#gvtted ratz fics

[gvtted-ratz]

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BEWARE

Lawrence Oleander x M!Reader

Last Edited: 30/07/2024

TW: drugging, foul language, alcohol consumption, self-indulgent, self-harm scars, talk about addiction, 2nd person POV, reader wears a skirt, open-ended ending

Requested: No.

Word Count: 2,311

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes from gvtted-ratz (writer/creator): Male Reader wears a long skirt because fuck gender norms. We will add, the self-harm scars talked about here are present everywhere on the READER. Title is from the song: Beware by Deftones. We’ve been having a rough time with some IRL things, taking a toll on our health. The song this fic is loosely inspired by can give you some insight on our thinking. Our moods have plummeted a bit, and we hope that by making this fic, it will get a little better. If you really enjoyed this fic, feel free to comment, maybe? Those are so much nicer to read/see than Kudos or Hits. Thank you again for taking time to read our little hobby writing.

Notes from @rppik (editor/co-writer): mkee

It’s late when you leave your flat, the long piece of fabric around your legs swaying as you stroll down the side walk. Outside is neither hot nor cold, perfect for the walk towards the bar you frequent.

With how you’re dressed, along with the fact that it’s quite late, you look more like a sex worker more than anything. Now, you’re no lady of the night, but you do respect them; they’re putting themselves out there, sometimes in danger, just to get by in this hell-run world.

You may have paid a few for their company before, feeling lonely on nights you can't ignore that you really don’t have anyone. No friends. Family is more strained than loving. Neighbours are more shit than chill. A night with one of the sex workers, whether it be at a restaurant or even at your own place to enjoy some snacks or movies, passes the time. 

They don’t say it to your face, but you can see the pity; imagine getting hired by some guy in a skirt, just to find out you’ll be hanging out with him, no sex involved. Sure, it’s a break from the usual clients, some more rough than others– but on the other end of things, you’ve just been hired by some weirdo who looks like he’ll cry if you ask so much as a “Why hire me if not for sex? Don’t you have anyone to hang out with?” It’s pretty sad if you really think about it.

You can feel your thoughts start to become syrup in the worst ways: sticky, slow, and annoying to get rid of. The hope is that this funk will pass, washed away with ease by being near others, like you so desperately crave. Or maybe you can wash it down you just have to grab a few drinks first.

The bar’s closed door looks inviting in the dark, light spilling from the window and onto the dull concrete below your shoes. The doorknob is in your hand before you even know it, entering the building without a second thought.

The air is warmer than that from outside, with the lights all an orange hue. It appears cozy and welcoming; if anything of the opposite occurs, you know that the stoner in the back will be the one to remove whatever ruined the atmosphere. You only know this because you’ve watched that scrawny stoner drag a black-out drunk woman out of the place. She had been screeching on top of throwing punches; not only did she not land any of her hits, she was banned from the place too. There’s been others like her, but that kid really does know how to get them out of the building.

It’s busier than usual, making it much harder for you to sit in your usual spot. The deep-rooted shame of being stared at if you were to choose your preferred seat makes you hesitate. The scars that decorate your skin show an ongoing battle against the very real urges that have grown attached to the vessel you call a body.

Said urges are like that of a Japanese Barberry shrub. The poisonous whispers that plague your mind dig into your very being like the spines on the shrub’s twigs. It takes time to remove such invasive growth, made even more difficult when both the plant and your urges have a multitude of small twigs and branches, snuffing out the light to keep anything else from growing. The shrubs attract the black-legged ticks, just like how your scars attract the glaring stares of those who won’t understand. The yellow flowers that hide under the foliage during the spring are a taunt; you’re clean for the moment, although, it won’t be for long. The red berries soon arrive, lasting far longer than you’d like. The beads of red across your skin is just another thing to ruminate on. Cleaning them or simply wiping them away leads to more; there aren't any animals out who want to lick up those droplets, unlike the fruit on those shrubs. Once the fruit is gone, the cycle starts anew. A never-ending addiction that seems to be engraved in your soul.

A spot near the back catches your eye. The area is a bit darker than the surrounding place, lights more dim than the rest. A few tables are filled, but there is one that is nearly completely empty. A blonde man sits by himself there, no drink in sight. With there truly being no other option that you’re willing to take, you approach his table. He doesn’t give you a glance, possibly thinking you're just passing by. It’s only when you reach to pull out a chair that he looks up.

You try to plaster a friendly smile on your face, however, it comes across as more strained than anything.

“Mind if I sit? There’s nowhere else really,” you say, trying to seem as non-threatening as possible. You’re not sure of what to do if he declines. Seemingly sensing your dilemma, he gives a small nod. His eyes look anywhere, everywhere, but you.

“Thanks! You waiting on someone?” You take the seat in front of him, thinking about how it would be too personal to take one next to the guy. One would say it’s more intimate to sit across from someone, since it’s easier to ‘gaze into your partner’s eyes, seeing all the love they hold’ or some bullshit. Maybe you should stop reading all those books on shitty romance.

“Oh… Yes. He hasn’t shown, though…” He seems reluctant to talk much more. The more you glance over him, the more it becomes obvious he’s uncomfortable. Whether that’s because of you or because of the setting, you’re unsure.

“You good? I can leave if it’s me, you know,” you try to help ease him a bit. You really don’t want to try fighting through the crowd, but you will if it means making someone less tense because of you.

“No, no. You’re uh… Fine. It’s just crowded,” he tells you, still not looking at you. You hum in acceptance at his words. You lean back, getting a bit more comfortable as you pull out your phone. Usually, you’d be drinking by now, but you really don’t want to make the one guy you’re sitting with get even more tense. He did say his “friend” stood him up.

“Uhm..” You look up from your phone, raising a brow as the other man starts talking again. He fidgets in his seat as he gets the words out. “Are you… A girl?” That startles a laugh out of you. You’re used to being asked this, mostly because of the skirt. What you didn’t expect was to be asked by this guy.

“It’s the skirt, isn’t it?” A smile threatens to overtake the neutral line on your lips. His ears have a red tint to them. Looks like you’ve hit the nail right on the head.

“I don’t see anyone other than women wear skirts, so I… I thought you might be one.” He looks embarrassed to admit it; it only serves to make you chuckle.

“You’re fine, you’re fine. To answer your question, I’m not a girl. I just like skirts,” you end up waving your hand dismissively. It gives the impression that you’re not bothered by his question, which, in turn, makes him crack a small smile.

“I’ll be right back,” the unnamed man says, looking a little bit more confident. You give him a nod, looking back down at your phone. It appears that you’ve cracked a bit of the ice around the guy– a win in your book.

You scroll through different apps and webpages. There’s not much else to do while the guy is gone. The blond is cute, you can’t help but admit. He does have a five o’clock shadow that would rival any shut-in’s. Then again, he seems highly introverted.

You wonder how he met his friend and why they bailed on him. Thinking it over, the blue-eyed man didn’t seem excited like one does when meeting with a friend; it was more nervous than anything, like they were meeting for the very first time. 

The clinking of glass meeting wood draws your attention away from your phone. A quick glimpse of an alcoholic beverage in front of you has you putting your phone away. The shaky smile is back on his lips, looking around the place again.

You look at your drink, feeling like something isn’t exactly right with it. In a moment of lack of impulse control, you grab his drink instead, taking a sip from it. The whiskey burns, but not enough to get you tipsy from just the sip. The man looks surprised at your decision, bringing your drink closer to himself.

You set your claimed drink on the table, looking over the guy again. The five o’clock shadow and red-rimmed eyes shows how exhausted he is; you weren’t going to only go off the dark circles under his eyes, considering many people under stress have them too. “Thanks for the drink,” you take another sip to show that you appreciate the gesture.

“Uhm. Right…” The blonde man is back to his nervous fidgeting again.

“I gotta ask, though. What’s your name? Pretty lame to buy a guy a drink but not offer your name.” You’re trying to joke with him while also trying to dog for intel on him. You don’t know him nor does he know you; plus, he bought you a drink, so you might as well get to know the dude.

“It’s Lawrence,” the nervous energy dissipates the moment he says his name, eyes looking completely lifeless. Just saying his name seemed to have flipped a switch in the guy’s head. It’s a bit creepy to see such a fast switch up.

“Right… Well, nice to meet you, Law,” you give him a lop-sided smile. You’re really trying to butter him up by giving him a nickname. Maybe you really are that lonely to try and befriend some dude at a bar.

“Nice to meet you too,” though he words it like a good thing, his eyes are still empty of emotion; they remind you of a desolate river that never seems to end or have a spot to even begin.

“Any reason why your friend might’ve stood you up? You seem to be pretty chill.” Another drink of the iced whiskey washes away any nerves that try to pop up. It starts to feel like a bad idea the more you drink.

“No… Maybe he was busy. Sometimes he gets too busy and can’t make it.” You shake your head at his explanation.

“Still shitty to not give you a call in advance. Or at least a text. If any friend of mine stood me up on a busy day like this, I’d be pissed.” It’s like he suddenly remembers how crowded it is, his meek demeanour returning. Lawrence hunches over a bit, trying to make himself seem small. At this point, you’re starting to think he’s either acting or on something other than the drinks he got you both.

“Well, how about you?” His question surprises you for some odd reason. You weren’t expecting him to be curious about the guy sitting across from him, who, for the record, took his drink.

“What about me, Law?” More whiskey flows down your throat.

“Why are you here?” You finish off your drink, grimacing a bit at the burning. You let out a cough to try clearing the feeling. The last bit even tastes bitter, much different from the usual chilled whiskey you’re used to.

“Lonely. I don’t have anyone at my shithole of a flat, and I can’t exactly keep a friend around. Especially not after high school. Motherfuckers dropped me faster than a cat does a rat,” while you force out a bitter laugh, the frown you possess shows that it still upsets you to this day. “I wouldn’t be coming down to the bar, chatting up random patrons if I did have people, you know. This is all I got for socializing and getting out of my place, Law.”

The blank look is back on his face, staring at you in thought. “Something wrong, Law? Don’t like the scars on my face?” You motion towards the different discoloured dots from acne picking; on one check is a healed gash from the corner of the mouth towards the ear.

You can’t say you regret all the scars you’ve caused; however, you do feel shame when people stare too long at them. They’ve become a part of your life you feel lost without. They remind you of the bad and good, despite the mutilation of your own skin. When they fade to the point of being forgotten, you always end up having to remake them; you just can’t let go of that false comfort of control you have.

“Oh. No, it’s not that,” that dull tone grates on your nerves. There’s a bundle of alarm bells that start to distantly ring in the back of your mind. Maybe the alcohol had dulled your senses, since they’re only now starting to vibrate with sound.

“Then what is it?” Your voice sounds weird to your own ears, like it’s not real. There’s a cold feeling spreading throughout your body as parts of it go numb.

“You’re a little different from the others. But you’ll leave all the same.” He looks warped, maybe even distorted, as your vision swims. You’re getting weaker, limbs not wanting to cooperate. Your tongue feels heavy in your own mouth. The only sound you can let out is this confused gurgle as you try to say something, anything. For a split second, you think you smell decay before everything fades away into inky black.

[gvtted-ratz]

BEFORE YOU READ:

- Read all tags/ratings if there are any. They are important and give you all you need to decide if you want to actually read. If you do not like the tags/rating, please do not read.

- We ask that anyone who is FEM aligning/identifying to not read our MLM fics. You can still send requests, however, we do not do FEM readers.

- You can find all our works on AO3. Only registered users can view/comment.

- Minors/ageless/blank blogs are not welcome, and you will be blocked. Respect our wishes or you will be blocked. We go through all our likes, followers, and reblogs.

Want to request? Find the rules: here!

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THOMAS

Tom/Thomas x Hacker!GN!Reader

Last Edited: 11/07/2024

TW: mocking, drugging, imprisonment, kidnapping, illegal auctioning, human trafficking

Requested: No.

Word Count: 3,721

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes from gvtted-ratz (writer/creator): Tom, our beloved. There isn’t much, if any, info on him, so we did our best. If you don’t enjoy the headcanons we’ve established here, we don’t mind you clicking off the fic. We do suggest looking up Nazca and its culture. It was pretty interesting to read about.

Notes from @rppik (editor/co-writer): a quote from when I was editing: “Rat, you self-indulgent meta-ass whore, PLEASE”

“I assume this is everything?” You can hear Blue and Red getting shifty at your words. They, as well as you, have been waiting for the introduction to cease to start your biddings.

“That it is, yes! Would my esteemed customers like to let this lowly auctioneer know what goods you wish to purchase?”

Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? Who will you be bidding on to take with you?

》YOU HAVE SELECTED THOMAS 《

“Blue window? Which do you wish to take with you? I’ll make sure to have it all written down!” The Auctioneer asks, motioning towards a metal door. Behind it, you’re sure there’s someone there to take notes of what items are purchased, they will be shipped to, as well as who wasn’t bought.

“Oh! I’d love to have that Thomas boy! I’ll do 140 for him! And perhaps Mason for 250?” Blue’s window lights up. She sounds excited to go first with her purchases. Then again, she always complained when she didn’t get to go before everyone else; better she goes now than later.

“Very well. How about the red window? Whom will you be taking?” The Auctioneer's  facial expression is unable to be seen behind her bandage-like mask, though the way she talks with such joy only highlights how well she is at her job.

“200 on Machete, 340 each for the Goffard boys,” Red says, window lighting up.

“What the fuck! Fuck you!” Derek says, Matt looking just as livid as his brother. Machete doesn’t look to be phased at being chosen by Red; his face stays calm despite this very unlucky situation he’s found himself in.

Those that haven’t been chosen appear to be less tense, relieved to not be bought. On the other hand, of Blue’s selected prizes, Mason looks ready to kill; his eyes looking this way and that, body tensed like a large predator ready to pounce. Tom's widened eyes, however, are shiny with fearful, unshed tears.

It appears Blue wants to have someone she can “put in their place” while also having somewhat of an obedient mutt.

“Green window? Would you kindly tell this lowly Auctioneer your choice?”

“150 for Tom,” your warbled voice makes said man flinch at your words. You can see his clasped hands shaking.

“What! But, Green! I want him,” Blue whines, making a distorted sigh spill from your lips. A few of the products’ eyes have that “oh God, now what” look to them. “200!”

“Nearing your budget. 300,” you retort, no hesitation in your tone. You hear a few huffs from her window, the blue glow only highlighting how spoiled she acts despite her age.

“Fine! I’ll take that dirty cop for 150 then!” You can mentally hear the ‘humph!’ after her words, leading to you to sigh once more. Blue is probably the Bidder you like the least, due to her spoiled tone paired with the inability to actually fight for items she deems worthy of her money. You already know she can’t afford the things she wants, compared to you or Red, that is. How she acts only adds fuel to that raging fire.

“‘Dirty cop!? Who the fuck do you think you are, you stupid bitch!” Said dirty cop is now making a fuss, making you smash your hand into your window to silence him. The rattling directs his gaze to your area while others try to look anywhere but.

“Auctioneer, the bidding is done. I will send you the money as agreed upon, including the extra,” you declare, the modulator only making your voice sound emotionless.

“Oh, yes! Of course! Thank you for joining us here today! As ordered, those who were not purchased will be dropped off in or near their respective towns!” A high-pitched whine rings out as a clear mist fills the room, falling from the spouts attached to its ceiling.

The Auctioneer stands away from the shackled group, seemingly watching on as they yell at everyone around them; cornered animals always tend to lash out when there’s no escape. While they proceed to collapse in heaps on the metal ground below, you, The Auctioneer, and your fellow buyers remain standing; you’re not sure if The Auctioneer has a resistance or a built-in filter to keep out the gas used to put the products to sleep. You do know that the buyers’ rooms have a separate system from the main room, holding its own spouts for the gas in case there happens to be a violent mishap.

Just as quickly as the gas started, it clears just as fast; the spouts no longer whine from releasing the unknown chemicals in the air. Dressed similarly to The Auctioneer, employees of hers enter through the only metal door leading into the room. They grab both the purchased and the unsold, hauling them out for shipment; those that have not been chosen will be carted off as The Auctioneer had stated previously, able to be bought again at a later date. Each of the merchandise will be connected to a drip, keeping them under as they’re delivered to their respective drop-off locations.

You feel a small amount of glee at seeing your chosen target being placed in a wheelchair, IV hooked into the meat of his espresso-brown arm. While he doesn’t know it, he’ll be awaiting your arrival as is per policy; there must be a positive identification of the commodity before the Auction House's job is labeled as complete, with this being a precaution in the case of the delivery being in the wrong area.

“All has been settled, yes?” The Auctioneer’s polite speech forces you to stop staring after your new companion. “Would you kindly wire your payments at this time?” Her customer-service tone hasn’t dialed down nor increased during the entirety of the show’s presentation; it simply remains as prim as possible without grating on your nerves.

“The amount should arrive shortly. Exactly as agreed upon.” You present your burner, clicking the keys to gain access to an offshore account you’ve set up prior to this visit. If one were to try tracking it, somehow getting past your secured firewalls and the encryptions you spent days installing, the trail would only lead to some sap who has a very disturbing interest in illegal images containing unsavoury depictions of people’s mutilated bodies. No skin off your back– literally or figuratively, in this case.

Your distorted-sounding words hold true, as some device beyond the metal door The Auctioneer is standing beside lets out a ding . Hearing it, she glances over at it before nodding, deeming your actions acceptable.

“Thank you, Green. I have hope from the bottom of my heart that your lovely purchase with bear the ripest of fruit for your taking!” You only give her a nod from the glass, knowing she cannot see into it unless you were to talk, forcing the light to shine on your form. You don’t bother to stay any longer, deciding to leave the little boxed room. Likewise, you’d rather not listen to any concerns nor issues the other buyers may have; such instances usually end up in heated arguments or death of said buyer, and you're not particularly interested either way.

