yes, Percy, of course, they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not—and believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome, either —America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here."

"Who are you, Chiron? Who . . . who am I? Who . . . who are we?"

Chiron smiles. He shifts his weight as if he was going to get up out of his wheelchair, but I know that was impossible. He's paralyzed from the waist down.

"Who are you?" he muses. "Well, that's the question we all want answered, isn't it? But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s'mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate."

And then he does rise from his wheelchair. But there's something odd about the way he did it. His blanket falls away from his legs, but the legs don't move. His waist keeps getting longer, rising above his belt. At first, I think he's was wearing very long, white velvet underwear, but as he keeps rising out of the chair, taller than any man, I realize that the velvet underwear wasn't underwear; it was the front of an animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair isn't a chair. It was some kind of container, an enormous box on wheels, and it must've been magic, because there's no way it could've held all of him. A leg comes out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached.

I stare at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grafted to the horse's trunk.

"You're a centaur!" (Y/n) says in awe, and Chiron's eyes sparkle with amusement as he nods.

"What a relief," the centaur says. "I'd been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, Percy and (Y/n) Jackson. Let's meet the other campers."

Word Count: 3702 words

[simonfarnabyslegs]

please tell us about your ghosts ocs!!

!!!!! so i have a uquiz i made a few weeks back that includes some of them, but the summaries at the end aren't completely detailed. i may update it to include the others.

i thought i had ten, but i actually only have 9 in all. they are:

marcus

period: roman

age: 40s

occupation: military guard

cause of death: stabbed by an intruder

summary: he's basically an ancient roman himbo. he's not very smart and was way too nice for his job. at button house, he spends most of his time outside or on one of the lower floors, but sometimes ventures upstairs to spend time with the other ghosts. the captain may or may not have a crush on him, kitty definitely has a crush on him, and mary Does Not Understand why, and makes sure to voice this opinion often.

outfit/appearance: dressed in a roman soldier's uniform with a stab wound at his neck near his collarbone.

face claim: either simon or jim. i keep flipflopping back and forth for various comedic reasons.

ingrid

period: viking age

age: 30s

occupation: farmer, previously a warrior

cause of death: poisoned by a neighbour over a land dispute

summary: ingrid is fairly intimidating as a result of her tall stature and slightly grumpy personality. her husband arne haunted button house alongside her for a while but moved on sometime during kitty's childhood. since then, she has been somewhat reclusive, keeping to herself and only leaving her room to venture out into the woods near the house on certain nights (mary suspects it's for some witchy ritual or other, but really she's just going to visit the places where she and her husband and children were buried). despite her reclusiveness, she is good friends with humphrey and she likes to play games and sing songs with jemima sometimes. julian once tried to flirt with her and she gave him such a look that he's still terrified of her to this day.

outfit/appearance: ingrid wears a long, brown dress with a golden yellow pattern embroidered down the front and at the hem of her sleeves. she wears black eye makeup and her hair is long and hangs loose, with a few small braids throughout, tied off at the ends with little glass and metal beads. she wears several bracelets and rings. she shows no outward signs of her death except for a bloody splatter on the inside of her left elbow.

face claim: ragga ragnars

arne

period: viking age

age: 30s

occupation: farmer

cause of death: poisoned by a neighbour over a land dispute

summary: ingrid's husband who died at the same time as her and who haunted button house for a few hundred years before moving on some time during kitty's childhood. none of the later ghosts know much about him other than that robin thought he was funny and his moving on is what caused ingrid to separate herself from the rest of the ghosts.

appearance: i haven't really decided yet since in the stuff i'm writing, he's only ever mentioned briefly by robin and mary and has never actually made an appearance. maybe some blood in his beard or on his shirt, like with ingrid.

face claim: again, haven't decided.

virginia, or "ginny"

period: early stuart

age: 40s

occupation: noblewoman

cause of death: smothered in her sleep with a pillow

summary: ginny is humphrey's niece who inherited the house after his death. she never knew him in life and thought poorly of him because of the supposed circumstances of his death. when she met him shortly after her death, she still didn't like him, but eventually decided he wasn't as bad as she thought he would be and is friends with him now. she likes listening to his stories while they sit or go for walks in the garden. fanny suspects ginny's husband was the one who killed her, but robin, who was downstairs when it happened, says he saw one of the maids going upstairs after everyone else had gone to bed and then coming back down a short while later.

appearance: she died while she was asleep, so she wears a long, white smock or nightgown and her hair hangs loose and is not styled.

face claim: alice lowe

peter

period: late victorian

age: 40s

occupation: groom and horse trainer

cause of death: dragged and trampled by a spooked horse

summary: peter worked at the house during george's youth and the early years of his marriage to fanny. he was killed sometime in the 1890s when one of the stable boys purposefully spooked a horse he was exercising. he and fanny knew each other distantly in life as they had several years in common at the house, but they were never really close in life as she was the wife of his employer. peter is irish and working class, so he and fanny don't really have very much in common at all, but they do get along fairly well as ghosts (though not as well as fanny and the captain).

appearance/outfit: a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a black waistcoat, and black-and-grey plaid pants, dirty from being dragged through the horses' exercise track.

