#american serial killer list

[froody]

I still love New Mexico real estate listings. They’re like “This iconic adobe structure was built in 1843. There is an abandoned flooded silver mine in the back yard. This home served as a brothel, saloon, general store, post office and military base during the Mexican-American War. The abandoned silver mine in the backyard is infested with vampire bats somehow, you’re not allowed to fill it in because scientists are will studying it. The house was remodeled in the 1970s when archeological excavation of the silver mine revealed it had been the dumping site of a serial killer who was active between 1896 and 1901. Three luxurious bathrooms, 5 spacious bedrooms and a lovely courtyard. Billy the Kid stayed here during the Lincoln County War and reportedly haunts the property. In addition to the vampire bat infestation, there are a number of poisonous spiders inhabiting the mine, do not go in the mine. We cannot warn you away from the mine enough. Otherwise, a fantastic property with so much history and so few malicious entities inhabiting the structure and land. $2.3 million dollar asking price.”

[strideofpride]

an incomplete list of riverdale's deconstruction of americana:

jason blossom the original perfect all american boy disappearing 4th of july weekend

archie the second perfect all american boy getting arrested at his inauguration during the national anthem

the idyllic town of riverdale being born out of a genocide

archie getting redpilled into becoming a vigilante and running his own militia

hiram literally turning a school in a low income area into a prison

the classic diner having an illegal speakeasy under it

chad michael murray in that evil knievel suit and the rocketship only to get shot unceremoniously in the head

jughead going to school with the literary brat pack and them trying to murder him in order to achieve the fame and success they crave

the clean cut fbi agent turning out to be a serial killer engaged to another serial killer

archie’s uncle becoming a mercenary for hire after the army and archie’s c.o. trying to use heroism to do a military cover up

the nearest highway is a hellish, literally named lonely road that brings pain to everyone who travels it

the local cryptid/alien abduction stories being a cover for a murderous inbred family

hiram being the personification of capitalism and destroying the town and alienating everyone from each other in order to attempt to absorb more and more resources

hiram’s dogged pursuit of the american dream leading to his downfall and destruction

the perfect all american boy isn't even american like!!!!!

[lucky-clover-gazette]

so i know the amandafiles sneasler rant went pretty viral on here, but the real highlights of her pokemon legends arceus playthrough were her unhinged volo-related rants. this one is probably my favorite but there were many and i will absolutely clip and transcribe (not by hand i'm not that insane) more of them if asked

transcript under the cut:

Yeah. So, um, I'm just kind of leaving the scene of the crime now. And hopefully Adaman is still interested. That's all I have to say. Yeah, that's my statement at this time. Thank you. Thank you! Yeah, mhm. Bye.

Like, what. Is Volo gonna fucking pop out at me from the shadows over here? Is anybody around to talk to me? Like, about what just happened?

(Sees Melli.) Not what I meant, but um, you know what? Fuck it, Melli, guess what just happened. So, you know that guy Volo? Basically, like, we were talking, right? It was actually going pretty well. You know, just like this nerd, and he was like, so cute and so, like, excited about history and stuff, and, like, I was really feeling that, you know, and I dunno, he was, like, my champion. He was there for me when no one else was. He, like, picked me up off the ground at my lowest point. He was always cheering me on. He was always, like, hyping me up to other people. Wouldn't that be awesome, Mellie, if like someone ever did that for you? Not that that would ever happen, of course, but, like, can you imagine, like, someone being out there being like, "yes, like, that's the one, like, that's my girl. She's been doing it like, she's working so hard." That was Volo for me.

Melli, imagine my surprise when I go up to the mountain there because—we did this whole thing. Basically, I'm an important person. You wouldn't really understand. I, like, collected all these artifacts. I thought we were going to, like, do this thing that was important to, like, the history of the world.

But turns out Volo was fucking insane. And, like, no, I truly mean that, like crazy and saying he was like, a totally different person. He had been cosplaying as a normie the entire time. He's really a serial killer, I think. He's like a lunatic, right? Like, a cringey one. He did his hair. So he, like, is obsessed with Arceus. Right. The god pokémon. And Arceus, like—have you ever seen a picture of him? I'll pull it up on my Arc Phone real quick. He's got these, like, horns that come back and stuff. Bitch, he did his HAIR like this. AHH! I know. I got, like, a little picture of it. Look at him! An entire bottle of American Crew.

He, like, totally thought he ate that, but, like, he didn't. It looked so bad, but, like, that was the least of it. He was—his eyes got crazy. He was wearing, like, bright green capris and gladiator sandals. AHH! Melli, I know. it was fucked up. You know, it's like how quickly they change when you find out, like, what they really were after and what they really want. It was stunning. Startling, Melli, it's really like—have you ever had, like, an experience like that before with a guy? Probably not, since you're so insufferable and, like, you probably have never had anyone show interest in you before, platonically or otherwise, but maybe, like, read a book or something where that happened. That happened to me. That happened to me today.

I really had a huge crush on this guy. Like, to the point where I thought he was the one, Melli, I really did. I was like, ready to leave this whole place with him. Travel the world, and I won't lie to you, um… if he had been like, "Hey, you want to be crazy together? You want to be crazy with me?" I might have done it. I might have also tried that lifestyle out for a minute. I would have tried, like, the villain arc thing out… but lucky for you, it didn't work out. Otherwise, you would have been right on the top of my list. But anyway, yeah, I ended up, like, totally embarrassing him. We did a pokémon battle and he just fucking violently lost.

And then he teamed up with, like, the satan pokémon? It was weird. And they tried their little thing. It was cute. It was very cute. You know, I have to give it—it was camp, It was cute, it was like rehearsed. There was some choreography. It was cute, but obviously they lost horribly. But anyway, yeah, that's, uh. That's how my Tuesday's going. And I'm going to stop you there, Melli, because I really don't care. This wasn't an open invitation for you to talk. I just wanted to let someone know what had just happened.

[simp4konig]

Halloweens with König headcannons 🎃🍂

Gender-neutral Reader

*Slow burn

Word Count: ~3246

*FLUFFFFFFF😿😿💖✨🩷🩷💘

*Soft König☺️ (but also König is a smug bastard + asshole 🙄), Established relationship, Single mention of (ambiguous) age gap 😮‍💨

🧡Happy Halloween guys!!🧡 I don't celebrate Halloween myself , but im feeling 😈in the mood😈 so i hopw this can suffice for this ooky kooky spooky season 😰😰

Gos i wanna kms ive veen so uninspirws AAAHAHAHAHDHDHDDH this is literslly. Me rn--->💥💥💥💥💥🙂🔫 fuckijg FINALLT GOT sometjing OUT 🥳🥳 rest asusred iwont kms i need to finish my rqs first ☺️💖💖✨ i will feel SO euphoric when all the WIPS will become Completed Works !! 😍😍Im just gonna not post until i gdt smth donw bci hate giving false promises its the same as lyijg,🗿🗿

Tag List ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @abysslovesyou ♡ @puff0o0 ☆ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @reyner-lee ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance

...

König wasn't really one for Halloween.

Hadn't ever been, really, as he hadn't been raised to celebrate it.

In his household, he hadn't had much exposure to the Western "Hallow's Eve".

Besides, even if he was familiar with the tradition, his parents didn't bother celebrating those kinds of trivialities; after all, they certainly weren't going to bother wasting hard-earned money on trifles like pumpkins, just so they'd rot on the front porch, or candy that would rot your teeth, or on vulgar masks that depicted serial killers and monsters, too blasphemous to bear.

Plus, his neighbourhood didn't partake in "Trick-or-treat'ing" at all, and wouldn't leave any candy for any children — wouldn't do anything, really.

Nobody decorated their house with ghouls and ghosts, nobody dressed up as vampires or murderers, nobody jumped from behind corners to shout "Boo!".

None of that, as these ideas were childish. Infantile. Juvenile, even.

Thus, October 31st, König's Austrian villiage was quiet. So eerily quiet you'd had thought it was a ghost town had it not been for hundreds of cloaked figures in the cemetary — as, for König, "Halloween" tended to be a more sombre occasion in comparison to the American/English versions.

Instead of running around and knocking on people's doors with a broad, lopsided smile like other children ought, he was brought along to visit the graves of his family members: graves of his ancestors, which he'd be told about in detail, details of the person buried six feet under the stone slab; information and stories passed down from generations.

He would be taught to honour those deceased in his family and respect their memory, to remember those in the afterlife and what they sacrificed to get there.

Carrying a lamp, he'd light candles on those decrepit gravestones, text faded and illegible, while his parents left boquets of flowers, and pulled up their long black cloaks. Silently paying their respects.

While it wasn't necessarily a day of mourning — König never needed tissues to wipe any tears or blow his nose, and neither did anyone else in the family — it was far graver when compared to the Halloween holidays elsewhere.

However, König's memories of Halloween were few, far, and in-between.

Whenever he'd hear of other people's experiences, he was never nostalgic, as, the times that he did attend those familial ceremonies he was either too young to understand what was happening, or knew too little of the deceased[s] in question to be moved by the heavy atmosphere.

Not only that, but the time period was overwhelmingly solemn, with people flooding the burial grounds, some murmuring prayers, others with tears in their eyes.

There was no laughter, no treats, no fun costumes. Not even tricks. Just suffocating depression all around.

So, he didn't really associate the celebration with something to celebrate: what, celebrating the deaths of your family? That was quite morbid, when he thought about it, and he wasn't going to dedicate an entire month every year to remind himself of death with so many other operators around him falling on the battlefield, and having had faced the grim reaper himself several times already.

Hence, every 31st of October, he did nothing. Didn't acknowledge it at all.

But all that changed one fateful day in September. When he finally acknowledged it, all right (with a little of your help of course)!

You had asked König in passing if he had considered dressing up as something for Halloween. Maybe what he had considered doing on the evening. Or if he had plans to attend the autumn fair sometime soon.

His response? A blank look. Distant recognition.

For a quiet moment, you thought he was scowling at you, silently ridiculing your childish suggestion.

Then: "Halloween? Ah!" An amused chuckle, endeared by the child-like curiosity in your eyes, and a silent sigh of relief from you.

"I don't celebrate it, myself, meine liebe. But you're welcome to tell me what your costume is. I'd love to hear all about it, maus."

Mortified by this revelation, you couldn't let this go.

"What do you mean you "don't celebrate it"? You have got to be joking!"

Wide eyes, and jaw agape, you were in disbelief.

He simply shook his head with a strained smile. "I've just never seen it as something to celebrate, you know? No reason to."

Taking it upon yourself to prove him wrong, you wasted no time converting this skeptic into a believer. "Oh no, there is. I mean, it's Halloween! Everyone is crazy for it!"

Suddenly, your eyes lit up. A wave of adrenaline crashing into you, you tugged König's arm in direction of the couch.

"That's where we'll start! We're gonna watch Halloween! That'll surely get you in the spirit."

You winked at him, satisfied. Then, a sudden snort and a suppressed chortle, hand cupped over your mouth as you laughed at your pathetic attempt at a joke.

König cocked his head to the side in confusion, but let you hastily scramble for blankets, pillows, and to microwave bowls of popcorn, as he made himself comfortable on the couch cushions that sank in protest under his weight.

Initially, he was reluctant. Not necessarily looking forward to being forced to watch movies from the 80s–00s, over-the-top movies with subpar acting, to say that he was looking forward to it would have been a stretch.

However, seeing how passionate you were about the holiday, your interests, König didn't want your sweetness sour.

Yes, he was a little older than you, and perhaps didn't grasp what there was to fuss over, but he wasn't about to spoil your good mood, or dampen that excitement just because he didn't personally understand or was interested personally. He wanted to make an effort, for you.

Vowing to take part in your silly shenanigans, he swore to become involved in the festivities in order to see you smile. To keep seeing you smiling.

After that, every October evening you'd watch a movie — a (usually) corny horror classic, though spending most nights binging all the Screams, Halloweens, Chuckys, The Shinings, Saws, and Evil Deads, — huddled under moutains of blankets and stuffing your faces with toffee-flavoured popcorn.