With the door closing behind you, another figure dressed like one of the many previously seen employees steps out in front to guide you. There are no words exchanged, the only sounds you hear being that of your own footsteps, paired with your guide’s own muffled breathing through the gauzy wrappings around their head.

Nearing the end of the hallways, the guide opens the dark-wooden door before you, stepping aside to allow you to walk through. Your pace stays consistent, neither slowing nor speeding up. Brick steps turn into a worn gravel path under your shoes as you approach your vehicle. The keys are pressed into your awaiting hand by another member of staff, dressed like the others before them. The rental is easy to gain access to, the engine starting with ease now that you’ve put the key in the ignition. As you drive off, you don’t look back, looking forward to approaching your place of work. You’re sure that by the time you arrive, your chosen prize will be there waiting for you, unknowingly in his sleeping state, of course.

-------------------------------------

The black van parked in front of the dilapidated garage you call your workplace almost makes you chuckle. It’s hardly inconspicuous though the van is needed to transport goods like the one you’ve purchased; it only makes the image of a kidnapping, or even a body dumping event, brighter in your mind’s eye. Maybe if it was part of some sort of amateur fanfiction made by a sleep-deprived author, you’d have thought more about the vehicle’s design or the fact that you’re at a very odd location after visiting a human trafficking auction to purchase someone. As it were, you had better things to preoccupy your mind with.

You park the rental close to the van, exiting it to approach the back of the dark car. The back doors swing open, an employee of the auction house opening them from the inside. They gesture at the incapacitated man, allowing your hidden eyes to glance over his form.

The IV is still inserted in his median antebrachial vein, or the superficial vein of the forearm; it’s one of the most common places one inserts an IV. He’s been strapped down on a gurney, keeping him in place during the entire ride here; if he were to wake up during transportation, he wouldn’t have been able to escape with all the leather straps keeping him held down. The man hasn’t been changed out of the white tank top or blue shorts, glasses still on his face.

With a quick nod at the worker to signal your approval, they start the process of getting him prepped for you. They remove all the bonds, drip taken out afterwards, and have one of the bulkier employees carry him over their shoulder like a sack of grains.

You step to the side, allowing them to exit their van, just to lead them into the dilapidated garage. Rubbish, dust piles, as well as weeds decorate the ground before you. While there is a house attached to this abandoned hole, you don’t use it. The house has more damage to it than the garage itself, all thanks to some squatters; there may have been a few drunk, teenage party animals who pitched in too, though that remains unproven. There’s no use in trying to clean up the rest of the place, the garage being the most stable despite its looks; there’s still electricity running through the place, leading to your computer set-up, including a portable heater for when the nights get a little too chilling.

You motion towards a spot in the corner of the room with a dog bed on the floor to have some cushion against the concrete ground. A few blankets are thrown haphazardly near it, the portable heater pointing towards the corner. Along the wall, there are some old pipes, carrying water to the shower a few feet away.

To you, the place looks more like a basement than some abandoned garage, and you can’t help but think you got lucky when nabbing this place. With it purchased under one of your many aliases, the trespassing has been cut down greatly; a few shots from a hidden gun does wonders on chasing them away too.

The business-casual dressed worker sets your merchandise on the dog bed as you gesture towards said spot, being careful as to not cause any damages. Those who aren’t careful with purchased goods tend to disappear, as is stated in The Auctioneer’s policy; only the best is expected, after all.

With your new companion disposed of in his respective spot, you give the worker a dismissive wave. You don’t have to watch them leave, hearing their footsteps retreat. You approach your desk, pulling open the bottom drawer to find your desired items. Shoving aside a few snacks, you pull out a pair of handcuffs, and a chain hook connected to a heavy-duty chain; the chain gives two feet of length if used correctly. With your items acquired, you kick the drawer closed.

You approach the unconscious man, knowing he won’t be that way for long. You loop the chain around the pipe, using the hook to lock it in place. With the chain secured, you put one of the chain loops in one of the handcuffs, tightening the cuff until you can’t click the metal any farther. With everything now set up, you lock the cuff around your prize’s wrist; it isn’t tight enough to cut into the meat of his wrist, but it will cause bruising if he yanks on it.

Now that your possession is secured, you throw one of the discarded blankets over him in some semblance of care for the man. A ping from your computer notifies you of a possible correspondence. Leaving the man to continue with his rest, you instead place your focus on work. The office chair is pulled out, creaking with your weight as you plop down in it. A click of your mouse causes the multitude of monitors to light up. Your helmet provides cover from the bright lights, the tinted lens serving its purpose well.

The clacking of your keycaps fills the rotting room, replying to messages from clients about any delays or issues they may be concerned about. Other responses are to those like you, sending out warnings on which clients to avoid and what people to not try messing with when it comes to their valuable privacy. A familiar last name comes up in those encryptions, leading to you sending one to those you’ve worked with: Goffard. Auction. Bought. Both. Location Unknown . You knew the moment you heard that last name, it wouldn’t be long before there would be reports in the hidden parts of the web about it.

Father. Killings. Watch out. Another code says, the word of caution making a warbled hum leave you.

Other Buyers. Not User. Safe. That’s your last response, seemingly making the others let up. Perhaps they thought you had bought the men, but with your short messages, their worries are put at ease. You’re sure these correspondences will be sent to the men’s father, only leading him down another path, as two of his heirs are missing. That is none of your concern, however, as people like you are highly sought after. You wouldn’t be surprised if he asks for aid from one of you; he may or may not care for his sons, but he certainly will care for his business and image.

A gasp not far from you alerts you to your captive. You turn to look towards your right, hands not leaving the keyboard. Tom has huddled up close to the pipes, staring at you with wide brown eyes; his pupils seem contracted, merely pinpricks with how he shakes in terror. To see such small pupils almost makes you proud of your apparent ability to intimidate without even trying, though you usually see dilated ones for those in fear. Maybe it truly does just vary from person to person.

“Rise and shine, Sweetheart,” you adopt a mocking tone despite the modulator forcing it to sound monotone.

“How long was I..?” He asks, though it’s more hesitant than anything. You find it cute that he thinks there’ll be some sort of repercussions for possessing curiosity.

“A few hours, give or take. Nearly the entire day, maybe. Then again, it’s hard to tell considering I haven’t kept track of the time,” your insincere chagrin is coated in the surgery sweetness of falsehood; if it had been an actual treat, it would have rotted your teeth out. 

“What do you want from me?” Tom sounds a little more confident with this question; it’s not by much, if you’re being honest.

“Companionship, a pet, someone to complain to, and whatever else I want you to be,” you’re blunt with the answer, no use sugar-coating why you purchased him. “Believe it or not, Tom , it tends to get very quiet here. Unless I’m dealing with a very crass client. Then there’s screaming from them and shit-talking from me.” You put emphasis on his name, showing that you do, in fact, know it. He likely doesn’t even know the half of how much you know about him; the summary The Auctioneer gave you couldn’t cover the array of other things you’ve found out about him.

With some digging, you knew his parents came all the way from the city of Nazca, stationed on the southern coast of Peru, leaving before he was conceived. Following their trail further, you found that his parents now reside in Eatonia, Saskatchewan of Canada. Looking a bit more into Tom himself, you saw that he was born and raised there, only moving to a more university based town after his high school graduation. You did have someone take a few pictures of his dorm in your place; at first, you were unsure if Thomas practiced anything relating to Nazca culture, but the few hand-made pottery and ceramic items placed around show he still has a connection. You also spied a few small plants in his dorm, grown by his own hands, if the dates on the hand-made plant pots said anything about that; there were even care instructions next to each one.

From your own research into Nazca culture, you knew there was an emphasis placed on agriculture as well as an array of crafts like pottery, ceramics, and textiles. Even as a full-time college student pursuing media development centered around sound design, he still has time to stay connected to those before him.

“You won’t be letting me go, will you?” Tom sounds devastated at this revelation, his words rousing you from your silent recollection of your findings on him. At least he caught on quick enough without you having to spell it out for him.

“I wouldn’t buy you just to throw you out. What a waste of money,” your scoff can be heard through the helmet. He looks to be cowed at the sound, making that small bit of pride nestle close to your heart. You look back over at him, watching his shaking form. A loud sigh spills from your lips, catching his attention. “Behave and your little spot will be upgraded. I’ll even let you continue your college courses. Online, of course, and monitored carefully. I don’t need you running off the moment you think you taste freedom.”

Your words seem to be enough to comfort Tom, his eyes shining at the idea of having some semblance of normalcy despite the circumstances, seeming to recognize that this is a far better fate than he might have received otherwise as an unwilling captive.

“I’ll- I can behave! I promise I will!” His eager words make you nod.

“I’ll hold you to those words, Thomas. Remember, I have eyes and ears everywhere . So long as you behave, you’ll get whatever you want.” His nod seals the deal, leading you to go back towards your work. If everything works out, he’ll be more than some glorified pet in this run-down shit-hole.

-------------------------------------

“How was your day out?” Tom sits on your couch, laptop in hand, with notebooks spread across your coffee-table.

“You know how I always complain about my clients, yeah?” You flop down next to him, spreading out on the couch. Ever since you bought him from that auction, he’s kept his word; no running, no sending SOS messages through his email to family or college, or screaming for help when you do take him out of your flat. In fact, you never even had to hurt or manhandle him in any way to keep him from fleeing. Due to this, you’ve kept your word. Instead of that shit-hole of a garage, he’s been moved to your own apartment. From some pet to a possible friend, he’s been living with you for nearly a year now. You buy him whatever he wants, giving him anything he asks for. All he has to do, in return, is stay.

“You did mention this specific one two days ago. Is she complaining again?” He asks, writing some notes down. Your scoff makes him glance at you for a second before continuing with his work.

“More like trying to get me to redo the entire 143-page document I created after saying they wanted every little piece of info I could gather on her target. She says it’s too much, but won’t pay me to cut down and summarize the information.” You adjust yourself so you’re leaning against his side, watching him work. Tom doesn’t even react to your touch as you keep talking. “Like, what do you mean you want me to do more work without being paid for it? That’s not happening. You can find someone else to redo my work if you’re that upset with it.”

“As you said, she can find someone else if she won’t pay you. You did what she asked, so that's on her for giving you the wrong instructions.” There’s a pause as he stops his note-taking. You watch him collect himself as he tries to find the words to express what he wants. “Can I… Go out later today?”

“Take your phone with you,” it’s more of a demand than anything, and Tom knows it. You can’t risk losing him if he does leave. 

“Of course! I… I wouldn’t leave it behind. You told me you have eyes everywhere…” There’s acceptance in his words, knowing that you’d find him no matter what.

“Good. Then you can go out. Make sure to be careful. Worse comes to worst, you’re hurt, and I have to get my hands dirty to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Your hands twitch at the thought of having to take another life to ensure Tom is off limits. You’ve already made it clear within your informant group through a series of warnings and threats.

“And if I’m dead?” It’s asked casually, almost like he expects to die on one of his trips.

“The only way that happens is if I allow it.”

》START OVER?《

[gvtted-ratz]

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Romantic Dreams

Karkat Vantas x Dave Strider

Last Edited: 08/09/2024

TW: Foul Language

Drabble Prompt: A drabble maybe? Maybe a tiny bit of touching? Where Dave explains that a fist-bump is not declaring they become mates. But Karkat really, really does want to have him fill that matesprite quadrant. And then forces him to sit down and watch some god-damn troll films.

Word Count: 560

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes from gvtted-ratz (writer/creator): Title is from the song Romantic Dreams by Deftones. Can you tell we heavily enjoy Deftones? They inspire us and keep up afloat with their songs. Hope you enjoy the prompt for these two. This was supposed to only be a maximum of 500 words.

Notes from @rppik (editor/co-writer): in which watching a movie with bae is meant to be educational

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND SHIT, FUCK ASS. IS YOUR FUCKING PUZZLE SPONGE ROTTING INSIDE YOUR NUGBONE?” Dave stares at Karkat in silence, listening to his moirail’s words. His arms flail around as he talks in his yelling-but-not-really way. The Texan just lowers his shades a miniscule amount to show the mutant-blood that he’s listening but finding Karkat’s words “uncool.”

“Karbro, how is a fist bump connected to getting down and dirty?” Dave’s freckle-speckled arms cross over his chest, his expression ever unchanging. If it was physically possible for trolls, Dave is sure Karkat would burst a few blood vessels in rage.

“HAVE YOU NOT SEEN ANY OF THE FUCKING MOVIES I RECOMMENDED YOU? THEY CLEARLY EXPLAIN WHY BUMPING PRONGS IS JUST ANOTHER FUCKING WAY TO LINK POINT STUBS. YOU’RE PRACTICALLY DECLARING YOU WANT TO FILL MY MATESPRITESHIP QUADRANT.” Karkat’s cheeks darken a bit at his last sentence before he turns away to click away on his husktop.

The way Karkat speaks tends to make Dave think slowly over his words, placing his own vocabulary in the areas that make no sense; no one ever said he didn’t have some critical thinking and couldn't piece things together from the context clues in any given text— that includes Karkat’s wall of words.

“How can I sit and watch all that when there’s more bulge and nooks in there than one of Bro’s smuppet films,” the Texan argues, earning him a grossed-out look from Karkat. It makes Dave backtrack a little bit, a small dust of pink dancing over his ears. “I mean… C’mon… There’s just so much sexual stuff that I really don’t want to see it. Not like I‘ve seen a smuppet film. John thought it was a good idea to check out Bro’s stuff, is all… And I heard some things. Wasn’t very cool of him to pry,” the last part is said a bit quieter as he starts to shut down at the thought of his Bro.

“WELL, WHY DIDN’T YOU FUCKING SAY SOME SHIT EARLIER, YOU FUCKING DUMBASS. I COULD HAVE FOUND YOU SOME OTHER MATERIAL THAT DOESN’T FOCUS ON THE SEX PART,” the troll looks a little hurt at Dave’s words. They were in a moirailegiance for a reason, and to see his moirail not want to disclose something that made him uncomfortable disquieted the mutant-blood.

“Didn’t want to ruin your snappy mood. You know how it is, Karbro,” Dave’s earlier unease seems to disappear as he gets his “Strider Mask” in place; Striders are too cool for emotions, so it’s best to keep that mask on to remain composed.

“YEAH, SURE. WHATEVER YOU FUCKING SAY. NOW SIT YOUR SPINAL CREVICE DOWN. I’LL PUT ON ONE THAT DOESN’T HAVE ALL THE SEX SHIT YOU HATE.” Karkart starts to rummage around in one of his many bins of collected movies. The Texan’s stature seems to loosen up at his friend’s words, sitting down on the couch.

“As long as its title isn’t stupid,” Dave teases, watching Karkat immediately snap his head towards him at the jab.

“YOUR HUMAN MOVIE TITLES ARE STUPID. HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT GOES ON WITH JUST A TITLE CALLED JOHN WICK? THAT EXPLAINS NOTHING.” Dave lets the troll’s rant wash over him, having riled Karkat up to let his passion for romcom-based films drown out any negative emotions the Strider felt previously.

[gvtted-ratz]

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How Much Do You Hate? (It’s Not Enough)

 Rody Lamoree x Vincent Charbonneau

Last Edited: 07/09/2024

TW: past murder, unintentional cannibalism, POV third person, open ending, spoilers for the game

Requested: No.

Word Count: 2,460

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes from gvtted-ratz (writer/creator): Title is from a quote in Marble Hornets. The fic takes place after Table for One (Ending 1), with some changes through the entire thing, of course. We’ll be sprinkling in a few things from the other endings. Spoilers will occur due to this. We hope you enjoy.

Notes from @rppik (editor/co-writer): men will sooner do whatever the fuck this is than go to therapy (gutz is men,)

“Hey, Manon… It’s me again… It’s… It’s Rody. I know you broke it off, but I just want to hear your voice. Please… It’s been…” There’s a pause from the reddish-brown haired man. “It’s been a month since I last heard you and I–”

“Goodbye.” It’s an automated response from the land-line as it disconnects Rody’s call. Tears flow down the distraught man’s cheeks, nose starting to turn red and leak snot. He drops the phone, leaning over the old little side-table it’s perched on. It’s here where he breaks down over his ex-lover, the water leaking from his eyes an everyday occurrence since the first moment she broke it off with him. He can remember her words, said so softly and sadly.

“I can't keep watching you ruin any semblance of progress you make with yourself while trying to make me happy, it's exhausting… You're killing yourself over me and… I can't have you spending money on someone you don't need. Until you can learn to care about yourself, this will only do harm for the both of us...”

Those words had hurt back then— even now, it’s a stab to his heart. He thought that doing everything in his power to make her happy would be good enough to make her stay. It was never enough for his family nor his ex-friends, and now he knew his best wasn’t good enough for Manon, either.

It takes a while for the tears to stop, snot dripping from his nose. A few stuttered breaths leave Rody as he stops hovering over the phone. He quietly puts the device back in its place, quietly walking towards the paper towels in his little, run-down kitchen. He blows his nose, wiping his face to get all the moisture off it from his daily crying session. An eviction notice hangs on his barely-functional fridge.

Ever since he quit his job at La Gueule De Saturne, the money he had been collecting for Manon had gone straight to his own bills. For the entire three weeks following her departure, along with quitting his job, he’s stayed in his little flat. He did try to find other jobs, but no one wanted to hire him. With no income coming in, he’s on his last few cents; it’s not enough to make rent, hence the eviction notice.

Rody hasn’t even been able to eat much, causing his health to start declining. He’s still broad, but one can tell he’s gotten weaker from poor nutrition. The day he quit, Rody ended up rationing all the food Vincent had made him that week to last longer; from green onion rolls to blueberry crepes, both of which typically last two days each. The squid ink pasta with shrimp, strawberry shortcake, croque madame, and fresh lemon tart were all eaten after he got them at the end of his shifts. The Grilled Hanger Steak Vincent made him on his last day was stretched as thin as it could go, despite his big appetite— he made it last three days.