face claim: andrew scott

lizzie

period: 1920s

age: 20s

occupation: maid

cause of death: tripped going down the stairs to the basement

summary: lizzie was a maid who worked at the house in the 1920s. one evening, near the end of her shift, she was going down to the basement to retrieve some clean sheets from the laundry room when she tripped and fell, hitting her head. the plague ghosts were the first to welcome her, and while she was frightened at first and they backed off, a couple of them decided to stay with her and try to help her understand what had happened. she still didn't believe it, even when another maid came downstairs and discovered her body and she watched as it was taken away. she only ventured upstairs a few times over the next couple of decades while the people she knew and worked with were still in the house because it made her sad to see them, but eventually made her way upstairs to stay. she was friends with mary and annie (until annie got sucked off).

appearance/outfit: medium height, straight reddish hair tied back in a bun, black maid's dress.

face claim: saoirse ronan

ron

period: 1930s

age: 30s

occupation: musician

cause of death: electrocution

summary: ron was the cousin of the wife of the lord who owned the house. he was also a musician and was invited to provide entertainment at a party hosted at the house. however, he was electrocuted while helping set up some of the sound equipment (which may or may not be robin's fault). thomas does not like him and views him as a threat, but ron couldn't care less because most of thomas's concerns are unwarranted. ron still writes songs sometimes and tries to teach them to alison for her to write down for him and/or sell them to make money for the house, and he's very good, but due to her lack of musical ability and understanding, it never seems to work. alison downloaded some music composing software onto her laptop for julian to work with him on it, but julian is even worse at music, and because julian can only work slowly, it takes ages and they end up arguing a lot.

appearance/oufit: tall and thin with dark hair that was once neatly combed but now, due to his electrocution, has a habit of standing up no matter how much he tries to smooth it down. he wears a maroon sweater vest over a white button down and black slacks.

face claim: dev patel

johnny

period: late 1960s

age: 50s

occupation: unemployed writer and amateur musician

cause of death: drugged and beaten by some men at a party

summary: johnny is very friendly and laid-back. his main fault is that he is much too trusting and hardly ever suspects anyone of doing anything wrong, which he comes to realise is what probably got him killed. the other ghosts don't always keep him in the loop about what's going on in the house, so he often gets left out of activities and spends a lot of time alone or with humphrey (if he can manage to stumble upon him). he's scared of the plague ghosts because they were the first thing he saw when he "woke up," and much like alison, he thought they were zombies or a drug-induced hallucination. sometimes gets up to Shenanigans(tm) with robin and/or julian.

appearance/outfit: he is a shorter, heavy-set man with dark greying hair. he wears a multicolour striped cardigan over a white shirt and jeans, and his clothes are somewhat dirty from the altercation which led to his death.

face claim: michael sheen

jessica

period: 2000s

age: 17

occupation: none

cause of death: undetermined

summary: jessica is a teenager who died in 2004 at a sleepover. she loves music and dancing, so of course she and kitty are great friends. she has a small crush on thomas. i haven't really thought much about her cause of death; i just think it would be interesting to see a ghost from the 2000s because you never really hear about that sort of thing.

appearance/outfit: bright pink pajamas with purple polka dots, blue fuzzy slippers, and messy looking bun pigtails.

face claim: saoirse-monica jackson

[whalesfallmoved]

hand over wound (1/??)

half an excuse to play around with form, style, and the second person pov. this isn’t what I typically write, so I’m ahhhhh about it all around. alas, FHR lives rent free in my head right now. only read over it a few times for mistakes, so apologies for any typos.

pairing: ricardo ortega/f!sidestep, pre-heartbreak rating: t word count: 2175 warnings: mentions of blood, injury. typical canon content. 

[read on AO3.]

--

You’re in an apartment that isn’t yours with a man you shouldn’t trust and a gut bleeding out over his nice, expensive bathroom, and that doesn’t sound like the start of a bad joke so much as the start of the end of your life. 

(If you could call it a life, if you could call it anything more than all your stolen seconds ticking down to this moment. Torn stitches— fucking stupid, stupid mistake, this is how they’re going to get you—)

(He’ll take you to a hospital and they’ll look and they’ll know and he’ll know and and and)

Fuck.

Two choices:

One. You can suck it up, ask for a first aid kit—he’ll have one, twice as nice as the one you’ve got and he doesn’t even need it—all those Ranger benefits he keeps trying to entice you with, go team! Maybe even some halfway decent painkillers.

You lock yourself in the bathroom, stitch yourself up clean enough to get out of here without bleeding on his floor, too. You can meet his questions with a hard laugh and a fuck off I’m fine go finish making the food I’m starving.

(and why the fuck did you come here why did you let yourself get swayed by his fast grins and his bright eyes? He isn’t your friend, he isn’t, even if he thinks he is.)

Fuck.

Two. You make a run for it. More questions. Potential for passing out in a dark alley. Vulnerable and wounded until you can get back to your own shitty place and hope to god Ortega doesn’t think to follow you. Which he will, you know he will, and you’re fast but he’s always been faster, just as quick on the draw with a mind of static to take your edge. 

