#TW murder

[nes-the-sleep-monster]

thank you for the stats

and people don't understand why we need to protect trans kids

my biggest fear is actually that the government makes being trans illegal and sends me to prison/strips me of human rights or takes my citizenship away and then someone murders me because there will be no consequences and they hate trans people

[icarusredwings]

Puppy kisses

Wade's always liked dogs. He adored them. He esspecially adored them if they were tiny little things that ran around him in circles, nibbled his fingers and tugged on each others ears.

It made him giggle just to think about it, so to be able to sit here and laugh while one slobbers all over his cheeks, it's everything he's ever wanted.

The puppies are warm, they're a little wet too but thats alright, puppies had accidents. Wade had accidents sometimes, but not like the puppies.

Currently he had one in his lap that kept licking his nose, the little tail wagging and trying to climb up his chest. Gently, Wilson leans down, holding the puppy so softly, careful not to hurt them.

Nipping his nose, he giggles again. "You silly puppy, you can't eat me. Naughty lil thang." He whispers, scolding the puppy with the weight of a feather but the consious of a lead balloon.

He wished he could keep these puppies. Would puppins like them? Probably not, but he wanted to bring them home so bad. Seeing some other puppies appear, they come up to him, appearing out of nowhere but Wade just figured they were scared and coming out of the tall grass around him.

Sitting cross legged, he welcomes more puppies into his lap. "Yuck, did you guys fall in a puddle or something?" He coes, some puppies soak and wet, some puppies limping, but all of them happy to see him.

Some of the puppies start falling asleep, nuzzling and curling up near his legs. Some of them are still playing with him, biting his fingers and one chewing on his thumb. "Heyyy," he laughs "That's miiinnee. You silly puppy. What should we call you, huh? I wonder if Wolvie will be mad. Maybe he'll want you guys as his pups. Or his kits. Or- are you asleep?"

Wade brings the puppy to his lips, kissing its head. "Awwww.. shhh. Sleepy pups.." he whispered, not noticing that Logan had appeared.

"W-wade..?" His voice was shakey, his eyes wide in disbelief. "What...w-what have you done..?"

Wade smiles widely. "Hi, Wolvie(!)" He whisper yells, pointing at the puppies sleeping on him. "I know right? They just all fell asleep."

In the ruckage of it all, several people laid limp and drenched in crimson, multiple with missing limbs, some without a face. Many with their eyes open, frozen in shock and fear. Others looked like they didn't even see him coming.

Leaning down again, Wade kisses a young childs head, petting their lifeless body down their back. "Poor pups are exhausted. They'll probably sleep for a long time."

Tears fall down Logan's face as he stares, wordlessly trying not to gag at the sight. Logan looks terrified. There's so much hurt behind his eyes. He's petrified.

Wade tilts his head, smiling innocently.

"Arn't they so cute like this?"

[tadc-incorrectquotes]

Ragatha: Look! A trampoline tent for summer sleepovers!

Gangle: Think about all the sex.

Zooble: There are two types of people.

Jax: If you wanted to eat somebody, you could put a fire up under it and slowly roast them.

Pomni: Three. Three types of people.

[myrswatchlist]

PUT THE HOT IN PSYCHOTIC (2/∞)

QUAN YILUN as rong xian moonlight mystique (白月梵星), 2025.

[thescaryhyperfem]

ANOMALOUS PROPERTIES INDUCING PROPAGANDA

(my first ever Dr Glass drawing :-3)

[sunbl3achedfly]

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: On your night shift at the mortuary you discover a fresh mutilated corpse that isn’t supposed to be there, prompting the FBI’s arrival.

Content: Dead bodies, like lots of dead bodies (you're a mortician), stalking, murder, dark humour, reader is a little gothic and macabre, first time reader and Spencer meet, Spencer thinks she’s weird at first but his curiosity leads to him finding her endearing, reader is not used to socializing and has questionable coping mechanisms

Author's note: I’ve literally had this idea for months and needed to get it out of my system.

3,038 words

masterlist

The hum of the mortuary’s refrigeration units was usually a comfort, but today, it felt unnervingly loud. The body wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and the one in its place looked like something out of a horror film—freshly dead, blood-soaked, and carved like a grotesque work of art.