Going from three meals a day, despite how cheap and unfilling they were, to barely a meal a day was taking a toll on the stocky man. He had to cut his food costs if it meant saving money for Manon, but it didn’t matter in the end— she never picked up or called back.

Slowly, Rody stumbles over to his couch, flopping down on it. The springs in the old thing creak beneath his weight. Near his front door, crumpled up in a ball, is his old waiter uniform. Staring at it makes the man nearly start crying again right then and there.

Vincent’s curt, no-nonsense way of speaking made Rody feel inferior at first, intimidated by his boss. As the days passed, however, Rody could see some sort of favouritism towards him from the control-obsessive chef. Rody had even come to think of the other as his friend, deciding to call him “Vince”. Ever since quitting, he hasn’t gone back or reached out to Vince.

The longer he stares at his dirty uniform, the more he wants to go back to La Gueule De Saturne. The desire to see Vince builds up in his chest, causing it to ache. Rody quietly admits that as much as he does miss the free food Vince made him after a day of work, he misses Vince’s blunt way of speaking more; the way he bandaged Rody’s hand after being injured, paired with how upset he looked the last time he saw the other, has been stuck with him for the past three weeks he’s been away. Rody peels himself off the couch, deciding that there is no other choice but to beg Vince to let him back.

--------------------

Stumbling into La Gueule De Saturne after not seeing the place for nearly a month shocks Rody. It looks the same, with it being just as busy. He can feel disgusted glances thrown his way from many of the high-class customers; he hadn’t showered or changed his clothes in a few days. His medium-length hair looks more tangled than anything, as he hasn’t been able to brush it. At the podium is a smiling woman, her face soft in a way that reminds Rody of the way Vince’s face would get to appease difficult customers— it’s a fake hospitality that makes the tan man tense.

“Welcome to La Gueule De Saturne! How may I help you?” Even the way her cheerful tone sounds reminds him of Vince.

“Is… Is Vince here? I need to ask him–” he’s unable to get his full sentence out before he’s being shut down.

“I’m sorry, but Chef Charbonneau does not have any time at the moment for guests,” her smile doesn’t waver as she stares straight at him. He can feel her repulsion for him crashing down onto him in waves.

“Tell him it’s Rody. I’ll wait here until I see him,” Rody forces the words out, straightening his back to tower over the woman. He sees her distaste for him in the way her smile starts to look strained.

“Very well. Please wait here,” she glides away, reminding the guy of how inferior he is to the wealthy folk here. His shoulders start to sag, the weight of the glances and clear disgust for someone so below their status piling up on him.

“Rody,” the moment he hears that familiar voice, he almost starts sobbing right in front of everyone.

“Vince! Hi! I…” Rody’s smile shakes as he looks over at the other. Vince looks like he did before he quit, save for the larger-than-usual dark circles that have formed under his eyes. The long look the dark-haired man gives him makes Rody squirm.

“My office.” Vincent is already turning around, starting his walk. Rody is quick to follow him, feeling a small bit of happiness. He’s elated to see Vince doing so well, even in Rody’s absence.

In a way, Rody knew his work as a waiter was the reason for all those negative reviews about the service. To think that Vince was still doing well, the reviews that mentioned poor service deleted after he quit, only served to fuel his pride for the chef. In the darker part of his mind, however, he felt upset at being replaced so easily— he was the one to quit, and yet it looks like the restaurant hadn’t ever missed or even housed him.

They enter the office, Vincent first, then Rody. The moment the door closes, Vincent is talking as he leans against his desk, arms crossed. “You look like you’ve been put through the meat grinder.” Rody’s shoulder sag again, staring at Vincent.

“Can I… Can I have my job back, Vince? Please? I’ll work overtime if I have to!” His hands shake as he pleads. “No one will hire me and I don’t have any money! I had to ration the meals you gave me and I… I can’t pay rent anymore.” Vincent watches Rody, hardly blinking as he stares at the other male.

“How long did you ration those meals?” He doesn’t meet his green eyes, opting to gaze more at his ear.

“A few days, I think? A few I ate the moment I got back to my flat… I was able to stretch the Grilled Hanger Steak to three days.” Vince’s eyebrows raise at his words, surprised. It’s here Rody sees his eyes squint just slightly in pleasure. Vince’s expression flattens just as quickly as it shifted when he sees Rody watching him intently.

“That wouldn’t have been enough food to give you anything worthwhile. You’ve lost weight, Rody,” he doesn’t sound upset, though he does give the tanned man a disturbed look. “Your hair is matted, your clothes reek, and you look like you’ve done nothing but cry the last few weeks.” At this, Rody’s eyes start to tear up. Hearing how much of a wreck he already knows he is only makes him feel worse. Through his blurred vision, he can see Vince’s frown and shifting eyes.

“Please, Vince! I’m serious! I’ll do anything to get my job back! No one will take me, and Manon hasn’t picked up or called in a month! You’re all I have!” He’s blubbering at this point, shaking with his sobs. He’s sure Vince can hear his quick inhales as he tries to breathe through tears and snot.

“Go home, Rody—” a particularly loud sob echoes around them both, “—you’ll start back up next week. You have the same schedule as before.”

With Vincent’s words, Rody leans forward, wrapping his arms around the other in a tight hug. He can’t get any words out through his distress-turned-joy. Vince wears a pinched expression, one of his hands going to rub the emotional man’s back. The two stand in Vincent’s office, both basking in the comfort of the other for two very different reasons.

--------------------

The second time Rody walks into Vince’s office, it’s a little over two weeks later, a notice in hand. He opens the door, not bothering to knock. Vincent is at his desk, hunched over a few papers. He looks up at Rody, pushing away from the desk as he stands.

“What’s wrong, Rody?” He eyes the letter crumpled up in Rody’s tight fist. From the look on his face, Rody can guess he believes it’s his two-week notice.

“I’m being evicted,” is said with such a detached tone. The reddish-brown haired man looks just as he did when he found that photo of Vince and Manon, though it's not like Vince would know how he looked due to his nosing around. 

“How long do you have before you’re forced out?” Vince seems to calm down at his words, no longer believing he’ll be quitting again. 

“About two days. I mean, I knew this was coming, but I don’t have enough time or money to find another place! I thought that I’d be able to pay back the landlord, but it looks like her hospitality ran out. Ha…” Rody rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish at his own words.

“Exactly how long ago did you get the notice, Rody?” By the blank expression on Vincent’s face, the tanned man can tell the other is highly unamused.

“The beginning of last month. But–! I thought I’d be faster. Ha ha…” Vincent continues to stare down the other male, only serving to make the other start sweating lightly from the intensity of his gaze.

“Gather your belongings after your shift. I’ll meet you at that heap of garbage—”

“It’s not that bad!”

“—you call a flat,” Vincent finishes; his gaze never moving from Rody’s form.

“Oh… I… Where will I be staying, then?” He looks like a kicked dog, eager to please. Vince’s expression pinches in a look of defeat.

“You’ll stay at my place until you can find yourself a new one.” If either of them had been in a game, Rody’s happiness would manifest sparkles around himself, blinding Vincent in the process. “This means you shouldn’t be late to work any more.” His tone turns scolding, a scowl on his face at the reminder of Rody’s tardiness he accidentally gave himself. The other man keeps looking at him as though he’s hung the moon and stars in his honour.

“Thank you, Vince! I swear I won’t let it get cluttered or gross in there!” If Rody was a puppy, Vincent is sure he would see a brown tail wagging, showing how overjoyed the other is.

“I’m fully prepared for you to break this oath, Rody. Get back to work.” With that, Vincent turns back towards his paperwork as Rody rushes out to go serve customers.

--------------------

Rody had believed that the nightmares would stop after moving in with Vince, but in reality, the focal point of his dreams merely shifted. The nights he had pleasant dreams, none of them featured Manon. They had Vincent as the main star every time— he was cooking for him, saying how proud he was of Rody while he let the tan man stand so intimately close to him.

With such a huge flip of his subconscious mind's focus, it was no wonder the night terrors went from Vincent eating him in the hopes of being able to taste again to Manon berating him for not being able to find her after their breakup; it was enough to cause cold sweats and shaking. Every night a horrible dream plagued him, he would go and recover outside Vince’s door— there was a sense of comfort he found by hunkering there.

Tonight is one of those nights spent sitting against the wall near Vince’s door, a sheen of sweat dripping down his face. He can still feel the hatred pouring off his ex-girlfriend in waves, crashing over him. In reality, he’s never seen anything like that from Manon. It’s the feeling in the back of his mind that leads him to believe she would look just as she did in that fake world.

“What are you doing out here, Rody?” Vince’s tired tone makes him snap his head up, peering up at his exhausted boss.

“Ah… Well,” Rody trails off, his smile wobbly at its edges.

“Go to bed. You’re only going to get cold the longer you stay on the floor.” There’s no room for argument as Vincent closes his door to go back to sleep. Rody does as Vince says, unable to help but wonder what Vince was originally going to go get; he’s never seen the ever-tired man ever leave his room in the middle of the night.

When he finally falls asleep, his dreams are peaceful, Vincent present in them to soothe any hurt or fear Rody has.

[gvtted-ratz]

BEFORE YOU READ:

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Do You Have The Guts?

Hoon Man (Francis Mosses Doppelgänger) x GN!Doorman!Doppelgänger!Reader

Last Edited: 27/08/2024

TW: blood, 2nd POV, flesh eating, canon-typical behaviour, death of doppelgängers, courtship, mating rituals, reader is a doppelgänger

Requested: No.

Word Count: 1,370

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: Hello, hello, hello. Welcome back to our fics. We decided to make our speciality/favourite reader once again: inhuman. Reader is a doppelgänger. They are gender-neutral (they/them) and the doorman. Title is from the song: Guts by graveyardguy. Comments are appreciated and sought after.

@rppik (editor/co-writer): this was my monstersona awakening hope you fucks are happy,

Before the outbreak, you never thought you’d have the chance to infiltrate the human race. Your very creation goes against all humane ethics and the deceptive morality therein. When it comes to their pursuit of scientific advancements, government protocols and principles regularly fail to limit their ambition or the lengths they will go to. With their greed for results, you’ve become a lurking by-product of their hard work and study, just like many of your kin.

To mimic another is forbidden by the humans but praised graciously among the Doppelgängers. To be a carbon copy of these pitiful creatures, fooling everyone around you, is sought after. Many are killed or taken back to containment for being unable to fool them, after all. Those that fail and have not perished must learn from it and evolve, just as you have; you wouldn’t have landed this job otherwise, after all.

A card slides through the slot, identifying the person across from you. Next to the little plastic thing lies a piece of paper with “ENTRY REQUEST” typed across the top page. You look over the paper, noting that everything looks correct. A glance over the identification card checks out, too.

“So, does everything check out?” Angus Ciprianni asks, sounding quite happy despite the fact that you’ve been stalling this entire time.

“Your neck,” you say, not taking your eyes off him. Or rather, off his neck. It’s all there is to look at through the window.

“What about it? It’s completely normal,” he insists, sounding confident in his words. You stare a bit longer, internally sighing at how stupid your own species seems to be. You can’t help but humour them at times, taking a multitude of moments in indulging in their need to try and fool you.

“Mr. Ciprianni’s neck is not that long, I’m afraid,” is all you say as you click the red button. The alarms sound as you dial the D.D.D to take care of the— quite frankly— stupid issue at hand. A knock at the window alerts you to the finished clean-up protocol. With the grate over the window lifting, you give a nod at the biohazard-dressed agent. You’ve done this dance so many times that there’s no need to even talk with the simple-minded fools; that is, at least, in your opinion.

With the agent gone, someone occupies the empty window, shoving their documents in through the slot. It’s little Anastacha at the glass, staring at you with tired eyes. You give the young human a small nod, looking over her documents. The lack of buzzing under your skin already tells you that she’s not another Doppelgänger.

“Whatever, can I enter? Mmm...” You slide the information into the opening, letting her take her information before unlocking the door for her. It slams shut, locking back up for the next person in line.

The work you do is repetitive. If you were human, you’d have allowed your vessel to work hazily on autopilot instead of being on full alert. Truly, there is nothing but humans to let through and your species being slaughtered in the name of the government’s “justice.” Perhaps if they hadn’t gone dabbling with things they shouldn’t have in the first place, this issue would not exist.

----------------------------

The end of the day approaches, with there being fewer humans to let in as time progresses. You see more Doppelgängers, sending them each to their deaths or capture. It's not a particularly troubling task, as your kind has no fondness for another, unless it’s in the name of some sort of courtship; you wouldn’t know much more than that, as you tend to avoid such topics with the humans you’re in charge of looking after. As far as you know, you have no feelings nor care for such a trivial matter, and neither does the majority of your species.

You’re about to lock up, looking at the pile of clothes and blankets in a pile; it’s too far from the window to be seen. It’s a place you’ve claimed as your resting spot, having nothing else to do other than be the doorman for this human living complex.

You don’t need much, unlike your squishy counterparts; Doppelgängers can survive just about anywhere amongst humans, and comfort or care is not needed in any capacity. The only thing that matters is blending into their way of living, slowly taking over despite there being no real purpose to it. Well, beyond them being a good source of sustenance, and blending in keeping you hidden as you consume them in their entirety.

It’s just as you’re about to click the button to have the shutters come down, signaling the end of your shift, that you get that buzzing feeling.

In front of you stands one of Mr. Mosses’ Doppelgängers, staring at you with pinprick pupils. The dark caverns that are his semicircular eyes and gaping-open mouth drip with an unidentifiable inky-looking liquid; his lips are upturned into a huge, void-like grin as he stares straight at you.

“How can I help you?” Your face is empty of any emotion, unlike your fellow kin’s.

“Hooooonn…” He drawls, still watching you. He leans towards the glass, his eyes still on you. “Hoon hoon hoooooooon…”

You’re not quite able to understand him or his speech. In your time as a doorman, you've never before met a Doppelgänger that couldn’t speak like the humans. He taps the glass a few times, repeating his single word over and over, almost like he’s attempting a conversation; it’s just one you can’t decipher.

“I don’t understand,” it’s a statement that sounds harsher than you intended it to be. You shouldn’t be indulging in this Doppelgänger, especially since he’s not trying to give you any documents or trying to get in. Or maybe he is trying to get past the door, but it’s hard to know with his limited speech.

It isn’t until a bloody mass is pressed against the glass, smearing its gore on it, that it dawns on you that this is not an attempt to kill you or the humans in the complex— it’s a mating proposal.

Doppelgängers do not share their kills with others unless it’s some form of courtship; it’s much more bloody than that of the Homosapien species. One could say that the ritual of obtaining a mate is horrific when it comes to your kind; to woo another, you must give up the most recent kill you’ve hunted and bestow it upon the chosen partner. From there, it’s only a matter of the other’s acceptance or refusal. Acceptance means the mating ritual is complete, while refusal usually ends with one of the Doppelgängers dead at the hands of the other.

Very few of your kin take a mate at all, as there is no purpose to it other than appearing normal in human eyes. There’s also the added factor of Doppelgängers being very picky when it comes to kills they will accept, especially if they’re not going to copy the hunt’s existence entirely.

The semi-mute man on the other side of the glass presses the gore through the slot, more of the blood from it tainting the once-clean space. He stares, waiting for your answer. A small bud of something lights up in your being. It’s not love, oh, no. Maybe it’s flattery? Confusion? Awe at another so much as considering you as a possible mate? Whatever the feeling is, it’s enough for you to take the mass you’ve been given.

You can see the other shaking, perhaps in happiness, as you turn the offering this way and that in your now blood-soaked fingers. You look over the piece of kill you’ve decided is worth the courtship and take a large bite, the fluids flowing down the sides of your mouth and chin as you devour more and more of the flesh. The coppery taste of blood mixed with the sweet flavour of human meat leads to the entire thing being eaten in just a few bites.

You don’t look at the fake Milkman as you click open the door, allowing him the opportunity to enter the building and towards your little office. You have accepted his courtship.

[gvtted-ratz]

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My Life’s So Pitiful

Mark Hoffman x Adam Stanheight

Last Edited: 26/08/2024

TW: angst, death, stalking, age-gap, drugging, cannibalism, foul language, breaking and entering, canon-typical violence, graphic decomposition description, older man/younger man, not Lawrence friendly, open ending

Requested: No.

Word Count: 5,706

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: He Hoff on our Man until he’s up and Adam after he Saw our Mark. Title is from Sick Puppies’s song called Pitiful. We really do hope you enjoy it. It’s taken more than a week to work on it. We’ve been dealing with some awful body pains/sickness and mental issues currently. So we hope that all the time we’ve put into this was worth it.

@rppik (editor/co-writer): Haven't seen these movies, can't handle gore in the slightest, but y'all are wilding huh.

The hospital’s cream-coloured walls combined with its sterile scent was much better than that of the bathroom’s. The bathroom was washed in shades of blue, hurting his eyes; that ordeal did the colour blue no favours at all in his mind. No, not after that hell.

The keys to his cuff had been lost down that drain, fucking him over the moment he awoke in that mouldy tub. It hadn’t even been his game to win, it was Lawrence's. Adam had been set up for failure when he was taken, given no chance to survive or make it out at all— never the low-life's chance to prove he deserved to win. No, redemption was offered to the wealthy snob, instead.

Cherish your life, my ass, is what he’d thought to himself. How could he cherish his life when all he got from that shithole was a bad case of PTSD and other possible ailments to his already poor health? He could bet on his fucked-up toe that had probably caught something like sepsis from his wounds.

He couldn’t forget the bullet wound, either. He got flashes from the resulting surgery even while awake; small glimpses of people shouting alongside some sort of pain shooting into the hole in his shoulder, digging around for the piece of metal that had been lodged into his flesh.