You pull the tight undershirt up higher, flinching at the sight of your own skin, focus on the blood rolling sluggish and hot instead of the flinty orange patterns. The wound’s deep and fresh and curled like a crooked smile. 

Black clothes help. Red splatters vibrantly on the white marble counter, onto the floor, sticks to the soles of your feet (bare, shoes kicked off at the door.) You’ll have to clean that up. How the hell will you do that? With his goddamn bleach white towels? 

God— fucking— fuck.

Okay. You can do this. You just ask. Ask for the first aid kit. Slam the door in his face. Or run. 

You want to run. Feel that rabbit-heart drive bursting up under the skin to book it and maybe that’s what you need to do. Yes. That’s what you need to do. Leave Ortega the mess—you’ve saved his ass enough times you won’t feel bad about it, or at least not so bad you’ll apologize for it later (you never apologize, even when you maybe should) and—

A knock, and you jump, gasp. “Still alive in there?” He asks, that same smile-lilt to his voice. He’s teasing you, a little, but there’s an edge of concern too. 

(shitshitshitshitshitshitfuck)

“Just give me a second.” You bite out, trying to sound put upon rather than panicked. 

Shirt tugged down—fuck, that hurts—and your teeth sink into soft cheeks, hard enough to sting.  

A pause. You wait for the sound of footsteps to move away from the door. Silence, instead.

Exhale. 

“—Hey, are you alright?”

Goddamnit.

“I’m fine,” you drop to your knees and your side screams and the blood gets stickier, you can feel the fabric dragging with every move. Throw open the cabinets. Maybe he was organized for once in his life and put the first aid kit in here (fat chance) and nothing, nothing, just bare bones cleaning supplies. 

Frustration and pain build up, you slam the cabinet with a teeth-clenched groan and the knock comes again, more insistent this time, hard knuckles on hard wood— can’t you just fuck off can’t you leave me alone why did i come here—

“Noa. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. God, what do you want?” You snarl, voice raising to a pitch.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Your hand clutches at your side and comes away red, smeary. You have to do something, you have to move. Think. You can’t stay here. 

He’s not going to let you go. You should’ve just run while you had the chance, now he’s just outside the door waiting, on alert, knows you better than anyone (which isn’t saying much but it’s saying enough) and knows enough to not let you just snarl your way out of this. 

Shaky inhale. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” he breathes—relief? you don’t know and it chafes, what’s there to be relieved about?—gives a softer laugh, “no big deal. Just open the door.” 

You don’t want to do that. You really, really don’t want to do that. He’s going to want to help, he’s going to want to see, the way you’ve helped him before.

(warm brown skin interrupted by mods and scar tissue and the expanse of his back, defined muscle rippling under your fingertips— stay still, you snap, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs— ouch, watch it, I’m wounded— and that’s your own fault you idiot, needle/thread, and you lay his stitches so much neater than your own.)

“I… can’t.”

“...You can’t?”

“No.”

“Is it that bad?” His voice takes on a new edge, sharper now, the kind of break down the door, get the job done edge that comes with being a Ranger, you suppose. Not quite hard, still light enough to pass for his brand of charm-sly soothing, but you know better than to fall for that.

“I’m fine. Can you just…” you push up onto your feet, choking down another groan, pain splitting through your side like a disc-saw, “can you just get the first aid kit?” 

You think you hear a faint curse, and then: “yeah, be right back.”

In the space between, panic sets in.

Panic’s a cold emotion, and it’s a sick kind of luxury. You never got to panic before, riding it out out out all silent scream while everyone else’s thoughts and feelings stuck to your teeth, wormed down to the base of your spine. With Ortega you’re alone in your head and the only thing left to do is wait. Fists clench, ease the shaking. 

A few minutes pass, tick-tick-tick, and he’s at the door again, knock softer this time, and please, please, please leave me alone you want to say but you don’t, you just press your palm (red-stark) to your side, and maybe— maybe if you slam it open, it’ll knock him back long enough to give you a head start. You just have to get out—

“Noa.” He knocks again, and you think you hear his breath hitch, maybe, and you want to know what he’s thinking, you want to know so badly but it’s just deafening silence outside the door.

“Yeah… yeah.” 

One hand to your pulsing gut, one hand shaking, the knob unlocks with a soft click, and you’re stumbling back into the bathroom, and he’s there, filling the doorway, eyes soft-hard and brow furrowed. His eyes flick over the counter, the floor (blood splatters, streaks of it) and he lets out another quiet string of curses, “what the hell happened—?” 

He’s moving forward, and you stumble back till your knees hit the toilet.

You both still. Freeze. He’s got you cornered, and he knows it, he must know it, fuckfuckfuck— breathe, you have to breathe.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” He murmurs, softer than before, one hand curled around the green-white first aid kit. Bandages. Stitches. Alcohol.

Maybe you could grab it. Run? No, that’s stupid— he’ll just grab you, shove you back, ask for answers you can’t and won���t give.

Fuck.

Again, you say: “I’m fine,” and feel your lips curl back, a snarl fit for a dog in a ring.

