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angelasscribbles · 6 months ago

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Law's End: Murder at Vista Heights Chapter 7

Series: Law’s End

Episode 1: Murder at Vista Heights

Fandom: The Royal Romance (loosely, there is zero canon, I've just borrowed the characters)

Pairings: None yet

Word Count: 2,582

Rating: MA

Warnings for series: adult themes, any given chapter may contain murder, violence, language, drinking, drug use, etc.

My other stuff can be found here: Master List.

The conference room in the homicide division of the seventh precinct was filled with the smells of coffee and fresh pastries. It was early. Too early, considering they’d all been there until well after midnight interrogating witnesses.

The food was Bertrand’s way of making up for the fact that no one had gotten much sleep the night before, but everyone still turned up bright and early, ready to work.

“So, she does have a history of stalking.” Liam flipped the file across the table to Flynn.

Detective O’Malley reached for the manila folder and flipped it open. “Who’d she stalk?”

“Clarence Coleman. An app developer. The police reports are in there. He was granted a restraining order. I’ve left a message for him to contact us. See if he’s heard from her lately.”

Flynn skimmed the information in front of him. “This was three years ago.”

Liam nodded. “It’s likely that she stopped harassing Cole when she started sleeping with Trent.”

There was a knock on the conference room door and Rashad entered, carrying a laptop. “There are no security cameras at the vic’s apartment complex, but I found a late model Nissan Pathfinder registered to the suspect and scrubbed video footage from nearby traffic cameras.” He placed the laptop on the table and flipped it around for the detectives to see.

Liam leaned forward to get a closer look. “Is that our suspect?”

“Yes,” Rashad confirmed, “Three blocks away from our vic’s house, heading that direction, fifteen minutes before the 911 call. And this….” He swiped to another image. “��is her ten minutes after the call heading the other direction through the same intersection.”

“We need more than that for an arrest warrant,” Flynn said as he zoomed in, looking for any evidence of blood visible in the photo, but it was too grainy. “It’s not illegal to be in the vicinity.”

Liam pushed away from the table. “Let’s get back over to the apartment complex and show her photo to the neighbors. Maybe someone will remember seeing her that morning.”

An hour later, he was seated in a small but elegant dining room as Stella Haltom served him coffee. Flynn was canvassing other neighbors, ones they hadn’t been able to reach yesterday.

Liam had tried to decline, but Stella was insistent.

“You’re very young for a homicide detective, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I—”

“Are you single?”

“I am. But—”

“Really? A young, handsome, successful man like you?”

“Well—”

“You know, if things don’t work out between my granddaughter and that nice reporter—”

Liam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Ma’am, if we could get back to business. I just have a few quick questions—”

“Oh, yes, of course! You wanted me to look at more photos?”

“Well, one more.” Liam pulled up the photograph of Sabrina Simmons on his cell phone and held it out to her.

“Oh, my yes!” Stella somehow managed to convey disapproval with a nod of her head. “That was the one that was over there the most.”

“Did he entertain a lot of women?”

Stella snorted so hard she choked on her coffee. Once she recovered her breath, she clarified, “Whatever you think a lot is, multiply that by at least three!”

“That many?”

“Yes, and now that I think of it, two days before the murder, this one,” she gestured toward his phone, “showed up while one of the other ones was there.”

“Was there an argument?”

“Was there an argument?” She scoffed as a frown pulled her lips down. “Woke half the building with the screaming. I’m surprised no one called the cops.”

“Thank you. This is very helpful. Did you happen to see her on the day of the murder?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. I was gone for most of the morning.”

“Where were you, again?”

“I left to help organize the church rummage sale early that morning.”

Liam checked his notes. “So, you overheard the argument between the two men when?”

“On my way out. I had to walk past Mr. Hayes’ apartment on my way to the elevator.”

“Just to review… you overheard the argument at roughly seven a.m., left for the church, followed by brunch, and returned home just after noon.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, you were home when the gunshots were fired?”

“Yes.” She shuddered. “It was terrifying!”

“And you didn’t see or hear anyone else coming or going from his apartment that day?”

“No.”

“Is there anything you can think of that you noticed that day? Anything at all?”

“I already told you everything yesterday. And that lovely reporter as well.”

Liam sighed at the mention of Riley. He couldn’t forbid a private citizen from speaking to the press, no matter how much he wanted to. But it did remind him of something. “Speaking of Miss Brooks… she mentioned you saw a woman at the victim’s apartment the night before the murder?”

“Yes.”

“Was that woman either of these?” He showed her the photographs of both Sabrina and Katie again.

Stella peered at both, then shook her head. “No.”

“Do you know who she was?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep up with all the women that were in and out of that apartment. Besides, I don’t like to get into other people’s business.”

It took a concerted effort for him to not react to such an obviously false statement.

He jotted down a general description of the woman before extricating himself from the conversation. “Okay, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

“I’m always happy to help the boys in blue!” she smiled proudly. “You have my number in case you have any further questions, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got it.” Liam flipped his notepad closed. “If you think of anything else, please let us know.”

He stepped out into the hallway and reconvened with his partner. “How’d it go on your end?”

Flynn shrugged. “I found multiple witnesses that identified Sabrina Simmons as Trenton Hayes’ girlfriend, but none that could definitively place her at the scene on the day of the murder.”

“I confirmed there was a third woman here the night before the murder, but I don’t know who.”

“We’ll have the plainclothes canvas again and try to find that information. I think it’s time you and I go have a conversation with Ms. Simmons.”

“Agreed.” Liam pushed the button for the elevator. When it dinged open, he found himself face to face with Riley. “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you, too.” She stepped back so they could fit into the lift with her. “Probably the same thing you are.”

Liam made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat as they stepped into the elevator. “Where’s your sidekick this morning?”

“Max?” She looked surprised at his question. “I don’t know. Probably sleeping in after that late night we all had. Why do you ask?”

Liam shrugged. “I’m just used to seeing the two of you together.”

“When I need a photographer.” She studied his demeanor, then a small grin crept across her face. “Why so interested in who I spend my time with, detective?”

“I’m not.”

Before she could answer, the elevator rocked to a stop on the first floor and the doors slid open. As they stepped off, a familiar face caught her eye. “Drake!”

The PI turned from the concierge desk to face the trio, his eyes lighting up. “Riley! What a pleasant surprise!” He was less enthusiastic as he greeted the two men. “Hello, detectives.”

The men exchanged handshakes as Liam asked, “Why are you here, Walker?”

“I’m investigating the murder of Trent Hayes. I was officially retained to do so this morning by Sadie McGraw. I was thinking it would be in both our best interests to collaborate.”

“I don’t know—”

Flynn’s phone cut through the conversation. He pulled it out and glanced down at the screen. “This is the boss. Hold on.”

Flynn stepped away to take the call, leaving Riley with Liam and Drake.

Not awkward at all.

After a brief conversation, Flynn returned to inform the group, “The chief just got out of a meeting with the mayor. We are to collaborate and cooperate fully with Walker here.”

“Great!” Drake gloated.

“Great,” Liam grumbled.

Flynn shot a pointed look at Riley. “If you’ll excuse us, ma’am, we have a case to discuss.”

“Don’t let me get in your way. I’m just going to grab a latte and update my notes.” She gave them a disarming smile and turned on her heel, disappearing into the small coffee shop located just off the main entrance.

She really was going to update her notes, but she had no intention of leaving without an update on the case. Liam was never going to crack, but she liked her chances of getting information out of Drake. She fired off a quick text as she waited for her drink.

Ten minutes later, Drake was at her table. “You said you had some information for me?”

“I said I was willing to trade information with you.” She gestured for him to sit as the barista approached to take his order.

He ordered a black coffee and then returned his attention to the reporter. “What information do you have that I can’t find out for myself?”

“Maybe none.” She lifted a shoulder. “But it took me three hours of knocking on doors to find out the identity of the woman Trent was with the night before the murder. You could spend the next three hours doing the same or we could help each other out.”

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. He didn’t have to reveal anything about his client to slip her the information about who the police were looking at as their prime suspect. “I suppose I could share a detail or two. You’re going to find it out on your own anyway.”

Her eyebrows raised. “How do you know that?”

“Because I did a little digging. Your investigative skills are impressive. No wonder you’ve won the Edward R. Murrow Award for journalism as well as two Scripps Awards.”

Her eyebrows arched even higher as she took a long sip of her latte before placing the cup carefully on the table in front of her. “Wow. You really did do your homework. I don’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed. Are you stalking me, sir?”

“Hardly.” He snorted. “Are you going to tell me that you did absolutely no research on me after agreeing to a date?”

“I agreed to dinner. No one said it was a date.”

“Semantics, but fine. Dinner. Answer the question. Did you not look into me at all?”

“You mean did I find out that you graduated from the police academy at the top of your class but quit six months into your first year to go into business with your father? That you have one sister, Savannah, and that you’ve never been married?”

He gave her a smug smile. “I knew you were into me.”

“Please,” she laughed, “It’s just common sense to find out what you can about a man you plan to be alone with.”

He leaned across the table with a smirk. “So, you plan to be alone with me?”

She hid a grin behind her cup. “At the very least I’ll be getting into a car alone with you when we go to dinner.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, we’ll see how the evening progresses, won’t we?”

“Can’t wait.”

“Now, are you going to tell me what you learned from the cops?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to tell me who the woman from the other night is?”

“If your information is good enough.”

“I know who their prime suspect is.”

“Is it Katie or William Sloan or Dean Collins?”

“No.”

She sat up straighter. “There’s another suspect in play?”

He twirled his coffee cup in his fingers. “Yep.”

“Okay. Yes, that’s a fair trade. Who is it?”

“Sabrina Simmons. She was his secretary when he was engaged to Katie. He cheated on Katie with Sabrina. That’s the reason they broke up. After Katie dumped him, Sabrina became his girlfriend. Last weekend, she showed up while he was entertaining someone else. Several neighbors heard the argument. The theory is that she got fed up with his womanizing. She has a history of stalking, and the cheating gives her motive.”

“Interesting theory, because the woman that was there Monday night is his current secretary.”

“Sounds like he has a history of sleeping with his secretary. What’s her name?”

“Sarah Foster. She’s not at work today. I already called.”

“Well, her boss slash boyfriend was murdered yesterday. I can track down a home address for her.”

“Way ahead of you.” She shoved her notes into her bag as she stood up. “Wanna go question her together?”

“How the hell did you get her address already?”

It was Riley’s turn to smirk. “I have my sources.”

“Okay, let’s go. But I’m driving.”

“I don’t want to leave my car here. I’ll meet you there. Here’s the address.” She quickly scribbled the information on a piece of paper.

He threw some money on the table to cover the coffee, took the slip of paper from her, and then pulled his phone out and opened the contact list.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding up my end of the deal with the CCPD. Collaboration works both ways.”

“Could you at least wait until after we have a chance to talk to her?”

He hesitated as he considered her request. “Why?”

“Because you and I both know that once the police get there, I won’t be allowed to talk to her! Police protocol this and interfering with an investigation that, blah, blah, blah… Come on…. You wouldn’t even know who she was if it wasn’t for me.”

“I would have eventually knocked on the right door and found out.”

“Yeah, hours from now, by which time I would have already interviewed her for my article. Don’t make me regret sharing information with you.”

“Fine.” He slotted the phone back into his pocket. “You get ten minutes with her, then I’m making the call.”

“Deal. Let’s go!”

The drive from Vista Heights to Sarah’s apartment complex took nearly forty-five minutes. Riley found Drake waiting for her in front of the entrance.

The apartment complex was a stark contrast to Trent’s. A dingy brick building surrounded by other dingy brick buildings, it had no doorman, and the front door was propped open. There was certainly no concierge desk or coffee shop in the lobby.

No elevator came when Drake pushed the button. “Looks like we’re taking the stairs.”

“Good thing she’s only on the fourth floor.”

As they approached apartment 412, Drake suddenly stopped and put his arm out to halt Riley.

“What?”

“Shhh….” He moved in front of her and pulled a gun from his hip. “The door is cracked open. Stay here.”

Riley Brooks hadn’t built her career by standing down. The moment Drake pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold, she followed, keeping quiet so he wouldn’t notice.

“Hello? Is anyone home? Sarah?” He called out as he made his way through the living room. He entered the kitchen and stopped in his tracks. “Well, shit.”

Riley entered right behind him, craning her neck to peer around him. Well, shit was right.

Sarah Foster lay on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood.

#angelasscribbles #laws end #trr au #trr #the royal romance #crime thriller #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week

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marlasomething · 1 month ago

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Sawlentine's Week 2025: Day 6 - The Parenting Game

I found @sawlentines2025 two Saturdays ago, after I made all my friends watch the OG movie (in a double feature with Zombies Party, soooorry, English speaking audience: Shaun of the Dead) and, fuck if I'm going to try to post this (though AO3 it's a mystery when it'll be available). I'm doing this with the promps + dice rolls + very short format (trying to)

Day 6: Date + Spiralshipping + Lawrence took William under his wing AU

CW: mentions of cops violence and manipulation, chronic pain

Hope you enjoy! All feedback is always GREATLY APPRECIATED

This could absolutely not be happening.