You leaned back against the counter as the FBI agents filed in, their presence slicing through the eerie silence. The group was sharp, purposeful, and clearly used to handling chaos. Among them, one man immediately stood out.

He was tall, maybe six-foot-one, with tousled brown hair that looked like it had lost a battle with a comb. His dark blazer was slightly too big for his lean frame, and the way he adjusted his satchel strap every few seconds hinted at his slight nervous energy. But it was his eyes that caught your attention—warm and endlessly curious, darting around the room like they were cataloging every detail. He looked like he’d stepped out of a library and into a crime scene.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said, his voice soft but deliberate as he approached you. His eyes lingered for a moment on your dark hair, the chipped edges of your blood-red nail polish, and the subtle skull pendant hanging around your neck. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he formed some unspoken observation.

“I’m the one who found the body,” you said, crossing your arms. His gaze flicked to your black long-sleeve shirt, noticing the faint wrinkles near the cuffs from where you’d been tugging at them earlier.

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were just as much a puzzle as the case itself. “You work here?” he asked, though the answer was obvious.

You raised an eyebrow. “No, I just hang out in mortuaries for fun. Great ambiance.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile betraying his otherwise serious demeanor. “Right.” He glanced at the body, his tone growing more professional. “You said you found the body when you came in for your night shift?”

“Yes,” you replied. “This drawer was supposed to have a heart attack victim I was preparing for burial. Middle-aged woman, very boring. When I opened it today, this was waiting for me.” You gestured toward the bloodied body on the table, your voice calm despite the grim subject matter.

Spencer’s eyes followed your gesture, narrowing slightly as he examined the victim. “You’re certain this wasn’t here yesterday?”

“Dead certain,” you said without thinking, then winced. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I cope with dark humor. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening. “I understand. It’s… not uncommon in this line of work.”

You studied him for a moment, noticing how his slight awkwardness seemed at odds with his sharp intelligence. He had an air of vulnerability about him, but there was also something strikingly self-assured in the way he analyzed everything around him. You wondered how someone like him—bright-eyed and endearingly earnest—handled the kind of darkness he must face every day.

“Do you recognize him?” Spencer asked, gesturing to the body.

You shook your head. “No. Never seen him before. And no one else has access to this section of the mortuary after hours. I locked everything up before I left last night. Whoever put him here must’ve known what they were doing to sneak it in.”

Spencer nodded, his gaze flicking between the cuts on the victim’s body. “The precision of these wounds… they were made deliberately. Whoever did this wasn’t in a hurry. They wanted us to notice the details.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” you said dryly, folding your arms. “They’ve got everyone’s attention now.”

Spencer glanced at you again, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. “You seem very calm for someone who just found… this.”

You gave a small shrug, brushing a strand of black hair out of your face. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen something gruesome. Probably won’t be the last.” You hesitated, then added with a wry smile, “Though I’ll admit, finding a surprise corpse is a new one, even for me.”

Spencer studied you for another moment, his head tilting slightly as if he were piecing together something about you. “You said you locked everything last night. Did you notice anything unusual before you left?”

You thought for a moment, absently tapping your nails against the counter. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, ordinary isn’t exactly a guarantee in this job.” You paused, your eyes flicking back to the body. “If someone’s messing with me, they’ve got a pretty sick sense of humor. And that’s saying something, coming from me.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the body. “This wasn’t a joke. Whoever did this wanted to send a message.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you found yourself wondering just how deep this case would go. You had always been fascinated by death, but now, for the first time, it felt like death was staring back at you.

After the FBI had concluded their search and cameras were packed away and evidence collected, the usual silence you were used to began seeping back into the cold, sterile atmosphere of the mortuary. The body had been carefully documented and removed, leaving behind the faint antiseptic smell of bleach and cold steel. You stood by the counter, gathering your tools and preparing to get back to work once the team left.

You could feel the day's weight pressing down on you, but you refused to let it show and tried your best to keep your movements steady. You snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for your notebook beside your workstation. The slight tremor in your hands betrayed your calm exterior.

Across the room, Spencer watched you. He stood near the doorway with his satchel slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap as he lingered. He didn’t know why he hesitated to leave—there was something about you that held his attention. Maybe it was the way you handled the situation earlier, calm and composed despite the horrifying scene. In a way it may have seemed suspicious to someone else. Or maybe it was the way your dark humor revealed cracks in your otherwise detached demeanor. Whatever it was, he found himself walking toward you before he could think better of it.