Watching horror films with him was like being lectured on common-sense and taught self-defence lessons in real time, though. Not like you minded, but it really got rid of the edge and the tension in its entirety.

Instead of paying attention to the storyline, it's more likely König would catch on to the stupid decisions the characters and the shitty attempts to fight back, and he wouldn't be able to help commenting:

"Why did she leave the knife in him? In his abdomen, of all places? Now the murderer has a weapon! Should have taken it out and left him to bleed out. But noooo, nein, leave the knife there."

"Going into the forest on his own? In the night? With a killer on the loose? Mein Gott, he is such a dummkopf! Bring a friend, why don't you?"

"Liebling, why is there so much gore? Isn't this rated "15"? Wait, and why is there a lady with no shirt? This is supposed to be scary, ja? I'm very scared. Scared you'll slap me, actually, if I don't keep looking at my lap."

Angrily ranting at the television, you'd gently reassure him, that, "Sweetie, this is fiction. Sometimes, the scenes are unrealistic." "But it said "based on real events"! I swear, liebling, if I watch another ten minutes of this I'll have a headache. I can't comprehend the stupidness."

Tough crowd, that couldn't really immerse himself in the plot, but you took a note or two for the sorts of horror movies König wouldn't dislike.

Although he insulted all the characters for being stupid and ridiculed all the characters for being so brainless, he would begrudgingly admit that he enjoyed the movie, pointing out some of his favourite scenes.

Self-aware comedic slashers meant he could suspend disbelief and laugh out loud a little, while, movies with an omnipotent monster meant he couldn't criticise any inaccuracies. He didn't winge at those as much in comparison to major blockbuster films. In fact, he even preferred low budget movies, ones that were pure comedic relief and so self-aware that he wouldn't be able to help but laugh along, unable to hide his amusement.

Afterwards, at exactly midnight, you'd be huddled together in the dark under a thick blanket, gorging your mouth with sugary sweets and bite-size chocolates (also indulging in chocolates that were far from bite-size), giggling like lunatics (well, that was mostly you, but König joined in to keep you company).

Later, face serious, with a torch under your chin, you'd be whispering hushedly with a tone of foreboding, voice low, and words ominous:

"Drip. Drip. Dripping water. She had checked the bathroom taps, the kitchen taps, and they were twisted tightly closed. A leakage, perhaps? Or, perhaps, something else. As she roamed the corridor, the drip-drip-drip of liquid grew louder. And louder—"

"Ah, she should call her plumber, then, shouldn't she?" A sure shit-eating smirk that was obscured by his mask, but the way his eyes were squinting you knew he was taking the piss.

Of course, storytelling was not as haunting as you would have had liked it to be: König would interject, interrupting the aura of mystery and the medatitive atmosphere, with sarcastic remarks. It made the narrations really melodramatic in the end, and frustrated you to no end.

Still, you would groan, and, undaunted by his immature antics — as, mind you, this was a grown-ass man, a 6'10 wall of muscle messing around like this, teasing you not like the cocky Colonel he was but a snarky teenage boy — continue:

"—she walked on — despite having been rudely interrupted moments prior — and her heart sank. Blood. A puddle of it, on the floor, looking like gallons upon gallons of it had—"

"Maybe she was — ah, what's the word?" A thoughtful pause, hand where his chin was under the fabric "— menustrating? Was she wearing white pants, maybe?"

"—Menstruating, König — and stop ruining my horror narration! Now I've lost the plot! Okay — against her will, her eyes moved up the wall, following the dripping blood. To her horror, it was coming from the attic. Swallowing the heavy lump in her throat, she pulled open the hatch with jittering fingers, grip slackened by the warm sweat on her palms, knees threatening to buckle. And, when the trap door released, she gasped. Blood draining her face, she saw—"

An exaggerated gasp from König, as he clasped his hands over his mouth in mock shock. "She— she saw— your mother! Mein Gott, the horror!"

"Shut up, König!" An annoyed huff, and shuffling away. "Honestly, you're such a killjoy..."

König, scooping you into his arms when you turned around with crossed arms, pouting lips, and furrowed brows, nuzzed his masked face into your neck, chuckling heartily. You squirmed under his hold, fabric tickling your sensitive neck, and you'd desperately hold back your giggles, trying hard to keep a straight face.

"Ja, ja, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Es tut mir leid, meine Liebe. Please keep going. What did she find in the attic?"

"No! You made me forget the grand reveal, now! I forgot what was up there, anyways..."

Walking around the house, you'd have the fright of your life when a huge shadow would jump in front of you at odd hours of the day.

"Boo!" König's voice resounded, loud and reverberating.

And you screamed, damn near verging on a heart attack.

"Shoving" him in frustration — you became actually even more frustrated when the man was like a solid wall and did not even budge a millimetre — König was quick to console you.

Doting over you, a wide smile on his face that the mask couldn't hide, he would be so overly lovey-dovey with you in an attempt to win back your affection that you'd roll yours eyes so far they'd end up in the back of your head.

"Meine liebe, I'm sorry for scaring you. I couldn't resist. You'll forgive me, won't you? You will, right? Please say yes."

You insisted you would, seemingly unassuming, then schemed to startle him at odd hours of the night as payback for losing your dignity in that moment.

At one point, you had even waited half an hour in the wardrobe while he was showering, only to jump out and see König in only a towel.

Yeah, you were the one that got jumpscared instead, face erupting in red despite you two being together for months at that point. You gave up trying to spook him then, bitterly accepting defeat.

Though, going along with your silly little activities, like going shopping for Halloween decorations, made König's heart swell seeing you bounce around excitedly and point out all the ornaments.

He didn't quite consent to you buying a life-size skeleton to call him Greg and place him in your shared bedroom. That was one step too far.

Still, seeing the wonder on your face, in awe of all the masks, costumes, decorations, and animated mannequins that'd cackle after triggering their mechanisms made his steel-blue eyes soften, melting into pure love and devotion for you.

So, to humour you one day, and to lift your mood after scaring you that one morning, König made two eye-holes in a white blanket, running after you around the house, almost tripping over it in his haste.

"Ooooo-ooo!" he moaned in over-dramatised agony, voice low yet playful. "This is not König, but his ghooost! Run, liebling, or you'll be neeext!"

Hearing him say that in his Austrian accent was so hilarious that were tears running down your cheeks from how hard you'd be laughing, and your sides splitting with the laughter, struggling scramble away, giggling.

Those moans of agony would become genuine cries in pain when he'd accidently hit his head on the doorframe when he forgot to duck in his excitement. The one time that bulky helmet of his could have come to use.

Despite all that, you'd be cornered against the wall, with nowhere to run, and König would pounce, tickling your sides viciously.

That broad smile on your face and the expression was worth fooling around and making a fool of himself.

He even didn't mind having you coo over his "injury" just like how he had when he was doting over you, because he loved you so much.

And, he loved you so much, that he even allowed you to "decorate" his gear. "To make it appropriate for the spooky season!" you had insisted, and he'd comply, not wanting to dull that sparkle in your eyes.

So contented with painting an intricate monster on his mask with fluorescent orange paint, you didn't notice König watching you hunched over the desk from behind, leaning against the doorframe with a loving smile on his face.

You hadn't expected that he'd wear that gear on base — veil, knee pads, helmet, and all — strutting his stuff. Just to remind everyone that their Colonel had a lovely spouse back home.

What you hadn't anticipated was how quickly König would start enjoying the season. Unexpectedly, he became obsessed with Halloween — his favourite tradition, second only to Christmas.

Carveling hollowed-out pumpkins of all shapes and sizes was one of his favourite past-times.

You'd think that with his size he'd struggle to cut through the orange crust without crushing it into pumpkin-coloured mush in his fists, but you'd be forgetting that he was skilled with a knife.

That said, König wasn't artistic. At all. The best he could produce would be a lopsided smiling caricature of... something. A nondescript creature, which you had complimented him on being so cute, only for him to angrily insist that it was an evil monster, and not cute at all.

Still, you would snap a picture before he could object, and give this pumpkin the spotlight on your front porch, soon many more following suit. Jack'o'lanterns illuminating your front step, glowing gold.

The sweet scent of cinnamon, ginger, and vanilla extract filled your house, new freshly-baked treats from the oven laid out on the kitchen island daily.

Delicious aroma of sugary pastry, homemade banana bread with small hints of vanilla and sprinkled with icing sugar, candied oranges and sour, sherbet lemon cakes, crunchy cinnamon sugar pumpkin seeds ("Made from the pumpkin guts!" you exclaimed with a smile of pride, König's eyes smiling in delight of your enthusiasm).

Crumbly shortbread in the shape skulls and bats, round cookies with orange and black icing resembling pumpkins, sponge cakes that oozed thick raspberry and strawberry jam when you bit into them ("Because they were bleeding blood," you proclaimed, a devilish smirk on your face — or, something like it, as to König you were the cutest angel he'd had ever been blessed to be around), and so, so, so much more.

So much that your weekly trips to the supermarket became biweekly, until you two found yourselves stocking up on sugar, flour, eggs, and butter far too often to keep track of.

The house was so inviting, especially to little ones from the neighbourd, that their mouths were agape and their eyes sparkled as they passed your "haunted house", holding the hands of their parent(s).

Mentioned in an earlier post that König has a soft spot for children, he'd stock up on Halloween candy and treats, and lug bucketfuls of sweets on the doorstep for any little ones that'd knock on your door to cheerfully cry out in unison, full of glee: "Trick or treat!"

He'd welcome them with open arms, but, with most of them being so little, they'd point with bulging eyes the giant on the doorstep, to be harshly reprimanded by their mothers and fathers for their ignorance and rudeness.

Few would say much after seeing König the giant, and after daring to scoop a handful of confectionary, bowing their heads and avoiding his eyes would mumble a shaky "...Th-thank you, s-sir—!"

One of them, however — a little girl with rosy cheeks donning white stockings and a gold tinsel halo — beamed brightly, albeit shyly, at König, thanking him for the treat and his generosity. An innocent, toothy smile that made her squint from how high it reached her eyes, her front baby teeth missing.

When she had her back turned to you two, she ran as fast as her chubby little legs could take her, and exclaimed, "Mommy! Mommy! That giant is a big and friendly one! A big, friendly giant. Can we go again, please? Please?"

It was only when you nudged König with your elbow, grinning, when she had skipped happily away, that he had realised he had tears in his eyes.

Moreover, maybe the memories König had of Halloween weren't so cheerful, or ones even worth remembering in the first place; after all, his childhood wasn't so cheerful. Joyless, and with little life.

But, with the way that Halloween was shaping up to be, he was already looking forward to the special celebration.

So full of life the you two were, you would laugh at the irony — animated and living the dream, while celebrating the day of the day. It brought you two to more laughter.

And, with you, König could make new ones, ones that you'd look back on fondly years from now, and those grueling months on deployment.

...

Note: Went off experience here for the beginning, guys🫡🫡 for the mowt part i have never celebrated Halloween😰 only a couple times in Poland, and once in England when i drank tomato juice and prwtended it was blood and i was a vampire🤪,

, but I Googled "Halloween in Austria" /Germany" to clarify whether I wasn't just speaking outta my ass and König here would have celebrated it differently to how I had in Poland 💀cuz, yknow, im not egocentric ajd the world doesnt celebrate things the same way Poles do 😘...

...And, no, I wasn't !☺️✨✨(... sort of😅... As far as I know, Germany has adopted the West's Halloween, ans theres pumpkin carving competitiomsn stuff, while Austria does indeed celebrate it slightly differently) .