Not to his kid.

William had been a little boy, afraid but pretending not to be, in the corner of a foster care facility, staring daggers at him and Adam when they had first arrived.

He remembered perfectly well the entire story: after surviving the trap, people had begun trying to interview them and, by mere luck, got interested on Adam’s photographic abilities; and he had chosen to be active about it, no more hiding behind his objective…

…and that included taking pictures of one of Police’s biggest shit shows of All Time, of which only a little boy had survived, having witnessed his dad getting shot only a few meters from him.

“Nobody is going to want him, and, with what happened, he might become the kind of person your former psycho boss would have recruited” Adam had tried to lay his head in Lawrence’s lap, but got pushed ever so slightly away.

“We don’t work for him anymore”.

“Yes, but you and the other two legit piggies are still…well…”

“He’s just a kid, barely older than Diana; I am not making him join a murderous cult!”

“Thick, are you? Good think I like your pretty face…how did you manage to get a Medicine degree? No, what I mean is… we bring him in, we take care for him and, if when he gets older he is…a certain way, at least he will have people to support him. Plus, if we adopted a kid maybe people would stop thinking I am just a boy to play with in your mid-life post-almost-death crisis. It gets tiring, and I am not even that hot” Larry laughed, God he loved how ridiculous Adam could get.

And, now, a full grown-up William stood before him and Adam, Diana as small-half-step-sister supporter. He was seriously telling them he was going out on a date-ish (fine, people sometimes are bit oblivious about what their relationship really is), with another man (no problem there either)…that was a cop.

A very compromised cop; so much that Daniel Rigg would have looked crocked next to him. If he didn’t eventually get William, if he decided (rightfully so) that they being rather cruel killers (absolutely correct) was something to be stopped…

…they would be royally screwed. Furthermore, just as a principle thing, he wasn’t thrilled about him actually being the same only-one-good-cop that had been there when William had been orphaned on the first place.

“This is a terrible idea”.

“Larry, let the boy make mistakes. At least he’s not marrying his best friend to try to fix himself, and then fooling around with the staff and his students…Sorry Di, for bringing it up”.

“No worries Adam” she replied, getting closer to William, as almost a human shield.

“Adam, he’s a cop!”

“So is he!” the girl interfered.

“He’s much older!” William stared dead-pan at him, while his partner raised an eyebrow and Diana gave him the most judgemental look in history of mankind.

“You have to be fucking kidding me with that one. Look, I get, you would prefer me to be your little project, but I’ve grown up, I am my own person now” he sighed. “Remember, if you need to call, I am Charlie, okay?” and left, closing as violently as he could. His daughter when right after William, giving him her best ‘I cannot believe you’ stare before leaving with another door slam.

Adam broke into laughter.

“He’s much older! Brilliant, hon, you are the perfect person to accuse someone of cradle-hoping. Remind me, how much wasn’t I born when you were already getting pissed for the first time? Maybe I have been an even worse influence than I thought, showing him to forget about people his own age in favour of older, self-loathing men…” Adam let his head rest in his partner’s elbow. “Now, seriously, I know what you meant and what worries you, but…you know William, if we stop him from doing something, he would double-down on it”.

“When did you become such a mature person?” Adam scoffed.

“Right after the orgy joke, I think; asbestos-filled bathrooms do really change `people. And now, let’s go and have a date of our own, we have to top Amanda and Lynn’s” he stood up and lent him a hand and his cane with the other.

With a bit of effort (there were still bad days regarding his missing feet and partial leg), he stood up and smiled.

He should stop worrying (that much).

At least, William wasn’t creating a trap circuit for Zeke to accept his truth…

…right?

#sawlentines2025 #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #writer #saw fanfic #saw franchise #spiralshipping #william schenk #diana gordon #lawrence gordon #adam stanheight #chainshipping

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burning-academia-if · 1 year ago

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Lars & 16. snowball fight? 👉👈

Lars + Snowball Fight

There was probably a reasonable, more mature way to deal with Lars Angel. In the months you’ve known him you’ve since to find it. But Lars was, well, Lars. He was always distant and cold and brushing you off, all while dressing like he was an elderly man living in the 1920s and maybe you were at the end of your ropes.

It was the final straw when he’d given you his usual vague glances when you’d called out to him after getting out of your last final. Sure, it was to be expected. And yet. It felt like any and all raptor you’d managed to build up didn’t exist unless when it suited him best.

So yes, you did drop down, scoop up some freshly fallen snow, and lobbed it at his head as he turned away without so much as a hello. And yes, you did mess up his overly perfect hair. He was going to kill you. It did nothing to drop the grin from your face. Even as passersby eyed you, those who knew the infamous man with the gaze of someone about to witness a murder.

Slowly he turned around, and you kept your shit-eating grin, “Sorry, Lars. I think you were too quiet. Did you say ‘hello’ back?”

He shook his head and the remnants of the snow fell off. His eyes narrowed faintly and people subtly got out of the way, not wanting to get caught in the cross fire, “I’m too busy for your nonsense today.”

“Of course you are! Whenever are you not? But you can still spare a second to acknowledge me.”

“I’ve acknowledged you.” His voice was flat. He turned away. Oh, you weren’t going to let this go quite so easily.

But before you could so much as go for a second throw, you blinked and then you were almost teetering as a snowball hit you square in the face. You gasped, the cold biting as it hit your skin.

Quickly you scrubbed it off, and your smile only grew, “Oh, so you do have a fun side?”

“If you go for one more—”

“What are you going to do? Don’t tell me you, Mr. Joyless-and-Boring, is going to have a snowball fight with me.” His eyes narrowed further, and the two your eyes locked in a standoff. There was still snow clinging to his jacket, you noted with mirth. And his scarf had come undone just a little. “Well?”

You hadn’t expected him to actually do it. But one second the two of you were staring off and the next the two of you were running through the courtyard, off the paths, as people glanced over in surprise. Lars had perfect aim, because of course the bastard did, and you were mostly just trying to run away because you knew it was over the moment he caught up to you.

Still, you tried your best and missed more then half your shots and a breathless laughter trailed after you. It was as you got to the end of the courtyard, and snow covered grass got turned to concrete, a hand was at your wrist. You fell back, foot slipping ever so gracefully, into a sturdy body. All the snow from being pelted with snowballs fell off as you hit.

“You are a menace.” Lars stated, breathing almost as hard as you.

“At least I keep things entertaining.” You turned to face him and he dropped your wrist. You reached out, lightly pushing strands of hair back into place. “You should probably fix your appearance. I can’t believe you’d look unprofessional when you have…whatever your busy with.”

He swatted your hand away, “Are you satisfied.”

“No.” You quickly backed away before he could grab you again. “You still haven’t said ‘hello’ back.”

“…Hello. Now are you satisfied?”

“Yep!” He brushed the snow off his clothes, and you wondered all the ways he was thinking of killing you. “This all could have been avoided if you just said it in the first place.”

“Noted.” Lars turned, having enough of you for the day, and honestly, probably for the entire week. Still, it was with great satisfaction that when you caught him the next day, he finally greeted you back.

#em answers #ch: lars #christmas special #unedited #menace mc is so funny to me sorry-#(the next prompt I'm finishing up also has them being a menace lmfaO)

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all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth · 8 months ago

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All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Chinga (5x10)

Jack Bonsaint never really bought into any of that witchcraft stuff. He grew up in Ammas Beach, been here all his life. The lore has surrounded him ever since he could remember. But the town isn’t exactly teeming with crime; in fact, most days, his watch is pretty darn quiet. And a lot of the time, he suspects the townsfolk conjure and believe these witchcraft stories out of pure boredom.

He’d never witnessed any of it with his own eyes before, but on the day Special Agent Dana Scully came into town (the same day poor Dave the butcher got maimed by his own carving knife), Jack got a feeling deep in his gut things were different. When he’d walked into that Turner house this morning… he’d sure felt something strange.

Even if Melissa wasn’t actually a witch, the townsfolk sure believed it. And the last thing he needs is a mob running amok.

I don’t think it’s witchcraft, Mulder. Or sorcery.

It was strange, to say the least; hearing a federal agent talking seriously about a subject he’d been conditioned to roll his eyes at his entire life. As a cop —a chief, no less— he tries to remain as serious as possible. But today, maybe he needs to take this seriously.

Agent Scully had made it pretty clear she wasn’t interested in letting the investigation interfere with her R&R, but now he has two murders on his hands. And from what little he knows of her, she’s not the type of agent to let the unsolved remain… well, unsolved.

Vacation, she’d said. He’ll do his best.

“New England hospitality,” she says, taking a sip from her water. “Finally.”

It’s a nice place, maybe a little touristy, but Jack suspects it’s precisely what she’s after. She’s working, but she can see the harbor. She can hear the gulls calling. Maybe she can pretend she’s still on vacation.

“Figured this’ll fit the bill,” he says. “Locals still come here but only ‘cause it’s the best damn lobster in town.”

“Thanks, Jack,” she said. “This is really nice.”

It isn’t a date, obviously. Just two professionals discussing a case over lunch. Jack hasn’t been on anything resembling a date since the divorce, and that was nearly two years ago. But something about it triggers a memory of what it’s like to be on a date, what it’s like to want to impress the woman sitting across from him.

He has a feeling nothing about this place is going to impress Dana Scully.

“So… FBI,” he says, punctuating each letter. “What department do you work in? You and your partner,” he added, testing the waters. He’d only spoken to the man briefly but he’d seemed a bit… territorial.

“Well, it’s a little unorthodox, actually,” she says. She hedges a bit, as if she isn’t really interested in sharing. But then she goes for it. “We work on cases called X-Files. Unsolved cases.”

He chuckles. “Not sure how it works in your neck of the woods, but it seems lots of cases go unsolved.”

She smiles tightly. “Well, what I mean is more like… cases that aren’t really explained to anyone’s satisfaction. At least not in any conventional way.”

He furrows his brow. “You mean… like witchcraft.”

“In this case, yes. Extreme possibilities.”

“Uh-huh.” For a minute he thinks she might be pulling his leg, but he pushes the thought away. People are dead, and she seems to be as serious an agent as they come. Besides, if “extreme possibilities” make her want to keep going… well, he isn’t gonna get in the way. “So you’ve seen this kind of thing before, then?”

She gives him a sly smirk. If they weren’t working a case, he’d be googly-eyed by now. “Not like this, exactly, but I have seen things. Things that…” she trails off.

“Haven’t been explained to your satisfaction?” he grins.

“You could say that.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he admits.

“I never did either, until I started working with Mulder,” she says. He’s been wondering when she’d bring up her erstwhile partner. “It’s opened my eyes, so to speak. To see the possibilities around me rather than just ignore them.”

All the talk of witches around these parts has always been just that to Jack: talk. Chatter. He doesn’t pay it much mind. He lives in the real world, not the realm of fantasy and hokum.

But if someone like Agent Scully can believe…

“Y’ know, sometimes I wish I believed in that sort of thing,” he says. “Bet it would make my job more interesting.”

She looks out the window, trailing a finger around the rim of her glass, appearing deep in thought. “That’s one thing about it,” she agrees. “I can’t ever say the work is uninteresting.”

The profile she cuts against the harbor view allows Jack to think of her un professionally for just a moment. Dana Scully is beautiful, and smart, and in any other circumstance he might consider asking her to join him for dinner as well. But something about the way her demeanor shifted when she mentioned her partner…

Besides, she’s only here on vacation.

“Chief?” she then asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Are you alright?” God, he hopes she hadn’t caught him staring.

“A-yup,” he says distractedly, getting himself back onto the task at hand. Of all the extreme possibilities this day could bring, the one where he makes an ass of himself in front of a pretty lady isn’t one he wants to entertain. Mercifully, the waitress arrives with their lunch. Agent Scully gapes at the enormous crustacean.

“That looks like something out of Jules Verne,” she says. He tries to pretend she looks less horrified than intrigued. “We’re supposed to eat that?”

“Little late for anything else,” he grins, picking up the tail and cracking it open.

Maybe witchcraft is real, he thinks. Because Dana Scully sure can cast a spell.

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Ao3!

@admiralty-xfd

#all eyes lead to the truth #fanfic #x files fanfic #x files #the x files #mulder #scully #msr #season five #jack bonsaint #s5 #5x10 #chinga

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certifiedwhore4slashers · 2 years ago

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Can I get, if your request are open, The Party x male reader

But the group are all ghostface?? So I think Max and Lucas would be the callers, Will, Mike, and Eleven would be the main killers, and Dustin would be the the one to tournament the victims.