You didn’t notice him at first, focused on arranging your tools in neat rows. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat softly that you looked up, startled.

“Oh,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Still here?”

Spencer hesitated, not knowing how to handle your straightforward behaviour, his hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets. “Yeah, um… I just wanted to check in with how you’re coping... After everything earlier?”

Your first instinct usually would have been to shrug the concern off, but the question had caught you off guard. You blinked at him for a second, unsure how to answer. “I—” You paused, tilting your head slightly as you studied him. “Oh I’m great,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm. “Finding a bloodied corpse someone snuck into my mortuary? Best day I’ve had in weeks, really.”

You winced at your own words, immediately looking down after saying them. “Sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have said that.” You fumbled for an excuse, your voice tight. “I just… I don’t talk to people much. I guess I don’t know how to… be normal in situations like this.”

Spencer’s expression softened, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. People cope in different ways. And after today, sarcasm seems pretty appropriate.”

You studied him for a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “You’re weirdly nice for someone who spends his days chasing psychopaths.”

The comment seemed to amuse him, though he didn’t quite smile but instead pursed his lips slightly. “And you’re surprisingly calm for someone whose workspace just turned into a crime scene,” he countered lightly.

You almost laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “Guess we’re both a little weird.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the hum of the refrigeration units filling the space between you. Then Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card.

“If you find anything else,” he said, his voice deliberate but kind, “or if you think of something that might help the case, call us. Here’s my number, just in case.” He held the card out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it.

You stared at the card for a moment, surprised by the gesture. It was small, routine, even, but it felt like more than that. You looked up at him, your usual stoicism softening into something almost vulnerable. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice warmer than before.

Spencer smiled, the kind of smile that was barely there but sincere. “Take care,” he said, adjusting his satchel as he turned to leave.

As he walked off, you couldn’t help the slight giddiness bubbling up inside you. It was a new sensation, as you tended to dislike most people, however, there was something about this handsome stranger that had you way more interested than you would've liked to admit.

It had been approximately 2 weeks since your ‘corpse surprise’, and work at the mortuary carried on as usual. There had been no leads or updates from the FBI regarding the mysterious body. No one had come forward to claim it, and any investigative efforts seemed to have hit a dead end. The unsettling memory lingered in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to focus on work. The thought of someone managing to sneak a corpse into the mortuary without being caught still made your skin crawl.

You had just finished up with the cremation retort, the faint heat from the machine still lingering in the room, and had begun sweeping and cleaning up the crematory floor. The rhythmic swish of the broom against the tiles filled the quiet, accompanied only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.

As you moved toward the far corner, you noticed something out of place—a faint scuff mark on the otherwise spotless floor near the entrance. You frowned, leaning closer. It looked fresh, like someone had dragged something heavy through the room. A casket, maybe? No, you’d been the only one in here all morning, and the retort was prepped before your shift.

Brushing it off as nothing, you returned to sweeping, but a prickling sensation ran up the back of your neck. The kind of feeling you got when someone was watching you. You stopped mid-sweep and glanced over your shoulder, scanning the empty room. Nothing but sterile counters and a row of sealed urns waiting for pickup.

The ventilation hum seemed louder now, almost deafening in the otherwise silent space. Shaking your head, you muttered, “Get a grip,” and went back to cleaning.

Then came the noise.

A faint shuffle, just beyond the doorway that led to the preparation room. Your hand tightened on the broom handle, your heart thudding against your ribs. It wasn’t uncommon for sounds to echo strangely in the building—pipes groaning or metal trays shifting on counters—but this sounded different. Like a footstep.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice echoing back to you. No response.

Setting the broom aside, you stepped cautiously toward the preparation room, your shoes squeaking faintly against the tiles. As you approached, the air seemed colder, though you couldn’t tell if it was the room or just your nerves.

The door to the preparation room was slightly ajar, just enough for a sliver of shadow to spill into the hallway. You could’ve sworn you’d closed it earlier. Pushing the door open slowly, you peered inside. Everything seemed normal—the stainless steel countertops, the neatly arranged tools, the faint smell of disinfectant in the air.