There had been a man screaming the entire time, however, Adam can’t remember who he was or where he had been. He knew that the screaming only stopped when they had fully sedated him. He had been expecting pain to be shooting all along his body, however, it was muted, almost like it had faded away into nothingness. He’d even done a thorough check over on himself, despite feeling weak in his appendages, to make sure he wasn’t still tripping out in that bathroom. The gaping wound in his shoulder was wrapped well, and the grey tint to his skin looked like it had more life to it. The feeling of being safe didn’t arise, however, despite him being in the medical unit. Instead, the feeling of deep fatigue reared its ugly head again as the drip continued to enter his blood via IV, pulling Adam back under the spell of sleep.

------------------------------

“Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight needs rest, Detective. You must understand. His overall health been damaged tremendously. Until he wakes, you must wait outside the room,” It’s a voice Adam doesn’t recognize, possibly one of the nurses tending to him; he isn’t sure either way. However, he never liked cops. He’s had enough run-ins with them to know they won’t help him. So to know that they’re here, likely to ask him questions about that fucking bathroom, makes him want to close his eyes so he can go back to sleep.

“He looks awake to me,” a voice much deeper and smoother than the nurse’s retorts. Its tone reminds Adam of his mother’s know-it-all one back when he was still living with his family. Despite that, it’s much calmer than that of anyone he’s related to. Hell, the pitch itself is leveled in a way most people's voices aren't, except for maybe Lawrence's. Even then, it's too different to be a fair comparison to the doctor's tenor.

He doesn’t even try to hide that he’s now awake, instead opting to force his eyes open and turn his heavy-as-lead head towards whoever’s in his hospital room. The nurse, seeing this, decides to speak up with, “Mr. Stanheight, how are you feeling? Any pain?”

She keeps her distance, as though she doesn’t want to approach him. Her face is bland, unblemished, in a way that suggests he won’t remember her by next week; she's one of those people whose faces he wouldn't bother photographing because of how unremarkable her features are. Then again, she’s wearing a nondescript uniform, which isn't scoring her any points for individualism. Maybe if she wasn’t in her nurse garb and in civilian clothes, there could be some sort of personal preference for him to capture in her style; he’s always enjoyed the more personality-fuelled type of pictures than the giant corporate types.

God , he thinks, I feel like a creep. Wouldn’t that be close to the truth, huh?

“I feel like I’ve been shot, starved, and left to rot in a shithole bathroom,” he responds, throat feeling like it’s been torn to shreds. His lips feel like when mud dries out too fast, causing cracks along its dried surface. It’s painful; his voice, usually being strong and full of snark like he’s used to, is nearly hushed. He can feel tiny shards stabbing into his throat for so much as croaking out an answer.

The nurse grabs a small paper cup close to his bedside, filling it with water from a pitcher. He’s not sure how long it’s been there, although he’ll take anything other than the mouldy water from that hell. She holds it up to his lips, making him wrinkle his nose. His arm feels heavy as he grabs the cup from her, nearly spilling the water from how he fumbles. She retracts, allowing him to drink the water on his own. He hadn’t even tried using the bullet-wounded arm. He can feel the pressure from the bandage on his shoulder, having somewhat of a clear-enough mind to not move it.

He chugs the water, making his stomach cramp in pain from how fast he guzzled it. His face shows his regret in his decision, he just doesn’t voice it. He’s never been one to admit when he’s in the wrong. No, he’d rather call out those around him for something like that, showing the proof in pictures taken late at night. 

“Now that you’re awake and fully conscious, I’d like to ask you some questions,” the soft-spoken voice is back, still just as deeply calming as before. The nurse decides it’s time to leave them be for now, making her way out the door, so the two can have their privacy.

Adam looks over at the guy, glancing up and down before going back up to his face. The unnamed detective’s lips are full while being set in a line, his face giving nothing away; he’s completely composed with an air of calm around him. From his suit to his hair, Adam can’t see a single flaw in how he’s maintained his appearance. That is, except for his eyes. They’re cold, seeming to be more empty than alive; it’s like all the life was sucked out of them. With another glance over, Adam decides that, despite that prim, proper appearance, there’s bound to be something inherently off with the detective.

Maybe he has some dark secret that well-adjusted men like him wouldn’t want to be exposed. Something like wanting to be restrained, yet asking for said restraints to be tighter than usual, or craving shards of glass to be imbedded in his back during an adrenaline-fuelled rush. Better yet, he could like putting people down to fulfill some sort of power fantasy by being the only one allowed to make the calls. Of course, it’s all speculation, with there being no concrete proof the photographer has to show. A guy can’t help but dream so he can make ends meet; the blackmail really does help the ‘ scum of the Earth ’ out.

“First, did Lawrence get out? He got us help?” He tries to keep the hope out of his voice; he doesn’t succeed. He kept his promise, right?

“Unfortunately not, Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight–,” Adam cuts him off, not willing to listen to the entirety of his last name for however long the guy will be here for.

“Stanheight is fine. Or Adam. Just not my entire fuckin’ name. It’s a damn mouthful.”

  “Dr. Gordon was delirious with blood loss for the first two days of him being admitted to the hospital. There was no mention of your possible location. You were deemed missing for almost two weeks before being dumped close by in the very early hours of the morning.” He continues on, his soft-spoken tone sounding remorseful, but the dead look in his eyes doesn’t change, making it apparent it’s forced; Adam can’t help but admit that it does sound genuine. He can feel his hope dry up, becoming a pit in his stomach. “We had asked him multiple times, however, he claimed that you were deceased.” That’s the final blow to any hope or gratitude he may have help for the doctor.

“He promised he’d come back, except he fucking lied.” Pain mixed with disdain is so prominent in his voice that it cracks. He doesn’t cry, even though he can feel the water building up around his eyes.

It’s not the type of heart-break pain you feel when your crush rejects you. No, it’s that searing pain in your heart when you’ve been told the opossum you’ve not only been caring for, but also talking to, has just been brutally murdered; the sort of pain that reminds you that you made it out of hell but one of your only friends is fucking dead. That’s the pain he feels, having been told that the promise he was given, filling him with hope, was total bullshit. He, a nobody who thought that he could have some sort of friendship with a guy out of his league, was left to perish without a second thought.

“Your gunshot wound was infected, with the bullet still stuck inside your shoulder. You were delirious with hunger and dehydration. The water you were consuming to stay hydrated had rust mixed with mould in it, causing you more harm than good,” the detective lists, all the while Adam is starting to shake with anger and hurt. “The meat you had been taking bites of was starting to decompose due to aerobic bacteria. This means that Zep, the man you had been feasting on to survive, was becoming slime on the outside as time went on. His odour became worse as he discoloured, producing gas, while also decomposing rapidly. You only made yourself sicker.”

“So you’re saying everything I did to survive meant nothing?” Adam’s shaking, close to losing it completely. He feels like a failure, having this random detective tell him in remarkable detail all the ways in which it was a mistake to eat parts of Zep, paired with drinking that rancid water to make the bodily pains go away. He knew it was making him weaker either way, fuelling his delirious, delusional state. He could feel it all.

“Yes, but no. As you made yourself sicker, you hastened your would-be death through the poisoning. Your misguided efforts, and your will to survive, must have meant something to your captor as you were dropped before you could succumb to your ailments.” It’s stated softly, almost like the other man is impressed with how far Adam was willing to go just to live another day. From ingesting a decomposing corpse to willing swallowing down contaminated water, he must have made an impression on the unnamed cop.

“And what about Lawrence?” Despite his betrayal, he has to know.

“What about him, Mr. Stanheight?”

“How did he get out? I heard him scream from beyond that door. How did he leave?”

“Dr. Gordon was dropped off just like you were, only much earlier. He had a prosthetic already attached, with his wounds bandaged. He was released close to the time you were admitted.” His words only make Adam feel even shittier. Not about Lawrence, but about himself.

“Did he say anything about me besides me being dead? Did he even visit?” There’s silence from the man, only letting Adam know that Lawrence really had left him, never planning on going back.

“...He has covered your hospital costs and was released into the care of his family two days after you were brought in. He did not mention anything else about you or wanting to visit.” The tears that had been building up finally spill over, rolling down Adam’s cheeks. He can feel his face getting hot, with his nose getting stuffy as he cries. The detective simply stands there quietly, not saying anything for a moment to let Adam get it out of his system. He can feel the older man’s eyes never once straying away his face, making this all the more uncomfortable for the usually rage-fuelled man.

After a few minutes, Adam starts to wrangle his emotions back into place, allowing the other man to say, “If you’re applicable, I’d like to take your statement.” He takes a few steps closer, pulling out a pad and a pen to take his statement. He uses the end of the pen to push the semi-full box of tissues on the table’s side towards Adam, removing it when Adam takes a few tissues to blow his nose rather loudly.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Fuckin’ whatever,” he tries to get himself back into his usual headspace, not wanting to break down again despite knowing he will.

“I’d like you to start with what you were doing before you were taken from your apartment nearly two weeks ago,” he starts, only to stop when Adam gives him a disbelieving look. “What?”

“You’re not gonna tell me your name first? How do I know if you’re really a detective?” It comes off as petty, and maybe a little delayed, though Adam doesn’t plan on letting anyone start to ask him questions on anything without introducing themselves first. He learned his lesson last time with the man who hired him to take photos of Law- Dr. Gordon .

“I am Detective Mark Hoffman. I’ve been assigned your case pertaining to the man known as ‘Jigsaw’ or ‘The Jigsaw Killer.’” He pulls out his badge after balancing his pen on his pocket notepad. He doesn’t put it away until Adam nods, letting him know that he’s done looking at it.

“Alright then, Big Guy,” He doesn’t plan on using his name any time soon; it’s simply not how Adam works, unless he’s in a life-or-death situation again. “Can you repeat your question?” He’s expecting a sigh from the older man, but he doesn’t do anything more besides blink at him and repeat his words like Adam asked.

“What you were doing the night you were taken from your apartment nearly two weeks ago?”

“I was talking to Little Bastard-”

“Little Bastard?” Hoffman actually seems a little amused at the name while fishing for information.

“He’s this opossum that used to come into my apartment sometimes. I’d let him hang around and chat with him. I bought a dog bowl to put some scraps I got from take out in for him,” there’s fondness in his tone of voice as he talks about one of the few friends he had. He’d include Scott, except for the fact that he’s more of an asshole he can go get free booze from than an actual buddy.

“Alright, continue then,” he writes down something Adam can’t see. He wouldn’t put it past the cop to say he’s a delusional loner.

“As I was saying- I was talking to Little Bastard and put him down by his food bowl before I went to my darkroom to develop some photos for this guy-”

“What were they about and for, Mr. Stanheight?” He’s interrupted again, feeling some of his buried anger starting to surface again.

“Does it really fuckin’ matter?”

“In fact, it does. I need everything you can remember so we can narrow down possibilities on why you were targeted,” Hoffman says this as smooth as humanly possible. Maybe in his previous life he was a tapioca pearl with how smooth his voice is; only he died early because he was in some person’s tea or pudding.

“Fuckin’ fine . I was hired by a guy who said his name was ‘Bob,’ and he wanted me to take photos of Dr. Gordon. The pay was about two-hundred dollars for every batch of photos I brought in. I didn’t know the client was a detective, okay? Fuckin’ Gordon said that it was some ex-cop who thought he was Jigsaw,” Adam spits out the words, hating every second of it.

“So you were targeted because you spied on others for cash,” it’s a statement rather than a question. Adam sneers, letting his silence on the matter explain his answer. “Alright, Mr. Stanheight, you can continue with your earlier statement.”

“I went into the darkroom to develop those pictures, except I got tired, so I ended up sleeping in there. When I woke up after my nap, all the power was out. Like, nothing was turning on at all. Then I heard this noise, and it made me think someone broke into my fuckin’ place.” Adam moves his uninjured arm as he talks, waving it around, making gestures. “So I grabbed my camera and used the flash on it by taking pictures to see if I could find ‘em. There was this puppet in my living room, just sitting there laughing at me. I got my baseball bat to destroy the little fucker. It was annoying as shit with its laughing. And then I heard the bastard behind everything move around in my closet and I just,” he pauses, frowning as he starts to get angry again. “I opened the door thinking I could take ‘em, but I couldn’t. I ended up fuckin’ knocked out just to be put in that shithole.”

“Alright, thank you for your statement, Mr. Stanheight.” There’s no ‘ I’m sorry that happened to you ’ or ‘ You’re lucky you survived .’ It’s a simple dismissal with no pity. In a way, it’s nice, since there’s no one looking down on him. There also isn’t anyone trying so hard to get on his good side, befriending the traumatized man, just to brag about how they met a ‘ real-life true crime victim ’; it’s just a breath of cold fresh air.

“You don’t need my account of that hellhole?” Along with Hoffman’s voice being soft-spoken with its deep, smooth tone, Adam can’t help but admit that he’s also a small, maybe even a tiny bit, attractive. Plus, he hasn’t exactly looked down on him like Dr. Gordon did in the bathroom. The memory of how the doctor called him all those names, plus shooting him, makes a small stab of pain hit him.

“Dr. Gordon’s account matches with that of the evidence found on you both. Your stories on being taken from your locations also have enough similarities for us to rule out neither of you being suspects nor accomplices. Despite your hobbies , Mr. Stamheight, there is nothing else I’ll be needing from you. If you do happen to remember anything from your kidnapping, you may call.” He pulls out a card from his suit pocket before handing it out to Adam. There’s no hesitation from Adam when he grabs it. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Mr. Stanheight.”

With those words, Detective Hoffman puts away his pen and pad before departing from his room. Adam watches with a sort of disappointment weighing down on him. He knows he’ll be able to get information on him, though, something to satisfy that lingering curiosity in his mind. If he was able to get info on Dr. Gordon, then he could get it on Detective Mark Hoffman.

He knows something is off about the guy. He just can’t help but be unnerved by the detailed description of the bathroom he gave. He also finds it weird that Hoffman knows so many details on Zep’s corpse, despite neither Adam nor Lawrence being found near it or the bathroom. That in itself is bizarre, as was the detached way in which the detective described it. This gives Adam more questions than he’s comfortable leaving unanswered, a prickling feeling at the back of his neck makes him think that a part of that hell has breached his prison just to follow him outside its walls. He just has to wait until his physical wounds heal before he can start digging for answers.

------------------------------

His place is completely trashed from cops snooping around. Any food that he could have had before the abduction is spoiled, rotting all over his counter, including what’s left in his open fridge. Thankfully, he has some funds from the program that good doctor had set up for people like them .

Right. People like them . The thought makes him grimace even more while he starts to pack a few of his items. The funds provided are enough for another flat, some new food, and maybe even more clothes. He’s glad his film, together with his camera, weren’t messed with. It seems like they were hidden away in some hole in the wall, although by whom or for what reason he isn’t sure; the peeling wallpaper seemed to be enough to cover up the hole, so the cops didn’t find it.

With his camera, film, and shoddy blanket all packed up in a duffle bag, he casts a nervous glance around the downright shit-stain of a home. The fear of that masked pig lurking around is present even as he leaves. He made sure to call to book the open-house appointments for apartments while in the hospital, so when he got released, he’d just have to show up to the open-house tour when scheduled. He didn’t want to pack what he had just to wander around aimlessly after the discharge. No, that would mean that if he didn’t find one, he’d be sleeping back there where everything had happened. It really doesn’t help Adam’s psyche that his bathroom reminds him of the one he was left to rot in.

So when he finds a place that is on the cheaper side but more of an upgrade than his last place, he takes it. The rent is about the same; the difference is that the heating won't go out, nor is the wallpaper shredded and peeling. There’s no mould he can find or weird scents he can smell either. All in all, it's a better option than what he was expecting to come across.

The unpacking of items takes less time to do than make a cup of instant mashed potatoes; it really is pathetic in a way. Adam knows he's pathetic, though. As well as an asshole, since he doesn’t exactly project all rainbows and sunshine. Fuck that. It’s a waste of time , is what always comes to his mind the moment someone tells him to ‘ try to be nice ’.

The moment he touches his camera, he remembers the urge to find that detective again. The fear of being caught by Jigsaw thrums alongside his own heartbeat, but the need to actually gather something from the older man won't go away. He’d seen him up close in the medical unit, yes, but he doesn’t have anything other than his card to remember him by. Adam knows himself well enough to recognize that if he doesn’t get something else, he’ll tear his own hair out from the prickling buzz under his skin.

He places a call to someone to pick him up when it starts to get dark, since he doesn’t have a ride; he can also use them to drop him off close to the detective’s home if he does happen to come across him.

Grabbing his camera and the card Hoffman gave him, he starts to think of a plan on what to do when he gets down to the station. As he exits his new place, he thinks about how he won’t go inside; that’ll only give himself away. Instead, he’ll be camping it out, watching for when the other leaves, only to follow him back to his place of residence. If he's got one thing to be proud of in his work, it's the fact that he hasn't been caught by any of his targets yet.

Jigsaw doesn’t count. Fucker wasn’t my target , floats in his head, a lit cigarette in his mouth as he walks down the sidewalk. His camera hangs around his neck as smoke leaks out from his mouth.

He knows the town like the back of his hand; Adam knows the shittiest parts of it even better, having lived in more than half of them throughout the years. So when he sees the police department with its usual pigs crawling about, he finds a spot to hang out at that won't draw their attention. He sets up his little camping spot with himself, the camera, a lighter, and his box of cigarettes he plans on smoking through.

------------------------------

A box of cigarettes, a two-hour nap, and a few camera shots of people later, Adam watches Hoffman leave the station near dark. It’s almost too difficult to see now that the day has decided it’s had enough shit to deal with. Or, that’s how Adam sees it; either way, he makes due.

While he watches Hoffman approach his car, the younger of the two sees another car pull up. This one appears to have been put through the damn wringer, only to then be set on fire; moreover, it looks like hot garbage.