And they all see reader as someone who needs to be sheltered and protected even though he’s perfectly able to handle himself?? — sorry if it’s too specific or anything. Thanks!

YES! i love this! and no problem. thank you for requesting:)

Sheltered

pairing: ghostface!stranger things kids x male!reader

summary: your friends, or so called lovers, think you need to be sheltered when you can handle yourself just fine.

warnings: yandere(?), murder, gore, blood, knife violence, the party is delusional lol, possessiveness, toxicity, etc…

There had been a total of four murders so far. And who was the prime suspect? Eddie Munson. You didn’t know why. Because you had met him before and not at all the kind of guy who would kill.

Your friends had been off lately. They were even more protective than ever. Yes, they were all naturally protective. But more specifically your friends your age.

You had a platonic relationship with the older members as it should be, nothing more than that. But they were protective. Though your friends that were your age were a bit more protective. No, extremely protective. It was always off to you.

“No, Y/N, This isn’t safe, you shouldn’t come with, Mike said. He was lying to you about where they were going. Truth was, the killings were happening because of them.

“Oh my god, wherever you’re going is probably not safe for you either then, You groaned.”I can handle myself, Mike. Just, let me come with.”

“Mike is right, Will pipes in."Your can't come.“ Most of your friends leave, leaving you dumbfounded, but more so annoyed.

You honestly didn’t give a fuck. You’d find out where they went. And you’d join them. In whatever, unless of course it was murder or something like that.

That would be an ironic statement later.

You snuck out that night. Your Mother and Fatjer were tired so they didn’t hear you go through your window and jump down. You hear their voices and decide you could follow them. Somehow, and subtly.

You get on your bike quickly, hoping you’d be fast enough and not too late. That’s when you saw it. “Y/N is ours! Ghostface said, voice covered by a voice changer. They were stabbing the victim a few times, and harshly as far as you could see.

Though, you could recognize it from a mile away. Mike. You wanted to move or at the very least, run. But you were frozen with shock. The victim was someone who flirted with you. A girl, actually.

They were willing to do that for you? You accidentally stepped on a branch, making them turn in your direction.

There were only two of them, strangely enough. Eleven groans, taking the mask off.”Curiosity got the best of you, didn’t it?”

You slowly nod, their costumes drenched in blood. The girl was Angela. You knew her, Eleven did, as well. Making you think she was primarily the one killing Angela.

“We needed to protect you! Mike said.”Come on out.” The others come out. It indicated that they were the one making phone calls. You were naturally phased. You weren’t crazy like they were.

Only, you laughed.”I told her off so many times. She didn’t deserve to die, you know. Well, actually… she wasn’t nice. But I can Handle myself, I’ve said this a million times haven’t I?”

“But is it the truth? Lucas asks. The party came closer to you, you didn’t really know what to say. Despite the fact you could hold your own ground, a bit of protection didn’t hurt. Though, this was a bit too far.

Up until now, you weren’t aware of what they were secretly doing the past few days. “You’re not going to witness this anymore, Eleven said.”In fact… you need more.”

You blinked before realizing Eleven, using her powers, had knocked you out. And when you woke up, she was right. You were even more sheltered than ever now.

#ghostface!stranger things #au #male!reader #stranger things x male reader #lgbtq

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cqsuanla · 3 years ago

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conk

tags: sfw dark!nat/f!reader

summary: you strike back. accidentally.

note: please fictional bde gf kill the bug in my room. also take a shot every time u see the word spoon, also unedited

It’s Nat’s fault for being so quiet, you’ll think later. And it’s also her fault for abducting you and holding you captive in a house for an amount of time you can’t even really comprehend. Leaving you alone for an amount of time you pretend not to obsess over. Also, for returning from whatever Avengers bullshit two days earlier than she’d told you.

You’re doing the dishes, humming, hands pruned and slippery, when lean arms wind around your navel. You shriek and jerk back, jumping comically into the air. Your favourite mug goes careening into the wall, shattering on impact.

The force of your reaction shocks Nat enough to make her loosen her hold, gives you enough leeway to whirl around. But she has not given you enough time, clearly, to exercise higher brain function. Before you know it, you’re seizing a spoon from the sudsy basin of water in front of you and flinging it at your then-unknown assailant.

The spoon bonks her on the forehead and clatters loudly on the floor. Nat stares at you.

You gape, eyes wide.

The gravity of the situation dawns, stuns you, plants you to the spot. Terror kicks in. You hear a consistent rushing noise in your ears. It could also just be the faucet, still gushing water, and you’re suddenly envious of the water as the drain swallows it. You wish you could liquify yourself and disappear too.

A shard of mug slips belatedly off the wet counter and clanks into a plate left in the sink.

The noise jolts Nat into movement. She lifts her hand, disbelief abruptly washing across her face, and touches her fingertips to her now damp forehead. Lightly. Ghosting over where you’d struck her.

You swallow. “I-”

“You hit me.” She looks at her hand, looking like she still can’t believe it. Really sells that, because she presses her fingers to her head again and looks at you, and looks at her hand, and does it again once more. Then, looks at the floor. “With a spoon.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

You take a step forward, thinking of maybe bodily hurling yourself at her in an effort to convey your remorse, but she moves away with a startled blink in your direction. You freeze on instinct. She stops too, looking even more perplexed than before.

“It was an accident,” you say meekly, shrinking back into the sink. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry; you scared me. It was- I’m so sorry-”

“A spoon.” The word comes out kind of high, as if it’s a question even though you’re taking it as a statement—there’s no way you’re answering. No way you can produce words right now, to justify it convincingly to someone like Nat. She drops her hand, eying the offending object on the floor. “I’ve never been hit with a spoon before.”

Because you don’t really know what to do—except you kind of want to hunch around your knees and think very hard about travelling back in time to convince your parents to terminate a certain pregnancy—you slap your hand blindly behind you. The water turns off after too much fumbling.

Nat tilts her head, eyes darting to you. Her face smooths into something expressionless, tone deceptively conversational. “That was very ineffective. The spoon.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, chest tight. Moments from hyperventilating.

“So you’ve said.” And fuck, thank god, Nat’s lips twitch. They broaden into a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Her emotions always feel delayed, like she has to consider whether to feel them first, or to express them, at least. Always so controlled. It makes everything feel like a game. A really fucked up, exhausting game of how fast can she induce Stockholm Syndrome. Or make you cry. She’s very, very good at winning games.

“I really didn’t mean to, Nat,” you say quietly, shame-faced, as that thought crosses your mind.

“Yes,” Nat says, unmoving still, smiling still, “I didn’t think you’d attempt murder with a spoon.”

“Can you- Can you please just…” You curl your soapy fingers into the front of your shirt, wishing she’d just close the distance and enthusiastically forgive you for accidental assault. “I thought you- You said on Thursday that- You’re early.”

This, not the flying metal cutlery, is what makes Nat narrow her eyes at you. She tilts her head the other way, appraising you.

Anticipating her thought process, you twist the fabric of your top in your fists, shifting your weight on your feet. Words blurt out, stunted, genuine: “I- I mean, I missed you. I love you. Sorry for, um- for throwing a- I missed you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she deadpans. Pointedly, she scuffs the spoon on her way over to you. She moves a bit of your hair over your shoulder with the back of her hand, pleased when you shudder at her touch. “I could really feel it. Your affection.”

You’re so relieved that she’s not angry with you, you don’t even care that she’s mocking you. “I love you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, pressing her face into your cheek and finally leaning into your body. Automatically, you release your hands and brace them on her shoulders. She breathes softly, happily, into your flushed skin. “It’s shocking sometimes.”

“What,” you mutter into her hair, eyes closed, inhaling the faint smell of smoke lingering on her. You wonder how much fire was involved in her mission. She kisses the corner of your mouth and you think about the heat of her body instead.

Her lips quirk; you feel it. “Your love. It just really hits me sometimes.”

“…ugh.”

She squeezes your middle. “Like a spoon. To the face.”

“There’s a butter knife in the sink too,” you grumble, “since you’re so into feeling my feelings.”

“Just try it,” Nat says with a laugh, nuzzling at your neck. “But, careful, baby, I don’t think you’d survive if I decide you should feel my feelings.”

“No,” you murmur. “Don’t think I did.”

Nat grins and twines a hair around her finger. You prop your chin on her shoulder and you soak in her good mood, looking idly at a spoon.

#dark!natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha x reader #nat #mw #sfw #marvel #this is it. this is when i truly lose grasp on reality #no editing no proofreading no thoughts just put me down like a dog w rabies im sick of this reality where a bug thinks #its ok to exist in the same space as me. its not ok. its not #so tired i named my fic conk

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sukirichi · 4 years ago

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personal disaster

Toji took the personal invitation to be your personal disaster.

REQUEST. toxic toji + enemies to greater enemies + toji railing reader in front of someone they’re seeing because he doesn’t want to see you happy but he doesn’t want to “keep” you either

PAIRINGS. toxic toji x reader x mafia! leader noritoshi kamo (he’s just witnessing the fun, dw)

CONTENT/WARNINGS: rough sex, slight bloodplay, violence, toxic toji, toxic and abusive relationships, choking, begging kink (you’ll be surprised in what way), degradation, mass murder, mentions of blood, cuckolding, overstimulation, reader is kind of crazy, hate fucking, neck slicing, IT’S DARK okay? unedited too, sorry for typos and grammatical errors

WC: 3.5k+

masterlist !

Your arm looped with your fiancé’s, his possessive arm wrapped around your waist. He glared at everyone who stared at you with a lust filled gaze, his cold eyes alone enough to send his people staring at the ground with a tug of their jackets to hide their erection. You almost felt bad for them, knowing that they always saw how your pussy took Noritoshi’s cock so well, but that was it.

They could only see but never had a taste of the specimen you were because you were the mafia leader’s fiancé, soon to be the Queen of his empire while you sat pretty next to him, getting richer and richer with each passing second before you fulfilled your duty and birthed him an heir.

Noritoshi wasn’t in a rush, though. He was a man of sensual pleasure, wanting to take his time with you and getting to know you, and take his time he did.

There was not a day that he didn’t have you moaning under his silk sheets, wrists already chafed from the handcuffs he insisted on using you, simply because he was a man who liked to exert dominance and craved being in power. You never denied him – how could you when all you had to do was spread your legs and you got that coin?

You were beyond a slut for him, however, and this much was clear when Noritoshi announced that you were his and his only.

When even that didn’t deter the curious hands of his people from pumping their cocks at the thought of you, Noritoshi have had enough. He roughly slammed his lips to yours before he melted at the sweetness of your lips, soon turning gentle before he slipped a ring inside your finger to make it official.

Noritoshi, dramatic as ever, wanted everyone to know about this engagement as loudly as he could without opening his mouth.

Your fiancé had a flare for the theatrics, which was why he didn’t blink an eye as he got you an expensive designer dress, hand-stitched, and flaunting you around – flaunting his soon to be wife hanging off of his arm proudly.

He guided you into his limousine until you reached a night sky nightclub that was notorious for its luxury. Not even the richest people belonging in the top tier of society could afford a single ticket, much less a private room. Noritoshi made the right choice by walking with you down the hallways, the walls transitioning from a glossy black to a velvet tint, leading into one of the VIP rooms that was already surrounded by his guards.

The whole way there, Noritoshi didn’t loosen his grip on you, making sure his hand was cupping your ass to flash your ring and his.

Several envious gazes and curious ones later, followed by hushed whispers before the pair of you disappeared behind the double doors, Noritoshi loosened up in his seat, satisfied that he’d marked his territory successfully.

Noritoshi uncapped a bottle of fine whiskey served by a shivering waiter, while you sat next to him, legs crossed enough that the poor blushing waiter flushed at the sight of your bare cunt.

You checked your nails, smirking at the velvet black acrylics Noritoshi was generous enough to let you borrow his black card for. The dress you wore was infinitely superb too, the bust firm enough to push your breasts high enough that the outline of your cleavage was just a step away from exposing your nipples – a tease, as always – just as how Noritoshi wanted.

He was like that; always dangling the treasure right in front of people’s mouths as they salivated in hunger, then bringing it back to his grasp just before they took a bite.

How Noritoshi, you thought.

Out of nowhere, muffled gunshots could be heard from the outside, your eyes cat-like as they glared at the door, waiting for people to burst through. Not a second later, one of your guards rudely invited himself in, pushing the curtain that hid a secret exit as he started babbling nonsense about a madman or something.

“What’s wrong?” Noritoshi asked calmly over his glass, swirling the glass with a satisfying clink. “What’s all the commotion about?”

“Sir, you need to leave! There’s an assassin here and he’s easily taking our men down!”

“Assassin?” he scoffed with a pinch of his brow. “What do you mean assassin? This is a private nightclub – isn’t our security tough?”