“Yeah, you look it,” he shakes his head, tries to smile, like he isn’t surprised but he wishes it were different, and he’s not going to get mad at you, not yet, we all get hurt in this business but it still can’t be different, it can’t be, asshole, so stop asking, “c’mon, let’s… go in the living room, and I’ll—”

“No,” you snap hard, working around the toilet toward the counter. A little more room that way, and you won’t sit, even though you’re starting to feel it, the shakes and the dizziness. Drip, drip, drip, and your hand curls tighter over your stomach.

“No?” He blinks, more confused than offended.

(you have such a delicate touch, he scoffs as you wrap pristine white bandages over the stitched gash, rough but slow, and you roll your eyes don’t get fucking shanked next time then, and he gasps, mock-offense, brown eyes sparkling, searching your mask for expression he won’t find but you’re smiling, you’re smiling because he’s beautiful.)

“Just give it to me. I can deal with it myself.” 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It is.

“Sure it isn’t.”

“It’s just a flesh wound, alright? Someone got a lucky scratch in that last fight. Didn’t think it’d open again. But it’s not that bad.”

“Well, I’m still not going to leave you here to stitch yourself up.”

Fucking— always so stubborn, why won’t he quit? 

“Either give it or I leave. Take your pick.” 

He stills, watching you, and you wonder how you look to him.

Like a scared animal? Wounded little monster he found and picked up for some fucking reason? What does he want with you? What is he thinking? 

His eyes trail over you, clothes all black and layered, baggy enough to hide everything, 

“You’re kidding.” He wants you to be kidding.

“Do I look like it?” You tilt your head back, challenging, stilling up—shoulders stiffen, legs numb, prepared to run or to fight. Like he’s not blocking the only exit, like he’s not the one person in the world you can’t outmaneuver—Sidestep brought down by a head full of silence and a pretty fucking face.

They would laugh at you. They will if this escalates, if he sees. He’s got all his good intentions, it’ll be the death of you. He’ll be the death of you.

“So what’s it gonna be?” It’s supposed to sound like a sneer-snarl but it comes out weak, the razor edge of fear sliding just under your tongue.

But he must miss it. Or chalk it up to something else. “You’re being ridiculous,” he shakes his head, “it’s really not an issue.”

Ortega, always believing the best of you. That you don’t want to inconvenience him. 

He wants to stay.

(you’ve never had anyone who wants to stay before.)

“I just wanna do it myself, fucks sake.” You burst, cutting him off at the finish line, and now you’re up on your feet, reaching with your free hand for the kit, ripping it from his hand.

“Just...” what was the line? “Just go finish making the food, alright? I’m starving.” and he lets you take it, lets you slam it down on the counter. You drop your blood-wet palm and clench it, as if to say see I’m fine it’s not that bad and his eyes drift over you again, harder than before, and he’s annoyed, well that’s too bad.

“Can I at least…”

“No.” 

Jaw clenches. Works. Ortega never knows when to not push, when to not be that wonder boy so full of heart, head first into the action, and you’re small potatoes so what the fuck is he doing here, really, with you? There’s a dozen other vigilantes in Los Diablos that would probably work with him, that would fall for his knockout smile twice as fast and twice as hard.

(oh, you’ve fallen alright, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

But he knows you. He does. More and less than he thinks he does. And he knows you’re not bluffing. You’ll leave. 

Shoulders still raised, jaw still stubborn, he slowly nods and steps back. You feel relief unshutter in your chest. “Alright,” he sighs, slumps.

Does he want you to stay? Or does he just want to make sure you don’t pass out in some grimy back alley to get picked over?

It doesn’t really matter.

(why is he letting this go that easily?)

“If you say it’s not that bad, I’ll believe you,” he nods, and it feels like a lie, sticks around in your skin the way lying does when someone lies with their mouth but not with their thoughts. “Just let me know if I can do anything, alright?” Smile, again, he’s always smiling except when he isn’t, effortlessly charming. 

“...Okay.” You mutter. There isn’t anything he can do, and you both know you won’t ask.

You stand off, not flinching and not moving as he steps back, hands twitching at his sides—to raise them in surrender or grab you, you don’t know, so as soon as he’s through the door you grab it, slam it closed, lock it fast.

Safe. Or as safe as you can be.

Fuck.

[contemplativepancakes]

@stinastar tagged me to post 20 of my first lines (thank you !! <3)

i feel like i am about to be exposed, let's see:

1. Geralt slams down tankard number three, Lambert sitting across from him while Jaskier looks on in bemusement. (played)

2. Jaskier putters around the room, with one of Geralt’s dozens of tiny bottles in his hand and a rag in the other. (abs of steel)

3. Geralt slams his laptop shut as his apartment door swings open, causing Eskel to quirk an eyebrow. (yarn rants with dandelion)

4. Jaskier strums his lute idly, drumming his fingers on the base. (not if it's you)

5. Geralt glares at Jaskier from across the counter. (may your days be meowy and bright)

6. Jaskier smells anxious; he reeked of apprehension all of yesterday, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t been able to sit still or stop tapping his foot on the wooden floorboards this morning. (enough to drive a man mad)

7. Geralt stirs the smoldering logs, brooding as the poker makes ash and ember drift up. (the thorny heart of a wolf)

8. Dean drives, and drives, and drives. (15x20 coda: somewhere on a beach)

9. “Get back here, you mangy knob!” echoes down the hallway, and Geralt pauses on the way to his room. (five times geralt saw jaskier naked on accident + one time it was entirely on purpose)

10. “Hey, kid,” Dean calls, plunking his bottle of whiskey down on the table. (15x19 coda: stripped of everything holy)

11. “The brother thing isn’t really working anymore,” Crowley says, folding his hands on top of the table. [Gonna Take You Downtown (Woah, wait! Why are you hitting me? I'm trying to ask you out, you asshole!)]