Inside the piece of shit vehicle is the driver. He doesn’t know their name. All he does know is that he met them at a bar one night, with them saying that if he ever needed a drop-off to give them a call. Despite smelling like a skunk while flying a kite as high as it can go, they were pretty down to earth.

“Adam, hey,” a dopey smile spreads across their face as Adam walks up. He piles in the passenger’s seat, brushing the rubbish off it and onto the floor.

“Think you can follow that pig’s car?” There’s a slow blink before their dopey smile gets a little bit wider.

“No problem, man. Good to see you again,” they reply, starting to follow the detective’s vehicle. “Where you been? Haven’t seen you in like… A month?” They don't seem certain with the time frame, but Adam waves his hand in dismissal.

“Yeah. Had some shit happen, but I’m good now.”

“Good enough to follow law people like a little creep,” they laugh a bit, one arm nudging Adam in good faith. Adam gives them a glance, knowing that they aren’t the type to have a mean bone in their body.

“Yeah, gotta make some fast cash is all,” he says, tapping his camera. They nod along, not thinking to question him at all. Yeah, he might not know them or their name, though he does think he could call them a semi-friend.

“Well, if you need a ride or a smoking buddy, you got my number. No pressure, dude.” Neither of them talk for the remaining duration of the ride. Adam never once lets his eyes leave Hoffman’s 2006 Ford Crown Victoria; Adam even forces himself to repeat his license plate, SOE-710, over in his head on replay. He huffs, figuring that of course a cop would get the latest model available. Anyone who made the big bucks would splurge it on new cars, making Adam think that Hoffman really isn't that much different from all the other snotty rich folk. 

As Hoffman’s car pulls up towards his apartment complex, the hunk-of-junk Adam’s pitched a ride in stops on the corner; while still close by, Adam doesn’t want Hoffman to think that he’s being followed. His driver did make sure to keep a little ways away the entire time, making Adam hope the detective was tired enough to not notice.

“Thanks, uh,” he pauses, remembering he doesn’t know their name. They laugh, leaning forwards as their entire body shakes from the sound coming from inside them.

“Dude, you really don’t have a clue? Man, that’s so fuckin’ funny!” They keep laughing, starting to gasp for air from how amusing they find the situation. Adam gives them a dirty look. “It’s fine, it’s fine! Just get out there, dude! Call me Dee or something.”

“Dee for driver? Really?” He looks completely unamused at their choice in name.

“Yeah! Or you can just call me Driver. Now get out there! I got a bar to visit. Friends need me, man,” They tell him, waving the man off and unlocking the car’s doors. The young man gives up, throwing his hands up in exasperation before leaving the vehicle.

“I’ll call you later, maybe,” he slams the door shut, now making his way towards Hoffman’s apartment complex. He hears Dee’s car take off, leaving him the only one outside. His heart pounds as adrenaline rushes through him. He doesn’t know which room belongs to the older man, nor sure how far into the building he’s gotten, yet.

Instead of immediately going to the complex, he hides around the corner to sit in waiting. He doesn’t want to enter the place with Hoffman still present. Adam turns on his camera, aiming it at the complex. The sound of the shutters clicking is the only sound he hears besides his own breathing; he can hear some distant dog barking a few blocks away. The area sounds like most residential places Adam’s been to, minus the ones he’s stayed at; those always had people yelling or screaming. Other times, they’re eerily silent.

It’s only about half an hour later that Hoffman exits the complex, heading for his parked car. When he had gone in, he had on his suit, tie, and dress shoes. Now, though, he’s dressed in a Defender Black Eider Lanfon Parka, a black shirt that still is too tight for the assets he possesses; dark cargos; and boots. Where the big guy is going, Adam isn’t sure.

The darkly dressed man enters his car, taking off into the night. With him now gone, Adam makes his way to the complex, entering through the doors. Not knowing where to start first, he makes his way past the front and towards the stairs, eyeing them before turning his gaze to the elevator. Unsure on which to take, he stands there, looking between the two; it’s not even that, the number of floors listed has just reminded him that he has no idea which one the man lives on.

“What are you doing?” A voice asks him. He turns around to see an elderly woman peeking out from her door.

“Yeah, uh. I’m lookin’ for my friend, Mark? He’s like, tall, looks like he could tear you a new asshole for so much as sneezing too loud,” Adam says, trying to plaster on a smile; it doesn’t appear to do much besides make him look constipated.

“The Detective? Yes, I know him. He never mentioned anyone coming over,” she doesn’t seem to be fooled by Adam’s smile nor words.

“Yeah, I’m dropping off some pictures he asked me to take. Dug around and found a few he said he wanted to keep, took a few he thought would look nice in the album,” he tries his best to not sound snarky or too mean to the old woman. She’s the only one who’s clearly nosy enough to answer him with how she stuck her head out the moment she noticed him.

“Oh, how nice of you, Dear! The Detective lives on the second floor, room 12. I hope he gets those pictures quickly. He always seems to be the lonely type,” with those last words, she closes the door.

“Huh. That was… Easy,” Adam mumbles, clicking on the ‘up’ button. The elevator opens after a few seconds, having needed the time to lower the cramped box it holds. The doors open, letting Adam inside. He crams himself into the corner of the lift, letting the possible death contraption rise, bringing him to the second floor. Once the doors open, he’s quick to exit, walking down the hall to find Apartment 12.

“Took long enough,” he mutters, standing outside the door, the number 12 sitting right next to it. Digging through his pockets, he finds the lock pick kit he bought after his hospital release. Hard to get into an apartment he owns when the key to it was taken as evidence, never to be given back. He had been lucky to even get his wallet, along with the donation money from some charity dedicated to Jigsaw victims.

The twenty-seven-year-old crouches down, sliding the tools into the lock. Never thought I’d be breaking into a dude’s home who’s sixteen years older than me, he thinks to himself, finally getting the door unlocked. He puts away his kit, heading inside the now open flat.

It’s dim and quiet, only his shuffling to be heard. There’s dust in a few places when he lets his eyes wander. Bookshelves with few books stationed alongside dirty knick-knacks don’t give Adam that homey-feel one would think; maybe it’s all the dust and lack of light.

Entering the kitchen, he heads towards the fridge, opening the door to snoop around. Pigs usually make more money than some gutter-rat like Adam, so he’s curious to see what’s there. Surprisingly, it’s nearly empty unless you discredit the large quantity of beer. Looking at the dustbin, he sees it overflowing with various amounts of take out containers.

“A drunk unable to cook. Who would have thought,” Adam snarks to himself. A creak is the only warning he gets before something large descends upon his shoulders, pulling him away from the fridge. He throws out his arms, trying to get whatever grabbed him off. He hears a grunt from the perpetrator when he smashes his heel into their foot. A stinging pain erupts from the side of his neck, making Adam cry out.

He’s able to slip out of his attacker’s grasp, reaching for a knife from its block. Adam feels his body starting to sag, just like how it was when he was taken by Jigsaw. Turning to look behind him, his body starts giving out. Crashing to the floor, the knife leaves his hand as his vision swims. In front of him is a large man, a pig mask covering his face, and an empty syringe clasped in his hand. His vision goes dark, ears tuning into the sigh he hears above him before it fades away into the buzzing sound of static.

[gvtted-ratz]

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Physical Affection

Vincent Sinclair x M!Reader

Last Edited: December 5, 2020 9:39 PM

TW: none

Anon: If you aren't busy could you please do a story where Vincent have a boyfriend that loves physical affection like hugs, cuddling, & kissing. Stay hydrated and take care of yourself.

Word Count: 842

AO3 LINK -> HERE

When you first met Vincent, you were in a basement. Everything was lit up by soft candlelight. You could feel a mattress underneath your pain-ridden body. You were in terrible agony and felt like you had been hit by a truck. Your head was pounding, your stomach felt like someone had stabbed you. Your legs and arms were heavy and your eyes were watery. The pain was so bad that letting out a small groan caused pain to rack your entire body. You closed your eyes as the pain hammered into you.

Through ringing ears, you could hear foot heavy footfalls heading your way. You opened your eyes only when you saw a shadow cast over you through your eyelids. Your vision was slightly blurry due to the tears that gathered up in your eyes. You blink them away and stared at the person standing before, or above, you who stared right back. Long black hair fell down their shoulders. Their sweatshirt is a dull marigold with a dark brown jacket covering it. Old black jeans are stained with, what appeared to be wax, with matching black boots. Underneath the jacket, you spot a little bag.

They tilted their head before they had squatted right above you. You had closed your eyes, hoping that maybe they’ll just go away. You kept your eyes closed even when you felt a hand ghost over your cheek. You kept them closed when the hand went from your cheek to turning your head and feeling the back of it. You had let out a cry of pain when they touched a very tender spot. Tears built up in your eyes from the agony you were in.

You could hear someone yelling before the person above you left, leaving you alone. You had drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of your head wound being tended to along with many cuts and scrapes along your arms and legs. During this time of rest, you could remember bits and pieces of what had happened. A friend of yours was driving the car. She, along with the other four of your friends, was drinking. You were not one to drink, and you should have been the one to drive, but you were held back by your drunk friends. You guess that along the way to wherever, she had lost control of the car and crashed.

What happened after that is a large blur. You distinctively remembering a flash of dull marigold, being dragged out of the crashed vehicle, and then… nothing. After that, there is nothing else. You didn’t know where you were and you had no clue who all survived the crash. What you did know was that the person that had been standing over you a bit ago was your savior.

--------

That had been weeks ago. Vincent never spoke, though he did make sounds every now and then. During those weeks, Vincent nursed you back to health and protected you from his twin brother. By being with Vincent, you have learned quite a bit about him. He’s an artist who is constantly drawing or working on artwork with wax. The basement was filled with the smell of melted wax and eucalypts.

You have been sticky to Vincent like glue. You are almost always touching Vincent in some way. You crave the Physical Affection and Vincent has no problem providing it. He lets you hug him from behind as he works, lean against him when he’s drawing, and most importantly, he lets you sleep right next to him with no problem. From what you’ve noticed, Vincent has no problem with you depending on him for this affection.

Lately, Vincent has been placing his masked lips on your forehead, letting them stay there for a few seconds before removing them. In response to this, you have been placing pecks on his hands and on his masked cheeks. As time goes on, you slowly start to notice that Vincent draws you in his sketchbook, words around the pictures.

One day, when he leaves to go get you both something to eat, you look through the book, amazed at how talented he is. You come across one that has a word written right beside a drawing on you leaning against Vincent. Boyfriend. A smile works its way on your face as you go over all of the affection that Vincent has done. When Vincent came back down into the basement and had set your meals on the table, you wrap one of your arms around Vincent, smiling widely.

Vincent had been nothing but kind to you during your time with him. No words were ever needed between the two of you, actions spoke enough. He let you borrow his clothes when you had none. He let you cuddle him at night when you both went to sleep. He even let you hug and give him pecks. Yes, you are very much happy with how it has turned out and you wouldn’t go back to change anything if you had the chance.

[gvtted-ratz]

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You’re Welcome Anytime

Will Graham x M!Reader

Last Edited: March 24, 2021 9:30 PM

TW: anxiety

Requested: no

Word Count: 1,060

AO3 LINK -> HERE

You have been under stress from Jack for a week now. He kept pushing and pushing and pushing. It was just too much. He was always rushing you to finish up your notes on cases which led to mistakes. This, in turn, led to you being yelled at by him all the time. It not only embarrassed you, but it also made you feel both dumb and inferior to everyone else around you. Jack had told you that if you were to make any more mistakes, I’d be taken off the case you are on now. That scared you more than anything. Your job is to review the cases, profile the killer, and take notes on it all. The moment Jack yelled that at you, you could feel everything crashing down around you.

You hid away in the lab with Bev. Brian and Jimmy were out getting everyone lunch. Bev had lent her lab coat to you since you were pretty cold. Bev seemed fine with the entire thing since she was the one to offer you her coat. The coat was warm thanks to Bev’s body heat and warmed you right up. You and Bev had been talking about the workload you’ve been getting and the stress you’ve been facing. You weren’t ready for her to suddenly bring up Will Graham though.

“So, you got the hots for the unstable man… I see how it is,” Bev says, her lips curled up in a smirk.

“I… No! You be quiet!” You tell her, your face flushing at the sudden change in subject. Bev’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“You know I can’t do that. Now that I know about you having the hots for him and all,” Her smirk doesn’t disappear, it seems to grow bigger. “I’m just surprised the man hasn’t noticed.”

“You’re surprised? I’m surprised! He knows what people think and, yeah it is kinda scary, but it’s also really cool. Maybe he does know but doesn’t feel the same way,” Your tone goes from joyful to slightly sorrowful at the thought of rejection. Before you and Bev can say anymore, Will walks in, holding a file in his hands. “Oh, is that for me?” You ask, reaching your hand out to take the file, already knowing it’s for you. Will hands you the file, observing you the entire time.

“You seem to be nervous, very nervous,” He says, staring at you. You give him a shaky smile, feeling your nerves slowly getting the better of you.

“Yeah, well, I’ve just been stressed lately. I mean, have you heard Jack yelling at me? I’m sure everyone has by now,” You end your sentence with a nervous, shaky laugh.

“Yeah. I heard it. Sorry you had to go through that… I’ve been yelled at by him so many times that I’ve not fazed anymore,” Will tells you, giving you a small smile, trying to comfort you. You try your best to keep your face from flushing at the simple smile. You look towards Bev quickly, seeing her mouth the words ‘Yeah, you got the hots for him’. You give her a small glare before looking down at the file in your hands.

“I guess it’s time to get to work. Bev, be a dear get me a chair, Darling,” You say dramatically, trying to get rid of the sick feeling in your stomach. You hear Bev let out a chuckle as she goes to get you a chair. Faintly, you hear Will let out a small snort of amusement. You feel that nervousness slowly coming back. Who knew that a simple sound from Will would get to you like that? Bev pushes the desk chair towards you, its wheels rolling silently. You grab it and place it by the desk and sit down. You open up the case file and start to analyze the pictures.

“Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ve done all I came to do,” He says as he starts to walk out. He stops suddenly and looks towards you. You don’t notice with your face close to one of the crime scene photos, your eyes squinting slightly as you looked at all the details. “[Redacted], you can come to my house if you need to talk about the cases or just want to chat, You’re Welcome Anytime .” He leaves after saying those words, leaving you no time to process them before he’s gone.

“Seems like Mr. Will Graham may have to hots for you too. Please tell me you’ll go to his house. Two nervous people like you and Will go great for one another, I swear,” Bev says, leaning over you.

“I might, but you never know. Maybe I’ll disappear off the face of the Earth for a while. Being alone with Will would be a nightmare,” You say, sighing. You hear her chuckle as she pats your shoulder.

“Yeah. You two would just sit there awkwardly in silence, not knowing how to start a conversation. Maybe you two would make eye contact and then look away, all blushing like they do in books and movies,” She teases, her tone light.

“We won’t do what the movies and books do. That’s too cliche. Think a little bit higher of us, will ya’?” You laugh, sounds both happy and amused by her words.

“Don’t come crying to me when you do exactly what they do in those books.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, how sweet.” You hit her shoulder lightly, your nervousness now gone thanks to her teasing.

“Look, all I’m saying is, you two would be cute. Two cute dudes dating each other and having each other’s backs. Sounds like a dream right there. And my friends would be boyfriends! I get to be the one who sets up your dates because you both would suck at it. I can see it now!” Bev exclaims, shaking the chair gently in excitement.

“Alright, calm down. Don’t let your imagination get the best of you. You don’t even know if it’ll happen,” You tell her, your smile wide on your face.

“Oh shush! I do to know. It’s destined to happen and you know it. For now, let’s get this case looked at. Hate to have Jack yell at you again,” She says, calming down enough to finally work with.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s get this case started.”

[gvtted-ratz]

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What Are These?

Martin Mathias x M!Reader

Last Edited: January 11, 2021 8:16 PM

TW: past self-harm, self-harm scars

Requested: No.

Word Count: 543

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Dating Martin isn’t that bad, it’s actually pretty relaxing and nice. Martin is a nervous mess who always needs some reassurance. Despite that nervousness, you find him adorable. He’s always called you little bat and every now and then, you call him Count. He always gets flustered when you call him that. When anyone else does, he acts like it’s normal.

You honestly didn’t expect him to see your scars. You always made sure to keep them hidden. They were from your battle a long time ago; a battle you had won but not unscathed. Ever since you’ve been with Martin, you have not only felt better, but you’ve felt like nothing could ever bring you down. You had hoped Martin never found them in fear of thinking different of you. Of course, you knew that he wouldn’t but that irrational fear never went away.

You lay on the bed with Martin. He is curled up in your side with one of your arms wrapped around his shoulders, hugging him closer to you. His head lays on your shirtless chest; your chin rests on his head as he listens to your heartbeat. You both are in your boxers, enjoying the warmth and skin to skin contact. Martin has always enjoyed the skin to skin contact, so every time you both just want to relax or cuddle, you both strip down to your boxers and lay beside one another.

You feel Martin run one of his hands on your stomach, tracing every little mark he comes across. Every now and then, he traces one of the ribs he sees whenever he sees you take in a breath. You lay with Martin for a while, just enjoying your time with him. It takes a while before he is taking your other hand in his and turning it over, exposing your scars that you’ve hidden for so long. “ What Are These? ” He asks in a gentle voice, slowly tracing over them.

“Battle scars,” You tell him in an equally gentle tone. “No matter what I do, they never leave. They remind me of the battle I had a long time ago.”

“Did you win?” He asks, his voice full of hope. You let out a small chuckle and nod.

“Yeah. And now that I have you by my side, I know that I can win it again if I have to.” You shift slightly, getting a bit more comfortable.

“You’re still beautiful to me, Little Bat,” Martin says as he continues to trace them.