“Yes, sir, but he’s easily overpowering us—”

“This assassin you speak of,” you stopped inspecting your nails, placing them over your knee instead. A smirk painted your bold red lips when the guard’s eyes trailed downwards to your shaven cunt, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the sight before he turned away, stiffening harder once he met Noritoshi’s glare. “Is he tall, dark, has a scar running down in his lip and has a crazy look in his eye?”

“Y-yes, that’s exactly him.”

“Do you know who he is, darling?”

You scrunched your noise, uncrossing your legs out of poor mercy to this man. He looked like he’d faint soon – seriously, didn’t Noritoshi have enough sluts for his men to fuck? “An old friend of mine, although I could hardly call him that when he took everything from me,” eyes darkening at the memory of him, you pushed yourself off the velvet cushions of the couch, swiping at the gun strapped to your thigh. “You should leave, Toshi. I’ll handle him.”

“You’ll handle him? It’s unsafe – we need to leave—”

Sigh, he always worried too much over you. It was so easy for him to forget you lived an equally dark life prior meeting him, so you pressed your lips against his, making sure to mark the edges red to remind him he had nothing to worry about. As always, it shut Noritoshi up, his hands coming up to caress at your ass.

“He won’t hurt me,” you assured, palms laid flat on his chest. “Now go.”

Noritoshi wasn’t given a chance when you nodded at his guard, who got the message and dragged his boss away rather harshly behind the curtain. Smirking, you made your way outside, adrenaline rushing through your veins and heat seeping into your core. This night just got a lot more interesting.

Your fun was spoiled, however, when you were met with blood stained walls and limbs torn everywhere. A sneer made its way to your face, not because you were disgusted by the sight, but because he was still as boring and upfront as ever.

He never let you had your fun.

“Toji,” you greeted the tall man sitting on top of the pile of bodies, brows raised because it’s been a long time and he still hadn’t changed. He still wore the exact same fitted black shirt that looked like it would rip into pieces at each of his movements, which to your surprise, never did. “Still as messy as ever, huh?” you clicked your tongue, bunching your dress up with your fists as you stepped over the bodies, making sure not to slip from the sea of blood. “Jeez. You’re not even the least bit concerned about the cleaners.”

“Sweetheart,” he crooned, mirroring your smug expression as he jumped down his throne of corpses, roughly tilting your chin up so you could look him in the eye.

Even with high heels, Toji effortlessly towered over you, reminding you again and again of the strength difference. Though you held your ground pretty well, and he knew this too, otherwise he wouldn’t have struggled so much in his mercenary work the moment you came.

“It’s so nice to see you again – or is that what you wanted me to say?” Your lips stretched for a sinister laugh, Toji beating you to it when his strong hands came to wrap around your neck, slamming you on the wall hard enough he blurred in your vision for a moment. You kept chuckling through the lack of air, tongue darting out to lick the blood of his knuckles. Toji growled, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you’ve done to me, bitch. You ruined my pretty face with those nails of yours.”

“Can’t blame a woman, Toji, you weren’t letting me cum.”

“To be fair, you were leaving me after you killed all my clients when I kindly asked you to keep your hands to yourself,” Toji sneered, head darting down to rip the diamond necklace Noritoshi got you onto the ground. You whined upon seeing the crystals scatter onto the floor, millions worth now dipped in blood. What a fucking shame. “But you’ve always been a naughty little minx, aren’t you? You just can’t keep your hands off of beautiful men.”

“Trust me, Toji, what’s inside their pockets are a lot prettier than faces,” you giggled as your hand came up to trace the scar on his lips, eyes narrowed into appreciative slits. “Nothing would ever be prettier than this.”

“Is it still a face you want to sit on?”

“Fuck, yes,” you admitted, pushing yourself off the wall to wrap your legs around him.

The momentum took Toji by surprise, forgetting that you were just as strong as him as he staggered two steps backwards. His grip tightened on your hip to steady you both, the sharp blade of his weapon poking against your thigh threateningly.

It didn’t bother you, and you only nuzzled your nose against his almost affectionately, staring him in the eyes as you mumbled, “I fucking missed you.”

“Then why did you leave?” he grunted while grinding you down on his cock, hissing for a split second when your killer heels dug into his lower back. He could feel blood leaking from how the shoe pierced him, but he made no move to push you away, enticing you to kiss the corners of his lips to worship his scar. He was so beautiful, sinfully gorgeous that you always lost your mind around him.

He was your end, your ruin, your destruction – and you left in a poor attempt to keep your heart safe.

“How long has it been since I had my hands on you, huh, pretty thing? Six months, maybe more? Time gets so blurry when I’m not buried in your tight cunt,” Toji buried his nose in the crook of your neck, using the blade of his sword to tear your dress open, leaving your lower half revealed to him.

“Oh, you asshole, that was expensive!”

“Don’t give a fuck, baby,” he rolled his eyes, and of course he didn’t. Toji wasn’t any better than you; both your minds were always clouded and hazy with sex. “You smell different. Got another man?”

“Hmm, and he’s much better than you are,” Your words ticked Toji off, knowing full well he always hated it whenever you poked at his ego. Toji was a man of many things, and every time you implied that he wasn’t something, you could expect that he would fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to feel your legs for days. Now that was exactly what you wanted, so you kept going, your nails travelling under his shirt to leave more scratches at his already ruined back – all thanks to you. “He’s rich, classy, handsome, praises me instead of calls me a little slut—”

“Aren’t you?”

“I am,” you agreed shamelessly with a sultry laugh, looking back at him with a devious glint in your eye. “But I like being worshipped every now and then.”

“Haven’t I done that enough? You talk as if I never made you feel good.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, nothing can still compare to your cock, Toji,” Your other hand shoved itself down his pants to feel him, soft pants leaving those pretty mouth of yours when felt his cock bare, the tip already wet with pre-cum.

Of fucking course Toji executed his missions on commando mode – he couldn’t be bothered to keep his fat cock imprisoned.

“But he’s richer. And he’s willing to marry me, breed me until I’m swollen with his children and pamper me afterwards. He’s willing to make me his.”

“You fucking slut,” Toji shoved his tongue inside your mouth, the moans spilling from your lips to his only encouraging him to align his huge length onto your already dripping cunt – always so wet and ready to be filled by him – before he slammed you all the way down. The sudden stretch had you biting on his tongue to muffle your moan, Toji’s hands bruising as he cupped your ass. Toji clenched his jaw upon feeling your walls embrace him warmly, his breaths ragged and faint.

It made your chest swell with pride at the thought that only you could make the infamous Fushiguro Toji this disarranged.

“What is it with you sticking to alpha males all the fucking time?”

“A princess wants her throne beside a handsome prince, Toji. Just because your family didn’t like you, doesn’t mean mine did too. I grew up being told fairy tales while you ran rampant in the streets,” you bit back, the sinister laugh painting the blood red walls dark because you knew Toji better than anyone, and one of the things that always set him off like a bomb was the mention of his abusive family.

You couldn’t wait to see how he would ruin you, and you moaned loudly when Toji grabbed your jaw until your cheeks were squished, the cold of his blade held against your throat sending a shiver down your spine.

“Are you the slightest bit aware of how much I want to kill you right now? Slice your lovely neck and fuck you while you suffocate in your own blood?” You gasped as you felt warm liquid slowly bleed out from the slightest cut, your blood sliding down your chest and under the leftover materials of your dress. Toji used his bare hands to rip the dress apart, your tits bouncing the moment they were freed from its confines.

The guttural groan that echoed from his throat was pure animalistic, similar to the carnal thrusts of his dick that pummelled into you. He pushed you flat on your back until your skin pricked with the shards of glass on the bar countertops, the pain only adding to your pleasure.

Toji kept you locked underneath his arm, his hands choking the air out of you while you clenched around him repeatedly, your walls sucking him in tight enough that Toji lost rhythm in his thrusts. “Only you would like that, Toji,” you choked out in a broken gasp, the man above you growling when you picked up a broken wine glass to push his hands off of you.

Blood coated both your bodies as Toji drove his dick deeper, hitting all the spots that only he could ever reach.

“I’m a man of rare taste.”

“So fucking rare,” you teased. Toji’s middle finger and thumb met once they wrapped around your neck, pulling you off the table to bounce you on his cock, using only his masculine virility and raw strength to fuck you good.

The sudden change of position had the tip of his cock pressing into your most sensitive spots, Toji’s angry grunts sinful yet so erotic as your bumpy walls kissed the veins of his cock.

Toji suddenly wrapped an arm under your breasts, flipping you over until you were met by the sight of Noritoshi standing still outside his VIP room, his gun aimed at the both of you. “Uh-uh – I wouldn’t do that if I were you, pretty boy,” he warned, his words taking a huge hit on Noritoshi when his arm wavered. “One cut is all I need and your lovely fiancé’s body would be swimming in her own blood. Now, you wouldn’t want to waste such a beauty, right?”

“Y/N!” he suddenly dropped his gun, hands raised in surrender beside his head. If Toji wasn’t driving his dick like a fucking animal, you would’ve broken Noritoshi’s nose, ashamed that he surrendered so easily. Noritoshi’s dark eyes turned to Toji’s, heat seeping off of him in waves. “I will never forgive you for what you’re doing!”

“Wasn’t asking for forgiveness, shorty,” Toji pressed, using two fingers to split your lips open, giving Noritoshi the show of his life as Toji’s fat cock stretched you open completely, your puffy lips wrapped around his swollen length.

You knew you looked so dirty right now, skin covered in blood, wearing nothing but your black heels that accentuated your legs while Toji split your body in half.

A strangled moan was pulled from you when Toji hitched one of your legs, his arm hooked behind your knee, completely exposing yourself to Noritoshi. Even though you couldn’t see yourself, the squelching of your pussy taking in Toji’s cream filled dick was so pornographic you couldn’t help the heightening of your arousal, breasts bouncing as Toji kept up his relentless pounding.

“Come on, sweetheart, let him see how much I’m stretching you out. Watch as she loses herself around my fact cock like the fucking whore she is,” Toji laughed, silencing your incoherent fucked out mumbled by shoving a thumb through your lips, smearing your lipstick to the side as if you weren’t a mess already. “Oh, look at his face. You don’t mean to tell me he doesn’t know how filthy you are, huh, sweetheart?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“What the fuck did you say to me?” Toji slapped your ass, your walls clenching around him on instinct. Noritoshi’s eyes widened when you only moaned in response, the blissful smile on his ace rendering him silent. “Not so threatening now, huh, Kamo?” Toji leered, snickering at the apparent tent growing in your fiance’s pants.

It was absolutely sickening that he got off at the sight of his pretty little fiancé be used by some other man, but Toji respected all kinks, even if he didn’t have much respect for Noritoshi to begin with.

“Come on, sweetheart. Scream for me. Say my fucking name like you always used to. Let’s show this pretty boy here how awful you are before he regrets being with you,” Toji snapped his hips harder into you, causing you to see stars that mixed with the sight of Noritoshi falling onto his knees, your name a plead for his lips.

Toji’s cock only twitched at the sight of seeing someone so helpless, to see the infamous powerful Kamo leader beg for Toji to save you and let you go.

He always knew he had a begging kink, but he didn’t think it would come in this form.

“T-Toshi—” you moaned out, eyes snapped shut. You couldn’t think anymore, the only sounds filling your ears were Noritoshi’s cries and Toji’s ragged pants in your ear, his hand pressing down on the apparent bulge of your lower stomach every time he bottomed out.

“I said, say my fucking name.”

“Toji, Toji, fuck!” you leaned backwards and placed your head on his shoulder while he grabbed your hair to kiss you, that familiar heat beginning to form in your core. Unable to help it, your moans fell left and right, loud enough that it drowned out Noritoshi’s pleads. Toji laughed at both of you – called you the dumbest lovers alive – so he kissed you, more tongue and teeth than lips, his thrusts sloppy and desperate. “Oh, oh fuck, yes, yes, right there, oh!”

“You can never fuck her like I do. You can never make her feel good like I do. See how she’s moaning so pretty for me? You can never have her.”

“You’re so fucking unfair,” you cried out, hands tugging at his hair. Toji never let up for even a moment as his thrusts slowed; the new pace he set slow yet deep. Toji pulled out his cock slowly to make you feel him inch by inch, your walls licking at his cock vein by vein until only the tip was left inside, before thrusting full into you in one swift movement of his hips. “You can’t just break up with me and – fuck – tell me I can’t be with others.”

“I own you, sweetheart – I’m your personal disaster,” Toji taunted, large hands groping at your breast when your eyes snapped open, his last final thrusts turning your pussy to mush.

You came around him, hard and overwhelmingly so. Your hands wrapped around his bicep to steady your shaking legs, his name spoken like a prayer with malicious tone as if to curse him. Toji pushed you off his cock until you fell on the floor, his rough hands grabbing at your jaw again to face him, thick spurts of his cum painting your face.