Because I have no fuckijg idea of König's nationaloty anymore as it KEEOS CHANGING, I got the vest of both worlds 🥲🥲

Also been really busy guys😰😰😰by busy i mean stressing out ovee not writing then proceeding to NOT write bc im stressed❤️❤️🥰 you know jow it is!! 🤗(🔫) its ok tjo❤️(no it isnt) ill work tjis oit somejow🥹(no i wont im gonna kms) 🥰🥰

Have a very spooky halloween guys<3Feel bad foe those that are buying candy bc not onky is it smallwe than last uear but its more expensive 💔😟

[d0llfaac3]

DEVILS NIGHT

Pairing: James Patrick March x wife!reader

Warnings: not proofread!, smut, unprotected P in V, nipple play, fingering, oral sex m!receiving,use of ‘good girl’, V slapping, dirty talk, murders, blood, kidnapping (none to reader) mentions of other famous killers and their crimes, James being completely pussy whipped for you, 18+, MDNI, below the cut!

Word count: 1,452

You would talk to Liz and Iris allot, like nearly all the time, part of your daily routine, Liz would talk about her son, Doug, while Iris would talk about pop culture drama and about her son, Donovan.

It was devils night tonight, which meant the biggest party of the year, at least for James and his..friends, some of the worst, most horrible serial killers in all of America, the guest list was a crazy crazy thing, consisting of.. John Wayne Gacy, Aileen Wuornos, Jeffery Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, The Zodiac Killer and don’t forget John Lowe.

As it was your husband, James’ birthday today..you would have to bring his breakfast up to him in your shared hotel room, you made him the breakfast you would have made him 80 something years ago..While you two were alive.. your little cooking magazines you would buy called ‘American Cookery’, you would make him Coffee, shredded wheat and hot milk, it’s what was said in the breakfasts for business men and women..so you made him that, mixed with a little bowl of his favourite fruits, grapefruit, strawberries and bananas.

“Breakfast is ready sweetheart” you say as you shut the hotel room door with your foot, walking over to your shared bed, He’s half naked, he would only sleep in his pyjama pants, he was half asleep when you came in, his usual gelled hair, an absolute mess, you where still in your nightgown and dressing gown for goodness sake.

“I could never have wished for a better lover, darling” he says, in his sleepy morning voice, he’s quite cute in the morning for a man who’s killed hundreds of people, can’t say much. So have you.

He put the tray on the nightstand and smiles at you, opening his arms, one thing James would never admit is: he’s a cuddler at night, especially in the morning, his big arms wrapped around you and he smiles. “My beautiful girl” he says as he kisses your forehead.

“Jamie” you giggle in response, his face in your neck as he gently kissed and sucked on the skin, in certain places making you moan a bit.

“Mmm I could just have you as my birthday breakfast” he says, kissing down your neck and shoulder as he slipped your dressing gown off, making you giggle and always feel special around him.

“Mmm make love to me handsome” you say as he captures your lips in his, his hand sliding down your back to grope your ass through your nightgown, the fabric of the skirt moving against his fingers, you could already feel the soaking pool in your panties.

“God I love that laugh” he says as he takes your dressing gown off, throwing it to the side, then pulling down your nightgown at the front, so your tits spill out, causing you to blush and hide your face.

You could already feel him getting rock hard under you, funny thing is, ghosts can be dead but still have human emotions, it’s strange..but that also means the anatomy stays the same, you two had been dead since 1929 and still getting turned on by each other, been married in 1925.

“You know” You say as you kiss him. “It’s been nearly 100 years since we met..we met when..1924?” You say as your lips graze his.

He smiles into the kiss, his fingers sliding down you thighs, feeling your underwear. He smirks. “My word I am a lucky man..” making you whine a small bit.

His fingers trace the wet patch in your panties and you groan against his neck. “Mhm let it out, be a good girl for me” he whispers in your ears as his fingers hook the sides of your panties, pulling them down, the cool breeze hitting your pussy lips making you groan through the cold air of the room.

“Fuck you’re so wet aren’t you darling? This is what I do to you huh? You like when I’m all over you?, good girl” He pulled his hand away from your pussy and spanked it, he loved spanking your pussy with his hand, he thought it was just so..erotic the way you would writhe next to him as he knew he was in control..that’s what he loved, control.

You were so horny already, you could barley form words, only little whines and moans. “Shh baby it’s okay you’re doing so good” he says as he kisses your neck, his fingers grazing your pussy lips, his wet fingers gently touching your clit making you shut your eyes and bite your lip.

“Just..fuck me already!” You whine as you arch your back against him, he just gave you a soft laugh. “Mhmm baby, you wanna suck me off first? You look so good blowing me” he says as he grips your boobs, twisting your nipples in his fingers.

You could only nod in response to your husbands words, pulling his pyjama pants down and pulling his boxers down, giggling as his cock sprung up, she was always so excited to give him head, so eager. “Always so eager my love” he says as he touched your hair gently as he smiled at you.

You giggled as you licked a thick stripe up his cock making him let out a soft breath, he leaned back on the bed and got comfortable, you knew how to please him, you two have only been married ninety seven years…

When your mouth touched his tip he knew he wasn’t going to last long in your mouth, your hot mouth wrapped around his thick cock was something he adored for the past years, his cock hitting the back of your throat was an unforgettable experience..

His big hand pressed right against the back of your head, pressing your mouth further onto his cock, he gently started thrusting his hips up to your face, his cock now fucking your mouth.

He felt close so he tapped your cheek. “C’mon sweetie, I’m close” he says as he taps his cock against your lips, turning you around so your ass is up in the air. “Ready Darling?” He says as his hands grab your hips from behind.

He slides his cock between your wet folds, your body arching to get a better angle, He grabs a fistful of your hair pulling your hair back towards him as he fucks you.

Small mumbles of “yes” and “harder” slip out of your mouth as you two become closer and closer by the second, James had been coming inside you for the past 97 years, not like either of you cared.

You griped the sheets for dear life as he mercilessly fucked you into the bed, his grip on your hair and his right hand gripped onto your hip, leaving a red handprint, his fingers almost going pale white from holding so tight.

You two soon came, you couldn’t really hear what he was saying over your own moans and groans, his cock continuously pounding into your pussy from behind, such a sight would make a porn star look like an amateur.

After your eventful morning, You two just knew devils night was going to be a beautiful horror of a night. You danced with Aileen as you had been doing every devils night, she would jokingly kiss your face and call you sexy to annoy James. “That is my wife you’re referring to Aileen remember that”

“Welcome to Our annual devils night” James speaks up as his hand snakes around your waist to grip your hip. “We shall enjoy our food, then get onto the fun”, everyone knew what that fun meant, a murder, by all of them at the table.

James kissed your lips gently and Jeffery Dahmer gave a look of disgust, making you look at him as you filled your wine. “Now now jeffery don’t look at me like that, you ate people”

As Ms Evers came in with the dinner, she gave you a filthy look, as if you had rolled in shit and piss your whole life, yes obviously she’s had to clean blood stains off you and James’ bed from murders but..she signed up for it when she died in 1929 didn’t she.

James played with your fingers as you blew some smoke out of your mouth from your cigarette, he was absolutely whipped for you and it was completely obvious, he would beg on his knees for your attention at times.

Once the dinner was finished, Sally brought a man in, a tall man, a little overweight, balding, didn’t have any family so he wouldn’t be missed, as every devils night everyone attacked him and killed him, James looked at his beautiful woman, your hands covered in the man’s blood and James sighs happily.

“What a beautiful way to spend my birthday” he says as he kissed your cheek before rubbing his fingers across the blood stained part of your cheek.

You gently kissed his lips and smiles.

“Round two?”

• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

I DONT THINK THIS IS VERY GOOD LMAO

[klonnieshippersclub]

What does Bonnie think of Klaus’s American accent? I can imagine them showing each other weird talents and he pulls that out lol and she laughs her ass off

I don't think Klaus would call it a weird talent. In his mind, it's a skill. Imagine Klonnie undercover together on a trip to find more information about Silas. Klaus spontaneously starts talking in an American accent at a gas station. Bonnie immediately begins choking on her drink. I think she'd find it hilarious.

Bonnie: what was THAT? Klaus: my American accent. Are you impressed? Bonnie: you sounded like a serial killer. You're supposed to be blending in. Klaus: I sound exactly like the rest of you Americans. Bonnie: You sounded like you weirdo who lives in the sewers waiting for his next victim. Klaus: I sound like a Southern gentleman!

Klaus' southern accent seemed so eery that she wouldn’t take it seriously at all. I imagine she’d add it to the list of things she’d tease him on like being old.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 15: Drive] [Series Finale]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, violence, character deaths.

Word count: 7.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario​ @ladylannisterxo​ @doingfondue​ @tclegane​ @quartzs-posts​ @liathelioness​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @thelittleswanao3​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @poohxlove​ @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @travelingmypassion​ @graykageyama​ @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​ 

A/N: This is the fic I almost never wrote because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in some random, angsty, 1990s, Alaskan, crime-thriller AU. Thank you for proving me wrong. I hope you enjoy the ending. 💜

Almost everything about your existence is pure chance; it’s the most freeing and horrifying truth imaginable. There’s the genetic lottery and corporate downsizing, revolutions and hurricanes, plagues, asteroids, famines, faulty airplanes and malignant blooms of cells and drunk drivers. There are 100 billion planets in this galaxy and your atoms ended up on the one called Earth. After all that, do you really think what you want matters? So make all the choices you like, all the nail-biting deliberations and promises and vows, weigh costs and benefits, do research, roll dice, ask astrologers and palm readers, start over every New Year because that’s something we tell ourselves is possible. The fact that you exist at all is one big cosmic coin flip. If you think you’re the one driving, you’re dead fucking wrong. You’re the speck of dust on a windshield, the spin of a roulette wheel. You’re a flash of silver in the universe’s pinball machine.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about chance, okay? My family is one of the wealthiest in the Western Hemisphere, and I didn’t do anything to earn that. I was born first, and I definitely didn’t do anything to earn that, Jesus Christ, what a chromosomal fuckup. I inherited an affliction that others get to live without. I can’t imagine what it feels like to wake up and not be horrified by myself, my shortcomings, my failures: too small, too stupid, too wild, too weak. And the first time someone says something like that to you, you want to apologize, you want to drop to your knees and cling to them and beg for absolution, maybe even the first hundred times, the first thousand. And then it just starts to piss you off. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it all before, why would you expect anything different? Isn’t this getting old, Mom? Maybe you’re the stupid one, Dad, if you think you could cut me and anything but disappointments would fall out. I’m not horrified by the fact that I’m an addict. The horror came first. The horror is what led to all the rest of it.

One day when I was in 10th Grade—I was slumped way down in my chair and drinking vodka out of an Evian water bottle—my American History teacher, purely by chance, assigned me to make a poster about Juneau, Alaska. Some other kid got Los Angeles (Hollywood! The Whisky a Go Go!) and another got Chicago (the Mob!) and another got Nashville (Johnny Cash!) and some jock moron I hated got Baltimore (um, crabs? the War of 1812…?), but I got fucking Juneau, Alaska. I thought this was so unjust that I never forgot it, the fact that I had to get up in front of the class with my pathetic Crayolas-and-magazine-cutouts poster and pretend that Juneau was a place that mattered, that microscopic cloud-covered relic of a late-1800s gold mining settlement on the shores of the Gastineau Channel. Juneau was never on my list of cities to run to. It just wasn’t. It didn’t have anything I wanted. But when I started thinking about places where I could really disappear, where no one would ever bother looking, where days are short and dark and incurious and irrelevant…well, that sounds like Juneau, right?