12. They find him by a river, with dirt streaked down his face. [it's an inherently romantic gesture (you keep those)]

13. Blood splatters from a severed neck, the body twitching before it collapses to the floor. (15x18 coda: it's in the being)

14. When Geralt starts getting uncomfortable from his position on top of Roach, he assumes it’s the rain. (a rapscallious rash)

15. Geralt’s not quite sure what to do with himself, here. (stay lost in this moment forever)

16. Cas looks down at the worn picture in his hands, smoothing his thumb over it and thinking back to the day it was taken. (15x15 coda: now and then)

17. Jack is finally in his room, after four slices of cake that Dean had watched him devour with increasing pride, when Dean crosses his arms and leans against the wall, turning to Sam. “So… How was your date?” (15x14 coda: it's a date!)

18. Blood bubbles up between Geralt’s splayed fingers. (of stolen shirts and sorrow)

19. Geralt isn’t supposed to feel things. (killing me softly with his song)

20. Castiel hears Dean talking, sees his mouth moving, knows he should reply, but all he can do is stare at Dean blankly. (where to, cas?)

analysis: man, I sure do love names and verbs for the first two words, huh. apparently this is a thing i have just started doing, because the pattern just falls off. I was definitely cracking myself up with the perfect pov splits. there were only two blood mentions in the first sentences, so I'm going to go ahead and call that a win.

favorite: going to have to go with the mangy knob. sorry, jask.

thank you, stina!! my weakness is data so thank you for making me gather some (:

tagging because i know they would just looooooove to be tagged in another writing game: @witcher-and-his-bard @writinglizards @kueble @rebrandedbard @duckyboos-blog @dhwty-writes

[notalittlebutalottie]

Prompt: AH or Cannon- either works: Klaus commits a murder (victim and circumstances are your choice). Caroline runs a body dispose business. Sparks fly and attraction sets in....over a dead body.

Here is my drabble that I have forced myself to write because I have the biggest block on Earth these last few days. I can’t decide if I love it or hate it so... Enjoy 😊

♡ KLAROLINE DRABBLE #44: Body Disposal For One♡ (NSFW: blood, gore)

When her boyfriend, Damon, had forced her to watch Pulp Fiction in Senior year, she found herself identifying with the character of Winston Wolfe, the ‘man who fixes problems’, a little too much. She had often been the one to clean up after people’s messes whether it was Elena throwing up all over her parents’ carpet (underage drinking was a big no-no, of course) or Damon trashing whatever house he was partying at that weekend. Cleaning up after a murder sounded like a breeze. She had no idea her first disposal would be her own boyfriend, though.

But she was right. It was a breeze. And with a degree in Business, she knew how to put her skills to good use.

When she entered the large hall, baroque designs abundant, the sight of a head separated from its body greeted her. Blood was splattered across the floor, a crude mix of entrails and fluids unravelling from the torso. She sighed, her heels coming to a slow click, and asked, “Would it kill you to be a little less...messy?”

“Afraid not, sweetheart,” his accented voice drawled as he looked up from his place on the royal blue armchair. “That would ruin the fun.”

Klaus Mikaelson was a regular customer. A well-paying one, too. But he was as attractive as he was obnoxious. And as obnoxious as he was bloodthirsty. He had been impressed by her work after reluctantly following the suggestions of an associate to use her services. Despite obviously checking her out upon entry, he voiced his displeasure just as quickly. He was a ‘lone wolf’, but so was she. Nothing was more gratifying than the pleasantly surprised flash in his eyes as she billed him for her time, not a trace of his crime in sight.

“Well in that case, a little help would be appreciated,” she stated pointedly and threw a rag at his face, which he hadn’t failed to catch. His smirk elicited an eye roll, of which she had plenty to display in his presence. She pressed onwards to the body, dropping her two large duffle bags alongside it. She crouched down, raising an eyebrow as the dismembered head was placed in her memory. “Charles Gatineaux?” She glanced at him, questioning, “Keeping it in the family’s a little tacky, don’t you think?”

Klaus rose from the armchair, rolling up the sleeves of his thin, cotton henley. “In my experience, those who have been wronged seek revenge and it appears the heirs of my victims are prime candidates,” he noted absentmindedly.

“How thorough,” Caroline commented with a scoff. She stood up slowly and turned her head his way. He was feigning a scrub of the blood marks on the walls. “You’d think by now, you’d learn how to clean up after yourself.”