Taking them all in like a good girl, Toji swiped his length over the slope of your nose and pushed the still hard cock through your lips. His hands gripped your head tight as he fucked into your mouth, nothing but anger shown through that scarred face while your jaw fell slack and sore.

“And I’ll break you over and over again until you’re reminded that you’re mine.”

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cassandraclare · 4 years ago

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The Letter Game (in full)

Many have asked to read last week’s letter game in a slightly simpler format. So here it is, for everyone’s enjoyment in plain text, under the cut. The action takes place between Chain of Gold and Chain of Iron. Read on . . .

1: INVITATION

To all and sundry—

The leaves are changing, and with them the season. It grows colder in London by the day, and even without the pestilence that recently ravaged us, even without demons breathing down our necks, cold with chill—now is the time for all good Shadowhunters to come to one another’s aid, and support one another in that most hallowed Nephilim tradition: song and dance.

So, a Musicale! The Townsends are pleased to invite the Enclave, in toto, to our West End home this Friday’s eve. Refreshments will of course be served, but the entertainment will be provided by you, our esteemed guests and friends. We would be so honored if you would help us welcome the coming of winter by bringing your most excellent capers and ballads, to keep us warm.

Grahame and Millie Townsend

2: Lucie » Cordelia

Cordelia, my sister, the very twin of my own heart,

Can you believe the Townsends’ invitation? How pretentious can one be, I ask you! It took all four Herondales an hour of discussion to conclude that “Friday’s eve” meant simply Friday evening rather than the eve before Friday (that is, Thursday). And is the demons or our necks that are meant to be cold with chill? “Cold with chill!” As a writer of words—no, even only as a reader of words—I am offended.

I digress, however. I write to ask whether you will be attending, as that will be significant to my own decision of whether to go. I asked James, and he was unenthused but “supposed” that “we must.” So I wish to let you know that if you don’t fancy attending, I believe James could be easily convinced. But, as unpleasant a night as it promises, I fear he may be correct that “we must.” You and he, after all, must do the social rounds as a betrothed pair, and I—well, I can hardly sit alone in my bedroom all night while all my friends witness Catherine Townsend’s cold-blooded murder of “O mio babbino caro.”

So whatever your preference, I will be amenable. We can put on our frills and watch the most foolish of our set warble and prance, and at least we will have each other’s company and champagne. Or, if you’d prefer, tea and draughts in the Institute parlour. I am yours to command, my warrior-sister.

(I have realized only at this moment that perhaps you not only wish to attend but to perform yourself; if that is the case, I retract all previous mentions of warbling in favor of my unconditional enthusiastic support. I will even accompany you, if you wish, but I am not very good at the spinnet so please, something fairly slow would be best.)

Yours ever across the still waters of time and space,

L. Herondale

3: Ariadne » Anna

Dear Miss Lightwood,

I expect that you will have received the same invitation to the Townsends’ Musicale that the rest of the Enclave has. I write with the question of whether it’s your intention to attend, and to say that I hope that you will, and that I hope to see you there.

It’s not your sort of party, of course—dull, bourgeois, and stuffy, I imagine you’d say—but since as the daughter of the Inquisitor I am rarely able to appear at the more lively gatherings that you prefer, I do plan to attend myself, much as I would rather be elsewhere. (At one of those lively gatherings, perhaps?) Catherine will have my head if I am not there to keep her mother out of her hair, for one thing, and for another…well, I wish to see you.

I have it on fairly good authority that your brother and his roisterous band, or whatever they call themselves, are planning to be there. So I also write to implore you to come so that a cooler head will be present and any explosions, or implosions, or indeed bedlam of any kind, will be, if not prevented, at least more easily contained and cleaned up after.

For the event I am thinking of a dress I have, in a deep ruby color, with a rather striking neckline. I am no great judge of my own appearance, but I do know your taste and I daresay you will find it flatters me. For your part, I hope you will wear those pinstriped trousers you have. You have not worn them in an age, and I miss them, or rather, I miss how elegantly you wear them.

In short, I hope to see you there.

I know it is not your habit to keep letters from admirers, but rather to use them to kindle your fireplace. Perhaps that will be the destiny of this note as well, but I believe not. I come to you not as an admirer, after all, but as a friend, and one who wishes you all the best things in the world—

Yrs.,

Ariadne Bridgestock

4: Anna » Matthew

Mr. Fairchild—

Matthew, I have instructed the courier bringing you this note to evaluate your sobriety and, if it is found wanting, to slap you across the face twice. Straighten up and pay attention, you debauched fool. It’s still breakfast-time. And this is important.

Are you going to the Townsends’ musicale?

Let me rephrase: if you know what’s good for you, you will be going to the Townsends’ musicale.

I hope to enjoy your company there, of course, as my friend and companion. But also, to be frank, I will need the support. My night was free and so I told them I would be there, but I wasn’t thinking, and now I’ve received a note from one A.B., letting me know in no uncertain terms that she will definitely be attending as well. It will be a large gathering, no doubt, and most of our time will be spent watching Thoby Baybrook chase after the juggling-balls he keeps dropping during his performance, rather than close-quarters socializing. But—and I trust in your confidence on this matter—I find I flutter with nerves. Imagine. I never flutter!

I hope I can count on you. I am not usually in the business of begging favors. However, this is an unusual situation. Matthew: she will be wearing the burgundy dress.

Anna

5: Ariadne » Matthew

To Matthew Fairchild—

All right, I’ve sent the letter. Against my better judgment, I should add. It seems more likely to drive her away than to attract her, to be honest, but you have her confidence in ways that I no longer do. If you think she is more likely to be there as a result, I will trust in your plan.

However.

I am fully aware that under most circumstances neither she nor you would be found as such a dreary party as an Enclave-wide musicale. (Nor would I, but as the daughter of the, et cetera et cetera, I hardly need to tell you.) So let this note serve as, not a threat, but a promise: if you even think about ditching the party for one of your Downworlder orgies, or whatever your usual scene, and you leave me and her to awkward politesse over stale canapes without showing up yourself…I will follow you to the ends of the Earth and your life will be forfeit. Forfeit, Fairchild. I daresay I can best you in a duel three times out of four, but also be assured I am very good with a dagger in the dark.

I look forward to enjoying this merry entry in the social season with you. I will see you there.

Yours sincerely,

Ariadne Bridgestock

6: Matthew » Cordelia

No, that won’t do at all. There are already other C’s. Christopher, for instance. Also Caiaphas, a werewolf from whom I sometimes purchase wine. (He has an excellent nose, you see.)

Cordelia Carstairs, you need not worry about the Townsends’ party. First, none of Our Lot are planning to perform at all, but merely hang back and watch the festivities while imbibing and filling seats. You certainly shouldn’t worry that you’ll be asked to dance as you did at the Ruelle. This will not be the Ruelle. It will be far more insipid.

I’m sure J is focused entirely on your responsibilities as an engaged couple to make the rounds and be seen by the whey-faced provincials of the Enclave. He is correct, as always, the bastard, but he worries too much. Rest assured that we Thieves will be concocting a plan in which we are able to (1) have a good time at the most boring gathering of the season and (2) not miss cake. (I don’t know if you have had cake at the Townsends’. They are a tedious family, but their cook is some kind of confection-obsessed elf who performs great conjurings with spun sugar and buttercream.) (Yes, he really is an elf, I think. Or Catherine was having me on. His ears are fairly pointed, in any event.)

I do not particularly anticipate this musicale with great pleasure, but I do, of course, anticipate the opportunity to spend time in your presence with great relish. Truly, my parabatai could not have picked a more suitable bride with whom to be mutually bored to tears at parties for years to come. I suggest that for this one you bring a flask to tuck into your reticule. If you don’t, worry not; I will bring two. At least two.

I remain, as always, yours sincerely, etc etc,

Matthew Fairchild

7: James » Thieves

CONFIDENTIAL—DO NOT DISTRIBUTE—ON PAIN OF TORTURE—THIS MEANS YOU

Merriest of Thieves,

After extensive discussion, we’ve reached consensus (or as close as we will come) on our plan for Having Fun At the Townsends’ Musicale Even Though It Is a Musicale Hosted By the Townsends. (A variety of alternate names were proposed, but all have been vetoed by the plan’s organizer, that is, myself. Please do not continue to send proposed names, Matthew.)

Our esteemed colleague Christopher has, it seems, been working in his spare time on a new method of rapidly sending written messages without the use of couriers. Instead, messages are sent with a combination of runes (so bring your steles) and a propellant of Christopher’s own invention. I’m told that the technique is not yet flawless, but Mr Lightwood reports that it is ready to be shown and tested, and what better place than a party at which missing the main entertainment would be not disappointing, but rather a great relief.

Down a corridor from the Townsends’ main parlour is a small games room. I say games room, but in truth it is empty of games, and nobody ever uses it. It is windowless and a bit close, but mostly empty of furnishings and a suitable location for a scientific demonstration. Even better, the corridor itself departs the parlour with a dog-leg, and once one has passed around the corner, one is invisible to the notice of the other partygoers. (See attached floor plan of the first storey of the house; thanks to TL for his freehand drafting skills.)

This plan assumes that none of you are planning to perform in the musicale itself; if this is not the case, then MF wishes me to remind you both of your loyalties and to the overall philistine-like qualities of most of the guests.

Surely this will provide sufficient entertainment to get us all through the evening.

The party is only one days away, so if there are any questions about this plan, please hiss them to me sotto voce tomorrow night while Millie Townsend is performing her murder ballads.

Courage, half a league, half a league onward, and so on,

James H

PS: For those whose main draw to this party is Morgaint’s famous Victoria sponge, Christopher assures me that we should be done well in time for dessert. (I should add a warning that it should not be referred to as a Victoria sponge within earshot of Morgaint, as he will lecture you at length about the recipe’s preceding Victoria by centuries, the history of confection in pre-Roman Britain, and so on. He is very temperamental, even for a faerie.)

8: Thomas » Alastair

Dear Mr Carstairs—

We have not spoken in many weeks, presumably as a result of the unfortunate circumstances under which we last met. Nevertheless, I write this evening to extend my wishes for your family’s continued health and good fortune.

As I’m sure you know, this Friday marks an Enclave-wide social event at the home of the Mr and Mrs Townsend. I know that your sister will be in attendance, with her fiancé. The Lightwoods—Eugenia, Anna, Christopher, and myself—are also planning to be there. And, of course, we expect the family of our esteemed Consul, including both of her sons, to make an appearance.

Shall we expect to see you there? I ask merely because if so, I will not be attending. I understand that as your family will be there you have every right to attend, so I am happy to be the one who bows out of the evening.

Yours sincerely,

Mr T. Lightwood

9: Alastair » Thomas

Mr Lightwood

Tom

Look, you,

I am amazed and impressed by the effrontery of you writing to me to ask whether I will be attending an event only to them tell me that if I attend, you will not. No doubt you are feeling aggrieved about the last time we met. Well, so am I. Jests and pranks from our schoolboy years are hardly a good enough reason for the kind of public humiliation I suffered, both from Matthew Fairchild’s rude outburst and your own. The very thought of attending a party with the likes of you sends me into a mixture of, on the one hand, paroxysms of helpless laughter, and on the other, a thumping headache of barely contained fury that I

[letter discarded, not sent]

Mr Lightwood,

Thank you for your kind letter. I am, of course, aware of the upcoming affair at the home of the Townsends, through the usual means of receiving my own request to attend. It would seem to me obvious that I had no need of being informed about the party as though I would otherwise be ignorant of it. Unlike some of the London Shadowhunter families, the Townsends have only ever been courteous to the Carstairs family, and the implication that I wouldn’t have received exactly the same invitation that you did is exactly the kind of nonsense that

[letter discarded, not sent]

Thomas,

I won’t be attending the Townsends’ musicale, as I am already committed to a preferable previous engagement cleaning out the pigeon cages in the Regent’s Park Zoo.

Thank you for thinking of me.

Receipt of your letter is hereby acknowledged.

I don’t know why you would write to me at all, but please do not write back to try to explain.

[letter discarded, not sent]

Thomas,

I do want to apologize, I have tried to apologize, but every time I come near you a wall of your friends prevents me from doing so. You can hardly hold it against me that I have not apologized when you will not allow me to do so. Yes, I know what I did rises far above the level of a jest or a prank. But one must be allowed to make amends somehow, for otherwise what is there? Hopelessness? Not I suppose that you care much what I feel. Just because you are beloved of your friends, and ridiculously tolerably handsome, you think —

[Letter discarded, not sent]

10: Cordelia » James

J—

Do you need rescuing? Everyone is in the games room for Christopher’s demonstration, even Thomas, who has spent most of the evening hiding from my brother. You on the other hand have been waylaid in the corner with Mrs Whatshername. I tried to get close enough to intervene but was swept away myself by Mr Townsend, who wanted to tell me about his travels in the Levant when he was a younger man. Could not tell if he was confused about my family’s origins or he simply assumed anyone would be fascinated by his tales of camels and pyramids. Anyway, M suggests he could interrupt and scold you for ignoring your betrothed. Lucie says you are ignoring your betrothed, but don’t listen to her, I know you are far too polite to interrupt a member of the older set. (If you yourself remember, please remind me of her name when you come.)