Let me tell you something about the night I left. I’ve been more messed up, yeah, and I’ve hurt people worse, and I’ve been closer to death, I’ve been one more powder-white gram on the scale away from oblivion; but I’ve never felt that fucking low. I can’t decide if I wish I’d never gone to Juneau at all. I can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

My flight is a red-eye with a layover in Ketchikan, American Airlines, bound for Seattle. Sunfyre has the window seat. He’s wearing the bright red Service Dog vest that I once stole for him specifically for such occasions. My dog fly with the cargo? My dog?! Bill Clinton will be elected pope first. Sunfyre is chewing contently on Milk-Bones and watching the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. He knows the drill. We’ll touchdown and deplane, and then…and then…

And then we’ll start over again somewhere new. I’ll find a flight board and pick a destination; Seattle is a hub, with spokes leading everywhere. I could go south, to Galveston, Lafayette, Biloxi, someplace where it gets hot, someplace where I can sweat her out of me, purge every cell that still remembers what she felt like. I could go west, fading into mountains or cornfields, vapid infinitesimal towns in Montana, Iowa, Idaho, Nebraska. I could go to New England or the Great Lakes or freaking Hawaii, sleep in hammocks, swim with sea turtles, drink my rum and Cokes out of coconut shells. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that nowhere really sounds good to me. My legs are suddenly tired of running. There’s an ache that rattles down to the bone.

I don’t have to tell you that I love her, right? It’s not so easy for me to say. But it’s true, and it’s beautiful, and it’s torture, and it’s a dream. It’s pain that flays you alive and then builds you back again, layers of fresh muscle and tendons and veins growing over ribs and vertebrae like a trellis thick with ivy. It’s not a high. It’s just the best life can get down here on earth. It’s the ocean, it’s the Northern Lights.

I’m swimming in a black hoodie that is three sizes too big; I haven’t slept and I’m pale and raccoon-eyed, looking like death, feeling worse. When the stewardess rolls by with her clattering cart just slim enough to fit through the aisle, I order a cup of water for Sunfyre and a double rum and Coke for myself. It arrives with two blood-red cherries bobbing in a caramel-dark carbonated sea. The guy in the next seat over gives me a judgmental little eyebrow raise.

“That doesn’t look like breakfast,” he says.

I bite off both cherries—juice dribbling down my chin, wiped away with a sleeve—and throw the stems over my shoulder. The lady sitting behind me yelps in disgust. “Because it’s dessert.”

The man smiles and shakes his head, one of those I shouldn’t find it funny but I do sort of looks. I inspire a lot of those. He’s maybe mid-thirties, long hair and ripped jeans, very punk rock, cool as hell. There is a constellation of pins on his denim jacket. One of them has a roman numeral 10 on it, a stark X nestled inside a triangle. Unity, Service, Recovery, the gold letters say. To Thine Own Self Be True. It’s an Alcoholics Anonymous pin. What are the chances?

He catches me staring, and I ask: “Does it really make you a better man?”

“It doesn’t make you better. It just makes you real.” He smiles again, patient and kind. “It makes your emotions and experiences real, your relationships real. And so you become whatever version of yourself you were always supposed to be. But you have to want it. Not your wife, not your parents or your kids, not your pastor, not your friends, not your parole officer. You.”

I speak without knowing what I’m going to say. “I want it.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He sees a lot, I think, as the plane descends into the grey fogbank of Seattle. 20/20.

When we land, the man squeezes into a cab with me and Sunfyre—he sniffles into a Kleenex for a while before reluctantly admitting that he’s allergic to dogs—and pays the fare. The cab’s worn brakes squeal to a stop outside a residential treatment center on the banks of the Puget Sound. When we step out onto the sidewalk, I ask the man if he’s going to take me to get one last drink first. He laughs in my face. Fucking jerk.

He pulls out a black Sharpie and rummages through his pockets, his wallet. He can’t find a scrap of paper. He writes his phone number on the underside of my arm instead. “You call me, okay?” he says. “Call me when you get out. Call me before you get out, if you need to. I don’t care if it’s in five minutes, I don’t care if it’s at 2 a.m. You just make sure you call.”

“Why would you do this? I mean, you don’t even know me. You have no idea who I am.”

“Because once, years ago, someone did the same thing for me, and someone did it for her too. Maybe one day you’ll be able to pay it forward. I don’t care who you are or where you’ve been. It doesn’t matter to me. I’d like to think that we’re all more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

And then he waits for me to go inside. He doesn’t leave until he watches me check in at reception on the other side of the rain-flecked glass. Outside, a brand new day is beginning. A misty sun rises as pieces of the sky fall.

Sunfyre trots into the lobby alongside me, panting cheerfully, shaking the perpetual Seattle drizzle from his fur. There’s a girl at the front desk, just a girl, and that’s the other thing that’s different now. She’s not a maybe-future-one-of-my-girls. She’s just like anyone else. I already have a girl. I mean, I don’t anymore, not really. But I still do.

I throw my things onto the counter: my single suitcase, my tattered wallet, my bundle of cash held together with rubber bands, my scraped-up electric guitar.

“Checking in?” the girl asks.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes, I guess.”

She opens my wallet, reads my license, blinks in bewilderment. “Aegon…?”

I sigh dramatically. “It’s Greek.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You dream of him; and when you do, he’s always smiling. He’s reading your palm in an empty Taco Bell, he’s kissing you under the Northern Lights, he’s regaling your parents with stories—of lobster fishing in Portland, of cattle ranching in Denver—all through Thanksgiving dinner, he’s undressing you in his moonlit apartment, he’s climbing into your bed. He’s not angry, he’s not ruined, he’s not running away. He’s exactly as you remember him in his best moments. He’s all chaotic white-blond hair and weightless light, sharp laughter and bright eyes. And each morning there’s a splinter-thin moment before you remember that he’s gone. That’s the worst part, really. You always knew it would be. You can’t even begin to forget him.

Your friends want to help you, but they don’t know how. Neither do your parents. Your dad gets an atlas from the study, throws it down on the dining room table, and opens it to a map of the world. “Pick anyplace and we’ll go there,” he says. “We’ll close the vet clinic for two weeks and we’ll all go.” But you can’t give him a single name: not Athens, or Paris, or Buenos Ares, or Cairo, or New York City, or Rome, or Tokyo, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s the strangest thing. All your life you’ve been waiting to get out of Juneau, but now nowhere sounds good to you. And maybe that’s a lesson you wish you’d never learned: sometimes freedom is less about places than it is about people.

The blood on the equipment recovered from Trent’s apartment matches DNA from the first three victims. He is charged with eight counts of first-degree murder and held awaiting trial in the Lemon Creek Correctional Center. His family visits him faithfully each week. His lawyer is exasperated that he won’t plead guilty and spare his parents the humiliation and expense of a protracted court battle. But Trent’s story never changes: he’s innocent, he’s never killed anybody, he doesn’t understand how the blood could have been found on his belongings. He wants to know exactly what items the police tested; he and his lawyer are still waiting for the prosecutor to turn over all the details during discovery. In the midst of the scandal, the upheaval, you fade into the backdrop like the stars behind fog. People talk around you and through you. They offer gaps that you don’t care enough to fill in. Drinks clink, whispers fly, conspiracies are exchanged between pool shots. You watch the days grow longer and wait for the future to arrive. You don’t know what it will look like, you can’t even begin to fathom it. But surely there must be a future. Life goes on. It did for your mom after Jesse. It will for you too.

A week after Aegon leaves, there is a knock at your parents’ front door. You open it to find Aemond standing there in the muted amber-pink afternoon light. His hair is long and loose, his Armani suit immaculately tailored, his BlackBerry nestled in his right hand. He glances up from it at you and his jaw falls open. And only then do you realize how awful you must look.

You tell Aemond, your voice hushed and heavy, ankles in quick-drying cement: “I don’t know where he is.”

“No, I can see that,” Aemond replies, dull horror in his blue eye. Then he turns around and strides halfway down the driveway towards the street, where a cab idles as it waits for him, engine exhaust pouring into the air like smoke from a firepit.

“How’s your dad?” you call after him when you get your bearings.

He pauses under the dwindling light. “Alive. For now.” And then Aemond considers you for a while. “I suppose if I ever want to find you again, I know where to look.”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

I’ll always be here.

A month crawls by like a wounded animal, dead leaves snared in the fur of its belly. The flesh on your thigh knits back together. The things that Aegon ordered show up in Juneau, packages left on the front porch and stuffed into the moose-shaped mailbox like Christmas gifts in a stocking. You pack these remnants of him—Zoobooks and cooking accessories, knives and Chia Pets—into a cardboard box and tuck it away in a dusty, cobwebbed corner of the attic, and you’re aware the entire time that this has happened before, almost exactly twenty years ago. When your dad puts a Third Eye Blind or Red Hot Chili Peppers or Oasis album on his record player, you find some excuse to leave the room. When you tack magazine cutouts of beaches and cityscapes to your bedroom walls, all you can think about is where Aegon might be now. You wonder where he works during the day, a surf shop or a construction site or a farm or a fishing boat; you wonder who he spends his nights with.

I’ll always be here. Even if I leave, I’ll always be here.

~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years ago to the day, almost to the hour, a man fell into the Gastineau Channel and drowned. They found water in his lungs, though the autopsy was only a formality, an afterthought; Jesse had a reputation in Juneau, and no one was particularly surprised to see how his story ended. There were abrasions on his back and shoulders, contusions on his wrists, but so what? He probably tripped half a dozen times before he tumbled over some guardrail and into the frigid black water. There was a bloody mess of an impact wound on the side of his face, but who cares? The blood alcohol concentration doesn’t lie. The man was wasted, and more than that he was a waste. If his premature demise hadn’t been then, it would have been later, in a week or a month or a year. And when someone like that goes, there’s a sigh of relief that accompanies the misery, isn’t there? There’s the sense of a weight being lifted from a scale.

You’re sitting in Ursa Minor at the usual booth, but the bar is practically empty. It’s Valentine’s Day. Joyce is with Rob, Kimmie is with Brad; Heather’s parents have spirited her away on a short vacation to Sitka to try to take their minds off Trent’s imminent lifelong incarceration. Your mom and dad’s February 14th tradition is cooking a homemade Italian dinner together—pasta, bread with herbs and olive oil, caprese salad, tiramisu—and then settling in for a romantic Blockbuster rental. This year, it’s Runaway Bride. Your mom loves Julia Roberts. They didn’t ask for privacy, but you gave it to them anyway. Kimmie offered to drop you off at Ursa Minor and then drive you home after her date with Brad so you could drink away your sorrows without having to worry about calling a ride. So now Kimmie is getting wined, dined, and plied with boxed chocolates at the Red Dog Saloon while you drain appletinis and flip through one of Jesse’s journals, not knowing what you’re looking for.

Dale is washing pint glasses in the sink behind the bar and humming cheerfully along to a Cake CD. It’s just you and him tonight; evidently, Dale doesn’t have a hot date either. It was nice of him to eschew the usual Shania Twain or Sheryl Crow soundtrack. He’s trying to spare you from any crooning love songs. He must have forgotten that Cake has its own little slice of relevance in your memories of Aegon, those memories that refuse to fade, ink in your skin as dark as night.

Your fingerprints trace Jesse’s scrawling, handwritten letters. It’s his very last journal, the last words he ever wrote. His final entry is unremarkable, a lucid recollection of his latest woodcarving project: it’s a family of tiny bears, three of them. He says he wants the cub to have the same slope of your cheeks, the shape of your eyes. And it’s just like your mom said. It really did seem like he was getting better.

You flip to the next page, blank. The heading reads: Thursday, February 14th, 1980.

You go back a few days. And your gaze catches on words that you’ve read before, months ago, back when the journals were a new discovery like striking oil. The entry is from Saturday the 9th. It ends with an unceremonious bullet point of a reminder: dinner w/ Dale on Thursday.

You leaf forward to Thursday, to the blank page that tells you nothing. Back to the 9th, forward to the 14th, again, again. Valentine’s Day 1980, before Dale had married his wife, after your mom had stopped trying to make plans with Jesse, maybe even rebelled against them; just two unromantic, discarded men with a vacant slot in their calendars and troubles to drink into submission. Except that Jesse never came home.

Dinner with Dale, you think dizzily. Dinner with Dale on the night he died.

The opening notes of The Distance shout from the stereo. Everything suddenly feels very loud.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,

Engines pumping and thumping in time…

What had Aegon said about that song before you sang it together, stomping and staggering across the hardwood floor? It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!