“Is that so? Well then, you’re just as beautiful, Count,” You tell him, letting out another laugh. The long irrational fear is gone, replaced with the comfort of knowing he would never leave. Knowing that he would always stay by your side, just like you would stay by his. You wait until Martin’s breathing goes slow and constant before kissing the top of his head. You hold him slightly tighter, grateful for his words. Any fear of him leaving you is gone and replaced with happiness. You let yourself drift off to sleep, happy to know Martin believes that you’re beautiful in his eyes, and possibly brave for winning your fight from long ago. At last, your mind is put at ease.

[gvtted-ratz]

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Would You Like Some Help?

Norman Bates x M!Reader

Last Edited: April 1, 2021 5:40 PM

TW: past abuse, past manipulation

Requested: No.

Word Count: 1,192

AO3 LINK -> HERE

You park the car right next to the hotel and step out. You feel very nervous, afraid that he might somehow know who you are and why you’re running. Back home, you had a very nice girlfriend. Well, very nice to look at. Her personality was like a rotten apple. She ordered you around, threw things at you, but she mostly hurt you emotionally and mentally. You wanted out the moment you saw who she truly was. In the beginning, she was very sweet and kind. She had always been praising you for the work you did and how you always treated her right. Then, after she moved in, everything changed. She would scream and holler at you for doing the simplest things wrong. She would always beat down your confidence and just generally make you feel bad.

At the time, you didn’t know what to do so you endured it. As it got worse, you had finally had enough. When she was asleep, you packed all your necessities before throwing your suitcase in your car. After that, you just drove until you came to the Bates Motel. And here you are, standing right by the lobby door, unsure on whether or not to go in. “Oh! H-Hello!” You hear someone say. You look to where the voice came from, seeing a man approach you from a large home.

“Hello,” You say, trying to keep everything short and sweet.

“I’m, uh, sorry I-I wasn’t here. I was ten-tending to my mother,” He says, beckoning you to follow him into the lobby.

“It’s not a problem, Mr. Bates,” You tell him as you stand in front of the counter. He reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a book. He places it in front of you and opens it to a page with a few names on it.

“Just write down yo-your name and where you’re from,” He says, handing you a pen. You write down your name and hesitate one here your from before deciding to put Phoenix.

“How much for a few nights?” You ask, digging around your pockets for your wallet. 

“Oh! Ho-how long are you sta-staying?” He asks, his gaze holds warmth and nervousness.

“A few nights. Maybe four I guess? I’m not really sure, just a few nights is all,” You tell him, shrugging since you’re not sure how long you plan on staying.

“Oh, well, then is th-that cash or a check? What are you pa-paying with?” He asks. You take out your wallet and pull out a few bills. You hand him the bills, watching his reaction. He gives you a small smile and nods. “This is enough f-for a week’s stay.”

“That’s good enough,” You tell him, fidgeting with your hands and fingers.

“W-Well, I’m one for nu-numerical order so you get cabin one. There were twe-twelve vacancies and n-now we have e-el-eleven,” He tells you with a smile. The smile seems kind but also nervous. Maybe he’s just as awkward as you. He grabs one of the keys that’s hanging on the hooks; the key happens to be the one underneath the number one for cabin one.

He hands you your room key, his fingers barely touching your own. You give him a small smile as you take the key from him. “Do you need to show me where the room is?” You ask him, unsure if you can go find it yourself.

“I can show you!” He says quickly, his smile seeming to be a little less nervous. He moves in front of you and takes the lead. He still seems nervous, but not as nervous as he previously was. He leads you to cabin one and gestures for you to open the door. You place the key in the lock and turn it, opening the door. He goes into the room first, you tagging along right behind him.

“Looks comfy,” You say, looking around the room. On the wall, you see two pictures of some type of small bird hanging up. It honestly doesn’t look too bad with the small vanity, bed, closet, and drawers by the door.

“Yes, it is. Th-the bed is, um, pretty soft and the she-sheet are clean. I clean th-them every day. Ju-just a habit,” He tells you, fidgeting in his spot near the bathroom.

“Well… Thank you for showing me to my room, Mr. Bates,” You say, trying to be as kind as possible. You don’t want to be rude to him since it is his hotel and he doesn’t seem to be a bad guy.

“I should g-get back to work…” He says, trailing off.

“ Would You Like Some Help? ” You ask him, not really ready to be alone.

“You don’t have to. I-I’ve taken care of the motel f-for so long…” He seems hesitant about letting you help him, but not against the idea. “I…” He shakes his head. “N-no. Yo-your a customer and shouldn’t do my work.”

“I was just offering is all. If you want help, feel free to ask me, I don’t mind,” You tell him, ignoring his stuttering. You’ve noticed it but you really don’t mind it too much. He gives you a small smile as a thanks before leaving you to your room. You look around the room some more before Norman comes back with your items.

“I di-didn’t mean to forget your stuff,” He says, setting your suitcase down by your bed.

“It’s fine. I forgot about it until you brought it in so no worries,” You dismiss his worries, not really caring. You would have gotten it at some point but now that he brought it in, you didn’t have to worry about going out to get it and getting caught up in the rain. It has just started to rain, it isn’t raining very hard though, just a light sprinkle.

“We-Well, have a good night,” Norman bids you farewell and leaves you alone with yourself, the room, and your stuff. You let out a large sigh, ready to get some much-needed sleep. You start to go through your suitcase and unpack everything. You hang up your clothes and place your journal and a pen on the vanity. You didn’t have very much so unpacking it all didn’t take much time. You pull out a tank top and a pair of pajama pants and start to strip out of your clothes.

You feel eyes on you, making you look around the room, holding your shirt in one hand. When you see nothing out of the ordinary, you throw your dirty shirt into your suitcase and throw on the tank top. You finish putting on your pajama pants when the feeling of being watched returns. You ignore it for now and let your body fall onto the bed. Honestly, it felt better than your bad back at your old home. You wrap yourself in the soft blankets, happy to finally get a break. The feeling of being watched doesn’t leave, even as you fall asleep you can feel it. It didn’t bother you too much and with that, you let your conscious drift away into the dream world.

[gvtted-ratz]

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Tippler Pigeon

Edward Nashton/The Riddler x M!It/Its!Reader

Last Edited: 09/09/22

TW: stalking, brief mention of sexual activities

Requested: No.

Word Count: 1,735

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Living by the Iceberg Lounge has very few perks. Most were cons, with all the rich filing in to get their daily drops along with sex. Who cared if their partners were at home, working hard to take care of their kids? They were busy partying, giving away valuable information to anyone attractive enough to so much as flutter their eyelashes at them. Maybe even let them feel that person up and the secrets spill from their lips faster than a pigeon can fly off in fear of being hit with a pipe by some shitty kid. There is also the constant harassment from the drunkards and those high off their tails whenever you leave your complex.

The information is a perk though; probably the only pro there is to the place. And to get any info, you have to be able to either be employed at the club, be one of the awful rich folk, or pay off one of the employees that work there. The waitresses were the ones to get the most info and the best bet. They’re there for money; half of them hated the club with their entire being but it was the only option they had left. But there was a major con. If either of you are found out, you both get killed. That’s why it is usually best to find someone trustworthy, someone who can lie as well as keep their cool. Despite all this, you weren’t one for this. The data collected from there would sell for a pretty buck but your life was more important. People would do anything to keep their secrets under wraps. That included the orchestrated murder of people.

Your neighbour did seem to like the club though. Many pictures of the lounge, as well as the mayor, Don Mitchell. There were other people, you’re sure, though you were never able to see them. Whatever information he was getting his hands on, it would lead to his death if anyone reported him. You don't know him well but the idea of him dying is unsettling. He fits into your schedule; he is part of the routine you follow, even if he doesn’t know. Seeing him at all, was just normal. Not seeing or even hearing him for an entire day made it feel like everything was wrong and it made doing things extremely hard. His presence is deeply engraved in your daily routine that, with him suddenly being gone, it comes crashing down around you. Thankfully, he hasn’t ever disappeared for long. He’s never been gone for longer than a day. The few times he does leave for an entire day is awful and takes a lot of reassurance from yourself and even some promises to go to the place you really want or get an item you’ve been saving up for; that usually helps you create a new routine, just for that day until it all goes back to the original.

For the past few weeks, you’ve felt eyes on you. Which is odd since you haven’t had anyone over except a coworker who usually comes uninvited. She couldn’t be the one though since, knowing her, you weren’t much for holding her attention. She only ever came over to force you to watch movies you absolutely hated because she needed someone to annoy while all her other pals were busy. Despite that, she’s fairly nice despite only ever needing you when her friends are all off doing something without her.

Still, she’s ruled out. She maybe visits once a week and has nothing to gain from watching you. The only other people you can think of is your neighbour and the extremely creepy lady a floor above you. She’s touchy and always trying to get people to let her inside their apartment. You didn’t doubt she had at least one harassment charge on her record. You rule her out as well, making note of how she has always said you were “too weird” or “clearly mentally unwell” from the things you do.

That only leaves your neighbour. The man that’s been gathering extremely dangerous information on people. As far as you know, however, he's never even noticed you. You barely glance at each other whenever you walk past each other. Neither of you say hello or make eye contact; you’re practically strangers. But he’s the only one that makes sense. With all the information he’s gathering, he must be wary of those on his floor or those he sees often enough. You happen to pass each other everyday. And if that’s the case, how is he watching you? There’s no cameras beside your phone and computer. Your doors all remain shut and any window is covered with curtains as well as locked tight. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s just paranoia. Hallucinations even; from lack of sleep, stress, or even depression.

No matter what it truly is, you just try to ignore it all. This leads to you working late at the gift shop job you’ve taken up in the museum. There isn’t much to it. There’s a few plushies, some knickknacks, and other miscellaneous items. Other than stocking, scanning items, and possibly helping out customers, there isn't much to it. Tonight is like any other with you stocking the shelves and organising items. Very few entered at this time. Though Gotham never seemed to sleep, it didn’t mean people are looking to go to a museum or gift shop to look around or wander about. Or, that’s what you had been thinking.

“I have a question, if you don’t mind answering,” A voice says from beside you. You face the voice, stopping your hands from placing another plushie on its rack. The person standing there is your neighbour. His eyes seem to glow green despite there being no way they could. He had never shown any signs of being inhuman or an enhanced human.

“Uhm… Sure. Ask away,” You tell him, turning away to continue placing the plushies away.

“Have you seen anyone dressed in black and clearly trying to hide their face here?” It’s an odd question but you don’t have to give it much thought.

“I’ve seen some kids, mostly. Like those alt ones. Or scene. Emo,” You tell him, straightening out the row of plush hippos. It’s odd to even see your neighbour here since you knew that, if he wanted info, it would haven’t come from asking some employee at a museum. Especially if it’s about someone’s likes or dressware; not like you cared about what those kids or even adults dressed like. So far, the nicest ones had been the ones that dressed differently and showed off their interests with the colours, outfits, odd items, pins, and bags. Not just nice, but also polite. Many seemed overjoyed to hear you compliment their styles.

“Did any of them seem very familiar? Like maybe you’ve seen them on television or in papers?” He presses on. You only shake your head, turning to him.

“Not really. As far as I know, they’ve all been polite and interested in the artefacts, history, plushies, and pins… Besides, wouldn’t you have gotten that stuff already?”

“What do you mean?” Interest suddenly peaked, he looks at you like you’ve just told him the most interesting fact he’s ever heard.

“Well… I mean… You’re my neighbour. The data I’ve seen you get usually is done by yourself. Getting your own pictures and probably hacking and stalking,” You ramble, straightening the magnets and making sure each one is placed correctly. “It kinda reminds me of a Tippler Pigeon .. I mean, you do. With how active they are. From what I've read, they can have an in-flight of about fourteen to nineteen hours; maybe even twenty-two hours… And you’re always active. Always getting data, then working, and then going out at weird times for more data; that’s just a guess though… And they’re really intelligent.” You inhale before continuing, “you have to be pretty smart to get all that info on your own and to even understand it all. Clearly you have a lot if the stacks and stacks of papers you’re constantly bringing has to say anything. And they’re also pretty. And you’re pretty but like, in your own way. Not the bird way or whatever toxic stuff they say about the weird ‘pretty’ being bad to men…”

You turn to look at your neighbour after your ramble, seeing if he’s tuned you out at all. You weren’t expecting him to be staring at you with utter adoration and large eyes behind his glasses. It seems he had been absorbing all the information you had been spouting passionately. His smile is full of glee and he’s practically buzzing with excitement. “Something wrong?” You ask as he continues to stare.

“No! No, no! Nothing! I never thought I’d hear such passion from another person… Especially about me,” He tells you, grabbing your hands in his own. You flinch in surprise but don’t pull away. You’ve never seen your neighbour so happy. “Maybe… Maybe you can help me with my research? Help me with the pollution of the city?” His breathing is laboured slightly, though you don’t put much thought into it.

“... Is there a leak somewhere? Is our water safe? The pigeons?” You ask, concerned. You haven’t heard of any pollution lately but you wouldn’t put it past the higher-ups to try and cover that up.

“Not that kind… A different kind! You’re clearly smart… Such a smart man…” He sighs that out before speaking again, letting out a high pitched, child-like laugh. “We could help the city..! Clean up and make it better.” You blink slowly, thinking of his offer. You’re not sure what pollution he’s talking about or how you’d exactly be helping the city. But you do know that, he’s been nothing but nice so far, not even being angry at your info dump or rambling. So, with the decision in mind, you give him a small smile and a nod.

“Alright. I’ll help you however I can.” With the response, he becomes more giddy with happiness and tightens his hold on your hands.

“GREAT! This is great..! We’ll make such a good pair, you and I!” He lets go of your hands, demeanour still happy before bidding you goodbye.

“... What a cute but odd guy… “ You mumble before getting back to work.

[gvtted-ratz]

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DATE NIGHT

Arkin O’ Brien x GN!Reader

Last Edited: 16/04/2024

TW: none

Anon: Short fluff fic of Arkin x reader? Maybe him taking the reader out on a date? please and thank you :3

Word Count: 962

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: We know who sent that, and thank you for it. This is set before they go on the date but plan to go BTW. And yes, Arkin is 32 in this. In 2009, High Steward was 32 when he played Arkin and that’s all we have to go on for his age.

@rppik (editor/co-writer): I like my pathetic divorced Meow Meows UNWELL /lh /don't use that as my editor's note

You’ve known Arkin for a long time. You worked alongside him during his time as a contractor; you knew about his wife, Lisa, and little girl, Cindy. Finally escaping The Collector to find out that Lisa filed divorce papers after he told her to flee completely broke him. He loved his wife, despite her constant gambling and using Cindy as a way to keep him leashed, and watching her leave him after everything he had done to get back to them destroyed the man.

 You had been there throughout the whole shit show, providing as much comfort as you could. Your shitty flat became home to the recovering man, who slept on your couch more than enough times to leave an imprint. Hell, even your bed had become contaminated with his smell on more than one occasion; on some nights, you insisted he spare his back from sleeping on the old piece of junk. But you didn’t kick him out or turn him away. You couldn’t, not when you had seen the previous fights between him and his ex-wife, or how he talked about Cindy in such a caring way, clearly missing her more than air. You couldn't help but want to help the guy, with his unkempt appearance and dark shadows under his eyes being equal parts concerning and somehow handsome on him. And his witty comebacks always made your day, naturally, you had to admit his company wasn't one you minded keeping, even when he was close to hitting rock bottom some days.

You know he doesn’t care for himself like he should, not when he only cared about seeing his kid. With that no longer possible, thanks to Lisa’s papers and custody battle, he would be lucky to see Cindy at all or even get to call her. His will to get better or take care of himself in any way deteriorated rapidly after the decision was finalized; if it wasn’t for your encouragement to shower or eat a little bit, he would have wasted away in your living room.

Of course, you weren't above abusing your professional connections to help, too. An ask here, a bribe there, and the next thing you know, envelopes to small packages full of pictures of Cindy arrived at your work. You would then bring them home to give to Arkin as some sort of gift to show that his baby was okay. He never asked who you talked with to get the photos, and you never told him, either; neither of you minded crossing some lines if it helped. 

And it did help him– The life in the man started to slowly, but surely, trickle back into his being. His eyes seemed brighter, and he started to take care of himself a bit more. He’d even gone back to his previous job as a contractor. He didn’t move out, though, not that you minded him sticking around. To others, it might have been awful to have someone you had helped get back on their feet not go on to leave your home. For you, however, it was just another thing you had hoped would happen, coming to fruition. 

The man you’ve been pining after for years, a best friend and romantic interest, staying with you? While you should feel awful he had to lose his wife and kid for it to happen, you couldn’t help but feel glad in a way. All the same, you couldn’t help but want him to still have some sort of access to Cindy. He loves her, you know, and wouldn’t take that away from him for the world. Even if it meant using some favours on your part, to see him happy and becoming healthy was all you cared about.

At some point, your feelings for him became an open secret, as sharing a living space with the man meant that little could go unnoticed between you two for long; you had yet to breach the topic explicitly, however, knowing he needed time to recover from his previous relationship. It’s on a day both of you are off work that you spring the idea of a date up, if only to test the waters.

“It can be between friends if you prefer, Arkin. I just thought we could go out,” you tell him. You don’t want to force him into joining you if he really doesn’t want to.

“Depends. Where are we goin’?” He’s relaxed on the couch, looking at some of the blueprints for another bit of decor needed on a house he’s going to be working on soon.

“The museum. The one a few blocks away from the bar you used to frequent before that guy happened,” you reply, hinting at The Collector but not outright saying the mass-murderer’s title for Arkin’s peace of mind.

“Is it any good?”

“Depends,” is your answer, echoing his early answer in a teasing tone of voice. You can hear him snort in good humour.