Come as soon as you can. Do not allow Mrs Whatshername to follow you.

Daisy

11: Christopher » Thieves

To: James, Lucie, Matthew, Thomas, Cordelia, Anna, Ariadne

From: Christopher

In an ideal world, I would have been able to send you this note through this very technique I am demonstrating tonight, but it does make a fairly loud bang, and I thought that would likely give the game away. Though I wish to not allow social proprieties to impede the progress of science, I have been reminded by several of you that discretion can be the better part of valor. Although I admit I can’t think of any personal examples where that would be the case.

In the games room I have piled a supply of protective spectacles, which I suggest you wear. There is no danger of damage to your eyes, but there may be some very bright flashes. In addition, the propellant which I will be using to send the message is an experimental mixture, similar to those I have tried in the past but not exactly the same. There is a very very small chance that inhalation of its fumes may cause some temporary effects to the mind, so I recommend that you hold a handkerchief over your nose and mouth during the demonstration. To be clear, I don’t think that any of these effects would have any negative impact on our ability to return to the party and attend the musical performances afterwards. At worst, it may make those performances seem more enjoyable than they would otherwise.

12: James » Townsends

Dear Mr and Mrs Townsend,

On behalf of myself, my family, my fiancée, and my fellows, I wished to extend sincerest apologies for departing your lovely gathering without saying proper goodbyes. Your musicale was, as all would have expected, a smashing success, with performances across the board demonstrating the falsehood of the common claim that the Nephilim are unable to produce works of art. Surely your daughter Catherine’s rendition of Puccini’s famous aria could stand alongside the finest professionals to be found in the Royal Albert Hall.

As you discovered along with the rest of the guests, Christopher Lightwood wished to use the opportunity of having us all present to demonstrate the state of his newest invention. I’m told that when it is completed, it will utterly revolutionize the way that Shadowhunters are able to communicate with one another, obviating the need for the runners, couriers, and use of the mundane Royal Mail to send messages to one another. Instead we will have a fully self-contained rune-based method. Surely anyone would agree that such a development would be well worth whatever growing pains the process of invention and experimentation might create.

As you also discovered, Mr Lightwood’s demonstration took an unexpected turn, with a good amount of his customized propellant being released into your games room and corridors. Luckily, it was a mild evening, and open windows as well as the vigorous fanning of the doors by Thomas Lightwood and Ariadne Bridgestock quickly dispersed the gasses.

That said, neither I nor my companions are able to account for an interval of roughly ninety minutes between the end of the demonstration and our departure from your house. To that end, it seems that we were sadly lacking in good manners by failing to thank you for your warm hospitality at the time. Again, please accept our deepest apologies, and our thanks for that hospitality, even if it has been delivered discourteously late.

Warmest regards,

James Herondale

13: Matthew » James

Jamie,

Good Lord, what was in that stuff of Christopher’s? Do you know if there will be any lasting effects? I hesitate to ask Kit, he seems too dismayed.

Also, I am trying to find out to whom exactly I owe an apology for specific behaviors that might have happened after the demonstration. I seem to have lost more than an hour from my memory, as well as my waistcoat and a garnet ring of which I was quite fond. Any thoughts you have would be appreciated.

Matthew

14: Lucie » James

James,

I have been expecting to hear from Matthew, but as it has been most of a day and I haven’t yet, can you please let him know that I will make myself available to be apologized to during teatime, either tomorrow or the next day. Please also tell him that I will be sending along a bill for the costs of cleaning arrack out of the skirt of my dress. For such a prodigious consumer of spirits, you would think he would have learned not to slosh them around so much when he talks. I suppose Christopher’s propellant takes some of the blame, but honestly, Shadowhunters are trained in agility and dexterity and even under the influence of one of Christopher’s experiments he should be able to, at very least, not slosh so.

Lucie

15: Cordelia » Anna

Dear Anna,

The last hour or so of the party was something of a blur for all of us, I think. But I feel confident in assuring you that both you and Ariadne acted with all due propriety, and that at no point did you “make an ass of yourself,” as you put it, either out among all the guests or in the games room.

Also, when next you speak to Ariadne, please compliment her on her lovely dress. It suited her quite well! I wondered if you were responsible for finding it for her? You do have such an excellent eye for what colors and cuts will flatter.

Anyway, do not worry. I have made some private inquiries, and nobody took note of any unusual behavior on the part of either yourself or Miss Bridgestock. (In fact, Rosamund seemed to be under the impression that you were shamelessly flirting with her. I can confirm that you were not and that Rosamund simply has an odd way about her.)

Are we still on for tea Wednesday? Let me know if not and otherwise I will see you then.

Cordelia Carstairs

16: Townsends » Everybody

For the attention of:

James Herondale

Lucie Herondale

Matthew Fairchild

Thomas Lightwood

Anna Lightwood

Christopher Lightwood

Alastair Carstairs

Cordelia Carstairs

On behalf of not just our own family, but the parental generation of the Enclave more generally, we wish to communicate our displeasure with your behavior at our soirée on Friday’s eve. You are all adults or near-enough, under Nephilim Law, and so you should be held to account as any adults would be. And you should be ashamed of yourselves.

Given the influence had by many of your families, and the small size of the London Enclave, we cannot bar you from all of our future events. If only we could. We will, however, be more careful in future about shutting off access to rooms in our house that are not intended for use by party guests.

Rather than taking the time to craft individual complaints, we hereby itemize the most obvious of our grievances, so that you may all have your behavior exposed to one another. Certainly none of you deserve to have your actions kept private.

Alastair: We were glad to see you eventually arrive, though there is a wide difference between “fashionably late” and the hour you appeared. (Just in time for the desserts, we note.) Also, the song you performed was highly inappropriate for the ladies present, especially the unmarried ones, such as our daughter, and also your own sister.

Lucie: While we have always supported your hobby of writing down entertaining tales, and we understand that the storyteller’s art does involve artistic creativity, your ongoing, strident, melodramatic narration of the events following the Christopher Lightwood Incident was not appreciated by us or, especially, Mrs Rosewain, who you referred to throughout as “Mrs Whatshername.”

James: Your interruption of the cake serving to declare your undying devotion to your true love was a gallant gesture. It might, however, have gone over better had you not pledged your troth to a portrait in oils of our ancestral matriarch, Frideswide Townsend. Your taste is admirable, of course, and she was considered a great beauty. It is unfortunate for your affections that she passed away in the late sixteenth century.

Anna: We would thank you to come by and pick up your brother from our house at some point. He has been muttering to himself, fiddling with a pencil and paper, and threatening “another test, much improved.” Please retrieve him post-haste.

Thomas: We don’t know how you made the acquaintance of that vampire who attempted to accompany all of the performers on his dulcimer, but he is not welcome back to our house, and if we see him again, neither are you.

Matthew: Whatever was in that bottle you were plying to my mother, we only found her this morning, napping on our roof. When we woke her she said it was of a greenish color and asked for more of it. We would be obliged if you could bring another bottle by, at your convenience.

Cordelia: Your demonstration of the supernatural sharpness of your sword was very impressive, even if it was not in the spirit of the kinds of performance we expected for a musicale. It is, however, not all that surprising that it was able to cut through our drapes, a dining-room chair, or the sponge cake. We spoke to your brother, and he suggested that we should feel free to send an invoice for replacement costs to the Herondale family, since soon enough you will be their trouble, and not his.

In short, you have all behaved abominably, and are, each and every one of you, embarrassments to your various hallowed family names.

We hope you will join us the Thursday after next, for boating and luncheon in Hyde Park.

Mr and Mrs Graham Townsend

#letter game #the merry thieves #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron

2K notes · View notes

angelofbloodlust · 4 years ago

Text

Bunny (Billy Loomis x Reader)

A/N: Long time, no see, y’all 😳 sorry for my disappearance, I’ve been going through quite a lot but I’m happy to be back! I apologize if this story isn’t the best, it’s been a long time since I’ve written something like this and I’m still trying to get back in my groove- but if this ends up being well-received I’d be happy to try writing a part 2! <3 hope u guys enjoy!!

—————————————————

Your eyes scan over the backyard of the tan house sat in front of you once more, zoning in heavily on the blackened windows as your boots take hesitant steps forward towards the home of your fellow peer that you’ve been watching for weeks now. Shallow breaths escape you as your chest begins to pound, a flurry of both panicked and thrilled emotions swarming your stomach as your hand tightens on the butcher knife in your hold.

You were finally about to experience your first kill, after taking so many precautions and endless planning. You figured now would be the perfect time with the other murders that has had Woodsboro in chaos, the police department has already got themselves absorbed in solving the murders of Casey and Steve, if you manage to get through this unscathed you could easily let the other nutjob take the blame and get to work on your next plan.

But, that’s easier said than done.

You suck in a breath through your nostrils as you cautiously approach the cracked window ahead of you, the one you’ve witnessed be pushed open by the student’s mother each night before bed, just like clockwork. Though of course, you ensured that neither of her parents would be home that night, and you were glad they were dumb enough to trust their daughter enough to be able to defend herself with a psychopath on the loose.

Your teeth remain clenched as you slowly lift yourself up and climb through the window after pushing it open, being careful to not let your costume get caught and allowing your jaw to relax once you step from the marble of the countertops down to the wooden plank flooring below. Anxiousness to get upstairs and cut the girl’s head off stabs at you as your eyes find the stairs from your view out of the kitchen, though you force yourself to keep your pace as you take light steps on your path towards your goal, and feel relief at the fact none of the floorboards have creaked so far. Annoyance swiftly follows after as you notice the stairs aren’t carpeted, internally grumbling a couple curses while readying yourself to have to take your backup plan in case you accidentally make a noise and wake the girl up.

You make your way up slowly, begging in your mind for each step not to creak, and as you’ve made walked up all but 2 steps, you can’t help but feel a smug grin curl over your lips underneath your mask as you relish in the fact that everything’s gone so smoothly.

And immediately you regret that thought, once you and the short brunette standing in front of the bathroom door both freeze up in shock from the sight of the other.

“Shit, you’re not supposed to be awake!” You groan out, scowling at yourself once you process that you accidentally said that out loud.

Your body tenses as your words seem to have triggered the girl out of her state of shock, a blood-curling wail slipping from her lips at the sight of the knife in your hand before she runs to attempt scampering back into her bedroom to hide from you, sobs and screams pouring from her as you growl under your breath while bolting up the last couple steps and over the carpet towards her.

“Stop yelling!” You whine in panic from her loudness, before narrowing your eyes at your sudden idiocy with the situation. Why the fuck would she listen to you?!

A frustrated huff leaves you as she manages to slam the door on you, leaving you to violently push and slam on the now locked door while spilling out any indecent word your brain can think of in the moment. How could this have gone any worse? Your plan was all for nothing now!

Anxiety twirls in your gut as you look between the door and the stairs, having to make a quick decision as you’re sure the cops have been called by now and won’t take long to arrive. You exhale out, before making the final call to abandon the plan and speed back down the stairs, hopping over anything in your way as you head into the kitchen and back out the window.

Brief relief hits you as the soles of your shoes meet the grass again, taking a swift glance behind you while running for the patch of woods ahead of you. Your exhale out is interrupted as you suddenly collide into something, which you thought was a tree for a split second until the object ahead of you slips out a grunt once they stumble back slightly.

You look back forward in surprise, shock waving you as your vision is taken up by the same white and black mask morphed into a scream that you previously slipped on after making the discovery the other killer had worn it. A squeak leaves your lips as the man in front of you takes a rough grip on your upper arms, shifting around to face your towards the woods and push you forward as he gives a huff out.

“Go, I’m not gonna let you get us caught.” He hisses out, balling the back of your costume into his fist to ensure you keep moving as he leads you further way from the house while you struggle to wrap your head around what’s happening.

“H-How did you know I was-”

“We were in the area prepping, and we could hear that bitch’s scream from a mile away.” He huffs in response.

“Oh..” You mumble, embarrassment now filling your cheeks as he continues to guide you like you’re a disobedient child, wanting to pull from his grip but feeling unsure of how he might react. “...Did you say we?” You question suddenly as you shift your head to look back to him.

“Yes. No more questions, I think I have a right to be the one questioning you instead. Who the fuck are you?” He asks in a strict tone, and despite his mask covering his expression, you could somehow feel the rage radiating off of him at your presence.

You narrow your hidden eyes, “Why would I tell you that?? I don’t even know who you are!”

“I said no more questions.”

“I think it’s a pretty reasonable one if you’re gonna only ask questions I don’t wanna answer!”