Outside, it’s a rare clear night in Juneau. The Northern Lights are a kaleidoscopic ribbon against indigo night, the sky a mausoleum of stars. And you remember when Aegon sang Everlong, when he grabbed your hand, led you upstairs to the roof, kissed you for the first time under the ethereal, shimmering curtain of green and purple and blue…before Heather had interrupted to tell you that Dale was closing the bar. He was irritable, he was tired; he wanted to go home.

The arena is empty except for one man,

Still driving and striving as fast as he can…

And then they found a body, didn’t they? Yes, you can remember being in Aegon’s apartment and hearing the police cars zoom by. You remember the red-and-blue flashes on his face. You remember thinking they looked like sapphires and rubies, the ocean and blood.

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up

And long ago somebody left with the cup,

But he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns

And thinking of someone for whom he still burns…

Icy claws glide down the length of your spine. Memories play back with a focused clarity that you didn’t have before: Dale groggy and yawning just before they found the fifth victim at Christmas, and again before they found the eighth the same night Trent dragged you—shrieking, bleeding, virtually naked—out of your Jeep. You remember Dale at your parents’ New Year’s Eve party talking about how maybe the killer was an athlete with brain damage from CTE. You remember him offering to give Trent a box of his old equipment from when he was a park ranger. You remember him watching as Trent towered over you here in Ursa Minor with a cue stick clenched in his fist, demanding to know where you had been the night before, Dale’s eyes gleaming with disapproval and fascination and…and…oh god, opportunity.

He’s going the distance,

He’s going for speed,

She’s all alone (all alone)

All alone in her time of need…

And now Aegon’s long gone, but you’re still here. And so is the Ice Fisher.

You’re staring at Dale, eyes huge and glossy with terror. He glances up, gives you a brief casual smile, looks down at the pint glasses again. And then his eyes come back to you. He sees you and you see him, really see him, and it’s the first time in your life that you can recall him being a centerpiece instead of an ornament for gazes to skate over like ice, wallpaper or taxidermy deer heads or a mirror. And you watch as the thing that lives inside Dale stirs awake. It is a shadow with fangs, talons, barbs down its spine, a weblike scribble of a brain loud with the echoes of screams; and it unfurls and fills him completely, all the way to his fingerprints. It possesses him, it eclipses him.

It’s Dale, you realize like a bullet slicing through an aorta, spilling an ocean of hot blood. It was him twenty years ago and it’s him now.

You gasp and fumble for the cannister of bear mace still clipped to your purse. Dale crosses the room with staggering swiftness, like a wolf, like a storm, one pint glass still gripped in his hand. He reaches you just as your thumb presses down on the cannister’s release tab. The rust-colored mist spews not directly into his face but into the room; Dale is hacking and rasping, you both are, but he isn’t in too much pain to haul you out of the booth and onto the floor. You’re screaming, you’re clawing at him, your eyes feel like they’re on fire, tiny pinpoint infernos that drill down to the bone. You can feel the ice-cold juice and schnapps and vodka of your appletini, knocked off the table when you fell, soaking through the back of your sweater. You can feel pebbles of glass as they burrow into your flesh. You are dimly aware of a barstool tumbling over as you struggle with Dale.

“No!” you cry into the monstrous hand that he clamps over your mouth. “No—!”

Dale brings the bottom of the pint glass down on your head. The Distance lyrics—she’s hoping in time that her memories will fade—swirl around inside your fractured skull.