He pressed the cloth to his chest and frowned. “And risk losing the precious time we have together?” He took a step forward and gestured a bloody hand out. “This is our thing, is it not?”

“We don’t have a thing,” she replied sharply and turned back to view the body. “You have a murder thing, though.”

That was an understatement. This was his third call of the week. For someone so high up in the world of crime, he sure liked to get his hands dirty.

She felt him come up behind her, his body pressing into her back. The heat was enough to make her shiver with excitement. “Isn’t it thrilling?” Klaus whispered, the syllables dragging out as his lips brushed against her earlobe.

Caroline pressed her lips together momentarily. “You’re not lacking in creativity, that’s for sure,” she muttered and closed her eyes when his teeth grazed her skin.

“Impressed with my work, love?”

“I might make a suggestion or two.”

Klaus brought a hand to her waist, his fingers drumming gently over the rippling fabric of her shirt. “Care to share all of those suggestions with me over a drink?”

“I don’t mix business with pleasure,” she finally spat, slipping from his grasp to zip open her duffel bag of tools.

She could hear his damning breath of amusement. He stepped over the dismembered body and mused, “You didn’t seem to mind last Spring.”

Caroline shook her head, an incredulous grin spread across her face. Slipping her hands into a pair of gloves, she replied, “Well, you know Valentine’s can make a person do stupid things, fall into bed with the wrong people.”

“I don’t recall a bed,” he pointed out with an impish smile. He crouched down to admire his handiwork. “I do recall your delicious screams, however.”

No, it wasn’t on a bed. It was on a desk. And his victim was sitting slack-jawed in the office chair adjacent (literally, that thing was barely hanging on by a few tendons). It was a remarkable sight to take in followed by the sight of Klaus, drenched in crimson, which was most unforgiving. She could barely contain herself when his darkened eyes took upon her. It was the only time she had ever displayed her bloodlust in the company of others; Damon had seen it, of course, but hadn’t lived long enough to use it against her. It wasn’t long before Klaus’ bloodied hands were staining every inch of her bare chest as he rocked into her and she cried out his name.

Caroline looked across at him. She didn’t offer him a response. She held a firm stare. Anything else would provide him a wealth of ammo that she knew better than to give.

“Perhaps next Valentine’s?” he suggested, his notes lifting in the empty space.

“If you’re not caught by then.” Caroline hummed, retrieving a freshly sharpened saw from the bag. “Three Gatineaux family members in a week,” she threw him an uneasy smile, “kinda indicates a pattern.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to keep calling you to help with the clean up then.” He paused, presenting a toothy grin. “So shall I book us a table for Valentine’s or will we be opting for a round two of last year, love?”

Her eyelashes fluttered as she fought off a devilish smile. “I think I’d like to keep our options open.”

[mulderist]

Wicked Game

Historical AU | Multi-Chapter | read on Ao3 

Washington, D.C - 1948. Fox Mulder is a detective on the top vice unit; scandal, corruption, and lies come with the territory. He is forced to investigate a fellow officer and finds the lies go much deeper than the truth.

@today-in-fic

CHAPTER 1

Spring 1948 Adams Morgan, Washington, DC 2:47 A.M.

My nose burned with each inhale of fumes from the stale booze marinating in the hardwood floor. The room was dim but through the glow of red and blue neon I could make out shapes of furniture; chair legs, a few overturned barstools. It was a step up from a dive but not by much. There was a ringing in my ear like a schoolbell. I forced myself upright and felt a white-hot wave of pain crash into my right shoulder. “Shit.” I exhaled through my teeth and pressed my palm against a sticky wound. For an instant, I was back in that bombed-out jungle in the South Pacific, where an overworked medic from our company feverishly repaired shrapnel damage to my arm.

My fingertips found the bullet hole that punctured the thread count of one of my better dress shirts. Can’t wait to explain this one to my dry cleaner. The round might have gone through cleanly but all I knew was it hurt like a son of a bitch. My holster felt light and I found my gun about three feet away under a table in a puddle of what I hoped was discarded beer. I leaned over to retrieve it then I attempted to stand. Once I got my feet under me I found I was not alone. The bartender had a .38 aimed at my chest and a shaky trigger hand.  

“Don’t move!” he shouted. 

“Easy now,” I began as I put away my weapon and held up my hand, “I’m just reaching for my badge.” As I flipped open the billfold he saw the flash of gold then lowered his gun.

“Jesus detective, I’m sorry I pointed that at you. I’m just a little jittery considering what happened tonight”  I nodded and moved closer towards the bar. “Holy hell, looks like you took a hit,” he continued then splashed a bar rag with some water and handed it to me.   

“Can I get a whiskey?” I asked as I slid on to an empty barstool, trying to clean off my hand. Wouldn’t be nice to get fresh blood on a glass, he’s had enough to deal with tonight. The bartender grabbed a dark bottle and a short glass then gave it a hearty pour. I raised it with my good hand and tipped it back, letting the liquid fire coat the back of my throat. The throb in my shoulder started to dull.

“I called the police as quick as I could,” the bartender told me, “it all happened so fast.”  He poured me another and one for himself. 