“Fine, if that’s how you want to be then we can both remain anonymous. How about this, instead?” He hums, “Did you even kill her? I don’t see any blood on you.”

“..No.. She locked the door on me before I could grab her, I wanted to kill her in her sleep but she was awake once I got inside.” You admit in a sheepish mumble.

He scoffs, “A door stopped you?” You scowl as he chuckles in amusement at your actions. “I suppose that’s reasonable, you are pretty small. Wouldn’t expect you to be able to be able to break it down.” He teases, causing you to grumble out as you wiggle from his grip and turn to face him.

“Hey, it was my first time, and I was panicking! Take it easy on me.” You demand with a pout.

He crosses his arms as he looks down to you, “Tsk, you tried to do it all on your own? No wonder you failed.”

“I spent months planning it, I thought I would’ve done well..” Your voice cracks through your sentence, leaving you to attempt sighing away your urge to cry while you turn back to keep walking, your eyes sticking down to watch your steps while the man with you gives an exhale as he follows at your side.

“Alright, alright, I’ll quit being so harsh. But it takes someone naturally skilled to be able to do it on their own, you know? You think you have everything you need, but even the littlest thing that doesn’t go to plan can fuck it all up. Maybe for you, you just need a bit of teaching to make sure you’re ready for anything.” He shrugs.

“Are you.. offering to help me?” You question gently through the mix of shock and confusion in your chest as to why this stranger is willing to take you under his wing, tilting your head slightly up to him.

“Maybe. But you need to prove that you’re serious about this.”

You begin to question him on how you can prove it, before stopping at the beginning of your sentence once the two of you cross through the patch of woods and up to a parked car on the lone street in front of you. An unsure sensation fills your gut as he makes you stay back while he walks over to the driver’s side window, and you begin to question to yourself if this might really be a safe decision to go with the psychopaths that you were about to frame.. But at the same time, this might be your real chance to be able to finally learn the proper ways of murder.

Soon enough, he walks back over to you and gestures to your mask. “To go any further with this, I need to see your face if you’re going to see ours. It’s only fair.” He requests you in a calm tone, and you hesitate as you frown as you pick up sudden worried thoughts. What if he just wanted to be able to rat you out and let you take blame for everything?

“Hey, you know you haven’t really proved your loyalty to me, either.. What if-”

You freeze as his hand reaches up for his own mask, watching him pull it off to reveal his cold, yet neutral expression as the guy you recognize to be Billy Loomis from your school stands in front of you. Your face reddens at the sight, you know him enough about him to have a thorough crush on him, though you suppose you didn’t know him quite enough to have realized that part of the reason you had been so drawn to him was the fact you were more alike than you had known.

“I’m risking everything for this. Do you know how much this could fuck up everything with us letting you in?” He sighs, and you watch as his lips form in a displeased pout. “The last thing I want is you getting caught doing this dumb shit, and if you’re going to steal our costume you at least need to not act like a moron while you’re in it.” He huffs with narrowed eyes.

“God- fuck, whatever. If you guys end up killing me, I have nothing to lose.” You grumble as you pull off your mask, holding your own pout while he takes up a smirk while looking you over.

“Just as cute as I expected you to be, bunny.” He purrs out in a playful tone, which causes you to give him a questioning expression through your heated cheeks at the nickname.

“Bunny?”

“You’re small, cute and quick. Like a bunny.” He grins.

“I will actually deck you if you call me that again.” You hiss out while he starts to lead you towards the car.

“No, you won’t. I could tell you liked it.” He chimes in a proud tone, laughing out once you reach to smack his arm with your face on fire.

“Shut your mouth, Loomis! You’re so annoying!” You whine as your voice pitches up with your embarrassment.

“Get your ass in the car, Y/N.” He snorts out as he nudges you towards the backseat.

“..You know my name?”

“You’re in my Physics class. I recognize you.” He chuckles gently, flashing you a brief smile before slipping into the passenger’s seat.

“Oh.” You hum, feeling content as you feel joy at the fact that he recognizes you, holding your own smile as you get into the back of the car before pausing once Stu Macher shoots you a grin from the driver’s seat.

“Hey, Y/N! Billy says you wanna join us, that true?” He asks through his classic happy tone, starting up the car while you manage to get yourself to nod as you confirm to yourself that the man you had only ever expected to be the class clown to be Billy’s partner in crime, though you weren’t entirely sure why you were caught off guard with the insane amount of loyalty Stu’s always shown to Billy over the years you’ve watched them be friends.

“Yeah.. Uh, sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see you. Didn’t think you were this kinda guy.” You snicker.

He gives an unbothered shrug, “Well, people always have their secrets, don’t they?” He chuckles, causing you to quirk an eyebrow once he flashes a grin over to Billy and laughing out once he smacks his shoulder in a manner to tell him to shut up. Stu smiles back at you again through the rear-view mirror, “It’s nice to have ya join us, though. I’m sure it’ll be real fun for the three of us.” He purrs, and you can’t help but get an unsettling feeling from the tinge of malice in his smirk, which you couldn’t tell if it was meant to be towards you.

You could only hope not.

#scream 1996 #scream #billy loomis #stu macher #billy loomis and stu macher #billy loomis x reader #slasher x reader #ghostface x reader #slasher x you #hopefully this ain’t too bad I wrote it all in one sitting 😭

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

Instead of freeing Nie Huaisang after the indoctrination camp Wen Chao keeps him and forces him to act as entertainment in an effort to humiliate the Nie's. Jokes on him though, as Nie Huaisang uses his new position to send coded messages.

In Here, With Me - ao3 (chapter 1/2)

- Untamed verse -

Left behind in the indoctrination camp when all the other sect heirs escaped, Nie Huaisang found himself in Wen Chao’s clutches, left to his amusement – and his amusement was to force Nie Huaisang to serve at his entertainment.

Are you telling me you’re a clown?!

“Rude, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang huffed, rolling his eyes at his brother’s note. “Very rude. I’m an entertainer.”

Although a rather large portion of his brand new entertain-the-troops routine was being laughed at, yes…

Damnit, da-ge! Leave a man some self-respect!

Sadly, there wasn’t enough space for him to get that sentence in along with the rest of the information he was sending back home, battle plans and supply lines and the rest. Just enough for a single additional sentence –

Sometimes the most dangerous place is the safest.

A little later, he got his brother’s response: Stop making sense. I hate it when you do that.

Nie Huaisang smiled.

“Can you stop shoving me around?” Nie Huaisang complained to Wen Chao after the first day of being the Wen sect’s punching bag. “You want me to entertain people, I can be entertaining! In ways other than slapstick!”

“Oh yeah?” Wen Chao sneered. “Like what?”

“I can tell stories,” Nie Huaisang said promptly. “I can paint. I compose poetry on the spot, including lewd poetry. I can do astronomy readings and calculate fortunes. I can juggle my saber. I can –”

“You can not.”

“Which one?”

“Juggle a saber!”

Nie Huaisang crossed his arms. “I can too! Or, well, da-ge always says that’s what I’m doing when I’m trying to train…”

Wen Chao sniggered. “Oh, this I’ve got to see. Someone get him a sword!”

“I can’t use a sword!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed. “Saber, saber! One side sharp only! If I tried it with a two-sided blade, I’d cut my arm off and then where would you be, huh? Without any entertainment, and no hostage, either!”

Wen Chao rolled his eyes. “Saber, then.”

Everyone looked at each other uncertainly – the saber wasn’t a common weapon for Qishan Wen.

“Just get me mine,” Nie Huaisang suggested. “What, are you all afraid I’ll fight my way out if I have my own spiritual weapon with me? Me?”

They were not afraid of him.

Nie Huaisang gripped his proper Nie saber that was warm under his fingers, with the clean blade that (currently) showed no sign of words, and smiled.

The Jiang sect won’t listen to my warnings.

Nie Huaisang gritted his teeth and stared at his saber. You’re joking, he wrote on the blade with his finger and a bit of qi. I warned you a whole week ago. We’re attacking tomorrow! With overwhelming forces!

I’m trying my best! I can only smuggle so many cultivators nearby without permission. What am I supposed to do, write off the whole place as a loss and just kidnap all their disciples to keep them from getting murdered?

Why not? If that’s all you can do, at least it’s something.

“The wine that’s going to the main table is on the bottom left,” Nie Huaisang said when he found Wen Ning standing there.

Wen Ning jumped. “Oh! Nie-gongzi…”

“You’re here to rescue Jiang Cheng, right? And you’re going to drug the wine? Bottom left.”

“…thanks.” Wen Ning hesitated. “Do you need a rescue, too?”

“Oh, no, I’m good. Tell Jiang Cheng that I’m sorry I couldn’t help more, and next time he should listen when my brother says to run away. He doesn’t say it often, so when he does, he means it.”

Wen Ning hesitated still.

“What?”

“Did you really break Wen Zhuliu’s hand before he could melt Jiang Cheng’s core?”

“It was,” Nie Huaisang said with great dignity, “an accident.”

“Listen, I get you,” Nie Huaisang said to a confused-looking Wei Wuxian. “Revenge is nice, rescue is sweet. But I need you to let Wen Chao get close enough to the Nightless City that me making my way there as the terrified last surviving witness is at least plausible, or we lose our best in to get info from the Wen sect. So just, you know, wait a bit longer, okay?”

“Meng Yao!” Nie Huaisang hollered, throwing himself into Meng Yao’s arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again!”

“Uh,” Meng Yao said.

Wen Ruohan laughed.

Nie Huaisang burst into tears and buried his face into Meng Yao’s neck.

Wen Ruohan laughed harder.

Meng Yao smiled awkwardly, but that was probably the fact that Nie Huaisang had already sealed his spiritual energy and had a knife to his belly.

“You’d better be here as a spy,” Nie Huaisang whispered in his ear as the Wen sect ignored them.

“Definitely,” Meng Yao murmured back, though his tone wasn’t as definitive as Nie Huaisang would prefer. “I need Wen Ruohan’s head to get my father’s approval.”

“Does my brother know?”

“…no.”

“Who does?”

“Huaisang –”

“I have my own ways of passing information. Well?”

“…Sect Leader Lan.”

“I look forward to finding out if he confirms it,” Nie Huaisang said, patting Meng Yao on the cheek, and then blubberingly begs his way into sharing a room with the man. He’s gotten pretty good at getting Wen Ruohan to agree to these sorts of silly requests – the man had just the same awful sense of humor as his son.

“I can’t believe you survived this long as the Nie sect’s spy,” Meng Yao marveled when it was all done.

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “I’ll give you lessons,” he offered with a grin. “If you like. It’s my one skill, apparently!”

“The war is over,” Meng Yao pointed out in return, shaking his head and smiling. “My father has accepted me back into the Jin sect and given me a new name. What use do I have for the skills of spy?”

“Of being a Nie sect spy,” Nie Huaisang corrected, and put his hand on Meng Yao’s shoulder. “If things don’t go well for you in the Jin sect…Think about it, will you? If da-ge won’t accept you, then I will.”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #jin guangyao #meng yao #my fic #my fics #in here with me

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achilios · 4 years ago

Text

out of context quotes that are (a) hilarious (b) ominous (c) both at once (from survival is a talent by @shanastoryteller )

(years 4-5, potential spoilers ahead?? maybe?? i’ll add an asterisk (*) to quotes that i think may be spoilers)

( * = possibly a spoiler ; ** = mild spoiler ; *** = kind of a big spoiler )

this was originally supposed to be for harry only, because his character in this fic is absolutely amazing and sarcastic and generally hilarious, but then the list somehow Grew, so!

harry:

"Millicent, thank merlin, has a trust fund and that’s it, and thinks the rest of them are insane[...]she’s a great barometer for when something’s a pureblood Slytherin thing, and for when their friends are just strange, but haven’t figured it out yet because they’re too busy being strange together."

"'I’ll meet you downstairs,' Harry says, then stands and jumps off the roof. George screams, but Harry’s laughing all the way down, casting a cushioning charm so he easily bounces back on his feet."

"'But it doesn’t bother me when I almost die,' Harry complains."

"I might as well cause a useful disaster."

* "Sometimes accidental necromancy just happens.”

"'Ritualistic cannibalism is my least preferred way to die,” Harry tells him companionably."

"Who cares if it’s a good idea? It’s a fun idea."

"She looks at Harry. “Can you walk, Mr. Potter?”“Sure,” he says, “absolutely, I’ve been walking for years.”"

"They all look at him like he’s crazy. Which isn’t a new experience, but is a little rude."

* "he’s planning to spend the summer collecting corpses so he has them on hand if needed."

+ bonus

Sirius saying Questionable Things, as always: "'I love that woman,' Sirius says, 'She’s so willing sell her morals away, I really admire that in a person.'"

Ron, who i’m kind of obsessed with(+ an appearance from Ginny): "'What are you planning, Ronald?' 'Nothing major. Just some public unrest, maybe a riot or two. A coup would be nice, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves,' he muses."