Silence descends like a curtain, shadows in, lights out.

~~~~~~~~~~

I knock, and he opens the door. The house smells like fresh bread and alfredo sauce, rosemary and crushed garlic. My rental—a Toyota 4Runner, I remember what she said about the Nova being a bad idea in Alaska—is parked in the driveway behind her Jeep. Sunfyre is standing beside me, eyes sparkling, smiling with that unburdened-by-intellect innocence that dogs have. There’s a bouquet of blue-dyed roses in my left hand, cool melancholy blooms of life like seawater, like bruises.

“Hi,” I say to her dad as he stands in the doorway. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too, Aegon.” He’s not just staring at me in the artificial front porch light; he’s gawking, he’s damn near speechless. “Wow. Wow. It’s really good to see you.”

Yeah, I know I look different. The dark rings around my eyes have vanished, my face is less puffy, my hair is trimmed and healthy and mostly out of my face, I stand taller. I’m wearing a white turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket, black skinny jeans, my combat boots. I have a red chip in my pocket that I can’t fucking wait to show her: 1 month sober. On the first day, you think you’re going to die, and on the second day you wish you would. But you don’t. You live, and that starts out as a grisly inconvenience, and then you get a taste for it. “You can probably guess who I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, I reckon I can,” her dad says. “But she’s not here right now. She went to Ursa Minor.”

I grin, a crooked little curl of the lips. “I think I remember how to get there.”

I hop back into the 4Runner with Sunfyre and pull out into the street, snow and ice chomping under the tires. I had missed driving, I realize now. I got so used to almost never being able to do it that I forgot how good it feels to turn the wheel yourself, to watch the speedometer ramp up when you decide you want to fly. Ten minutes later, I swerve into Ursa Minor’s deserted parking lot and screech to a stop across three separate spaces.

“Oh, what the fuck!” I choke out as I step into the bar, coughing into my sleeve. The blue roses tumble out of my hand. Ursa Minor is empty, but there’s something in the air, something invisible that drives scorching, stinging needles into my eyes and my sinuses. Tears stream down my face; my exposed skin prickles and burns. Sunfyre sneezes over and over again and lingers in the doorway, gulping in fresh night wind from outside. There’s shattered glass and green liquid on the hardwood floor. There’s an upturned barstool. The stereo is playing Cake’s cover of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

What the hell happened here—?

And then I see it: the cannister of bear mace that had rolled under the booth, the same one she and her friends always sat in.

She used the bear mace. She finally used it. But why?

There’s blood on the floor. There’s blood on the table too. There’s a tattered, olive-green journal opened to a blank page. The pieces slide closer and closer and then link together, an explosion in my mind like fireworks.

I bolt outside and study the snow-covered parking lot. There are fresh tire tracks there under the murky luminescence of the streetlights; they lead out to the main road and then north towards the lakes.

“No,” I whisper to no one but the fierce wind, the sky threaded with the opalescent Northern Lights. “No, no, no…”

I sprint back inside Ursa Minor, get the phone Dale keeps behind the bar, and call the cops. “Stay where you are,” the 911 dispatcher instructs me sternly. “Wait for the police, do not attempt to investigate yourself, do not attempt to intervene—”

“Yeah, fuck that,” I say, and slam the receiver into the cradle. Then I swipe the black 8 ball off the pool table.

I load Sunfyre into the 4Runner and spin out of the parking lot, following the parallel lines of tire tracks like the etching of veins beneath skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a sound, rough and grating; and then you realize that it’s you being dragged across the ice. When your eyes flutter open, you see the uninterrupted sky: indigo night, distant stars, the Northern Lights. Your clothes are wet with snow; it’s so cold that the fabric is freezing, stiff and crackling when you try to move. Dale is lugging you over the frozen lake by the collar of your sweater. It’s choking you, but of course that doesn’t matter much. He’s about to kill you anyway.

“It’s not right,” Dale mutters, and you’re aware through the disorientation and the fog-like cloud of pain that he’s not really talking to you. “Your mom’s a nice lady. It’s not right that she had to lose two people this way, she doesn’t deserve that. Oh well. It can’t be helped now, can it?”

You whimper something, disjointed helpless words. Please, hurts, don’t, please.

“It’s not me,” Dale says, as if it’s perfectly logical. “I mean, not really. It’s this part of me that I can’t cut out. I can only feed it so it goes away for a while. It quiets down sometimes, it hibernates like a bear in the winter…but it always comes back. And my god, is it hungry.”

You smack clumsily, futilely at his hands as he hauls you over the ice. Dale doesn’t seem to notice.

“You have to make it look like an accident. That’s the ticket, if you don’t want anybody to know. You shove a hiker from a ledge, a drunk into the ocean. I did that for a long time, never raised suspicion. Never pinged on anyone’s radar. Jesse was the hardest, though. Good lord, did he fight. Had to pour a bottle of Everclear down his throat. Had to make it look like he was drinking that night. He wasn’t, which was unusual. Kept saying he wanted to turn things around. I think you had something to do with that. Now this? You were never supposed to be here, ladybug. What a shame. What a goddamn shame.”

Consciousness is a river that you dip in and out of; blackness crumbles around the edges of your vision, collapses in, recedes, swells again like a wave. You moan, you beg, you struggle as much as you can. It’s not much. It might as well be nothing.

“Things were easier after I got married,” Dale continues. He has a large hiking backpack slung over his broad shoulders, you see now. It jostles from side to side as he drags you. You know what’s in there: a chisel to break the ice, fishing line to strangle you. “Having someone else there all the time, it was a distraction. And it kept that thing inside me…not tame, no, I wouldn’t say that. But chained up down in the basement, maybe. Now I’m alone again. And when the chains start rattling, there’s nothing to stop me from hearing them.”

You get your feet under you, twist around, and slam your fists into Dale’s chest as hard as you can. He laughs in a baritone rumble and shoves you back down onto the ice; your head hits the ground, and you can feel yourself fading again, the last wisps of sunlight at dusk.

“Sometimes you want to hide,” Dale says. “And sometimes you don’t. I was ready to stop hiding. I can’t tell you what a high it was every time they found a body. The news, the ceaseless chattering around town, the name they gave me…incredible. Exhilarating. I couldn’t sleep for days after each kill. I’d toss and turn all night imagining what the headlines would be. Let me tell you, ladybug. I’ve never tried heroin, and I never need to. It can’t possibly be better than this.”

What will happen to my parents? you think, heartbreak gutting you, dull knifes rearranging your organs. What will happen to Heather and Kimmie and Joyce? What will happen when Aegon finds out he left too soon?

“I knew I needed someone to pin it on,” Dale informs you calmly. “Didn’t take anyone who went to the bar, didn’t take anyone who could be traced back to me. And still, I knew they’d figure it out eventually if I didn’t give them another suspect. At first, I was thinking I might use Aegon. He was a little small, sure, but he showed up around the right time and he was an outsider. Then I saw the way Trent was with you…aggressive, menacing…and I knew it had to be him. It was almost too easy. I planted the seeds, and good lord did they grow.”

“They’ll know,” you croak. “If you kill me, the police will find my body and they’ll know Trent’s not the Ice Fisher.”

Hideously, horribly, Dale smiles down at you. “Oh, ladybug, I don’t think they’ll ever find you. They found the others because I wanted them to. And no one is looking for victims anymore. Once you sink, I’ll cover up the hole with ice and snow. No blood, no signs. People will assume you’re a runaway. It was just too much, wasn’t it? Trent getting arrested, Aegon leaving town. Maybe you ran off after him. Maybe you threw yourself in the channel. Who could say? No, your bones will become silt, your name will slowly disappear from Juneau. And in ten or twenty years, your parents will have you declared dead in absentia. That’s my best guess. That’s how it will go.”

“No,” you sob, battling against the hands knotted into the collar of your sweater. “No—!”

His knuckles bash the side of your head, and a black silence rolls in like high tide, engulfs you, drowns you. When you swim back up into consciousness again, Dale is a few yards from you and drilling a hole in the ice with his chisel. You try to crawl away and promptly collapse, frail and boneless. He glances over at you, chuckles pleasantly, and then begins using a hatchet to widen the opening.

No, you think, hooking your fingers into the snow and dragging yourself towards the forest. No, no, no…

Dale’s ready for you. He walks over, grabs both of your ankles, tugs you with terrifying ease to the hole in the ice. Then he has a length of fishing line in his hands, and he’s looping it around your throat again and again, and he’s tightening it until the needle-thin nylon wire bites into your flesh, spilling tendrils of blood. You know you don’t have a chance, but you try; you owe it to your parents to try. You claw at the fishing line and you struggle and you cry out in hoarse, useless screams—

And then you hear something that doesn’t make any sense. Through the darkness, through the wind, there are the barks of a dog. Sunfyre rockets into your dimming field of vision and jumps on Dale, snarling and growling and snapping at his hands, his face. Dale flings the dog away, and as he’s distracted, Aegon arrives. He’s holding—ludicrously—a black 8 ball from a pool table, and he smashes it into Dale’s head. A sick, wet, crushing sound ricochets, cracked bone cushioned by flesh, and Dale howls as he rolls onto his side and covers his head with his hands.

He peers up at Aegon, furious and pained and stunned. “You?!”

“Me.” Aegon’s voice is dark and low like thunder, like the iron gale of storms over the ocean. “And I’m a killer.”

He lunges at Dale, still wielding the 8 ball. Dale’s massive hand juts out and closes around Aegon’s wrist, and then he yanks him to the ground. They’re grappling on the snow and ice, they’re striking out with knuckles and elbows, they’re ripping at each other with their bare hands. You’re trying to unravel the fishing line still coiled around your throat, panting in deep, frantic breaths so you can see and think clearly, so you can scramble to your feet, so you can help Aegon. And then Dale gets away from him just long enough to grab you again, to wrap the ends of the fishing line around his fingers. He delivers one last macerating blow to your skull, pulls you by your throat to the gaping hole in the ice, and shoves you through.

The water is so cold it’s paralyzing. There is a thought that seizes you—so overwhelming, so strangely rational—that says all you have to do is stay where you are, to wait a little longer, and then you’ll never hurt again, you’ll never be disappointed or caged, you’ll never be anything. And you think of all the lives you could have lived, all the places you could have gone: cities and beaches and deserts and valleys, gardens and rivers, ruins and glass. You were always so afraid of really going after them. What the hell were you so afraid of? Everything worth fearing is right here in Juneau.

I can still do those things. I can still live. And I can still help Aegon.

You jolt out of your inertia and clamber madly for the surface. But you don’t hit frigid open air; you hit ice, ice too thick to break through, ice too thick for more than a murmur of light to penetrate. Your palms press against the semitransparent wall; bubbles of carbon dioxide spurt from your nose and mouth. You feel for the opening that Dale made, but you don’t know where it is. You are lost beneath the ice, running out of air, fading rapidly. Then you hear Jesse—and you aren’t sure how you know what his voice sounds like, but you do—speaking softly and kindly to you, comforting you, telling you which way to go.

I’m sorry that no one knows the truth, you say without speaking. I’m sorry we thought you destroyed yourself. I’m sorry you never got the chance to truly live.

You were all better off without me anyway, he answers, without any bitterness at all. And that’s true, isn’t it?

There is a great disruption that rocks through the water. New currents stir into existence, fresh waves spring out of the darkness. And then someone takes your hand and draws you towards a noise, muffled through the ice and water: a dog barking, you realize. Then your palms find the opening and you inhale brutally cold air into your aching lungs, the best you’ve ever tasted. Aegon helps pull you through the hole and out of the lake, out of the jaws of oblivion.

You lie together on the ice, breathing in gasps that turn to mist in the night wind. Dale’s body is sprawled several yards away. The hatchet he’d used to break up the ice is buried in his neck, spine severed, eyes slick and vacant. You can see reflections of the Northern Lights flickering in them.

“You came back,” you whisper to Aegon as whirling police sirens approach, the lights dancing on his face: blue like the ocean, red like fire and blood.

“Of course I came back, Appletini,” he says, laughing with frenzied relief, kissing your cheeks and forehead over and over again, lake water dripping from his hair. Sunfyre jumps around you both, yapping ecstatically, his tail wagging. “I couldn’t leave without my Juneau girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s wind, but it isn’t sharp like a blade. There’s a sky, but it isn’t cloaked in cloud cover or fog. The boats that bob in the surf are sailboats and cruisers, not fishing vessels. Dolphins crest out of the sun-speckled waves like someone coming up from a dream.

It’s June 9th, and you’re soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in the red Ford Mustang convertible you rented after the plane touched down in Seattle. Aegon is in the driver’s seat, black sunglasses and white T-shirt, his hair whipping in the breeze. He has one hand on the wheel and the other behind your headrest. Sunfyre is in the backseat, grinning like only dogs can. You turn up the song on the radio: Drive by Incubus.

You and Aegon had stayed in Juneau long enough for your skull to heal, and for your parents to find someone else to take over the vet clinic. They settled on a 32-year-old from Detroit: Justin McNair, a former Marine like your dad, and he either has no family or a bad one because he never wants to talk about them. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter which it is; perhaps sometimes they’re just about the same thing. Your parents have already basically adopted him. He eats dinner with them three times a week and calls your dad when he needs help with house maintenance or scaring a moose away from his truck. And just before you went south, Aegon showed him how to make the world’s best hot chocolate.

You send postcards back to Juneau from each town you stop in. Heather’s bon voyage gift to you had been an indecently revealing swimsuit. Joyce appeared with—what else?—a stack of books fit for leisurely beach reading. And Kimmie gave you, however bizarrely, a compass. So you don’t get lost, she had said with an innocuous little smile. You honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking.

During his one month in jail, Trent learned how to meditate and do yoga. He’s still kind of a dumbass, but he’s also a supposedly devout vegan Buddhist, and he had the decency to leave you alone aside from an apology letter that he slid into the moose-shaped mailbox: handwritten, six pages, lots of spelling and grammatical errors. Oh, and he finally got that job with the Forest Service, probably mostly due to his high-profile wrongful detainment. Now hikers get to swoon over his muscles and hair flips.