And yet, the feeling of being watched persisted.

You turned to leave, but your eyes caught on something—a small object sitting on one of the prep tables. It hadn’t been there before. Approaching cautiously, you realized it was a photograph.

A photo of you.

It was grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. You were outside the mortuary, standing by your car, looking down at your phone. Your throat tightened as you stared at it, your pulse roaring in your ears.

A faint creak sounded behind you, and you spun around, your breath catching. The door you’d left ajar was now fully closed.

Your hands trembled as you stared at the now-closed door. Despite every instinct in you screaming to leave, to run, you couldn't move. It was as if your entire body had been drenched in ice water and no longer wanted to respond.

When you had finally regained control of your movements you reached for your phone and fumbled through your bag without thinking. Your fingers brushed against the business card Spencer Reid had given you after your first meeting, his handwriting neat and precise on the back: Call if anything comes up.

You hesitated. Would he think you were overreacting? Maybe. But the photograph on the prep table stared back at you, a tangible reminder that this wasn’t just paranoia. You tapped the number on your phone and pressed it to your ear, your breath shallow as it rang.

After what felt like years, you finally heard Spencer's familiar voice on the other end, calm and professional, "Dr. Reid."

“Hi, uh, it’s… it’s me,” you said, trying to sound casual as you leaned against the prep table for support but still refusing to take your eyes off of the door. “From the mortuary? The weird body situation a couple weeks ago?”

“I remember,” Spencer replied, his tone softening. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not exactly,” you replied, but your voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying your attempt to keep your composure. “I mean, nothing urgent, I don't think. I just… thought I should mention something odd that happened. Probably nothing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “You don’t sound fine,” Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “What’s going on?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself. “It’s just… someone left a photo of me in the preparation room. Like, an actual printed photograph. I’m not sure how it got there.”

Spencer’s end of the line went silent for a beat, then: “A photograph of you? Where was it taken?”

“Outside the mortuary. By my car, I think. It’s grainy, but it’s definitely me.” You tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I know it’s probably just someone messing around. But um..." You paused for a moment, wondering whether you should tell him about the odd noises from before and risk sounding paranoid.

“The photo wasn’t the only thing. I thought I heard footsteps earlier, and there was a mark on the floor like something was dragged through the crematory. I… I don’t know, I was sure it was clean this morning when I came in for work, but maybe I’m just spooking myself.”

“You’re not spooking yourself,” Spencer interrupted, his tone more insistent now. “This is serious. Are you still in the mortuary?”

“Yes,” you admitted, glancing toward the door as if expecting it to move again.

“Okay, listen to me,” Spencer said, his voice steadying you. “I need you to leave the building. Lock it up if you can, but get somewhere safe. I’ll notify the team and come to check things out.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of relief and apprehension at his words. “You really think it’s that serious?”

“I don’t take chances with things like this,” Spencer replied. “Neither should you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and pushed yourself off the table. “Okay... Okay, I’ll leave now.”

As you ended the call and pocketed your phone, your eyes darted around the room one last time. The photograph still lay on the table, a grim reminder that whoever had taken it might still be nearby.

You moved quickly now, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Grabbing your bag and coat, you threw them over your shoulder and cast one last glance around the dim room. The photograph still lay on the prep table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pick it up. Your fingers trembled too much anyway. You just needed to get out.

Sliding your phone into your pocket, you tightened your grip on your keys and made your way to the door. Your footsteps echoed in the stillness, each sound magnified in the empty mortuary. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, every creak of the floorboards sending a shiver down your spine.

“Just get out, just get out,” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely above a whisper.

You reached the door, exhaling shakily as you reached for the lock. But just as your hand brushed the handle, a cold, sharp sensation pressed against your throat, freezing you in place.

“Don’t move,” a low, raspy voice growled behind you, the words sending a bolt of terror down your spine.

Your breath hitched, your mind racing as you registered the unmistakable feel of a blade pressing against your skin. You didn’t dare turn your head, every muscle in your body locked in place once more.

“You scream, and you’re dead,��� the voice continued, so close you could feel the warmth of their breath against your ear.

Your keys slipped from your hand, clattering loudly to the floor. The sound echoed in the silence, a cruel reminder of just how alone you were.