"'I flew a car into the Whomping Willow when I was twelve,' Ron says. 'How am I supposed to discipline students? As long as no one dies, it’s like, fine, right?'"

"“Hey!” Ron says, but he’s still grinning. “I think we make really logical and great choices for authority figures.” Harry twists to stare at him. “A third year got in a fight with a Hufflepuff, and you taught him how to throw a better punch.”"

Neville, who is awesome: "No election if we kill him."

"“Yippee,” Neville says morosely"

Hermione, who is somehow both chaotic good and lawful neutral at once: "'I won’t have to scold anyone for anything if they don’t get caught,' Hermione answers. 'Perhaps everyone should take this as an opportunity to brush up on their invisibility and silencing spells?'"

* "Hermione pulls out her wand. “It’s sad you’ll forget this moment. You’re a lot less pathetic when you grow a spine.”"

Draco, who I can’t even put into words how much I love in this fic: *** "Draco strides into Flitwick’s office and drops a ten foot scroll on his desk with a satisfying thwack. Flitwick looks up and raises an eyebrow. “That’s the complete arithmancy for the ghost summoning spell. Read it and weep, because I did.”"

"“Yeah, okay. I was personally planning to hex anyone who hit on you or stared at you too long, but I suppose your idea is a little more subtle.”"

"Murder suddenly sounds like a much more appealing option."

* "if it’s alive, we’ll come get you so we can – I don’t know, kill an millennia old creature in the middle of the night for the hell of it, I guess."

"“I have so much homework to do that I’ve considered taking up drinking to cope,”"

"Forget therapy. Draco needs a drink."

Quinn, because ze is amazing and I want to make potions explode with zir: "“My dad threw a fit when I accidentally melted the shed outside,” Quinn complains, “Like we all haven’t accidentally liquified a building or two.”"

** "Quinn leans forward, making sure to look him in the eye. “Tell me Harry. Have you ever wanted to lead an unofficial teenage militia? Because I think that would look great on your resume.”"

"“If you finish that sentence I’ll have to kill you, and that will really bum a lot of people out,”"

Seamus and Dean, who count as one person and are practically joined at the hip: "Seamus smacks his shoulder, “Ze has a boyfriend.” There’s a pause where they all stare at him, and then he goes, “Wait, and you have a boyfriend too! Me! No leering at Quinn.”"

Percy, who is entirely too relatable sometimes: "“I have to go,” he says, “and I don’t know, maybe develop a drinking problem or something.”"

This Scene:

I’m not even sure I understand what’s happening here, but I love it

This Scene As Well:

"Ron sighs and puts his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Harry, murder is bad.”

“Most of the time,” Hermione says. Ron glares at her. “What? Sometimes a little murder can be helpful.”

He turns to Neville, beseeching, but he only shrugs. “Murder is bad almost all of the time.”"

Other Characters, who are equally amazing but admittedly less important to the story so far, so they don’t get individual sections: "“Angelina!” Katie scolds, even though she’s angry too. “Don’t admit to murder in front of so many witnesses.”"

" “I’ll keep watch. Have fun down there. I hope you die.”"

*** "“What is idiotic master needing from his lowly house elf, who is clearly so unimportant that he can not be telling her when he goes running off to do stupid things?” “Er,” he says, “look, Winky, it all happened really fast, and we were on a bit of time crunch-” “Ah, yes,” she says, “because it is taking so long to be summoning me, with a literal snap of your fingers.”"

#survival is a talent #shanastoryteller #harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #hp #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #fanart #hp fanart #linny #harry potter fanart #ginny weasley #art

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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 4 years ago

Note

Hey, you once mentioned something about Tom Riddle being a little suicidal. Your new post reminded of that and I wonder why you think that. It’s the complete opposite of what the books want you to think.

Alright, it’s time, let’s do this.

My standard disclaimer whenever we venture into the dark pit that is my thoughts on Tom Riddle: I’m going to say a lot of controversial stuff that fandom generally doesn’t agree with, I will say so much of this shit that I simply do not have time to explain it all, I expect 99% of you to disagree with me and the other 1% to be so horrifyingly offended that I dare to contemplate a world in which Tom isn’t always an overly competent psychopath that they leave me notes telling me to take this trash out of their character tags.

We good? Alright.

So, when I say a little suicidal, I mean that he is suicidal.

Not on the level that he’s going to kill himself tomorrow, or even has plans to kill himself, but in that he makes very strange decisions for someone who desperately wants to live.

And yes, I realize I speak blasphemy given that Tom Riddle’s entire m.o. is supposed to be his crippling fear of death.

Oh man, this one’s going to be so long.

So, my reasoning comes down to a few things:

The location of the horcruxes and the nature of their protections.

The events of Deathly Hallows and Tom’s final actions in the novel

The nature of horcruxes and what it means to not only be able to create one but what it does to you (caveat that I am going to headcanon hard here and speak utter blasphemy)

So, let’s start in order this time, because I think the first two are actually far easier for me to explain.

The Location and Nature of the Horcrux Protections and the Trouble with Backdoors in Security

So, first, the horcruxes are all conveniently located in Great Britain. Not even just in Great Britain, all in places that Albus Dumbledore and later Harry Potter can track down with relative ease, all fairly close to each other.

Now, part of this is undoubtedly attributable to Tom’s overly romantic nature.

Yes, Tom Riddle is a giant romantic, though not necessarily in the traditional sense everyone thinks of. The film “Patton” and its treatment of Patton comes to mind. Tom Riddle is a man enamored by a sense of greatness, of being remembered in this world rather than fading into oblivion, by the significance of places and times in history not only of the world but of himself. He creates an entire, grand, persona for himself because to live an ordinary life for him is to be worthy of nothing.

So, given that, of course Tom places the horcruxes in sentimental locations that have personal meaning to him.

However, it also makes them perilously easy to find and collect.

By itself, this wouldn’t spark my notice.

The ability to destroy horcruxes are not easy to come by. There’s only one basilisk and it’s by chance/Lucius fucking up that Harry gains access to the necessary basilisk venom. Using Fyendfire is an incredibly dangerous thing to do and just as likely to blow up you and the next three towns over as it is to destroy a horcrux. And if there are other means of destroying a horcrux they’re just as hard to come by or just as dangerous.

It’s not quite throwing it into the fires of Mt. Doom from which it was forged but it’s pretty damn close.

So, really, without JKR’s convenient Deus Ex Machina giving both him and Dumbledore the means to actually destroy these things, Tom Riddle’s horcruxes are pretty damn safe no matter where we put them. As we see from the locket, which Regulus manages to collect but Kreacher cannot destroy even after several decades.

However, what does spark my notice, is that the horcruxes can be collected by someone other than Tom Riddle when it appears as if they were never intended to be. What do I mean by this?

From what we see, there’s no benefit to Tom if the original horcruxes are found by anyone. He doesn’t seek them out to restore his original body, they’re just anchor points that should be hidden at all costs. So, he’ll never need a Death Eater to go collect them for him should he be indisposed (indeed, to do so would require a tremendous amount of trust in people he has very little trust in).

So, why hide them in such a way that others can access them? There are canon based options which would have prevented anyone else from reaching them. Given the existence of age lines, I imagine Tom Riddle could make some arbitrary barrier keyed only to himself. There are mokeskin pouches, such as the one Harry is given in the seventh book, which we know can only be accessed by whoever they’re keyed to. There’s the Fidelius Charm which, true requires a secret keeper which Tom would be very meh on, but options exist.

Tom Riddle could wipe the locations of his horcruxes off the face of the map. He chooses not to. Which leads me to believe that, at least on some unconscious level, he wants the horcruxes to be found.

Then we have the protections.

Specifically, I’m thinking of the locket here.

Yes, the protections are very formidable, but they’re also goddamn weird.

Rather than make the horcrux simply inaccessible, kill all those intruding, instead the intruder has to go through a very “Saw” like puzzle in which they drown themselves in despair until they finally get the locket, at which point they likely suicide by zombie.

More, there’s no hint that there’s any other way to retrieve the locket.

Backdoors in security are a very bad idea. What they do is weaken the security as a whole and, if you can take a short cut is, it means that someone who is clever enough and motivated enough can to. Dumbledore is both clever and motivated enough, and I imagine if there was a way to get the horcrux that involved not doing this ridiculous task he would have done it.

More, we’d be back to the land of Tom making sure only he can access the horcrux by requiring a password, keying it to his magical signature, or something so that no one else could get it.

Which means, that’s right, if Tom wants to get the locket he’s drinking the goddamn despair juice just like the rest of us.

What kind of a person would do any of this?

I’ve gone over this before, but I don’t think Tom Riddle’s crazy. Rather, in this case, I think he’s driven by an unbelievable amount of nihilist rage and is also quite depressed.

Tom goes to collect his horcrux, “Ah, it’s time to remember what a miserable life I’ve led and the sheer awfulness of my own existence. Good, I was starting to feel a little too happy. Let’s see if I get eaten by my undead, vengeful, victims today.”

The Events of Deathly Hallows and Tom Riddle’s Death

I think Tom Riddle’s final death in the books was suicide.

Tom takes over the Wizarding World, finally, and it’s as miserable as ever.

He’s trapped in this sham, barely functional, probably very painful body. His Death Eaters are completely out of control and for all that he wanted society to burn it’s now burning and no one’s even learned anything from this. Children in Hogwarts are being routinely tortured and have now staged a rebellion in which he’s having to slaughter them (I have reasons to believe that this is not what Tom Riddle wanted, at all, but that’s best saved for another post), and then he learns his horcruxes have all been destroyed without him even noticing.

There’s so little left of him, he has accomplished nothing, and there’s Harry Potter back from the dead yet again, gloating at him that love conquers all and Tom Riddle will never understand.

And Harry’s right, Tom Riddle will never understand, the world is meaningless and flat to him now and he finally understand that there’s no point to it. I think Tom Riddle decides he’s done. He’s just done.

He enters in a duel with Harry Potter knowing the weird nature of their wands. Now, it can be assumed he used the Elder Wand, but we know they get locked in Priori Incatatum , and that makes no damn sense with the Elder Wand (well, wandlore in general is silly, but I’m working with what JKR gave me here). So I choose to take JKR at her somewhat established canon and say that, no matter what Harry thought, Voldemort was using his original wand.

He throws out the killing curse, despite having now witnessed Harry resurrecting twice to this thing, and within two seconds it rebounds and kills him.

Voldemort’s death is a lot like this scene from the recent, terrible, 2020 live action Mulan (10/10 do not recommend). Now, we’re supposed to think that this scene is the witch saving Mulan’s life and thus showing her hope for the next generation. In actuality, the witch literally flies into an arrow she could have easily deflected from Mulan’s path. It’s a suicide that Mulan is too stupid to notice.

Tom chooses suicide in the most ridiculous, flamboyant, and easily written off manner one can and no one even notices. Instead Harry crows that he has personally defeated Voldemort, with the power of love no less, HUZZAH!

And the castle parties.

The Nature of Horcruxes

I almost don’t want to include this because it’s so... well, I’m really drifting far from canon and fandom now.

However, with horcruxes, there’s always an overriding question of why Tom is able to make so many when we don’t see anyone else with these things around (especially as it’s clear that murder doesn’t simply happen for those that now have horcruxes).

Usually, you have fic authors just sort of shrug and go, “Well, he’s that evil, I guess.” Sometimes you have them go, “No one else is crazy enough to keep going, and that’s why Voldemort’s cuckoo bananas.”

One very good explanation I’ve seen is that it’s because most people, when they murder, feel remorse immediately. The soul split happens, but they’re haunted by the murder for the rest of their life, and thus the horcrux isn’t made. Voldemort, feeling nothing when he kills anyone, is thus able to make them even for when he’s only indirectly associated with the death in question.

However, to me that never really jived philosophically.

Mostly, I simply cannot imagine that tearing apart your very soul is an act of indifference. Here’s how I see it: to do something like that to yourself, you must care, you must care beyond all imagine and human endurance. Your soul literally cannot abide it and saws itself in half, purging what you cannot stand about yourself the most.

The remorse part is, yes, remorse for the act and the victim but more to the point it is the ability to forgive and reaccept the worst part of yourself. That part of yourself that you purged and destroyed, which is nearly impossible to do and might very well destroy the fabric of who you are).

In other words, while creating a horcrux is an abominable act of hatred, it is also one of profound self-hatred.

Tom Riddle loathes himself so much that he is able to do this over and over and over again.

As Tom Riddle goes on he makes himself into less and less and less of himself until he probably doesn’t even know who he is anymore. He just knows, whatever is left of him, he loathes that too.

And then, of course, he gives up, runs into the nearest flying arrow, and dies.

TL;DR: Tom Riddle’s is a miserable existence that ended in a miserable if unintentionally hilarious manner

#ask #anon #tom riddle #voldemort

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