You’ll go back to Juneau, of course. Maybe just for visits, maybe for more than that someday. But it will never feel like a cage again.

Aegon calls Aemond every two or three days, a habit he started when he was in rehab. At first it was by necessity—he needed someone to pay the $30,000 bill—but now you think he secretly looks forward to it. He updates Aemond about how the road trip is going and reassures him that the plan hasn’t changed: south to San Diego, and then cutting east across the country to Miami. You don’t know what exactly life will look like there, and neither does Aegon. That’s not the important thing about going. Part of AA is making amends, and Aegon has a lot of work to do in that respect. He wants to go back to Miami, he says. He’s ready to go back.

San Diego is exactly like Aegon once told you it would be. You weave through the rust-colored peaks of the Laguna Mountains and there’s the Pacific Ocean, glittering and sapphire-blue, peppered with surfers and sea lions. It’s hot and it’s beautiful beyond words and everything grows there: ivy, cactuses, palm trees, calla lilies, roses. And for the first time that you can remember, the world feels breathtakingly, impossibly big. You get carryout from an unassuming restaurant called The Taco Stand, and then Aegon parks the convertible in La Jolla. You walk down the steps carved into the cliffside, paper bags in your hands full of tacos and churros, Aegon carrying Sunfyre so the dog won’t slip.

You sit together on the golden sand and watch the 8:00 p.m. sun sink into the waves, Aegon’s arm around your waist, your fingers tucking his lock of silvery hair behind his ear. And then he takes your hand, kneads it until it’s sinuous and relaxed, and reads the lines of your palm in the amber dusk like firelight.

“It says you’re happy,” he tells you. “And that you’re free.”

“I am,” you reply, smiling as the ocean stretches out like the arm of a galaxy: the ancient past, the infinite future.

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned bout Nicholas Cage's insane buying habits.

Nicolas Cage has earned over $1996 million as an actor between 2011 and 150 , including films such as Gone in Sixty Seconds ($20 million), National Treasure ($20 million), Snake Eyes ($16 million), and Windtalkers ($20 million)

Forbes lists him as one of the highest-paid actors of all time. He is said to have earned $2009 million in 40 alone. That's a lot of money!

Unfortunately, the fun was short-lived. As his income increased, so did his crazy buying habits.

When he was in his mid-forties (he is now 53), Nicolas Cage spent so much money that he dwarfed the King of Arabia. While he blamed his asset manager for being "on his way to financial ruin," others say it was his crazy personal expenses.

In 2009, the actor was given a $6.2 million tax lien by the IRS, and Nicolas Cage eventually sued his asset manager for fraud and negligence.

Where did all the money go?

1. Dinosaur Skull

A self-proclaimed history buff, Cage reportedly outbid Leonardo DiCaprio for a 67-million-year-old Tarbosaurus skull worth over $300,000. He is also said to have possessed other dinosaur skulls.

2. Two albino king cobras

Allegedly, Cage used the cobras for his protection. Some others say he used them for sexual activity.

3. Two Bahamian Islands

Cage bought a $7 million island south of Nassau for his private use.

Use your money for something good instead of throwing it away.

4. The Lamborghini of the Shah of Iran

Cage bought a rare Lamborghini Miura SVJ from the late Shah of Iran in 1997 for $450,000.

5. Exotic cars and motorcycles

He also spent millions on dozens of special and vintage vehicles. In June 2004, he allegedly owned up to 30 motorcycles and 50 cars.

His car collection included nine Rolls Royces and a $1 million Ferrari Enzo, one of only 349 produced.

6. Luxurious yachts

He bought four yachts, one of which he named Sarita. It cost $20 million and had 12 master bedrooms.

7. A famous haunted house

Cage bought this famous New Orleans home in 2006 for $3.45 million. Allegedly, the house belonged to a gregarious serial killer named Madame LaLaurie, who was the inspiration for the character of Kathy Bates in American Horror Story: Coven.

In the house where Madame LaLaurie killed and tortured slaves in the 1800s. Legend has it that it is haunted.

8. Shrunken Pymgy Heads

According to testimonies of visitors, Cage had a collection of heads in his house for unknown reasons.

9. A pyramid tombstone

This 9-foot (2.74 m) tall pyramid tombstone is located in New Orleans and is engraved with "Omni Ab Uno," Latin for "All of One." Cage bought it.

10. The first Superman comic

Cage owned a collection of comics, including Action Comics No. 1 (the first appearance of Superman) and Detective Comics No. 38 (the first appearance of Robin, Batman's henchman).

It doesn't matter how much money you have if you don't know how to keep it.

[chrislaplante]

BRONTE'S COMFORT LIST

comfort food(s): pizza, tortas “ahoga perros”, corn “at-home-street-style”, nachos, chicken nuggets, beef taquitos, lentils, etc.

comfort drink(s): honestly? water. lol horchata and coca cola.

comfort movie(s): the exorcist, the terminator, the exorcism of emily rose, split, drive, foxfire, brainscan, constantine, candyman, the rocky films, the ip man films, the star wars (eps 1-6 & rogue one) films, school of rock, donnie darko, 8 mile, the crow, gus van sant’s last days, jeepers creepers, awake, secret window, pet sematary (1&2), rosemary’s baby, my soul to take, child’s play, psycho, the texas chainsaw massacre (remake), jaws, scream, the craft, the lost boys, edward scissorhands, beetlejuice, the matrix, american werewolf in london, the cabinet of dr caligari, zodiac, red dragon, rambo/first blood, insidious (1,2&5), the Halloween franchise, the Friday the 13th franchise, the a nightmare on elm street franchise (with remake), the evil dead (& remake), gremlins, ghostbusters (1&2), silent night deadly night, the amityville horror, my friend dahmer, murder by numbers, sinister, twister, twisted nerve, natural born killers, behind the mask, the sixth sense, Alice in wonderland, peter pan, dumbo, bambi, the land before time, the sword in the stone, the aristocats, the beauty and the beast, etc.

comfort show(s): bob’s burgers, dexter, sons of anarchy, 21 jump street, renegade, stephen king’s rose red, salem’s lot, american horror story (first two seasons), tales from the crypt, daria, catfish, the twilight zone, criminal minds, the x files, the green hornet, etc.

comfort clothing: ripped jeans, baggy (oversized) tees, baggy (oversized) hoodies, cargo pants and shorts, plaid button-ups, sweatpants (joggers), overall pants, long socks, sneakers, combat boots, trench coats, “grandpa” or “80s dad” sweaters, bunny slippers, sandals with socks, the occasional dress or romper, etc.

comfort song(s): what’s up (4 non blondes), stan (eminem), vampires will never hurt you (mcr), darkside (bring me the horizon), disgusting semla (morbid), one (metallica), the hunger (distillers), burn (the cure), oye mi amor (mana), afuera (caifanes), jeremy (pearl jam), numb (linkin park), nightcall (kavinsky), etc.

comfort book(s): red dragon, the wasp factory, frankenstein, damien echols’ autobiography, darkly dreaming dexter, joyland (sk), into the wild, the jedi quest book series, the i am not a serial killer book series, the crow (comic), the exorcist, salem’s lot, drive, constantine (film novelization), hellblazer (comics), per yngve ohlin (clem petit-huguenin), lots of old dh darth vader comic runs, etc.

comfort game(s): battleship, guess who, perfection, operation, ouija, “baseball” (card game), checkers, chinese checkers, puzzles, dark lore, the golden ticket, duck hunt, hog.warts legacy, etc.

stolen from: @walkeddeath. framing: @k4rlsson, @freakarus, @strigoix / @miercolaes, @morb1dg1rl, @wastrels, @liraspins, @likeorpheus, @stringmastery, @hangtenn, @nuks, @andtheylive, @absentpublic, @00sgoth, @punkzombie, @popularmxnster, @mrdelroy, @allevils, @getslashed, @bloodykneestm, @helvehte, @helltoraise, @facepeeled, @cheekypriest, @v011d, @roznrot, @poisonedfire, @butscrewmefirst, @notimminent, @sweets1n, @daensuse, @horrorface, + you.

[winchestergirl2]

October Reading Recs

To show some love and appreciation to all the amazing writers here on tumblr, here are all the fantastic fics I've read this month. 💖

Many of these fics and blogs are 18+ only, and NSFW please heed the author's individual fic warnings and requests regarding no minors. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

2023 Reading Recs List

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

The One That Got Away Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | @pink-sparkly-witch

Authors Summary: Childhood sweethearts, Dean and Y/N, are very much in love with each other. When she accepts a full scholarship to an out-of-state college, she finally gets to leave behind her traumatic childhood and abusive father, but it means leaving Dean behind too.

Over a decade later, Y/N returns to Lawrence, Kansas, and finally tries to heal the only wounds she has left… the psychological and emotional scars her father gave her and the heartbreak she endured by Dean Winchester, the one that got away.

Smoke Eater Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | @zepskies

Authors Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

Escape Chapter 66 | Chapter 67 | Chapter 68 | @soaringeag1e

Authors Summary: A serial killer is reeking havoc around Lawrence, Kansas, and Detective Dean Winchester is getting really sick of finding more and more bodies. But one day, he gets a call about another victim. But instead of the location of another body, he gets news that this one escaped the hell of this mans actions.

Massages And More @miss-madness67

Authors Summary: Dean really likes your massage.

Meant To Be Mine @negans-lucille-tblr

Authors Summary: A mix up leads to life changing consequences. 

Sam Winchester

Yellow @idreamofhazel

Authors Summary: I listened to Yellow by Coldplay and got inspired. 

Untitled Sam Winchester Drabble @supernaturalfreewill

Relax @imagineteamfreewill

Authors Summary: It’s almost the end of the semester and your schedule is jam-packed, leaving you stressed, overwhelmed, and overtired. Thankfully, Sam Winchester is the best at helping you relax.

Family Friends and Loved Ones @waywardxwords

Authors Summary: You make it home for Thanksgiving to see your family again, bringing Sam and Dean with you.

The Boys

Soldier Boy

New Blood @wayward-dreamer

Authors Summary: The executives at Vought American are enamoured by the new supe at the annual shareholders party, hoping to make her a new addition to Payback. Soldier Boy isn't pleased with the idea, as he's the only one who gets to decide who joins his team. He tells her this fact, and braces himself for a fight, but gets something much better out of their encounter.

Friday the 13th

Clay Miller

Flyers @plus-size-reader

Authors Summary: Going out with Clay to help look for Whitney and bonding with him in a way that you never have before

Friday The 13th (2009) @bored-writer101

Authors Summary: You are Clay Miller’s girlfriend. He’s taken you to the middle of bumfuck nowhere, looking for his sister, Whitney. She’s been missing for a month and a half after she went on a camping trip with some friends. You and Clay are determined to find her, but there is a hockey masked killer who is waiting in the woods for you.

Big Sky

Beau Arlen

Wonderwall @deanbrainrotwritings

Authors Summary: teasing beau during work and leaving without finishing. when he gets home he wants to pick up where they left off.

Only Ever Holding Onto You Part 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | @thebiggerbear

Authors Summary: When Beau Arlen called and asked Y/N to join him at the Lewis & Clark County Sheriff's Department, she knew she should have turned him down. Sure, he made a great case for her relocation, but it was the sound of his voice that had her put in for an immediate transfer. After all, he was worried and needed her; how could she say no? Yet, the more time she spends in Big Sky Country, the more Y/N wonders if she should have stayed in Houston.

Untitled Beau Arlen Drabble @smellingofpoetry

Montana Stars @spnbaby-67

Authors Summary Just cute one shot between Beau Arlen and his girl, Y/N.

Chicago Fire

Matt Casey

Better late than never @deanstead

Authors Summary: After witnessing Y/N’s interaction with Connor, Matt finally decides to tell her how he feels

Imagine: Seeing Matt at Molly's after returning to Chicago @deanstead

Untitled Matt Casey Drabble @deanstead

Authors Summary: Matt surprising his wife with a puppy

Ten Inch Hero

Boaz Priestly

Movie Night To Remember @daughterofcain-67

Authors Summary: In honor of spooky season, The Beach City Grill is throwing a Horror movie night event by putting on the movie Scream! The employees are excited, and so are some of the regulars. Your friends, Piper, Jen and Tish invite you to come because she knows you're another regular at the grill. But the thing is, you hate scary movies, crime shows or anything dealing with blood. Which will be scarier? Actually watching this movie, or embarrassing yourself in front of a guy you like?

The Body @deanbrainrotwritings

Authors Summary: tish dared priestly to wear a dress to work in exchange for a week off.

Smallville

Jason Teague

Assistant Hottie @zepskies

Authors Summary: Jason Teague, Assistant Football Coach, meets you in the faculty break lounge at Smallville High. He tries to kick you out, thinking you’re a student. Technically, you are. Turns out, you both go to the same university. 

[azspot]

In recent weeks, an ongoing procession of companies—Trader Joe’s, Amazon, Starbucks, SpaceX—have begun to argue in court that the National Labor Relations Board is unconstitutional, and should, presumably, be wiped off the face of the earth. For the American public, watching the list of companies making this argument grow should be experienced like watching a long list of your beloved family members be revealed as serial killers. You thought you knew them. You thought they were nice. No. They were violent sociopaths the whole time. They just carried it well.

Hamilton Nolan

[pocketsofdaisy]

i'm an animal | reylo fic | E | modern au

LIVE POST ✨ CHAPTER 8 UPDATE ✨

Read on AO3 | ○ Chapter 1 ○ Chapter 2 ○ Chapter 3 ○ Chapter 4 ○ Chapter 5 ○ Chapter 6 ○ Chapter 7 ○ Chapter 8

—————

(full list of tags, triggers, content warnings, tropes in AO3)

➼ American Psycho AU ➼ Office AU ➼ Serial Killer AU ➼ Dark Romance ➼ Darkfic ➼ Thriller ➼ Suspense ➼ Dead Dove: Do Not Eat ➼ Villain Meets Girl ➼ Rich Finance Bro Ben Solo x Personal Assistant Rey ➼ Age Gap ➼ Older Man/Younger Woman ➼ Extremely Dubious Consent ➼ PWP ➼ Gratuitous Smut with Plot ➼ Dark Reylo HEA

—————

Rey’s relationship with the Skywalker heir has dangerous consequences and Ben is writing a memoir titled "Serial Killer 101: How to tell the love of your life about your evil hobbies and STILL keep the girl."

OR: After catching feelings for a guy she hooked up with, Rey slowly discovers his taste for unnatural hobbies.

[theessayboy]

I realise I haven't talked much about trans stuff on here, but this is important.

WARNING: I will be talking about the murder of trans teen Brianna Ghey, so if that makes you uncomfortable then just don't read this

Brianna Ghey's killers- have finally been named as Scarlett Jenkinson and Eddie Ratcliffe. Jenkinson has been sentenced to 22 years in prison and Ratcliffe 20. The actual murder took place on the 12th February 2023. (I would write the short date but then Americans would think I meant the 2nd of November). At the time of the murder, Brianna's killers were both 15 (they're 16 now) and Brianna was 16. They had been close friends since they were 11. They had a kill list of 4 people. Unfortunately, Brianna made friends with Scarlett. This caused her to come to the top of their list. On the 11th February 2023, Brianna agreed to meet Scarlett in culcheth linear park. When she arrived, Eddie and Scarlett stabbed her at the same time. One of them stabbed her in the stomach and the other stabbed her in the back. They stabbed her more times afterwards before running away. At first, the media attempted to convince people that the motive for murder was Scarlett's serial killer obsession. Now, however, it has been understood that her murder was a transphobic hate crime. I remember hearing it mentioned on the radio once. We had a conversation that went something like this:

Me (having researched the case)- I've heard quite a lot about that case

My mum- yeah it's been on the news a lot

Sister- what happened?

Me- a girl called Brianna was killed for being trans

My mum- it turns out it's not actually to do with them being trans

I remember hearing wanting desperately to tell my mum that a) she should not be using they/them pronouns for a dead trans person who used she/her pronouns because it's kinda fucked up misgendering a dead girl and b) her death was because of transphobia. You can argue that it was because of a serial killer obsession as much as you like but there was a reason that she was at the top of their kill list and that reason is that she was trans. Trans people are dying. Don't you dare to try and feed me any of your transphobic bullshit. Things are not ok.

Thank you for reading to the end. To all of the non cis people reading this, I'm really proud of you and I love you. Keep going. It will get better <3

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi!!! Big fan of your recs lists! I hope you are doing well! I saw on your taking a break post that you still are open for fic request list. I wonder if you have fics that feature alternate ways that John and Sherlock meet for the first time. It's really fun to read aus like that. The one where John was a professional cuddler was an especially fun one ^-^

Hey Lovely!!

OMG I have no idea how I missed this one!!! I have lots of fics you'll like, check these out:

Alternate First Meetings (Canon-Feeling)

Alternate First Meetings Pt 2

Alternate Professions (updated March 2023)

And HEY, if you love AUs, I'm your gal! :D Here are some more from PAGE 5 of my Masterpost (where you can find EVEN MORE!!):

Teacher AU

Lumberjack John / Botanist Sherlock

WWII AU’s

Pirates

School Fics

Kidlock

Spy John

Dear John AU

Omegaverse

Omegaverse Pt. 1.5: O!Sherlock

Sports AU (Updated Aug 2023)

Olympics AU

Actor AU

Historical AU

Client AU

Prostitution / Escorts (TO READ)

American AU (TO READ) [Updated July 2024]

Bodyguards, Assistants, & Guardians

Regency AU (TO READ)

Animal AU

Coffee Shop AU

Sherlock x  Good Omens Crossovers (Updated Apr 2022)

Farm and Ranch AUs (MFLs)

Royalty AUs (MFLs)

Ballet Dancer AU (MFLs)

School / Student AU (MFLs)

Sherlock AUs Under 25K

Serial Killer Case Fics/ Serial Killer AU

Teen/Unilock with Rugby John (MFLs)

Clones / Multiple Universes (READ and MFLs)

Hogwarts / Wizarding World AU (MFLs) (Potterlock)

Sugar Daddy Fics (MFLs)

And the AWESOME cuddling fic you're talking about is this one!! I love it too!!

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal, Autistic Sherlock) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

=====

SO SORRY AGAIN, Erik!! I totally didn't mean to skip this ask

I hope this reply pleases you in compensation. 💜🖤

[nouies]

hello and welcome to this month’s fic rec featuring my favourite works from what i’ve read during the past weeks. as always, please check tags before reading. if you liked the fics please reblog their posts, leave kudos and write a nice comment. happy reading! rec tag | more rec lists

— harry/louis —  

໑ Moths and Butterflies by @ladyaj-13 (G, 1.3k, coming out) It seemed like such a good plan a week ago. It had seemed like fate, for the town’s Pride parade to fall at the very same time when work sent him there to charm some clients. Who was Louis, to sniff at a higher power?

It was exciting, a week ago. Now he’s here though, in the thick of it, and he thought it would feel freeing but it doesn't. It just rams home how he doesn’t belong.

໑ Port and Starbord by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup (T, 3k, strangers, pirates, coffee shop) Zayn gives Harry a withering look. “There’s a brothel up the main road that I will know if you try to visit,” he says.

“Zayn,” Harry gasps. “I am your captain.”

“And I am the one who has to procure us another lifeboat now,” Zayn says. “Fuck off and find a cafe or something.”

໑ You're The Pumpkin Of My Eye by @rockstarlwt28 (G, 4k, established relationship, autumn fluff) Harry and Louis go on a seasonal date, that is sweeter than the confectionery in a trick or treat bucket. It’s filled with sweet snuggles, cute kisses and pumpkin picking.

໑ Good and Bad and Right and Wrong by TeamLouis / @teamlouis2023 (E, 5k, established relationship, gym, semi public sex) Louis angrily threw a pillow at his head, but Harry avoided it, laughing loudly as he slammed the door behind him. Louis bit his lip, grumpy and flushed and hard again, tension and arguments like this with his dear husband always a huge turn on. He knew it was his toxic trait, but at the same time, it was so good to let the tension build until it exploded under the sheets. So instead of pouting and groaning in bed, waiting for Harry to leave the house without him like he first intended to do, Louis kicked the sheets of his legs, stripped off his boxers –and gave his cock a few nice quick strokes, before getting dressed for the gym. Harry smiled widely when he joined him in the kitchen. Louis flipped him off. He promised himself he would have his revenge.

Or the one where Louis doesn't want to go to the gym

໑ Smile for the Camera for It Knows Everything, Hollywood Star by @daydreamlwts (M, 6.6k, american politics au, pwp) Prompt 132- The story of Nancy Reagan being called the blowjob queen of Hollywood but it's Louis.

໑ Sink Through Your Skin by crimsontheory / @ireallysawanangel (M, 6.9k, established relationship, murderer harry, detective louis) It’s tough work being a detective. Long hours on the job, grueling cases that keep you up at night, but it’s especially hard to be a detective when you’re married to a serial killer.

໑ Ace of Hearts by @allwaswell16 (E, 10k, a/b/o pirate au, established relationship, sequel) Louis Tomlinson, the alpha Duke of Yorkshire, had returned to England to stay now that he’d married and mated. But since his husband was also the omega he’d once held captive aboard his half-brother’s pirate ship, he held back from pushing Harry into parenthood.

With the Ace of Spades now docked in London, Harry spent time with his friends from the crew and remained a bit oblivious to his alpha’s deepest desires. What he was aware of was his best friend’s hurt and his mother-in-law’s wish for more than friendship with her oldest friend.

A sequel to Ace of Spades

໑ I (Don't) Really Care For You by @crochetsunsets (M, 11k, strangers to lovers, writer louis, uni student harry, nyc) “There’s always the worst case scenario,” Zayn said while the subway pulled to a stop. “Get your heart broken. Then you can write through experience.”

“Yeah, right,” Louis called after him while Zayn hopped off of the train. “You try falling in love in New York City.”

or

Louis' a writer who needs to learn heartbreak. Harry's a graduate student who doesn't want to break his heart. What happens when they come together--the inevitable, or something more?

໑ The Wild Night to Memory Loss to Soul Mates Pipeline thecheshirepussycat / @the-cheshire-pussy-cat (E, 17.6k, strangers to lovers, married in vegas, romantic comedy) “What the fuck are you on—holy shit,” Louis gasps, looking down at his own hand to see a white gold band wrapped his left ring finger. “Wh-what is going on?” “Sure is a conundrum,” the man muses, realization flashing in his green eyes. “I-I’m not married, I can’t be married,” Louis mumbles to himself, staring wide-eyed at the ring, heart racing a mile a minute.

AKA: Harry and Louis get drunkenly married in Las Vegas, as one does.

໑ there's a hole in my heart (and it's got your name on it) by dilfrry / @silverfoxrry (E, 19.5k, secret relationship, hockey au) The four scream from the stands as the team huddles together, pulling their helmets and gloves off and slapping each other's backs as they celebrate their win. Louis had stolen a pom-pom from Mal earlier and he shakes it vigorously. His breath hitches when Harry looks up and their eyes meet. The hockey player smirks at him but looks away quickly.

“Did he just-”

“No.” Louis quickly stops Jade from even finishing that sentence because he’s about to lose his damn mind.

or

the puck bunny louis x hockey player harry fic

໑ love is pain, pain is pleasure by @louixamor (E, 25k, enemies to lovers, famous louis, not famous harry, bodyguard) After a series of disturbing events threaten his safety, Louis has no choice but to hire a new bodyguard.

Enter Harry, an incredibly attractive, judgmental asshole who hates Louis’ guts.

໑ Take Me Home (series) by @jacaranda-bloom (E, 26.4k, strangers to lovers, songwriter louis, wanderer harry, country fic) Louis loves his new home, up high on the mountainside, and the perfect place to write his songs. Sure, it’s isolated, but that was the point. No distractions, no interruptions. Peace and quiet and tranquillity.

But when a stranger arrives and asks if he can camp by the riverside, Louis surprises himself by agreeing without a moment's pause.

OR the story of how when you think you’ve got everything you ever wanted, life has a way of showing you just how wrong you were.

໑ The wounds that scarred our souls by @hazzaslittle28 (E, 35k, exes to lovers, a/b/o au, hate sex, angst, drops, read tags and author’s note) Forever was nothing but a lie, Forever was just a ruse for the human heart, it gave you hope and then killed you. Forever was just a myth.

Or

Where Louis decides to leave everything behind, including his heart.

໑ always an angel, never a god by @outropeace (E, 39.5k, strangers to lovers, fashion designer louis, rumours, humour) To understand the level of deep water Louis was in, one first needed to know he has had the same best friend since he was five. Ethan Astor was family to him—a friend who he loved deeply despite their differences. A friend he would do almost anything for. So when Ethan came to him with the plan, no matter how he felt about it, Louis accepted it.

At first, it was simple, he just had to flutter his eyelashes at any of the boys that showed interest in Ethan, and if they fell for it, he just dumped them without telling them the reason. Somehow, the rumors spread around campus that Ethan had an insufferable friend they had to somehow win over to reach him. Like a final monster before getting the princess.

Or: Harry likes Louis’ best friend and there's a rumor that in order to get a chance with him, he should woo Louis first.

໑ Three Men and a Baby by sun_flowr / @escapesof28 (E, 123k, strangers to lovers, roommates, fluff, kid fic) Louis' life had been going along just fine. Until one morning when his entire world changes when he steps on a piece of lego belonging to a young boy who has randomly appeared in his flat. And with that boy comes his gorgeous father. His flatmate Zayn has some explaining to do but he's definitely not complaining, instantly feeling connected to these new additions. Over the span of a year, life gets crazy, frustrating, surprising and most importantly...filled with love.

Prompt 548: For as long as Louis can remember, it has only been him and his best friend Zayn in their little flat, but when Zayn comes home telling Louis about his friend with nowhere to stay after a bad breakup, Louis suddenly finds himself sharing his flat with a gorgeous green-eyed man called Harry along with his adorable toddler son.

— rare pairs / categories —  

໑ Gaydar Lessons by @homosociallyyours (girl direction harry/louis, G, 1k, friends, flirting) While standing around after softball practice for the company's women's softball team, Harry gets caught (and caught up) in staring at Louis as she eats a ripe, juicy peach. If only she could be certain that Louis was into women.

໑ My Kind of Trouble by @homosociallyyours (girl direction harry/louis, G, 1.7k, waffle house) Harry has been a waitress at the Waffle House in Pigeon Forge, TN since she was nineteen. At twenty-five, she's settled into the routine of it enough that it feels like home, but for the past few months there's been something making it feel even better: the return of Louis Tomlinson, her high school crush.

On this particular Summer night, Louis stops by for a visit and the two of them share a table in a slow moment as Harry does a bit of side work. It's sweet in more ways than one, so much so that Harry has a hard time letting herself believe that it's real.

໑ Ask Him by LinksLipsSinkShips (niall/lewis capaldi, T, 2k, established relationship, coming out) When Lewis Capaldi gets pressed for information on who he's dating, he admits it... he's been seeing Niall Horan. The only problem? He jokes so much that no one believes him.

໑ the beat of your heart, the devil's arcade by edensrose / @holdingthornsandroses (louis/ethan hawke, M, 3.5k, established relationship, newlyweds, baseball au) “Louis Tomlinson, shortstop to the Cardinals, marries pitcher for their rival team, the Chicago Cubs,” Oli says in a fake announcer voice. He shakes his head. “One day someone will make a movie about it."

series of vignettes

໑ i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine by @disgruntledkittenface (girl direction harry/louis, M, 50k, strangers to friends to lovers, fake relationship) Louis fell apart when her ex broke up with her and moved across the country. Just as she’s starting to move on, Zayn comes back to town for their mutual friends’ wedding – with a new girlfriend as her plus one.

Blindsided and scrambling to save face, Louis lets herself get talked into a fake relationship with her new friend Harry. Their arrangement makes Louis feel pathetic and embarrassed, but it’s only going to last a few weeks. She just has to get through the wedding – what could happen?

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: The Man on the Tor

E. Remington and Sons, founded in 1816, was an American company known for firearms and typewriters, manufacturing the first commercial model of the latter. The typewriter part of the business was sold off in 1886 and via a series of corporate changes, the company is now part of Unisys. Not that it makes typewriters anymore.

The earliest known use of the word "sexy" comes from a letter by Arnold Bennett in 1896.

This is a period where people, especially of class, very much cared about avoiding scandal. A married woman visiting a single man late at night would be a scandal.

At this time Laura Lyons would have to prove that her estranged husband had committed both adultery and abandoned her. Proving the former would usually require a private detective of some form, beyond the means of most people.

A red letter day is one of special significance. In the UK, there are certain days where English High Court judges wear scarlet robes instead of the normal black. This would include religious festivals and the Sovereign's birthdays (official and actual), but I am unable to find an updated official list to reflect the situation with the current King.

Red Letter Days is also the name of a company that sells "experiences" like tank driving days or a cream tea at a posh hotel.

While Franklin possibly isn't aware of it as it was a common turn of phrases, the term "double event" was used in a postcard purporting to be from Jack the Ripper sent the day after that serial killer murdered two women in the space of an hour.

The Court of Queen’s Bench, now the Court of King's Bench, is the division of the High Court dealing with things like personal injury, libel and breach of contract:

Frankland clearly does not remember that you cannot sue the Sovereign. He could sue the Devon County Constabulary though, which has since become the Devon and Cornwall Police.

Tins for food were widespread at this time. They were made of iron, soldered with a tin-lead alloy, which could lead to poisoning by the latter until Max Ams developed a seam in 1888 that only required the solder on the outside.

A pannikin is a metal cup coated in enamel.

"Spartan" means austere. The city state of Sparta in ancient Greece was known, in a rather mythologicalised fashion, for its heavily militarised society, eschewing personal comfort for this. It attracted a lot of admirers as a result, including playing a big part in fascist beliefs. Their reputation for physical prowess has also seen several sports teams adopt their name, like AC Sparta Prague, who dominate the Czech association football game.

There is also of course 300...