“Good,” the voice murmured, the knife pressing ever so slightly harder against your neck. “Now be a good girl and do exactly as I say.”

Your pulse roared in your ears as panic clawed its way up your throat. You had no choice but to comply.

And that was when the lights in the mortuary flickered and went out, plunging you both into darkness.

[noctxj]

the reaper | part iv

as far back as human memory can recall, the origin of flower marks remains unknown. if perhaps they came during or after the birth of humanity, or are benevolent gifts from the gods to aid ones navigation in life— milestones to remember and learn from, a north point on a compass lest you stray from your path. regardless, they have always been. and while flower marks remain an important aspect of ones journey, there is none other more significant than the soul flower mark. wherein the moment someone is born, this mark blooms above ones heart, as it is considered a pure reflection of who that person is and will be.

part i / part ii / part iii / part iv / part v

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the freezing siberian cold, a bullet still lodged in her person, and now indirect orders to head into enemy fire for the relief of evac on the other side, with the (useless) konni soldiers 7 minutes out from their location. 

ugh

the reaper had dealt with a lot worse with a whole lot less, however, that didn't mean she couldn't feel annoyed at the hard deviation her handler so graciously handed her—

silence.

the shooting had stopped.

perfect.

they must be spreading out to try and search for her, now that their prisoner had finally bled out. in their eyes, capturing the shooter would be the next best thing for a failed op. as much as she’d find it amusing to tango with the notorious taskforce, the reaper was no fool; her energy reserves were running low already with blood loss. 

taskforce 141 and their close associates were no average soldiers. not just a bunch of meatheads from the dossiers she’d memorised of each operative, each lethal in their own respects. and then there was commander farah karim, a far more resolute and clever individual her enemies failed to give her credit for. but alas, war is war. and the reaper knew she was capable of handling any of them.

as if sensing what was to come next, the now absent burning of a new rhododendron returned. albeit as a warm thrumming sensation; no new flowers to add, rather it was in anticipation of how it earned its place on flora’s skin. or as her teachers liked to call them, “reassurances” that this is what she was born to do. 

time to move—

combat suit partially blending into the stark whiteness of the snow, save for the deep crimson staining the lower half of her suit. the reaper opted to handle one of her well-used karambit blades, the handles’ ring fitted reassuringly around her pointer finger, the steel blade reflecting the blinding white surroundings; a weapon superior in close combat.

stealthily creeping through the increasingly denser landscape of trees, the reaper kept a crouched position, as the the unforgiving wind whistled through the trees and over her (tired) body. the reapers steady breathes filtered out in faint white puffs through the hard cover of her face mask.

another step—

and then the reaper was but a handful of feet away from the commander herself, comically paralleled crouches. both of their heads snapping to one another at the same time, the commander also seemingly sharing her wild disbelief from the widening of her dark eyes. only for them to steel over and swivel her guns’ aim at the reaper, yelling into her mic—

"!!—ON ME! HOSTILE IS—"

now that wouldn’t do~

the reaper immediately ducked out of the commanders range of fire as she took a shot that flew by the reapers shoulder.

close—

the commanders brows scrunching in determination—

not close enough though—

the reaper using the downward momentum of her dodge to sweep the commanders legs right from under her; abruptly landing flat on her back in a flurry of snow, a grunt escaping the commanders clenched teeth as her gun now laid a little more than an arms length away. only for the reaper to continue pushing forwards in a violent thrust, the blade in her hand arcing through the air, aimed towards the commander’s exposed throat—

— only to stop short less than a centimetre away. the woman's gasping breaths the only sound ringing in the otherwise frigid air.

plumes of lilies of the valley trickled from the direction of her left collarbone, up towards the underside of her jaw. a lifetime of pain and suffering, so much of it—

just like little flora.

"... you're not the target."

passed the reaper's usually still lips, the mask deepening her usually soft voice. but the meaning of her words were still understood if the confused and disbelieving expression of the commander’s face were anything to go by.

as if sensing the change, the reaper felt her own tapestry of pain thrum louder over the now hushed state of the rhododendrons.

... she does not deserve any more pain

no longer moving, the reaper was now able to register the renewed pain her injury was screaming at her; that moving too fast and too much out of her already limited range was definitely not optimal.