“Did you see if anyone else was injured?”

“No. Anyone who was here ran outside. I ducked behind the bar and grabbed my gun. I suppose I should be grateful it happened close to last call.” I sat there thinking for a moment, trying to remember what I was doing there in the first place. A pulsing pain returned to my shoulder. The bartender’s voice entered my ear.

“You should probably get to a hospital, that shoulder looks pretty bad.”

“I’ll manage,” I replied before I finished my second round. I turned to look over my shoulder at the row of small leather booths behind me. Something about it seemed familiar. I could feel my wound oozing again so I pressed the damp rag against it and excused myself to clean up. When I entered the bathroom I was met with an unpleasant discovery.

Detective Jeffrey Spender was dead.  

Thick ribbons of burgundy and cherry red graced the wooden stall door like streamers from some morbid party.  The edge of the sink had a similar splatter pattern staining the porcelain. His body was face down in a puddle that was spreading like the Red Sea, an arm akimbo on the floor, at least one fresh hole in his back. His weapon was kicked across the tile.

When Spender returned from the war with a couple of shiny new medals on his chest, nepotism resulted in his quick promotion to a detective position at the precinct.  I knew Spender’s old man had connections with local law enforcement, not to mention his fellow representatives on The Hill.  And now the golden boy was dead. Tragically killed in the line of duty; that’s how the papers would spin it.

 I bent down to check his gun, one shot fired one in the chamber. It was quick. I moved the bar rag in my hand and gripped Spender’s shoulder, pulling him onto his side. I counted two shots, maybe a third. The acrid smell of iron was weaving its way into my nostrils as I crouched down and leaned closer. First round hit Spender in the right lower abdomen, appeared to be a close range shot based on the size. The gut shot wouldn’t have killed him instantly so the second ripped into the left upper chest to make sure he was taken care of. A third might have conveniently nicked an artery, causing more of the splatter. I craned my neck and saw deep red at Spender’s shirt collar.

It was very sloppy.  

If I heard gunfire I would have gone to investigate and perhaps the assailant ran into me as he exited the bathroom. Did he use a silencer? Why can’t I remember his face?  I shook my head and eased Spender’s body back down on the tile floor. Slowly I rose and caught my reflection in the small mirror over the sink. I looked like hell. As I reentered the main bar the front door gave way to three flatfoots and Captain Walter Skinner.  He advanced and holstered his sidearm.

“Detective Mulder.”

“Sir,” I said wearily with a nod.  He briefly noticed my injury then jumped right into the interrogation.

“What happened?”

“I’m a little foggy on the details but I remember following Detective Spender here.”

“And where exactly is Spender?” Skinner asked. I leaned against a booth and placed a hand on my neck.

“You’ll find him on the bathroom floor.” I saw the captain’s eyes narrow and he brushed past me. He nudged the door open with his elbow and surveyed the fresh crime scene, he then motioned for a uniform and gave instructions. The young cop hastily scratched everything down on a small notepad, tipped his cap, and left through the front door. 

“Did he tell you to meet him?” Skinner asked as he moved in front of me.

“No.”

“How did you know he’d be here?” 

I thought for a moment. Certain details were coming back to me.

“I believe Detective Spender was following up on a lead from a mutual informant. We agreed on a meeting to get info about one of Vincenti’s heroin drops. Spender was impatient and wanted to meet tonight. I wasn’t too keen on the idea.” I winced as I shifted my right arm. The whiskey I had was wearing off. 

“The commissioner is going to demand answers when he finds out Spender was murdered,” Skinner said as he adjusted his glasses.

“Well I’m sure he’s more than eager to crucify me,” I said.  

“Cut the melodrama.” Skinner responded. “I’ll finish up here. Go find Officer Pendrell outside and have him take you over to the hospital. Get patched up, get some sleep, then I want to see you back at the precinct.”

I held up my hands in acceptance and walked to the door, making sure to thank the bartender for the nightcap on my way out.  

Officer Pendrell took a long drag off his cigarette then let it drop on the sidewalk, stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. I cleared my throat and said, “Captain said you could give me a ride.”

“Jesus Mulder--” he exclaimed with a plume of smoke into the night air.

“I just need some repairs.” I said with a nod to my right arm. “Skinner said you could give me a lift to Washington General.”

“Yeah sure,” Pendrell opened the passenger door for me and as I got situated he entered from the driver’s side. “What happened in there, Mulder?”

“Spender’s dead.” It was blunt but I was exhausted. “Not much else to say, though I’m sure the precinct will hear about it in a few hours.” I could feel Pendrell tense up as we drove. I flexed and opened the fingers on my right hand.  The slight tingling sensation was reassuring that the nerve damage wasn’t permanent. At least that’s what I was telling myself.  

Washington General Hospital

3:55am

Pendrell pulled the squad car up to the emergency department and practically shoved me out the door. Guess he didn’t want me bleeding on government upholstery. I made my way inside and squinted against the harsh lighting.  I spied the petite nurse behind the desk.

“Ma’am,” I began as I fished out my badge and approached, “I’m Detective Fox Mulder and I could use some help.” She rose and quickly walked around then gave me the once over, her fingers delicately reached for my good arm. 