“We can go. Let me just put away these papers. Do I have to dress up?” You give him a quick look over before shaking your head.

“You can dress down for all I care. As long as you have something to cover your muscles.” The pillow cushion that hits you in response makes you laugh. You couldn’t help but poke fun at the other.

“Alright, alright. I’ll throw on my shoes. But you can’t go teasing me like that, I’m too old for it,” he insists lightly.

“You’re thirty-two, Arkin! You’re hardly old, Asshat.” His laughter from your bedroom gets that warm feeling in your gut to curl up close to your heart. Yeah, you’re pretty lucky to have this asshat in your life, despite the circumstances that brought you two together.

[gvtted-ratz]

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JACKAL

Jackal/Dean x Hacker!GN!Reader

Last Edited: 21/06/2024

TW: mocking, bleeding, drugging, kidnapping, corrupt cop, foul language, imprisonment, threats of bodily harm, illegal information gathering, open ending

Requested: No.

Word Count: 3,415

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: This took two weeks. It’s the pig’s time to shine. Not. Fuck this nasty bastard with his midlife crisis mohawk. Now, take it away, Penny. (/SpongeBob ref for Rppik.)

@rppik (editor/co-writer): this one goes out to my hyperfocusing baddies out there,

“I assume this is everything?” You can hear Blue and Red getting shifty at your words. They, as well as you, have been waiting for the introduction to end to start your biddings.

“That it is, yes! Would my esteemed customers like to let this lowly Auctioneer know what goods you wish to purchase?” 

Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? Who will you be bidding on to take with you?

》YOU HAVE SELECTED JACKAL 《

“ Blue window? Which do you wish to take with you? I’ll make sure to have it all written down!” The Auctioneer asks, motioning towards a metal door. Behind it, you’re sure there’s someone there to take notes of what items are purchased, they will be shipped to, as well as who wasn’t bought.

“Oh! I’ll do 250 for Mason and Machete each!” Blue’s window lights up. She sounds excited to go first with her purchases. Then again, she always complained when she didn’t get to go before everyone else; better she goes now than later.

“Very well. How about the red window? Whom will you be taking?” She asks, facial expression unable to be seen behind her bandage-like mask, though the way she talks with such joy only highlights how well she is at her job.

“120 on Jackal, 340 each for the Goffard boys,” Red says, window lighting up.

“What the fuck! Fuck you!” Derek says, Matt looking just as livid as his brother. The sweat that had been gathering on Dean’s forehead drips as his lips peel back in a sneer. Those that haven’t been chosen appear to be less tense, relieved to not be bought. On the other hand, both of the larger men that Blue has picked look ready to kill; their eyes looking this way and that, bodies tense like large predators ready to pounce. She’s known for enjoying men much larger than herself so she can “put them in their place” as she so puts it; Red always tends to mock her for her types, excluding the fact that they enjoy the bratty ones.

“Green window? Would you kindly tell this lowly Auctioneer your choice?”

“220 on the corrupt cop,” you announce. Dean looks towards your window, swallowing heavily. It looks like he knows he’s screwed if he goes with you. Yet, there isn’t a thing he can do about it.

“What? C’mon, Green. What’s the Old Man got that you’d want? I’m sure he’s twice your age. 230,” Red tries to barter.

“You’re taking two of the wealthiest men already. Corrupted or not, pigs tend to have information I can use. 320,” you refuse to back down. There’s a reason you tend to only take one, as you can spend the set limit if need be.

“Fine. I’ll take the beastkin for 120 then. Keep the fucking pig, Green.” Ren gives the red window a blank look, likely keeping his mouth shut in hopes of possibly being able to find a way out of the mess he’s gotten himself into. On the other hand, Blue cackles at Red’s defeat, always enjoying the show any sort of bickering brings. Your warped hum in agreement has The Auctioneer clasping her hands together, mic being jostled slightly.

“Then this concludes the bidding! I’ll have the purchases shipped–”

“Shipped?!” Dean cuts her off, but she keeps talking, ignoring the outburst.

“–to you as soon as possible! And those who were not bought will be released, as my lovely regulars have asked!” Some sort of gas starts to fill the room the prizes are in, causing many to start tugging at their bounds, yelling at each other or the windows. The only ones unaffected are you, your fellow buyers, as well as The Auctioneer, as the products start to sway, collapsing in heaps on the metal floor below. Just as quickly as the gas had started, it clears at once.

A crew comes in, dressed similarly to The Auctioneer, to start carrying, dragging, or wheeling away both purchased and unsold. Those who were not acquired are carted off to be dumped somewhere in their respective towns, unlike the procured. They will be drugged up so it’s easier to move to their designated places via buyers’ chosen locations. You watch with muted glee as your choice is put in a wheelchair, having the IV drip attached to his arm, now ready to be shipped to your given drop-off destination. He’ll be dropped off at your little hide-out, awaiting your return, whether he knows it or not.

“With all this now settled, you will wire the payments, yes?” The Auctioneer asks, the customer-service tone of voice still present. You bring out a burner phone, clicking through it to gain access to an account you set up a month prior to this show. If anyone were to get through your firewalls and protections, they’d only track it to some poor sap’s laptop off the coast of the US. It wouldn’t be your fault if said sap happens to have a few megabytes of illegal images saved onto that computer’s hard drive, either, busting the entire operation they have going on.

“I’ve sent the amount agreed upon. It should arrive shortly,” your words hold true, as some device beyond the metal door The Auctioneer is standing beside lets out a ding . Hearing it, she glances over the door before nodding.

“Thank you, Green. May your purchase bear lovely fruit for your taking!” You leave the boxed room, not bothering to listen to the other buyers in case they have any issues; such instances usually end up in heated arguments or death of said buyer, and you're not particularly interested either way. The door closes, another person dressed business-casual stepping in front of you to lead you out of the auction house. The only sounds available are your footsteps echoing, paired with the guide’s loud breathing, muffled poorly by the gauzy wrappings around their head. 

Arriving at a dark-wooden door, the guide opens it, stepping aside to allow you to walk through. You don’t slow your pace, heading down some brick steps to follow a worn gravel path towards your vehicle. Your keys are handed to you by another member of staff, dressed just like the others before them, allowing you to enter and start up the rental with ease. You don’t look back as you drive off, heading towards your work location. By the time you arrive, you’re sure he’ll be there, still hooked to the drip.

-------------------------------------

Pulling into the gloomy drop-off location, you spot an ambulance parked at the warehouse. You position your own vehicle near it, turning off the ignition before stepping out. Another one of the auction house’s people steps out to open the van’s back doors. They step away, allowing you to confirm that this is your item. You give a jerk of your head, confirming that the man strapped down on the gurney is your purchase. With your affirmation, they start to undo his bindings, removing the IV in the process. With the obstruction gone, a member of the crew picks him up like a sack of grains. You lead them into the dilapidated warehouse, knowing they’ll follow without hesitation,  having orders to please, alongside heed, high-ranking buyers.

The lot of you walk past chunks of concrete, piles of metal, a metal beam, clumps of dirt, and countless weeds that have made their way into the place. Entering a back room, you gesture towards a chair seated close to the middle of the area, nearly hidden away in the dark place; had the door not been open, the chair would have been completely obscured by shadows. It’s the only area that’s remotely salvageable out of the entire place, with the roof still held up, all walls in place, and a functioning door to lock when you want. As the lackey none-too-gently jostles Dean into the chair, you stride over to a desk housing a multitude of monitors. Clicking on your mouse, the monitors light up, casting a glow into the mostly dark room as your C.P.U’s fans start up from underneath the desk. The motorcycle helmet has a tinted lens, keeping the bright lights from harming your eyes; of course, protecting your vision was an added bonus of keeping your face and voice hidden from others, it being the main purpose of the costly helmet.

Turning your back to your setup, you look over at your newly acquired purchase slumped in the uncomfortable office chair; the wheels had been removed so anyone in it wouldn’t roll themselves around looking for escape options. You give the worker standing beside your unconscious prize a dismissive wave, their job now complete. They leave without a word nor hesitation to escape your place of employment, shutting the door behind them. You can admit, they had manners many before them hadn’t; The Auctioneer must have taken your words to heart and retrained or weeded out the unfit employees who had been rude. In the past, you had encountered some who believed they had the right to tell you how to treat your belongings like they knew what they needed more than you, the owner, did.

You stare down at the once egotistical man, waiting until you hear the van’s engine start; the gravel crunching under its wheels as it drives off, probably to head back to the auction house. You then turn your back towards the sleeping figure, deciding to rummage around in one of the drawers in your desk. Additionally, you move a few boxes of snacks to find a bundle of zip ties kept together with a rubber-band. With these in hand, you go back to Dean. The drugs in his system keep him under, completely malleable if you wanted to do anything you desired. Thankfully, you’re not like him when it comes to his tastes, if The Auctioneer's words were anything to go by; you're sure he would readily take advantage if he were in your shoes, happy to get his rocks off anyway he deemed fit.

You slip the plastic bonds over his wrists and onto the office chair arms, using more than 3 on each one; his ankles are bound together before being fastened to the gas lift under the seat. By now, you’re almost completely out of the restraints, making a mental note to buy more. Having Jackal completely secured, you’re able to get back to your job. Throwing the last few ties into the drawer, you kick it shut and plop down into the only other office chair in the building. The monitors’ lights greet you, your previous tabs still covering the screens.

Your keycaps clacking, alongside your mouse clicking, are the only sounds in the room. Time passes by relatively quickly while you work, hyper-focused on your job as code, images, intel, and correspondence between other informants sinks its claws into your attention.

That is, until you hear a low groan emerging from your captive. Keeping your gaze trained to the current sequence of coding you’re looking over, you decide to finish the task at hand before paying him any mind, making sure to glance at another monitor that houses photos of people; their private information is summarized in bullet points next to their respective pictures, knowing it won’t take much longer for this particular assignment to be finished.

The office chair housing your new, shiny, and reluctant informant creaks as he tries to yank his hands out of the plastic ties. You don’t let that distract you, dragging an image from a monitor you weren’t typing on to the one you’re currently using; it sticks itself to the document you’ve placed it over, the information beside it matching the file you’ve constructed for this individual.

“Hey,” his gruff voice croaks out. He’s been asleep for hours, making it sound more gravelly than usual. Perhaps he’s finally noticed his current situation. It’s too bad you’re not interested at the moment. 

“Hey!” You ignore his call, saving your progress on your current project. You can feel him seething at your lack of attention from how heavy his stare is, the creaking of the office chair echoing as he tugs and throws himself around. It isn’t long before you hear a growl that turns into a hiss as the chair tips from all of his struggling. The sound of his body smacking into the concrete below brings a small amount of satisfaction; you can hear a wheeze escape his lungs. With this, you finally decide to bless him with the oh-so-sought-after diligence he wanted from you.

“Having trouble, Old Man ?” The question sounds warbled from your helmet, but the mocking tone is so pronounced that not even your face covering can keep it monotone. The chair you sit in creaks as you swing it to face him. His crumpled form on the ground greets you, as does his curled lips in what would be a snarl, if he didn’t look so pathetic, that is. “For such a cocky pig , you sure do look like a wet mutt. ”

“Fuck you! When I get out of this, I’ll make sure you wish you were dead!” You click your tongue in annoyance, turning your chair away from him to continue your task. He can stay down there if he won’t be polite; let a worm like him wiggle in the dirt.

Your clacking sounds up again as you get back to work, tuning out more of his threats, growls, and hissing. To you, they sound like a cranky old pig squealing about all the wrongs it's suffered before getting slaughtered. Time passes by faster than you think, forcing all your attention to creating files upon files of information on people many of your clients have requested; good, bad, neutral, it matters not. This is your job, after all.

When you feel your back tighten from sitting in the same position for too long, you lean back, twitching at the quick shot of pain you feel. You turn your chair, looking over at the still collapsed man. He’s frowning, staring at you from the ground; Dean had stopped making sounds after realizing that you weren’t listening nor paying attention. With your now diligent eyes back on him, however, he curls his lips back like a mutt does when snarling.

“You need somethin’, Old Man?” The mocking tone you use seems to make his snarl deepen. “Well, I need something from you.”

“Fuck you! I’ll crush your fingers to fuckin’ dust with my boot heel if you so much as touch me with ‘em!” You raise your brow, knowing he can’t see it through the helmet.

“As if I’d be a captive fondler like you, Old Man. I need your brain for this,” your honesty only serves to make him hate you more; the way his eyes seem to glaze over with utter disgust and rage tells you so.

“And why would I help you?”

“Because you’re in no position to refuse. Unless… You want me to start taking your fingernails off one by one. I don’t have any issues either way,” your distorted voice says, not even bothered by the threat you’ve just promised him. You can see the gears turning in his head as he purses his lips in reluctant thought. To give in is to admit defeat, or that’s what you assume he believes; he has to give in one way or another due to the fact that one route promises a very bloody and painful outcome.

“Fine,” he begrudgingly agrees to you picking his brain on something.

“Good. Tell me how you get your victims through your swine work.”

“My what work?” Jackal looks completely lost on your command; it makes you sigh in annoyance. You even turn your chair away from him again to start typing.

“Your swine work, Hog . Pig . You’re a cop, Dumbass. Tell me how you nab your victims through it, Old Man,” you talk slowly, adopting the tone one would with a child.

“Stop fuckin’ callin’ me Old Man !” He snaps; you’re unsure if it was your tone that pushed him over or the name. That doesn’t mean you’ll stop, though.

“I’ll call you whatever I please, Old Man ,” you pause, looking back towards him over your shoulder. “ Now answer the question. ” The voice changer seems to glitch, causing it to warp and warble; it sounds much deeper than how it did in the previous line of conversation.

“ Fine . I punch out when it’s time to, change my clothes, and fuckin’ find someone I think looks like they’d put up a fight. That enough for you?”

“ No. Keep up your little cute act and you won’t have fingernails soon. ”

“Fuckin’ bossy. Fine . I go for the feisty ones, unless I’m in the mood for someone I can overpower easily. I follow ‘em around for a bit, see if they got what I want, and then try to drive ‘em into a corner where I can do whatever I please. Sometimes I just need to get off, and others I really just wanted to gut ‘em. I like doing both, though. Seein’ ‘em die with that fear in their eyes… It’s a huge fuckin’ turn on,” during his entire schpiel, your typing hasn’t stopped. In fact, it appears to have gone faster as he spouts away.

“Are there any specifics for who you target? Or did you just happen to find them…?” You trail off, trying to pick apart the brain hiding beneath his midlife crisis mohawk.

“I usually just saw ‘em by chance and went from there. I wanted innocents. Couldn’t give a shit about guilty folks.” You hum in acknowledgement, your typing slowing down only to be replaced by mouse clicks as he continues, “Why? Or are you just gonna say it’s not my business?” His snarkiness is laced into his question, nearly making you want to say exactly that– it’s none of his business.

“It doesn’t concern you. You’re just another means to an end, Dean .” The inhale from him seems to echo in your eardrums, knowing you’ve simply upset him once again. Then again, how can you not? He’s just another squealing pig, albeit an even more crude one than you're used to running into; he’s just another pawn you’ve bought for your entertainment.

The clacks from the keys signal the end of your chat. You’re now focusing on your assignment again, not caring about the man laying prone on the ground. Engrossed with the task on hand, you don’t hear your captive rubbing against his bindings, forcing the skin to break and bleed; it doesn't register in your mind when he starts to slip his wrists out from the ties so he can try his luck at his ankles. As far as you're concerned, the only thing worth your consideration is the annoying endeavours you’ve been hired to complete.

What does get you to stop your production is the leather-covered arm wrapping around your throat from behind. There may be no blade, but the arm is tight, unrelenting in this choke hold you’ve been placed in. His other arm is securely gripping his own form, making sure that you won’t be able to break free of this situation.

“Spent too long on your work, Green ,” Dean sneers from behind you. If you didn’t have your helmet on, you would have felt his breath, reeking of cigarettes from the few he smoked before his kidnapping.

“I’ll admit. I underestimated the piggy,” you say, feeling the arm constrict like a snake squeezing its prey. You choke out a wheezy laugh, hands laying still on your keyboard; you make no move to pry the arm off, knowing he’ll only go through with choking you out if you escalate the struggle further.

“Hook, line, sinker . You didn’ even notice when I started to use the ties to cut into my wrists. Everyone knows blood is just another kind of lube,” he retorts. “And now, I’m goin’ to make sure you feel just as humiliated as you made me feel. Let’s hope you don’ bleed out too quick. ” Those words are all you hear before the arm squeezes more, cutting off all your airflow. Your hands fly off your keyboard to claw, tear, and yank at the jacket’s sleeve, unable to grab any skin. You’re at a disadvantage, knowing only when it’s too late to save yourself.

Maybe you should have chosen a different person to bid on.

》 START OVER? 《

[gvtted-ratz]

BEFORE YOU READ:

- Read all tags/ratings if there are any. They are important and give you all you need to decide if you want to actually read. If you do not like the tags/rating, please do not read.

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INTRODUCTION

(Pick and Choice Options) x GN!Hacker!Reader

Last Edited: 03/06/2024

TW: kidnapping, rape threat, death threat, dehumanization, illegal auctioning, human trafficking, foul language, threats of murder

Requested: No.

Word Count: 3,081

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: Reader is GN with they/them pronouns. They are NOT a good person since they’re a very good hacker/informant/stalker, visiting the auction to buy another human being. This is an AU but will still have some spoilers for the game. Instead of you being bought, it is one of the many characters present in the game. For a few of the characters, their race is not known, so we did our best to describe the colour of their skin, hair, etc in their respected chapters. There is no canon information for us to go on, so we apologize for the lack of information on these characters. In total, there will be 9 chapters. 8 of which will be characters. Thank you for your patience, and we hope you enjoy this series we have planned out.

@rppik (editor/co-writer): Alternative title: “I can't wait to live out my ‘Reverse!Bought by 1Direction AU’ fantasies with this one”.