... but the commander is still a threat

just as quickly as her injury reminded her of her limitations, the reaper flipped the blades handle in one smooth move and butted the end against the commander’s temple; her eyes fluttering shut and the tension of her body immediately disappearing. the reapers eyes drawn back to the overtly familiar flower mark decorating the commanders throat; and then unbeknown to her own reasoning, flora gently covered the commanders exposed throat (flower marks) with her loosely tied neck scarf. 

the distant crunching of snow under multiple pairs of heavy boots in multiple directions broke the reaper out of her thoughts, the world snapping back into sharp focus. the taskforce heard the commanders yell through their comms and were closing in on her— the reapers location, and fast—

“Сосед по сбору, вы некоторое время не перемещались со своего места.” (“compound to reaper, you have not moved from your location in some time.”)

the fucking patience—

“преследование вражескими силами, конец.” (“multiple hostiles in close proximity, over.”)

they didn’t need to know the reaper had gotten distracted on the field. 

slightly swaying to her feet from her kneeled position, her eyes still locked on the commanders relaxed face, the reaper willed her focus back onto the present; the thrumming of rhododendrons surpassing the lilies’ cries of (familiar) agony—

it was too quiet—

the reaper closing her eyes and inhaling a deep breath of cold air through her concealed nose—

they’re here—

.

.

*crunch*

—only for the reaper to release the expanse of cold through the hard mask covering her mouth, her body twisting a perfect 180 degrees to face the bearlike form charging at her—no weapons in his hands, with the intent to knock her down to the ground and immobilise the reaper with sheer force. which would have been quite effective, given the reapers current (bleeding out) state, however—

you’re too loud captain—

and by the surprised look on his face as the reapers’ marble-sized smoke bombs connected to the center of his dense tactical vest, he figured it out a second too late as well.

*BANG*

        *BANG*

   *BANG*

The sharp cracking of the bombs’ shell shattering immediately followed by thick silver plumes of smoke covering the captains entire front and line of sight; momentarily stunning the captain— 

until he continued charging forward, albeit with less coordination.

not bad—

a flicker of intrigue passing the reapers mind, as most recipients of the reapers’ petite smoke bombs succumbed to disorientation and coughing fits, thus a perfect opening to strike.

although, captain john price isn’t like many other captains after all…

but just as fast as the intrigue came, it was immediately replaced with the reaper ducking onto the ground to deliver two swift round kicks to the captains jaw, finally collpasing to his knees in a disgruntled mass of surprise and anger:

“what in the bloody hells—“

the reaper securing the glock in her right thigh holster into her hand, intent to eliminate the captain of taskforce 141; good news for her handlers allies if what her eavesdropping of their whining was anything to by.

only failing to move out of the way of the mountainous mass with skeletal features barreling directly towards her. one large hand entirely encompassing the hand holding the glock, roughly rearing it towards the ground, away from serious harm, squeezing it into submission as the reaper felt the delicate bones in her hand and wrist creak in protest—

but the reaper knew better than to drop her weapon - least of all within close proximity of lieutenant simon riley, the infamous ghost.

and by the increasingly livid —and disbelieving— look in his dark eyes, ghost also figured out the reapers (stubborn) resolution.

so the lieutenant grabbed the reaper by her tactical belt with his other hand, lifted until they were almost eye level, and threw her against a tree several feet away. far out of reach of the captain and the commander— the latter being attended to by one of the sergeants..? with another blurred figure running to the ghost and reaper, gun at the ready, the reaper observed from her jilted sight.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“.” (“again.”)

“.” (“weak.”)

“.” (“disappointing.”)

“.” (“doctor, increase the—“)

“.” (“needs to be better—“)

“.” (“the expectations—“)

“.” (“you are nothing—“)

“.” (“the reaper—“)

“.” (“you are the reaper.”)

“.” (“it is your fate.”)

“.” (“no one can love death.”)

“.” (“you’ll never be loved.”) 

flora broke.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

they’ve all come out into the open—

a sharp exhale of air escaping the reaper as she roughly landed in a flurry of snow at the base of the tree, the bullet wound yowling in protest. however, a weak pulse from the lilies of the valley at home on her skin whispered that this kind of pain is easy, and that it was not the current objective.

quickly crouching onto one knee, hands loosely curled by her sides, the reaper peered up at the skull masked solider.