“Let’s get you back, detective. My name is Dana,” she said as she ushered me down a short hallway and into an open room with several beds. I could feel my chest tighten at the sight of the drawn white curtains. Too many bad memories hidden behind those white curtains. A moan came from a shadow on one of the beds and thankfully she sat me down a few beds over. 

“You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous?” Dana asked as she pulled out a notepad. I shook my head. “Detective Mulder can I get your date of birth?”

“October 13, 1914.”

I watched her write the numbers down with what I presumed was immaculate handwriting, unlike the doctors she worked under. 

“What happened tonight, detective?”

“I took a hit to the right shoulder, not sure if it was a clean shot. The assailant got away.”

Two fingertips with red nail varnish touched the underside of my wrist and she glanced at a small watch fob, calculating my pulse. I saw her note the result on her notepad before pocketing it. She placed a hand on my shoulder as she reached for a nearby medical tray. It had an array of metal instruments, a basin, some bottles, and what looked like bandages. She slid it closer to the bedside and I straightened my posture. I could feel the fabric of my shirt sticking to the clotted blood on my shoulder. Dana turned to pick up a small stool and place it in front of me. She took a white cloth from the tray and splashed it with a liquid from a brown bottle. 

“Can you remove your shirt?” she asked

“Yeah I can try,” I replied. My left fingers fumbled with the buttons and I forced my right hand to finish the job. I winced then exhaled sharply. 

“Here, let me help.” She said as she placed the cloth down on the tray.

“Usually I’m offered a drink first,” I quiped weakly.

“Well from what I can tell, someone beat me to it.” the redhead said with a grin as she peeled open my shirt. I freed my left arm but hesitated with the right. It looked like I had a few too many and tried to get dressed; sitting there in my white sleeveless shirt with my dress shirt hanging on one arm. Dana reached for the damp cloth and held it on my shoulder, attempting to soften the skin. It was a nice gesture. Any other medic would have just ripped the damn thing off taking a layer of skin with it. I could feel her eyes sweep over my chest like a searchlight looking for damage. She gently stripped down the sleeve and placed the bloody shirt beside me on the bed. Dana leaned me slightly forward.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day Detective. The bullet passed right through.” 

Her bedside manor had won me over. I felt the cool cloth on the back of my shoulder as she cleaned the exit wound.

“You can call me Mulder.”

She playfully inquired, “Why not Fox?” as she sat on the stool in front of me.

“Even though it’s my first name I rarely use it. The Marines made quick work of that.” I saw a hint of a smile as she readied her suture tools. 

“And what’s your last name?” I asked in a feeble attempt at small talk. With a squint she quickly pierced the eye of the needle with a dark thread. 

“Scully,” she said, humoring me. “This will sting a little,” she cautioned. I failed in containing a wince from the all too familiar sensation of thread pulling flesh. Battlefield to back alley, I have scars laid out like a roadmap of my career. She worked quickly, weaving the filament like she was darning socks. I felt a sharp tug as she finished her last stitch. She covered her handiwork with a white bandage.

“Halfway there,” she stated as she stood to fix the back of my shoulder. She might have said something to me but I couldn’t make it out. I hated to admit it but I was transfixed. Her presence was like an anesthetic and I was numb in the best possible way. The final pull for the final stitch. She recited care instructions to me the same way a professor would read from a textbook. I pretended to listen as I opened and closed my right hand once again. She slid the tray aside and I rose to my feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, holding up a hand in case I toppled over.

“I’m going back to the precinct.”  I said as I folded my dress shirt over my arm.

“That’s against medical advice. Advice I just gave you. Will you please sit back down?”

“I can’t stay here tonight.”

She folded her arms.

“Is there someone I can call?” she asked. I thought if there was a favor I could collect but no one came to mind. It was probably best for me to sleep it off at my apartment.

“A cab. I’m going home.”  Scully shook her head and led me back down the corridor towards the nurse’s desk. I readjusted my holster across my chest and stretched my left arm. She dialed the operator with one pull on the rotary.  

“Hello, I’d like to request a taxi to Washington General for one of our discharged patients. Thank you.” She hung up the receiver and told me the cab would be here soon. “Be careful out there, Mulder.” 

I smiled and slipped back into my shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.

“Thank you, Scully.” 

She shook her head.

“I don’t know if I’d ever get used to that.” 

I watched her walk down the hall, graceful fingertips smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. She left me with the echo of heels on the hard floor.

I stepped outside the emergency room doors and inhaled an unexpected cloud of tobacco. As I coughed I looked for the source and saw a man, possibly a wino in a white jacket holding a cigarette. He gave me a puzzled look then said in a gravelly voice,

“Hey, are you a cop?”

“A detective actually.” I responded with an annoyed exhale.

“Oh. Well, you look like a cop.”

“Are you a doctor?” I countered. He took a drag.

“No. I found this jacket in the garbage out back.” Before I could respond the vagrant laughed loudly then took off down the alley. On any other night I would have given chase, but I was too tired for additional bullshit. Let the beat cops have him. 

Finally my taxi arrived and I was on my way home.