You sit behind the window, watching as people are brought in to be lined up for the auction. Your legs are resting up on the ledge, crossed, as you recline in a cheap office chair. One of your hands props up your obscured face as you stare out into the gradually filling room. 

The amount of money it takes to attend one of these auctions can vary from a few hundred thousand to millions, depending on the people running the show and the sort of “product” being put on display. You had to dig around, throwing a few bribes here and there, to so much as find this specific show. This action house specializes in selling only the best humans they can find. Usually it’s the very healthy and fit types, though there are times when one can find those that can be used for medical means: buy them for their parts, just to sell what you’ve reaped.

From first-hand experience, humans tend to be quite expensive, rarely coming to a smaller bid than the physical items put to illegal auction. Not that you're unfamiliar with black market auctions yourself; most of your earnings come from gathering information to sell to the highest buyer. The work required to pull such a thing can go from hacking to bribery, blackmail to even stalking. You’ve passed along valuable info involving anything ranging from cheating wives to covered up murders; if it has a trail, you’ll find it. Most of the time, it’s not even hard to get. Many civilians tend to use the same password for everything, or base it on something as simple as their birthday. Others just forget to turn off their GPS or take their phone with them, leaving behind that trail you oh-so love to follow.

Forcing your attention to the room, you see a few of the choices entering the room, tugging and snarling like cornered animals sent to the slaughter. The others seem to either be reluctant to struggle or just taking everything in stride. You spot only one that seems to be shaken to his core.

With them all lined up, staring at the three windows before them, the auctioneer stands to the left. She stands tall and proud, dressed business-casual save for her entire head being covered by a mask with a bandage-covered, cast-like design. She raises her microphone to where her lips would be so her cheery tone rings out.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Important things must be said three times! Today, I’ve brought you a wide selection to choose from!” You can hear the customer-service smile shining through.

“Oooo! Look at them! We have a few cuties in here!” A blue glow emits from the middle window, a high-pitched squeal rings out.

“Can you not start your pig squealing the moment the goods are brought out?” The red window to the left lights up, an annoyed voice ringing out in response. From what you can tell, the owners of the voices aren't too old– the one from the blue window being a middle-aged woman, perhaps, with the red window's voice sounding younger and too androgynous to label further.

“Let’s get the bidding started. We don’t have all day,” your distorted voice rings out. You wear a dark motorcycle helmet, a voice changer built into it, for meetings like this. You won’t let anyone here figure out who you are or give away something so easy to remember as your voice. If anyone were to recognize its modulated tone somewhere, then that's simple enough to change.

“Oooooo! Green, you dirty dog ! You just want to snatch the best from us, don't you? You always get the good ones.” The blue light shines as the nameless woman complains.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have such a low budget, Piggy,” the red window retorts, still sounding annoyed.

“Oh hush! I have plenty this time!” She sounds proud, although you know for a fact that her budget is very little for these things.

“Quiet,” with just your words, the two quiet down. You’ve had many run-ins with these two, just like they have with you. They know you make more than them since you tend to come here nearly every seven months. Money wields power, and with you at the top compared to the others, they know that you could purchase them if you saw fit.

“Thank you, thank you! I know my regulars are very excited to find their perfect purchase! Now, I do hope you don’t mind the amount of goods I’ve brought! I will make sure to give you a very quick summary on each one of these prizes!” You can hear every exclamation mark in her sentences, nailing that customer-service type of energy.

“Fuck you! When I get out of here, I'll slash your belly open and fuck that yapping whore mouth of yours!” A short, golden brown complexioned man with bleach-blonde hair shouts. He struggles against his bonds, making the chains clink together. A few of the others among him watch with mild annoyance, while others watch like they know they’re witnessing a bratty tantrum.

“Sounds like the punk bitch is wailing,” the androgynous voice says. You can hear a bit of amusement bleeding through their words.

“What a nasty mouth on this young man!” The high-pitched woman says, sounding disgusted. A mangled, non-committal hum leaves you, eliciting laughter from the other two people behind the windows. The red window's inhabitant has more of a chuckle than a laugh, while the blue one has a hyena cackle.

“Yes, yes! This is Derek Goffard, age twenty-seven! The current heir to Mr. Goffard’s very successful, and very large, investing firm with ties to luxury goods!”

“Shut up, Bitch,” Derek snaps once more. A stockier man, having the same skin tone and eye shape as him, hisses some sort of retort back that makes the other’s face light up a darker shade.

“Meanwhile, the man beside him is Matt Goffard! He is the younger half-brother of Derek. If the other were to die, he’d be the next heir to Mr. Goffard’s wealth! These two have such a fierce rivalry, having come from two different mothers! It’s no wonder they turned out just like their father, with wandering eyes, hands, and an interest in murdering innocents in the most horrific ways possible!”

That declaration makes many of the prizes look at the auctioneer in surprise. How can she know? How does she know? Everything was covered up so well. At least, that’s what you assume they’re thinking. Only one of the eight isn’t sharing that surprised look, seeming instead horrified, paired with pure terror at the situation.

“Oh? You really did change up the game, did you?” Red sounds impressed, knowing that this must have taken a while to compose.

“Wow… To think we get to see such awful people for sale this time. We’re so lucky!” On the other hand, Blue responds as though all this is just pure coincidence.

“Monsters like us are for sale this time,” you come across as monotone with your voice modulator. The creaking of your chair rings out in the silence your words bring, letting everyone know that your interest is piqued as you stand. “Count me impressed, Auctioneer.”

The resulting hyena cackles and light chuckling makes the goods’ faces start to turn; realization is setting in. You’re the top dog here; by stating your interest in the meats in front of you, they’ve practically signed a death sentence by catching your attention.

“Would you look at that? The fresh cuts have got our highest buyer to stand. They even admitted to being interested in the selections available!” The auctioneer's zeal sounds more genuine this time, turning her head towards the many options. “I never thought I’d see the day! Oh, let’s see which one of you is lucky enough to go with our lovely green window by the end of introductions!”

“Fuck that. This is some sort of punishment, right? Didn’t enjoy the fuckin’ holiday enough, Derek?” A man with greying hair shaved into a midlife crisis mohawk and stubble snaps at the smaller of the two golden complexioned men.

“Me? This isn’t me, clearly! Blame fucking Matt or my dad! This wasn’t me, Shitass!”

“Why would you blame me?! Don’t drag me into your bullshit!” Matt exclaims, looking just as pissed as his half-brother.

“Now, now! Let’s not get too heated! You wouldn’t want to ruin the bidding, would you?” The auctioneer chirps cheerily.

“Nah, let them bicker. They usually don’t do this," Red says.

“You should put them together like this more often, Auctioneer. This is the most fun I’ve had watching a bidding in so long!” Blue seems to agree with red. You give no reply, letting them do what they wish. However, you can’t help but silently agree with the two.

“Well, then! This is Dean, age forty-six! He’s also known as Jackal when he goes out for his yearly vacation trip, along with a number of our other prizes here today, who each take a part in sadistic thrills far out and away from civilization. Dean here is a corrupt cop who takes bribes when on the job, and a murderous stalker who gets off to those who fight back!”

“How do you even know all this? How?” A chubby, light brown-skinned man asks this; you can see his trembling from here, but you do find it somewhat brave of him to ask such a loaded question with how terrified he is. Before either of the other buyers can answer, you let yourself be known again.

“You were hand-picked, files on your very being reviewed extensively , before it was decided you would be the next item to be won.” The man seems to shrink in on himself at the revelation coming from a buyer who should not have any idea of such things unless they played a hand in it– or perhaps had done such a thing in the past, now knowing how the process worked.

“You reviewed us, is that it, Green?” The beastkin has a customer-service tone as fake as the auctioneer’s. His tail swishes, seeming to think he has you down as the very reason they’re all there. It doesn’t surprise you that the others among him stare at your window, making you shake your head.

“Incorrect,” your harshly spoken word makes a few twitch while others tense. “I have, however, dealt with this before. If I had chosen any of you to be sold, I would not be here to buy, now would I?” It’s a rhetorical question, so when the timid man opens his mouth, you cut him off. “Auctioneer, continue. We waste time with entertaining items up for purchase.”

The dehumanizing words makes the obviously meek man droop with hopelessness and fear. You can see the two largest of the group tighten their fists at the obvious display of power.

“Anything for my regulars! Now, the two here,” she motions towards a long-haired, skinny man with many piercings first, before motioning towards a heavier set man with a tattoo on his right shoulder, “are Michael, twenty-six, and Jason, age twenty-five! Michael was interested in the occult, bringing along Jason for the ride! Both of them go to these “vacations” after kidnapping two victims from Jason’s old college campus! One is used for their rituals, while the other tends to be used for first blood!”

The two occultists look towards each other grimly, both looking more like worried college drop-outs than two murderous men. The Auctioneer continues cheerfully, “From the information I’ve been given, they’ve been going to these vacations for nearly as long as Dean has!”

A hum leaves you before you can stop it. The Auctioneer, alongside the many eyes of the objects to be bought, stares in wait for your thoughts. “To think you have brought such things. I will have to admit, I’m amazed, Auctioneer. Remind me to pay you double after the show.”

A squawk of protest leaves the oldest Goffard boy, but you pay it no mind. A few of the others look a bit worried now, with the corrupt cop starting to sweat beads along his brow; the two occultists shuffle closer together, meanwhile, the two tallest of the group appear to tense further despite the lack of emotion on their faces.

“Oh my! You sure do love to make them swoon, don’t you, Green?” Blue chimes up, teasing you for the obvious favouritism for bringing something other than civilians.

“You’d do the same if you had any money to give,” Red snarks. “I’ll do the same, Auctioneer. You’ve brought us real treats. I might end up buying more than one.”

“Oh, I’ll buy more than one, too. I can’t let this go to waste!”

“One. I have no time nor patience for anything more. Release what’s left to be bought for another time,” it’s a command more than an option. The seller nods eagerly, knowing not to disagree with her regulars.

“Oh, what a marvelous idea, Green! To think we’ll see whatever’s left next time.”

“I’m in agreement. They can’t hide for long, and I’m bound to get bored after a while with what I buy.”

“Oh, I hope I don’t get bored so soon… Look at the fresh cuts here!”

“I’ll get my money’s worth out of them. Let’s hope they last long enough for the next show,” Red’s words only bring a grunt of agreement from you, while Blue’s response is another cackle.

“I will stray for a moment away from such awful beings, as I do have one civilian with us! Thomas, age twenty-six, is a true sweetheart; he’s a dedicated individual to his sound design brand despite it not taking off!” She nods towards the skittish man from earlier. You clocked him as a civilian the moment your eyes found him; his soft looks, paired with how he carries himself, only gave him away as a good man among monsters. Usually, you wouldn’t bother with the civilians, finding them not worth your time due to the ignorance they display. Despite his apparent lack of awareness of the dark underbelly of society, he doesn't strike you as particularly brainless. He may be worth something for catching your eye. “To think he goes to the college Jason and Michael tend to kidnap their victims from! Why, it would have been disastrous for him if he had been taken on that holiday trip!”

“Now, how did you get here, Sweetie? You’re here among some awful people!” Blue’s constant cackling makes a sigh escape you. Red chimes in as well, having enough.

“Will you shut the fuck up? Damn! You’re the broke bitch asking stupid shit!”

“Hey! I’m asking a good question! Besides, you agreed with me a few times today!” Their bickering continues, making more of the pets shift in place. You watch from your window, red and blue lights clashing over the unwilling prizes. They’re all starting to look weary at the fact that at least five of the gathered nine will not be returning to their homes.

Your sigh cuts through the bickering, Red ending it with a: “and your cooter is dryer than the fucking desert.”

“If you two keep this up, I may end up having an aneurysm.” You hear the masked woman cough to cover up her laugh. You know she has to stay in her character, but to hear you, one of her prestigious buyers and occasional sellers, admit to being annoyed makes it hard to keep such a straight face.

“Ha– Let’s keep going, yes?” She says, recovering from her slip.

“Yes. Time is ticking, I’m afraid. Please understand my hurry, Auctioneer,” is your reply. It may be blunt, however, it is also polite with it’s warped quality.

“Very well! This is Mason Heiral, age thirty-eight! He’s a cultist that lives deep in the Canadian woods! He had slaughtered everyone else in the cult, including his girlfriend, Sandy! It’s said he used her bones to make a knife, naming it after her. He’s just another killer among us today who enjoys hunting those he buys!”

“You mean he’s a buyer like the rest of us?” Red asks, seemingly intrigued.

“That he is! As is Derek and Matt Goffard! The others kidnap their victims, minus Thomas, of course!” Red responds with a grunt at her answer. Blue remains as quiet as you, probably thinking of her choices. You’re certain she’s already chosen, regarding the fact that there are two more choices left.

“Next, we have Machete, age twenty-three! His legal name is unknown, however, we do know he joined the desert group to avenge his dead sister, who was previously killed by the group. He planned to kill them all, having earned their trust via various illegal means!” You see the quiet rage in his eyes. His carmel-brown chest swells with his breathing, seemingly trying to keep it all contained.

Blue mumbles something, making her window light up, but no one seems to catch it besides the last man who has yet to be introduced; the fox ears twitch while his eyes light up with some sort of amusement. Through all of this, it looks like they're all trying to be in their best behaviour so as to either not be picked or go with someone who will underestimate them. You can't help but mentally give them all kudos for this idea, even though it is a bit poor; then again, it is their only means of hope.

“Lastly, we have Ren Hana, age forty-seven! He’s a beastkin who used to be an auctioneer! Running illegal auctions alongside his deadly hobby of snuff streaming, he’s rated high for his customer service and excellent quality of goods!” The beastkin, Ren, gives a wide smile at her words. You have to admit, you can see the customer-service quality to it if you ignore the sharp pinpricks of teeth in his maw.

“I assume this is everything?” You can hear Blue and Red getting shifty at your words. They, as well as you, have been waiting for the introduction to cease to start your biddings.

“That it is, yes! Would my esteemed customers like to let this auctioneer know what goods you wish to purchase?”

Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? Who will you be bidding on to take with you?

》 MAKE YOUR SELECTION 《

》JACKAL《

》THOMAS《

》MACHETE《

》REN HANA《

》MASON HEIRAL《

》MATT GOFFARD《

》DEREK GOFFARD《

》DRAGON+KOMODO《

》ERROR. SELECTIONS UNAVAILABLE AT THIS TIME《

[gvtted-ratz]

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Come On, Now

Brahms Heelshire x Masc!Reader

Last Edited: 27/03/2024

TW: none

Anon: Brahms with (male or masc) reader making him leave the house? Can be either fic or Drabble idc

Word Count: 589

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes from @gvtted-ratz (writer/creator): We can do that, yes. We decided on a drabble (few hundred words) since we do believe, no matter what, Brahms probably would never leave his home (as is shown in the movie since he does not chase after Greta when she escapes before coming back). Hence, not it being a fic. Hope you enjoy. Another title is “Brahms touches grass for the first time in 20 years.”

Notes from @rppik (editor/co-writer): in which we make the lad touch grass.

Convincing the man to leave his own home is more trouble than you’d like to admit. It’s like a game of tug of war with a large mutt. Upon first suggesting he get some air, he'd reply with a pitiful, “Tomorrow?” in his practised child voice. Any attempt at insisting upon it gets shut down with him responding curtly, in his regular voice, “Not now.” And, well, arguing with him when he switches into his natural, gruff tone of voice is like trying to move a particularly fussy mountain. Until today, that is– not even Brahms is immune to persistent, well-meaning urges from his dear “nanny.”

“Are you sure I have to do this?” It’s a whining voice, one a child usually resorts to using when they can’t get their way. The man's uncanny ability to mimic a child's voice surely adds to that effect, also.

“Yes, Mr. Heelshire. It's for the best you step outside after so long. Not only have you never helped me with the rat traps, but you’ve never even been in the garden,” you finish with a sigh, already tired from this entire interaction. You’ve read that being cooped up in a place for too long can impact one’s health. That's why you’re trying to get Brahms to at least step outside his home for only a few minutes.

“Well, I don’t want to.” His bratty tone doesn’t match his large, tense frame.

“Come On, Now. Surely I’m not that bad of company,” you retort, not allowing him to try and back out.

“You are when you’re trying to be awful,” is his answer, tone cracking halfway through his sentence.

“Awful or not, your parents entrusted me in your care. This is part of the job. Now you’ll listen, or you won’t get a goodnight kiss. I’ll take it off the list for the day.” This seems to work, as Brahms has no more fighting words to give you. You grab ahold of his hand and start to tug him along to the back door. He follows with no protest, the warmth of his hand making yours sweat slightly.

Opening the door, you lead Brahms onwards, the sound of his heaving breathing and your footfalls echoing about as you both descend the steps. You don’t take him to the garden, instead leading him to one of the rat traps, sticking close to the house. You know he would freak out if you took him too far from his safe space and prison.

“See, Mr. Heelshire? This isn’t terrible now, is it?” He doesn’t respond, instead looking up at one of the many windows of the home. The one that has caught his eye has black smudges around it, evidence of a past fire from many years ago; it was before your time here at the house.

“No. It’s not bad. Thank you, Mr. [Redacted],” is his answer. At the prefix, you huff in amusement.

“Being polite won’t get you flattery, Mr. Heelshire. After all, you never use ‘Mr.’ when referring to me. Ever since the beginning of our time together.” After inhaling and holding it for a moment, you release the breath before turning towards the man. “We can go now. I only wanted you to experience outside without being trapped in that dusty house all the time. I’ve heard it helps with your health.”

With those words, you and Brahms head back inside. You can only hope he’ll allow you to make this a daily thing. You just want what’s best for him.

[gvtted-ratz]

List of Fics/Drabbles/Headcanons We Made (all links go to our ao3)

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