“that was a mistake lieutenant.” she murmured softly.

the tensing of the lieutenants shoulders almost impercible at the reapers voice, her words — a grunt of disagreement cutting through the cold air from the armed sergeant with the bright glacial eyes— johnny mctavish… or just “soap”.

“i dun’ think lt makes mistakes—“

the ghosts’ bottomless eyes darkening into bleak anger as the familiar glint of one of his knives makes itself known within the reapers (semi-uncrushed) hand. lifting his gun to aim at her a millisecond too late as the reaper deftly flicked the knife at the sergeant - lodging straight into his thigh.

the scotsman reactively staggering back and releasing the grip on his own gun in pain and surprise. this, combined with the wavering of ghosts own weapon as he lost against the temptation to check on the sergeant, who was now on one knee hissing in pain.

another mistake—

the reaper lunged forward despite the pain blanketing her limbs, grabbing ahold of the lieutenants outstretched hand to use as an anchor to slam her boot behind his knee, quickly followed up by a knee to the face. an outraged growl resounding through the now soaked balaclava and slightly crimson stained skull faceplate.

“you wily little—“

“ghost, move!!”

*crack!*

a split second and then a bullet lodged itself into the frame of the reapers’ tactical goggles. head unwittingly snapping to the right, allowing ghost enough leeway to slam his stained faceplate onto her goggles. sending the reaper sprawling back a few metres, her vision fragmented from the goggles’ now cracked lenses—

*crack!*

         *crack!*

— along with the shattered frame digging into one of her cheekbones from the vicious slam of the skull face plate.  

how annoying.

the reaper swiftly reorienting themselves into a crouch whilst ripping the goggles off her now bleeding face with aching fingers. the world around them almost blinding them with the brightness of the snow and pale sky.

ah yes, sergeant kyle garrick if i remember correctly… 

pretty.

despite the cold anger twisting his features into a snarl, as well as the gun still aimed at the reaper. blood now slowly trickling down their cheek and onto the still secured bottom half of their face mask. 

“now put your hands up where i can see them.”

“zhnets, otchet.” (“reaper, report.”)

perfect timing as always.

“don’t make me repeat myself.” sergeant garrick continued.

the reaper acquiesces, ignoring the screaming pain now rippling across their abdomen while slowly raising their hands above their head.

“соединение с жнецом, отчет.” (“compound to reaper, report.”)

a beat as the reaper maintained eye contact with the dark eyed sergeant.

“.. ghost, hows soap?” gaz —  the reaper further recalled, asked without breaking eye contact or lowering his gun. 

“alive—“ grunted the lieutenant as he was now by the scotsman’s side; in the process of stemming the flow of trickling blood.

“am still conscious y’know, ye coulda asked me—” piped up the scotsman who had a somewhat offended expression, his attention now focused on the reaper with their raised hands— and the patch of blood pooling beneath them.

“—little lass o’er their don’t seem to be lookin’ too good though.”

the smoke now cleared of his system, the captain redirected his attention to the reaper. his calculating gaze minutely taking in her still open wounds with a cock of his head.

… did that idiot soldier just call me short of all things?

it wasn’t the worst thing they had been called. however, the reaper didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended and aim to stab him in the other leg so it could match—

all of a sudden, a flurry of bullets flew from behind the reaper; immediately dropping down on to her front with a pained grunt to crawl to cover and away from the taskforce now also huddling behind cover of their own. 

“Отряды 5 и 6 вышли на связь с вашей позицией, жнец. oтчет о состоянии, сейчас.” (“units 5 and 6 have made contact with your position, reaper. status report, now.”)

took them long enough.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

tric’s notes

sorry it ended a bit abruptly, but it started to get a bit? too long. but also hello! im backk (dw this series is not discontinued)

this chapter focuses more on the meeting rather than the flower aspect so much. the meeting can be summarised as: first= price getting his ass handed to him, and then second= the rest of the lads (except gaz bc he smort) getting fucking decked. we love a strong woman in this house yehaw

feedback and comments always appreciated ♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username)

[hussyknee]

[destielmemenews]

"Officials identified the man as 26-year-old Luigi Nicholas Mangione. He was born in Maryland and his last known residence was Honoloulou. He was arrested on firearms charges and taken in for questioning related to Thompson's death. He has not been charged with Thompson's killing at this time."

source 1

source 2

source 3

[ed-recoverry]

Pauly Likens Jr., a 14-year-old transgender girl, was recently found murdered.

She was stabbed. Her body was found dismembered in a river; a man was recently arrested for her death. Her cause of death was trauma to her head.

She was supposed to be celebrating her 15th birthday this Saturday.

Her family has started a gofundme to cover her funeral.

Trans lives matter.

Trans kids deserve to live.

Keep trans kids safe.

[schizopositivity]

It's so frustrating that I'm only seeing more and more lobotomy jokes. Especially "live, laugh, lobotomy" merch.

You are making fun of the torture of disabled people. People with intellectual disability and severe mental illness brutally had parts of their brain severed or killed. Many people died from this. We can never know the true impact because the people who endured this were not the same after.

We shouldn't be bringing this up in any lighthearted way. This was a tragedy, and we should be showing basic human respect to the victims. I don't think anyone can "reclaim" it and no one should want to. Please treat it with the severity and respect you would to any other mass tragedy from history.

[j0celynh0rr0r]

Unbothered

[fishsouper]

nex benedict was a native american non binary kid who was beaten to death in the girls bathroom at their school in oklahoma. the school forced them to use the girls room and they still got fucking killed.

their school didnt even call 911 when they were dizzy and bruised and bleeding after being assaulted by three older girls and having their head slammed on the tile floor. they were suspended for two weeks. they died from the head injuries 24 hours later.

NEX WAS SIXTEEN. SIXTEEN. THEY LIKED MINECRAFT AND ARK SURVIVAL EVOLVED AND THEIR CAT ZEUS.

THEY WERE A CHILD.

THEY WERE TOLD TO COMPLY TO THE RULES ABOUT BATHROOMS AND THEY DID AND THEY WERE STILL BEATEN TO DEATH. BECAUSE IT HAS NEVER BEEN ABOUT BATHROOMS AND BIOLOGICAL SEX. IT IS ABOUT SILENCING AND ENDING US.

trans kids are not safe anywhere. terfs and transphobic influencers teach children to hate their peers and people DIE. i hope terfs know that they are the reason people die. nex's blood, and the blood of thousands of trans kids who have been killed, abused, and ended their own lives, are on your hands.

im disgusted and depressed and scared

important additions!!

@donuteater13 added this link to a source

@wonderthestars compiled this info:

as @minecraft666 said, the staff needs to be held accountable for not calling an ambulance and allowing the transphobia to exist

https://ohs.owassops.org/apps/staff/

[vive-le-roi-au]

Prologue

(This post contains both images and text.)

(You’d been looping back to just the third floor for… you don’t know how many loops. Hundreds?)

(Maybe that was the problem. You didn’t do it all in one go. You just have to do it all, from start to finish, and kill the King.)

(From the top.)

(…Again.)

(You went back. Again.)

(Maybe you took too long. Just need to go faster.)

(…No. Still not enough.)

(It feels good though. Killing the one who killed you, thousands of times. It’s cathartic.)

(You’re even strong enough that you don’t need the Housemaid—MIRABELLE. HER NAME IS MIRABELLE, MIRABELLE, MIRABELLE!!!)

(…You don’t need Mirabelle’s help anymore.)

(…)

(You wouldn’t mind doing this a few more times.)

(…)

(Back to the stage, Siffrin.)

(…)

(…)

(…)

(It’s just another part of the loops now.)

(Go through the House. Kill the King. Talk to the Head Housemaiden. Something’s broken, failing, rotting. Loop back to Dormont.)

(The worst part?)

(Murdering the King has stopped bringing you joy.)

(It used to make you smile, seeing him crumble, blood spilling from his mouth, pooling on the ground.)

(Sometimes, you reduce his body to dust, cutting it up more and more and more until there’s nothing left. You’ve killed him slowly, draining him of his strength and bleeding him from a million places all over, watching the light slowly leave his eyes.)

(And you can’t even enjoy it anymore.)

(…)

(So why are you still here?)

(Whose fault is it that you’re trapped here?)

[jadelucille]

I always come back😈😈